Cherry Bomb (13 page)
Authors: J. A. Konrath
T
HE PHONE WOKE ME UP.
In the darkness of the Bronco’s front seat, I fumbled around for my purse and located it by my feet. On the third ring I fished it out and flipped the top open, hearing several beeps.
Alex. Sending me another picture. Phin glanced over at me while I accessed it.
Lance appeared even worse than before, his face contorted with pain and blurred by motion. The lighting was a little better this time, the burn marks on his chest darker and more pronounced. I held it up for Phin, who divided his attention between the photo and the road.
“Are those letters?”
“Where?”
“His wounds,” Phin said. “Connect the dots.”
I traced my fingernail over the burns, and the letters seemed to pop out at me.
There was also a text message.
FOUR HOURS LEFT.
“What the hell is Zd?” I asked.
“One of the elements? Zirconium?”
“That’s Zr.”
“Maybe an abbreviation. Or initials.”
I closed my eyes, tried to think. Zd meant absolutely nothing to me. Maybe something in connection with Lance? Bomb squads? Some kind of explosives or equipment? Or something to do with Milwaukee?
“Where are we?” I asked.
“Just across the Wisconsin border. Got about forty minutes left.”
I wanted to call Herb, but I promised myself I wouldn’t bother him again. Harry was probably still occupied with the Feds. Hajek was almost certainly occupied with the authorities as well, and I had no delusions that a few strands of hair turned him from adversary into ally. That left Detective Tom Mankowski, still in Indiana. I fished out my personal cell and found his number.
“Lieutenant? I haven’t been able to get in my car yet. Did you talk to Hajek?”
“Yeah. Cop’s name is David Strang, out of Milwaukee. Look, Tom, things have gotten complicated, and I’m persona non grata with both the CPD and the Feds. Alex just sent me another picture. It’s Lance again, but this time the burns on his chest look like letters. Capital
Z
, small
d
. Mean anything to you?”
“Not a thing. You sure it’s a
Z
and not the number
2
?”
“Could be a
2
. Does 2d mean anything to you?”
“Two-dimensional, obviously, but I don’t see how that’s a clue. Alex did this as some kind of hint, right?”
“Probably.”
“I read her shrink report. She has a genius IQ.”
I sighed. Why did all the serial killers I chased have to be brilliant criminal masterminds? Where were all the psychos with average intelligence?
“I’m forwarding the photo and a text message to you. Pass it along. If the Milwaukee PD finds Lance, let us know. We’re going to keep searching until we hear news.”
Hopefully the news would be “he’s safe” instead of “he’s dead.”
“Happy hunting, Lieut.”
Mankowski hung up. I spent a few minutes fiddling with the cell phone, sending him the info.
“We’re also low on gas.”
I nodded, my mind attacking the Zd problem. What the hell was Alex trying to tell me? Zee dee. Two dee. Zee dee. Two dee…
“Wasn’t she one of the girls on
The Facts of Life
?” Phin said. “Tootie?”
“Did I say that out loud?”
“Six or ten times.”
I rubbed my eyes. “I’m pretty sure Alex isn’t pointing us to an old sitcom.”
“Apartment number?”
“Two dee. That works.”
“Something to do with the Marines? Squad 2d?”
“I’m drawing blanks.”
Alex’s phone rang. I steeled myself, answered.
“What do you want, Alex?”
“Not Alex. It’s Harry. I called on that phone because they’re tracing and tracking your other one. Stay off of it.”
Stupid. Now they knew Mankowski was helping me. How was I supposed to catch Alex when I was making rookie mistakes?
“Aren’t you in federal custody, McGlade?”
“Hell, no. I cut a deal.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “What kind of deal?”
“Jesus, Jack. Don’t be so paranoid. I’m not going to betray my own flesh and blood.”
“It’s Phin?” I asked. “I thought you two were friends.”
“It’s not like he’s an innocent bystander, Jackie. He robbed a bank. You do the crime, you do the time. Point is, now I’ve got some breathing room, and I’ve been looking at that photo of Lance.”
“His name is David Strang.” I gave Harry the blow-by-blow.
“Good. Send me the new pic and text. And don’t bother with residential. He’s in a hotel or motel, maybe a bed and breakfast.”
“How do you know?”
“In the upper right-hand corner of the picture, on the nightstand, under the pigstick. Looks like the edge a red piece of paper. I enhanced the detail.”
“What is it?”
“It’s when I use a computer program to tighten the pixel pattern by adjusting contrast and color.”
