Mr. Scary Smart: Part 6 (finale)

May 28, 2009

A Joe Downing Mystery

The following is fiction:  

 

 

 

 

Part 6: 357 Sig Reloaded, or, Street Cred to Burn

FRAYED NERVES WERE TAKING OVER. That rope was just about to snap. Strands separated off gradually and curled up insolently. I spun and twisted slowly, agonizingly in the tension. Getting your ass kicked and then shot twice doesn’t do much for your Christmas. You’ll take my word for it, I’m sure. Well, we were in St. George, Utah, holed-up. It was now Monday morning, the 28th of December.  

 

Me and Johansen had picked St. George for getting sewn up and mended in since it had a central location, and it wasn’t in Nevada. Early Saturday morn, the 26th, about 3am, we had abandoned the Mercedes in the parking garage of the hotel in Vegas, and had taken only the Corvette, the unknown car to the populace of Las Vegas. We took off in the middle of the night. Already paid. We had gotten the endless bleeding to stop when the blood coagulated, and we had contacted, through the motel in St. George, a doctor to fix us up Saturday morning about dawn or so. We had gotten back a clean slate to a certain extent. No questons asked about the lead, fortunately, but that couldn’t last for long. Hiking accident, maybe? There’s a whopper, kids! I called Tom Wilkinson to sound him out. He was home in Rancho Verde. I walked outside to make the call.  

 

“I think she’s got Stockholm Syndrome,” Tom said.  

 

“Yeah, I think so, too. Feelings of sympathy for the kidnapper. But it’s obviously even more than that. If they’re blogging pals, then I’m sure she went voluntarily, and like you said, the dog never protested the initial escape. She doesn’t consider herself kidnapped.”  

 

“Maybe not, but the Mann Act does.” I looked up at the rugged walls of red rock towering above my head. The sun shone from a white sky. The air temp was brisk and refreshing, not bad at all.  

 

“So, how do we shake her out of it?” I asked.  

 

“You can’t. She has to make that choice on her own. It’s up to her. Nothing you can really do but show her an alternative example. Break her faith in this Jones character.”  

 

“It seemed there was a chink in her armour when she saw her father shot. Like she wasn’t sure of Jones anymore. Like she was feeling, ‘who is this guy shooting my father?’”  

 

“Good. That’s a first step. Play on that. It’s your best ally…..I found their blogs on the Web, too. Jonesy is all about radical politics and the coming revolution. Idiotic stuff. But very slick and polished, nevertheless, the guy knows what he’s doing. The actual writing, though, is sophomoric, embarrassing, even. Check this out: 

‘These counter-hegemonic narratives provide historical transformation from the Colonialist symbologies, and supercede ineluctably the Euro-American, neo-liberal perspective.’

“How’s that for gobbledy-goop?” Tom asked. 

 

“Pretty damn good,” I said. “Ya gotta keep a soft spot alive for those counter-hegemonic narratives, c’mon. So what’s Chelsea’s blog like?”  

 

“It’s all about photos and friends and being social. It’s a chick flick, all the way. Not any politics at all. It’s more like a MySpace page than anything else. She’s very handy, though, she also knows what she’s doing. It’s like a scrapbook.”  

 

“Yeah, I get what you mean. Any recent postings on either site to give us a clue where they are? Any chess clues?”  

 

“No,” Tom answered, “neither one has posted for several days — the 23rd for him, the 24th for her. That’s unusual, it looks like: they both seem to post 3 or 4 times a day.”  

 

“Okay, just trying…..but now — any ideas about how to get the drop on him?”  

 

“You could blow his head off his shoulders with a Smith and Wesson.”  

 

“Yeah, I could. And go to jail. Any non-jail ways you can think of, amigo?”  

 

“Not really. But how’s this — I e-mailed the publisher of Chess Life magazine, since Jones’ blog has some chess postings. Apparently Jones was pretty good. U.S. Top 100, the publisher said!”  

 

“Top 100?! His resume said Top 25!”  

