“Take them down!” he orders again.
Still no gunfire.
“Do it yourself!” the senator screams.
The giant whips out what looks like machine gun and I hear glass crack.
“Fuck!”
The giant drops his weapon and shakes his right fist to fling away some of the pain.
Now the front door swings open.
It’s another bodyguard, weapon drawn. He’s swiveling at the hips, surveiling the situation, aiming his automatic at everybody in the room, and trying to see if anybody is aiming one back at him.
They aren’t.
“We’re clear,” the new guy shouts into his wrist. “Everybody stay where you are!” he yells into the room. “Acquire secondary targets!” This goes back to the wrist.
I check my chest again. I’m clear. Guess I didn’t make the “secondary” list.
Senator Worthington, however, did. I see a red dot dancing up and down against his fluffy white hair. Dixon has earned one too.
The glass door leading out to the patio slides open.
Cyrus Parker steps into the living room. He brings his sniper rifle with him.
“Sorry to be late,” he says. Now he turns to the giant moaning on the floor up near the front door. “Jesus, Chalhoub—you bought the senator’s bullshit?”
Chalhoub the giant, is curled up in a fetal ball the size of a Volkswagen and just keeps groaning, “fuck, fuck, fuck” over and over.
“And you, Graves. This that urgent errand you had to run?”
“Sorry, Cyrus,” mumbles Graves.
“Roger that,” says Parker, shaking his head. “You are one sorry piece of shit, son.”
About six of our cops sweep into the room followed by two more men in blue suits and earpieces. Guess we had four of the senator’s former bodyguards on our team; they had four on theirs. It was all even-Steven. Two nervous paramedics run in to take care of Chalhoub.
Now Sam Starky steps through the door.
“Danny? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m fine.”
She’s unarmed, so I call out, “Step back, Sam.”
Her smile grows broader. “Yes, sir.” She moves back to the poolside of the patio door. Then, she wiggles her fingers in a little wave to let me know she’s glad I’m alive. I go ahead and wave back. What the hell—she’s pretty cute and I’m not dead.
Parker, who is heavily armed and has already demonstrated that he’s not afraid to open fire if presented with what Sergeant Dixon might call “just cause,” moves through the room.
“Lieutenant Ceepak, how you holding up, sir?”
“It’s all good.”
“Excellent,” says Parker. “Anybody call while I was out?”
“Affirmative. Unfortunately, I was unable to answer my cell phone.”
“Maybe they left a message.” Now Parker gestures with his rifle. “Took that shot at Mr. Alex Chalhoub’s trigger finger from a hundred yards out. I still got it, don’t I?”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak, smiling for the first time all day.
“I hear you can pierce Roosevelt’s ear on a dime.”
“I never said that.”
“I didn’t say it was you who told it to me.”
“Cyrus?” This from Senator Worthington.
“Good evening, Senator Worthington,” says Parker.
“Are you aiding and abetting known threats to national security?”
“You mean Officers Ceepak and Boyle?”
The senator nods.
“Aw, relax. America can handle anything these two dish out. It’s you she needs to worry about.”
The senator looks livid.
Parker shrugs. “I’m just saying, is all.”
“Mr. Parker, I no longer require your services. Your employment contract is hereby terminated.”
“Excellent news, sir,” says Parker, his voice booming. “Because I certainly wouldn’t want to work for any man who tried to fry his own son.”
“I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. That fire at the Hell Hole, the one that came this close to cremating your boy, you had these gentlemen from Echo Company set it for you. Now, now—don’t deny it, sir. You’re just ambitious, is all. Hell, you’d probably back a truck over your own mother if it helped you become president. And don’t try lying to me, sir. Graves here might buy it but I’ve been sniffing your bullshit up close for way too long to continue buying any of it. It was arson. And Dixon’s crew here—they were your arsonists.”
My guess? Handy Andy took the lead. He is, as his nickname implies, handy. Plus, he’s the one we saw dousing dead Iraqis with a can of kerosene during the slide show.
“Don’t be preposterous, Cyrus! Your suggestion is absolutely laughable.”
“Your son didn’t think it was all that funny. Officer Ceepak was good enough to hook me up with a member of the FDNY who accompanied me to the hospital where he explained to your son exactly what happened. Said you had these gentlemen set one of those gasoline-upstairs, diesel-fuel-downstairs deals that typically insures that everybody inside the building comes out dead. You son would be here right now to personally tell you to go fuck yourself but, well, the doctors told him he couldn’t leave the hospital just yet.”
Now Parker reaches into his suit coat pocket.
“He did, however, ask me to show you this.”
He pulls out a cell phone.
“It’s Nextel’s Motorola i-eight-sixty. Has a little video camera in it. Isn’t that something? I’ve already seen the main feature. The clip’s only about ten seconds long, shorter than that cell phone footage of Saddam Hussein’s necktie party, and the image is kind of shaky, because your son had to hold the camera up over his head and point it down like this.” Parker demonstrates. Stretches his arm over his head, wiggles the camera. “It was the only way he could capture what was going on in the toilet stall next to his.” Now Parker gestures toward Dixon and Rutledge. “These two? They were too busy jamming a pistol into that sleepy young brother’s mouth to look up and notice they were on candid camera. This one? He’s the son of a bitch who squeezed the trigger.”
