by Siegel, Alex
The mixture was a commercial product intended for use as an explosive rifle target. The impact of a high-power rifle bullet imparted just enough energy to detonate the combination. The aluminum acted as a catalyst, and most of the energy came from ammonium nitrate decomposing into nitrogen, oxygen, and water.
Triggering the explosion without a rifle bullet was difficult. Burning the mixture or striking it with a hammer wouldn't work. Even a regular bullet wasn't energetic enough.
Blake took a blasting cap out of the paper bag. It looked like a metal tube the size of an AAA battery, and wires were attached to one end. He buried the cap in the explosive.
He carefully ran the wires across the floor and into the bedroom. He went back and grabbed the jars of unused powder, but he left them in the living room on a coffee table. He made sure the jars would be seen by anybody walking into the apartment.
"Ready for the boom?" Blake said.
"Certainly," Phillip said.
They went into the bedroom together and knelt before the wire. The copper ends were exposed. Blake took the Russian Eye out of a pouch kept under his shirt, and he held the jewel tightly with both hands. Phillip placed his small hands over Blake's.
"It's been a long time since I created electricity," Blake said.
"It shouldn't be hard with us working together," Phillip said.
Blake focused all his attention on the copper wires and settled into a trance. Phillip did the same, and their minds automatically joined together. Blake felt his effective power double immediately. The two sorcerers worked in perfect concert, each knowing exactly what the other needed to create the maximum effect.
Physical sorcery was far more difficult than mind-control and other forms of mental sorcery. The universe didn't have emotional vulnerabilities to exploit. There was no easy leverage. The spell came down to who had the stronger will, Blake or the universe.
He visualized electrons jumping between the wires. Like all good sorcerers, he was an expert in physics and knew exactly what he was doing. He imagined the quantum potential fields stretching across space. He coupled his mind to reality in a way only a sorcerer could.
A tiny spark jumped between the wires, and an instant later, the bomb in the kitchen exploded.
He had expected a loud boom, but the concussion stunned him nonetheless. He stood up and peered into the other room. There was no smoke. Ammonium nitrate burned completely, leaving only gases and water vapor. The burned aluminum was messier and had left streaks of black residue.
The blast had wrecked the kitchen. The counter had split in half, and cabinet doors were barely hanging from their hinges if they hadn't fallen off entirely. There were cracks in the ceiling.
Blake nodded. "That looks good."
"The police should be here in a few minutes," Phillip said.
"Yes. You'd better hide."
The boy walked into the bathroom. They had agreed he would hide in the cabinet under the sink.
Blake stood by the door and waited. He was still holding the Russian Eye in his hand, and the tiny seam provided a delightful trickle of energy. None of this would've been possible without the precious jewel he had inherited from his father.
According to Blake's watch, it took seven minutes for the Charleston police to come to the apartment.
Somebody pounded on the door. "Open up!" a man yelled. "It's the police! The neighbors reported hearing an explosion."
Blake opened the door. Two men in dark blue uniforms rushed into the apartment and looked around. The damaged kitchen immediately grabbed their attention.
Blake used sorcery on the cops. "The blast was from a pressure cooker," he said in an authoritative tone. "The seal failed. Nobody was hurt, and there is no reason to stick around. I'll clean up the mess."
The cops faced him.
"No reason to stick around," one man echoed.
"That's right." Blake nodded. "You can go now. I feel bad you wasted your time. I should buy higher quality pressure cookers."
The policemen left, and Blake closed the door.
Phillip emerged from his hiding place. "Let's have dinner," he said. "I saw a barbeque place around the corner that looked good. We're obviously not eating here."
Blake nodded. Before they left, he took a final look at his handiwork in the kitchen. It was perfect. The stage is being set, he thought. Now we need to invite the audience.
* * *
A slight noise woke up Blake the next morning. He never slept easily these days, and any disturbance aroused him. He crept out of bed and peeked out of his bedroom.
