Home for the Holidays (17 page)

“And there's the Navigator,” Frankie said. “Tommy, you're a genius. Let's drive by real slow and have a look.”

Frankie drove the Crown Vic past the black Navigator, which was the only car on the street not covered in drifts of snow. As they passed, he and the boys stared at the car.

“Why are the windows like that?” Nicky asked.

“They're steamed up,” Frankie said. “They must still be in there.”

“And look,” Tommy said. “There's no snow on the hood.”

“The engine's running,” Frankie said. “They must have the heater on, trying to stay warm.”

“So what do we do?” Nicky asked.

“If it was anybody else, you'd call for backup,” Frankie said. “For a situation like this, you'd get the SWAT team, a helicopter with floodlights, the whole deal.”

“Cool!” Tommy said. “You're gonna call for the SWAT team?”

“No—not yet,” Frankie said. He pulled the Crown Vic to the end of the block, swung around and parked on a side street. “See, I don't know what your dad is up to. If he's been doing something that's not kosher, I
want him to have a lawyer handy before any more cops show up.”

“So what do we do instead?”

“I don't know,” Frankie said. “For now, we don't do nothing.”

The snow began to fall again. Nicky and Tommy climbed into the backseat and stared out the rear window. After a while, Tommy slid down and curled up in the corner. “I keep thinking about falling in that lake, and I get sleepy all over again,” he said. “Wake me up if something happens.” Soon he was snoring.

Nicky continued to stare out the back window. He wasn't sleepy. He was scared. He couldn't stop thinking about his dad, stuck in that car with Peter Van Allen. Or with Patrick Arlen.

He said, “Do you think my dad's okay? I mean, Van Allen wouldn't do anything to him, right?”

“Van Allen needs him alive,” Frankie said.

That made Nicky feel better. A little. He went back to staring at the Navigator across the dark street.

On Front Street, Van Allen had reclined the two front seats until they were almost flat. Then he'd slapped another piece of tape over Nicky's dad's eyes.

“There,” he said. “Isn't that cozy? We can both get a little shut-eye so we're perky when the bank opens.”

He lay back with the gun in his hand, closed his eyes and seemed to go right to sleep.

Nicky's father tried to breathe calmly and regularly. He
waited. He listened to Van Allen snore. He considered his options.

The car was running. He could slam it into gear and start driving. He'd crash, since he couldn't drive with his hands taped together and his eyes closed, but maybe … No. Van Allen would shoot him before they went ten feet.

Could he hit the door-unlock button with his elbow and try to roll out into the street? Sure. But Van Allen would shoot him before he got the door open.

He could lunge for the gun and grab it. But with what? His hands were bound, and he couldn't see anything, anyway. But if he shifted around in his seat and moved his feet, he could
kick
the gun away, if he could find it. Then he could …

“Settle down, you,” Van Allen said, and snapped the gun up at him. “Stop moving around. If you wake me up again, I'll shoot you.”

Nicky's father knew he wouldn't unless he had to. Van Allen needed to keep him alive until he could sign over the bank papers.
Then
, he thought.
He'll drive me someplace and shoot me then.

Down the block, Frankie and Nicky watched the black Navigator. It was still and silent. Nothing moved. Nicky, glancing around the inside of the Crown Vic, said, “Hey, what's that red light on the dashboard?”

“We're probably overheating, from standing still,” Frankie said.

“Then why's it say ‘Fuel low’ on it?”

Frankie turned and stared. “Oh, great. We're running out of gas.”

“What's that mean?”

“It means we gotta turn the car off,” Frankie said. “It's gonna get cold in here, fast, but we can't afford to be out of gas if they make a run for it. Sorry.”

Frankie turned off the motor. The heater and the fan stopped. The air got colder at once. The windows began to steam up, too. Frankie mopped the glass with his sleeve, but it steamed over right away.

“This is bad,” he said. “I don't want to, but I gotta call for backup.”

Frankie pulled the radio off its hanger, clicked a button and said, “Alpha-six-two. Code in?”

There was silence. Then the radio crackled and said, “Roger, Alpha-six-two. Go ahead.”

“Alpha-six-two requesting tactical assist, corner First and Front, township of Fairport, New Jersey. I need local help. Two SWATs, no paint, and a bird, holding.”

Frankie held the radio and listened. Nicky said, “What was that?”

