Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder (23 page)

By his far away expression, I realized he was replaying things in his mind’s eye. He continued, “Felt like I got kicked in the side by a donkey. And the blood. It was all over. Coat, shirt, pants. After I took stock of myself, I realized my nose could never have produced that much blood. It might be big, but it’s not that big.”

I gave my battered old man a faint smile.

“Went outside, my car was parked next to the cabin. There was blood all over the passenger side of that, too. But no victim—and considering the amount of blood, there should have been.”

“Oh god,” Coop said. He was never good with bodily fluids. “What did you do?”

“Well,” my father shifted with a grimace. “The joint didn’t have a phone, so I drove around till I found a back country bar and called Eddy. Then I called Mick. I haven’t been seein’ eye to eye with him lately, but when a guy’s in a pinch, you gotta do what you gotta do.”

It was so hard seeing my dad like this. He might be a drunk, but he usually stood strong in the face of almost anything. This time, though, things were different. We were all dog paddling aimlessly without knowing what might be lurking under the surface, ready to attack.

I said, “What happened after you called Mick?”

“He got ahold of Dick—you remember Limpy Dick, Shay.”

Oh yeah. He was going to get a kick out of that story when I had time to tell him.

“Between the two of them they took care of the car. Don’t ask me what they did with it. I don’t want to know and neither do you. Dick had a sister who used to be committed here years back. He knew the place had been shut down, and figured it was as good a place as any for me to hole up in till we put together what’s going on.”

That’s why Mick had disappeared on his wife, and why Limpy Dick was acting so strangely when we showed up out of the blue.

“How come,” I asked, “you and Mick weren’t getting along?”

“It was stupid. He wanted to loan me money to fix the sewer leak in the cellar, and I wouldn’t take it.” He met my eyes with his squinty one. “Sometimes I’m too proud for my own good. You take after me in that, Shay. Maybe we’ll both learn one day.”

Maybe now was a good time to ask about the bones in the cellar. “Dad, about that leak, do you ah … ” I trailed off. God. How was I supposed to ask my father if he murdered someone and hid the evidence in the basement?

“What, Shay? Spit it out, girl.”

“Well, after you didn’t show up on New Year’s Eve, Whale called the Rabbit Hole and told me you were missing. It’s a long story, but I went over to the bar, Whale walked out on me—”

“Whale did what?” My father stiffened for a brief second, hissed in pain, and folded up into himself.

His actions alarmed me, and I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over the 9.

“No, Shay!” He panted a couple of times until the pain subsided enough for him to talk. “I’m okay. Just get a twinge here and there. Put that damn thing away.”

I eyed him suspiciously, torn between summoning help and listing to a direct order from my father. The direct order won out. I stuck the “damn thing” back in my pocket.

“For the love of Christ. Pull up a couple of chairs. My neck is getting a crick looking up at you two.”

We obediently pulled up two straight-back chairs. Foam stuffing was coming out of cracks in the blue Naugahyde-covered seats. I wondered how many people before us sat in these very chairs in this very room.

“Okay, where were we? Shay, can you pour me some water?” He pointed to the water jugs and a red plastic cup that sat on the table.

I stood and fetched the requested water and handed it over.

My father took a deep drink. “Thanks. Anyway, back to that jerkoff of a bartender who will never work for me again.” He looked at me expectantly.

It took a minute to reorganize my thoughts. This was too unreal. We were in the basement of an abandoned mental institution, talking to my father—who was a wanted man—about a loser bartender named Whale. “After Whale left, the Summit delivery guy dropped off his beer and complained about the smell in the cellar. I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I checked it out. Dad, why didn’t you get that fixed?”

“Money’s been tight. I was hoping after the new year I’d have enough extra to get it taken care of. I suppose that’s not going to be in the cards after Whale bailed. I assume you closed the Lep.”

I at least had one good card to pull, and it wasn’t the joker. “No, I kept the bar open, and you actually had a fantastic night. With Jill Zat’s help. Coop, Eddy, JT, and Rocky and Tulip pitched in too. Oh, and a gal who was looking for you named Lisa Vecoli. I think she’s a St. Paul cop. The name ring a bell?”

“Can’t say it does. What’s she look like?”

I went on to describe her.

My father said, “Doesn’t sound familiar. Anyway, thank you for keeping the joint open.”

Now it was time to get into stickier issues. “St. Paul Homicide showed up asking for you, asking about the gun you used to keep under the bar.” My brain registered warmth swirling around my legs. The shoebox-sized heater hummed along and worked impressively well.

