Good Day In Hell (15 page)

“No shit,” Roy said. He lurched into the bathroom. Stan heard him turn the water on.

“But there’s no sign of the cops, either,” Laurel said. “So maybe it was just some burglars. They didn’t want anybody to know they were here, so they took whoever got shot with them.”

“Maybe,” Roy said as he came out of the bathroom. He was wiping his face with a towel. “But there’s still no blood. No sign anybody got shot.” He pulled a suitcase out of the closet. “Go pack up. We’re gettin’ out of here.”

“Where are we supposed to go?” Stan said.

“Come on, Stan,” Laurel said, taking his arm. “We got a backup place. We weren’t supposed to be goin’ there just yet. But I don’t like this, either. There’s somethin’ weird goin’ on here.”

Marie grabbed a chair in the third row of the briefing room. Finally, she thought, we’re getting sorted out. The sheriff himself had arrived shortly after her phone call to Keller. Asses had been chewed. Supervisors had been informed that their jobs were on the line. Before long, order had been restored to the sheriff’s department. The buzz of conversation died as Major Simmonds, the chief deputy, stepped to the podium.

“At approximately 1930 hours last night,” he began, “a church in Duplin County was attacked by two armed subjects, a white male and a white female. There were multiple casualties, with fourteen people confirmed killed.” The low rumble of conversation began again. “Listen up, people,” Simmonds snapped. The rumble quieted. “At approximately 2145 hours, a late-night diner off of Interstate 95 was also attacked by two subjects, again a white male and white female, who appeared to be using the same type of weapons, namely military-style assault rifles. It is believed that there may have been a third subject, race and gender unknown, who
was acting as driver in the second incident. The subjects left the scene in what survivors described as a white van, make and year unknown. Due to the similarities in weapons used and the general description of the subjects, the incidents may, I repeat may, be linked. The State Bureau of Investigation is working on the ballistics at this time.” He shuffled some papers on the podium. “At this time, authorities do not believe that this is an act of foreign terrorism. However, an FBI team is on its way to both scenes to investigate.” After Simmonds’s earlier rebuke, no one dared speak, but the looks on their faces as they glanced at each other were eloquent. Simmonds looked up. “The subjects are still at large. We do not know if they plan to act again. Therefore, you are to use extreme vigilance. Also, I want you people highly visible. You will be kept apprised of developments as they occur.” He picked up the sheaf of papers and made as if to exit the podium.

Hands shot up all over the room. Simmonds looked annoyed. A former pro football player, he had been handpicked for the chief deputy position, heir apparent to the sheriff himself, largely because of his presentability on television and at political fund-raisers, where he could deliver a pre-scripted speech with the best of them. Thinking on his feet, however, was not his strong point. “I didn’t ask for questions,” he said ominously.

“What weapon?” some bold soul called out.

“What?” Simmonds said. His face was beginning to redden.

“Are we facing down people with machine guns out there?” someone else piped up.

“Does it make a difference in how you do your jobs?” Simmonds demanded.

“You’re damn right it does,” a deep voice said. There was a ripple of nervous laughter.

Simmonds looked close to apoplexy. “You’ll be kept informed of developments as they occur.” He walked out.

“Well, that’d be a first,” a stocky deputy in the row ahead of Marie muttered. A lanky blonde deputy with a hint of moustache on his upper lip spoke up. “I heard they was using weapons stole from Fort Bragg,” he offered.

Marie turned to look at him. “Where’d you hear that?”

“I got a cousin works there. They got the whole place locked down and CID guys are crawlin’ all over everbody.” He was interrupted when another deputy took the podium. In a tense voice, he began reading off assignments. When he was done, he looked up. “Be careful out there, folks,” he said. It was a standard end to a briefing, but this time it was delivered with more than the usual sincerity.

The murmur of conversation was muted as they got up to leave. Marie noticed Shelby leaning against the back wall talking to another detective. She walked over. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he replied. He looked slightly embarrassed. The other detective said his good-byes and walked off.

