Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

“Where is your wife?”

Weese glances up at the clock again.

“Where?” Ceepak barks.

Weese smiles.

“Waiting for a phone call.”

Shall we cut to the chase, gentlemen?”

Weese leans forward, brings his hands together.

“My father and his Chamber Of Commerce cronies must immediately transfer ten million dollars to an offshore bank account, the number of which I will provide to you. Their deadline is two P.M. When certain friends of ours, certain-oh, how shall I put this? Certain Russian mobsters? When these gentlemen advise me that the transfer is complete, I will instruct them to contact Natalia on her secure satellite phone with orders not to shoot a single sunbather.

“Once the money matter is taken care of, you, Officer Ceepak, you will escort me to the airport, where I will board Aeroflot flight fifteen to Moscow. Tomorrow, when I have arrived safely and have no Russian police or KGB or CIA following me-and we'll know if they are because, as I said, we have several financially interested, high-powered friends-when I reach my undisclosed location in the motherland, Natalia will lay down her weapon and depart from these shores.”

Weese has a faraway look in his eyes. Like he's been waiting ten years for this one moment. It hits me: he's the Mad Mouse. A timid, mousey guy we made so mad one day that now he's ready to wipe out an entire boardwalk full of innocent kids like maybe he used to be.

“By the way, you will never catch Natalia before she slips out of the country. She will not book passage on Aeroflot, so don't waste your time with amateur airport theatrics. Just know that she and I will one day reunite on a Baltic beach to split our share of the ten million dollars. Perhaps we'll even nibble caviar and sip vodka. Everything will be hor-a-show. That's Russian for hunky-dory.”

Weese sighs.

“You gentlemen should know that Natalia's sniper post is well stocked with provisions. Food. Water. She can remain hidden for quite some time now that I have kept you engaged long enough for her to properly secure her position.”

“What about your children?” asks Ceepak.

Weese shrugs. “My father wanted grandchildren so damn much, he can keep them. They're loathsome little creatures, actually. Filthy.”

The lawyer nervously twists his ear lobe. “I'm not certain the town fathers can raise ten million dollars in under two hours.”

“Of course they can,” scoffs Weese. “I'm not asking for actual cash. It's all electronic banking, counselor. We can do it online. Don't forget, my father is a mortgage broker with access to all sorts of lenders willing to provide money at very reasonable rates, or so he constantly claims in his annoying advertisements. The other merchants will surely chip in because-let's face it. If Natalia starts shooting, this town will never recover. Never. Two incidents in one summer? ‘Welcome to Sea Haven. Have a Sunny, Funderful Day-Unless You Get Shot First.’ Not a very catchy slogan. I fear it would make a dreadful bumper sticker.”

“Your wife is setting you up,” Ceepak says. “She's working for the Russians. The mobsters.”

Weese ignores him.

“Mr. Ceepak, you have heard our demands. Ten million dollars. If the transfer is not completed by two P.M., Natalia will start taking out targets. Scores of them. Hundreds! Why, she might even break Lyudmila Pavlichenko's world record. Trust me. My little wife packed a great deal of ammunition.”

The lawyer looks like he's lost all his tan, like it all drained down to his underpants. His face is pale and white.

“Ten million dollars?”

Weese shrugs again.

“It's what the D.C. snipers asked for. Who knows-perhaps we should ask for more. The town fathers can certainly afford it. Besides, Natalia and I? We're much more lethal than those two Negroes down in D.C. Much smarter, too.”

Natalia Shevlyakova Weese rented another white minivan from the Avis in Avondale.

Makes sense. It's the vehicle they practiced with. Guess they'll dance with the one who brought them to the party. George Weese was right about one thing: he and his wife are pretty smart. They keep us looking for needles in haystacks-a boring white minivan in a town full of boring white minivans.

Natalia rented the white Plymouth Voyager with burgundy interior from Avis last Tuesday. Almost a week ago. So she's had ample time to find herself a prime parking space and stow her rental vehicle down by the boardwalk. She beat the crowds. Smart again.

“Will she shoot from the van?” I ask Ceepak as we drive down the block from headquarters to the municipal garage.

“Don't know. She's probably handpicked her ideal sniper post. Could be anywhere. A motel balcony. A water tank. Some other elevated spot on the boardwalk, maybe even another roller coaster. There's no way of knowing.” Ceepak shakes his head. I can tell he's mad at himself. “We should have kept her under surveillance. I let her drop off my radar.”

“Weese did his job,” I say. “He wasted our time, didn't say a word until he knew it was too late for us to do anything, too late to shut down the beach party. He did his job.”

“Roger that. Now it's time for us to do ours.”

We park beside a garbage truck and hustle inside the municipal garage to see if the first minivan has anything more to tell us.

“The wife, huh?” Dr. McDaniels rolls out from under the van on a mechanic's trolley. “That would explain that.” She nods toward one of her guys who's holding a plastic Baggie with a single strand of curly black hair. “Found it in the rear cargo bay. There's more on the passenger side headrest, but that only proves that Mrs. Weese was in the car with her husband.”

“Find anything else?”

“Just some Cheerios and Cheez-Its ground into the carpet. Under the seat cushions, too. Kids.”

Ceepak nods.

I notice two child safety seats. Guess George's son and daughter won't be throwing food at each other in this van again anytime soon.

“We need to focus,” Ceepak says, checking his watch. “We have less than two hours.”

I wonder if he sensed my mind wandering off to the land of crumbled Cheerios and Cheez-Its.

“It's the same old story, same old act. One step up and two steps back.”

Ceepak's quoting Springsteen again. Forcing himself to concentrate.

Dr. McDaniels hauls herself up, dusts off her shorts.

“Okay,” she says, like a professor rallying a drifting class discussion, “we know Who. We know Why. Now all we need to determine is How and, most important, Where Next.”

“The van,” Ceepak says, staring at the bland white automobile, trying to will the sheet metal to surrender its secrets.

“Just your typical kidmobile,” McDaniels says. “Did I mention the half-empty juice boxes I found in the back seat? The chewed crayons? Doesn't matter. They don't give us diddly.”

“Mrs. Weese purchased the vehicle for her son. Mr. Weese provided the resident beach pass bumper sticker to encourage frequent visits from his grandchildren …”

He trails off.

“How firm are your trajectory numbers?” Ceepak suddenly asks Dr. McDaniels.

“Firmer than your butt. We reworked them. Ten times. Our best projection comes from the parking lot outside Saltwater Tammy's because we had those two definitive points to work with. The entry hole in the plate glass window, the second hole in the bin of Red-Hots hearts.”

“We have our straight line,” Ceepak says.

“And our angle of impact.”

“Right.”

“The line took us straight out to that empty parking space. The angle took us up to an elevation of six feet, eight inches at the front end of the rectangular parking space and climbed up to six-nine-point-five at the rear.”