by Peter Ponzo
"Tony! Get somebody up there, that window. Frank, check that bomb again. Does it have a remote or is it timed?"
Tony ran into the building, followed by three security officers. Frank Harris walked up to Clayton and stopped, staring up at the open window,
"It's a remote ... needs a transmitter to set it off."
"What range is needed, for the transmitter?"
"Depends on the power of the transmitter. Just milliwatts would do, somewhere within a mile or two. But the bloody bomb would never go off. Work of a rank amateur."
Gordon and the head of the bomb squad were standing directly in front of an old brick apartment building. Tony was now looking down, out of one of the windows.
"Clayton?" he shouted. "We got him. Be there in a minute."
Soon two officers appeared at the door holding a thin man with moustache and dirty overalls. Clayton Chaplain walked toward the man and ran his eyes down to his boots then up to his dark, frightened eyes. His face was streaked with grease, his eyes betrayed his fear.
"What were you doing up there?" Clayton asked.
"I ... I live there. I was jest waitin' fer the parade to start." The man was shaking. Frank Harris grabbed him by the collar.
"Amateur! You didn't really expect that thing to go off did you? Bloody amateur. The wires are crossed, the red wire goes to the receiver input, not to the output. And the ends are frayed, shorting out the -"
Clayton put his hand on Frank's shoulder and Frank looked around, surprised, then stopped talking.
"Sir, do you have any identification?" Clayton spoke in a soft and quiet voice.
The thin man reached inside his pocket and removed a worn leather pouch, handing it to Clayton. His hand was streaked in grease, and shaking. Clayton opened the pouch and slid out the plastic Visa card, reading the name: Joseph Kanke.
"We'll have to take you in for questioning," Clayton said, still looking at the card. "With luck you'll be back before the parade starts."
"What!" shouted Frank Harris. "You'll be back after a term in prison. You know what the penalty is for -"
"Frank. Shut up." Clayton spoke softly, but stared fiercely at the head of the bomb squad, and Frank shut up.
Then the bomb exploded.
Tony was just coming out of the building and was hit by a small fragment, a red streak leaping across his forehead. Clayton pushed the man, Joseph Kanke, against the building, shielding him. Frank Harris fell to the ground, bleeding from the neck.
Clayton looked in the direction of the car. The vehicle was demolished, pieces of fender and trunk scattered across the road. The crowd of pedestrians was running toward the square. Two men from the bomb squad were lying on the street, motionless.
When the ambulance arrived, Frank Harris was dead, a piece of blackened metal sticking out from his neck. Two men from the bomb squad were also dead, faces shattered by the explosion. Four onlookers were slightly hurt. Tony had a slight red scratch. Clayton was unhurt as was the nervous man with the moustache and dirty face.
"You ... you tried to save me," the man whispered to Clayton. "I didn't do nothing. I didn't put no bomb nowhere. Honest, I didn't." He looked at Clayton, tears running down his cheek, a thin path free of dirt. "But you, you tried to save me." The man looked admiringly at Clayton, then at the ambulance receding down the street, carrying the body of Frank Harris and two of his men. Then he became angry. "That bastard! He though I did it. Got what was comin to 'im, he did. Thought I did it, but I didn't ... honest, I didn't." He looked back at Clayton, his eyes pleading.
*****
In less than thirty minutes Tony had checked the man's credentials. Joseph Kanke was a plumber, had lived in that building for over four years, had been separated from his wife for a year, had one kid at college, one at home still living with his wife, he was paying all the bills for his wife and his kid in college.
"He's clean, figuratively speaking," said Tony with a grin.
"But the bomb. Why three blocks from the square?" Clayton was frowning, looking at the map hanging in the communication van.
"The car was out of gas. I guess it was supposed to be parked nearer the square and it just ran out of gas."
"Who does it belong to?"
"Stolen from a car lot, the other side of town." Tony sat on the small chair beside Clayton, pulled on his cigarette, inhaled deeply. "Can you imagine that? Somebody plans to leave the car near the square, a bomb in the trunk which will go off when it gets a radio signal from a transmitter, miles away, and he forgets to check the gas tank. Just runs out of gas, three blocks from the square."