Two of his bodyguards were seated in the living room. They were watching television with the sound off. They wore Kevlar vests over soft, black clothing. They each held a gun in their right hands with fingers on the triggers, and backup weapons were in holsters.
"Did you hear anything?" Blake whispered.
"It was outside," one of the assassins said.
Blake checked the window. A gardener was trimming tree branches in the early morning light.
Blake went to the bathroom and performed his morning ritual. When he was done, he opened the door and found Phillip standing there. While the boy took his turn, Blake got dressed.
Blake then took a notebook out of his luggage and skimmed his notes. One of the problems with getting old was losing his ability to recall details. As a young man, he had had a photographic memory, but now, he had to write things down, and that was dangerous. He had taken the precaution of using a private code, but he still didn't feel completely secure. Of course, a sufficiently powerful sorcerer could simply take the information from his mind.
Phillip entered the bedroom. "You're making the call now? It's a little early. He might not be awake."
"Then I'll wake him up," Blake said. "I have to talk to him before he goes to work."
He took a cell phone out of his luggage. It was brand new, completely unused. The factory plastic still protected the glass. He had obtained the phone for the purpose of making just one call. He consulted his notes again and dialed a number.
"Hello?" a man answered in a sleepy voice.
"Mr. Scott Kuperman?" Blake said.
"Yes. What? I was sleeping."
"I'm Herman Beltz, and I'd like to buy a large amount of aluminum powder from you."
"What are you talking about?" Kuperman said. "I work in a paint factory."
"Aluminum powder is commonly used to make certain types of paint. Am I right?"
"Yes."
"And your factory keeps a large supply on hand," Blake said.
Kuperman paused. "Yes."
"I want you to steal some for me. Two hundred pounds should do nicely. Fine grit. I'll pay in cash. Will five thousand dollars cover it? Just tell me where to pick it up."
"I don't think so."
"Mr. Kuperman," Blake said, "I know you're in some financial difficulty. The bank is threatening to foreclose on your house. You and your family will soon be tossed out onto the street. And you were arrested for heroin possession, resulting in legal expenses which you still owe. This seems like a deal you can't afford to pass up."
Kuperman was silent for a long moment. Blake waited patiently.
"Ten thousand," Kuperman said finally.
"What? I can buy it off the internet for a fifth as much. Aluminum powder isn't a controlled substance, unlike heroin."
"Then why are you talking to me?"
"I'm in a hurry," Blake said, "and I don't want to leave a paper trail."
He was lying as usual. He had lied about everything since arriving in Charleston. This deal was just another puzzle piece in his plan.
"Eight thousand," Kuperman said.
"Six."
"Seven."
"Done," Blake said.
"But I can't take that much cash. People will wonder where I got it."
"I understand. I'll figure out some other form of payment. Where should I meet you?"
"There is a back road behind the plant," Kuperman sai
d. "It connects to an abandoned lumber mill by the river. I'll meet you back there at noon."
"Sounds perfect. I'll be there. Bye."
Blake hung up the phone and dropped it in his pocket.
"I gather a deal has been struck," Phillip said.
Blake nodded. "I'm always astonished by what people will do for money. That man is willing to commit a crime and risk going to jail for a mere seven grand. It's amazing. You can't even buy a new car for that much."
"The power of belief. He believes money is the most important thing in the world. And they accuse us of unethical mind-control when governments are the greatest offenders of all. The United States has three hundred million obedient, brain-washed slaves who only care about numbers printed on paper."
"We're just agreeing with each other as usual," Blake said. "Let's get going. I want some breakfast."
* * *
Blake leaned against his car with his arms crossed and sighed with impatience. Kuperman was late.
The lumber mill was a three-story structure made entirely of raw wood. The jumbled architecture with its uneven roofline reminded him of a shanty town. Rooms were stacked haphazardly, and some walls were missing as if construction had never quite finished. The mill was perched on the narrow shore of a small river, and a tall hill stood on the other side.
