Free Fall

65

The StratosFear continues its excruciatingly slow ascent up its 140-foot tower.

All the foam-padded shoulder restraints are locked in their upright positions like multiple pairs of raised arms. It’s almost as if the ride is surrendering.

“Okay, this is bad, man,” whispers Shaun McKinnon. “Way bad.”

The rest of us stay silent. Watch the Free Fall’s only rider, David Rosen, climb higher and higher. It looks like he’s gripping the sides of his seat with both hands. I know I would be. Imagine sitting in a chair, without a seat belt or any other kind of restraint, and being hoisted half a football field high in the sky.

“When the chairs reach the top, it’ll stop,” says McKinnon. “But if Joe punches the launch button, that sucker’s going to plunge, man. Speeds will exceed forty-five miles per hour. No way that dude up there doesn’t fly out of his seat. No way he survives a 140-foot drop.”

Ceepak whips out his radio. Clicks over to the Chief’s channel.

“Chief Rossi, this is Detective Ceepak,” he whispers into the radio. “My partner, Detective Boyle, and I are on the scene, twenty feet away from the StratosFEAR Free Fall, with officers Perry and Getze as well as a licensed ride operator, Mr. Shaun McKinnon. We need to contact the state police. Scramble the T.E.A.M.S. emergency response unit.”

The T.E.A.M.S. guys are, basically, the Navy SEALS of the NJ State Police. A full-time emergency response unit, with special weapons and tactics teams, they are prepared to handle extraordinary events, like, for instance, a screwy old drunk hauling a murder suspect up to the top of the world’s tallest dunking machine.

“What’s our situation, John?” asks Chief Rossi.

“My father, Joseph Ceepak, is holding David Rosen hostage on the StratosFEAR ride.”

“Your father?”

“10-4. He is also a licensed Free Fall operator currently in the employ of Sinclair Enterprises.”

“Your father?”

Ceepak closes his eyes for half a second. “Yes, sir. He has hoisted Dr. Rosen, without seat restraints, up to the peak of the 140-foot tower.”

“What does he want? Has your father made any demands?”

“We have not yet made contact.”

“Can you do so safely?” asks the Chief.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do it. Buy me some time. It’ll take a while for the tactical intervention team to arrive on scene-even if they chopper down.”

“Roger that. Sir?”

“Yeah?”

“You may also want to grab the M-24 SWS out of the armory.”

The SWS is a “Sniper Weapon System” rifle that Ceepak’s first boss in Sea Haven, his old Army buddy, Chief Cosgrove, obtained for the SHPD.

I think Ceepak is contemplating using it on his old man.

“What’re we doing with that kind of firepower in our arsenal?” asks Chief Rossi.

“Long story,” says Ceepak. “However, it might be of use if we enter a worst-case scenario. Over.”

Ceepak clips his radio back on his belt.

“Cover me, Danny.”

I rip up the Velcro flap on my holster and pull out my Glock. It’s a 31.357, the official SHPD service weapon. Catalog copy says the semi-automatic has “extremely high muzzle velocity and superior precision, even at medium range.”

Twenty feet to where Mr. Ceepak’s sitting in his control booth with the viewing window wide open? That’s medium range.

I rise up out of my crouch and lean across the countertop to brace myself in a two-handed firing stance. Sighting down the barrel, I have a clean shot at Crazy Joe.

To my right, Ceepak takes off his sport coat, folds it neatly in half, and tucks it into the cleanest tomato-sauce-can shelf he can find.

He moves to the pass-through section of the counter, flips it up, and strides out of the shadows into the soft glow of what’s probably another spectacular Sea Haven sunset.

While he walks away from the pizza place, I watch his Glock sway back and forth in that small-of-the-back crossdraw holster.

“Johnny boy!” cries his father. “There you are. What took you so long?”

Ceepak ignores the question. “What do you want?”

“What, you’re not even going to thank me?”

“Come again?”

Mr. Ceepak nudges his head skyward. “David Rosen. He confessed. Isn’t that right, David?”

Mr. Ceepak places a cell phone on the windowsill of his booth.

“David?” he shouts at the phone. “Tell my son what you did. David? Don’t be an idiot. Spill your guts. Unless you want me to spill ’em for you.”

“I killed my father!” I hear David’s voice leak out of Mr. Ceepak’s speakerphone.

“Little louder,” coaches Mr. Ceepak.

“I killed my father. I put the poison in his pillbox. I had to do it …”

Mr. Ceepak smirks and points mockingly at the phone as if to say, “Can you believe this guy?”

“Michael was blackmailing us. My wife said we couldn’t let him ruin Little Arnie’s future. My dad should’ve died when he had that fall. He was ninety-four. I probably did him a favor. Kept him out of the old folks home …”

“Okay, David,” says Mr. Ceepak. “That’s enough.” He taps the mute button on his phone.

“A coerced confession won’t stand up in court,” says Ceepak.

“Sure it will. Isn’t that what you boys did over in Iraq all the time? Jammed the muzzle of your rifle right up against some sand monkey’s skull and hollered, ‘Talk!’ Am I right?”

“No, sir. You are wrong.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re such a namby-pamby pansy. You probably just asked nice. Me? I know how to get results. That boy sitting up there on top of the tower? He reminds me of you, Johnny. He broke God’s holy edict. He defied the fifth commandment …”

Oh, boy. Here we go again. Preacher Joe is back.

“‘Honor thy father and mother, that thy days may be long in the land that the Lord your God is giving thee.’”

“If David Rosen murdered his father, he will be punished,” says Ceepak.

“No, he won’t. They’ll say, well, his father was ninety-four, he was going to die soon anyway. I guarantee you they won’t give him the death penalty like I sure as hell will.”

Mr. Ceepak glances at his watch.

“Hey, Johnny, remember that thing last summer at the Rolling Thunder roller coaster? How that crazy kid held us all hostage?”

“Of course.”

“Well, did you know that during that whole deal, I was paying very close attention to everything that went down? It took the New Jersey State Police S.W.A.T. team a full hour to show up. Sixty freaking minutes.”

“I was not clocking them. I was busy, attempting to save lives, including yours.”

“Yeah, well, I clocked ’em. But hell, maybe they’ve been training in the off-season. Working on their speed drills. So, you and me? We’ve got thirty minutes.”

“For what?”

“Hey, I gave you your killer and his confession. But if you want him alive enough to stand trial, you have to give me something, too.”

“And what is that?”

“My one million dollars. Call your mother, tell her to grab her checkbook, and drag her wrinkled ass on over here. Now. The clock is ticking. You have twenty-nine minutes.”