A Killer App, page 26
My clothes are nondescript, too. When Grant arrived with his possible shooter alert, I was ready to walk out the door in a tee-shirt that boasted a big Coast Guard logo. Not wanting to waste time changing, I threw a long-sleeved sun protection shirt over my tee. Since the puppet master probably told Claude to focus on a Coast Guard parade float, advertising my Coastie affiliation seems a bad idea.
When I reach the side street nearest the Community Center, I spot a Beemer snugged up to the curb in a prime getaway spot. It’s the same model and color as the BMW recently parked in the driveway of the doc’s rental house. Can’t see the license plate and not sure I’d remember the number, even if I could. But my gut tells me it belongs to the witch doctor. I shiver. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I sense her evil presence nearby.
Why? This isn’t her usual modus operandi. No separation, no alibi.
Can’t worry about the scheming witch now. Finding Claude is the priority. And I’m increasingly certain he’s taken up a position on the Community Center roof. That’s why the woman’s close. She’s come to watch the bloodbath.
Have seen no signs of the SWAT teams yet. Wish I had an idea where they are, and what’s planned. Is the Hullis Island team waiting for the sheriff’s larger SWAT contingent to join them?
If I’m right about the Community Center, I figure my best move is to leave the leisure path a half block away and slip into the surrounding woods. The stream that meanders through Hullis Island didn’t leave developers enough room to build on this side of the center or behind it. The result is a short stretch of protected greenery. Another reason for the puppet master to have chosen this building for her proxy.
If Claude’s instructions are to fire on one or more parade floats, he’ll be scanning the road for signs of activity. No reason for him to pay attention to the woods behind and beside the building. I’m confident I can get very close without being seen.
I glance at my watch. Nine thirty. Half an hour until the parade is scheduled to start. However, I’m sure Chief O’Rourke has already called for a delay. I doubt he’s shared the reason, though. Otherwise, the spectators’ cellphones would be setting up an ear-splitting racket of high-pitched rings. No way would parade participants fail to phone friends along the parade route if they’d been warned about a possible active shooter situation. Talk about a phone tree.
The Real Estate Sales Center is close enough that I can hear the low hum of the hubbub as organizers try to herd golf carts, bicyclists, and walkers into some order. Equine whinnies tell me a few horses have been saddled up for the parade, too. As a former member of a high-school marching band, I pity all the folks assigned to follow the equestrians.
I take a calming breath. My brain is careening from thought to thought, too frightened to dwell on what comes next.
Do I attempt to sneak up on Claude? Would he hear me coming?
Or should I stay out of sight and call to him? Can I make a stab at what his mentor—whoever it may be—has persuaded him to do?
Chapter Sixty-Five
The Chameleon
Wednesday, July 4, morning
I carry my folding chair as I decide the perfect spot to watch the action. Might as well be comfortable. I decide against joining the throng packed on and beside the leisure path. I spot a family group camped on the opposite side of the street in front of a rambling vacation house. Assume the family’s staked the claim to their own front yard.
I cross the street and approach the woman. Don’t want her to think I have any designs on her man. Plus, I want to stay as far away from him as possible. Can’t have some macho headcase interfere with any of my plans.
I smile. “Hi, I’m a little claustrophobic. Would you mind if I share your lawn? It’s awfully crowded over there.”
“Sure, you’re welcome,” the middle-aged woman answers.
A second later, she forgets all about me as she turns to swat the bottom of a prepubescent boy. “Quit pulling your sister’s braids.”
The frazzled woman is clearly the mother of this brood. Four kids, but—thankfully—no yipping dogs. Dad has a six-pack in a cooler next to his lawn chair, and he’s tuned out the kids to stare at his cellphone. Probably live-streaming a sports program.
I find a spot of even ground and set my chair down. Once I’m seated, I take out my binoculars. Early on, I found equipping my rental units with binoculars wins really nice reviews, especially from bird- and dolphin-watching vacationers.
