Barry Friedman - Dead End (25 page)

The car slowed and his body slid toward the right
door as the car made a turn. A moment later, he was rolled against the back of
the front seat. The car seemed to be going downhill, leveled off, and the
roadway was no longer smooth.

In the Highway Patrol car, Officer Schulte
reported that the Cadillac was turning off I 77 and headed east on state route
173. He was following, 100 yards behind.

Fisher’s patrol car, streaking south, was
approaching the state route 173 exit on the opposite side of the highway when
he heard Schulte’s report on his car radio. He swerved into the exit lane and
sped down the ramp. At the bottom of the ramp, he made a sharp U-turn toward
the east, the direction Schulte had reported the Caddy was headed. Twenty yards
ahead of him was the bottom of the exit ramp down which Schulte was speeding,
past the triangular “Yield” sign. Fisher saw Schulte’s car as a blur out of the
corner of his eye. Too late to avoid the sideswipe collision at the bottom of
the ramp. Both of the racing patrol cars teetered on two wheels for a second
until they fell over on their sides like the covers of an open book. Both cars
skidded on their car doors along the asphalt for another thirty feet before
coming to a stop, blocking the entire width of the roadway.

The silence of the night was broken only by
crickets in the fields surrounding them and the hum of the cars on the highway
behind.

Schulte opened his eyes, thinking he’d been
asleep, dreaming. Why was he gripping a steering wheel? Lying on his side in
the dark? Last thing he could remember was seeing the other car out of the
corner of his vision. His head ached and something wet dripped on to his lips.
He tried moving an arm, then the other, each leg in turn. Everything moved. He
looked up, saw stars in a black sky. Gotta get out of here. He moved toward the
opening above his head, bumped against glass. A window. He found the crank alongside
his thigh, turned it and saw the window open. He strained to pull himself up,
found he was bound by something that dug into his shoulder. A moment later he
realized his shoulder harness was still buckled, and he groped at his side
until he found the buckle, snapped it open. It took all the effort he could
muster to pull himself up and out of the car window. He slid to the ground and
lay for a moment until he forced himself to stand, but the earth beneath his
feet spun and he held the side of his overturned car to keep from falling. When
the dizziness eased, he spotted the other car next to his. He stumbled to it
and peered down into the front seat. The form slumped against the opposite door
did not move. He glanced down the darkened roadway ahead. The car he had been
trailing was out of sight.

With Vandergrift hunched forward in the driver’s
seat, the Olds raced along I 77 at 90 miles an hour.

They were level with the Akron-Canton Airport
when Cassidy’s voice came over the speaker. “Maharos. Caddy has turned off on
State Route 173. Appears headed east. State Patrol car 86 is trailing. State
patrol car 92 approaching on I 77 from the north for assistance.”

Maharos said, “That’s the next exit, just up
ahead.”

Vandergrift nodded and veered into the right
lane.

Cassidy again. “Contact lost with car 86.”

One hundred yards ahead, lights illuminating the
exit ramp to 173 appeared. Vandergrift slowed to 60 miles an hour and started
down the ramp. Halfway down, the headlight beam picked up the figure in the
middle of the road ahead waving both hands in the air. She jammed the brake to
the floor while she turned the wheel sharply to the left. The car skidded to a
stop a foot from the two overturned patrol cars.

Maharos stared at the wrecked cars for a moment.
Then shifted his gaze to the highway patrol officer hobbling toward him,
hatless, a trickle of blood running from his forehead to his chin. He leaned
out of the window. “You all right?”

The officer glanced at the red blinking light on
the roof of the Olds. “Just shook up. I’m Schulte. The other guy is still in
his car. I don’t know how badly hurt he is yet.”

Maharos and Vandergrift started to get out of the
car to help. Schulte held the door on Maharos’ side keeping it from opening.
“Look, we’ve just been down a few minutes. The Caddy is just ahead. Why don’t
you go after him? I’m pretty sure my radio is still working. I’ll call in for
help.”

Vandergrift said. “We’ll call in for assistance
on our set.”

