A Safe Place for Dying (23 page)
Read A Safe Place for Dying Online
Authors: Jack Fredrickson
He set down the cottage cheese. “As I said, I keep the prints; I don't use them.”
“It was you, though, wasn't it, who drew light
X
's on the Farraday house and on the old bus shelter?”
X
's on the Farraday house and on the old bus shelter?”
He nodded. “I was wondering about their closeness to each other.”
“And the house that just went up, that was close to the other explosion sites.”
“Yes.”
I set the brochure in front of him and opened it to the last page. “The last paragraph says there are underground shelters in Crystal Waters.”
He looked down at the brochure and read.
“They were never built,” he said, looking up when he was done.
“Why not?”
He pointed to the roll of blueprints I'd leaned against his desk. “Set those up here and I'll show you.”
I put the roll on his desk, site plan on top. With a pencil, he drew five evenly spaced square hubs along Chanticleer Circle, centered within the edges of the street. “There were to be five bomb shelters, built under the road for additional protection,” he said.
Next, he connected each house to a shelter with double lines, in clusters of five or six houses for each shelter. “These were to be the tunnels, running from each basement to the shared shelter.” The tunnels fanned out from each shelter to a rough circle of individual houses. “I think some of the tunnels might have spurred off of one another, depending on the layouts of the houses, but this was the general idea.” He studied the clusters he'd drawn. They looked like five rimless wagon wheels running along Chanticleer Circle.
“That was the plan, anyway.” He picked up his cup of cottage cheese. “Narrow escape tunnels leading from the houses to central shared shelters under Chanticleer Circle, capable of withstanding a massive blast.”
“You say they were never built.”
“The first buyers weren't comfortable with the idea of shared underground vaults. One who objected was your former father-in-law, Wendell Phelps.”
“Better to die than sweat together in fear?”
A tiny smile flitted across his face. “Perhaps, but by the time Crystal Waters was built, the big fear wasn't nuclear war. It was the riots, the fires, the uprisings of the students and the poor, storming the citadels of the rich. Bomb shelters couldn't protect against that. In fact, the shelters planned for Crystal Waters could be a threat. As Wendell, among others, pointed out, those tunnels were a way into the homes. Someone could break into one home, go through its tunnel to a shelter, and from there break into other homes. Wendell was right. The developers reconsidered and filled them in.”
“You just said they weren't built. How could they be filled in?”
He tossed the cottage cheese cup in his wastebasket, picked up a pencil, and tapped the eraser on one of the hubs he had drawn along Chanticleer Circle. “The shelter vaults under Chanticleer Circle had to be built before the road was laid. I guess it would have been the tunnels that had to be filled in.”
“So the shelters are still there, under the road?”
He shrugged. “I would presume so.”
“And the tunnels going to them?”
“As I said, Vlodek, the idea was scrapped.”
“And the tunnels were filled in? Filled in, or never built?”
“Filled inâ” He stopped when he saw the look on my face.
“For sure?”
He started to shake his head, then froze as the impact of what I was asking hit him.
“Where were the entrances to the tunnels?”
“Small openings, maybe three feet square, through the basement walls.”
“How about air shafts? Other ways in?”
“I don't know. Shit, I don't know.”
I looked down at the rimless wagon wheel he'd drawn in the northwest quadrant of the development. I grabbed a fountain pen from a tray on his desk, unscrewed the cap, and started darkening the blueprint lines with black ink. From the hub under the road, one spoke went to the site of the Farraday house. A second led to the house that had just exploded. I darkened the lines of a third tunnel and looked at him.
His mouth worked for a minute before the words came out. “Amanda's house,” he said. He looked up from what I had drawn. “Did you ever see an entrance in the basement?”
“There was none. But I only lived there a few months. I never had reason to examine the basement wall.”
“I don't think the entrances to the tunnels were ever cut in.”
“You don't think, or you don't know?”
He started to say something, but I already had my cell phone out, punching in Till's number. I got his machine. I clicked off, called Stanley, got his voice mail, too. All of Gateville could be blown to the moon with the flip of one switch, and nobody had time to answer the damned phone. I told Stanley's machine to tell Till to comb the grounds looking for air shafts leading down to tunnels and to begin in the northwest quadrant, where the two exploded houses had been. I said to check every basement for ways into the tunnels, starting with Amanda's house.
