Time Bomb (56 page)

I said, “You popped the lock on the storage shed and camped out for the night. She with her rifle, you with your pistol. Waiting. Stalking. Just like Bear Lodge. Telling her to go to sleep—you’d take first watch and wake her when her turn came. Letting her sleep until sunrise and then letting her know there’d been a change in plans:
You
were going to do all the shooting, just to make certain everything went smoothly. Not to worry, she’d still be a hero. Your assistant. Maybe she accepted that. Or maybe she put up a fuss—wanting
personal
revenge. You thought you had her convinced. But when the time actually came to shoot—when Massengil and Gordie and the kids poured out on the yard, she pulled a fast one on you. Grabbed the rifle. Second cadre wasn’t good enough for
her
.”

I gave Latch a smile, turned back to Ahlward before I see his reaction.

“Her shot went wild. Of course. The recoil knocked her down and she dropped the rifle. You got hold of it, had to think fast, consider your options. The optimal choice would have been taking aim, squeezing off a good one at Massengil, and then doing her. But looking out the window you could see the moment of opportunity had been lost—panic, everyone screaming, running for cover, no clear shot. Not that you’d have minded a few dead kids, but that would have complicated matters. Vis-à-vis P.R. So you took your pistol and shot Holly in the face—kept shooting her. Eight times. Shot three rounds from the Remington—all of it together sounded like war to those out on the yard. Then you walked back to the yard carrying your smoking gun, ready to play savior. No one had seen you actually enter the storage shed, but the panic took care of that: No one remembered anything but their own fear. And the press hadn’t arrived yet, with their cameras and their recorders. Besides, if anyone asked, Gordie and the troops could always be counted on to step forward as eyewitnesses to your heroic dash to the shed. Quick reflexes and calm under fire, D.F. Job well done.”

Wink
from the couch.

I said to Ahlward: “It must have been nice being the star for a change. Getting the credit you deserved instead of standing in his shadow—such a puny shadow at that. But after all your
planning,
you still hadn’t managed to get rid of Massengil. The guy was turning out to be a goddammed Rasputin. Another assassination attempt soon after would look funny, raise all sorts of questions. Your instinct was to wait, let him live out another term, bide your time. But Gordie didn’t like that. He pushed you. And now you know why: He knew he’d be losing his hope chest soon. Fortunately for him, the productive Ms. Bramble had gleaned another bit of inside info on Massengil: kinky sex with Cheri Nuveen on a regular basis, Dobbs looking on. Bramble even knew when the next appointment was. Given that, the rest was easy. A simple hit, Dobbs as dessert, no apparent connection to the schoolyard. First day, Gordie comforts the widow and plays Mr. Compassion. Next day, you leak the hooker stuff to the press and knock off the widow as a viable candidate. Along with any of Massengil’s cronies: guilt by association. The voters would have to wonder if they’d attended any of Massengil’s parties. Leaving guess who.”

I leaned forward. “It’s fine as far as it goes, D.F., but what do you really think it’s going to accomplish? Let’s say he gets elected. Even manages not to screw up for a term or two and goes on to Washington. There’s no substance to him. Nothing to build an empire on. It would be like constructing a palace over a sump hole.”

Latch swore.

Ahlward smiled. “You think he’s the only one? I’ve got placements all over.” He used the knife as a pointer. “Serious talent. Each of them young, photogenic. Courageously liberal. Until the time comes.”

“Wannsee Three.”

“And Four and Five and Six.” Anger and impatience in the amber eyes; the knife stabbed air. “Whatever it takes to get the job done. Like you said, I’m a patient man. Long-term planner. Willing to wait until the time’s right and the cleansing blood flows. Washing away all the anthro-pretenders and putting together a new age that’s genetically honest and beautifully cruel.”

“How poetic.”

“Who else knows what you know?” he said.

“How about the police for starts? I sent them tapes.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Bullshit. You believed our FBI scam. If you’d been in contact with the police they’d have called in the Feds, and the Feds would have interviewed you already. We’ve been watching you, know who you’ve met with. Try again, turd.”

I said, “You’re assuming greater efficiency on the part of the authorities than they deserve. Bureaucratic wheels turn slowly. The cops know. I was waiting for the FBI. That’s why I opened the door for Blanchard and Crisp. And I
didn’t
buy the scam. They had to sucker-punch me to get me here.”

