Book Four - Part 8 - Rhyming Evil - Chapter Eleven

Thursday – July 5th

Baker’s Office – 9:12 a.m.

It was another one of those days where she would spend the next several hours going over reports.

She also tried to keep apprised of foreign news that could be related to Freddy. So far, there had been two reports of victims killed with his SOP (standard operating procedure). Two in the last seven months, well, not counting Marie Hampton, former real estate agent.

Tracking his movements as best as she could, there had been another five, brutal gangland-type slayings that could possibly be attributed to Freddy. Each murder had to deal with someone who had some form of power and based on his last two kills; the other five murders took place; starting in South America and ending in Australia. The method of movement was similar, if not the same, in other countries Freddy has been in.

He’s smart, shrewd, cunning, and deadly.

As she started her other project; checking missing persons, she knew there was only one way to catch Freddy.

A bullet to the brain.

Rim Road Pass – 12:30 p.m.

20 Miles West of Montie

The guys were all there. They made a pact with each other, and to seal that pact, each one sliced the palm of their right hand with a pocket-knife (and not very deep either), and then they pressed their palms against one another’s hand to seal that promise in blood, and officially, they were each other’s brother.

The Montie Pythoner’s would be saying goodbye to Jimmy Kerrigan. He got his scholarship to North Carolina.

Every member of the team promised to meet back here at Rim Road Pass every five years to relive, to recapture their lost youth, and also talk about their new lives and loves. The only acceptable reason for not returning was either active military duty or being dead.

A brother’s promise made in blood could never be broken otherwise. Stevie, Ron Snyder, Dale Whittier, Brad Stone, DeWayne Phillips, and carl Macklin Jr., along with Jimmy Kerrigan, all made a promise to each other, and deep down, Stevie believed they would all come back every five years until they either all died, and hopefully, from natural causes.

Once that was finished, they sat around for a while, talking about what they were going to do for the rest of the summer, and then the topic found its way to basketball.

Ron Snyder asked Stevie the question that was on every player’s mind.

“Stevie, we all know the bean ball you took to the head. The doctor’s said no sports. Are you going to come back, and at least help the Coach with play-calling?”

“Guy’s,” Stevie’s eyes took them all in. “I promise I’ll be back on the court in some aspect. And maybe, just maybe, I might play a game or two. If I stay out of the paint, get that isolated shot, I should be good to go. Of course, I’ll need to clear that with the doctor, my mom, and Coach.

“I’m thinking sometime before we go back to school next month and try to get a medical clearance. Besides, last year it wasn’t my head that broke, it was my old leg. This one is new and improved, and guaranteed never to peel, rust, fade, or crack. If nothing else, I’ll be there to help Coach Claymoore.”

After another hour, everyone broke up, got in their cars and trucks, or like Jimmy, he left on his Kawasaki 450, and the only memory at Rim Road Pass were tire tracks, footprints, and dried spots of blood clinging to dirt.

Kelso’s Clothing Store

1135 Mason Street – 4:47 p.m.

The changing of the guard went smoothly. No tornado’s, no harsh winds or pelting rain. No traffic accidents, assaults, or robberies. Almost three-fourths of the day, down, and everything was looming good.

That is until Adam-11 slowly drove down Mason. Andrew Davis at the wheel, his partner Ryan Clinton, jabbering on about how the Mets might take the World Series. The Mets?

"Why not, they’re in the hunt," he said to Andrew.

Andrew came back with; "It’s July, see where they are come October."

It was then when Ryan tapped Andrew’s shoulder and pointed at the front doors of Kelso’s. Three men shot out of the place like a bullet, and started to jump in a dark green, Econoline van.

Andrew turned on the lights and siren, hit the gas pedal and before the van had enough time to take off, Andrew veered the car at a right angle in front of it. Ryan had radioed for backup. Both he and Andrew jumped from their car, weapons raised, where each man had both sides of the van covered; Ryan, looking directly at the driver, a young Hispanic girl, maybe seventeen if that; yelled for her to get out of the van. Sirens could be heard approaching. The girl bit her lip, looked behind her, then back at the gun staring her in the face.

“I said, step out of the van slowly, miss. Hands on top of your head. I won’t tell you again.”

Andrew, on the far side of the van yelled out, “All of you inside the van, come out with your hands in the air, and empty!”

The girl made up her mind and stepped away from the van. She was about five-feet tall and maybe ninety pounds.

“Hey, you crazy bitch! Get back in here!”

“Miss, get in the back of my car.” Ryan motioned her inside. Once she was in, he raised his head toward the van, and yelled out, “Give it up! There will be several black and white’s here, so I advise you to step out of the van now and avoid a fight. You will lose.”

As he said that, three more cars converged onto the scene.

Andrew, his weapon trained at an angle on the sliding panel door, could hear them arguing over what to do next. All were yelling in Spanish. When they saw the police cars surrounding them, the three young Hispanics, slid the panel door open, and threw out their guns: two being a Mac-10, along with eight handguns.

Bloodshed, and the potential for a lot of it, was averted that day. How much longer could that continue?