Clayton turned his head and looked intently at Tony Shugart. Tony waited for him to speak and when he didn't, Tony continued.
"Whoever planted the bomb did in fact set it off. Right? It did go off. Why? What good would it do? What did it accomplish?"
"Evidence," muttered Clayton. "Destroy the evidence. Finger prints, components of the bomb purchased in some electronic supply store, hair, mud on the floor from some area of the city. The guy wasn't too stupid, in spite of what Frank Harris says."
"Well, he ran out of gas didn't he? That's pretty stupid."
"Yeah, pretty stupid. An amateur. But Frank, Christ, how could he have been so wrong? The red wire goes to the receiver input, not to the output he said. The ends are frayed, he said, and shorted out something." Tony grinned. Clayton had remembered the diatribe, word-for-word. "How could Frank have been so wrong? Tony, there's a lesson for you. Take nothing for granted. Expect the worst. Christ. Frank Harris, and two of his men, dead ... and the parade hasn't even started yet."
Tony looked at his watch and muttered around the cigarette, out the side of his mouth.
"Soon, Clayton. Soon."
*****
There was nothing else he could do so Clayton sat in the communication van and watched the TV monitors. He was nervous. He hadn't slept in days. He thought of the story his brother had told, of the World of Sharlain. He tried in vain to dismiss the story but couldn't. An assassination from another world? How could he, or anyone, cope with that?
The high school bands had passed the VIP stage and, in the distance, Clayton could see the flags atop the leading army vehicles. First came the soldiers, marching stiffly, eight abreast, with exaggerated precision. He held his breath when they all turned their heads to the stage. Did those rifles really contain blank cartridges? Had they been checked?
When they continued past the stage he breathed again.
"So far so good Mr. Chaplain," said the technician.
"Y-y-yes. So far."
He thought of a black figure materializing in front of the stage, a long and sinister device in his hands. A dark figure leaping through the Door of Monash, raising his weapon, firing before security could rush to intervene, a bright blue flash, the governor falling back, burning, his body a cloud of gray ash.
Clayton shook his head to dispel the image. Concentrate. The army trucks were arriving, mounted with machine guns. Clayton leaned forward and peered at the nearest TV screen. Did he see bullets hanging in straps from the sides of the machine guns? Surely not. He had insisted that the guns be disarmed. Not even blanks. But they did have bullets, didn't they? Christ. Had somebody neglected to carry out his orders?
Clayton picked up the phone.
"The machine guns, on the armored trucks. Do they have bullets? Hmm ... okay, okay. Good. Just checking."
"Do they, Mr. Chaplain?" asked the technician.
"Yes, plastic bullets, for show only, for parades and Memorial Day celebrations. Christ. Why didn't somebody tell me that?"
He held his breath as the column of trucks passed the stage. There were too many. Only a dozen trucks were approved. How many were there? He began to count: one-two-three ... yes, only twelve. He let out his breath. Christ. This was taking years off his life.
He imagined a UFO, materializing above the stage, a huge circular, rotating disk bristling with a
rmaments. World of Sharlain was written across the bottom. A door slid open and a small sphere fell out. The stage vanished in a whoosh of bright flame as the sphere hit.
Clayton again shook his head. In twenty minutes the parade would be over. Then the governor would make his speech. That was to last less than ten minutes. Then the governor would leave the stage, to the rear, where bullet proof cars were waiting. He would drive down the avenue inside a plastic bubble, bullet proof, waving at the crowd. That would last only four minutes. The procession would then turn off, leaving the square at high speed. Clayton looked at his watch, for no reason. The departure would be along a road that was known only to him and to the drivers and a very few others. Had the drivers all been checked out thoroughly? What if the driver of the governor's car took off down the wrong road? Security had been arranged only along the Avenue of Presidents. Perhaps it was too obvious that they would leave by that Avenue. Another more obscure exit route should have been chosen. Christ.
Clayton picked up the phone. "The driver of the governor's car. Who is he? Hmm ... okay. That's okay."
He put down the phone.
"Anything wrong, Mr. Chaplain?"
"No, nothing wrong."
"Is the driver trustworthy?"