The pleasant weather soothed Blake's irritation. The air was cold enough to turn his breath into fog, but a bright sun and a clear sky created the illusion of warmth. Birds twittered in the trees, and the river gurgled softly.
"It's noon," Dean said.
"I'm aware of the time," Blake said, "thank you."
"How well do you know this guy?"
"I've never met him in person, but I've done my homework. He'll be here."
Dean had tried to dress casually, but he wasn't good at it. He clearly preferred a suit and a tie. He was wearing a blue jogging suit with a white nylon windbreaker for extra warmth. The jogging suit was stretched around his midsection.
"If you say so." Dean paused. "I've been thinking."
"About what?"
Blake's gaze settled on Phillip. The boy was standing by the river practicing coin tricks. He was making quarters vanish, reappear, and jump from hand to hand. He had acquired Blake's skill at stage magic along with the rest of Blake's memories. Phillip's hands were smaller though, and he was working through some awkwardness.
"You gave us a lot of information," Dean said, "but I can't verify any of it. How do I know you're telling the truth?"
Blake could've put Dean at ease with mind-control, but Blake decided to try simple psychology first. He didn't like falling back to the same cheat every time.
"Why would I lie?" Blake said. "What could I possibly gain from this crazy scheme?"
"I don't know."
"When you figure it out, you tell me. I've dedicated my life to destroying sorcerers. I've taken incredible risks to gather information and discover their secret lairs. I spent weeks researching this plan. You hate them in the abstract, but for me, it's personal. I can't rest until the last trace of sorcery on Earth is blotted out and the murder of that boy's mother is avenged." Blake nodded towards Phillip. "I'm angry about you even suspecting me of leading you on. Again, what would be my motivation? It's not like I'm making any money here."
Dean blushed.
"This is my plan," Blake added, "and if I'm caught, I'll be killed. How dare you question my authenticity!"
A white SUV pulled up. A pudgy man wearing a white, one-piece bodysuit stepped out. Drops of paint marked his clothes.
"Hi," Blake said. "Are you Kuperman?"
The pudgy man nodded. "Let's make this quick. I only get a half-hour for a lunch break."
He opened the back door of his SUV. Blake walked around and saw a big pile of plastic bags containing silver-gray powder. They were marked, "Aluminum Powder - 500 mesh - 5 lb."
Two of Blake's bodyguards came forward to help. They carried stacks of bags to Blake's car and deposited them in the trunk.
"That doesn't look like a lot," Dean said. "How much did you buy?"
"Two hundred pounds," Blake said. "According to my calculations, that should be just right."
Kuperman joined them. "Where is my money?"
Dean took a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it over. "This is a cashier's check. You can deposit it at any bank, but you might want to wait a week or two so it looks less suspicious."
Kuperman inspected the check carefully. He held it up to the sun as if looking for a watermark.
"Don't worry," Dean said. "It's good."
"And if it isn't, who do I talk to? I never got your name."
"How much did you pay for the powder?" Blake said.
Kuperman furrowed his brow. "Nothing, I guess."
"Right, you stole it, and if the check is bad, you've lost nothing. Stop acting like this is supposed to be an honorable transaction."
Blake's men finished transferring the aluminum. Everybody returned to their own vehicles and left.
* * *
Phillip was running through the streets of Charleston, West Virginia as fast as his legs could carry him. The sun had set, but street lights provided plenty of light. He had left the apartment with just a shirt, pants, and no jacket. He wasn't even wearing shoes, and he was very cold. The hard running wasn't warming him up enough. The bottoms of his feet were already sore from rubbing on the rough pavement.
He needed to find a police officer. If Phillip told his story to the authorities, word would quickly reach the BPI, and they would immediately dispatch a team. Within hours, sorcerers powerful enough to protect Phillip from Blake would arrive in Charleston.
Phillip was suppressing his energy emissions to an undetectable level. It was a trick he had acquired from Blake, and ironically, Phillip was using it to hide from Blake now.
