Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

“Samantha Starky. My friends call me, Sam.”

Jeez-o, man. Sam’s still there.

“How long you been waitin’ on line, Sam?”

“Three whole hours, Skeeter! I listen to you all the time. You used to hang out with my old boyfriend, Danny Boyle.”

So. The breakup is official. I heard it on the radio.

“You know Danny, right?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Well he makes me listen to you and WAVY all the time!”

Impossible as it seems, she sounds even perkier on the radio.

“Well, you’re almost to the front of the line,” says Cliff. “Hang in there.”

“Hey, we wouldn’t miss this for the world!” says some guy. “We’ll tell our grandkids about this someday!”

“And your name, sir?”

“Richard Heimsack.”

Dead air while Cliff soaks in the name and I realize Richard and Sam are already contemplating grandbabies.

“Well, Richie-”

“Richard.”

“It is one awesome ride, brutha.”

Now the police radio crackles.

“This is unit six. We have suspect’s vehicle in sight. Approaching parking lot to Pier Four on the boardwalk.”

“The Roller Coaster,” says Ceepak. “Hang on.”

I grab the handle you’re supposed to use to climb out of the vehicle, because when Ceepak stomps on the gas our Crown Vic Interceptor flies faster than the runaway mine train at Disney World.

I grab our radio mic.

“This is A-twelve. We are en route to Pier Four. Anticipate suspect will be headed toward the Rolling Thunder.”

“Roger that” and “Ten-four” come in from all over the place.

Every cop in Sea Haven is on their way to the roller coaster to try and stop Skippy O’Malley from being free enough to ride that ride.

“This is Unit Six. Suspect is exiting vehicle with hostage … we will follow.”

“Do not aggravate the situation.” It’s the chief. I guess everybody’s in on this thing. “Wait for backup, Unit Six. Wait for backup. Tail the suspect but do not engage him. He is armed and dangerous. State Police are on the way. They’re calling in a hostage negotiator.”

“Give me the ears on the ground,” says Ceepak.

He means I should turn up WAVY. Right now, Skeeter is our best source of potential intel on Skippy’s movements.

“Comin’ up, ‘Love Rollercoaster’ from the Ohio Players … but first … hey, have you tried Big Bruno Mazzilli’s brand-new Stromboller Cruster Italian Sandwich? Available exclusively at Big Bruno’s Stromboli Stand right here on Pier Four. Thick layers of …”

“Yo! Douchebag!” somebody yells close enough to Cliff’s microphone for us to hear it. “There’s a freaking line here.”

Dominic Santucci. I’d recognize that obnoxious voice anywhere.

Ceepak presses even harder on the gas while yanking the steering wheel hard to the right. Tires squeal, and we tilt through a careering turn into the parking lot for Pier Four.

“… provolone, salami, prosciutto and melted mozzarella …”

“I said get back. You, too, old man.”

“Back off, Dom.” Skippy. “This is Ceepak’s father. He’s my fucking prisoner.”

Jeez-o, man.

“… rolled in a flaky crust and baked to golden perfection …”

“Skippy?” Santucci again. “Jesus-why you wearing a fucking raincoat, dipshit?”

Oh, man. He’s doing it Columbine style. Weapons hidden under the flaps of his long coat. Santucci needs to back off. Big time.

But he doesn’t.

“You can’t come up here, you stupid wuss. These people have been waiting all morning to ride the ride.”

“My father owns this fucking piece of shit. I can do whatever the hell I feel like doing.”

We hear Cliff’s hand muffle the microphone with a thump. “Hey, you guys?” He’s still audible. “We’re goin’ out live.”

The hand comes away from the mic.

“Elyssa? Listen, girl-we need more security down here on the loading platform … there’s this dude in a trenchcoat.…”

Then there’s this big explosion.

“Ohmigod!” Cliff yells. It sounds like he dropped his microphone.

“Get down, motherfuckers!” we hear Skippy yell. “All of you. Down!”

Our car speakers rattle with high-pitched wails. Shrieks. Squeals of terror.

“Get down, people,” says Cliff, staying incredibly calm. “Do like the man says. Be cool, man. We’re cool.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Yes, sir. Oh, man … that dude’s bleeding …”

“No, dipshit. He’s dying.”

“We need an ambulance.”

“I said shut the fuck up!”

We hear nothing more from Sergeant Santucci.

Ceepak slams on the brakes.

We yank open our doors and hit the asphalt on the run.

This time, we’re close enough to hear the shotgun blast in person.

One hour later, the State Police SWAT guys dot the roller coaster scaffolding like black crows scoping out a cornfield with high-powered rifles.

Skippy O’Malley has about three dozen hostages inside the loading shed-the place where you climb into the coaster cars on one side, exit on the other. The shed has walls and an angled roof that completely covers the final waiting line switchbacks and the train tracks. It also shades the control room, about the size of a boxy camper, on the far side of the rails.

In other words, none of New Jersey’s best snipers, even the guy at the peak of the highest hill, has a clean shot at wacko O’Malley. They might’ve put on their black Kevlar, camouflage clothes, and battle helmets for nothing. A couple of the guys even rappelled down ropes out of helicopters so they could be at the peak of that first hill and have a clean shot at everything below.

But all they can shoot at right now is a metal roof.

Fortunately, Skippy’s last shotgun blast was fired as a warning shot and did its job: He dispersed the several thousand people waiting in a line snaking from the ramp up to the loading platform all the way back to the boardwalk and Pier Two, half a mile south. When Ceepak and I came charging up the access steps to the boardwalk, we were met with a thundering herd of panic.

On the radio, Cliff Skeete haltingly confirmed that “a man working roller coaster security has been shot and killed.”

Skippy helped out by letting the folks at home know “the asshole I took down is police sergeant Dominic Santucci. He’s been riding my butt since day one on the job.”

He said it like he was still a cop. Who knows. Maybe in his mind, up there in Skippy Dippy Land, he still is.

After that newsflash, Elyssa the producer, or the program director, or maybe even Mayor Hugh Sinclair, decided it was time to take the live remote off the air. They played “Love Roller Coaster” because it was all cued up and then moved on to non-theme-park themed tunes.

Ceepak and I are in the improvised Situation Response Command Center where local and state authorities, tactical and support teams are trying to figure out what the hell we do next. We’re borrowing the food stand where they deep-fry the Oreos and Snickers bars. Nobody’s nibbling or noshing. We’re all too pumped up. You get around this many special-tactics guys and you feel like you’re in a marauding army of black-clad ninja warriors, only with better weaponry than curved swords and nunchucks. In fact, every weapon in the arsenal has been called up. Sniper rifles, submachine guns, flashboom and tear gas grenades, battering rams, ARVs (Armored Rescue Vehicles), not to mention our own stockpile of tactical shotguns like the one (or two) Skippy is toting.