Serious Crimes (A Willows and Parker Mystery) by Laurence Gough Page B
Authors: Laurence Gough
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frozen solid, hard as a bowling ball.
The telephone rang again, startling him badly enough to make him scream and drop the hair dryer, which fell into the puddle of melted ice water. A bright orange bolt of electricity arced from the dryer to the zinc table. The air filled with the stench of melting plastic, and then a circuit-breaker somewhere deep inside the bowels of the old building automatically turned over and all the lights went out.
There was a moment’s silence, and then a chunk of ice shattered on the tile floor.
Christy Kirkpatrick’s overworked heart did a backflip, raced out of control. He screamed again, but much louder this time, as if his life depended on it.
Then the battery-powered emergency backup lighting system clicked in, and he managed to get himself under control. My God, what a terrifying experience! He went over to the sink, splashed cold water on his face. His chest ached where his heart had thumped against the bones and flesh. He silently vowed that no one would ever learn about the day all the horror movies he’d ever seen sprang to life and nearly did him in.
Chapter 6
It was cold. Garret could feel the chill in his bones. His knee joints, as he scuttled down the alley, were stiff and tight.
“C’mon,” whispered Billy. “Move it! Haul ass!”
Garret turned to look back down the alley. Billy’s rusted-out Pinto was parked under a mountain ash. The cold snap had pinched the last dead leaves from the tree; the branches were bare except for clusters of shrivelled red berries. What was left of the Pinto’s chrome trim gleamed beneath a streetlight. Piece of shit. Garret drove a ’65 Mustang powered by a 289-cubic-inch V-8. Black on black. He spent every spare dime he made on the car, and he loved it the way he’d never loved his mother. They were using the Pinto because the Mustang was in the garage, waiting for a new fuel pump Garret couldn’t quite afford.
The car they were going to break into was a green Volkswagen Golf. It was three years old and worth maybe eight thousand dollars. Whoever owned the car had spent another three grand on the stereo system. The dashboard was crammed with a Blaupunkt tape deck, state-of-the-art Alpine CD shuttle, Alpine speakers and a sub-woofer, the whole system powered by a 200-watt Sony amplifier. The Golf was parked in a paved lot behind a bakery. The owner started work at two in the morning and didn’t finish his shift until noon. By then, Billy and Garret would be long gone and so would the stereo.
Garret stood in the distorted diamond-pattern shadow cast by a chain-link fence, keeping watch, as Billy approached the car from the driver’s side. There was a thin burst of white light from his flash. He barked like a dog, a whispered howl of triumph.
Garret rubbed his hands together, breathed little puffs of smoke.
“Clear?” whispered Billy from the darkness.
“Yeah, yeah. Hurry up!”
Billy raised the ball-peen hammer and hit the side window just above the door lock. The window exploded. Billy reached inside, unlocked the door and swung it open.
The Golf’s interior light came on.
Billy stuck the flashlight in the back pocket of his jeans and attacked the dashboard with the hammer. He had the Blaupunkt out in fifteen seconds flat. The CD shuttle was a little trickier. Delicate electronics, he couldn’t nuke it with the hammer, had to go easy. Cut some wires. Thirty seconds. He could hear Garret pacing back and forth in the lane, heels clicking on the asphalt. Billy had to watch himself — there were loose wires and chunks of shattered plastic and glass all over the front seat. He went to work on the amplifier. He needed a medium-size Philips screwdriver and he didn’t have one. Fuck. He yanked on the Sony’s support bracket, pressing his shoulder up against the steering wheel for leverage, using brute strength to do the job. The bracket tore free without warning and he hit his head against the rear-view mirror.
The
The telephone rang again, startling him badly enough to make him scream and drop the hair dryer, which fell into the puddle of melted ice water. A bright orange bolt of electricity arced from the dryer to the zinc table. The air filled with the stench of melting plastic, and then a circuit-breaker somewhere deep inside the bowels of the old building automatically turned over and all the lights went out.
There was a moment’s silence, and then a chunk of ice shattered on the tile floor.
Christy Kirkpatrick’s overworked heart did a backflip, raced out of control. He screamed again, but much louder this time, as if his life depended on it.
Then the battery-powered emergency backup lighting system clicked in, and he managed to get himself under control. My God, what a terrifying experience! He went over to the sink, splashed cold water on his face. His chest ached where his heart had thumped against the bones and flesh. He silently vowed that no one would ever learn about the day all the horror movies he’d ever seen sprang to life and nearly did him in.
Chapter 6
It was cold. Garret could feel the chill in his bones. His knee joints, as he scuttled down the alley, were stiff and tight.
“C’mon,” whispered Billy. “Move it! Haul ass!”
Garret turned to look back down the alley. Billy’s rusted-out Pinto was parked under a mountain ash. The cold snap had pinched the last dead leaves from the tree; the branches were bare except for clusters of shrivelled red berries. What was left of the Pinto’s chrome trim gleamed beneath a streetlight. Piece of shit. Garret drove a ’65 Mustang powered by a 289-cubic-inch V-8. Black on black. He spent every spare dime he made on the car, and he loved it the way he’d never loved his mother. They were using the Pinto because the Mustang was in the garage, waiting for a new fuel pump Garret couldn’t quite afford.
The car they were going to break into was a green Volkswagen Golf. It was three years old and worth maybe eight thousand dollars. Whoever owned the car had spent another three grand on the stereo system. The dashboard was crammed with a Blaupunkt tape deck, state-of-the-art Alpine CD shuttle, Alpine speakers and a sub-woofer, the whole system powered by a 200-watt Sony amplifier. The Golf was parked in a paved lot behind a bakery. The owner started work at two in the morning and didn’t finish his shift until noon. By then, Billy and Garret would be long gone and so would the stereo.
Garret stood in the distorted diamond-pattern shadow cast by a chain-link fence, keeping watch, as Billy approached the car from the driver’s side. There was a thin burst of white light from his flash. He barked like a dog, a whispered howl of triumph.
Garret rubbed his hands together, breathed little puffs of smoke.
“Clear?” whispered Billy from the darkness.
“Yeah, yeah. Hurry up!”
Billy raised the ball-peen hammer and hit the side window just above the door lock. The window exploded. Billy reached inside, unlocked the door and swung it open.
The Golf’s interior light came on.
Billy stuck the flashlight in the back pocket of his jeans and attacked the dashboard with the hammer. He had the Blaupunkt out in fifteen seconds flat. The CD shuttle was a little trickier. Delicate electronics, he couldn’t nuke it with the hammer, had to go easy. Cut some wires. Thirty seconds. He could hear Garret pacing back and forth in the lane, heels clicking on the asphalt. Billy had to watch himself — there were loose wires and chunks of shattered plastic and glass all over the front seat. He went to work on the amplifier. He needed a medium-size Philips screwdriver and he didn’t have one. Fuck. He yanked on the Sony’s support bracket, pressing his shoulder up against the steering wheel for leverage, using brute strength to do the job. The bracket tore free without warning and he hit his head against the rear-view mirror.
The
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