The Last Customer (13 page)

Maybe Winny was one of the good guys? She quickly dismissed the thought. Good guys didn’t exist.

           
Her legs hurt and her lungs burned. She wanted to puke. Every muscle in her body was overexerted. She felt like quitting. Each breath was a chore. Her stomach felt like it was full of ice. Somehow, she kept moving. She had to. The first positive thought crossed her mind. She wanted to start over. A wave of guilt followed. She wanted to start over because she didn’t have to worry about Timmy anymore. A sickening relief struck within her. She was free from Timmy and she felt slightly liberated, despite everything that had happened. She would never see him again. He would never hit her again. She was rid of him and it hadn’t been her fault
.

 
What an awful way to put it.

 
She wasn’t to blame for his demise. She had to stop herself from thinking such awful thoughts, but she couldn’t help it. Those two people—
things, psychos
—at the liquor store had killed him. They’d ripped his torso wide open. His insides had spilled all over her.

           
Guilt washed away as she looked up. Winny held out his hand. He wanted to help her. There was urgency about him, but there was no malice. He was genuine.

           
“Come on, you can do it. You can rest up when we get to the house,” he whispered, as he splayed his fingers outward, toward her.

           
She grabbed his hand, feeling him pull, giving her momentum. Cherri grasped Winny’s shirt, as they hurried up the hill. He helped her along, and it was then that she knew Winny was a normal guy, a normal
good-guy
. She appreciated him, and for whatever reason—she didn’t know why—she thought something foolish. She hoped that they could get to know each other—if they got out of this alive.

           
When they reached the top of the hill, Winny pushed the final stalks to the side. They stood in the clearing, and viewed the two-story farmhouse that loomed in front of them. The cream colored brick was old. Even in the dark, it appeared chalky and looked wore-out. Garth stood on the porch, near the front door. He tapped his foot while he rang the doorbell.

When he spotted Cherri and Winny, he stepped back, startled. Given everything that happened tonight, his reaction was expected. It was logical.

Cherri understood why he was jumpy. First, he’d been robbed. Then he’d been attacked by superhuman freaks.
Maybe the freaks were on PCP?
She heard that addicts in the midst of a PCP high were able to do superhuman things. They could lift cars and walk.
They could continue walking after being shot.
Physics could explain a few things, but still, the blonde woman had crawled across the ceiling and snakes had come slithering out from her bullet wounds. Just the thought of the snakes sent shivers down her damp spine.

           
Walking closer to the house, Cherri saw—and sensed—the anger radiating from Garth’s scrunched face. His cheeks were streaked with dirt. She could see his chest heaving deeply in and out.

           
“I don’t think Mrs. Gardner’s home. We’ll have to break in and call the cops. Got it?” Garth asked.

           
“Yeah. You need my help?” Winny asked.

           
Garth didn’t answer. He kicked the wooden door open. He peeked around the corner, and then nodded before stepping into the house.

The wind had picked up. In unison, Garth, Cherri and Winny looked down to the liquor store. Red and blue lights swirled in circles.

           
The police had arrived at the liquor store.

Chapter 11

1

The black and white police cruiser turned left at the end of Main Street, headed away from the police station. The downtown was dead for a Saturday night, but it always was when the festival in Watertown took place. The cruiser hooked a right on James Street, traveled through another sleepy neighborhood then headed toward Highway 26.

The night proved to be a bore for Officer’s Brad Zoelick and Jake Zastrow; two of the ten officers assigned to the township of Dodge Junction. Their shift had started at ten and nothing had happened. There were no speeders to pull over, no reckless teens causing havoc. The night had been mundane. Zoelick and Zastrow forced small talk and drank too much coffee. The coffee was free, of course. Shelly, the clerk at the all-night gas station at the edge of Maple Street, was happy to serve them.
 

It was just another boring night until Zoelick noticed the shattered window and door of Buggy’s Liquor as they drove past. The broken glass sparkled in the moonlight as it spilled down the cement curb and onto the blacktop of the parking lot. With his peripheral vision, he was able to glimpse into the dark void that was blasted through the front window. His gut instinct was that a couple of seniors from the high school had broken in, stolen a few cases of beer, and took it to the Benson farm party.

The Benson farm was out on route 8, past town limits, headed toward Watertown. Richard Benson, a Dodge Junction high school senior, was hosting a keg party tonight. Small town cops like Zoelick and Zastrow could easily find out where the local farm parties were being held. Kids like to talk, even to cops. It made them feel important and somewhat superior. The police could always shake down some dumbass kid for information.

Kids broke easy and Zoelick busted enough teenagers for underage drinking that he was owed many favors. A few weeks ago, he pulled over Tom Delkamp for drunk driving. The seventeen year old had been so razzed that he’d given up every underage drinking event occurring over the next few months, the Benson party included. In turn, Zoelick let Delkamp park his car and walk home without a fine. If for some reason the police couldn’t shake down a teen; concerned parents sometimes informed them of the parties. Parents were fearful that one of their teens might kill themselves while driving drunk. Sometimes, a scorned teen would rat on the party, out of spite.

The unfortunate obstacle about the Benson farm was that because of the new zoning ordinance, the property was located outside of town limits, but
also
outside of the county sheriff’s district. The kids knew this. The local newspaper had run it as a front page story. It had been a very slight miscalculation by the alderman and it wouldn’t be corrected until next month. For now, the police could only patrol outside the perimeter. They were able to pull over vehicles that were speeding or appeared to be driving erratically. A good cop could always pull-over
whoever
they wanted and they could use
whatever
excuse they might think of.