Ceepak was right.
It was Dixon.
43
After that, things really started to deteriorate.
The all-for-one, one-for-all Airborne Rangers started turning on each other.
Handy Andy Prescott swore he had no idea what the other guys were doing inside the men’s room. He thought it was all some kind of prank. He just cut a couple video cables out in the parking lot and wore a Hawaiian shirt. He was surprised when he heard that Shareef Smith was dead.
Miguel “Mickey Mex” Hernandez let loose with a string of what I can only assume were extremely foul Spanish words and went into a tirade about how he wasn’t the one who screwed up, that he was only cleaning up Sergeant Dixon’s mess again, that he knew the stupid tissue papers wouldn’t work.
Stephen “Butt Lips” Rutledge? He didn’t say much. He was one of the featured stars in Woodrow G. Worthington’s homemade YouTube video.
We let the other cops haul Dixon and the rest of Echo Company back to the house—after we made sure the Smith sisters had a suite at one of our better bed-and-breakfasts. Looks like Ceepak’s dad will have even more bunk mates this evening.
Senator Worthington? He made a few phone calls. I think the attorney general is a friend. The F.B.I. will arrest him tomorrow morning in one of those “surrendered himself to authorities” type deals.
Ceepak, Parker, Starky and I headed over to the rental house on Oak Street to say thanks to Captain Morkal and the other FDNY guys. First they saved our lives. Then they helped persuade the younger Winslow Worthington that he didn’t have to live up to his nickname, he didn’t have to remain Lieutenant Worthless. He could do something honorable and decent by telling us the truth about what happened to Shareef Smith in that restroom off the Garden State Parkway.
It was 11:00 when w
e arrived at Captain Morkal’s rental house. Nobody was chanting or “hoo-hahing.” Mostly it was just a bunch of guys sitting around sipping beers, listening to the ocean waves off in the distance, nibbling honey-roasted cashew nuts, and swapping stories.
Starky and I grabbed a beer then shared a bench together over at the picnic table while everybody else hung out in the deck chairs closer to the cooler.
“I came out with Mr. Parker because the GPS deal in my cell phone only told them your general vicinity but when I saw the neighborhood Diego and her Verizon buddy were pinging you in I had a pretty good idea it might be Crazy Janey’s place on account of last night, at the party, she told me she was going up to the city today and the house would be empty and would I mind swinging by at some point during the day to make sure nobody broke in or anything since she knew that I was also a cop and not just a valet parking attendant only I couldn’t remember the exact address so I hopped in Parker’s SUV and showed him where to find you.”
Starky is extremely attractive as she hyperventilates.
“Thanks,” I say.
“No problem, sir. It’s what partners do. We back each other up.”
True. However, as we all learned in class today, it’s what soldiers do too—sometimes when they probably shouldn’t. So I guess the whole protect-your-comrades-at-all-costs concept might be one of those “good thing—bad thing” situations. I’ll have to ask my philosophy professor, Dr. Ceepak, about it the next time things are extremely slow on the job and I’m about to fall asleep anyway.
“Sir?” says Starky, sounding sort of nervous.
“Yeah?”
“Is it against departmental regulations for partners to fraternize?”
“Nah. I don’t think so. Ceepak and I do it sometimes. Cookouts and stuff. You and I are basically fraternizing right now.”
She takes in a deep breath. “I was hoping for something more official. Would you like to have dinner together sometime? I make an awesome pork tenderloin.”
“Sure. That’d be great. And then we could go see a movie.”
“A movie would be awesome, sir.”
Perhaps. But only if Sam Starky remembers my first name isn’t “Sir.”
Starky headed home around midnight.
The firefighters regaled us with stories about their adventures in New York City. Told us about the rich lady who parked in the noparking zone in front of their firehouse on West Fifty-eighth Street one weekend and when somebody came out to tell her it was illegal she said, “But it’s Sunday. I thought you were closed.”
We all laughed. Maybe too loud.
One of Captain Morkal’s kids came out to the patio in his pj’s. A boy about six or seven. Guess we woke him up.
The captain propped his son up on his knee and told him not to worry. That Ceepak and I were police officers and, even though we were off duty, if anybody made too much noise again, we’d arrest them.
His son smiled and leaned against his father’s chest while captain Morkal hugged him tight.
It’s time to call it a night. We’re all just about unwound. All it took was one beer to remind me that I’m totally wiped out.
“Gentlemen.” It’s all Cyrus Parker says as he stands up.
It’s all he needs to say.
He extends his hand. Ceepak takes it first.
“Thank you, Cyrus.”
“Hell, I’m an Airborne Ranger. Still livin’ that life of guts and danger. Boyle.”