Clayton looked at the technician and smiled weakly.
"Yeah, trustworthy. It's the governor's chauffeur; been driving for at least five governors. Hope he likes th-this governor."
When would this be over? Clayton began to perspire. He saw a crack develop in the ground about the stage; a large circular crack which surrounded the stage. He saw the stage vanish into the ground, then a flag rise from the cavity. It waved in the light breeze. It said: World of Sharlain.
Clayton shook his head. No more daydreaming. Concentrate. The first of the tanks had pulled abreast of the stage, its cannon seeming far too long for the length of the tank. The crowd was cheering. Why? Maybe they had been cheering constantly and he hadn't noticed. Yes, that must be it. He scanned the monitors which scanned the crowds. The children in the crowd were waving small flags and everyone was shouting.
The phone rang and the technician answered.
"Com van, Chuck talkin'. Sure. Hold on." He handed the phone to Clayton. "It's for you, sir."
Clayton Chaplain took the phone and listened without saying a word. Then he looked at monitor fifteen. It showed a group of security officers dragging somebody from the crowd and into a car. Clayton continued to listen without talking, then looked at monitor five. Two security personnel were standing on a balcony of the Hanna Hotel with binoculars. Clayton put down the phone.
"Everything okay, Mr. Chaplain?" asked the technician.
"Yes ... uh, okay. Just some jerk who was carrying a toy rifle, his kid's toy. They saw him ... uh, from the Hanna Hotel. They've taken him off ... somewhere." Clayton's voice trailed off. He stared at the monitor.
The last army tank was now opposite the stage, its huge cannon angled upward to the dark sky. They had predicted a warm sunny day with few clouds but they were wrong, as usual. The gray clouds moved quickly and even the tank looked Grey with its cannon moving slowly against the dark sky.
Moving?
"What the hell it that?" Clayton shouted. "Is that cannon moving?"
He watched, mesmerized, as the great gun swung slowly in a wide arc and stopped, pointing directly at the stage. He grabbed the phone.
"Stop that tank! Get the governor off the Goddam stage! Drag him back -"
It was too late. He saw the bright flash, heard the thunder of the cannon, the stage exploding in a tower of flame, then the cries of panic from the crowd, then the mad stampede, then the horde of security personnel converging on the tank. Clayton watched in horror. This couldn't happen. Was he daydreaming?
No, this was real. He was stunned.
*****
By the time Clayton reached the army tank, a dozen men had already surrounded the vehicle, crouching, weapons raised. Tony Shugart was waiting for him.
"There isn't any way the driver could have escaped. Did you see it on the monitor? We were here in seconds. He couldn't have got out. He's in there now." Tony seemed breathless, but nervously pulled a cigarette from a wrinkled pack and lit it.
"What about the governor?"
"Dead."
Tony lowered his head.
"Sorry, Clayton. We had everything covered. There was nothing else we could do. Bloody hell, the stage just went up in a ball of fire. Nothing we could have done. Nothing." Tony paused, then, in an angry voice. "But we've got the bastard in the tank." The cigarette dropped from his lips.
Clayton wiped the bald circle atop his head. It was glistening with perspiration. He waved his hand at the tank.
"Send someone in. Drag the bastard out. I want to get a look at him."
Tony walked to a group of security men and spoke to them and two climbed to the hatch. It was open and one man peered in, then looked at Tony with a quizzical look, then climbed down into the vehicle. When he reappeared his look was one of amazement, then fear.
"It's empty," he muttered. "Jeesuz, it's bloody empty."
*****
Two days had passed since the assassination of the governor. Clayton Chaplain had been interviewed a dozen times. His name was on everyone's lips. When he explained that the army tank was empty, that no driver was in the vehicle, that security personnel had done everything they could to avoid a tragedy, the response was quick and painful. He had not done enough. The tank could not have been driven by a ghost. The culprit had escaped with ease, even with the extra measures security put in place. Clayton Chaplain was incompetent, without the experience necessary to assume the duties of Chief of Security.
*****
Gordon Chaplain had been unable to contact his brother for at least 24 hours after the tragedy. When he did, Clayton gladly accepted the offer to stay at Gordon's house for a few days. It was Saturday evening and they both had several drinks after dinner.
