In about five minutes, three bruisers in battle gear have us hooked up to the feed from the wide-angle camera taking in Skippy and his hostages; we can see what the snipers can’t.
First of all, Skippy is up and pacing back and forth, completely shielded by that arched steel ceiling.
He has most of his prisoners sitting on the concrete floor, huddled up against the rear wall. I see a lone blob I take to be Mr. Ceepak tied or chained to one of the railings where you line up in twos to take your seat in the next roller coaster car. I figure one of the blobs in the clump on the floor is Samantha Starky. She was too close to Cliff Skeete and the action not to have been swept up in this thing.
Skippy is waggling his Beretta 92FS, a semiautomatic pistol, in the air like he’s making a speech. Who knows what he’s ranting and raving about. Maybe his dad, and Ceepak’s dad, and how Father’s Day sucks.
I notice two rifles lying on the ground near the bumpy yellow tiles that tell you you’re too close to the track. He brought both shotguns.
There’s also an empty roller coaster train parked behind Skippy. It came down about the same time he blew Santucci away. Everybody escaped because Skippy was too busy corralling the people trapped in the final switchback barriers.
The second train got stuck about halfway around the track when the guy pushing the buttons decided it was better to leave the people stranded than to bring them down here where they might get shot. The fire department, with help from the SWAT helicopter, rescued everybody. The roller coaster operator also escaped from the control room right after he shut the thing down.
“Can we still access the deejay’s feed?” asks the SWAT team leader.
“We’re working on it,” says the guy who rigged up the TVs. “Just now completing a patch into the WAVY studios. They’ve been keeping the disc jockey’s microphone open for us and are, of course, recording everything.”
“Jesus, what the hell is he saying?” demands Big Paddy.
“When you get the feed,” says the SWAT leader, “put it on speakers.”
“Here we go, sir.” He flips a few switches on a portable console.
This is creepy. We now have sound to go with the picture.
Thirty-six terrified heads start nodding.
“I said no such thing!”
“Easy, dad,” says Kevin. “It’s just Skippy.”
“Dammit to hell, if your snipers don’t kill the lying son of a bitch, I surely will!”
“Your son, sir,” says Ceepak, “is teetering on the brink of insanity. These are the ravings of a madman.”
“Just like his goddamn sister, Mary. It’s from his mother’s side, the Ryans. They’re all loony.”
Chief Baines steps forward. “Patrick? You need to calm down. Let the professionals handle this.”
“He’s my goddamn son!” he screams.
On the TV, Skippy freezes.
Mr. O’Malley shouts even louder. The man is a human bullhorn: “You’re a goddamn disgrace, Skippy O’Malley!”
Ohmigod. We’re only about one hundred feet away. Skippy can hear him.
He looks up.
Directly at the TV camera.
“Get that man out of here,” barks the SWAT commander, pointing to Mr. O’Malley. “The other one, too! Now!”
Big guys with tinted goggles grab hold of Kevin and Paddy O’Malley. Lift them up off the ground and forcibly haul them out of the food stand, knocking over a couple of fifty-pound sacks of powdered sugar on the way.
Skippy doesn’t know his father isn’t watching him on TV anymore.
He wades into the clump of hostages.
One guy takes a swing at him. Tries to trip him up.
He misses.
Skippy turns. Squeezes the trigger on his semiautomatic. Pop!
The young guy’s head explodes.
“Does anyone have the shot?” the SWAT Commander shouts into his headpiece’s microphone.
“Negative” crackles back from every sniper up on the coaster track.
Pop! Skippy puts a second bullet in what’s left of the brave kid’s brain.
“Let him know we’re fucking watching!”
A fusillade of gunfire erupts up and down the wooden scaffolding. Steel pings on steel as the snipers nail the train tracks just outside the cover of the shed roof.
Skippy freezes. Pulls back his pistol.
“Cease fire,” shouts the SWAT commander.
Skippy turns slowly to the camera.
And then Skippy opens up a pocket on his cargo pants and pulls something out.
He wiggles it over his head.
He brought a gas mask.
38
“What the hell is he doing now?” says Chief Baines.
On the video monitor, we see Skippy marching up and down in front of his hostages. He looks like a demented insect in his gas mask. His voice comes out nasal and whiny.
The guy stands. It’s Mr. Erb. The one who used to fly the bird kites on the beach. Neat guy. Artistic. Into adventures. Figures he’d want to be one of the first to ride the Rolling Thunder.
“You?”
A girl stands. Jeez-o, man. It’s Sam.
