Head Shot (A Thriller): A Crime and Suspense Thriller (18 page)

Sixty-Three

Just before he saw the blinding light of the muzzle flash, Mike Sharpe realized he had just made the biggest, and perhaps most costly mistake of his life.

He felt a wallop and then everything went to black.  His body folded and he crashed to the ground.

When his head hit the ground, however, it cleared his vision and he saw the shadows of trees against a night sky.

And then the sensation of cold metal pressed against his lips, and the face of a man appeared over him.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," the man said.  He reared back and kicked Mike in the ribs. The blow took his breath away and turned him over.  Mike felt the big man's hands on his body, searching for a weapon.

He moved his mouth, struggling to find his voice.  He needed to tell this maniac that it was all a big mistake.  A case of mistaken identity.  That he was just an actor, he wasn't the actual killer.  But when he opened his mouth to deliver that message, nothing came out, the wind had been knocked out of him, and he lay like a fish out of water, gasping.

"Funny, you don't look so dangerous now, Mr. Big City Killer," the man said.

He jerked Mike to his feet. 

Mike watched helplessly as a fist, quite possibly the biggest fist he'd ever seen in his life, filled his vision and struck him in the middle of the face.

His knees buckled, but he remained standing, held upright by the man's other obscenely sized hand.

Mike felt blood pour out of his nose, into his mouth, and he struggled to spit the red liquid out of his mouth, but he couldn't move.

Suddenly, his stomach leaped to his mouth, and he vomited on the man's pants.

"Fucker!" the man yelled, and punched Mike in the stomach.  This time the big man let go, and Mike fell into a sitting position.  The big man shifted his considerable weight to his back foot, swung and threw a devastating right hook at Mike's head that caught him flush on the jaw.

The blow sounded like a second rifle shot in the still of the forest, and blackness came again to Mike, this time to stay.

Sixty-Four

This was proving to be the best day of Hank Campbell's life.  He was a hero. 

The pile of shit he had slung over his shoulder proved it.  All the victims' families could rest in peace, the man who killed their loved ones was now in custody, courtesy of one Hank Campbell from Rodgers Bay, Michigan.

He walked around to the front of the Bronco and with an effortless heave, dropped the killer onto the hood of the blazer. 

Hank walked around to the back of the Bronco and opened the rear door.  He reached inside and retrieved several sections of rope, as well as rubber tie-downs.

Back at the front of the Bronco, Hank bound his prize’s legs together with one piece of rope, then used another piece to secure his arms over his head.

He then ran another section of rope through the hooks beneath the truck's grill.  He joined all the sections together and made it fast to each of the oversized side mirrors.

The guys at Feit's were going to love this.  Sure, he could drive to the police station, or just wait for the cops to arrive, but if he showed up at Feit's with the big serial killer strapped across his hood like a ten-point buck, he would be a legend.

Hank stepped back to admire his handiwork.

The killer looked like a beaten animal, which he was.  Blood still flowed freely from the head wound, although now it was darkening and would stop soon.  The wound from Hank's first bullet looked to have re-opened, fresh blood covering the older stains on the man's shirt.

It was gory picture of which Hank Campbell was immensely proud.

Years ago, he had gotten his picture in the local newspaper once for an eighteen point buck, the biggest of the year, and it was framed in a section of Feit's saloon.

But this, this was a whole new ballgame.

People said Hank Campbell was good for nothing but drinking and fighting, but now he'd show them wrong.  All those lawyers and bankers and doctors, all those goody-two shoes who made Hank feel like he was a low life.  He'd show them.

No one would snicker behind Hank Campbell's back again.

He walked to the back of the Bronco and threw the rubber tie-downs in the back, then went to the driver's door.

He opened it and was about to climb in when he heard the sirens, and lights appeared over the top of the hill.

With their appearance, Hank began to feel his plan slipping away.  Oh, well, he'd still be famous. 

It just wouldn't happen quite the way he'd planned.

Sixty-Five

Chief Of Police Don Lenzen braked hard, the tires of his squad car crunching on the gravel beneath them.

Inside the cruiser, Lenzen cursed, while Ray Mitchell struggled to believe what he saw before him.

A man, an enormous man, climbed out of the cab of the Ford Bronco, the big vehicle rocking from the sudden lightening of the load.  Ray knew that the Bronco before him was equipped with heavy duty shocks, he could see that from the fact that the body was raised slightly higher than usual, and by the oversize tires.  It would take a huge man to rock the vehicle that way, and Ray could see that such a man was now standing before him.

"Let me take a wild fucking guess," he said to Lenzen.  "That's Hank Campbell."

Lenzen was already out of the car, his hand on his revolver.

"Hank, show me your hands.  Show me your hands right now!"

The big man's face broke out into a huge smile, but he raised his hands nonetheless.

"I got him Chief, I got him!" he said, advancing toward the police cruiser.

"I see that, Hank," Lenzen responded.  "But why don't you put your hands on the Bronco anyway?"

This time, Campbell didn't do as he was told.

"But why?  I got this guy myself, he's the-"

"He's a fucking actor, Hank!  You got the wrong guy now put your hands on the Bronco!  Do it!"

Shaking his head as if Lenzen hadn't understood what he said, Hank Campbell slowly did as he was told.

As Campbell moved toward the Bronco, Lenzen spoke into his radio.

"This is Chief Lenzen, send the ambulance up to Millet Road, about two miles off of Highway 2."