This was a moment of truth. Coop sat up straighter. His arms were crossed, hands tucked into his armpits as he raptly watched the exchange between me and my father. I carefully gauged my dad’s expression, which had not yet morphed from its current state of curious puzzlement into a mask of guilt.

“What about it?” The tone of his voice portrayed curiosity.

“It’s gone. I looked and couldn’t find it anywhere.”

My dad frowned lopsidedly. “That’s strange. I went to the range a week ago, and afterward cleaned it and left it next to the cooler beneath the bar where I usually keep it. Did Whale take it with him?”

I didn’t think my father was lying, but I suppose the kid in me never knew for sure when my parent spoke an untruth. It was time to drop the first bomb. “I don’t think he took it … he walked off wearing a tight, sweaty T-shirt and jeans. Unless he lifted it before that point. Anyway, the cops are looking for you. They think you killed Chuck Schuler.”

“That bastard Schuler is dead? Good riddance. I sure would’ve liked to exterminate that pest. He pissed me off, was trying to get me to turn the bar over to him. I think I told you that awhile back, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, Dad, you did.” I took a fortifying breath. “Schuler is dead, and the bullet that killed him came from your gun.”

For a moment, even the hum of the heater faded from my awareness. I held still, waiting to see what my dad would say.

His brow furrowed as much as it could in light of the swelling. “From my gun? Are you sure?”

“JT confirmed it with a cop friend from St. Paul.”

“Shay, Coop,” my dad said, “I swear I didn’t kill anyone. Yes, Schuler was a pain in the ass, and yes, I don’t mind that the slimeball is dead. He had the Lep vandalized more than once tryin’ to convince me to cooperate
.” He muttered under his breath, “I remember that, anyway.”

I don’t know if it was the daughter in me that longed to believe what my father was saying—blood is thicker than water—but I bought it. A flood of relief washed through my veins, leaving me lightheaded and a little punch-drunk. Just as fast as relief hit, it washed away in an anxious wave, leaving me vaguely nauseous. There was still the minor matter of the body that had been found in the basement of my father’s bar.

I tried to clear my suddenly sticky throat. “There’s one other problem. The stench in the cellar got so bad I finally called Roto-Rooter out. The problem was a cracked sewer pipe—”

“Figured.”

“A cracked sewer pipe wasn’t all they dug up under the cement.” I carefully watched my dad’s face to see if he’d reveal guilt, or more hopefully, innocence. However, he was good at poker, and his poker face was firmly in place.

“Well, what did they find? Buried treasure? Maybe that would help me out of the red.”

“Not exactly.” I swallowed at the lump that was growing thicker. “They found bones. Human bones and a dress …”

For the second time in as many minutes, silence hovered louder than sound ever could.

“Jesus Christ,” my father muttered. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

Oh god, please don’t let him say he did it.

My father’s good eye flicked from me to Coop and back again. “Oh no. You can’t be serious. You think I offed some woman and buried her in the basement of my bar?” His voice rose in indignation.

I simply shrugged, feeling helpless, way over my head. Maybe there were some things that a kid just didn’t need to know about their parents.

“Shay,” my dad said, making a concerted effort to remain calm, but a vein in his temple pulsed. He gently reached forward to cup his work-rough palm against my cheek and tilted my head up. “Look at me.”

I did.

“I did not bury any bodies in the basement of the Leprechaun or anywhere else. That, I can swear on.”

I felt like a puppet that suddenly had its strings cut … all wobbly and lethargic. “I believe you—”

“Well, well,” a voice cut in from behind me. “If it isn’t the O’
Hanlons and that tall nerdy bastard, all lined up in a nice row.”

FOURTEEN

My father’s head jerked
up. Both Coop and I twisted in our seats toward the speaker and froze. It took a second for me to register the identity of the individual inside the door. He held a humongous handgun that was pointed directly at us.

Without much oomph, Coop said, “Greg? Greg Larson?”

The man in question took a step closer. He was a dozen feet away, too far away to try and charge, but too close for comfort. “Yes. It’s little Greg. Remember me, Mr. O’Hanlon?”

“Course I do. Your mug’s been plastered all over the city.” My father’s voice was low, even, and unpanicked. How did he do that?

“So what’s with the hardware, Greg?” I asked, trying to keep my pounding heart in my chest.

He waved the cannon. Both Coop and I cringed. “This little thing? I like to call it the Equalizer. It can make the playing field a little more, shall we say, level?” The sneer on his face matched the crazy that now floated behind his striking blue eyes. “You people couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”

My dad rumbled, “What are you talking about, son?”

“Don’t you
son
me, old man. Why can’t you follow directions?”

“What directions?” The perplexed tone of my dad’s voice echoed my sentiment.

