The Return of the Incredible Exploding Man

by Dave Hutchinson

  The problem was, he couldn’t tell anyone about Kitson. Oh, by the way, Bud, there’s this MI6 officer who forced me to spy for him and he could be responsible.

  Someone knocked on the door. He went and opened it, and found Bud standing outside.

  “I was just thinking about you,” he said. Then he saw the look on Bud’s face. “What.”

  “I need you to come with me, Alex,” Bud told him.

  THE MORGUE AT County General was down in the basement of the building, down a long, chilly corridor with ducts running along the walls.

  Inside, everything was neat and clean and tidy, with that all-pervading Sioux Crossing feeling of newness. A technician was waiting for them, and he went to a wall which seemed to be composed entirely of little square doors. He opened one and pulled out a long stainless steel tray on which lay a pale blue body bag. The technician unzipped bag a fraction. Alex looked down.

  “Do you know this person?” Bud asked, beside him.

  For a moment that seemed to last forever, Alex’s mind went blank. Apart from a cut on the forehead, Kitson’s face was unmarked, drained of colour. He heard himself say, “Never seen him before.”

  Bud gave him a stare that was powerful enough to make the air between them ripple. “You sure you don’t know him?”

  Alex shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  Bud nodded to the technician, who zipped up the bag and slid the tray back into its compartment. Bud turned on his heel and headed for the doors. After a moment, Alex followed. “What’s going on? Why did you bring me here?”

  “He was carrying a British passport,” Bud said, pushing open the doors. “He was a Brit, you’re a Brit. I figured you might know each other.”

  All of a sudden, Alex felt a wave of dizziness pass through him. He stopped and leaned on the wall.

  Bud walked a couple of steps further along the corridor, stopped and turned. “You okay?”

  “I don’t get called out to look at dead people very often. Give me a second.”

  “Someone ran him off the road, south of town, last night,” Bud told him. “His airbag failed and he took the steering wheel in the chest. Killed him instantly, the EMTs said.”

  “Maybe he worked at the Facility,” Alex said, trying to force his brain to work again.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Alex,” Bud said, his face stony. “There’s three reasons I know you know who that guy is. First, the look on your face when you saw him. Second, the fact you didn’t ask me who he was. And third, he was driving your car when he died.”

  THE HEADQUARTERS OF the Sioux Crossing PD resembled a small, comfortable office building. It was not at all the way Alex imagined a police station would be; even the front desk looked like the foyer of a little motel. Bud’s office was on the third floor. There was a desk and a couple of comfortable guest chairs, some framed photos and diplomas on the walls, filing cabinets, a photo of the president on the wall behind the desk. No American flag, Alex noticed. Was that normal, or was it only in films that police chiefs’ offices had American flags?

  “Okay,” Bud said heavily from his chair on the other side of the desk. “Let’s try that again.”

  Alex looked at him for a few moments. “His name’s Kitson,” he said. “Sam Kitson. He works at the British Consulate in Minneapolis.” He watched Bud grimace. “He was—he claimed to be—an officer with SIS. MI6.”

  Bud put a hand to his head and groaned gently. “And you know this how?”

  “He contacted me shortly after I arrived in town and tried to get me to spy at the SCS on his behalf.”

  “‘Tried’?”

  “He threatened to have me deported if I didn’t cooperate. I didn’t see that I had any choice.”

  Bud stared at him. “So you’re admitting to carrying out espionage on American soil.”

  Alex nodded.

  Bud shook his head. “Well, fuck, Alex,” he said with a mixture of exasperation and wonder.

  “I didn’t do it willingly.”

  “I doubt whether that will carry much weight in court. What was he doing here?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t even know he was in the county.”

  “He wasn’t coming to meet with you?”

  “Not that I know of. Our last contact was the day before the barbecue and there was no reason why he’d have needed to come here.”

  “And you can’t tell me why he was in your car.”

  “As far as I knew, it was still in the garage at East Walden. We were talking about that this morning, remember?” Christ, it had been a long day.

  “I remember. You didn’t go collect it?”

  “I haven’t had the time. Or the brain power.”

  Bud settled back in his chair and clasped his hands across his stomach. “So this guy was your, what, your case officer.”

  “I suppose. I got the impression he was doing it on his own initiative, putting a source into the SCS because the Department of Defense is involved in the project. Maybe he thought he could impress his superiors.”

  “I should book you right now and try to figure this out afterward,” Bud told him. “Can you think of any reason why he would steal your car?”

  “I have no idea.” Alex rubbed his face. “I still have the keys.” He put a hand in his pocket, took them out, and held them up. “Look.”

  Bud made a gimme gesture, and Alex tossed the keys on the desk. Bud looked at them. “This is a hell of a thing,” he muttered.

  “I thought he might have something to do with the fire,” Alex said, because why not. “And the raccoon. And the hacking thing.”

  Bud raised an eyebrow.

  “I had a bit of a crisis of confidence,” Alex confessed. “I didn’t have any proof that he was who he said he was. So I went to Minneapolis and visited the consulate to see if he really did work there.”

  “And did he?”

  Alex nodded. “He was annoyed. Apparently you’re not supposed to turn up where your case officer works.”