He looked at Mike Sharpe still strapped across the Bronco's hood.

"And hurry."

As Lenzen put the cuffs on Hank Campbell, Mitchell raced to the cruiser's trunk, pulled out a first aid kit, then ran to Mike Sharpe's side.  He hurriedly untied the rope, dug out a bandage, and pressed it against the middle of the bloody patch on the side of Mike's head.

Ray looked at the actor's face.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he said.

The poor bastard had been shot at least twice and beaten to a bloody pulp.  Considering the size of the monster now climbing into Lenzen's cruiser, Ray was surprised the actor didn't look any worse.

Ray put his finger on the man's throat.  There was a pulse.  It was faint, but consistent.

Another innocent person hurt, thanks to the fucking maniac Ferkovich.  Ray knew he should be equally angry with Hank Campbell, but this kind of thing had happened before.  Shows like
Nation’s Most Wanted
were good ones, they'd helped solve a lot of cases, but there was always the risk of misguided vigilantism.

This, however, was the worst case to which he'd ever personally been a witness.

The sound of a vehicle approaching made its way to Mitchell, and he turned toward the road.

The Channel 6 news van pulled to a stop behind Lenzen's cruiser.  Nancy Bishop and a cameraman jumped out and headed straight for him.

"Stop right there!" Ray shouted.

"Did you get Ferkovich?"  Bishop shouted at him.

"It's him!  I got him!" Hank shouted to the reporter.

"Bullshit, Hank, you got the actor who played him on the show.  Now shut up, you've done enough damage for one night," said Lenzen.  "The only person you should talk to now is a lawyer."

"Is that right, Mitchell?  Is it the wrong guy?" Bishop yelled.

"No comment."

"Is it the actor who played Ferkovich on
Nation’s Most Wanted
?  What a great story!" Bishop continued.

"If your van blocks that ambulance, I'm locking both of you up, with him," Ray said, gesturing toward Hank Campbell.

The ambulance arrived first, and paramedics quickly attended to Mike Sharpe.

Mitchell listened as they questioned him, but the man was virtually incoherent.

Ray could have sworn he said something about hemorrhoids, which struck the detective as somewhat humorous, but then cold water was splashed on that thought, as a voice boomed out behind him.

"Mitchell!  What in the fuck is going on here?"  demanded Lieutenant Benjamin Soergel.

He was wearing dress slacks and a sharp checked blazer, working very hard to assume a look of authority.

"Mistaken identity,” Ray said.

“That’s just great,” Soergel responded.

Ray ignored him and walked to his car.  "You know, I'd be happy to stand around with you politicizing, but I've still got a serial killer to catch," he said.

Sixty-Six

Sarah Ross was having trouble sleeping.

She and Rocco had spent the entire day fishing, in the morning with a client, in the afternoon, just the two of them.  They had made up a picnic basket with wine and sandwiches, leisurely scouting a new shelf they accidentally discovered two days before.

Normally, a full day of fresh air out on the water, the big lake, usually made for a great night of sleeping, but tonight, she was tossing and turning, her husband's heavy snoring adding insult to injury.

She knew what was bothering her.  It was that damn show. 
Nation’s Most Wanted
.   And the special news bulletin that followed.   

The strange thing was, she and Rocco had watched the show many times before, and it hadn't affected her this way before.  It wasn't the violence depicted in the show's re-enactments, nor was their fear on her part from the special bulletin, reinforcing that there was a serial killer quite possibly in the area.

Rocco kept a handgun in the drawer next to his bunk.  She had no fear of their safety.

No, it was more like she was forgetting something important, something nagging at her subconscious.

Kicking the blankets off the bed, she walked to the rear of the cabin, and sat down at the small dining table anchored solidly to the floor.  There was a small pot of tea with a cups' worth still left inside, so she poured the contents into a small paper cup, and sipped while staring out the small windows at the stars perched overhead.

Her mind went back to the show, the re-enactments.  That killer was a bad man, she certainly hoped he had no intention of coming around here.

Those poor people that he killed, they were all so young, it almost made her feel guilty that she had outlived them.  They didn't deserve to die.

Was that it?  Was it just that her maternal instinct was kicking in, thinking of her own children out there in a world where people killed one another?

Sarah drained the rest of the tea and set her cup down, but accidentally caught the lip of the sugar jar and it toppled over onto its side, sending a mound of sugar onto the top of the table.

She stood and began walking for the roll of paper towel, then stopped.

The man she had seen a morning or two ago, the early morning fisherman who carried his rods and walked onto the boat while she was having her morning coffee.  Why had she suddenly remembered him?  He hadn’t really looked like the killer from the show.  So why had she thought of him? 

It had just seemed odd, she realized. 

She sat back down at the dining table, sweeping the sugar off the table, salvaging most of it back into the jar.

What to do?  She debated about waking Rocco, but he wouldn't be much help.  Besides, she was pretty sure her imagination was just kicking into overdrive.

Besides, what would she say to the police?  That she saw a man who made her feel suspicious? 

Maybe it would help if she could remember the name of the boat he had gotten on.  Then the cops could just find out who owned the boat, and call the person. 

What was the name of it?  It was a dog's name, or something like that.

She frowned as she concentrated.  No, it wasn't a dog.  It was something about a pet.

She drummed her fingers on the table, then slammed her hand down.

Teacher's Pet.

That was it.

She grabbed the phone book and found the Rodgers Bay police station's non-emergency number.

Then she picked up the phone and began punching in the numbers.