three-foot-wide door.
“Close it.”
I shut the door behind me. Jeez-o man. We didn’t think about that. The grenade’s just going to bounce off the door.
But then I notice two tinted windows over the control console. They look out at the loading dock. Okay. We’re still good to go. Ceepak’s just going to have to have to use his hook shot and smash out some glass.
“Grab a seat, Danny.”
My eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness, but from the sound of his voice, I think Skippy just hunkered down in a corner.
“Where are you, Skip?” I say as I knee into a rolling chair.
“Over here.” He flicks on a small flashlight.
Yep. He’s crouched in the corner at the south end of the room. Mr. Ceepak is right beside him. I have never seen so much fear and hate colliding in one man’s eyes before. Of course, Skippy has his Beretta 92FS pointed at the side of the old man’s skull, which might have something to do with his sour mood.
There’s a girl huddled against the wall, maybe two feet down from Skippy and Mr. Ceepak. I can see better now. In fact, I can tell that Skippy has his seven remaining “guests” lined up along the wall, their knees tight to their chests. I see Cliff Skeete in his bright red doo rag. Ken Erb. People I don’t know. Mostly young. They all look scared to death.
Except that one girl. The one closest to Skippy.
She’s short, maybe five-one, 100 pounds. Cute librarian glasses.
And now I see the shotguns. Skippy just laid them down. On the floor. Right in front of his feet, their barrels pointing in my direction. He could pick one back up and blow my brains out whenever he feels like it.
“Sorry about the swimsuit,” says Skippy.
“You like it? I think it’s last year’s model.”
“I think it’s cute,” says the girl.
Skippy snaps around to face her. “Shut up!”
She flips up her hands to say, “Whatever.”
“Meet Layla,” says Skippy. “She mouths off from time to time like that. Makes her number two on my hit list.”
“Am I number one?” I ask. I’m seated in a backless swivel chair. I guess it’s what the guy who runs the ride uses to slide around and punch buttons. The console is behind me, its padded leather bumper nudging me in the back. When I was feeling around for the chair in the dark, I noticed that the video monitors displaying security camera feeds are mounted on the walls. Skippy can see everything from his vantage point in the corner. His eyes flick from screen to screen. So far, the snipers haven’t budged. They’re still birds on a wire, perched on the coaster’s crossbeams.
I roll sideways. Closer to the corner.
Skippy’s maybe four feet away. The guns maybe two.
“Am I number one?” I ask again.
“Nah, Danny. You’re my witness.”
“For what?” I think I’m asking open-ended questions like Ceepak told me to. I’m not exactly sure what the term means. I wish I’d had more time to study this stuff. I might be doing it wrong.
“The government’s witness to the execution of Mr. Joseph Ceepak.”
“Whoa,” I say, like Skippy and I are playing beer pong. “Hang on, buddy … time out.”
Mr. Ceepak tilts his head sideways. Skippy is burrowing the muzzle of his Beretta deeper into the soft spot at his temple.
“Your partner? This piece of shit’s son? He never really thought I’d make a good cop. But I would. I am. I can bring the justice, which is what a good cop does, Danny. He brings the goddamn justice. And in a just world, this old drunk definitely deserves to die. I know what he did, all those years ago. He should’ve gotten the needle. Lethal injection. I wish I still had some of that potassium chloride but I left it all on Tangerine Street.”
“Yeah. That was clever, Skippy.”
“Thanks. But, you want to know the truth?”
“Sure.”
“I got lucky. I was just gonna plant the drugs on Dad, but I couldn’t figure out how to get you guys into the house. Then, boom! My father’s whore texts his phone while it’s sitting in my pocket. Talk about meant to be. God wanted me to kill her, too. After that, everything just fell in place, you know?”
“Sure.”
“So how’d I blow it?”
“Huh?”
“How’d you guys figure out I was the one who killed Gail?”
“You know … this and that.” I am trying so hard not to piss him off.
“Yeah, right. You got fucking lucky, too.” He jams the gun even tighter against Mr. Ceepak’s skull. “The prosecuting attorney’s office in Ohio cut this dirty old bastard a deal. He got off easy. Then he got out early. That’s not fair. He cheated the system. So, if I can’t kill my dad, I figure I’ll kill Ceepak’s for him and maybe someday, when I’m dead and gone, which, you know, could happen any fucking second now, Ceepak will return the favor and pop a cap in my old man’s head.”
“Hey, Skippy-remember Mrs. Fabricius?”
Skippy looks at me like I’m the crazy one. “What?”
“Sophomore year. She taught us math.”
“Oh, yeah. Her. She was okay.”
“Okay? Jeez-o, man, Skip-you were her favorite.”
He shrugs. “She made it interesting. Not dry and dull, you know?”
I inch forward.
“You aced every exam.”
“You remember that?”
“Sure. You blew the curve, bro.”
I roll closer.
“Hey, how about Mr. Skaggs?”
“Who?”
“Monkey man. The gym teacher. Remember how he’d hang off the chin-up bars chomping on a banana?”
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re wasting my time.”
“I just thought-”
“I’ve got work to do.” He uses his thumb to slide the hammer drop, take off the Beretta’s safety.
“Whoa, easy.”
Now his thumb pulls back the hammer spur. His finger quivers on the trigger.
His hand is trembling.
“For fuck sake, don’t shoot me, kid!” All of a sudden, Mr. Ceepak is begging. “Come on. I never did shit to you. Cut me a fucking break!”
“Shut up!”
“Come on! You don’t really want to kill me!”
Incredibly, Layla laughs. “Uh,
Skippy looks stunned. Lowers his pistol a couple inches. Turns to glare at the girl.
As he turns, she kicks out her foot.
Sends one of the shotguns skittering across the floor to me.
I pounce on it. Flip it up and twirl it over. Aim it at Skippy’s heart.
“Freeze!” I shout.