 

“Really? Well, I guess he’s lying on his resume, then. Anyway, he was gonna be the next Bobby Fischer or something, get the crown back for the United States. Tactical genius, nerves of steel, great preparation, stuff like that. But he lost some chance in 2002 to enter some challenger tournament for the world title. He was going for the gold, the whole enchilada. But he got DQ’d, and he felt there was some unfairness from the U.S. chess head honchos. A bourgeoise organization, don’t you know.”  

 

“Ah, I see it all now. Chess is so known for those flagrant fouls…..well…..all right, Tom, gotta go, thanks for the narratives, and let me know if you find anything out. Later.”  

 

“Be careful, Joe.”  

 

***************************************

 
 

 I went alone to the grocery store to get us some food. It was about 8am. Johansen was on the phone with Julie. I also bought a small chess board in anticipation of the next clue from Jones. Moving around slowly, the stitches held. When I got back, Johansen showed me the latest text from Jones, just in:

 
 

Pe4     Pe5

Re3     Re6

Qe2     Qe7

Ke1     Ke8

North, POS

 
 

“What do we do with that?” Johansen asked, exasperated, gesturing towards the display. His hair was unkempt, his slacks travel-worn, his appearance disheveled. Worry and strain bit at his face.

 
 

“We figure it out, that’s what,” I answered.

 
 

“Figure what out? This crap? Why can’t the weasel just come out and face us?”

 
 

“He’s a sadist. That’s why he’s doing this. He doesn’t think about the future — only in a chess game, not in real life.” We set out the pieces on the board.

 

 King

Queen

Rook

Pawn

Pawn

Rook

Queen

King

 

“Now — these are all pairs of chess moves in the text message. Four pairs, to be precise. The first move of each pair is white, the second is red. I don’t know if he’s white or if we are, or if it matters. Let’s set out the moves.” As it turned out, we decided to just clear the board of all pieces except those mentioned in the text. All the pieces were on one file, the ‘e’ file.
 

“Well, what does this do for us?” Johansen asked.

 

“Everything’s on the ‘e’ file, or column, for some reason,” I ventured. “It looks like an invitation to a final battle. A makeshift formation for a special game. Look, he’s got pawns leading the way, then the castles, or rooks, then the Queens, then the two kings last. All these pieces are capable of moving in a straight line, straight ahead. This set-up is like a head-on collision, an Armageddon scene. He’s asking for a shoot-out to the death.”

 
 

“We’ll be glad to give it to him.  But how do we know where to show up? And what does he mean by this ‘North, POS?’” Johansen queried.

 
 

“‘North’ might be telling us what direction to go from Las Vegas. ‘POS’ might mean ‘position,’ of course, but who knows?”

 
 

“It might mean ‘Pile of Shit,’ too. He seems to enjoy that particular phrase,” Johansen suggested.

 
 

“Yeah, it probably does mean that, come to think of it. We already know the pieces are in position, why mention it? He wouldn’t miss a chance for an insult. So, then, why the ‘e’ file? What’s ‘e’ mean?” I asked.

 
 

“Entrance?” Johansen proposed.

 
 

“Maybe,” I said, “what else?”

 
 

“Equine. Equality. East. Everywhere. Enema.”

 
 

“A place, yeah! It might be a place, like the other clue. And it’s out in the middle of the board again. Going vertical, like a freeway going north on a map. This formation is a map!” I said.

 
 

“We’re supposed to drive on this map? On the ‘e’ freeway? Or east?”

 
 

“Yeah, it could mean east, but he put ‘north’ down probably to make sure we didn’t go east. The ‘e’ then might not be a compass direction. He wouldn’t put two compass directions in one clue, I don’t think. It would be too confusing,” I said.

 
 

“So what’s a place that’s out in the middle of nowhere, that’s north of Vegas, that involves a straight shot on the freeway, and has something to do with an ‘e’?” Johansen summed up.

 
 

“The initial of a city, you mean? It could be the initial of the city we’re supposed to meet him at. What are some ‘e’ cities?” I asked. Johansen paused, thinking.

 
 

“North of Vegas?” he clarified.