  “He’d have to be astronomically annoyed to burn your house down because of it.”

  Alex shrugged.

  “When did you go up to Minneapolis?”

  “A few weeks ago.” Alex considered stopping right there, but he said, “I didn’t originally go to see Kitson, that was just because I was in town. I went to see the Shanahans.”

  Bud scratched his head. “You did, huh.”

  “Because of the guns.”

  “Which you never told me about.”

  “We’ve been through that already.”

  Bud sighed. “Well, we’re going to have to go through it again on an official basis now.” He looked at Alex. “This is a genuine mess,” he said.

  They looked at each other for quite a long time. Alex said, “So. What happens now?”

  “I have to alert the British authorities,” Bud said. “The nearest of which just happen to be at the consulate in Minneapolis. I guess they’ll blow smoke up my ass, but they’ll want to know what this guy was doing down here. You’re sure he was acting on his own?”

  “No. Not by any stretch. It was just a feeling.”

  Bud pouted. “If you’re wrong, they’ll want to contact you, make sure everything continues to run smoothly.” He brought his fists down on the desktop very gently, but Alex still fancied he felt the floor shake. “You see what happens when you don’t tell me things?”

  “Sure, I was just going to run up to you and confess to being a spy.”

  “I should be—and in fact I am—really pissed off with you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry. And is there any reason I shouldn’t book you on suspicion of this guy’s murder?”

  That hadn’t occurred to Alex. “Well… lots of reasons,” he said.

  “Because if he was blackmailing you, and he was harassing you, and he did set your house on fire, I’d say you had motive.”

  Alex sagged back in his chair. “I wish I’d never heard of this fucking place.” />
  “This fucking place which is my home,” Bud pointed out. “Did you kill him?”

  “No, of course I didn’t. What with? He was driving my car.”

  “You could have got another car easy,” Bud mused.

  “Oh, please. I was at the hotel all last night. And before that I was standing with you, watching my house burn, and I can’t believe you asked me that.”

  “Hey, you just admitted to being a spy.”

  Something belatedly caught up with Alex. “You’re sure this wasn’t an accident.”

  Bud lifted his hand and tipped it from side to side. “Jury’s out until we examine his car. Your car. But it looks deliberate to me.”

  “So maybe somebody thought I was driving.”

  “I sure thought so, when I first saw the car.”

  “Why didn’t you come and find me straight away?”

  “The place where it happened is County Sheriff’s jurisdiction. Guy Brandt didn’t call me about it until this afternoon, when they found out whose car it was.”

  Alex looked at his watch. “It’s almost eleven in the evening.”

  “You may have noticed,” Bud said, “living, as you now do, at the New Rose, that we have had other things to worry about today.”

  Dammit. Trumped by Gray Goose. “So what are we going to do?”

  Bud thought about it for a while. “I’m going to keep you here tonight,” he said finally. “While I untangle this clusterfuck some. I’ll contact the consulate momentarily; if this guy Kitson really was a resident intelligence officer they’ll want to send someone down ASAP. If they don’t ask after you, well, that might be significant, it might not, and we’ll visit that when the time comes.” He saw the look on Alex’s face. “Think of it as protective custody; if someone is wandering around Rosewater County trying to kill you, you’re better off here anyway.”

  “All right.”

  “But the espionage thing?” Bud shook his head. “I can’t let that go, Alex. You literally admitted it.”

  “Don’t tell Mickey Olive,” Alex said. “Not just yet.”

  “Alex,” Bud said, “the best possible outcome here is that you wind up thrown out of the country. These are not good times to be caught spying on the US. If there ever was a good time.”

  “Just hold off telling them,” said Alex. “Until we have a clearer idea what’s going on.”

  “That could be a while. Eventually they’re going to wonder where you went.”

  “Let them wonder.”

  Bud thought about it. “Okay. For the moment we’ll say you’re in protective custody, following recent events, and we’ll take it from there.”

  “Okay.”

  Bud stood slowly, like a continent shifting. “What did the Shanahans tell you?”

  “They said my house was cursed.”

  “Well,” Bud said, indicating that Alex should lead him out of the door, “I can’t disagree with them, right now.”

  THE POLICE DEPARTMENT cells looked as if they had never been occupied. The mattress was thick and brand new, and there was a flat-screen television in a glassed-in alcove on one wall. It played American football during daylight hours, a couple of hours of Fox News in the evenings, then it switched itself off and the lights dimmed for sleep. The cell smelled clean and it was warm. He’d slept in worse hotels.

  The morning after his protective arrest, Bud came in and told him that someone had turned up from the consulate at a little after four a.m. “Name of Goddard,” he said.

  Alex shook his head.

  “Older gentleman,” Bud went on. “Tall, thin, grey-haired. Had an air of attorney about him. One of those troubleshooting ones.”

  “Never met him,” Alex said.

  “He did an ID of Kitson, signed a bunch of forms, took the remains away in a van. Said the Brits would take care of an autopsy and share the results with us, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “Can they do that? Just go off with the body in the middle of an investigation?”