"A lousy dinner as usual, baby brother," grumbled Clayton with mock dismay. "Nothing has changed. You haven't learned a thing."
"And how long has it been since you invited me to a dinner? As I recall, the last time you provided dinner it was at a restaurant. Am I to infer that even the basics of culinary science are beyond your ken?"
During dinner, Clayton had spoken of nothing but the assassination. Gordon was pleased to see that his brother was now joking again, relaxing and even getting a little drunk. Then Clayton gulped a swig of brandy and spoke softly, as though in a daze.
"Somebody from the World of Sharlain, materializing right in the tank, walking through the Door of Monash."
"Huh?"
"Isn't that what you said, Gordon?"
"Yes. You have a good memory, big brother."
Gordon put his drink on an end table. The room lights had been dimmed and there was a low fire.
"Are you saying that you now believe in this World of Sharlain?"
"I don't have much choice. I've tried my damnedest to think of some other explanation. Ever since you told me of this other world I haven't been able to get it out of my mind. When we found nobody in the tank, that's the first thing that jumped into my head. For two days I've wanted, desperately, to provide that explanation to all the questions I've been asked, to the reporters, to the public, to the inquiry, but, of course, no one would believe me."
"So what do you want to do now?"
"Gordon, do you believe in this World of Sharlain, or were you just putting me on?"
Clayton was leaning forward, his face screwed up into a frown. An assassin from another world? It was clear from the tone of his voice that he now considered it a definite possibility.
"I wasn't putting you on," said Gordon. "Cross my fart. In fact, ever since Dan Woller disappeared, the remains of our poker group has been meeting to discuss what we should do."
"You all believe in this other world?"
"Yes."
"And have you discovered anything? Do you have any other information? Do you have any ideas? Do you -"
"Hold on. No good ideas have emerged from our discussions," Gordon interrupted. "The three of us, that's Peter, Tom and me, we take it very seriously, but we haven't the faintest idea where to look for this Door of Monash. We've spent hours looking up and down the alley where the old man spoke of the end of the world. That, apparently, is where this old guy lived; right in that alleyway. We found a makeshift enclosure. His house if you'd call it that. Cardboard and tin and wood, and empty bottles of wine. Even if we found the Door and entered the World of Sharlain then we haven't any idea of how we would stop an army from invading. We've thought of approaching the police or the military, but, as you've said, they wouldn't believe us. We're meeting tomorrow night, here, at my place. Want to join us?"
"Tomorrow night? Count me in," Clayton said, involuntarily looking at his watch.
"Good! Now, let's get some sleep. You need it. And sleep in tomorrow morning. I'll make something special for breakfast. How about bacon and egg and cheese omelet?"
Clayton groaned at the thought.
CHAPTER 5
The Door of Monash
Sandra Brickle was tired. It had been a long day at the hospital. Two patients had fallen out of bed, Mr. Kailey had spent the day pressing the emergency button for no reason except to complain about the nurses, the keys to the supplies cabinet had been misplaced for over an hour, a doctor had reprimanded her for the delay in administering a medication, the night nurse had arrived nearly an hour late and she had had to stay on.
But now she could relax, soaking in the bathtub, eyes closed, soft music playing in the other room. Tomorrow was Sunday. Her day off. She lay in the tub for nearly thirty minutes. When she finally opened her eyes the water was only lukewarm. She climbed out and pushed her way into a fluffy bathrobe and didn't bother to empty the tub. She was too tired. Just relax for a while. She leaned on the low sink and stared into the large mirror, pushing her long blond hair from her forehead and running her finger over the small mole on her chin. She was slightly overweight and had a double chin, just a little double, maybe just one and a half. She wasn't really beautiful, but she was pretty; well, if not pretty at least she wasn't ugly. She stared into her eyes, blinked twice, smiled. Her front tooth was a little crooked, from a childhood accident. She closed her mouth and frowned into the mirror. She let the robe slip slowly, slowly from her shoulders, watching intently in the mirror. She smiled, but paid no attention to her teeth. Her body was being revealed, the shoulders, her ample breasts, her stomach, belly, rotund.