He did that on purpose. I kept my voice even.
“What did the enhancement show you, McGlade?”
“It’s part of a Do Not Disturb sign. So she’s holding him in a room somewhere.”
“How many hotels in Milwaukee?”
“Lemme check.” I heard fingers on a keyboard. “According to the Yellow Pages, only about six hundred. But that might include some overlaps.”
“Search for Zd and 2d.”
“Searching. A million hits on Zd. Wine. Digital cameras. Nothing pops out. For 2d, got two hundred million hits. Looks like a lot of computer tech stuff. Lemme try to cross-ref with Lance’s name, motels, Milwaukee, and so on. Maybe a combination of terms will give us something. I’ll call you back.”
Harry hung up. My stomach rumbled, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten anything. That made me remember the steaks I owed Herb. While waiting for Harry I put in a call to 1-800-MEATS4U and their twenty-four-hour customer ser vice representative suggested the Meat Lover’s Package, which included assorted steaks, burgers, chicken filets, and a Turduckinlux. I opted for the BBQ flavor over the savory garlic and rosemary.
Phin pulled into an oasis, up to the station. He parked, switched off the truck, and unbuckled his belt. But rather than get out and pump gas he sat there, staring straight ahead, fingers drumming the steering wheel.
“Harry going to turn me in?”
I nodded. “I’m surprised. I thought you guys had that macho code of honor thing. Death before betrayal and all that.”
“McGlade doesn’t owe me anything.”
“So you would betray him too?”
“If I had to.”
“Would you betray me?”
Phin stared at me, his blue eyes hard.
“No.”
Which made me feel even worse about almost shooting him. He opened his mouth to say something more, probably to explain himself, and I didn’t want to hear it so I put my finger over his lips to silence him. His mouth parted slightly, my fingertip brushing against the top of his teeth, and I pulled away and got out of the car before I gave in to all the dirty things I was thinking.
“Fill it up, I’ll pay inside.”
I walked into the mini-mart, and was assaulted by the cloying smell of hot dogs cooked way too long. It made my stomach rumble again. I’m proud to say that I’d never indulged in gas station cuisine, but I was almost hungry enough to start.
First things first, though. There was something weighing on my mind more than food. Something that had been troubling me for hours.
I wandered the short aisles, found the one with birth control. The store had the average assortment of jellies, foams, and condoms. I found what I needed and took it to the counter, breaking down and also getting a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of salsa. I grabbed a twelve-pack of bottled water, a box of granola bars, and a handful of beef jerky as well.
“This and what ever is on pump five,” I told the attendant. He was young, scruffy, wearing a greasy baseball cap with an unnaturally curved rim that he must have spent some serious time shaping. He smirked at me when he saw my purchases, and then looked out the window at Phin and smirked again. I had an urge to slap him.
“Might want to check the expiration date,” he said. “Those things expire.”
He wasn’t referring to the chips. And embarrassing as it was, he had a point. I turned over the package, found the date on the side panel. Still good for another six months.
Phin was still pumping, so I asked Smirking Boy where the bathroom was, and took the box with me.
As expected, the bathroom looked like a swamp creature blew up in there while engaging in every possible bodily function. I triple-plied the toilet paper on the seat, dropped my sweatpants, and sat down, staring at the three letters on the box.
EPT.
Latham and I practiced safe sex. I was in my late forties, but still a fertile Myrtle, and we weren’t sure having a kid in college while we zeroed in on seventy was the way we wanted to spend our golden years.
But condoms were only 98 percent effective, and by my math, that meant condom use resulted in pregnancy one out of fifty times.
Latham and I had sex more than fifty times.
Still, it was virtually impossible. There hadn’t been any breaks. Hadn’t been any
oops.
My late period was the result of stress, not pregnancy.
It had to be.
I put a hand to my belly, overwhelmed by feelings. Fear, anxiety, depression, anger, worry, and something else. Something I wasn’t expecting.
Hope.
Jesus, part of me was hoping I was pregnant.
I read the box.
Opened the package.
Peed on the stick.
Waited.
Waited.
Waited.
Looked.
Read the box again.
Cried. Cried so hard I couldn’t catch my breath.
I must have been in there too long, because someone began to knock on the bathroom door.
“I’ll be right out,” I said, but through the sobs it sounded more like “Abeeiooud.”
“Jack?”
Phin.
I unrolled some toilet paper, swabbed my face.
“Jack? You okay?”
