Head Shot (A Thriller): A Crime and Suspense Thriller (22 page)

Eighty

The midday sun shone down on Mike Sharpe's face, giving his cheeks a warmth that made him even sleepier.  He was dog tired.  Fatigue had reached down through his muscles and was progressively knocking his bones into submission.

His shoulders slumped in the plastic deck chair, and his feet were thrust out in front of him. 

The medication was taking the pain away, but it was also screwing up his system.

He and Laurie had just finished a big lunch with his parents.  Pasta and garlic bread sprinkled with mozzarella cheese.  The overload of carbs hadn’t helped with his drowsiness.

"My poor baby," Laurie said from his side, stroking his hair and looking him in the eye.

"If you're going to play nurse, I think you need to be in one of those cute little white uniforms."

The phone rang and Rose went inside the cabin to answer it.  Ron looked closely at his son.

"How ya' feelin', Mike?"

"Tired," was all he could manage.

"Did you take your noon pills?" asked Laurie.  She had been his unofficial nurse, something to which Mike thought his mother might feel jealousy over, but Rose had been fine with it.

"I don't think so, but I'm too damned drugged up to remember," Mike said.

"I'll go get them," Laurie said, taking Mike's empty plate and glass with her.

Ron watched Laurie disappear inside the cabin.  He then scooted over to the chair directly next to Mike's.

"What's up, Dad?" Mike asked, noticing his father's sly grin.

"I like that Laurie."

"So do I."

"Do you think she's the one, Mikey?"

Mike rolled his eyes.

"Now hold on," Ron said, nipping his son's complaint in the bud.  "Your mother and I have been very patient waiting for you to get out there and make us a grandchild.  You can't get all mad at us for checking up on your progress."

Mike shook his head.

"You two are incorrigible."

"That hardly answers the question."

Mike thought of the ring in his pocket.

"We’ll see,” Mike said.

His father nodded and stood.  “I need to get your mother off the phone.  I never should have put one in the cabin.  Our phone bills are like the mosquitoes, they get bigger up north."

Mike was left alone, looking out over the lake. 

It was time.

He was going to take Laurie out on the pontoon boat right now and propose.

He stood up and his head swam slightly.  Mike opened the sliding glass door and stepped inside the cool, darker interior, waiting for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunshine outside.

They never got the chance.

As he started to make out the dim images of Laurie, his mother and his father all bound and gagged on the floor of the cabin in front of the fireplace, he sensed movement behind him.

And then a brief stab of pain at the base of his skull followed by nothing at all.

Eighty-One

Ray Mitchell mashed the accelerator to the floor, and watched out of the corner of his eye as the trees turned into a giant blur of green.  The road was smooth but twisty, and he was forced to alternate between the brake and the accelerator, the cruiser's thick tires gripping the road admirably, squealing in protest on every steep curve.

Mitchell glanced at the newspaper on the seat next to him.  As he drove, he second guessed himself with every passing mile.  One moment, he was sure that Ferkovich would target the actor.   The next, he was convinced that he was crazy for driving off like this.  But he knew there was only one way to find out.

He tried to put a call through to Krahn, but the dispatcher said he was out chasing down leads generated from the
Nation’s Most Wanted
episode and not answering his cell.

Ray approached a dirt road off the main highway and slowed as he went by, just managing to make out the words "Lost Lake Rd."

"Shit," he muttered, and slammed on the brakes.

He slammed the car into reverse, flung his arm over the passenger seat's headrest, and backed up to the entrance of the road.   Ray turned down the dirt and gravel road and gunned the big engine, but the steering wheel began violently vibrating in his hands and he was forced to slow down on the washboard road.

Ray picked up the radio handset and tried Krahn again.  This time, he got through.

"Hey, it’s Ray."

"Yeah."

"I don't have time to explain, but I think Ferkovich may be going after the actor who played him on Nation’s Most Wanted.  I found a newspaper article in the boat that Ferkovich stayed in.  The article listed the actor's parents' address.  Ferkovich's prints were all over it."

"It's a long shot, Ray."

"I know, but I have to check it out.  I've got a feeling.  Anything from the chopper?"

"Haven't seen a fucking thing, Ray.  Lots of false sightings.  From Cincinnati to San Diego.  The bastard's everywhere and nowhere at the same time."

"I'll let you know what I find."

"I'll send back up."

"Nah, just wait for my call.  I'm almost there now."

"10-4, Ray."

Mitchell hung up the handset and checked his watch. 

Through the trees to the left of the road, Ray could now see sunlight reflecting off a lake, the choppy waves creating a moving mirror of water and light.

He passed a cabin and managed to spot the address numbers.  He was close, just a few more houses, probably.

