Lightning flashed in the distance. Its stark, white light briefly illuminated the curving roadway ahead. As the light softened and faded, it glistened off the double line snaking down the center of Montauk Highway.
A nearly impenetrable darkness once again enveloped the moving car. The Pontiac’s powerful twin headlights pushed the darkness out a few hundred feet, but little reflected back into the interior of the auto. A muted red glow from the myriad of gauges, switches and tiny lights illuminated the cabin.
The dash lights revealed a gaunt face behind the wheel. Sunken cheeks and deep eye sockets only enhanced the demonic appearance of the driver. The thin mouth was set, and seldom moved. Scraggly hair fell around his face and the eyes burned with an inner fire as they surveyed the blackness ahead. I had been with the man for nearly an hour and had yet to see a change in expression.
The “Shooter” was prowling. That’s how he put it. “I prowl randomly. Don’t want to give … them cops … any kinda pattern … to work off.” His voice was surprisingly deep coming from that emaciated body. He had a staccato, deliberate style of delivery, firing off words in short, bullet-sized chunks. “They never even come close,” he said, a tinge if pride in the otherwise flat voice.
For more than two years the Shooter had been prowling the highways and byways of Eastern Long Island. He has been sighted as far east as Montauk and west of Patchogue. His special brand of terrorism has been witnessed on the North Fork, in the poor neighborhoods of Riverhead, on the Wharf of Sag Harbor and even the posh surroundings of Gin Lane in Southampton. The Shooter commits his crimes at any time and in any place.
For three years he has eluded police. For three years he has roamed the countryside, shooting at cars and other motorists. In those three years he has seldom missed.
At first the authorities thought that the shootings were random. The victims included local residents, tourists and visitors. Wealthy people had been targeted as well as poor migrant workers. Local tradesmen and truck drivers were not immune. Men on their way to work and women with children out shopping had been targeted. Vehicles and drivers had been hit. Passengers didn’t seem to be the Shooter’s focus, just unfortunate, collateral damage. Public outrage had risen recently after a hit driver had crashed into a tree injuring her two children.
“They make up a lot of stuff you know. The newspapers. They tell stories. Just to sell their papers. And magazines,” he explained. “Those writers. They don’t know. They haven’t seen what it’s like. Out here. Out on the highway. They just sit around. Only drive those desks. They ain’t seen it.”
As he talks his eyes flit over the many dials and gauges he’s added to his car. His eyes flicker over the road ahead, then to the gauges, then to my face. Then back again to the road. The eyes are dull, almost lifeless, but I already know that they see everything. After riding with him for about 10 minutes, I had shifted my right arm to the door armrest and found his eyes boring into me. The man may seem crazy, but he certainly isn’t stupid.
“I hate them writers,” he goes on. “Those shit eating writers. You know. The ones who write shit. About me.” In a burst of emotion he pounds the wheel. This makes me a bit nervous. After all I am a writer for a local newspaper. This is a fact that he seems to have forgotten at the moment.
My presence in his car had been mostly accidental. A friend of a friend had casually mentioned that he knew who the Shooter was. Sitting on a bar stool, safe inside a local pub with more than a few beers inside, I had suggested that the Shooter need to get his side of the story out in circulation. Several days later the friend of a friend had come back with a time and place.
When the dark, late model Pontaic had rolled to a stop in front of me outside the Daily Diner in Westhampton, and that thin face with the feverish eyes had peered out at me, I was suddenly wishing I was back on the bar stool and that I had kept my big mouth shut. But, what was done was done…so I climbed in and we shot off into a stormy night. My instincts had told me that I was on to something. Now, an hour later, I was sure of it.
“I got no kick with the cops,” he barks in response to a question. “They got a tough job. There aren’t enough of them. They’re inexperienced. They eat too much. And they’re under gunned,” he adds patting the bulging holster on his thigh.
That was the gun. When I first entered the car I had been fascinated by the holster. It was so big. I hadn’t actually seen the gun yet but it sure was a monster judging by the size of the holster. Witnesses had called it a canon. Those who had seen it in action said it was the most frightening thing they had ever seen and that they couldn’t take their eyes off it. Some said that it was equipped with a laser sight and that ruby red beam seemed to penetrate to their soul.
His size was hard to judge sitting there in the driver’s seat. He looked as if he would be taller than average and was definitely slender…bordering on skinny. He moved with an economy of motion, steering his vehicle with brief and fluid motions. He controlled the car with a deliberation and natural ease that spoke of a high level of competence and confidence. Aside from the one outburst about writers, he said little and showed no emotion. He seemed friendly enough, but distant. He patted his bulging holster often.
The Shooter’s eyes flashed to the rear view mirror. A car was approaching from behind. He was suddenly tense, gripping the wheel with renewed vigor, his motions even more deliberate.
The other car came up fast. The Shooter glanced at the dash and back at the mirror. We were coming out of a set of curves and onto a long straight just west of Hampton Bays. The other car was directly behind us now. It seemed to weave from side to side a little and then, in a rush, passed us on the left.
As it went by the Shooter glared at it and his hand moved to the dash. He pushed a button and a small TV screen next to his right knee lit up. I hadn’t even noticed it before. A view of the other car filled the screen with red cross-hairs superimposed on the image. A small display below the screen read out the increasing target distance.
The Shooter peered through the windscreen at the retreating tail lights and then looked at the video screen again. His mouth twitched a little and his eyes narrowed even further. He looked like he was squinting. He again punched a button on the dash and the TV screen went blank.
