Sandusky Burning, page 33
“Nothing. Let’s get rid of it all. Sorry,” he mumbled, adjusting his glasses.
“All right. Let’s get that shit from the shed and bring it inside. Stand by, I need to make a call,” I said.
“Okay. And please, stop calling me Data. It’s Henry.”
Mike 22
2:50 a.m.
My head jerked as I caught myself dozing off again. I was parked at the Cloverleaf apartment building lot, along the east side where I could see the campground entrance. So far two police cars went in.
No one was at the security booth when I exited. I figured the Mexican kid must have been down at the Taj lot, trying to figure out where the RV disappeared to. My mind kept returning to the activities of the night and wondering if I omitted any details.
I exhaled heavily. The plan was bizarre and improbable. An ordinary RV would have disintegrated after a hundred feet of being dragged behind a train. I saw an accident on the highway a few years ago where a thirty-six-foot RV had run off the road and essentially just collapsed. They were built light for traveling and not for impact durability.
The idea for my plan originated from a lecture I recalled from an army school over a decade earlier, concerning the USSR’s approach to establishing airborne units before World War Two. The US meticulously developed their doctrine by trial and error, using crash-test dummies instead of soldiers, and thereby creating as few casualties as possible. Different altitudes, speeds, parachute types, and aircraft types were tested for years to create the safest and most effective airborne operations possible.
The Russians did things differently. Instead of utilizing sandbags and dummies to simulate the impact of landing, they tested in real situations using actual soldiers as guinea pigs. Want to know what happens if you roll a tank full of Russians off the back of a cargo plane at five thousand feet? Then do just that. And when they pried open the tank after it landed and found a half-dozen mangled Russian soldiers inside, they tweaked the process. Their soldiers were just cattle, and no one minded sacrificing them to develop the doctrine as rapidly as possible.
When Data detailed the reinforced Taj RV under interrogation, I immediately associated it with a Russian tank. There was no way we were going to take it out with handguns; we had to turn its armor against it. I figured riding a few miles inside of a bouncing RV being dragging behind a train traveling at fifty miles per hour would be conceptually similar to a Soviet soldier riding in the interior of a parachuting Russian T-24 tank back in the day. Soft human flesh and bones pinballing around inside of a hard metal box.
The Taj survivors had all surely taken a severe beating, hopefully involving broken bones and concussions. That would make it more difficult to survive when the RV submerged in the river. I hoped.
My burner buzzed, and I glanced down. There was a text message from Brady.
Alpha staged. Exiting in 5
I texted him back:
Don’t forget the liquor
A moment later, he texted back:
Lush
That made me smile. It was time to pull the final stunt of this insane mission. I had to improvise a little because I never intended for Chuck to die. I almost forgotten that he was in the back of the van, it creeped me out that I was dozing off with a corpse that close.
While it was my fault that he was dead, I didn’t kill him on purpose. I failed to understand how poor his health was, and that was on me. It was more manslaughter than murder. But dead is dead.
At 0315 hours, a car appeared from the north, driving south on Nickle Drive. As it passed under the nearest streetlight, I saw it was a rusty blue Buick Skylark, a model from the 1980s. The light reflected off Data’s glasses briefly as they turned into the apartment parking lot and parked beside me.
I got out of the van and quietly closed the door, pushing it shut lightly instead of slamming it. I went around to the back of the van and opened the left door.
Data and Brady got out of the car, with Data going to the back and opening the trunk. Brady walked over and took the keys from him and put them in his pocket. He motioned me over.
I reached into the trunk of the Skylark and took out a gas can, a butane lighter, and a fifth of vodka. I put the items on the floor between the front seats of the van.
I moved my duffel bag and the garbage bag into the car’s trunk. Brady pointed to the Buick’s passenger seat, and Data got in and sat down, closing the door slowly until the dome light went out.
I motioned for Brady to get in the van. Once inside, I took a look at his face. He was dead tired and stressed, with black bags under his eyes. The past few days had aged him, a lifetime of stress crammed into a short period. It reminded me of young soldiers who got their first taste of combat. The stress aged a person in dog years.
Brady gazed into the back of the van at Chuck’s body. His face was blank, there were no accusations or anger. I hoped he believed it was an accident.
“Any trouble with the car?” I asked. Brady broke from his trance.
“Nah. He uses it to run errands for his grandma a few times a month. It started fine. It was an unexpected resource for us. Any additional police activity?” he asked.
“No, just the two cars that are still there,” I said, trying to stifle a yawn. I needed a coffee; the fact that I was caffeine deficient was poor planning on my part.
“Okay, you and Data are going to drive up to the abandoned post office at Palmer and East Shoreway. You get out and start walking toward the campground, as close as possible to the shore. There are going to be some serious fireworks when Trailer Alpha blows up; the cops on site are going to rush over there, and no one is going to be watching the campground. You should be able to slip back to your campsite unnoticed.”
Brady nodded. He looked across to the car. Data was sitting there, staring down at his feet, in his own world.
“Data will need to have the car running and facing west, ready to go. After I take care of the trailer, I will be double-timing to meet him. We exit the area via East Shoreway and head to the bowling alley.”