 
 

“Yeah, north of Vegas,” I repeated after him. We sat and thought in one of the dumpy, seedy rooms we had rented. Traffic outside began to pick up, people driving to work. Not much occured to us.

 
 

“We need a U.S. map.” I went to the manager’s office, found a man already started in on another day of marathon T.V. watching, got him to get up out of the chair somehow, bought a map from him, and returned to the room. We opened it out on the floor. We pointed to Vegas.

 
 

“Okay, north of Vegas means the 15 freeway. Any cities beginning with ‘e’?” We traced a route up the 15.

 
 

“Enoch, Utah; Ely, Nevada; and Evanston, Wyoming,” Johansen said. “Which one?”

 
 

“Enoch is right on the line of the freeway, and Ely is to the west. Only Evanston is really fully to the east of the15,” said.

 
 

“So?” Johansen replied.

 
 

“It could be the ‘e’ file represents two things: the initial of the city, like we said at first, and also the compass direction.”

 
 

“But you said he wouldn’t put two compass directions in one clue. Too confusing,” Johansen declared.

 
 

“Yes, I did say that. But what if he could embed the second directional clue within an already existing clue? In other words, the clue telling us to go east of the 15 might be embedded within the same clue for the city-initial. That would satisfy his need for efficiency. So the ‘e’ file clue does two things. It says first: ‘a city that begins with an E.’ Then it says secondly: ‘go east of the 15 to get there, not west.’ If it’s really Ely or Enoch, then he hasn’t finished the clue — he hasn’t gotten us off the 15. He has to break the tie somehow between the three cities. If it’s not Evanston, then he has to let us know it’s either Ely or Enoch. But he didn’t do that. He just left it. That means Evanston.” Johansen became studious.

 
 

“Yeah…..yeah, you’re right. He has to break the tie. I guess that’s why I’m the stock broker and you’re the P.I.” (I promise you I didn’t say anything or laugh at this point.) Johansen continued: “Well, I’m ready whenever you are, Joe. Let’s get the hell outta here. Let’s go get Chelsea. And let’s not mess it up a third time.”

 
 

********************************************

 
 

 IT’S MORE THAN THREE HUNDRED MILES from St. George to Salt Lake City. We didn’t stop much except for a pitstop here and there. Johansen drove the Corvette part of the way, and handled it pretty good. But we didn’t stop much on the way to SLC. And we left it pretty quick, too. We took the Interstate 80 East, straight outta SLC. But we had to be so very careful. The fuzz seemed to have some sort of joint task force out on the highways, a combined job of Arizona, Nevada, and Utah. Now was not the time to get pulled over by the state troopers, not with a shooting just past in Vegas, trumpeted on the T.V. news, and not with the two of us plum full of stitches. No, indeed. Now was not the time to go over the speed limit. So we kept it down to 85.

 
 

Evanston, Wyoming is about eighty miles east of SLC. The highway in was mostly dry all this time, a pale sun had boiled off the ice crystals. When we hit some occasional treacherous parts that had gotten little sun, we slowed a bit. We turned the car backwards once, but no injuries. You can’t expect too much from Southern Californians. But, all in all, we were fed-up with this Jonesy, fed-up with cross-country driving, fed-up with being shot at, fed-up with kidnapppers, and fed-up with being far from home in the cold without the right clothes.

 
 

Finally we pulled into Evanston, which is just 6 miles in from the border with Utah, at about 3pm, still on Monday, the 28th. We took charming little Harrison Street down from the 80, and went along that winding way below to Front Street, a more serious and industrial looking set-up, with store fronts (some abandoned), a police station, and the sturdy, still-functional, old railroad tracks that old man Evans himself had used so long ago. Front Street was the main drag of the place. Sunset was getting close, and the sky was losing light fast. Descent into a storm of darkness once again, just like back on Friday, Christmas Eve, when I first met Johansen.