I said that was where the bombs were.
I was leading my two-car parade home on the Eisenhower, the Crown Victoria tight behind, when Stanley called. “It's a mess here, Mr. Elstrom,” he yelled into the phone, trying to be heard above what sounded like large truck engines. “The Members won't leave without their furniture and clothes. Everybody has hired moving trucks, and now Chanticleer Circle looks like rush hour downtown. Gridlock. Agent Till is bringing in tow trucks to clear the street so he can get his own equipment in, but I don't know how long that will take.”
I took the next exit off the expressway, swung into the corner of a gas station, and cut the engine so I could hear. The Crown Victoria screeched to a stop behind me.
“Stanley,” I shouted into the phone, “do you know anything about underground tunnels and bomb shelters at Crystal Waters?”
The sound of diesel motors at his end was deafening. I didn't think he heard me. “I said, do you know anythingâ”
“Tunnels?” he shouted back. “I never heard that, except from your message. There are no tunnels here.”
“I think you're wrong. Get Till to comb every lawn, every foundation,
every basement, looking for ways into those tunnels. I think the D.X.12 is hidden there.”
every basement, looking for ways into those tunnels. I think the D.X.12 is hidden there.”
The sound of truck engines got louder.
“Stanley?” I yelled into the mouthpiece.
“Got it, Mr. Elstrom. Tunnels. I'll tell Agent Till.”
“Start with Amanda's house.”
“You don't think Miss Phelpsâ”
“Of course not,” I shouted. I took a breath, trying to slow down so I could be precise. “It's because her house is so close to the two that have been blown up and because it's been unoccupied. Tell Till to start there.”
“I'll tell him, Mr. Elstrom. Wait at home until you hear from us.” He clicked off.
I drove to the turret. Before getting out of the Jeep, I picked up the cell phone, toying with the idea of calling Amanda. I could use the pretext that I was making sure she'd gotten her artwork out of Gateville, but it would be pointless. She knew about the bombs and knew about the link between them and me. It was why she hadn't been taking any of my calls.
I put the phone in my pocket. I couldn't repair anything over the phone.
I got out of the Jeep. I didn't recognize the two young agents back in the Crown Victoria, trying to appear to be looking everywhere but at me, but they looked the same as the others: dark suits, white shirts, close haircuts. Till must have had dozens of them. I gave them a nod, which they ignored, and walked up to the turret, scanning the ground around the base for small packages, containers, anything big enough to hold an explosive. It was my habit now, since the shed had gone up. I did the circle, unlocked the heavy door, and went in.
It was only eleven thirty in the morning but I had a hundred pounds of fatigue clamped to the base of my neck. From too many nights on the roof, I supposed, watching the sky over Gateville. But
things were ending. Till was up to his knees in Gateville now. He was taking things apart; he'd find the tunnels. Then he would find the D.X.12, or at least the wiring, and no one else would die.
things were ending. Till was up to his knees in Gateville now. He was taking things apart; he'd find the tunnels. Then he would find the D.X.12, or at least the wiring, and no one else would die.
I went upstairs to the third floor and lay on the cot and checked out.
A cold gust of wind blew in from the river, arcing the metal slats of the window blinds into a crazed kind of St. Vitus' dance. It was dark, the only light in the room a gauzy, narrow beam from the moon outside the slit window. I pulled the blanket over my ears to shut out the clatter and tried to will myself back to sleep, but images of what must be going on at Gateville, of diesel searchlights and teams of men in bomb suits, probing the grounds, going into tunnels to rip things out, popped me all the way awake. I squinted at the clock. It was twelve thirty in the morning. I'd slept for thirteen hours.
I put on my jeans, Nikes, and the red sweatshirt, stenciled with I LOVE ARKANSAS in green below a Tweety Bird, that I'd gotten at the Discount Den during Bill Clinton's impeachment hearings. I like to be stylish, even in the middle of the night. I went downstairs to make coffee.