For a moment, I thought about bringing Data into the van to talk to him directly, but seeing Chuck’s body again would probably disturb him. I trusted Brady to brief him.
“Data has access to everything at Glory Bowl. He knows the door code to Randy’s office and the safe combo. He gets everything out of there. The cameras are dead, and it is too early for anyone to be at the alley. Data drops me off at the motel afterward, returns to his trailer, and goes to bed. When he is questioned later, he felt ill and left work late last night, turning his walkie-talkie off. Out of character for him, but par for the course for a campground employee who makes next to nothing in wages.”
“What about his work cart at the bottom of the river?” I asked.
“He plays dumb. Says he left it in the proper parking spot. There is no video footage anymore, right? The cameras aren’t transmitting?”
“Nope. All video was erased. The cameras are currently just decorations, recording nothing.”
“Good. Because the cops will try pulling video soon, if they haven’t tried already,” I said.
“Getting away with this could hinge on Data convincing them he was not involved at all. His long disappearing act is suspicious,” he said, frowning.
“I don’t think they are going to focus on Data for anything, initially. If they run his background and find out he is a felon, they will have some questions for him. But it was for white-collar tech crimes, nothing violent, and nothing that would put him on their radar for demolishing the Taj.”
“Even when it washes up in the cove with four bodies inside?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I think that campground will be on lockdown big time when that happens. But worst-case scenario, if they find the RV at sunup, there will be a high degree of confusion. Just stick to your alibis. You guys were both in your respective trailers all night. I’m not sure if the police would have knocked on your camper door during the course of canvassing the neighborhood. Just play dumb. They have nothing on you.”
“I guess if Alpha is taken care of, the only problem is residual blackmail material,” Brady said. “Does Randy have any of my pics stored at home? Data swore that Randy was careful with everything he gave him. I guess we have to trust him, we don’t have a choice.” He looked out the window at Trailer Alpha. Another cop car pulled slowly up the street, turning into the campground.
“It isn’t in Data’s best interest to have blackmail pictures around either, because that makes him vulnerable. I think if he knew of any other locations, he would have divulged that. We just have to control what we can,” I said. “We can talk again later, but now we need to move ASAP.”
Brady nodded. He leaned across and shook my hand. “Good luck, Mike. I can never repay you for all you’ve put on the line tonight,” he said.
I put my left hand over both of our hands. “You owe me nothing, brother. Just execute this, and make sure Data is ready to roll,” I said.
He nodded and got out. As he did, Data exited the car and walked around to the driver's side. Both men got in, and Data backed out, leaving his lights off. He pulled forward, taking a left, heading north on Nickle Drive.
I started the van and pulled out with my headlights off, turning north. I stopped four trailers down from Alpha along the curb, leaving the van running.
Standing, I crouched beneath the ceiling and walked to the back. I dragged Chuck up to the front, hoisting him into the driver’s seat and fastening his seatbelt. He slumped forward. I leaned over him and adjusted his seat, tilting it backward and then pulling him by his legs until his back rested against it.
It was grim being that close to him, his pale, bloated face inches from mine. I had closed his eyelids earlier when I put him in the back of the van, which reduced the creepiness of his presence somewhat.
The smell of mustiness and vodka were radiating from him. I was sure he had drunk his share earlier. Just another night on the job for Chuck.
I found his hat and put it on him. He appeared to be sleeping, with his jaw hanging down. I could almost believe I heard a soft snore coming from him.
I returned to the back and got a two-by-four, bringing it to the front and setting it between the seats. Swinging open the two back doors, I posted them each open with a click of the hinge.
Hopping out, I grabbed the gas can and set it on the sidewalk. Returning to the van, I entered through the back doors and poured about half the bottle of vodka on Chuck’s face and shirt. I took a swig of it and wedged the bottle between his legs.
I shifted the van into drive and jammed the two-by-four down, the tires spinning on the wet pavement briefly before it lurched forward. I was pulling off that improvable move that you would only see on hokey 1980s action shows like The A-Team or MacGyver twice in one night. I love it when a plan comes together.
Guiding it down the street, I hooked it to the left as it reached Trailer Alpha. Then I turned it hard to the right. I steered the van toward the trailer and let go of the wheel, spun myself around, and ran toward the back of the van. As the van hopped the curb, the force of the front wheels slamming into it caused both of the back doors to slam shut, timing almost perfectly with my attempt to dive out. The possibility that the door braces wouldn’t hold them open when rolling over the curb never entered my calculations.
I hadn’t even extended my arms yet to pull a Superman pose as I jumped, so I slammed headfirst into the right door, directly beneath the window. My neck jammed violently back into my body as I drove forward, and I heard a grotesque crunching of bones. I bounced back and landed flat on my stomach.
The van slammed into the trailer forcefully. My body hurled to the front, with my legs striking the stereo and air-conditioning controls, bending and breaking like twigs. But I felt nothing.
The van struck the trailer flush, dead center, with a huge crashing noise, metal on metal. Glass sprayed everywhere as the windshield shattered. The momentum carried the van forward, bending the trailer walls in and then ripping through, breaching it with about half of the van ending up inside. The trailer’s reinforced metal interior was built to repel bullets, but not necessarily a six-ton battering ram propelling forward at forty miles per hour.