 
 

Snow was everywhere. Looking down perpendicular to the right as we tooled along the gradual slope of Harrison, we saw, at the shoulders of the residential streets, snow piled up two feet high by the snow plows, or even waist-high in spots, almost shoulder-high. A good place to hide behind, come to think of it. All the streets sloped precipitously and icily down from Harrison, as if they wouldn’t let you back out if you only had 2WD. Just take a wild guess what the Corvette had. These streets were motionless and silent, as if painted on a canvas. Illumination glowed cheerily from within the neat, upright houses, soft spots of light behind curtained windows. The omnipresent snow perched lazily on the rooftops, and icicles, 6 or 8 feet long and as fat as your arm, hung down from under the facia of the tall school building on 10th, like so many Swords of Damocles poised above thy head.

 
 

On Front Street, going-home traffic nudged along. Some drivers had their headlights on even at 3pm. There was the occasional, brief whoosh! as a car’s tires had momentary trouble gaining traction. Everything was white save for a narrow and black asphalt strip in each direction on Front. Sound was muted from all the snow. We turned left on 9th and then left again immediately into the Mavrik gas station. Snow piles, 6 feet high, and just as wide, were pushed off to the side of the small payment shack. Huge monoliths of snow. Hide and go seek.

 
 

We pulled up at a pump and got out. The chilly air bit savagely and ferociously at our skin through our thin cotton and wool clothes. A slight breeze added its force. Nerves were worn. Anxiety nibbled at our thoughts, and the cold aggravated it a thousand-fold. There were three parallel rows of pumps, it was a big boy of a station. We were in the outermost row, at the back pump, right on Front. Off to the furthest right side, and at the front pumps, my eye caught something. Hadn’t noticed at first. The fatigue, the altitude, the whatever-factor had prevented me. The view to over there was blocked a bit by the pumps and by a pillar holding up the sun roof. I moved a step and leaned to see better. It turned out there was an old, blue, beat-up Volvo station wagon pulled up at the pump.

 
 

 My blood stirred. I peeked casually around the corner and saw a ‘Free Tibet’ bumper sticker on the Volvo. Lightning shot through me. He had managed Wyoming plates, too. I pulled back, out of sight, behind our pump at the rear. I looked at Johansen, who hadn’t yet seen. I motioned him over to the driver’s side with me, and reached for the Colt and the Sig. I looked down at the snow and at my black shoes, trying to summon strength. Something inside told me that I didn’t really have to do it. Not now, not this fast. My heart beat wildly. I could let this pass, no one would know but me. Johansen hadn’t seen. I could make something up. I was freezing, shaking, trembling with anticipation and fear. Johansen came over to me, wondering what was up. I had to make a decision.

 
 

“…..to the right…..forward pump…..” I said quietly, with my head and eyes down. Johansen listened, alarm on his face, swallowed hard, and then looked over like a rifle shot. It was his daughter’s life at stake. He grabbed the Colt out of my hand, practically taking my wrist with him. People went nonchalantly in and out of the mini-mart. The double-doors slid open and revealed the interior: potato chip racks, sodas, post cards, people milling around. The doors slid shut.

 
 

“Only Chelsea’s in the car,” Johansen whispered vehemently, “he’s not in there.” I nodded.

 

“…..all right…..” I said, “we go over there slowly…..then you bring Chelsea over here…..watch your back at all times, 360 degrees! He could be anywhere, watching us right now, right this second. This guy is Houdini. I’ll block him from getting at her while you put her in the Corvette. I don’t care if he shoots me, I don’t care if I leave this stinkin’, ugly world. Let’s make one thing right.” We spoke in fierce undertones.

 
 

“I’m gonna get Chelsea, and I’ll kill that psycho if he interferes,” Johansen declared.

 
 

“Good,” I agreed, “let’s saunter over there carefully, and keep your gun concealed, for God’s sake!” We snuck up to the back of the Volvo, on the side of the pumps away from the car, as if we were looking for the squeegee (the ruse didn’t have to work for long). We saw a blonde head bobbing around inside the Volvo, on the passenger side. No one was on the driver’s side. We slid over to the other side of the pumps. We stood in back of the car, so close as to touch it if we wanted. Our gaze took in everything, but still we didn’t see Jones at all. That meant, of course, that he had seen us.

