Authors: Robert Crais
Demolition Angel (42 page)
“What do I do? Talk to me, Carol.
Tell me what to do!”
She didn’t want him thinking about the keys. She didn’t want him distracted.
“Find the batteries.”
His fingers traced over the device until they found the little 9-volt taped to the side of the paint can.
“Got it.”
“Feel the wires coming off the top? They’re attached by a little snap at the top of the battery.”
“Got it. Now what?”
If she was working this bomb in a call-out, she would be in the armor and would’ve set up the de-armer and blown the bomb apart from the safety of the Suburban from sixty yards away. They wouldn’t be handling the bomb because you never knew what might set them off, or how stable they were, or what the builder might have rigged. Safety was in distance. Safety was in playing it safe, and taking no chances and thinking everything through before you did it.
“Take it off.”
Pell didn’t move.
“Just take it off?”
0:18.17.16.
“Yes, take it off. Just unsnap the damned thing. That’s all we can do. We have to break the circuit, and we don’t have any other way to do it, so we’re going to cut the battery out of the loop and pray there won’t be a backcharge that fires the
detonator. Maybe this sonofabitch didn’t build in a second surge monitor that we can’t even see. Maybe it won’t go off.”
He didn’t say anything for a while.
0:10.09.08.
“I guess this is it, then, right?”
“Pull it off in one clean move. Don’t let the contacts brush together again after you separate them.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t let it be halfway, Pell. One clean move. Cut the connection like your life depends on it.”
“How much time?”
“Six seconds.”
He tilted his head toward her, his eyes looking too much to the right.
He smiled.
“Thanks, Starkey.”
“You, too, Pell. Now pull off the damned cap.”
He pulled.
0:05.04.03.
The timer continued reeling down.
“Is it safe, Starkey?”
The timer continued spinning, and Starkey felt her eyes well. She thought,
Oh, goddamnit
, but she said nothing.
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
0:02.01.
She closed her eyes and tensed for something she would never feel.
“Starkey? Are we okay, Starkey?”
She opened her eyes. The timer showed 00:00.
Pell said, “I think we’re still alive.”
John Michael Fowles did not want to die. His head grew light, even as his chest seemed to swell. He heard Starkey’s voice, and Pell’s. He realized that they were working to de-arm the bomb, and, in that moment, wanted to laugh, but he was
bleeding to death. He could feel the blood filling his lungs. He passed out again, then once more heard their voices. He lifted his head just enough to see them. He saw the bomb. They had done it. They had de-armed it. John Michael Fowles laughed then, blowing red bubbles from his mouth and nose. They thought they had saved themselves. They didn’t know that they were wrong.
Fowles summoned all of his strength to rise.
“Pell, my hands hurt.”
Pell was holding her. He had crawled to her when the moment had passed, put his arms around her, and held her close. Now, he pushed up onto his knees.
“Tell me how to get to the phone. I’ll call 911.”
“Get the keys first, and unhook me. There were keys in the surge monitor. I think they probably go to the handcuffs.”
Pell sat back on his heels.
“There were keys, and you didn’t tell me?”
“We didn’t have time, Jack.”
Pell sighed deeply, as if all of the tension was only then flooding out of him. He followed her directions to the keys, then back to her. When her hands were free, Starkey rubbed her wrists. Her hands burned as the circulation returned.
Beyond Jack, from the couch, Fowles made a sound like a wet gurgle, then rolled off the couch onto the floor.
Pell lurched around.
“What was that?”
Starkey felt no sense of alarm. Fowles was as limp as a wet sheet.
“It’s Fowles. He fell off the couch.”
Starkey called to him.
“Fowles? Can you hear me?”
Fowles reached a hand toward her dining room. His legs slowly worked as if he was trying to crawl away, but he couldn’t bring his knees beneath himself.
“What’s he doing, Carol?”
“I’ll call 911 and get an ambulance. He’s still alive.”
Starkey rose, then helped Pell to his feet. Across the room, Fowles inched past the end of the coffee table, leaving a red trail.
Starkey said, “Just lay there, Fowles. I’m getting help.”
She left Pell by the front door, then went back to Fowles just as he edged to the far end of the couch.
Starkey came abreast of him as he reached behind the end of the couch, his back to her.
“Fowles?”
Fowles slowly teetered onto his back, once more facing her. What Starkey saw then made all of her training as a bomb technician come screaming back at her:
Secondary! Always clear for a secondary!
She should have cleared the area for a secondary, just as Buck Daggett had always preached.