The cruiser nosed down the road, its mounted light looking oddly out of place in among the pine trees and log cabins.

He stopped abruptly at the wooden gate with the sign above it reading "Lost Lake Lodge."

Ray paused and studied the layout of the buildings.  A main cabin with a garage off to the right.  A big blue Suburban sat in the driveway.  Ray punched in the license plate number and after a brief wait, it came up registered to a Ronald Sharpe.  Presumably, the actor's father.

Mitchell pulled the cruiser into the drive and rolled softly past the cabin, parking behind the Suburban.  A thin wafting of smoke curled up from the chimney.  A pontoon boat gently drifted at its mooring, pushed one way by the wind, then jerked back by the chain holding it to the dock.

Ray stepped out of the cruiser and shut the door.

He could see the edge of the verandah and noted some dishes on the small table.  Leftovers from breakfast, he presumed.  Now he knew he’d made a mistake.  There was no killer here.  He would have to call Krahn back and admit his imagination had gotten the better of him.

There was a mud room on this end of the cabin and it was to this door that Ray went, knocking softly on the old wood.  He looked at the pile of firewood next to the door and tried to remember the last time he'd sat in front of a roaring fire.  It had been a long time.

There was no answer, so he knocked again.

This time, someone called out from inside.

"Come on in, we're just about to have some coffee!" a woman's voice said.

Ray's stomach turned at the thought of drinking even more caffeine, but he knew he couldn't refuse.  It would probably be some kind of gourmet blend, not like the rot gut at Hardee's.

He opened the door and stepped inside. 

The smell of a woodfire greeted his nostrils, along with it coffee, eggs and bacon.

Well, his foolish idea wasn’t all bad.  Maybe he’d get a good meal out of the deal.

After all, it was going to be a long day, now that he knew he'd guessed wrong.  Ferkovich was still out there, somewhere.  But he sure as hell wasn’t here.

Ray stepped through the mud room and got a glimpse of the great room ahead with its vaulted ceiling and natural fireplace.

Ray stepped forward into the adjoining hallway.

"Hi folks, hope I'm not interrupt-..."

He managed to register the feel of cold metal against back of his head just before he was knocked unconscious.

Eighty-Two

It was like a victim buffet.

Joe didn’t know where to begin.

The bodies were sprawled out in front of him and he hesitated.  He wanted the younger woman who was clearly beautiful, voluptuous, and had a fantastic mouth.  He could barely control himself looking at her.

But should he wait?  Start with maybe the old lady first?  Sort of like an appetizer before moving onto the main course?

Joe didn’t think he had time.

Red tinted the edges of his vision and he knew he couldn’t hold out much longer.  His control was so weak now, his desire so strong that he wanted to wreak havoc immediately and thoroughly, he wanted to leave the walls covered with blood and the screams of women in pain ringing in his ears.

But he took a brief second to savor the moment.  When would he ever be in this position again?  He almost laughed.  He had the actor who had played him in the television show!  This was the kind of stuff for which legends were made.  Ted Bundy ahd never pulled off anything nearly as bold and audcacious.

Joe Ferkovich was going to go down in history as one of the most famous killers of all time.

But not right now.

No.

He would kill everyone here, take the cops guns and car, and make a beeline for Canada.

Joe had no idea how he would get over the border, but he would think of something.

The strain in his pants made it hard for him to walk but he couldn’t stop staring at the young woman.

It was time.

Eighty-Three

When Mike Sharpe saw the killer drag the detective into the middle of the living room, all of his hopes for a quick rescue vanished.

He still couldn't get over how much the killer and he looked alike.  That crazy fucking eye brought him back to reality, though.  Mike's heart was beating like a drum roll as he watched the killer, Ferkovich, kick the detective in the ribs, a crazy smile on his face.

"Now this is my kind of party," Ferkovich said, scanning the room, noting the wide, terrified eyes of his captives, mute with horror, their mouths duct taped shut.

"What, did you fuckers think you could steal my thunder?" he yelled, raising his arms for emphasis.

"I'm the star of this show!"

Mike Sharpe struggled against the duct tape binding his wrists together, but the tape wouldn't budge. He worked at it ferociously behind his back, the edges cutting into his skin, tearing it, and blood dripped from underneath the tape.

His only hope was that the cop had called someone, or that more cops were on the way.  After all, why had this detective come here?  They'd last seen him at the hospital and assumed they wouldn't meet up with him again.  Had the detective figured something out?  And if so, wouldn't he have called for backup?

Suddenly, Ferkovich's voice boomed out.

"Well, who wants to go first?"

Mike stopped struggling to get his hands free.  He would have to think of something else.