“I said Try again.”

“That’s it, D.F. Just the cops. There’s no way you’re going to pull this off.”

“Negative thinking,” he said. “Time for a little preliminary scrub.”

He stood, holding the gun in one hand, the knife in the other. Running his eyes over Milo, he said, “Despicable. How can you live with yourselves, the things you do?”

He rotated the knife, “Here’s the way it’s going to go down, You and him doing filthy stuff—your filthy
friendship
. Things get out of hand. You beat him up badly.
Trash
him to death, then start feeling so guilty that you write a little note and blow your own faggot brains out.”

I said, “Shame to dirty up your warehouse. Randy might not like that when it comes time to give it back to her. Not to mention the health hazard from faggot blood.”

He smiled. “Not to worry, turd. We’ve got a nice little place all set up for you. Cock-sucky motel over in Pacoima.”

“Another of her real-estate tidbits?”

He said, “C’mon, time for a butt-hole party. Up you go.”

I remained seated.

The gun waved. The pink eyebrows climbed.

“I said Move it,” he said.

Wink wink wink.

I ignored him.

All at once the blunt face was transformed into something livid and howling:

“I said Get the fuck up!”

I stood. Very slowly.

Latch rose, brushed off his trousers, and smiled at me. “Thought you might want to know we’ve also got something planned for Little Miss Principal. The snotty cunt—does she know you swing both ways? That you’ve been infecting her?”

I said, “She doesn’t know anything.”

I could tell from the way his face creased in a Kewpie-doll smile that I’d allowed my terror to show.

“Hey,” he said, “you were balling her, which means pillow talk. She’s a
liability
and it’s
all your fault
.
She’ll
be having a wild time tonight.” He clicked his tongue. “Really wild. Shocking example of the burgeoning rise in crime on the West Side. Perfect timing for my campaign. I’ll be showing up at the crime scene, pledging my troth to law and order. That’s the way we work, you fucking piece of shit. Nothing ever goes to waste. Not even the squeal. And boy, will she squeal.”

He giggled. I strained against my bonds.

“A
wild
time,” he said. “We’re sending someone to do her who really
enjoys
that kind of thing. Knows how to bring out the
best
in a woman. Try to get
that
image out of your mind. The look on her face when it actually happens and she realizes what’s going on. The
sounds
she’ll make.

Wink wink wink from the couch.

I said, “Bring out the best in a woman, huh? Then it sure wouldn’t be a job for you. When’s the last time Randy saw anything stiffer than her own upper lip?”

The Kewpie doll turned malignant. He began coming at me, arms up, boxer-style.

Aldward said, “Not now,” in a jaded tone.

Latch didn’t seem to hear, kept coming.

Wink.

I backed away, danced on fear-laden legs. My turn to leer. “Sure, Gordie. Nothing like a fair fight. But who’s going to protect
you
when D.F. finally realizes that without Randy’s big bucks you’re not very useful? Just a wimpy little piece of limp-dicked shit. Second cadre all the way?”

Latch said, “Give me the knife, D.F. I’ve had enough.”

Ahlward raised the blade, holding it out of reach. “Don’t be an idiot. It has to be done the right way.”

Latch backed off.

I said, “Roll over, Gordon. Say bow-wow, Gordon.”

Stuck out my tongue and dog-panted.

Latch charged me, swinging.

I moved to meet him, faked a shoulder butt, faded back suddenly just short of impact and caught him off guard. Again. He grunted in anger, regained his balance, and charged again.

Ahlward put the gun down, reached out, and restrained him with one hand. The other held on to the knife.

Gun on the desk. But no free hands.

I kept talking, bouncing on my feet. “Play
dead
, Gordon. Eat your
kibble
, Gordon. Don’t wet the
rug
, Gordon.”

Ahlward screamed at me: “
You shut the fuck up!”

Latch shook off Ahlward’s hand and lunged again.

At the same time a pale bulk rose from the couch, a polar bear coming out of hibernation. Taking hold of Latch’s shoulders, shoving him forward.

Latch fell heavily. Toward Ahlward. On Ahlward. His weight causing the red-haired man to stumble backwards, onto the desk, a look of surprise on the blunt features.