Fowles was clutching a second device to his chest. He looked up at Starkey with a blood-stained smile.
“The truth hurts.”
Starkey pushed away from him, shoving hard against a floor that tried to anchor her, trapped in a nightmare moment with legs that refused to move, her heart echoing thunder in her ears as she rushed in a painful, panicked, horrible lunge for Pell and the door as—
John Michael Fowles gazed up through the red lens of his own blood at a crimson world, then pressed the silver button that set him free.
Starkey stood in the open front door of the house they were renting, smoking as she watched the house across the street. The people who lived there, whose name she didn’t know, had a
black Chihuahua. It was fat and, Starkey thought, ugly. It would sit in their front yard, barking at anyone or anything that passed, and stand in the middle of the street, barking at cars. The cars would blow their horns, but the damned Chihuahua wouldn’t move, forcing the cars to creep around it in a wide berth. Starkey had thought that was funny until two days ago when the Chihuahua came over and shit on her driveway. She’d tried to chase it back across the street, but the dog had just stood there, barking. Now she hated the mean little sonofabitch.
“Where are you?”
“Smoking.”
“You’re going to get cancer.”
She smiled.
“You say the most romantic things.”
Starkey couldn’t wait to move back to her own house, though the repairs would take another month, what with the foundation work, the new floor, two new shear walls, and all the doors and windows being replaced. Not one window or door was square after the blast because of the overpressure. It could have been worse. Starkey had reached Pell in the doorway when the device detonated. The pressure wave had washed over her like a supersonic tidal wave, kicking her into Pell and both of them through the door. That’s what saved them. Kicked out the door, off the porch, and into the yard. They had both been cut by glass and wood splinters, and neither of them could hear for a week, but it could have been worse.
Starkey finished the cigarette, then flicked the butt into the yard. She tried not to smoke in the house because it irritated his eyes. She had been twenty-three days without a drink. When she was done with that, maybe she would try to kick the smokes. Change wasn’t just possible, it was necessary.
They weren’t going to prosecute a blind man. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms had made a lot of noise about it at first, but Starkey and Pell had gotten Mr. Red, and
that counted for a lot. They even let Jack keep the medical; no one would take health benefits from a guy who’d lost his eyes on the job.
Starkey was still waiting to hear about herself. She had a good Fraternal Order of Police lawyer and Morgan’s support, so she would do all right. She had the month off, and then the hearing. Morgan had told her that he would take care of it, and she trusted him. Barry Kelso called from time to time, asking after her. She found that she liked hearing from him. Beth Marzik never called.
Pell said, “Come here. I want you to see this.”
He always said things like that, as if by her seeing something, he could enjoy it. She found that she liked that, too. She liked it very much.
Jack had placed candles around the bedroom. He had them in little stubby candleholders and on saucers and plates, twinkling on the dresser and the chest and the two nightstands. She watched as he set the last one, tracing the wick with his fingers, lighting it with one of her Bic lighters, dripping the wax that he aimed so carefully with his fingers onto a plate, setting the butt of the candle into it. He never asked for help with anything. She would offer, time to time, but she never pushed it. He even cooked. He scared the shit out of her when he cooked.
“What do you think?”
“They’re beautiful, Jack.”
“They’re for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t move.”
“I’m here.”
He followed her voice, edging around the bed to her. He would have missed her by a couple of feet, so she touched his arm.
Pell had been living with her since he left the hospital. His eyes were gone. That was it. Neither of them knew if his staying here would be permanent, but you never know.
Starkey pulled him close and kissed him.
“Get in the bed, Jack.”
He smiled as he eased himself into the bed. She went around, pulling the shades. It was still light out, but with the shades down, the candles cast them in a copper glow. Sometimes, after they had made love, she would make shadow creatures in the candlelight and describe them to him.
Starkey took off her clothes, dropping them to the floor, and moved into his arms. She allowed his hands to move over her body. His fingers brushed her old scars, and the new scars. He touched her in places where she liked being touched. She had been frightened, their first time together, even in the dark. He saw with his hands.
“You’re beautiful, Carol.”
“So you say.”
“Let me prove it.”
She gasped at his touch, and at the things he did for her. Starkey had come a long way; there was farther still to go. Getting there would be a better thing with Pell in her life.
If you enjoyed Robert Crais’s
Demolition Angel
, you won’t want to miss his novel
THE FORGOTTEN MAN
Available in bookstores everywhere
Here’s an exciting preview…
They called me to view the body on a lost spring morning when darkness webbed my house with threads of shadow. Some nights are like that; more now than before. Picture the World’s Greatest Detective, reluctant subject of sidebar articles in the
Los Angeles Times
and
Los Angeles Magazine
, stretched on his couch in an A-frame cave overlooking the city, not really sleeping at 3:58
A.M
., when the phone rings with the terrible scream a phone can make only in those lonely hours.