I scan the Community Center parapet. I think I detect the faint sound of scuffling feet atop the building. I check to see if any of my companions notice. No, too preoccupied. Good.
I bring the binoculars back up and am rewarded with a crystal-clear view of the AR-15’s barrel. Luckily, the gun appears and disappears in the blink of an eye. Claude is performing according to my programming. He obviously made it through the security gate, parked, and reached his roost without being stopped.
Grant’s reckless driving and his shouted warning for the snoop to get inside are clear signs something gave the game away. But what? And how will the security officers respond?
I assume they’ll try to avoid panicking the crowd, but every minute they fail to find Claude, will wear on their nerves. What’s the strategy for their search? There’s been no announcement the parade will be canceled, but I expect that to come any second.
Then, what will Claude do? I didn’t give him any bail-out options. If he’s smart, once the parade’s canceled, he’ll leave his AR-15 on the roof, climb down, and hide. But he’s not the brightest bulb. He’ll probably head to his car and keep his AR-15 to defend himself.
If that’s the case, I’ll end Claude’s nightmare for him. Having gotten a glimpse of his gun, I’ll pull out my Sig Sauer and save all the lives this madman might otherwise have taken.
As soon as the parade’s called off, I’ll scoot over to the woods surrounding the Community Center. A good place to surprise a frightened, clueless Claude.
I virtually pat myself on the back for my forward thinking. Then, I train my binoculars on the woods to study my ambush options.
I see a flash of red. A figure weaving through the woods, furtively scurrying from trunk to trunk. A scout for a SWAT team? That’s my first thought, but whoever it may be isn’t dressed for the part. Nor is there any sign of officers amassed nearby for an assault. If a SWAT team had assembled anywhere close to the parade route, the spectators would react. They wouldn’t just sit on their fannies and lick popsicles as officers in padded uniforms crept by.
So, who’s in the woods? Does the person know Claude’s location? If so, how? And what, if anything, should I do about it?
I train the binoculars back on the figure. A slight man or a woman. The silhouette and the clothing say woman. Could it be the snoop? The figure’s no Q-tip with curly, white hair. But if I were trying to avoid notice, I’d do something about that hair, too.
The figure’s face peeks out from behind a tree trunk. I double the binocular’s magnification.
Shit! It’s Kylee Kane. With the wig and oversized sunglasses, I’d never know, except for the red claw mark a recent HOA wrestling match left on her cheek.
The nosy woman’s appearance presents some interesting possibilities. Wish I could phone Claude and tell him there’s a change of plan. Then again, I could phone 911 and report seeing a figure with a gun sneaking through the woods.
The Hullis Island security force isn’t used to dealing with gunmen. That heightens the odds some security guard with a nervous trigger finger may solve my problem by peppering the woods with bullets before the snoop can shout, “You want him, not me.”
And once the first shot is fired, Claude is sure to join in. How could he not?
I turn to the harried mother seated near me. “Got a cramp in my leg. Need to walk it off.”
I bring my purse with me as I retreat a safe distance from the family. Can’t have any of them hear my call. Glad I brought a burner phone for just this sort of contingency.
I smile and dial 911.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Kylee
Wednesday, July 4, morning
The scrabbling sound is faint but distinctive. It’s coming from the Community Center roof. And it’s definitely not a squirrel. Not unless there’s a one-hundred-fifty-pound mutant rodent dashing about.
I’m studying the roofline when a rifle barrel pops up above the parapet. A second later, it vanishes.
That’s all the confirmation I need. Claude is on that roof, positioned in the northeast corner. The spot offers an excellent, unobstructed view of each approaching float.
I’m not stupid. I know whatever tactic I try may fail. I need to share what I know with Ted. I slip out my cellphone. While I may not answer my cell the moment it rings, Ted will pick up instantly, if he sees I’m calling.
