Chris Grabenstein - Tilt-a-Whirl

We negotiate our way across the crumbling parking lot and climb into the Ford. I feel like creamed shit on toast. My muscles ache, my joints creak, I feel like I'm somebody's grandmother with arthritis. I need a beer.

Ceepak takes the walkie-talkie off his belt and motions for me to drive away from the hotel.

“We need to relocate to a more secure position or we run the risk of becoming collateral damage,” he says. He's in that cold, military-speak mode. Sort of numbs you to the horror of what you're actually doing if you use big words to describe it.

Ceepak radios headquarters.

“This is Ceepak for Cosgrove.”

I start up the engine. Ceepak points to the abandoned Ship John lighthouse, like I should drive over there. I'm on autopilot, so I head in that direction.

“Ceepak for Cosgrove. Ceepak for Cosgrove.”

“This is Cosgrove, go.”

“Implement the mobilization plan.”

“You found her?”

“We have high-probability intelligence on her location.”

“Where? Where did the bastard stash her?”

“The old Pennsylvania Depot up here at the north end. She is detained in the baggage room. Request an ambulance and all available backup.”

“Do you have the perp in custody?”

The Ford rocks. I hear something bang the rear window like a sonic boom from a low-flying 747. I check my mirror.

The Palace Hotel has just exploded.

“Repeat-did you apprehend the perpetrator?”

“Negative. We encountered an unanticipated snag.”

A snag?

“It seems the hotel was wired to blow.”

“What?”

“Implosion. I suspect Mendez. Demolition and arson are his areas of expertise. I sense he went overboard. C-4 plastic explosives coupled with strategically placed petrol canisters. Like dropping a stick of dynamite down a gas pump. The hotel has collapsed and is on fire. Request immediate fire department support.”

“Are you guys okay? You and Boyle?”

“Affirmative. We were able to vacate the building two steps ahead of the fire.”

“So Squeegee is dead?”

Ceepak waits a second before he responds.

“I did not see him exit the building. Copy?”

“Roger. Copy.”

I figure he's got a plan. This is how you hide the bullet when you gun down your suspect instead of arresting him. You set off the C-4 and gasoline you were lucky to find all wired and ready to blow. You burn down the whole building so everything melts. You cremate the body in a towering inferno, which then turns into a pile of rubble. It's messy, but it works.

“Grab the girl!” the chief growls. “We'll meet you up at the depot!”

“Roger that. And chief?”

“Yeah?”

“Alert Ashley's mother to our situation. Be best if you did so immediately. Her daughter is safe. It's all good.”

“Will do. I'll tell her you kept your word!”

There are some more explosions behind us. The fire must've found extra gas cans.

“Request second alarm on fire department response….”

“Will do. Ceepak?”

“Yes sir?”

“Good job.”

“10-4.”

Ceepak snaps off his radio.

“Let's go get Ashley.”

We're the first unit on the scene, of course.

The old train depot is really more like a covered platform with a small hut attached. On one side of the hut is the arched window where they used to sell tickets. On the other is the baggage room where they stored suitcases and packages.

It's not so dark any more. The fire from the hotel, about a half-mile farther north, is lighting up the sky pretty good.

“Careful,” Ceepak says as we walk across the weedy railroad bed. There's no rails, just the rotting, tarry ties and some compacted gravel.

As pissed-off as I am, I realize he's right. We need to be careful. There might be armed guards keeping watch over Ashley. Mendez's men could be inside with their own sniper weapon systems or shotguns or whatever you use to guard a kidnapped kid.

“Should we wait for backup?” I ask.

“I don't anticipate that will be necessary. But try to remain quiet.”

Ceepak tiptoes ahead and climbs up on an old rusty barrel so he can peek in a window to the baggage room. He sees something because he holds up his hand to tell me to stay still, not make a sound. He watches for a second, then slowly slips down and motions for me to follow.

We move around to the back of the depot. I see the door to the baggage room. There's a locker-room-size padlock through a hasp on the door.

“Ashley?” Ceepak calls out.

“Yes?” It's her voice. It's weak and trembling, but I recognize it.

“This is Officer John Ceepak. I am here with my partner Danny Boyle. The two of us are coming in, okay?”

“Okay.”

“We may have to kick down the door.”

“Hurry! Please! Before he comes back! Hurry!”

Ceepak walks to the door.

But he isn't hurrying.

I think every vehicle in the county with any kind of flashing light bar on its roof is parked in a circle around the train depot.

Ashley is covered with a thick wool blanket and sitting in the back of an open ambulance while a doctor and nurse check her out. Her mom is with her on the little bed, hugging her. The kid was in pretty good shape when we kicked down the door and rescued her: She was sitting on an old steamer trunk with her hands tied behind her back and her ankles handcuffed together so she couldn't run. Fortunately, Squeegee didn't tie the knots too tight, so Ashley didn't have rope burn on her wrists. The handcuffs securing her legs were pretty loose, too. They didn't pinch into her ankles at all.

Ashley was, however, still wearing the skimpy outfit she'd been forced to put on for the Polaroid. It's why she's wrapped up in the blanket now.

The chief had some of the guys set up a perimeter so the reporters who raced up here behind all the police cars and fire trucks could be held at bay. The TV klieg lights are making it feel like high noon, even though it's closer to midnight.

I see Ceepak over near a black sedan, talking to Morgan. They're nodding at each other. I guess the FBI agent understands-sometimes you have to shoot a guy in order to stop him from molesting more kids.

The chief looks happier than I've ever seen him. Completely free of acid indigestion. He's bouncing around, shaking hands with everybody he bumps into. He struts over to the reporters and TV cameras to make a statement, looking like the football coach who just won the big game. Mayor Sinclair is beside him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the chief says, “I am pleased to report that, thanks to the diligent efforts of some very brave Sea Haven police officers and the FBI's Critical Incident Response Group, Ashley Hart is going home. She's safe. Unharmed. She's doing great.”

“Do you have the kidnapper?

“Did he shoot Ashley's father?”

“Did he confess? To the murder of Reginald Hart?”

The chief holds up his beefy right paw to calm the crowd.

“We do not have all the answers. Unfortunately, the kidnapper died in tonight's fire and explosion at the old Palace Hotel….”

“How'd the fire start?”

“We're not certain, but we suspect arson,” the chief says.

“Are the crimes related? The arson, the kidnapping, the murder?”

“I really can't speculate about that at this time….”

“Was it just a coincidence? That the kidnapper happened to be in the hotel when an arsonist burned it down?”

“As I said, I am not in a position to speculate on those matters at this time. An investigation is ongoing. The fire department is on the scene, working the hotel. State arson investigators are on their way as well. We hope to have more answers for you folks ASAP. But right now-well, I'm just damn glad we got Ashley! She's safe, folks! She's going home!”