I wrapped the pregnancy test in paper, held it over the toilet, and stopped. I realized I didn’t want to throw it away. Instead I stuffed it into my purse.
“Jack? I’m coming in.”
“I’m fine,” I said, more in control now. “I’ll be right out.”
I washed my hands, avoided looking in the mirror because it wouldn’t have improved my mood, and unlocked the door to Phin standing there, all sympathetic and concerned.
This annoyed me. I wondered if the real reason he’d never betray me was because I had two X chromosomes, and the little woman needed to be protected by the big strong man, which was BS because I’ve beaten up bigger guys than him.
“I’m fine,” I repeated, pushing past him.
I threw some money at Smirking Boy, who hadn’t bothered bagging anything. I tucked beef jerky into my pockets, and shoved the granola bars under my armpit.
Phin grabbed the water.
“I got it,” I told him.
He spread out his hands and backed up. As he should have. I didn’t need him. I didn’t need anyone. I was perfectly capable of carry ing a few lousy items. I crammed the bag of chips under my other arm, grabbed the salsa in one hand, the water in the other, and gave Phin a look that said he better not try to hold open the goddamn door for me. He didn’t, giving me a wide berth, and I shuffled past and bumped the door with my hip, and the salsa slipped and broke on the floor like a gunshot, splattering red.
Phin didn’t say anything. Neither did Smirking Boy. I continued out the door, piled everything onto the hood of the Bronco, and began stuffing it into the backseat. Then I sat down and waited for Phin.
He climbed into the driver’s seat without comment and we got back on the expressway, and I tried to focus on the case instead of my personal life.
Big
Z
, small
d
. Big
Z
, small
d
. What the hell did that mean? Why did Alex burn that into David Strang’s chest?
No ideas came. And the harder I tried to think, the more my mind kept drifting back to the pregnancy test in my purse, which I clutched in both hands like a life preserver on a sinking ship.
A
LEX DREAMS.
She’s ten years old, in a cornfield in Indiana, in the center of a wide circle that she made with Charles. They stomped down all of the dry stalks around them and are sitting Indian style, face-to-face, knees touching. The corn is taller than they are, so no one can see them from the road or from the farm house. This is their private spot. Their special spot. No one can hurt them here. Not bullies. Not Father. Not anyone.
A wind blows through the corn, making a rustling sound. All around them, the corn ripples like a golden sea. Alex smells fresh earth and clean air. The sun is shining, bright overhead, and she turns up to feel it on her face.
But she doesn’t feel it. All she feels is cold.
She looks at Charles, wondering if he’s cold too. His eyes are closed.
“I love you,” she says.
He doesn’t answer. She reaches up, touches him. It’s like touching ice.
He’s dead. Charles is dead.
Then his jaw falls open.
“You’re ugly, Alex,” Charles says. “Scarred and ugly.”
It’s isn’t his voice. It’s Jack’s.
Charles becomes Jack, his features cracking and twisting, and then she’s standing over Alex with angry black eyes, pointing down at her like a vengeful god.
Alex reaches up, feels her own face, feels the scars.
And she’s afraid.
The pleasant field smell sours, becoming the acrid odor of sweat and fear. The gentle breeze goes rotten. The sun shines black.
Alex runs. Into the corn.
The corn grabs at her, tries to stop her. But Alex has a knife, and she cuts and slashes, and the corn cries out and bleeds, bright red arterial jets that sting like acid. Stalks morph into severed arms and legs, and Alex climbs up the bodies of the slaughtered, climbs up an ever-growing pile of people she has killed.
At the top of the mound is a face. Her face. Unscarred. It beckons her on.
Behind her, Jack grows to monstrous proportions, reaching out an enormous hand to pluck Alex away from her goal. Alex dodges, stabs at Jack’s huge thumb, then launches herself upward, hands outstretched and yearning.
Alex’s face is atop a pedestal, and she snatches it up and presses the perfect mask of flesh against her scars. It glows warm, then burning hot, shooting out rays that blind the Jack creature and cause her to tumble down the mountain.
And Alex smiles. Not a half smile. A full smile, all the muscles working, lips doing what they are supposed to, wide and bright and beautiful.
Then Alex begins to grow. Bigger than Jack. Bigger and stronger and almighty. She crushes the squealing lieutenant underfoot, her rib cage cracking like a bird’s nest.
For miles around Alex, the corn trembles and begs for mercy.
Alex’s blade stretches and curves, becoming a scythe.
As the world screams, Alex reaps.