 
 

Johansen didn’t need any prompting to go around to the right side of the Volvo, and up to the closed, frosty window on the passenger side. He appeared at the car window in front of his daughter. The window was worked down very laboriously and slowly, like something was making it drag. A sad voice spoke to him from the depths of an intolerable purgatory.

 
 

“Dad…..help me…..get me away from him, take me home, please, Dad, please…..” It was the most plaintive sound I had ever heard. Johansen responded without hesitation:

 
 

“Of course, my love, right now, we’re going home, we’re going home to mom right now…..I love you Chelsea, I love you more than anything in the world…..” Johansen reached over and opened the door of the Volvo just as a shot rang out. His eyes dulled and rolled back, and consciousness departed from them. He slowly fell forward against the car, his body weight shutting the door again. He slid woodenly down the car body to his left, hitting his face repeatedly, and ended up face down on the concrete of the pump bay. Red oozed from a hole in his neck. His spinal chord had been ripped by the bullet, and death had been punctual. Chelsea recoiled in speechless disbelief, and climbed out of the car awkwardly, whimpering and sobbing. Her wrists were bound in filthy duct tape, and red friction marks were evident.

 
 

I turned towards the origin of the shot, behind one of the snow monoliths. I saw a man in a trench coat and fedora looking at me from behind wraparound sunglasses. His left arm was in a sling, and he leaned to the side, favoring the left ankle. Dried blood stained the sling dark brown and red. He looked like a mad man escaped from the dead house. His timing had been impeccable: as I had turned towards Front Street to shoot a glance, he had stepped from behind the monolith and fired from 15 feet. We shot at each other immediately, without any discussion now, a mutual shoot-on-sight policy, and we pulled the trigger at the same instant. Reverberations rolled through the air. People scattered again, just as in Vegas. Both of us hit the other in the core area. We stumbled back in odd unison and onto the snow, clutching our stomachs. We stared at one another wordlessly as we fought strenuously to regain our feet. We both got up and stumbled forward to engage. He shot again, missing me, hitting something loud. The gloom of late afternoon gave his features a hideous aspect. I shot back with the Sig, hitting his thigh. I slipped on some hidden ice beneath the snow, and I dropped the Sig, which went flying to the side. Jones approached and put me in the crosshairs of the Colt carefully, and also walked towards Chelsea. His eyes darted everywhere.

 
 

 He suddenly slapped Chelsea with the back of his hand, and shot me through in the stomach again. Enraged, he yelled:

 
 

“Get back in the car, whore!!! And shut-up, why doncha, bitch?!” Chelsea wept uncontrollably, and he shoved her in. He hobbled into the car and drove off.  I labored to my feet eventually, got the Sig, got Johansen’s Colt, and gave chase, leaving Johansen’s body there. I was his daughter’s last chance. We raced and fishtailed down Front Street, away from Harrison now. We got on the Interstate 80, passing the Wal Mart where Jones must have gotten some ammo. We went east towards the Bridger Valley. For almost 35 miles we raced each other towards an early death. The Corvette was still low on gas, so I had to do something quick. Up and down we went on the Three Sisters, the long, steep slopes of the Rockies. The beauty of the mottled scenery made a mute, curious contrast to the ugliness of human affairs.

 
 

Jones got off finally at the Fort Bridger exit and started down the extended, 2-lane ramp road to Bridger. Deer startled and ran. After about 6 miles of this he turned left at the Urie Crossroads and headed frantically out onto State Highway 414. We were the only customers on the roads. I was about 10 seconds behind him at this point. Perpendicular dirt roads under the snow passed by every so often, risng up to mesas from the 414. Then, far up ahead, in the shadowy light, I saw his brakes lights go on, and he stopped altogether in the middle of the road. Then he got out alone. He shot at Chelsea through the open door, and started off to the left, tramping and hobbling over to the dirt road on his bad ankle and with bleeding thigh and core. Heavily he climbed over the metal gate, clutching himself, and limping as he started off again. He slumped forward from the waist as he struggled, an insane, hopeless portrait of a lost human being.