“Don’t feel bad, Shelby,” she said. “I know you tried.”

He seemed to relax slightly. “Yeah, I did. Sorry it din’t work out.”

She shrugged. “Guess they’re going to really be paying some overtime now.”

He laughed. “I guess.”

She dropped her voice slightly. “So what’s this I hear about these people using military weapons?”

He looked around. “Nothin’ confirmed, now,” he said, “but it does look like some of the guns they was usin’ might’ve come from Fort Bragg.”

“Tell me they don’t have machine guns, Shelby. I’ve been shot at with those, and it’s not a hell… sorry, it’s not a lot of fun.”

He shook his head. “Naw. No full-auto stuff. An’ like I said, these were older— Vietnam-era. Some M-14s and at least one .45-caliber pistol. One of them used the .45 to kill one of the victims in the church, execution style.”

“Wait a minute,” Marie said. “Wasn’t that guy that was shot in the service station killed with a .45?”

He furrowed his brow. “Yeah, but there’s a lot of .45s out there.”

“Just a thought,” she said. “I mean, we’re right next to Bragg. Maybe somebody picked themselves up a new toy and wanted to try it out.”

He nodded. “I’ll have a look. SBI’s got all the bullets on the church and diner shootings. But I’ll fax ‘em the photos we got on the bullet from the gas station shooting. Couldn’t hurt.”

“Yeah,” Marie said. “Well, I’ve got to get on the road.”

He nodded. “Be careful,” he said seriously. “I’ll keep you in my prayers.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll take whatever edge I can get.”

CHAPTER TEN

Keller awoke to the sound of clattering dishes in the kitchen and the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. He sat up and stretched, then winced at the pain in his ribs. He took off his shirt and looked at himself in the mirror. His chest was still badly bruised, an archipelago of angry purple marks. He became aware of another sound from the kitchen. He had trouble making it out at first. Then he smiled as he realized what it was. Someone was whistling.

He went out to the kitchen. Sanchez was putting away dishes. “You didn’t have to do that, Oscar,” Keller said.

Sanchez smiled, the first genuine smile Keller had seen from him in quite a while. “It is no trouble. I was up anyway. There is coffee if you want.”

Keller poured himself a cup. “Sleep okay?”

“Si, quite good,” Sanchez said. Keller smiled as he took a sip of the coffee. The smile left his face as he tasted it. Sanchez looked dismayed at the look on Keller’s face. “It is not good.”

“It’s fine,” Keller choked out. “It’s just a little, ah, stronger than I expected.”

Sanchez grinned mischievously. It made him look years younger. “You will get used to it,” he said. “It will put the hair on your chest.”

“And strip the enamel off my teeth,” Keller muttered.

“I see you’ve discovered Oscar’s coffee,” Angela said as she walked in. She went over to Sanchez and hugged him. “Good morning,” she murmured.

Sanchez looked hesitantly at Keller, then hugged her back. “Good morning,” he said.

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Jeez, get a room,” Keller teased.

Angela picked up a dish towel and threw it at him. “Shut up, Jack,” she said, but she was smiling, too.

Sanchez looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Now look what you’ve done,” Angela said. “You’ve made Oscar blush.” She kissed him again, then gave a final squeeze and stepped away. “I can make breakfast, if you’ve got anything to fix,” she said. She opened the fridge. “Hmm. Guess not.”

“Sorry,” Keller said, “but this coffee’ll probably keep me going through dinner.” He took another sip. “Actually, it kind of grows on you.”

“Stick to one cup,” Angela warned. “Two, and you get so wired you start gnawing down trees like a beaver.”

“If you do not like the coffee—,” Sanchez began, but was cut off by their laughter. Finally, he smiled. “You Americans are just not used to coffee the way it should be made. You are…what is the word…wimpy?” They laughed again at that.

“Okay, tough guy,” Angela said. “We need to get to work.”

“Me, too,” said Keller.

