Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

“Good. I’ll go out the back way, crawl underneath the boardwalk, find that access panel. I just wanted to make sure you and I weren’t taking the same route.”

In other words, he’s keeping his word.

He’s not following me.

He’s just covering my ass.

I have to step over Dominic Santucci’s body.

I also have to not puke.

Skippy blew open the poor guy’s guts. I’m reminded of how Santucci was there the day I saw my first dead body ever, on the Tilt A Whirl in Sunnyside Playland. Now, I’m looking down at his. There’s a swarm of flies flitting over his black and bloody intestines.

I have to keep moving.

I climb up the short ramp to the covered waiting shed and I see Skippy’s second victim. This time I want to cry. The guy was just a kid in a black heavy metal T-shirt who watched too many movies and, to mangle some Springsteen lyrics, tried to walk like the heroes he thought he had to be.

Guess you could say the same about me.

I keep walking. Toward the stranded roller coaster.

Toward the control room.

The door creaks open. There’s nothing but blackness on the other side.

“Danny?” It’s Skippy.

“Yeah.”

“You look ridiculous, man.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m just yanking your chain, pal. Try wearing a skirt to work everyday.”

Right. Mr. O’Malley never missed an opportunity to humiliate his son on a daily basis.

“I’m like Ceepak,” says Skippy. “I never lie. So, as promised, I’m sending out one of the girls.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

“Go,” he yells. “Now!

Richard Heimsack stumbles out of the dark doorway. I think Skippy shoved him. He shields his eyes with a hand. Guess Skippy doused the lights inside the control hut so the snipers couldn’t see him, even though they probably could with night vision scopes. Anyway, the darkness in the metal box means the flashbooms will be more effective than the sunshine blinding Richard Heimsack right now.

“Keep moving,” I say to the college kid through clenched teeth.

“I …”

“Keep moving, man. Don’t look back. Take good care of Sam, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

He rushes past me.

“Look at him run. Biggest pussy in the bunch. Heimsack. What a name. I called him Ballsack even though he doesn’t have any. Come on, Danny. Come on in.”

He gives me a big smile and a happy hand gesture like we’re both ten again and he’s inviting me to climb into the giant sand castle he just built on the beach.

I make my way across the parked roller coaster. I chance a glance under the tracks. I don’t see Ceepak. Then again, he had a much longer distance to travel, most of it on his belly.

I go through the open door in the middle of the twenty-foot-long, ten-foot-deep aluminum-sided rectangle.

Ceepak’s gonna need good aim to toss a grenade from the front end of the first roller coaster car into this three-foot-wide door.

“Close it.”

I shut the door behind me. Jeez-o man. We didn’t think about that. The grenade’s just going to bounce off the door.

But then I notice two tinted windows over the control console. They look out at the loading dock. Okay. We’re still good to go. Ceepak’s just going to have to have to use his hook shot and smash out some glass.

“Grab a seat, Danny.”

My eyes haven’t adjusted to the darkness, but from the sound of his voice, I think Skippy just hunkered down in a corner.

“Where are you, Skip?” I say as I knee into a rolling chair.

“Over here.” He flicks on a small flashlight.

Yep. He’s crouched in the corner at the south end of the room. Mr. Ceepak is right beside him. I have never seen so much fear and hate colliding in one man’s eyes before. Of course, Skippy has his Beretta 92FS pointed at the side of the old man’s skull, which might have something to do with his sour mood.

There’s a girl huddled against the wall, maybe two feet down from Skippy and Mr. Ceepak. I can see better now. In fact, I can tell that Skippy has his seven remaining “guests” lined up along the wall, their knees tight to their chests. I see Cliff Skeete in his bright red doo rag. Ken Erb. People I don’t know. Mostly young. They all look scared to death.

Except that one girl. The one closest to Skippy.

She’s short, maybe five-one, 100 pounds. Cute librarian glasses.

And now I see the shotguns. Skippy just laid them down. On the floor. Right in front of his feet, their barrels pointing in my direction. He could pick one back up and blow my brains out whenever he feels like it.

“Sorry about the swimsuit,” says Skippy.

“You like it? I think it’s last year’s model.”

“I think it’s cute,” says the girl.

Skippy snaps around to face her. “Shut up!”

She flips up her hands to say, “Whatever.”

“Meet Layla,” says Skippy. “She mouths off from time to time like that. Makes her number two on my hit list.”

“Am I number one?” I ask. I’m seated in a backless swivel chair. I guess it’s what the guy who runs the ride uses to slide around and punch buttons. The console is behind me, its padded leather bumper nudging me in the back. When I was feeling around for the chair in the dark, I noticed that the video monitors displaying security camera feeds are mounted on the walls. Skippy can see everything from his vantage point in the corner. His eyes flick from screen to screen. So far, the snipers haven’t budged. They’re still birds on a wire, perched on the coaster’s crossbeams.

I roll sideways. Closer to the corner.

Skippy’s maybe four feet away. The guns maybe two.

“Am I number one?” I ask again.

“Nah, Danny. You’re my witness.”

“For what?” I think I’m asking open-ended questions like Ceepak told me to. I’m not exactly sure what the term means. I wish I’d had more time to study this stuff. I might be doing it wrong.

“The government’s witness to the execution of Mr. Joseph Ceepak.”

“Whoa,” I say, like Skippy and I are playing beer pong. “Hang on, buddy … time out.”

Mr. Ceepak tilts his head sideways. Skippy is burrowing the muzzle of his Beretta deeper into the soft spot at his temple.

“Your partner? This piece of shit’s son? He never really thought I’d make a good cop. But I would. I am. I can bring the justice, which is what a good cop does, Danny. He brings the goddamn justice. And in a just world, this old drunk definitely deserves to die. I know what he did, all those years ago. He should’ve gotten the needle. Lethal injection. I wish I still had some of that potassium chloride but I left it all on Tangerine Street.”

“Yeah. That was clever, Skippy.”

“Thanks. But, you want to know the truth?”

“Sure.”

“I got lucky. I was just gonna plant the drugs on Dad, but I couldn’t figure out how to get you guys into the house. Then, boom! My father’s whore texts his phone while it’s sitting in my pocket. Talk about meant to be. God wanted me to kill her, too. After that, everything just fell in place, you know?”

“Sure.”

“So how’d I blow it?”

“Huh?”

“How’d you guys figure out I was the one who killed Gail?”

“You know … this and that.” I am trying so hard not to piss him off.

“Yeah, right. You got fucking lucky, too.” He jams the gun even tighter against Mr. Ceepak’s skull. “The prosecuting attorney’s office in Ohio cut this dirty old bastard a deal. He got off easy. Then he got out early. That’s not fair. He cheated the system. So, if I can’t kill my dad, I figure I’ll kill Ceepak’s for him and maybe someday, when I’m dead and gone, which, you know, could happen any fucking second now, Ceepak will return the favor and pop a cap in my old man’s head.”