As I power up my phone, one of the parade organizers loudly harangues a mischief-maker. Suddenly, I know how to improve the odds Claude can be captured without endangering any innocents.
“Ted, just listen,” I whisper when he answers. “I’m in the woods beside the Community Center. Claude’s up on the roof, northeast corner. Never would have spotted him, if his gun barrel hadn’t appeared for a moment. Don’t know where you are, but I assume the chief has at least one officer stationed at the parade assembly area.
“Ask the chief to have someone broadcast a last-minute change in the parade route. Say a detour will take the parade down side streets for the first four blocks. It will re-enter the main route at the Birdwell Lane intersection south of the Community Center. That will prompt all the spectators now gathered in harm’s way to relocate beyond Claude’s rooftop AR-15 range.
“When Claude hears the announcement, he’ll have a decision to make. One not covered by his AI whisperer’s instructions. Since the float or floats he’s supposed to target won’t parade past him, he has zero reason to stay on the roof.”
I pause a second, considering his options. “Either he’ll try to relocate where he can take a shot, or he’ll run to fight another day. Either way, I can surprise Claude when he climbs down from the roof.”
“Kylee—” Ted begins.
I don’t hear another word as I switch off my cellphone. I trade the phone for my Glock. I’m ready even though I know I may have long minutes to wait. Claude will be angry, frustrated at being stymied.
What will he do?
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The Chameleon
Wednesday, July 4, morning
Waiting for the 911 operator to pick up, I pant like a dog that’s just slipped his leash. My trick to instill the perfect amount of breathy panic into my voice.
“This is an emergency. There’s a gunman lurking in the woods. Oh, my Lord, he’s targeting the crowd. He’ll kill dozens.”
The operator overrides me. “Try to stay calm. Where are you, miss? What woods?”
“Hullis Island. Woods by the Community Center. Hundreds here for a parade. He’ll kill us all. I have to go. I don’t want to die.”
I end the call. An excellent performance if I do say so, but I’ll have to be satisfied imagining the applause. While I told the operator I was leaving, I have no intention of doing so. If things don’t work out the way I envision, I may still play Dirty Harriette to ensure the proper outcome.
I’m walking back to my lawn chair when a man’s voice booms. “Sorry folks, due to a small glitch, we’re rerouting the parade.”
For at least thirty minutes, all traffic has been banished from the main thoroughfare in advance of the parade. Barricades have stymied everyone trying to enter from a cross street. Now, an EMT vehicle toddles down the empty road. The voice announcing the route change blares through its speakers.
“The parade will leave the Real Estate Sales Center, turn left on Egret Lane, then right on Heron Street, and proceed three blocks before turning right on Birdwell. From Birdwell the parade will follow its usual route down our main street. We’ve delayed the parade’s start until ten-thirty to give spectators along this portion of the route a chance to relocate.”
The woman who welcomed me to share a patch of her lawn stands and sighs. “Well, I’ll be. Why in heck are they changing the route? Not like there’s an accident or a gas leak. Maybe we’ll just skip the parade. I’d need a truck to move all our junk.”
She glances over at her husband. His eyes are still on his phone. Hasn’t heard a word. The woman marches over and yanks out an earbud. He jumps. “What!”
Where do I go?
Should have anticipated this. It’s a smart move, prompting the crowd to vacate the area where someone has reported a figure with a gun creeping around the woods. Sound strategy to avoid panic.
Then I realize the timing’s all wrong. No way could this be a reaction to my 911 call. Not possible in a few seconds.
This is the nosy snoop’s doing.
She’s giving Claude a reason to climb down from the roof. She thinks she can capture the gunman single-handedly.
We’ll see about that.
I pick up my chair, cart it off the lawn, and stash it out of the irritated mother’s sight. While I won’t need the chair, I will need my shoulder bag. I zip it open and position it for easy access to my Sig Sauer.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Kylee
Wednesday, July 4, morning
It’s working! The EMT vehicle makes another pass through the sector, calmly announcing the route change. Spectators may be grumbling, but they’re packing up their paraphernalia and moving. Not panicked, just pissed. Only a third of the original crowd remains, and they’re busy pulling up stakes. The stragglers just need a little longer to gather coolers, kids, dogs, and camp chairs.
