Head Shot (A Thriller): A Crime and Suspense Thriller (17 page)

Fifty-Nine

Joel Crumbaker weaved his way unsteadily but consistently in the general direction of the news van.  He was more than a little drunk, the only reason he had stopped drinking was that the hotel bartender had cut him off.

There was a half-pint of bourbon he kept for emergency purposes in the van, and he went there, deluding himself into thinking that he should do a once-over on the equipment, just in case anything broke from the
Nation’s Most Wanted.

He clambered into the van through the rear door, and did a half-assed attempt at arranging the cameras and film the way he normally did.  He then scrunched through the front bucket seats and plopped into the passenger seat.  Crumbaker dug the pint bottle of Wild Turkey out of the glove compartment, buried beneath a pile of gas station receipts he'd never bothered to submit for an expense report.

Boy, this was the pits, he thought to himself.

He cracked the seal on the whiskey and took a stiff drink.  It burned his throat and he wished he had a chaser.

Out of boredom, he flicked on the police scanner and the van's cab was suddenly full of sound.

The dispatcher was sending cars to Highway 2.  Crumbaker heard a code number and tried to find the small handbook of police codes, but he couldn't find it.  Then one of the responding officers made it easy, and said something about pursuit of a fugitive.

That was all Joel Crumbaker needed to hear.  

Taking one last swig of whiskey, he capped it and jammed it into the glove compartment, threw the door open and ran unsteadily back into the hotel.  He raced through the lobby, tripped going up the stairs, then pounded on Nancy Bishop's door.

She opened it a crack, the chain still in place.

"What do you wa-"

"Hurry up, they're chasing him, meet me at the van!" he half-screamed, half-slurred.

He thought he heard a man's voice through the door as he turned to race down the hallway.

Crumbaker ran unsteadily back to the van and as he scrambled into the driver's seat, the passenger door opened and a slightly disheveled, frumpy looking Nancy Bishop jumped in and slammed the door.

"Let's go!" she said.

Crumbaker pounded the gear shift into drive, and the big van lurched out of the parking lot.

"What did you hear?" she said, turning up the scanner.

"Sounds like half the cops in the state are in a pursuit west of town," he said.

They roared down a side street, then quickly found their way to 3rd street, and from there, they quickly found Highway 2.

"Gee, I hope we'll be able to find it," Nancy said, already seeing the distant glow of many cop lights on the horizon.

They arrived on the scene several minutes later, and Nancy dove in, using a deadly combination of sweet smiles with bulldozing questions, and rapidly learned that one man was being pursued by another man, the latter fitting the description of suspected serial killer Joe Ferkovich. 

But she also overheard one cop tell another something about "mistaken identity" so Nancy had her doubt that this was the real thing.  The other thing that struck her odd was that neither the Chief nor Ray Mitchell were on the scene.

How could that be?

If all these cops were here, then surely the Chief and Mitchell had been alerted.

She walked to the far end of the section where the cop cars were parked, and found one that had a window open.

She listened intently.  Sure enough, Chief Lenzen's voice came across loud and clear.

"We are now on Millet Road, due to arrive at the trail's intersection in a minute or two.  All units stand by."

Shit.

Nancy Bishop thought fast.  Every journalistic instinct told her that the real story was going to unfold wherever this fucking Millet Road was.

She made a snap decision and had Crumbaker set up on the scene before them.

With thirty seconds of scratching on a notebook, she had her story ready to go, and they shot a segment, on-the-spot, that was broadcast to all the network affiliate stations, as well Channel 6 back in Milwaukee, where it was the lead story on the ten o'clock news.  Special programming in the Rodgers Bay area was interrupted with the late-breaking news story.

Sixty

Rose Sharpe poured a pitcher full of water onto the few coals that still glowed red in the pit of the old stone hearth.  It was an old-fashioned outdoor grill that had been there as long as the cabin itself.

Smoke clouds billowed quickly into the air, small bits of charred wood swirled in their midst, disappearing into the darkness of yet another cool Michigan night.

When the wood remaining in the pit was soaked thoroughly and held no chance to be reignited, she went back into the main room of the cabin, peeved that Ron had gone to bed but left the t.v. on.

She sighed heavily to the empty room and walked over to the set, but just as she was reaching for the on/off button, a special bulletin broke across the screen.

Rose turned the volume up slightly, then took a step back to get a better view.

A woman, a reporter, was standing on the side of the road, with police scurrying about in the background.  They all seemed to be focusing their attention on the woods behind the reporter.

Rose caught what the woman was saying in mid-sentence. 

"-whether or not the man being pursued at this moment is indeed suspected serial killer Joe Ferkovich, I cannot say.  Again, this is an unconfirmed report that a man suspected to be Ferkovich is right now being pursued through the Chequamegon National Forest, approximately two miles west of Rodgers Bay, Michigan.  He is being hunted by law enforcement officials as well as at least one civilian."