  Bud shrugged. “Mr Goddard had letters signed by some extremely important people, strongly recommending that I offer him full cooperation. I could have dug in my heels, but I doubt it would have changed anything in the end.”

  “Wow. They organised that in a hurry.”

  “Yeah, I thought that. Anyway, he didn’t mention you.”

  “I’m hurt,” Alex said, not feeling in the least bit hurt.

  “It’s not conclusive.”

  “It’s something. I’ve been thinking about Ralph.”

  Bud nodded. “Me too, but Brandt’s got deputies stationed outside your house; they’ll keep an eye on him too.”

  “Kitson stole my car from my garage right under everyone’s noses,” Alex pointed out.

  “When did you last see it?”

  Alex thought about it. “Fair point,” he said. “I used it to do the shopping a couple of days before the barbecue, put it in the garage, forgot about it. He could have taken it the night before.”

  “So if he was in the county at that time, he could still have caused the fire.”

  Alex shook his head. “He didn’t seem the type.”

  “You’d be surprised at the kinds of people who turn out to be ‘the type’, Alex.”

  Alex scowled. “Okay. So, Kitson’s gone and we’re still none the wiser. What now?”

  “It wasn’t an accident. Preliminary findings indicate he was sideswiped by another vehicle and driven into a ditch. Forensics got some red paint off the side panels of your car; we sent that off for analysis, but it’ll be a few days before we get any results.”

  “Traffic cameras?”

  “Not that far out of town. We’re reviewing the footage we do have from that night to see if we can spot anything. So far it’s all just emergency vehicles hightailing it to your place.”

  “None of this helps very much, does it.”

  “Nope.” Bud turned and thumped his fist on the door. An officer outside opened it. “The Brits will have an investigation into Kitson’s death. Unless he was doing the whole thing in his head, there will be documentation, and when they find that they’ll come looking for you.”

  Would there be anything to identify him? Alex had no idea. Maybe he had a codename, and Kitson had been the only person who could connect him to it. My information comes from Source Halfwit. That wouldn’t be too hard to figure out. “I’ve got enough to worry about, without adding MI6 to the list.”

  “You got that right, at least,” Bud said, leaving the cell and letting the officer close the door behind him. Alex heard the key turn in the lock.

  HIS NEXT VISITOR, the following day, was a bit of a surprise. She looked around the cell and said, “Well, this is nice.”

  “The food’s terrific,” he told her.

  Wendy snorted.

  “No, really. They bring it over from the Telegraph. Full menu, all you can eat.”

  She shook her head. “What have you done, Alex?”

  “I’m in protective custody. Bud has evidence that someone’s trying to kill me.” I’m also a British spy, but let’s not get into that right now. “What are you doing here?”

  “Nobody had seen you for a couple of days. I asked Bud where you were.”

  Alex was more than a little annoyed with Bud for telling her where he was, although he supposed the Chief had kept his word and not told Mickey Olive, because Mickey hadn’t turned up yet.

  “Who’s trying to kill you?” she asked. “What for?”

  “We don’t know yet. That would make things too easy.”

  Wendy came over and sat down beside him on the mattress. She said, “Isn’t this a bit… extreme?”

  “Bud doesn’t like to take risks.”

  This clearly didn’t impress her. She said, “Mm hm.”

  “How’s the outside world? Is there still an outside world?”

  She sighed. “Don’t try to change the subject, Alex. This isn’t protective custody. It’s something else.”

&nb
sp; “It’s protective custody,” he insisted. “And something else.”

  “What else?”

  “Can’t say.”

  She half turned and thumped him on the shoulder a lot more soundly than he thought strictly necessary. “Dickhead. What did you do?”

  He sighed. “I got into something over my head. Bud’s helping me sort it out.”

  “Dude. You’re in a cell.”

  “Bud says I can leave any time I want.” Although Bud had added that he would arrest him if he tried it, “And put you in real jail.”

  “Ralph’s going frantic,” she said. “He’s really worried about you.”

  It occurred to him that Ralph was probably the only person in Rosewater County who would actually understand what was going on. Dru Winslow too, maybe. He was going to have to sit those two down next to each other and get them talking, if he ever got the chance. “Tell him I’m okay. I’ll be over to see him soon.”

  “Well, that was said with conviction,” she told him.

  “Seriously,” he said. “I promise.”

  The look she gave him told him everything he needed to know about what she thought about that. They sat quietly together for a while, then she said, “Oh, we found out who hacked your laptop.”

  “What?”

  She nodded. “Maia left me a note this morning. There’s a calling card.”

  He turned so he was facing her. “What was it?”

  “There’s some malware on your laptop. It’s meant to look like something else, but it opens the machine up to remote access. Maia says it’s really complicated, much more complicated than it needs to be, thousands of lines of code. And among all those lines of code there’s a single line of plain text, like a trademark almost. Peacocks can’t live at this altitude.”

  Alex blinked.

  “So we googled that, and it turns out to be a quote from Hunter S Thompson.”

  He blinked again. Red paint traces on his car.

  “And who do we know who has a thing about Thompson?” Wendy went on, while light years of possibility unfolded themselves in Alex’s head. “And it’s just the sort of childish prank he’d pull.”