I listen for any rooftop noise. But, even if Claude’s moving, it would be hard to make out any furtive movements over the racket associated with the shuffling crowd.
I scan activity up and down the street. A tall woman stands out. The loner strides purposely across the road. She’s coming directly toward me and the Community Center. Absolutely, the wrong direction.
I can’t see the woman’s face. Her head’s turned toward the Real Estate Sales Center, probably checking to see if the EMT vehicle is turning for a third pass. She glances behind her, where a family’s carting drinks and toys back inside their house. Then, she turns toward me. Her attention zeroes in on the woods and me.
Dammit! It’s Amanda Holder. What’s her plan? Does she think she can issue new instructions to her young assassin on the fly? Have to assume she’s spotted me. Making alternate plans for my disposal?
The professor’s wearing her shoulder bag like a bandolier—over the shoulder, across the chest. It frees both of her hands while offering easy access to whatever’s inside that bag. I have a feeling it’s a gun, and, like me, she keeps it right beside her concealed carry permit.
Great. Now I have to divide my attention between Amanda the Anaconda and an unbalanced teen with an AR-15. Not sure which is the greater danger.
I thought I could ambush Claude and end this nightmare without endangering anyone else. What hubris. I’m as conceited as the witch doctor, imagining I can accurately predict what others will do and manage the scene like I’m directing a movie.
The SWAT team must be en route. I’m sure Ted and the chief have arranged for officers to burst on the scene as soon as the crowd has fully dispersed. They won’t want to take any chance the shooter can escape. Not with all these people barely out of harm’s way.
I track the puppet master’s progress. Though sunglasses shield her eyes, she appears to be looking straight at me, until she veers right. I watch as she walks briskly into the woods and slips behind a tree. She’s taken up a position between me and where I expect Claude to descend.
Dammit. Impossible to watch the doc and the section of roof nearest a massive live oak. Its branches arch near the roof. Easy for Claude to grab and climb down.
There’s movement. Claude’s head and shoulders pop up over the parapet right where I expected. God, the boy looks scrawny and oh so young.
“Claude,” Amanda yells. ‘Don’t come down. A woman is waiting to kill you the minute you leave the roof. You have to take her out first.”
Claude’s head disappears as he drops behind the parapet. “Who are you? Why should I believe you?”
“I’m Danny’s mother,” Amanda calls. “He sent me to watch over you. To make sure you’d get away after completing your mission. There’s a woman wearing a red wig, hiding behind a tree. About your ten o’clock. Just aim your AR-15 in that direction and let the bullets fly. Once she’s dead, you’re home free. I have your back.”
So that’s the vile woman’s plan.
Once Claude kills me, she’ll kill him and spin some story about being in the right place at the right time. Not going to happen.
Before Claude can aim, I abandon the cover of the woods and sprint in the witch doctor’s direction. I slide into a spot behind a tree less than ten feet from the puppet master.
Want Claude to send bullets in my direction? Fine. I’ll make sure the bullets find you as well.
My turn to talk to the teen. “Claude, the woman telling you to shoot me has no children. She’s no one’s mother. She used computer trickery to create Danny. He’s a fake, like a cartoon character. Danny doesn’t exist.”
“Yes, he does!” Claude screams. “He’s my friend, my hero.”
“That’s right,” Amanda pipes up. “Don’t listen to that bitch. She’s the woman you were meant to kill all along. She’s the woman who was supposed to drive the Coast Guard float. That red wig is hiding her white hair. She’s trying to trick you.”
I’m startled by the whir of a helicopter overhead. It circles the roof. Keeps moving. Doesn’t hover. Must be hoping to dodge any bullets Claude might send its way.