She swung the car over on the shoulder, drove through
a roadside ditch and came back on the pavement beyond the wrecks.

The beat of helicopter rotor blades emerged
overhead and its searchlight beam illuminated the road. Maharos was telling
Cassidy to send help to the officers who were down. Over the noise of the
beating rotor blades he shouted into the mike, “The bird is here. Tell him to
cruise ahead and pick up the Caddy.”

Rankins spotted the dirt road and turned on to
it. In the distance he heard a beating noise that drew closer. They were
chasing him from overhead. A helicopter. Why couldn’t they leave him alone?
Can’t they see, he had to do this? It was the only way. He was about to get his
manhood back. He shut off his headlights and slowly drove on in the dark. The
ruts in the unpaved lane served as tracks for the car wheels, guiding the car
along. All he had to do was keep his hands lightly on the steering wheel to
keep it from going into the underbrush alongside the path.

He stopped the car, turned off the engine. Too
dark to make out landmarks, but he knew he was close to the spot he had stashed
the motorcycle the day before. He remained seated in the car as the overhead
noise came closer. A searchlight beam swept slowly from one side of the road to
the other. For a few moments the engine noise seemed to be hovering directly
overhead, but the searchlight beam passed just beyond the white car. The
helicopter passed on, its engine noise gradually ebbing.

Rankins got out of the car, looked up at the sky
for a silent moment. A warm feeling surged over him. Delicious. It was the same
feeling he’d had with each of the others, but stronger this time, much
stronger. He closed his eyes to savor it, then reached down and felt his
crotch.

On the floor in the back, Schneider felt the car
stop. The throbbing at his temples became more intense. The sound of the
helicopter engine came closer. Oh, God. Please. Please. As the motor sound
moved off, grew fainter he tried to cry out. No. Come back. Please, come back.
His eyes stung with tears, he felt them roll down his cheeks.

Maharos and Vandergrift listened to Cassidy
relaying reports from the helicopter, but so far it had not spotted the
Cadillac. They drove slowly, carefully surveying both sides of the road.

Vandergrift said, “He can’t have gone much
farther than this. If he’s not on the main road, there’s got to be a turn-off.”
Her right hand was on the steering wheel. With the left she manipulated the
car’s searchlight, sweeping its beam from one side of the road to the other.
Maharos watched the aircraft’s searchlight beam in the distance, saw that it
was starting back towards them. Like a huge paintbrush, it had been sweeping
from side to side. Now it remained fixed on the right side of the road, shining
directly down.

 
Rankins
stood alongside the Cadillac. They were not going to stop him now. Not when he
was so close. He blinked to shut out the blazing white light that suddenly
enveloped him and the car. He glanced up, moved toward the back car door. He
had waited so long. There was no hurry now. He knew what he had to do. Nothing
else mattered.

“GOT ‘EM!”

Cassidy’s voice boomed through the speaker in the
Olds.

Vandergrift gunned the engine, speeding the car
toward the helicopter’s light. Maharos spotted the entrance to the dirt road,
shouted to Vandergrift. She slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt.
Judging by the distance they were from the searchlight beam, Maharos estimated
that the Cadillac was about two hundred yards into the woods. The beam was not
moving. He reasoned that the Cadillac had stopped, caught in the searchlight’s
beam.

In the helicopter, a sheriff’s deputy sat next to
the pilot. He knew that below him a man was being held hostage, but peering
down through the tree branches, he saw only one person. He raised a bullhorn to
his mouth and aimed it at the ground. “PUT YOUR HANDS ON THE HOOD AND DON’T
MOVE.”

On the ground, Rankins heard the voice coming
from the helicopter. What was the son of a bitch yelling for? He was busy.
Didn’t want to be bothered by some voice in the sky. He opened the car’s back
door. The prick doctor was lying on his back, his bound-up feet just inside the
doorframe. This one was no different from the others. The fright in their eyes
like that of cats he’d strangled when he was a kid. Muffled cries came through the
gag, partially drowned out by the noise of the helicopter engine. Beads of
sweat on his bald head reflected like pearls. Rankins took from his trouser
pocket the .25 cal automatic and stepped into the car just beyond the doctor’s
bound feet.