“You were supposed to sell your bar. If you’d sold your bar, none of this would have happened.” Spittle flew from Greg’s mouth. He stepped closer, within arms reach, and poked me in the forehead with the barrel of his gun. The cold metal seared my skin and I flinched away.

Greg’s gaze shifted from me to my father. “You were supposed to freeze to death up there. Your stone cold body would be found with all the evidence the cops would need to convict your corpse of murdering Schuler. All that work … swiping your bar gun, the roofies. Well, they were one thing in this whole mess that worked like clockwork.”

I was having problems grasping the finer points, but I was doing well with the big picture: we needed to subdue the lunatic with the great big firearm. Pronto.

Greg’s crazed eyes floated back to my face. “And you. You couldn’t help but stick your nose where it didn’t belong.”

“But I—”

Greg shut me up with a backhanded whack across my cheekbone. I momentarily saw stars but clearly heard the bellow of fury from my father. He leaped up and charged Greg. Dad crashed into him as the deafening sound of the gun went off, battering my eardrums in the confines of the concrete room. My father’s body bucked in slow motion. Red spray spewed through the blankets covering his back, misting both Coop and me.

“No!” I shouted, trying desperately to shake the cobwebs loose.

“Shay,” my father barked, his voice strained, “run!” He tenaciously held on to the shooter. Greg struggled, but Dad locked rock-hard arms locked around the madman.

“Dad! You’re—”

“SHAY ELIZABETH O’HANLON! GO!”

I’d never heard my father roar so loudly, and the child in me couldn’t help but obey. I grabbed Coop’s sleeve. We dodged around the grunt-filled battle between Greg and my father and fled the room like rat-fink cowards.

FIFTEEN

The screaming in my
head conflicted with the still silence of the hall. We scrammed down the corridor away from my father’s battle for his life.

Get to JT. JT has a gun. She can shoot that little asshole.
I repeated that mantra as we hit the stairs in the pitch black and took them two at a time, almost tripping on the longer step in the middle of each flight. Behind me, Coop was running a string of swear words that hadn’t stopped since we exited the bloody room.

On the main floor I could actually make out doorways leading into various rooms. Our mad dash ended when we burst into the laundry room, our feet kicking through the chunks of fallen plaster and peeled paint.

“Where—” Coop spun in a circle, looking as hard as I was for our exit window.

I whipped out my flashlight and flicked it on, its beam bouncing off the wall. It caught the edge of an old board, and that board was wedged into the window casing that had been our exit. I tried to yank it out, but my fingers were too cold. The wood was jammed so tightly it didn’t budge. Then Coop bumped me out of the way and tried to remove the barrier to our bid for freedom. It was a no-go.

“Shit, Shay,” Coop panted, “we need another way out.”

The sound of feet echoing as they pounded up the stairs jarred me into action. “Come on,” I whispered furiously. “We have to get out of this room.” I took off, towing him along behind and we dashed out of the room.

“Where are we going?”

I had no clue. Neither Coop nor I had any idea of the layout of the place other than where we’d already been, so our choices were limited. We were at one end of the building, meaning the hall was pretty much a one-way ride. We were going to have to pass the stairway Crazy Greg was thundering up like a herd of buffalo. I flashed the light in my hand behind us, toward the wall at the end of the hall. There was a narrow doorway just past the entrance to the laundry.

I ran toward the door, praying it wasn’t locked. The Irish eyes of some dead ancestor (please not let it be those of my Pop) must have been smiling down at me, because the knob twisted in my hand and the door opened. Coop’s coat still clutched in my hand, I darted into the space, which had once been a utility room, if the mummified mop in the corner was any indication, and doused the flashlight. There was no time to close the door before I heard heavy footsteps slowly coming our way.

Coop was pressed tightly against my back and I hugged the doorframe. He whispered in my ear, “Gotta run before he figures out where we went.”

He was right. Unless we wanted to be gunned down like the lily-livered gutless wonders we were, we had to keep moving. I tried to slow my ragged breaths. I strained to hear where Greg was going, praying he’d turn into the laundry room. I did a rapid glance around the edge of the door. Greg’s dark form was just disappearing into the laundry room entrance.

“Now,” I whispered. We both bolted from the closet and raced down the hall.

The hallway was long. The building itself was much larger inside than it appeared from the exterior. Maybe if we could make it to the other end, we’d be able to find another way out. But before we managed to reach the opposite side, an inhuman scream echoed down the corridor. It was followed almost instantaneously by another volley of gunshots and the accompanying zing of bullets hitting walls and ricocheting. We were probably going to get plugged full of lead from a bounce off, if not from a direct shot!