“I told 'em where we are, and what we need—two SWAT units, unmarked cars, and a helicopter, not overhead but waiting in the vicinity. If Van Allen moves, I want to be able to hit him fast. But I don't want him to know we're here until then.”

The radio crackled again and said, “Roger that, Alpha-six-two. You're green. Stand by.”

Frankie mopped the window with his sleeve again. The snow was coming down harder now. The streets had gone white. He could barely see the Navigator.
If they make a run for it now, I won't see them
, he thought.
I gotta do something, and quick.

“This ain't good, Nicky,” he said. “We're gonna have to force his hand. Can you drive a car?”

“No,” Nicky said. “I don't know how.”

“You're gonna have to learn quick. Here's what we're gonna do. I'm gonna fire this thing up and drive straight toward that Navigator. Right before we get there, I'm gonna slam the horn and turn on the lights. And right when we hit them, I'm gonna jump out of the car. You with me so far?”

Nicky gulped. “Yeah.”

“Good. When I jump out, you're gonna slide across the seat, put the car in reverse and stamp on the gas. Just go straight back, and stop, and get down. Easy, right?”

Nicky gulped again. “I guess so,” he said. He stared at the pedals under the dashboard. “The one on the right is the gas, right?”

“Oh boy,” Frankie said. “This is gonna be interesting, mere.

Frankie started the Crown Victoria. He told Nicky to buckle his seat belt, then said, “What about Tommy?”

Nicky looked into the backseat. “He's still asleep.”

“Let him sleep,” Frankie said. “We got work to do.”

Frankie pulled the Crown Vic down First Street, toward Front. He angled the car so that it was directly facing the
side of the Navigator, which was about a half block away. Frankie took a deep breath, crossed himself and said, “Here goes nothing.”

He mashed the gas pedal down. The Crown Vic shot forward. Frankie put one hand on the horn and the other on the lights. When they were ten feet from the Navigator, he said, “Now!” He blasted the horn, threw on the lights, swung the door open and leapt out.

The Crown Vic smashed into the side of the Navigator. Nicky was jerked forward. He slid across the seat, pulled the gearshift to
R
and stepped on the gas. The Crown Vic shot backward, skidding sideways on the snowy street, and went fifty feet before it sideswiped a parked car and ground to a stop. Tommy shouted, “What's going on?”

Van Allen didn't know what had hit them, but he didn't wait to find out. He shot up from his seat, opened the door and rolled out of the Navigator into a bank of snow. He heard a voice scream, “Freeze!” and laughed:
Freeze, in the snow.
Van Allen whipped his gun hand up and fired once in the direction of the voice. Then he got to his feet and started running.

Nicky's father had heard the horn, felt the blaze of lights, felt the Navigator lurch sideways as something huge smashed into it, and fallen over toward the passenger seat. He had felt the passenger door open and a rush of cold air come in as the Navigator bounced upright. He had heard a voice yell, “Freeze!” Then a shot had rung out.

That was all he needed to hear. He rolled toward the
open passenger door, fell out into a snowbank and struggled to his feet. He heard footsteps running to his left. He turned to his right and moved quickly away.

Frankie saw Van Allen, illuminated by the Crown Vic's headlights, then lost him as he dashed into the darkness. Frankie put his pistol down and started after him. He was headed for what appeared to be an abandoned amusement park, fenced off with chain link. Van Allen couldn't get far. Frankie, staying low, skidded along the snowy ground, hoping Van Allen couldn't see him any better than he could see Van Allen.

From across the street, Nicky saw the Navigator door fly open. The car's interior light came on. There was no one there!

His uncle crouched in front of the truck and shouted, “Freeze!” He had his pistol up, like he was about to shoot. Then Nicky saw his dad sit up in the driver's seat of the Navigator. He said, “Dad!” and jumped out of the Crown Vic. Suddenly Van Allen leapt out of the snow and fired in Uncle Frankie's direction, then dashed into the shadows.

Nicky ran to the Navigator and yanked the driver's-side door open. But his dad had disappeared. He stared into the back of the Navigator. Nothing!

Sirens split the night. Nicky jumped out of the Navigator. Two black Suburbans, with headlights blinking and sirens blaring, were rushing toward him. Their headlights
suddenly shone on a man stumbling into the street, duct tape covering his mouth and eyes.

“Dad! Stop!” Nicky shouted. He ran to his father and shoved him off the street and into a deep snowbank—just as the two Suburbans skidded to a stop on the ice. Six men with guns leapt out of the big black trucks and said, “Police! Freeze!”