I thought it was a reporter but answered anyway.
“Hello.”
“This is Detective Kelly Ruiz with LAPD calling for Elvis Cole. I apologize about the time.”
Her voice was guarded and coarse, reflecting the lateness of the hour. I pushed into a sitting position and cleared my throat. Police who call before sunrise have nothing to offer but bad news.
“This is Elvis Cole. How’d you get my number?”
I changed my home number when the news stories broke, but the reporters and cranks still called.
“One of the criminalists had it or got it from someone, I’m not sure. Either way, I’m sorry about calling you like this but we have a homicide. We have reason to believe you know the deceased.”
I swung my feet to the floor. The house was dark. I slid the glass doors open onto a deck that jutted like a diving platform into the darkness filling the canyon behind my house.
“Who is it?”
“Maybe you should come down here, see him for yourself. We’re downtown off Thirteenth near Figueroa. I could send a radio car if that would help.”
“I don’t know anything about it. What makes you think I know him?”
“He said some things before he died. Come down and take a look. I can send a car.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“Nothing like that. We just want to see if you can help with the ID.”
I was a suspect. Everyone who knows a homicide victim is a suspect until they’re cleared.
“What did he say, Ruiz? It’s four
A.M
., what happened down there?”
“What it is, we have a deceased Anglo male we believe to be the victim of a robbery. They got his wallet, so I can’t give you a name. We’re hoping you can help with that part. Here, listen—”
“Why do you think I know him?” A quick adrenaline rush pulsed through me. Who did I know who was now lying dead, surrounded by cops?
She plowed on with the description as if I hadn’t spoken.
“Anglo male, dyed-black hair thin on top, blue eyes, approximately seventy years but he could be older, I guess, kinda skinny, the way some men get when they’re older, and he has crucifix tattoos on both palms.”
She waited as if I would slap myself on the forehead when the flashbulb of recognition exploded behind my eyes.
“Why do you think I know him?”
“You don’t recognize the crucifixes? He has other tats of a religious nature. Jesus, the Virgin, things like that. None of this sounds familiar?”
“No. You told me he said some things, Ruiz, what did he say?”
She hesitated. I heard cop sounds behind her. She was probably standing outside; other cops were probably working the scene.
“You’re telling me you do not recognize this man’s description?”
“I don’t have any idea who you’re talking about. You want me down there, fine, I’ll come, but not until you tell me why.”
I heard more voices behind her, but not clearly enough to understand if they were speaking to her or not. When she spoke again, her voice was harsh, like she had made a difficult decision and didn’t much like it.
“Okay, what we have is a deceased male, as I’ve described,
one gunshot to the chest. By his appearance and location, I would say he’s indigent, but we’re working on that. I’m the officer who found him. He was still conscious at that time and said things that suggested you would recognize his description.”
“What did he say?”
Ruiz hesitated, then spoke again.
“He said he was your father.”
I sat in my dark house without moving. I had started that night in bed, but ended on the couch, letting the canyon air flow over me to quiet my heart, but sleep had not come.
“Just like that, he told you he was my father.”
“He was dying. I tried to get a statement while I worked on him, but he took the stories from his pocket and told me he had been trying to find you—”
“What stories?”
“The newspaper stories. You’re the same Elvis Cole they wrote the stories about, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“He had these clippings. He pushed them at me and told me you were his son, but then he passed. That’s it. I figured you’d recognize the tats if you knew him, me thinking he was your father, but it sounds like you don’t.”
I didn’t answer.
“Mr. Cole?”
My voice came out hoarse, and the catch embarrassed me.
“I don’t know my father. I don’t know anything about him, and so far as I know he doesn’t know me.”
Ruiz was quiet for a while, then cleared her throat.
“Maybe you should come take a look. Just in case.”
“Yeah. Maybe I should.”
“I’ll tell you where we are.”
After I copied the address, I put down the phone but still did not move. I had not moved in hours. Outside, an owl flicked past the open glass doors. Three raccoons scratched across the deck, peered in without seeing me, then departed as quietly as a whisper. I must have been waiting for Ruiz to call. Why else would I have been awake that night and all the other nights except to wait like a child lost in the woods—a forgotten child waiting to be found.
Alone with a troubled heart, I went to see the dead.