I filled my travel mug, grabbed a two-pack of Twinkies, and went outside. A Crown Victoria, black in the white light of the moon, was in the usual spot, a hundred yards down. I recognized Agent Other behind the wheel, Agent Blonder riding shotgun. I smiled at them, held up my Twinkies in salute, and rejected the idea of asking them for an update about Gateville. They wouldn't tell me; zipper-lips was the first commandment of being a junior G-man. No matter, things were under control.
I walked down to the bench by the river. Behind me, the Crown Victoria started up and eased quietly forward to keep me in sight. I sat on the bench, and the car's engine stopped.
I sipped coffee and took small bites of a Twinkie, making it last.
For the first time since Stanley Novak had come to see me in June, the greasy tingle of impending disaster was gone from my gut. I felt good, rested. Things were going to get better.
For the first time since Stanley Novak had come to see me in June, the greasy tingle of impending disaster was gone from my gut. I felt good, rested. Things were going to get better.
Trucks rumbled along the tollway. Somewhere closer a railroad signal clanged, and Rolling Stones music filtered out of one of the joints along Thompson Avenue. Mick was complaining about getting no satisfaction. Right, Mick. And from a car parked in the dark fringes of the city hall lot, a woman laughed, not in joy but in need. Too bad she couldn't hook up with Mick, I thought; they could do each other some good.
Normal sounds; Rivertown sounds.
I slid the second Twinkie out of the package. It was cool for the end of August, and I was glad for the sweatshirt. I looked up. The sky was that startling black that comes when there is a full moon and the summer air has suddenly gone crisp. The lights along the river stood out bright in the night, temporarily freed from the humid haze that shrouds them in summer. It was a good night, a clear night.
I watched the river reflect lazy silver ripples in the moonlight, ate slowly at the Twinkie. By now, Till's men were in the tunnels. I imagined dozens of them hand-digging, pulling out wires and packets of D.X.12. With luck, they'd also be pulling out evidence that would lead them to the bastard that had set off the bombs. And that would finish it forever. There would be epic battles with insurance companies, and people like Bob Ballsard were going to lose a lot more than his inventory of boat shoes, and Amanda might lose her house. But she'd still have the art. And no one else would die.
I checked my watch. One thirty. I finished the last of the creamy white nutrient they inject for health reasons into Twinkies and went back up to the turret. I waved at Blonder and Other. They didn't smile.
I climbed the stairs to the third floor, thinking Till might take my
call. He'd still be at Gateville, far enough along to have made some real progress. He'd have to thank me for the tip on where to start digging; he might even drop his stony facade to congratulate me on the brilliant sleuthing that had yielded the presence of those long-abandoned tunnels. It was probably just oversight that he hadn't contacted Blonder and Other to call off the surveillance on me.
call. He'd still be at Gateville, far enough along to have made some real progress. He'd have to thank me for the tip on where to start digging; he might even drop his stony facade to congratulate me on the brilliant sleuthing that had yielded the presence of those long-abandoned tunnels. It was probably just oversight that he hadn't contacted Blonder and Other to call off the surveillance on me.
The cell phone wasn't on the wood table by my cot. I checked the floor and poked under the mound of clothes on the chair. Not there, either. I thought back. The last call I'd had was from Stanley, in the Jeep, when I'd told him where to hunt for the bombs. I went downstairs and outside. Blonder and Other watched me from the Crown Victoria. Blonder picked up his phone.
I looked through the plastic passenger window of the Jeep. The cell phone lay face up on the seat. I opened the door, turned on the phone, and sat on the passenger seat. The message indicator started flashing. I punched in the code.
“Hi, Dek.” Amanda's voice was guarded. “I don't know if I should be calling you. I have no one else to call. I don't want to put you at risk, but I have to know what's going on. Two weeks ago, Stanley Novak called me, saying there have been bomb threats at Crystal Waters. He also said that your storage shed blew up and that you are being falsely considered a suspect. He told me there was no danger of any bombs actually going off and that you would be cleared shortly. Then he said that you would be better off if I avoided contact with you. I asked him how long that would take. He said less than a month. I didn't understand, but I said fine, I would wait one month for him to give me the go-ahead to call you. Now somebody from my father's office just called and said there's been an explosion at Crystal Waters. He said it's all over the news, that the police are going to search my house, and that I should get my paintings out of there. What is going on, Dek? I'm over Ohio now. I'll call you when I get to O'Hare.”