Phillip saw a dark blue police car cruising on the street. He ran in front of the car, and it squealed to a stop, almost striking him.
A woman wearing a crisp blue uniform stepped out. "What are you doing, kid?" she said. "What's wrong?"
Her brown hair was tied back in a bun. Her uniform fit snugly on her trim body, but a bulky vest gave her a somewhat masculine profile.
"A man is after me!" Phillip cried. "Blake Blutstein. He's a very powerful sorcerer. I was lucky to escape. If he catches me, I may not get away again!"
"Slow down. Tell me exactly what happened."
"Not here! Take me somewhere safe first. We need to go now!"
The officer frowned. Her nameplate read, "Buchanan."
"OK," she said. "Get in the car. We'll talk at the station."
She opened a rear door on her patrol car, and Phillip scrambled to get inside. The hard plastic seats in back smelled slightly like vomit. A clear barrier prevented him from reaching the front. Steel bars provided convenient attachment points for handcuffs.
Buchanan sat in the front and drove off.
"Calm down, kid," she said. "I'll take care of you."
"Thank you. Thank you."
"Blutstein is a bad man?"
"He's a murderer," Phillip said. "He kidnapped me weeks ago. He tried to wipe my mind."
"Sure."
A few minutes later, they arrived at the police station. It was a four-story brown building covered in brick and stone. Buchanan parked in one of a handful of parking spots in front, but clearly, most people parked in the back in a very large garage. The county courthouse occupied a stone building across the street and had a Romanesque architecture.
Buchanan took Phillip inside. They went to a squad room full of cubicles with low partitions. It appeared every officer had his or her own desk. Buchanan sat on a padded office chair in one of the cubicles. Phillip sat with her, but his chair was just made of wood. Even though it was nighttime, there was plenty of activity in the police station.
Buchanan brought up a form on her computer and prepared to type. "Start at the beginning. What's your name?"
"Phillip
Welker. I'm eight years-old. Three weeks ago, Blake kidnapped me."
"From where?" Buchanan said.
"A foster home in Aurora, Nebraska."
"You're an orphan?"
"Kind of," Phillip said. "I was taken from my parents when I was a baby, but that's not what I want to talk about. You have to call the Bureau of Physical Investigation and tell them I'm here."
"Never heard of it."
"It's a federal agency. They can protect me."
"We're the police," she said. "We can protect you, too."
"Not from Blake. He can control your mind."
She frowned. "Where is Blake now? What did he do to you? Did he... touch you in an inappropriate way?"
"He's living in an apartment in town. I don't have the exact address, but the police visited yesterday. There was an explosion in the apartment. I'm sure you can find the report."
"What kind of explosion?"
"Please." He grabbed her arm. "Just call the BPI. Actually, I have an even better idea. Finish that report and file it in your computer."
"What good will that do?"
"Trust me. Please." He pleaded with his eyes.
Buchanan raised her eyebrows. "Sure. Why not?" She turned back to her computer.
Phillip read over her shoulder to make sure she got the details right. Finally, she hit the "save" button.
"Now what?" she said.
"We wait. I'm sure the BPI is monitoring every police computer in the country."
"That's hard to believe. Even the FBI can't do that."
The phone on her desk rang.
"That's them," Phillip said.
Buchanan answered the call. Her eyes widened, and she glanced at him.
"Yes," she said. "He's right here. You want me to do what? Are you serious? On whose authority? I'll have to check with my sergeant. We have procedures. I don't care if... OK, fine, but you'd better have a good explanation when you get here." She hung up.
"What did they say?" Phillip said.
"They ordered me to drive you into the wilderness immediately and stay with you. I have to go at least five miles out of town. They'll call me when they arrive in Charleston, and it's safe to return."
He nodded. "That's a good plan. Blake won't be able to detect me."
"Detect you how? Is there a tracking device on you? What the hell is really going on?"
