Black Sunday (24 page)

CHAPTER 18

Lander finished the bomb two days after Christmas. Its sleek skin, midnight blue and bearing the bright insignia of the National Broadcasting System, reflected the harsh garage lights as it lay in its loading cradle. The clamps that would fasten it to the gondola of the blimp hung from the upper rim like open hands, and the electrical connections and backup fuse were taped in neat coils on the top. Inside the skin, the 1,316.7 pounds of plastic explosive rested in two great slabs of precise thickness, curving behind the layers of bristling darts. The detonators were packed separately, ready to be plugged into place.

Lander sat staring at the great bomb. He could see his reflection distorted on its side. He thought that he would like to sit on it now, and plug in the detonators and hold the wires like reins, touch them to the battery and ride the mighty firebloom into the face of God. Sixteen days to go.

The telephone had peen ringing for some time when he answered it. Dahlia was calling from New Orleans.

"It's finished," Lander said.

"Michael, you've done a beautiful job. It's a privilege to watch you."

"Did you get the garage?"

"Yes. It's near the Galvez Street wharf. Twenty minutes from New Orleans Lakefront Airport. I've driven the route twice."

"You're sure it's big enough."

"It's big enough. It's a walled-off section of a warehouse. I've bought the padlocks and put them on. Now may I come home to you, Michael?"

"You're satisfied?"

"I'm satisfied."

"With the airport too?"

"Yes. I had no trouble getting in. I can make it in the truck when the time comes."

"Come home."

"I'll see you late tonight."

She did well, Lander thought as he hung up the telephone. Still, he would have preferred to make the arrangements in New Orleans himself. There had been no time. He still had to fly a National Football Conference playoff game and the Sugar Bowl in New Orleans before the Super Bowl. His time was used up.

The problem of moving the nacelle to New Orleans had worried him, and the solution he found was less than ideal. He had leased a two-and-one-half-ton truck, which now stood in his driveway, and he had engaged two bonded professional truck drivers to take it to New Orleans. They would leave tomorrow. The back of the truck would be sealed, and even if the drivers did see the device they would not know what it was.

Putting the bomb in the hands of strangers made Lander uneasy anyway. But there was no help for it. Fasil and Dahlia could not drive the truck. Lander was certain that the authorities had broadcast their descriptions in the Northeast. Fasil's forged international driving license was sure to attract attention if he were stopped by the police. Dahlia would be very conspicuous at the wheel of a big truck. She would be ogled at every step. Besides, Lander wanted Dahlia to be with him.

If he could have trusted Fasil to go to New Orleans, Dahlia would be here now, Lander thought bitterly. He had no confidence in Fasil since the Arab announced that he would not be present at the strike. Lander had enjoyed the contempt for Fasil that flashed in Dahlia's eyes. Supposedly Fasil was off arranging for some muscle to be employed at the airport---Dahlia had seen to it that he and Lander were not left in the house together.

One item remained on Lander's checklist of materials---a tarpaulin to tie down over the nacelle. It was 4:45 P.M. The hardware store was still open. He just had time to make it.

__________

Twenty minutes later, Margaret Feldman, formerly Margaret Lander, parked her Dart stationwagon beside the big truck in Lander's driveway. She sat for a moment, looking at the house.

This was the first time she had seen it since her divorce and remarriage. Margaret felt some reservations about coming, but the bassinet and baby carriage were rightfully hers, she would need them in a few more months, and she intended to have them. She had called first to make sure Michael was not at home. She did not want him crying after her. He had been a strong and proud man before he was broken. For the memory of that man, she still had a great affection, in her fashion. She had tried to forget his sick behavior at the end. She still dreamed about the kitten, though, still heard it in her sleep.

Reflexively Margaret glanced in her compact mirror, patting her blonde hair and checking her teeth for lipstick before getting out of the car. It was as much a part of her routine as turning off the ignition. She hoped she would not get dirty loading the carriage and bassinet into the stationwagon. Really, Roger should have come with her. But he did not feel right about going into Lander's house when Lander was not there.

