The Night Monster

CHAPTER 6

The temperature dropped ten degrees as I ran into the parking lot. It was a perfect night, with a soft breeze blowing off the ocean and a pale full moon. I lived in paradise, although it often got spoiled by guys like this.

The stalker had vanished. I climbed onto the bumper of a pickup truck, and tried to find him. When that didn’t work, I shut my eyes, hoping to hear where he’d gone. The hiss of traffic on the Sawgrass Expressway sounded like steam escaping out of a pipe, and drowned out all sound.

I hopped off the pickup and trotted up and down the aisles. I was guessing my stalker had jumped into a car and was hiding from me. A maroon Ford minivan with fast-food wrappers lying by the driver’s door caught my eye. Something told me that the scumbag with the video camera had dropped them there. As I approached the vehicle, my cell phone rang. Caller ID said JESSIE.

“Hey honey,” I said.

“Where are you?” my daughter asked.

“I had to run outside. Did you win?”

“We beat them by eight points. One of the fathers said you were chasing somebody. Did you find the stalker I told you about?”

“Yes, but he gave me the slip. Let me call you right back.”

“We’re heading back to the motel. Call me if you find him, will you?”

“You bet.”

I closed my phone and slipped it into my pocket. Then I approached the minivan, and stuck my face to the tinted windshield. I couldn’t see inside, and I went around to the back and tried to look through the back window. It was covered in duct tape. I considered peeling the tape back, then decided I was overstepping whatever rights I had as a pissed-off father. I dialed the sheriff’s department on my cell phone and heard an operator pick up.

“This is Jack Carpenter. Who’s this?”

“Hey Jack, it’s Gloria,” the operator said. “How you been? I heard you were working solo these days.”

“That’s right. Who’s on duty tonight?”

Gloria passed along the names of the cops working the night shift. One was a detective named Bob Smith who’d worked for me in Missing Persons, and who knew how to get things done. I asked to speak to him, and Gloria patched me through.

“This is Detective Smith,” he answered.

“Jack Carpenter here.”

“Hey, pal, what’s up?”

“I need for you to run a license through the system.”

“I can do that.”

I started to read the license off the minivan. My eyes weren’t what they used to be, and I stepped forward to get a clearer look. As I did, there was a loud ripping sound, and I lifted my eyes to see an enormous arm spring through the duct-taped window, and grab the front of my shirt.

“Hey!” I shouted.

I went straight up in the air, my feet no longer touching the ground. I am a big guy-six foot one, a hundred ninety pounds soaking wet-and the giant arm shook me like a rag doll. I had never felt so helpless.

The minivan started up and backed out of the spot. I was afraid the driver would back up into another car and crush me to death. I drew my Colt and aimed at the back door. I didn’t like shooting at someone I couldn’t see, but there was no other choice. Before I could get off a shot, the giant arm tossed me through the air.

I landed on my back, my skull snapping against the pavement. The Colt and cell phone left my hands, and I heard them skip away. The sickening taste of blood filled my mouth. The minivan braked in front of me, its gears shifting. I rolled to my left just as it backed up, and watched the tires missing my head by inches.

The minivan’s rear door slid back, and I heard someone get out. A dirty work boot appeared by my face. It was the biggest foot I’d ever seen.

The boot came down square on my head, pinning me to the ground. Struggling to free myself, I envisioned my brains being ground out of my skull.

“Get back in the van,” someone said.

I recognized the voice. It was the stalker I’d been chasing.

“Nuh-uh,” the owner of the giant foot grunted.

“People are coming!”

“I want to kill him.”

“There’s no time.”

“There’s always time to kill.”

“Do as I say, before someone sees us.”

“But I want…”

“Get in the fucking van!”

The foot left my head. It was like the weight of the world had been lifted from me. I tried to rise, but a fist crashed down on my skull.

“Hey buddy, are you okay?”

Opening my eyes, I saw a pear-shaped man wearing the traditional maroon colors of Florida State standing over me. He had a rolled-up program in his hand, and wore a concerned look on his face.

“I think so,” I said.

“Had too much to drink, huh?”

“Guess so.”

“Would you mind moving? I need to get into my car.”

I was lying next to the driver’s door of the guy’s car. I rolled out of the way and heard him get into his vehicle and drive off.

I slowly got to my feet. The parking lot was nearly empty. I looked at my watch and realized I’d been out cold for nearly ten minutes.

I worked my jaw back and forth and tilted my head from side to side. Nothing felt broken, and I was thankful that I was still alive. I tried to remember the minivan’s license plate, but the letters and numbers had gotten jumbled in my brain.

I searched for my Colt and my cell phone. I found my phone first. It had been stepped on, and the face was cracked. It refused to power up.

My handgun took longer to locate. It had followed Murphy’s Law and landed beneath one of the few remaining vehicles in the lot. I crawled on my belly like a snake to retrieve it.

My aging Acura Legend was parked on the other side of the lot. Reaching the street, I traveled several blocks until I found a service station with a pay phone. Pulling in, I called Bob Smith back.

“I was starting to worry about you,” Smith said.

“I got mugged while we were talking. Someone inside the minivan jumped me.”

“You hurt?”

“Just my pride.”

“Give me the license again.”

“I whacked my head, and can’t remember it. I don’t think it will do any good anyway. Something tells me the minivan was stolen.”

“What was the make?”

“Maroon Ford, about ten years old.”

I listened to Smith’s fingers bang on a keyboard.

“You’re right,” Smith said. “A 1998 maroon Ford minivan belonging to a house painter named Terry Williams was stolen from his driveway in Lauderdale Lakes last night. Williams told the uniform who responded to the call that he was surprised the vehicle was taken, because it didn’t have any seats.”

“Why didn’t it have seats?”

“Williams said he used the vehicle to transport his painting equipment, and he took the seats out.”

A pair of guys stalking a women’s basketball game had purposely stolen a minivan with the seats ripped out. It sounded like a perfect vehicle for a kidnapping.

“That’s not good,” I said. “I need you to send a cruiser to the Day’s Inn on State Road 84. The Florida State women’s basketball team is staying there, and I think these guys have their eye on one of the players.”

“Will do. Are you heading there now?”

“Yep. Tell the cruiser to meet me behind the motel. That’s where the players stay.”

“Got it.”

I ended the call and jumped into my car. The average response time for a police cruiser in Fort Lauderdale was eight and a half minutes. I knew from experience that a lot of bad stuff could happen in that amount of time. I punched the gas pulling out of the service station and started running red lights.