Nicky and his dad stuck their hands up as high as they would go.

Going across the snowy field, Frankie lost Van Allen and stopped at the chain-link fence. Gone! But wait—there was a break in the fence. Frankie slipped through and stared into the darkness ahead. There wasn't any moon. The lights from Front Street weren't very bright. Halfway into the amusement park it was pitch-dark.

But he could see Van Allen's footsteps in the snow. Moving slowly, Frankie followed them. A hundred feet on, the steps turned to the right and headed behind one of the rides. Frankie peered up through the dim light. He could make out a sign that said, HAUNTED HOUSE

OF FUN.

Some fun!
Frankie cursed and stumbled over the threshold onto a section of floor that shifted violently from left to right. He lurched to the side and slammed into the wall. Up ahead, he heard a crash. A voice said, “Damn it!”

Frankie hurried on. He felt his way around a dark corner. A few steps ahead, the floor turned into giant rollers.
Frankie's feet went out from under him and he fell onto the rollers. He said, “Damn it!” too, then put his hand over his mouth.

He heard footsteps running, ahead of him. Frankie hurried on in the dark.

“Van Allen!” he shouted. “This is Frankie Borelli. Quit while you can. I got backup coming. You stop now, we can talk. If I keep chasing you, it's gonna get ugly.”

“Bring it on!” Van Allen yelled back. “You Mafia jerks don't scare me.”

“I'm not the Mafia, you idiot!” Frankie shouted. “I'm the cops! Five minutes from now you're gonna have a SWAT team sitting on your head.”

Van Allen laughed wildly. “Yeah, right, Borelli. All I see chasing me is one fat goomba. You make a nice target!”

Two shots rang out. Frankie hit the floor and waited. He heard footsteps running again. He got to his feet and crept forward.

Then he heard the helicopter and cursed under his breath. “Not yet!” he said. But suddenly the haunted house was as bright as day, as the helicopter swung its searchlight over the place. Frankie saw Van Allen, down a corridor, twenty feet ahead, surrounded by walls of glass. Van Allen saw him, too. He swung around and fired again. Glass shattered. Frankie dropped and lay flat on the floor.

The SWAT team got the duct tape off Nicky's dad's mouth and eyes. He told them what he could about Van Allen, Patrick Arlen and his kidnapping. And Frankie.
“He's a New York City police officer, undercover,” he said.

“Is he armed?” a SWAT officer asked.

“I don't know,” Nicky's dad said. “But the other guy is. Van Allen's got an automatic pistol.”

“Let's move!” the SWAT officer said.

Tommy had jumped out of the Crown Vic behind Nicky. He helped Nicky get his dad on his feet and started with them toward the waiting Suburbans.

Nicky had tears in his eyes. He smeared them away with his shirtsleeve and turned to watch the SWAT team make their assault. They were heading for the main entrance to the amusement park.

“Look!” he said. “They'll never get in that way! Those gates are all locked.”

“The place we got in—was it on the left or the right?” Tommy asked.

“The right,” Nicky said. “But they'll never find it. We gotta help.”

Tommy stared across the snowy street at the heavily armed SWAT team. He said, “Are you kidding? I'm not going over there.”

“You stay, then,” Nicky said. “I'll be right back.”

“Nicky!” his father shouted. “Stop!
Stop!”

Nicky heard. He disobeyed. He ran as fast as he could across the street, across the field and up to the chain-link fence.

He found the opening right away and slipped through. Then he heard gunshots. He called out, “Uncle Frankie!”
He forgot about the SWAT team and instead ran for the midway.

It was too dark to see anything. But suddenly the air was full of noise—the helicopter!—and a wide shaky beam of light dashed across the ground in front of him.

As the helicopter passed over him, the haunted house was illuminated. Nicky saw two figures inside, shimmering in walls of glass and mirror. Then one turned and fired, and the other dropped to the floor. Nicky saw broken glass rain over him. Then the helicopter turned, and everything went dark. Nicky dashed up the front steps of the haunted house and went into the hall of mirrors.

The helicopter swung around in the sky. Frankie cocked his head and listened. The bird would pass again and hit the amusement park with lights. He needed to be ready to take a shot this time. He could hear Van Allen's footsteps, somewhere ahead of him in the darkness. He moved forward, trying to get as close to Van Allen as possible before the light came up again.