Roger had not always felt that way, she thought drily. Why had Michael tried to fight? It was over anyway.

Stooping in the thin snow on the driveway, Margaret found that the lock on the garage had been replaced with a new, stronger one. She decided to go through the house and open it from the inside. Her old key still fit the front door. She had intended to go straight through to the garage, but once inside the house her curiosity was aroused,

She looked around. There was the familiar spot on the carpet in front of the TV, residue of the children's countless kool-Aid drippings. She had never been able to get it clean. But the living room was neat and so was the kitchen. Margaret had expected a litter of beer cans and TV dinner trays. She was a little piqued at the neatness of the house.

There is a guilty thrill in being alone in someone else's house, particularly the home of a familiar person. Much can be felt in the arrangement of a person's belongings, and the more intimate the belongings, the better. Margaret went upstairs.

Their old bedroom told her little. Lander's shoes were in a straight line in the closet, the furniture was dusted. She stood looking at the bed and smiled to herself. Roger would be angry if he knew what she was thinking about, did think about sometimes, even with him.

The bathroom. Two toothbrushes. A tiny wrinkle appeared between Margaret's eyes. A shower cap. Face creams, body lotion, bubble bath. Well, well. Now she was glad she had violated Lander's privacy. She wondered what the woman looked like. She wanted to see the rest of her things.

She tried the other bedroom, then opened the playroom door. Margaret stood wide-eyed, staring at the spirit lamp, the wall hangings, candle holders and the great bed. She walked to the bed and touched the pillow. Silk.
Well, la-de-da!
she said to herself.

"Hello, Margaret," Lander said.

She spun around with a gasp. Lander stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob, the other in his pocket. He was pale.

"I was just---"

"You're looking well." It was true. She looked splendid. He had seen her in this room before, in his mind. Crying out to him like Dahlia, touching him like Dahlia. Lander felt a hollow ache inside. He wished Dahlia were here. Looking at his ex-wife, he was trying to see Dahlia, needed to see Dahlia. He saw Margaret. She brightened the air around her.

"You seem to be all right---I mean you look well, too, Michael. I---I must say I didn't expect
this."
Her hand swept around the room.

"What
did
you expect?" Sweat was on his face. Oh, the things that he had found again in this room did not stand up to Margaret.

"Michael, I need the baby things. The bassinet and the carriage."

"I can see that Roger's knocked you up. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, of course."

She smiled, unthinkingly, despite the insult, trying to get past the moment, trying to get away. That smile meant to Lander that she thought infidelity was funny, a joke they could laugh about together. It pierced Lander like a red-hot poker.

"I can get the things from the garage." She moved toward the door.

"Have you looked for them yet?"
Show it to her. Show it to her and kill her.

"No, I was about to---"

"The bassinet and the carriage aren't there. I put them in storage. The sparrows get in the garage and speckle everything. I'll have them sent over."
No! Take her in the garage and show it to her. And kill her.

"Thank you, Michael. That would be very nice."

"How are the kids?" His own voice sounded strange to him.

"Fine. They had a good Christmas."

"Do they like Roger?"

"Yes, he's good to them. They'd like to see you sometime. They ask about you. Are you moving? I saw the big truck in the driveway and I thought---"

"Is Roger's bigger than mine?"

"What?"

He could not stop now. "You God damned slut." He moved toward her. I
must stop.

"Goodbye, Michael." She moved sideways toward the door.

The pistol in his pocket was burning his hand.
I must stop. It will be ruined. Dablia said it is a privilege to watch you. Dahlia said Michael you were so strong today. Dahlia said Michael I love to do it for you. I was your first time, Margaret. No. The elastic left red marks on your hips. Don't think. Dahlia will be home soon, home soon, home soon. Mustn't---. Click.