Coop hit the deck and yanked me down beside him. We desperately crab-walked along the litter-filled linoleum, almost scuttling past an open space to the right, but I glanced to the side and realized it was a landing with another set of caged-in stairs. Apparently they’d built a stairwell on each end of the building.

Thank god.

I tugged on Coop’s sleeve. He followed my lead, scrambling to the right and onto the landing. This time the swinging gate was still attached. I jerked it open and flicked my flashlight on. I scoured the floor for something to use to jam the gate shut. Coop read my mind and grabbed a thick sliver of wood lying partially beneath the junk on the floor. I realized it was a broken broom handle that could actually make a wicked weapon, but in a flash I could see where Coop was going with it.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

What the hell?
Greg’s singsong lilt sounded like it was still a little ways away. He didn’t seem in a hurry to track us down. His pace was casual, almost nonchalant. The sound of his footsteps paused at various intervals. I imagined he was checking each room he passed, just in case. Most likely he figured we were easy pickings, and all he had to do was flush us out to finish us off.

The Protector in me was finally pulling itself together, and the situation started to come into focus so sharply I blinked in reaction. I grabbed the dagger of wood from Coop’s hands and shoved him in front of me to the gate. We both grabbed it, and it swung open so easily we nearly lost our balance. Coop pulled me through the opening and the gate slammed shut. The sound of metal clashing against metal vibrated my brain.

I desperately lined up the two circular loops and crammed the pointy end of the broom handle through it. Coop added his weight, and we both backed off. I gave the wood a good pull, and it didn’t budge.

“I hear youuuu,” Greg sang. It sounded like he was almost on top of us.

We didn’t stick around. Instead we hit the stairway, leaping to the longer landing in the middle of each flight, down and around until we were back in the basement. Coop flicked his flashlight on. There was another gate, meaning this stairwell led down another story past the basement. It was either play ring around the insane asylum or go for uncharted territory.

“Down!” I frantically whispered to Coop. We dashed forward and the beam from Coop’s light bounced off a lock that secured the gate shut. There was no time to try to pick the fucker, even if we had the capability. Maybe that was something I should take up in my spare time—if I lived to have any spare time after this.

The good news was the gate was only chest high. I took a flying leap, swung my leg, shimmied over the top, and dropped to the opposite side. Coop was after me in a flash, landing lightly on his feet, knees bent to absorb the impact.

As soon as he regained his balance, we were pounding down the steps into the unknown. My light bounced around as I pumped my arms, reflecting at crazy angles off the walls. Thankfully the steps were clear of debris, and we made it to the next level without incident. We had maybe a fifteen-second lead on Greg, assuming he scaled the gate as easily we had. I took a moment to shine the light down one end of the corridor. It ended in a whitewashed wall. I whipped around and pointed the beam the opposite direction. The walls were pristine compared to the neglected and crumbling structure above.

“What is this?” I asked.

“I don’t know, but come on.” He pulled out his flashlight and added the beam to mine. Here the surface under our feet was curiously clear of trash and collapsed drywall.

A rattling bang and colorful cursing propelled us into flight. Maybe Greg hurt himself as he tried to scale the gate. One could hope.

Our footsteps pounded along the narrow passageway, which felt like a tunnel. After about fifty feet we hit a T in the road, and we skidded to a stop.

“Which way?” I asked.

Coop’s flashlight caught a list of locations painted in black script. The top read
Infirmary
, with an arrow pointing to the right. Below it read
Cabin 3
, with another arrow to the right.
Laboratory
arrowed to the left, and the last location on the list read
Boiler Room 4
to the left. Going left was definitely much less appealing than going to the right.

Coop whispered, “I like the sound of the infirmary.”

Greg’s voice echoed weirdly as he singsonged, “Where are you, you two shitheads?” It was hard to tell how close he was.

“To the right it is,” I agreed, and that’s the direction in which we flat out ran. I didn’t dare douse my light, because the tunnel curved this way and that before it momentarily straightened out again.

The pounding echo of our footsteps left little doubt that Greg would figure out which direction we’d taken. Sure enough, we came around a sharp corner into another straightaway, and I could hear his shoes slap against the pavement. At least he’d stopped singing to us.