           
Pulling into the parking lot of Buggy’s Liquor, Zoelick’s partner, Officer Jake Zastrow—a high strung rookie with blonde hair and puffy baby cheeks, who looked too young to be a cop, sat up straight and slapped the back of his own head. He’d been fighting sleep the entire shift. The six cups of strong coffee he drank wasn’t enough. Zastrow was given the previous three nights off and he liked to party. He still reeked of alcohol. Zastrow, along with the rest of the younger officers liked to
let loose
during their off days. Zastrow was rowdier than most and probably kept the party going until early this morning.

           
“You think we got a breaking and entering in progress?” Zastrow asked, shaking off his sleepiness. He blinked successively and adjusted in his seat.

Zoelick ignored Zastrow. “That
ain’t
Winny or Garth Gasper’s pick-up truck parked at the end of the lot. I know that for fact.”

           
He was right. The window was broken and the truck in the parking lot didn’t belong there, it was out of place. Zoelick felt a rush of excitement. His blood pumped fast.

They might get a little action tonight.

A breaking and entering would look good on both of their records.

           
Parking near the side of the brick building, Zoelick and Zastrow exited the police cruiser and walked, cautiously, toward the broken glass door.

Zoelick pulled his standard issue nine millimeter from its holster. He extended it forward and aimed it at chest level.

Zastrow did the same.

           
Zoelick’s nerves ran wild. About to enter through the broken door, he heard something rustle in the blackness of the store. It sounded like footsteps. It was probably some punk kid. Given their geography,
kids
were the logical answer. Or it might be the Gasper brothers assessing the store-damage. Maybe they’d purchased a new truck. He kept both ideas in mind. It was easier that way. He’d be able to cover his bases in his report.

Zoelick looked through the broken window. He saw movement and heard a burst of laughter. He aimed his pistol toward the back. A shadow grew and then shifted across the far wall, then disappeared into the darkness of the store. He was convinced that his first assumption was correct, that it was teens. A serious criminal wouldn’t be laughing nor running around the store.

           
“Officers Zoelick and Zastrow—coming in,” Zoelick yelled into the dark liquor store. “You have about a heartbeat to identify yourselves.”

           
 
“Help! This crazy old man shot me and my wife. He’s still in here.” A voice rang out. It echoed like it had come from the back and there was something mockery about tone of his voice.

           
Zoelick held his position. He didn’t want Zastrow to see his hands shaking. He was the senior officer and needed to display confidence. His pistol grip was slick from his sweating palms. There was something sarcastic about the way this man sounded, like he was joking. There was a jovial tone in his call of distress.

Was this some kind of joke?

Whoever was inside had better hope not.

           
A young man ran out of the store. He clutched his bloody chest with both hands as he ran forward. Zastrow popped out from behind Zoelick and raised his gun to chest level. His stomach heaved like he was going to throw-up. There was blood all-over the young man, not to mention a nice sized hole ripped through his chest.

           
“He’s got a gun! Help us officer, please. My wife’s still in there,” the young man screamed. Then he ran beside Zastrow. Zoelick turned to him. The kid was lucky he hadn’t been shot again—running out the way he did, all erratic-like.

           
“Get over here, now!” Zoelick commanded while pointing at the wall nearest the end of the front wall. “Take cover.” The man stumbled toward the brick wall. Zastrow accompanied him.

           
“Hey Zoelick, you want me to stay with the kid, or go with you?”

           
Zoelick thought fast, turned to the man with the chest wound and then said, “Stay with him. Assess the injury…call for backup.” He looked to the injured man and asked, “Where’s the gunman?”

           
The wounded man stuttered, “He…he…he’s in the back, left, corner.
He’s got
my wife, please don’t hurt my wife. Please don’t let
him
hurt my wife,” the young man cried. His pleas came out like a bad performance in a horror film. There was something very artificial about his demeanor.

           
Zoelick felt like he was stumbling into a war zone. Something was
off.
He’d never been in combat. The only battle he’d ever encountered, during his fifteen years as a small town cop, was a few bar brawls and he was scared shitless then. In hindsight, the thought of his fellow townsfolk seeing him act cowardly was more frightening than the actual fight. He didn’t want the community thinking he was incompetent. Obviously, this situation seemed more dangerous—life threatening. There was someone in the store with a gun and they’d obviously used it. Plus, he was going into the building blind. Someone inside had a weapon and a better line of sight.

It troubled Zoelick that the kid was so mobile. He was curious as to how he was still alive. How was he able to function after that kind of trauma? If the bullet hit him in the chest then he should be dead.

           
Rounding the corner, Zoelick entered the liquor store. He stepped on a large pile of broken glass. It crunched beneath his combat boots. He ducked down as he moved forward. He crept across the tile floor, toward the oil cans, which were stacked in neat rows on the bottom shelf.

           
He knelt down on a small piece of glass. It ripped through his pants and carved deep into his knee. He wanted to scream, but bit his tongue instead. Warm blood gushed out of the knee wound. It soaked into the dark blue fabric of his trousers. Reaching down, Zoelick pulled the sliver of blood stained glass from his knee. It was long, almost an inch.

           
“Officer! You need to arrest the man that ran outside. This is Father Gardner speaking.
 
He’s dangerous and is the one behind all of this!”

           
It was Father Leslie Gardner. Zoelick knew the voice well. He and Gardner had coached a little league together. That was years ago, but they’d remained friends.

Gardner wouldn’t lie.

He also wouldn’t break into a liquor store in the middle of the night. Zoelick remembered that Gardner lived in the house up the hill.

Maybe he’d witnessed a disturbance and came to help.

That was something Gardner would do.

           
“What’s going on in here, Gardner?” Zoelick yelled out.

           
“I don’t know how to explain it. You need to arrest the kid that just ran out of here. He’s a criminal and he’s extremely dangerous.”