I held the phone tight while I listened to the second message. “Where are you, Dek? I'm in a cab on the tollway. I'll be at Crystal Waters by ten thirty. Call me on this cell phone.”
Something sick danced in my head.
She hadn't known about the bombs. Stanley had called her a couple of weeks before but had said nothing about the Farraday house or the lamppost. He hadn't told her to get her paintings removed.
Maybe that was understandable, if I had the time to think.
But the time of her last message wasn't, at least not why she hadn't called again.
She'd said she'd be at Gateville at ten thirty. That meant she would have been stopped around then, at a police roadblock or at the gate, and told that her house was off-limits. She would have become furious. She would have stayed right there, demanding to be let in to get the Monet, the Renoir, and the other works safely out of her house. She wouldn't have walked away. Her artworks were her soul. She wouldn't have left them.
“If there were ever a fire, I would get the Monet out of the house before I'd call the fire department,”
she'd said the first time I'd come to Gateville. Never had I doubted that.
she'd said the first time I'd come to Gateville. Never had I doubted that.
She would have grabbed her cell phone in a fury, to call her father to use his pull to get her inside Gateville. She would have called Ballsard, and every other Board member she could locate, to bully to get her in.
And, in her rage, she would have called me again, demanding to know what was going on.
She hadn't. There was no third message. No call demanding information. No call saying she'd gotten in, had grabbed her oils, was safe, and would call me tomorrow.
I called her cell phone, listened to four long, slow rings, got the voice mail message.
It was wrong. She should have picked up.
I waited a minute, redialed. Again I got the voice mail. I leaned over to look in the rearview mirror. Back in the Crown Victoria, Blonder and Other were watching me.
My mind flitted across options. The smart move was to get out of the Jeep, walk back, and get Blonder and Other to call Gateville and ask at the guardhouse if Amanda had arrived. But that would take time, assuming they would even do it.
The dumb move was to charge out to Gateville myself. Dumb. But fast.
I slid onto the driver's seat, fumbling in my pants pocket for the ignition key. Before my fingers could close on it, headlamps flashed from the Crown Victoria as it shot forward to stop diagonally across my left front fender. Blonder and Other jumped out with their guns drawn. I pulled my hand out of my pocket. It hadn't even touched the key.
Blonder was just outside the driver's door. “Step out of the car, Mr. Elstrom,” he yelled through the plastic window.
I put my hands on the steering wheel so they could see I wasn't holding a weapon.
“Out of the car,” Blonder shouted again. He raised the gun in his right hand, steadied by his left. Something moved out of the corner of my right eye. Agent Other stood in front of the Jeep, his gun also raised to firing position.
I got out, slow, hands high. And stupid. “Call Till. I know where the bombs are.”
“Palms on the hood,” Blonder yelled.
Agent Other came around, holstering his gun. He pushed me against the hood of the Jeep. I managed to push out my palms in time to break my fall as I hit. Other kicked my legs apart and patted me down, then pulled my arms behind me, sending my chin onto the metal. Two snicks and I was handcuffed, trussed, wings back, like a Christmas turkey. Other pulled me up. “Back to our car.”
They marched me to the Crown Victoria. Agent Other opened
the rear door, put his palm on the top of my head, and gave me a quick nudge. I fell sideways onto the cold vinyl of the backseat like meat.
the rear door, put his palm on the top of my head, and gave me a quick nudge. I fell sideways onto the cold vinyl of the backseat like meat.
I pushed with my feet, managed to struggle upright, found a tinny voice. “What the hell are you guys doing?”
But I knew. I'd made the moves of someone trying to flee, and, when cornered, I'd made it worse by announcing that I knew where the bombs were, sounding every bit like the person who had planted them. They were rookies, but they knew to get me bundled up and neutralized in a heartbeat.
Other got in behind the wheel. Blonder took the front passenger's seat and pulled out his phone.
My shoulders felt like they were slowly being torn from their sockets. I shifted on the seat until I could lean against the door and ease the pressure off my arms.
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