He takes my hand. His is the size of a catcher’s mitt.
“Tell me, Boyle—is Ceepak as good a shot as everybody down in Fort Campbell says he is?”
“Roger that,” I say.
“Danny’s quite good himself,” says Ceepak.
Parker rumbles a laugh. “Well, seeing how I am currently unemployed, maybe I should stick around town. We could find us a range, make a friendly wager.”
“Definitely,” says Ceepak. “We could use the target range over at the state police training facilities.”
“The state police, hunh? I wonder if they’re hiring.”
“I’m certain they can always use another good man, Colonel Parker.” Parker seems surprised that Ceepak knows his former rank. Ceepak explains: “I still have a few friends in the military.”
Parker takes off.
Captain Morkal’s son has fallen asleep in his lap.
“We should go too,” says Ceepak.
“Yeah. Thanks for the beer, guys.”
We say our good-byes and climb into our cruiser.
“You want me to drop you off at your place?” I ask.
“Negative. I feel I should swing by the jail, first. Check in on my father. Make certain he’s not causing the night shift any undue grief.”
“I’ll go with you.”
Hey, Ceepak’s old man listened to me once—maybe my “special skills” will be required again.
We walk into the police station.
The desk sergeant tells us that Mr. Ceepak is currently being held in the interrogation room.
“There’s a lock on the door so we rolled in a cot and set him up for the night. He was aggravating all the other prisoners.”
Ceepak was right. His old man is nothing but trouble.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “We’ll go have a word with him.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I’ll tell him to behave or he gets zero aspirins when his hangover kicks in.”
We head up the hall. Ceepak uses his master key to unlock the IR door.
When we walk in, Mr. Ceepak isn’t in the cot they’ve set up for him. He’s sitting at the far end of the conference table.
Smiling.
“Well, hello, Johnny. I hear you two boys had a very busy day today.”
Ceepak clenches his jaw.
“When I was in the back, I had a nice little chat with those Army morons you arrested. So they staged it, hunh? Killed one of their own guys and made it look like a suicide?”
“That’s right.”
Mr. Ceepak leans back in his chair. “I gotta tell you, son, I’m surprised you caught them. Guess you weren’t too busy overseas this time, off in Germany being a hot-shit soldier. They do the bit with the pistol jammed up the kid’s mouth?”
Ceepak nods.
“Just like your little brother Billy, hunh? And it took, what? All five of them to pull it off? Jesus. I always told you I’m better than any of you pissants in the Army.” He taps the side of his bony skull. “Smarter too.”
Ceepak’s eyes narrow. “Are you suggesting Billy’s suicide wasn’t?”
“You figure it out, hotshot. You figure it out.”
I have a feeling Ceepak will be heading home to Ohio soon. There is no statute of limitations on murder.
At least his mother will be safe: I think Mr. Ceepak said enough to keep him locked up while the State of Ohio puts together its case for a decades-old crime. They don’t usually let you post bail when you’re a murder suspect.
I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet Ceepak’s mom. I have a feeling she’s the main reason John Ceepak turned out the way he did and became one of those “glints of courage” that Gladys-the-veggie told us about, struggling “to the light amid the thorns.”
When I got home to my apartment, I shuffled through my iPod and found that Springsteen song Ceepak mentioned when he and I were discussing his mother. The one called “The Wish.” The one Bruce wrote for his own mom.
I think these are the lyrics Ceepak wanted me to hear:
If pa’s eyes were windows
Into a world so deadly and true
You couldn’t stop me from looking
But you kept me from crawlin’ through
Don’t worry, Mrs. Ceepak. Your son might’ve looked into that deadly darkness, but he didn’t crawl through.
And I won’t, either.
We’ll just head out to Ohio and piece together another puzzle.
You’ll see, Mr. Ceepak. We’ll figure it out.
Well—your son def
initely will.
Scrawled on a wall in Baghdad:
And when he gets to heaven
To Saint Peter he will tell
“Just another soldier reporting, sir.
I’ve served my time in Hell.”
ALSO BY CHRIS GRABENSTEIN
Tilt a Whirl
Mad Mouse
Slay Ride
Whack a Mole
Hell for the Holidays
The Crossroads (Young Readers)
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
HELL HOLE. Copyright © 2008 by Chris Grabenstein. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
“For You” by Bruce Springsteen, copyright © 1973 Bruce Springsteen, renewed 2003 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP). International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
“Born to Run” by Bruce Springsteen, copyright © 1975 Bruce Springsteen, renewed 2005 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP). International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
“Spirit in the Night” by Bruce Springsteen, copyright © 1973 Bruce Springsteen, renewed 2003 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP). International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
“Independence Day” by Bruce Springsteen, copyright © 1980 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP). International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
“Leap of Faith” by Bruce Springsteen, copyright © 1992 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP). International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
“Devils and Dust” by Bruce Springsteen, copyright © 2005 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP). International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
“The Wish” by Bruce Springsteen, copyright © 1998 Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP). International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
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