 
Schneider
raised his head from the floor of the car. For the first time since this
unbelievable affair began, he saw the man who had tied him hand and foot and
driven him here. Had he seen him somewhere before? A gun in his hand! Each beat
of his heart sent a pang of pain surging through his chest and left arm. He
knew he was about to die. Adrenaline surged through his body and, as though the
lower part of his body were detached from the rest of him, he felt his knees
draw up to protect his exposed chest and belly. He felt his legs shoot out like
a leaping giant bullfrog and his feet crashed into the man in his upper belly
sending him flying out of the car. He could no longer see him, but over the
noise of the helicopter could hear the gasping sounds as the man fought to get
air back into his lungs.

Rankins was finally able to breath. He slowly
climbed to his feet. This one was a fighter. He had to be careful. He walked
around to the other side of the car and opened the back door. Now he was
staring down into the doctor’s face, gazing down into his eyes, wide open in
fright. He was almost there. Almost. He placed the muzzle against the doctor’s
forehead and tightened his finger on the trigger.

Turn him
over!

Rankins turned his head, looked around. “What?”

Turn him
over
!

He nodded once, understanding. It had to be done
correctly, ritually.

Lying on his back, Schneider knew he was already
dead. Hadn’t he seen the gun muzzle at his forehead, the man’s finger on the
trigger? Couldn’t understand why he was still able to watch as the man came at
him from the other side of the car, toward his head. Saw him tuck the pistol in
his belt and felt him grasp him by the shoulders. Trying to turn him over? No,
he might be dead but he was not going to let him do it. He struggled until the
man stopped trying. Watched him back out of the car and bend down to pick up
something from the ground. Saw him raise his arm over his head, something in
his hand. Saw him start to bring it down.

Rankins stood over the doctor’s body as it
twitched spasmodically for a few seconds, then lay still. Blood poured from a
deep gash in his forehead where he had hit him with the rock, but his chest
moved, he was breathing. Good. That’s not how he must die. He climbed to the
back seat and maneuvered the doctor on to his back.

Vandergrift and Maharos left the Olds parked at
the entrance to the dirt roadway. Maharos grabbed a flashlight from its clip on
the dashboard. With their guns drawn, they ran down the dirt road in the
direction of the helicopter’s light, Maharos playing the flashlight beam on the
rutted roadway. Fifty yards into the woods, the roadway took a turn. Past the
bend they could see the Cadillac illuminated by the helicopter’s light one
hundred yards ahead. As they ran, they saw Rankins’ arm raised in the air,
suddenly come crashing down.

“FREEZE. POLICE.”

They shouted almost in unison as they ran
crouched, one on either side of the narrow dirt roadway, their guns pointing
toward the sky. Rankins disappeared into the car without even looking in their
direction.

In the car, Rankins stood over the doctor’s body,
one leg on each side. He gently placed his fingertips on the bony prominence at
the base of the unconscious man’s neck. Yes, there it was. The first thoracic.
Above that the seventh cervical. Now. He marked his place with the tip of his
index finger and slowly brought the muzzle of his gun towards it.

Maharos was now directly behind Rankins, a foot
from his head, his extended hands holding his service revolver in front of him.
He flipped the safety catch off. “DROP IT NOW!”

He waited one second, watched as Rankins
continued in slow motion to position the muzzle of his gun at the man’s neck.
For only the second time in his life, Maharos squeezed the trigger of his gun
while it was aimed at a person. This time he didn’t miss. The back of Rankins’
skull suddenly disappeared.

Maharos remained frozen, his gun extended in
firing position. Rankins slowly fell forward on top of the unconscious doctor.
His legs protruded spread-eagle from the doorframe. For a moment there was no
further movement, then Rankins’ right leg began to twitch violently. Maharos
counted silently as the leg jerked—two, three, four, five, six, seven times.
Then lay still in the dirt road.