 
 

I reached Chelsea, my eye on Jones as he plodded up to the top of the mesa through the snow. I relieved her wrists of the duct tape. She cried and spoke incoherently, tragedy etched on her face. She shivered with the cold and with the violence,  and paroxsyms shook her body. I gently put her in the Corvette, gave her the fully-loaded Colt in case things didn’t go as planned up on the mesa top, and locked the doors. I started out after Jones. This was gonna be the last time I followed this guy.

 
 

Darkness vied with me to get to the the top of the mesa first. After a minute, I arrived at the top at last, breathing hard, feeling dizzy, wet, exhausted, and freezing, looking all around. Snow was everywhere for miles. Undulating snow covered the rugged, scrawny sage for scores of miles in every direction. The sky by now was a deep blue, the sun just down but still glowing a bit from beneath the distant horizon. Footsteps crunched in the ice off to my left. I saw a dark, familiar figure 2o yards away, standing, strolling, loitering off the road, arms to the side, a gun in one hand, pointed down. The figure stopped and spoke as if an old acquaintance had arrived.

 
 

“Hey…..Downing…..Downing, my friend, tell me something, old pal…..do you know what it’s like to be loved…..?” The heavy silence was broken by his hacking voice, and silence reconvened as he fell into reticence. We stood looking at each other in the quiet murkiness and isolation. I looked at him, he looked at me. Alerted Pronghorn suddenly appeared, ran off, and disappeared into the gathering night. Only we were left. Jones’ voice was tired:

 
 

“Hey!!!…..Downing!!! I’m talking to you, man! Do you know what it’s like to be loved?!!!…..asshole…..” I stood staring at him. He stood staring at me. We were now ten yards distant. He raised the gun slowly at my face.

 
 

“Answer me, asshole! Because I don’t know what it’s like! And I know you’re just like me…..you don’t know either…..” He began to laugh in triumph, rocking his head back, but keeping his eyes on me. His laugh was a bitter, disappointed, joyless sound. He shot at me with the Colt I had lent him. I fired at him with the Sig. We both missed, and he burst into laughter again. He fired yet again, missing yet again. I approached for a closer shot, hobbling and tripping in the snow and sage like a wounded zombie. I held the gun sideways, looking down my extended left arm at him, protecting my face. We fired simultaneously, and we both were hit. I fell with a wound to my side, Jones fell with a wound to his forehead. The sound of the shot cleared. He fell back on his head in the snow, making a final, heavy, padding sound in the snow as he left this life. He was dead. The silence recommenced its long reign. I crawled over and took my gun back from him. I saw the white crystals of snow on the ground change hue as his blood stained them red.
 

All the shooting and all the killing were over. I collapsed down into the snow in the dark to wait for the sheriff. I lay down flat on my back, next to Jones, looking up at the sky as it gave itself to the winter night. A light snow began to fall on my face, melting as it hit the blood on my clothes. The snowflakes floated and drifted down from the darkening ether, as if a curtain was falling on a play. My eyes closed.

 
 

************************************************

 
 

Three months later, I was having lunch at Hal’s with Tom, Lorraine, and Alicia from the law firm in my building. We saw Chelsea and Julie. Both of them gave me a solemn hug, and shook hands with Tom. Their somber faces said it all. Julie spoke first.

 
 

“Joe…..I’m so glad to see you. I wanted to thank you in person for coming to the funeral…..David knew you were the only one who would see it through…..without you, Chelsea wouldn’t be here…..” She hugged her daughter. “That’s why he picked you. I’m so grateful to you.”

 
 

“I wish I could have done more, Julie, I feel like I failed you…..your husband…..was very noble…..” Chelsea hugged me again, burying her face in my tee-shirt, fighting back tears. It was spring again, no need for trench coats now. The mustard plant was making a brilliant, magnificent, yellow splash all over the Southern California hilltops. Johansen was dead and buried. We were alive. His duty was done. Ours was not yet done. We had to march forward and soldier on for him and for all those before him who had given everything to assist the victory of goodness and secure the defeat of malice.

 

THE END

 

Tony Downing