"Ron!  Get in here."

There was the sound of bed springs, then the soft shuffle of slippers along the wooden plank flooring, as Ron Sharpe joined his wife in the great room.

"What's going-"

"Sshhhh!"

The reporter continued.

"The case of suspected serial killer Joe Ferkovich was broadcast earlier tonight on
Nation’s Most Wanted
, a show that profiles suspected criminals and asks the public to help.  Again, this is all unconfirmed, but it is believed to be that a civilian who saw the show, then saw a man he believed to be Ferkovich, and the civilian then engaged that man in a chase.  A chase that is continuing as we speak."

"Holy cow," said Ron, running a hand through this thinning hair, and rubbing his tired eyes.

"As of right now, law enforcement officials will not discuss the matter with us, but we will continue to bring you updates as the story progresses.  This is Nancy Bishop, reporting for Channel 6 news."

A mechanical voice came over the soundwaves.

"We will now join our regularly scheduled program in progress," and then the screen jumped abruptly to a rerun of a sitcom that had been canceled some years ago.

Rose turned the volume down, then sat in the rocker, while Ron rummaged through the closet in the hallways just beyond the kitchen.  He returned to the great room carrying a double barreled shotgun.

He went over to a small trunk at the far end of the great room and opened a box of shotgun shells.  He pulled out two shells, cracked the double barrels and slid a shell into each barrel, then snapped the barrel closed.  He put the safety on, then leaned the gun against the wall.

He sat on the couch across from his wife.

"Now don't start panicking," Ron said, ignoring the irony of making that statement after loading a gun.

"If they're two miles west of Rodgers Bay, they're a long way from us yet."

"I'm not worried about us."

Ron looked at her.

"I'm worried about Mike and his girlfriend."

"They'll be fine as long as they don't turn into the world's worst rubberneckers."

"But they were supposed to get here right about now."

"Look, Mike's smart enough to avoid that whole mess, he's not going to go running into the woods trying to catch this guy.  He knows we'd kill him if he did something that stupid."

Rose couldn't see the humor in the situation.

"She said there's a civilian running around out there?"

"That's what she said."

"Jesus, you know how these guys up here get during deer season."

"Buck fever."

"Every year some poor slob takes a crap in the woods, goes to wipe with toilet paper, and gets a 30.06 slug in the belly.  They're nuts."

Ron looked at his wife with newfound respect.

"That was very well put, dear."

"Quit kidding around, Ron, our son's out there."

"Look, I know he is, but he's a smart kid, he'll just drive right by that whole mess and make a beeline for the cabin, you know that, and I know that.  Worrying about it isn't going to get him here any faster."

"So what do we do?"

"Tell you what, let's try out that new espresso machine Mike sent us, break out the cards, and play strip poker until he gets here."

She rolled her eyes.

"All right, gin rummy."

Rose started to agree, then the color quickly drained from her face as she reached out for Ron's hand.

"Honey, what's wrong?" he asked, his smile fading rapidly as he looked at his wife with concern in his eyes.

"Oh my God," she said.

"Rose, talk to me, talk to me."

"I just had a terrible thought."

"What?  What is it?"

She stood and began pacing in the room.

"Oh God, please don't let it be true."

Now Ron stood, walked to his wife, and put his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look him in the eye.

"Rose.  Tell me.  What's wrong?"

She slowly lifted her eyes.

"What if the man they're hunting...what if the man...what if it's...?"

Ron suddenly understood.

"Mike..." he said, finishing her question.

Sixty-One

Joe Ferkovich rolled on the floor of the
Teacher's Pet
, laughing hysterically, kicking his legs, pounding the carpet with his hand.

Suddenly, he stopped laughing.

He wiped the tears from his eyes, and struggled to the padded bench along the far wall of the cabin, and sat still.  Then, his mouth began moving, and he broke out into another laughing fit. 

"Did you see that news story, honey?" Joe cackled at the photo of Lisa Young.

He lowered his head and fought back the laughter.  This was too much, he couldn't breathe.

"Why aren't you laughing, dear?  Right at this moment, the cops are chasing me through the woods!"  This comment sent him into an even harder laughing fit.  It took him several more minutes to calm down.

It was funny to him that some innocent nobody was out getting chased by the cops while he sat in a boat eating potato chips and drinking beer with a sweet little girl.

But slowly, it was starting to feel less humorous to Joe.

He wasn't sure why, but a part of him didn't like the idea of someone else sharing in his glory.

It wasn't all about publicity, though.  It was more about
control
.  Joe felt that someone else was taking over the control he felt from keeping an entire state in fear.

He guzzled warm beer from a can and looked absently at his bare feet.  It just wasn't fair.  He, Joe, was the one who'd done all the work. He was the one who tracked down that girl at the coffee shop, the hippie lawyer.  He was the one who'd outsmarted the cops this whole time.