“Not this time,” he muttered. Glancing at me he nodded in the direction of the TV monitor. “I just added that. The tracking system. Its hooked up to a computer’” he said, jerking his thumb toward the back, “in the trunk. Got a couple of rockets. Up front. And one aimed aft,” he added. I thought for a moment that I had seen a slight smile tug at his mouth.
This was something new. This was an escalation of the man’s threat to other motorists. I had been nervous before. Now I just might need a change of underwear when I got home. Rockets for gods sake. I sat staring through the windshield at the darkness ahead. What the hell had I gotten myself into.
I was itching to get to my laptop and write this up. The few official reports I had seen made no mention of rockets, or of any advanced electronics skills. Those reports had speculated that the Shooter was probably mentally unstable – something I was not about to dispute after spending some time with him – and they had indicated that he was a crack shot. But rockets? The police profile on this guy was woefully inadequate. They were dealing with someone much more dangerous than they suspected. But then the authorities had precious little data to work with. Very little was known about the Shooter, a situation I intended to rectify.
We stopped at the traffic signal near the Hampton Bays Diner. As he had before, the Shooter studied the other cars making their way through the intersection. I had no idea what he was looking for or even if he was looking for something or someone specific. I had no idea how he chose his victims. When asked he had remained silent. But he had assured me that there would be “some shooting” tonight.
None of the cars turning east in front of us seemed to meet his inner criteria and we proceeded to follow them through the hamlet of Hampton Bays. I wondered aloud if perhaps the weather was hindering his search for a target.
“Nope,” was all he said.
A soft chirping emanated from his shirt pocket. He pulled out a cell phone. “Yes,” he said. It buzzed faintly. “No” he said. “No,” he said twice more. He took the phone away from his ear, punched a button and put the phone back into his pocket.
The Shooter maneuvered deftly through the usual traffic tied up at the corner of Montauk Highway and Ponquogue Avenue and we continued east. “Shinnecock Hills. It’s usually quiet there,” he said in his jerky manner. “But we might get lucky. The worse the weather. The worse they drive.”
Lightning flashed across the sky again as we rode over the Shinnecock Canal. It illuminated the forest of masts waving and dancing at the marina. We came off the bridge as the light faded and it was like driving into a cave. The Pontaic’s headlights pierced the gloom showing an occasional puff of fog rolling across the roadway. The highway straightened for a quarter mile and then we swept smoothly around a gentle curve. I looked out to the right but couldn’t see the bay that I knew was there.
A pinpoint of light appeared through the wisps of fog signaling the approach of an oncoming car. Then the shadow of a large housecat or small dog dashed across the road. With a small grunt the Shooter slowed for the passing animal.
It happened so fast that I was totally unprepared. A flash of light appeared outside my window. A vehicle was passing us on the right. The low car was on the shoulder but edging toward the ditch. Suddenly its brake lights blossomed ahead of us and our headlamps glinted off the shiny circular Mercedes emblem on the car’s trunk. The driver must have seen the crossing animal at the last moment and slewed to a stop in front of us.
The Shooter cursed and then was a blur as he maneuvered us into the other lane and then wrestled the car back into our own lane. The oncoming car flashed past on the left, its driver only now reacting to the action and applying his brakes. The Pontiac shuddered to a halt on the shoulder after spinning a full 360 degrees.
I was shaking the cobwebs from my brain as the Shooter leapt from his seat. He sprinted to the Mercedes behind us and as I struggled to see through the rain splotched rear window another flash of lightning revealed the gun in his hand.
He stopped five yards short of the big car sitting half on and half off of the road. Taking deliberate aim he fired at the driver’s door. A gout of flame orange suddenly erupted just below the window and flared upward. It began to fade just as another flash of lightning crossed the sky above. Behind the window the glare revealed a small, bespecled man, his eyes flared wide in terror.
The orange glow was now sliding down the door. It flowed with a strange, rippling glow. The face of the Mercedes driver became clearer as the window slid down into the door. The man shouted something at the Shooter and then yelled an obscenity. The Shooter flipped a small lever on the side of his gun and a red light suddenly appeared on the man’s forehead. The man yelled again and then opened his mouth in a scream that was swallowed by the roar of thunder. As the harsh light faded the man’s face was punched back into his car and a ball of pale orange glowed inside the Mercedes.
The Pontiac’s engine rumbled powerfully as the Shooter put it into gear and we roared away. The couple from the third car could be seen slowly approaching the Mercedes still standing dead half on and half off the road.
I was sweating and breathing hard. I twisted around to face frontwards and stole a glance at the Shooter. I was stupefied. He looked me square in the eye and actually grinned. “Told ya. There’s always someone. Some bad driver. Lookin to get shot.”
“Why him,” I asked.
“Passin on the right.”
After a moment he looked at me again. “Did you like the orange? It’s a new mix. A mild acid mixed in with the paint. Leaves a stain. He’ll hafta repaint the car. Non toxic though. Won’t hurt that dude. Just give him a goofy orange look. And a big bruise.”
I stared out at the darkness beyond the hood. I wanted a keyboard so bad I was jumpy. I couldn’t wait to get this down. I wanted to shout. Jeez…I was still shaking. I was thinking. Like the guy talked. I wanted to laugh out loud.
Tomorrow there would be another auto on the road, with the Shooter’s indelible paint mark on the door, signaling one man’s opinion of another man’s driving abilities. And this one would have a bright orange face to match. And probably an ugly bruise. And the police would have just one more piece to the puzzle that was the Shooter.
Then I did laugh.