Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

They're both go completely quiet so I speak up again.

“What if Natalia has something up there other than an M-24 sniper rifle? What if she has a machine gun or a grenade launcher or something?”

Ceepak nods grimly.

“Exactly.”

W're working on the money,” Chief Baines says over the radio.

Ceepak and I are driving toward the boardwalk. We don't know exactly where to go, but we know we need to be there now. It's one fifteen. Before we left for the World's Biggest Beach Party, we swung by the house. Ceepak wanted a few things: a recording of our interrogation with Weese, which a tech burned onto a CD so we could listen to it in our car; a pair of small, high-power binoculars; and the paintball gun he ripped off the counter at Paintball Blasters. I have no idea why he grabbed it, but it did come in handy when he nailed Weese up on the Mad Mouse.

“You think the damn kid is bluffing?” Baines says, his voice edgy. Every time he opens the microphone at his end I can hear a rowdy mob and snatches of music.

“No, sir. I think Weese is dead serious.”

“His father thinks the boy's bullshitting us. Says Natalia is long gone and George is too much of a wuss to do anything himself.”

“I don't think Mr. Weese knows his son very well or what sort of man he has become.”

“Okay. Fine. What do we do?”

“Search the parking lots for any minivans with cargo carriers up top.”

“Which parking lot?”

“All of them.”

“Jesus, John! Have you seen this place?”

“No, sir. We are currently en route.”

“There's cars parked everywhere. Half of them are damn minivans!”

“We'll try to narrow it down for you, sir.”

“There's about a jillion people-men, women, children, dogs. They're crawling all over the boardwalk and the beach.”

“Roger. I understand, sir. Check for open lines of fire. Clear shots from the parking lot to the boardwalk. Openings between buildings. Gaps. Concentrate on the most crowded sectors. The target-rich environments.”

“What's your ETA? What's your twenty?” It sounds like the chief has a head start on a panic attack.

“Northbound on Ocean,” Ceepak says flatly. “Approaching Kipper. Turning now. We should arrive in under a minute.”

We're moving pretty fast. No lights. No sirens. Once again, Ceepak doesn't want the bad guy to know we're coming. Might spook the little Russian lady up in her sweatbox if we come screaming in to nab her.

“Which damn parking lot?” The chief? I think he just lost it. “There's one every block for a mile!”

“Kipper and Beach Lane.”

“Hurry! We have, what? Forty-five minutes? Jesus!”

“Forty-three, sir. Keep in contact with the house. Let George Weese know the money is not an issue.”

“I don't like paying extortionists. Terrorists!”

“Neither do I, sir. If we work this right, we won't have to. Keep this channel open.”

Ceepak tosses the radio mic to me. I get the sense he doesn't want to waste any more time on Baines. Not now.

Public Parking Lot 4. There are eight other lots up and down Beach Lane butting up against the boardwalk. I see several gaps, openings between the brightly painted backs of buildings. In those clear spaces I can also see the mob of seminaked bodies bobbing and weaving, moving and grooving-cool young dudes and bodacious beach babes. I can hear 3 Doors Down two blocks up at the band shell. It sounds like they're doing their biggest hit, “Kryptonite.” After that, they'll probably do “Dangerous Game” or “Ticket To Heaven.” They both kind of fit today.

I have never seen so many vehicles jammed into these parking lots. I look north, I look south, there's not an empty spot anywhere.

“Where?” Ceepak surveys the scene. “Where.”

You never realize how many cargo carriers Thule and Yakima and Sears sell until you're wishing they only ever sold one. Everywhere I look, I see vans with boxes on top.

Ceepak punches the play button on the CD player. I hear Wheezer's cocky voice. Arrogant. So proud of his plan.

“Once the money is taken care of, you, Officer Ceepak, you will escort me to the airport where I will board Aeroflot flight 15 to Moscow.”

Ceepak hits the reverse button. The digits spin backward.

“He probably told us where,” Ceepak says. “He likes dropping clues. Hints.”

“Yeah. Because he likes laughing at us when we don't catch them.”

“Precisely.”

Ceepak punches play.

“Perhaps my subtle allusions were a tad too sophisticated for someone of your limited abilities.”

Weese gloating. Bragging about his big successful plan. What'd he call it? “The triumph of the son.” His father would see how big and important he had become.

“Life under the son,” I say out loud.

“Come again?”

“Go to that part. Where he talks about ‘the triumph of the son.’ ”

“Roger.”

Ceepak remembers. Finds it, fast.

“All is in readiness. The multitudes have assembled on the beach and boardwalk. I understand from my father that the Chamber of Commerce is expecting quite a turnout. Thousands and thousands of happy holiday revelers, none of whom, I'll wager, are particularly interested in dying today. But, alas, some may have to. For it is time for the triumph of the son! Time for the world to experience life under the son, as they say!”

“What does it mean, Danny?”

“I'm not one hundred percent sure.”

Ceepak tilts his wrist. Checks his watch.

“Now's a good time to give me your best guess.”

“Okay. There's this booth. About two blocks up the boardwalk. ‘Life Under the Son.’ It's run by these born-again Christians who try to convert sun-worshippers, turn them into, you know, son -worshippers.”

Ceepak's foot is on the gas.

“Two blocks?”

“Yes, sir. Near Halibut Street. The main entrance.”

“Radio.”

I toss him the microphone.

“Chief Baines?”

“Go?”

“Suggest you begin to quietly evacuate the area around the Life Under the Son booth.”

“Where's that?”

“Halibut Street.”

“Jesus. The band shell is up at Halibut!”

“Pull the plug.”

“Come again?”

“Cut off the electricity to the band stand. Have the performer-”

“3 Doors Down,” I say.

“Have the Doors inform the crowd they are experiencing technical difficulties. Let the civilians drift away. Encourage them to hit the beach. Get them down off the boardwalk.”

“What if-?”

“Do it, sir. Now!” Ceepak tosses the mic back to me.

We swing into Public Parking Lot 6. I see lots of cars and vans glistening in the sun. I see a Pepsi truck. I see a tour bus. A couple of Winnebagos. A garbage truck ready to clean up all the empty Pepsi cups. I don't, however, see a minivan with a cargo carrier up top.

“There!”

Ceepak does.

He jams our Ford into park, reaches into his cargo pants, pulls out the binos and presses both lenses against his eyes. I see him slide the magnifying lever. He's zooming in.

“White van. Burgundy interior. Red Avis sticker affixed to rear window.”

More adrenaline races to my heart.

Ceepak tilts his binoculars up an inch.

“Air hole in rear of cargo carrier.”

I check out the line of fire from the minivan to the boardwalk. A good one. Maybe the best. A huge gap where a set of terraced steps, thirty feet wide, swoops down from the wooden walkway. There's a big “Happy Labor Day!” banner flapping in the breeze. It's the main entrance to everything. The whole deal. Beyond the steps, above the crowd, I can just barely see the tip of the pointed spindle on top of the “Life Under the Son” kiosk. It's like a weathervane, only it's a crucifix.