"I'm sorry I said that, Margaret. I shouldn't have said it. It's not true, and I'm sorry."

She was still frightened. She wanted to go.

He could hold on a second longer. "Margaret, there's something I've been meaning to send you. For you and Roger. Wait, wait. I've acted badly. It's important to me that you're not angry. I'll be upset if you're angry."

"I'm not angry, Michael. I have to go. Are you seeing a doctor?"

"Yes, yes. I'm all right, it was just a shock, seeing you." His next words choked him, but he forced them out. "I've missed you and I just got disturbed. That's all. Wait one second." He walked quickly to the desk in his room, and when he came out she was going down the stairs. "Here, I want you to take these. Just take them and have a good time and don't be mad."

"All right, Michael. Goodbye now." She took the envelope.

At the door, she stopped and turned to him again. She felt like telling him. She was not sure why. He ought to know. "Michael, I was sorry to hear about your friend Jergens."

"What about Jergens?"

"He
is
the one who used to wake us up calling you in the middle of the night, isn't he?"

"What about him?"

"He killed himself. Didn't you see the paper? The first POW suicide, it said. He took some pills and pulled a plastic bag over his head," she said. "I was sorry. I remembered how you talked to him on the telephone. when he couldn't sleep. Goodbye, Michael." Her eyes were like nailheads, and she felt lighter and didn't know why.

When she was three blocks away, waiting at the light, she opened the envelope Michael had given her. It contained two tickets to the Super Bowl.

__________

As soon as Margaret left, Lander ran to the garage. The bottom was out of him. He began to work very rapidly, trying to stay above the thoughts rising like black water in his head. He eased the rented forklift forward, pushing the fork under the cradle that held the nacelle. He switched off the forklift and climbed out of the seat. He was concentrating on forklifts. He thought about all the forklifts he had seen in warehouses and on docks. He thought about the principles of hydraulic leverage. He walked outside and lowered the tailgate of the truck. He attached the sloping metal ramp to the rear of the truck. He thought about landing craft he had seen and the way their ramps were hinged. He thought desperately about loading ramps. He checked the street. Nobody was watching. It didn't matter anyway. He jumped back on the forklift and raised the nacelle off the floor. Gently now. It was a delicate job. He had to think about it. He had to be very careful. He drove the forklift slowly up the loading ramp and into the back of the truck. The truck springs creaked as they took the weight. He lowered the fork bearing the nacelle, locked the brake, chocked the wheels firmly, and secured the nacelle and forklift in place with heavy rope. He thought about knots. He knew all about knots. He could tie 12 different knots. He must remember to put a sharp knife in the back of the truck. Dahlia could cut the ropes when the time came. She would not have time to fool with knots.
Oh Dahlia. Come home, I am drowning.
He put the loading ramp and the duffle bag of small arms inside the truck and locked the tailgate. It was done.

He threw up in the garage.
Mustn't think.
He walked to the liquor cabinet and took out a bottle of vodka. His stomach heaved up the vodka. The second time it stayed down. He took the pistol from his pocket and threw it behind the kitchen stove where he could not reach it. The bottle again, and again. Half of it was gone and it was running down his shirt front, running down his neck. The bottle again, and again. His head was swimming.
I mustn't throw up. Hold it
down. He was crying. The vodka was hitting him now. He sat down on the kitchen floor.
Two more weeks. and I'll be dead. Oh thank God I'll be dead. Everybody else will be too. Where it's quiet. And nothing ever is. Oh God it has been so long. Oh God it has been so long. Jergens, you were right to kill yourself. Jergens!
He was yelling now. He was up and staggering to the back door. He was yelling out the back door. Cold rain was blowing in his face as he yelled out into the yard.
Jergens, you were right!
And the back steps were coming up at him, and he rolled off into the dead grass and snow, and lay face up in the rain. A last thought, consciousness glimmering out.
Water is a good conductor of heat. Witness a million engines and my heart cold upon this ground.