Latch was on top of him, thrashing wildly. Ahlward tried to shove him off, cursing and twisting to get free. Trying to get to the gun.

Latch remained sprawled on top of him.

Screaming.

The two of them wrestling.

Then Ahlward’s face was speckled with blood.

Showered with it.

Latch screamed. A terrible sound; more than just frustration.

Blood kept spurting, Ahlward thrashing away from it, spitting it.

Something shiny and sharp emerged from the soft freckled flesh on the back of Latch’s neck. Worked its way through like a burrowing grub.

Silver, sharp-nosed grub. The knife point, ruby and silver.

Latch gurgled and tore at his throat.

The knife kept nosing its way out.

Ahlward gave a hard, two-handed shove. Latch came loose. Inertia threw Ahlward backwards, off the desk top, onto the swivel chair, stricken by astonishment.

Milo moved unsteadily toward the gun. Reached out for it, touched the butt, missed. The weapon skidded across the wooden surface and sailed away, landing somewhere on the floor.

Ahlward dove for it.

I felt a hand on my wrist, yanking. Freeing my hands. “C’mon!”

Milo limped toward the door. I followed him, dazed. Watching Latch sink to the floor, the knife still embedded in his neck. Hands grabbing the handle, gurgling, trying to yank it free.

Salivating blood.

His eyes rolled back. . . .

“C’mongoddammitalex!”

Yanking me.

The two of us out the black door, slamming it.

Into the hall. Four black-shirts, smiling, as if savoring the tail end of a joke. They saw us and the smiles hung in mid-air.

Milo howled at them and kept coming. The smiles vanished and they looked terrified. Naughty kids, unprepared for reality. One, a dark-haired fat boy with an old man’s jowls, wore a bolstered pistol and reached for it. I used my shoulder and hit him hard. Ran past the sound of pain-screams and cracking bone.

Running through a cardboard alley.

Warning shouts. The crackle of gunfire.

We took the first turn available, meeting up with two more Gestaposcouts—girls. They could have been sorority sisters discussing pledge night. One put a hand to her mouth. We hurtled past, bowled them over, heard girl-squeals.

Fuck chivalry.

More gunshots.

Louder.

I looked back as I ran, saw Ahlward, pumping his legs, screaming orders that no one was heeding. Calling for his troops, but the troops were frozen, unprepared for reality.

A cold rush of wind as something tore into a carton inches from my head.

Another turnoff, just a few yards away. We ran for it. Above all the noise I could hear Milo gasping, saw him put a hand to his chest.

More gunshots.

Then a louder sound.

Earthquake loud, rumbling up from the cement floor. Rattling the floor as if it were paper.

Cartons tumbled in our path like giant, tantrum-stricken building blocks. Someone screamed.

More screams. Panic. The way the schoolyard must have sounded.

Another rumble. Even stronger, bouncing us like toys, knocking us to the floor.

More boxes toppled. Cartons shot up in the air, tossed by an unseen juggler, and landed with dull, sickening thumps.

Milo tripped, was down. I helped him to his feet. He looked deathly, but resumed running.

No sign of Ahlward, a jumble of cardboard behind us, shielding us.

We made the turn. Black-shirts scattering. The auto-shop smell of seared metal . . .

Another roar.

The hiss of disintegrating plaster.

We climbed over boxes, ran around them. Milo stopped, hand on chest, legs bowed, head down.

I called his name.

He said, “. . . fine . . .” He swallowed air, did it again, nodded dully, and began moving again.

Another explosion. The building shivered like a wet puppy. More cartons crashed down around us, a Vesuvius of printed materials.

We swerved, dodged, managed to make our way through the rubble. Another turn. Past the forklift . . .

Metal clatter, more hiss. More thunder. Screams of agony.

The hiss grew louder. Joined by an unmistakable odor.

Burning paper. A sudden, burgeoning heat.

Demolition music. Tongues of orange licking the ground just a few feet away.

Filthy, inky smoke oozed from between the boxes, rising to the top of the warehouse, darkening it.

The heat intensified. Through it another cold rush.

Thunk.
Shredded cardboard.

Ahlward emerging from the smoke, howling soundlessly, ignoring the smoke that churned behind him, mindless with hate.