I couldn’t move. I literally couldn’t move. I couldn’t feel my arms and legs. I couldn’t turn my head, which was positioned with a view of the slumping body of Chuck and the broken windshield in front of him. Smoke started pouring out of the hood, and then I heard the whooshing noise of a fire igniting.
I love it when a plan comes together my ass. I guess I was no Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith after all.
Closing my eyes, I thought of my ex-wife Kelly, my son Mike Jr., and sweet daughter Sadie, who had been dead for over a decade. I also thought of Brady, his son Jason, and his daughter I never met.
I was fine with dying for Brady’s family. But I should have been willing to die to save my own family.
I swallowed down a sob. I wasn’t going to go out crying, I had been through way too much to have it all end with a one-man pity party.
A thought occurred to me, and I let out a laugh, which sounded more like a gasp. I imagined the police trying to piece together what the two barbequed assholes in the van had been up to when they crashed their van into a trailer and burned to death. The van-rental company would have some questions as well.
I had left the gas can out on the sidewalk. The plan was to run up and douse the interior of the van with it after it crashed. It was a loose end and a clue to what may have happened.
I hoped that Brady had the sense to blame everything on the black guy if it came down to it. The deaths of Randy, Sam, and the Romanians. I should be the sole fall guy for the entire fiasco. I should have made that clear to Brady, but I hadn’t expected to be a casualty in the final phase of a mission where all of the enemy combatants were eliminated hours ago.
The smell of gas and smoke was overpowering, with the fire consuming the entire front of the van. Hot smoke was filling my lungs, making me cough uncontrollably. Thirty gallons of gas in the tank would make for quite the fireworks show. Then fire ripped through the van as an explosion sounded.
Chris 11
5:15 a.m.
I took another pull from the bottle, this one even deeper, chugging for six or seven seconds before I gasped and started coughing. My ulcer burned in protest. My hand shook as I put the bottle down.
I started shivering again. The campground had become a fucking warzone. The Taj was missing. The trailer behind it exploded. The RVs along the fence had been evacuated. This shit was all Mike and Brady. Mike, Brady, and fucking me. Me.
It had been the most bizarre night of my life. Around 1:30 a.m., I spent a half-hour milling around on Starling with the others, trying to figure out what happened to the Taj. I inspected the RV tracks and noted how they intersected with the train tracks. Those crazy bastards used the hooks from my worksite to drag the RV behind the 1 a.m. train. The people inside that RV had to be totally wrecked.
Talking to the police was an option. But wasn’t I involved, having stolen the supplies? I figured I was some sort of accomplice.
I went back to my camper and took another drink. I passed out for a while and then was awakened by a huge boom. The explosion was so loud it felt like the earth moved. I stumbled onto my feet from where I was slumped on the bench seat at the kitchen table, banging my knees so hard I unmoored the table and it crashed to the floor.
The bottle of vodka tumbled to the floor and started emptying. I scrambled over and set it upright, finding the lid and sealing it.
I was still dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Finding my flip-flops, I stepped outside.
The outdoors was lit up like daytime. I could feel the heat radiating from the direction of Starling.
I cut through Brady’s site and walked to the street, staring at the inferno that was the trailer directly behind the Taj site. The flames were easily twenty feet high. The fire had spread to the small shed out back.
People were gathering out on the street. A moment later, two cop cars moved slowly down the street, their blue lights on but not their sirens. They parked along the street in front of the gazebo and the Romanian’s place, close to where Sam’s SUV was parked.
“What is happening here?” a voice asked from behind. It was Brady. I stared at him for a moment, then looked back at the fire. An orchestra of sirens was blaring from the direction of downtown Sandusky, getting louder.
“Everything okay, Chris?” he asked. I didn’t look at him.
“Was this part of the plan too?” I asked softly, turning to glare at him. His face hardened.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Any theoretical plan tonight would be our plan. Couldn’t have done it without you,” he said, staring back at the burning trailer. Fire trucks arrived on Nickle Drive and zoomed over to the trailer lot.
“We’ll talk later. Until then, keep your mouth shut,” he said.
“Where are Chuck and Data at?” I asked.
“How the fuck would I know?” he asked with a shrug. He turned and walked back toward his site.
I walked back to my camper. I drank more vodka in an attempt to turn my mind off, and it mostly worked. I passed out, woke up, and drank a little more. My ulcer was burning, but I ignored it.
I wanted to fly. I needed to. Randy had set it up, but he was likely dead. But how many people knew that? Nobody at the airport would.
The train horn sounded, and I flinched. Every time I heard that sound, I would imagine the trailer launching and being dragged up to the tracks. What kind of people did that?
I went to the closet and drawers and took out the outfit Sam told me to wear to the airport. Business casual. Light gray pants, light blue shirt, brown belt, blue socks, brown shoes. There was also a navy-blue sports coat. I put that back; it seemed to be overkill. Putting the outfit aside, I grabbed a towel and my toiletries bag and went to the east shower house. The west one was too close to the Taj and the burnt trailer; I didn’t want to even look in that direction.