The more he thought about it, the more pissed off he became.

He stood and paced inside the cramped quarters of the boat's one and only cabin.

The picture in the newspaper of the dead bitch from the coffee shop wasn't doing anything for him anymore.

He was now, like everyone else, a helpless spectator.

Joe Ferkovich did not like to feel helpless.  It was the thing he hated most.  He hated feeling like someone else had control over him.

A plan began to form in his mind.  Slowly, he saw a way to recapture his place in the public eye.

Later tonight, and certainly tomorrow, there would be more special reports, the story would be in the papers, too.

Tomorrow, he would get the necessary facts, and then he would get to work.

He rubbed his hands together as his plan began to solidify.

Joe Ferkovich could feel the power beginning to return.

Sixty-Two

The Ruger rifle, with its all-synthetic black stock, was virtually invisible in the darkness.  Hank Campbell tucked the stock under his arm, and jacked a fresh clip into the rifle's magazine.  His eyes scanned the woods until he saw a stand of particularly thick trees.  They were about thirty yards off the road, and half that distance from the narrow trail that spilled out of the ravine.  It was a good spot, Hank reasoned.  If the killer came out to the right or to the left, Hank could move up or down the treeline, adjusting his location for a clean shot with almost no risk of giving away his position.

He reached down and clicked off the rifle's safety.

There was a soft breeze, and it was blowing against Hank, away from where his quarry would be, but that didn't matter.  Man just didn't have the sense of smell that a deer or a young black bear had. 

No, with a man, all Hank felt he had to worry about was being seen or being heard, two things the big man had no intention of doing.  He was going to stay put, keep his mouth shut, and wait it out, if he did that he'd be a hero.

Suddenly, Hank Campbell felt very good.

Because he realized, he already was a hero.  He'd shown a big city criminal how the real men in the northwoods operate, and he'd wiped out the man's car, saved an innocent victim, a beautiful woman, and now he had the so-called bad guy on the run.

He didn't even have to kill him.  It's just that he wanted to.  He wanted to put a bullet into that no-good sonofabtich. 

Who knows, there might be a reward in it, too.  The Bronco could use a new set of BFGoodrich All-Terrain tires, some new super heavy duty shocks.  Shit, if he could collect some reward money he might even get out of the trailer.  He'd buy another one, but it'd be newer, cleaner.  The one he was in now still sort of smelled like his mother.  At least the bathroom did, anyway.

Another thought occurred to him.

If he succeeded in bringing this guy down, maybe the cops or even the FBI would take him on, make him part of the force.  He always figured with his size and his love of beer, he'd never make it past the Academy training.  But shit, if he had one serial murder case solved to his credit, they'd almost have to take him on.

Even if they didn't, maybe they'd give him a badge or something, a medal, in a presentation at the White House.

And the women.  He knew if he could bring this guy in, dead or alive, every woman in the county would want to meet him, and a lot of them would probably want to do even more.

Suddenly, a twig snapped.

Hank forced himself to stay still. 

It was the killer, it had to be.  Ever so slowly, Hank swiveled his head toward the part of the woods from which the sound had come.

At first, Hank couldn't make anything out but shadows and tree trunks, tall stands of grass.

But then he saw a shape that moved unnaturally in the dark shadows.

The killer was on the other side of narrow trail, the far side of the ravine that burrowed down to the road.  The man was moving slowly, looking ahead.  He could probably see the road and was wondering if someone had gotten ahead of him for an ambush.

Luckily, Hank had parked the Bronco farther down the road, past the ravine, just in case something like this happened.  He hadn't wanted the guy to see the Bronco, and turn tail back into the woods, ruining Hank's only chance to get him.

From where he sat, he could slowly bring the rifle to his shoulder, the tree he was sitting against would afford him plenty of support, and since the rifle was good to go, safety off, one in the chamber, it would just be a matter of lift, aim and shoot.

Hank brought the rifle to his shoulder, the end of the barrel slowly rising, the small sight coming into focus.

In a flash, the killer was behind a tree.

Silently, Hank cursed.

He wasn't sure if the man had heard him, or just happened to choose that moment to take cover behind a tree.

Hank debated.  If he shifted his weight slightly, he could twist his torso giving him a better angle to fire.  But he was on a bed of grass and a few leaves, which meant that the movement could make noise and give his position away.

He made his decision.

With a quick turn of his massive shoulders, his upper body pivoted into the right position.

But a dry leaf cracked, and in the still of the woods, it was perfectly clear.

Hank's heart leapt into his mouth, and then something happened that the big man never would have predicted.

The big city killer, upon hearing the noise, stepped out from behind the tree and peered into the darkness, trying to see what was rustling around in the underbrush.

Hank let out a small, involuntary breath, put the crosshairs on the middle of the man's forehead, and pulled the trigger.