Ahead, a tunnel branched off to our left, and the sign painted on the wall read
Lizardspit Infirmary, 200 Feet
. I didn’t have time to wonder what in the freaking world Lizardspit was, and I didn’t much care. We hit the spurs and dodged down it. After about a hundred feet, we curved sharply and hit another straightway. Broken glass crunched beneath our feet. The volume of garbage increased as we closed in on the end of the tunnel. Musty mattresses leaned against the walls. Metal bedpans, kidney-shaped tin barf buckets, tubing, and other pharmaceutical castoffs were on the floor. Metal headboards and footboards from mid-century hospital beds were propped against a set of striped mattresses. We carefully but rapidly picked our way through the medical minefield to the gate that stood between us and a stairway to freedom. This time the gate wasn’t chest high. It rose to the ceiling of the tunnel. We weren’t going to be climbing that behemoth. A length of chain was wound around the door and the frame.

Greg’s voice echoed ever closer. “Yoo hoo, my foolish friends!”

“Shit,” Coop hissed and pointed his flashlight at the gate. I followed the beam. It illuminated a fist-sized, silver padlock that would probably take a couple of sticks of dynamite to blast open.

I yanked on the lock. It was as sturdy as it had been the day it was attached.

“Holy fuck, Shay, what are we gonna do now?” The desperation in Coop’s voice made it crack.

I glanced at my best friend. His eyes were wide, almost wild with panic. For a moment, despair and terror nearly immobilized me. We were going to die in the bowels of an insane asylum. My father got shot for me, and I was going to let him down.

No, goddamn it. No. I was not going to disappoint him, make his sacrifice worthless. Newfound determination stiffened my back. I muttered, “Grab something hard and hold your ground.” Adrenaline surged so fast it made me lightheaded. The familiar red haze of fury flared, narrowing my vision, focusing my attention. I welcomed it.

Greg would pay, even if it was the last thing I did. And that was a very real possibility.

I bent and scooped up the closest thing to a weapon I could find. It was one of those ancient metal bedpans, and it hefted nicely in
my hand.

Coop rummaged around the floor and pulled up an old metal cane with a hook on the end. “Ready.”

Creepy silence rang in my ears for a few tense seconds. I realized Greg had stopped his sing-song chanting. I suddenly heard his footsteps—slow and hesitant—crunching ever closer through the slew of waste. I figured he had to be close to the last bend in the tunnel.

I whispered, “Let’s do a blacked-out Broadway Broadside when he gets close enough.”

A Broadway Broadside was a not-so-clean move we’d come up with when we played broomball, in order to keep someone away from the ball at faceoff. Occasionally it came in handy to rush some irritating opposing player, nail them at chest level between linked arms, and lay them flat out. Of course, the refs didn’t appreciate that, and we often wound up sidelined for two minutes for obstruction or roughing, but it was usually worth the penalty.

Without any referees in this deadly game, the threat of penalties flew out the basement window. We had absolutely nothing left to lose.

Coop held his flashlight up, his other arm toward me. I dropped mine and gripped the bedpan tighter. I wrapped my other arm around his, locking us together at the elbow and said, “Go on my mark—when it sounds like he’s within striking range.” How we were going to judge that was beyond me, but the plan was better than nothing. With a dual nod, we doused our flashlights at the same time.

Suffocating blackness settled in and Greg’s footsteps stopped abruptly. There was no telltale glow from his direction. Either the shit didn’t have a flashlight of his own, or he was playing our game.

No matter.

For the first time since this nightmare started, I didn’t feel fear. I had no second thoughts. It was time to kick some madman ass and get my father help.

Welcome to the last stand at the Lizardspit Infirmary corral.

I breathed slowly through my nose and tried not to hyperventilate. “Greg, let’s talk about this.”

Glass crunched as he took another step. “Yes, Shay, let’s talk.”

Good. As long as he spoke, we could get a rough idea of where he was. The downside was that he could get a lock on our general whereabouts too.

Since our chances of making it out of here in one piece pretty well sucked, I figured we at least deserved the full story. “How did this all start?” I tugged on Coop’s arm and pulled him a step to the right. Might as well make the target hard to hit.

Instead of being shot dead, glass crunched again, closer but still not quite close enough. Greg said conversationally, “You’re going to die. Oh, those high school memories.”

“High school?” I repeated. The man was truly off his rocker. He was a long way from high school. I pushed against Coop and we both leaned his way.

Two more footsteps echoed through the tunnel. He was probably fifteen or twenty feet away now. Still not close enough to run him over before he realized what we were doing. “Damn right. Sweet sixteen.”

I had no idea where he was going with this. What I’d give for a pair of night vision goggles about now. “High school or college?” I asked.

“Sophie Brady.”

Sophie Brady. The name did ring a bell.

“The Sophie Brady rumor. In high school,” Coop murmured. “Seniors scared the freshmen, told ’em if they weren’t careful they’d disappear just like she did. Remember?” He dragged me down into a crouch.