“I don’t suppose it’d do any good trying to talk you out of going after Laurel Marks again,” Angela said. “That boyfriend of hers, the one who set that trap gun, is shaping up to be a class-A nutball. Who the hell sets up something like that?”

“I’ll ask him when I find him, if they’re still together,” Keller said.

Angela sighed. “Okay,” she said. “So what’s your plan?”

“You said she had parents in the area. Maybe I’ll try and talk to them.”

“From the way she talked, they’re not exactly on good terms.”

“Yeah, but she’s on the run. If she gets scared enough, she might turn toward home.”

Angela nodded. “Maybe.”

“Plus,” Keller said, “a guy I know works out at the studio. He’s been there since the beginning and pretty much knows everybody. He may be able to tell me something about this Randle character.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Angela said. “Just don’t go opening any more strange doors.”

“Got it,” Keller said.

Laurel and Stan had packed and were waiting in the van. Roy stood in the living room, staring at the posters on the wall over the couch. The face that stared back at him was that of a handsome young man with lank black hair half covering his face. The young man’s eyes burned with an intensity that wasn’t all from photo retouching. Roy ran his fingers lightly over the paper, remembering.

He had been flying high that day, a half gram of Peruvian flake hoovered up his nose over the course of the afternoon. It was another one of those days on the set when it looked like nothing was going to happen. The shoot had been plagued with accidents and dissension; several cast and crew members were heard to mutter only half-jokingly that the whole project was cursed.

Roy and some of the crew had been languishing for hours while some obscure script point was worked out. Someone had broken out their stash and before long, they were all bright-eyed and jabbering. After a while, the energy level got too high for them to stay inside. They spilled out of the metal door of the soundstage into the bright sunlight, blinking like coal miners come up from the earth. The set design was dark and gloomy, almost Gothic, and the sudden transition made some of them laugh out loud as if they were nervous.

A cry split the air above them. Roy looked up, shading his eyes against the sun. A pair of seagulls wheeled and beat the air above them.

“Fuckin’ birds,” one of the stagehands muttered. “I hate those goddamn things.” The birds always seemed to be drifting in from the nearby beaches, possibly to feast on the dumpsters behind the cafeteria. They were universally despised for their apparently unerring aim in fouling sets, cars, and the occasional slow-moving human.

Roy had an idea. “Get one of the pistols,” he said. “The real ones. Get the .44.”

“What for?” the stagehand said, wiping his running nose with the back of his hand. “Ain’t nothin’ in ‘em but blanks.”

Roy grinned. “Just get it.”

They were waiting for him in an uncertain group as he walked onto the wide expanse of the back lot. He was carrying the box of bullets he kept in the trunk of his car. He took the gun from the stagehand and flipped the cylinder out. He began loading.

“I don’t know, man,” one of the lighting techs said. “This doesn’t seem like…”

“FUCK!” the stagehand screamed as Roy raised the pistol and fired. One of the seagulls exploded in a cloud of blood and feathers. The rest of the birds took off,
screeching in panic. Roy fired again. This time, he was firing at them on the wing. He missed.

“Let me try that,” the lighting tech said, his eyes bright.

“Asshole,” Roy said clearly as he took his hand off the poster. “You were all doin’ it too. Same as me. Asshole.” He took a cigarette lighter out of his back pocket and flicked it on. Roy applied the flame to the poster where one edge curled up slightly. The aged yellowing paper caught quickly, dark smoke and red-orange flame quickly climbing up the young man’s face.

He had awakened the next morning to the sound of the phone. He flailed blindly, searching for it His head was throbbing so badly that he could actually feel the ringing like a jackhammer inside his head. Finally he made contact and picked it up.

“Yaaah?” he croaked. His throat was desert-dry.

The PM’s voice on the other end was frantic. “Randle,” he said. “There’s been an accident. On the set.”

Roy sat up and rubbed his face. “Huh?” he responded.

“Did, you take out one of the guns? The .44?”

“Ahh …yeah,” Roy said, still too muzzy-headed to lie. “I took it back, though.”