Mike knew that the other victims had been sexually assaulted, and his blood ran cold at the thought.  He looked at his father, but he could see blood seeping down from his father's hairline, and from the dazed look in his eyes, knew he wouldn't be in shape to help.

Mike looked across the room at his mother, her eyes were closed and she was praying.  Laurie's face was a pale mask behind the gray stripes of duct tape across her mouth and cheeks.

He had to buy time for the other cops to arrive, if they were going to arrive at all.  He pulled his lips apart as best he could, then sucked in a sharp breath of air, catching a narrow strip of duct tape between his teeth.

And then he started chewing.

Ferkovich walked across the room and stopped in front of Laurie.  He ran a hand along her cheek and then stroked her hair.

"I think you’ll do, honey.  At least, you'll have the honor of doing it first.  You never forget your first, you know," he said.

Mike Sharpe felt the stringy duct tape began to tear under the grinding pressure of his teeth.  He opened a small hole in the broad swath covering his mouth, and he curled his lips, pulling the hole bigger.  Mike looked at father and saw him struggling against the tape, until he toppled over onto his side.  He caught his eye, and lifted his feet in a kicking gesture.  His Dad nodded, understanding the message.

Mike didn't plan to waste time explaining.  The only course of action left was to show his father what he intended, and he hoped that the old man had enough of his faculties left to do his part.

Through the hole in the tape, he spoke.

"Hey Ferkovich," he said, his voice a bit muffled but clearly understandable.

Ferkovich jumped at the unexpected voice behind him.  He whirled and looked at Mike.

"What kind of nut job are you?" said Mike Sharpe.  Disgust and hatred seeping through the duct tape.  "Fucking coward, tying us up.  I'd kick your ass in a fair fight you piece of dogshit."

A smile slowly spread across Joe Ferkovich's face.

"Is that right?"

He walked over to Mike and stood before him.

He pulled a revolver from his waistband and swung it at Mike, who ducked, but still caught some of the blow on his head.  He quickly felt blood on his face.

"I think they're going to have to find someone else to play me in the sequel," Ferkovich said, and placed the barrel of the gun against Mike’s forehead.

Mike suddenly lunged forward, his forehead striking Joe Ferkovich directly in the solar plexus.  At the same time, he swung his feet sideways, catching Ferkovich behind the heels, toppling him over backwards.  The gun flew out of the killer’s hand, and skittered toward the opposite end of the room.  

As soon as the killer landed on his back, Ron Sharpe rolled forward, brought his feet up, and crashed them down on Ferkovich's nose, squashing it and sending blood pouring out of his nostrils.

Ron brought his legs up again, but Ferkovich rolled to the right, and avoided the kick.   Mike lunged forward, but Ferkovich kicked out and caught him on the side of the temple.  Mike saw stars and then watched as Ray Mitchell shot forward in a desperate tackle.

His head butted Ferkovich just below the rib cage, banging against the bigger man's kidney.  Both landed in a heap and Ray struggled to straighten himself, aiming to send a knee along Ferkovich's already mashed nose.

But the plan failed.  Ferkovich, dazed and bloodied, rolled again, jumping to his feet several yards from Mitchell and the Sharpe men.  He crookedly ran to where Laurie almost had her hand on the gun, and stepped on her hand, breaking bones in two of her fingers.  He grasped the gun with his left hand and yanked her to her feet with his other.

"Is this what you wanted?" he said, holding the gun to her temple.  Her eyes widened in horror, and he threw her across the room.  She crashed in a heap next to Mike.

Ferkovich stood straight, gasping for breath, and used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the blood from his mouth.

"You fuckers!" he screamed.  "That's it, you're dead, you're all dead!"  He stood over Ron Sharpe and pointed the muzzle directly at the top of the older man's head.

"Age before beauty, asshole," he said.

A shot rang out and Ferkovich's head bobbed forward as the side of his head exploded and a gaping wound appeared in the middle of his forehead.  He swayed on his feet and then dropped to his knees as blood poured out the hole in his forehead.  He fell forward, and landed on his face.  A pool of blood slowly encircled him, a red halo of death marking his departure.

Ron Sharpe rolled onto his back, then struggled to sit up.

Ray Mitchell sat up, dazed, and crawled over next to Ferkovich.  He sat back, and kicked the gun out of his hands, and then struggled to pick it up, his hands still taped.

A figure burst through the mud room door.

A huge figure.  One that Mike Sharpe believed to be a hallucination.  It was the same one he had been seeing in his nightmares.

Hank Campbell looked down at the dead man in the middle of the great room floor.

"Please tell me I got the right one this time,” he said.