by George Wier
“Roll down the rear window for a sec,” I said. “I need to talk to your prisoner.”
“Fine by me,” the officer said. The window behind him moved downward.
“Aw shit,” Tanis said. “What is this, Chinese water torture?”
“Shut up. Where is the bomb, and what kind of explosive is it?”
“I’m not talking to you,” he said. “Not till I talk to my momma. And a lawyer.”
“Listen,” I said, and leaned forward until my face was almost inside the car. “If you happened to place a bomb on a certain yacht, then you need to know that’s where your mother is right this minute.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Why do I have to keep repeating myself with you?”
“She’s not there. She’s at home.”
“No she isn’t,” I said. “Your mother and Mr. Horner have been trying to patch things up. She’s supposed to be waiting for him on the yacht.”
I had his complete attention. His eyes were large and totally sober. “I—I...”
“Talk faster,” I said. “Answer me. Now.”
“It’s a whole spool of prima. It’s wrapped around the boat just below the water line.”
“How’s it set to go off. Have to key the mic on the walkie talkie you left in the house?”
“Look, just get her out of there. Get her out NOW!” he shouted.
The officer in the front seat turned his head. “I’d tell him, kid. I think he’s trying to help.”
“It’s a timer hooked to the talkie, you stupid idiot!” he shouted at me. “That’s why you only need one of them.”
“What time?” I asked. “A time, maybe, when your stepfather was supposed to be back home from the bar after they closed down for the night?”
“I—I...what time is it right now?” he asked, none too quietly and practically spitting the words.
“Officer?” I said. “The time, if you please?”
“It’s straight up one a.m.,” the policeman said.
I kept my eyes on Clark Tanis’s face. “What time?” I demanded.
He visibly relaxed, but didn’t say a word.
“Oh. I thought it was later than that.”
“Suddenly, you feel like you’ve got all the time in the world, huh?” I asked him. “Let me give you a couple of ‘What Ifs’. That’s your stepfather in the doorway ahead of you. He’s on the phone, trying to reach your mother. What if she doesn’t answer? Huh? Or, try this one on for size: say that she’s afraid you might try to call her because she’s doing something she knows you wouldn’t approve of, so what if she’s got her phone turned off? Huh? And what if we can’t get someone there, or get ourselves there in fifteen minutes, or thirty minutes, or maybe forty-five—whenever it is the bomb is supposed to go off?” And on the heels of this, a thought sprang into my head, full blown. “And what if the person who’s supposed to be watching for the explosion can’t reach you because you’re handcuffed in the back of a police car? Maybe he’s the one person who could save her? Did you think of any of those things?”
“Let me call her,” Tanis said. “She’ll answer for me.”
Then another thought came, and I found myself voicing it. “You know, Clark, it’s a rainy night tonight. A lot of thunder and lightning, too. A bolt of lightning could hit anywhere in the water along Buffalo Bayou within a mile of that yacht. I wonder just how much electricity it would take to set off that prima cord, long before your little clock goes off.”
“Oh my God,” he said.
“I suppose we’ll find out, one way or the other.” I ducked back to the front window and it came down an inch. “Officer, could you please get this snot-nosed kid out of this car and back over to the trailer. Tonight we’re going to put him to work.”
“With pleasure,” he said.
*****
I looked back towards the Expedition. The interior lights were on and the windshield wiper was still running. I gave a thumbs-up and received an encircled thumb and forefinger in return—everything was A-OK there. As the officer brought Clark Tanis back to the door of the trailer, Dale Horner was giving up. He cleared the connection to his wife’s phone, which I assumed had gone unanswered.
“She’s not picking up!” he said. The desperation seemed a little strained. “I need to go there. Now!”
“Hold up a second. Clark, your mother can’t be reached by phone. If there’s anybody else you can call—maybe whoever else was with you on the shooting spree downtown today—now would be the time.”
“Give me a phone,” he said.
“Do you have a phone here?” I asked. “One that your friend will recognize and won’t be alarmed about?”
“Yeah. Over there on in the desk drawer.”
Gresham went and retrieved the phone and brought it back. Clark turned it on and we waited as it cycled through and got to a screen he could dial from. He dialed the number from memory and held the phone to his ear with both hands. As far as I was concerned, there was no way he was going to be uncuffed until he was taken downtown and put in a cell.
“It’s ringing,” he said.
After three rings, the phone was answered. The rest of us could hear that much, at least.
“Are you there near the boat?” Clark asked. Then, “Good. Look, my mother might be on the boat. You’ve got to go make sure she’s not on it.”
We heard the muffled voice of the man, but couldn’t make head or tails of it over the sound of the sheeting rain a few feet away.
“It’s not too close to the time. There’s plenty of time,” Clark argued. “Just go onto the boat and make sure she’s not there. That’s all I’m asking.”
There was another muffled reply.
“You have to do it!” Clark shouted into the phone. “It’s my...it’s my mother!”
The night outside was split by a blinding flash of light. The lightning storm was moving across Houston, apparently from southeast to northwest. In a few minutes it would be right over Buffalo Bayou, and who knew what might happen.
“Jakey!” Clark shouted. “Answer me!”
But Jakey had hung up.
“We have to get down there,” Horner said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Let’s go.”
*****
We made a mad dash back outside. I suppose Clark had the advantage on us in that it didn’t matter that he was being rained on, since he had no shirt. By the time Horner and I got back inside the Expedition, I was soaked through and through once again.
“You must like being rained on,” Cottonmouth said.
I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from telling him to shut up.
I backed us out to the roadway and adroitly pivoted it, then stomped on the accelerator and slewed into traffic. After a minute, two police cars passed me and I fell in behind them.
“What are we doing?” Johnny asked.
“This guy’s wife is on a boat at the Atwell docs. A boat that is rigged to blow up.”
“Shit. This whole thing is getting out of control. Somebody kills Jimmy and now they’re trying to kill his daughter? I don’t get it.”
“I don’t either,” Horner said. “Gingie has done nothing to anybody, least of all her son, who rigged the explosives.”
“He was trying to kill you,” I said.
“My only hope is that Clark is as inept at rigging explosives as he is in holding down a job.”
“There is that hope,” I said.
*****
The storm was dancing above Buffalo Bayou as we crossed over it on Lockwood Drive. The lightning continued to stab down every few seconds.
“This is the long way around!” Horner nearly shrieked.
“I’m simply following everyone else,” I said. “We’ll get there.”
Whoever was in the lead blasted through the red light at Clinton and nearly hydroplaned before correcting. Within another minute we were turning left on Japhet in all-too familiar territory. Atwell, Inc. loomed to our right.
> We drove through the Atwell lot and in the direction of Buffalo Bayou, skirting shadowy towers and piles of scrap metal.
As we drove down onto the docks, I noted a couple of barges laden with scrap steel, ready for shipment back to the smelters, probably in Mobile, Alabama or somewhere far northeast. At the far end of the docks was the yacht.
The lightning hit the water to our left and Horner’s yacht, of which I’d only gotten the one glimpse, disintegrated in a roiling ball of fire.
The shock wave moved over us, and quite fortunately most of it was absorbed by the frame of the car, but then the rain of boat parts came down all around and over us. Thin slivers of wood drifted down in front of my headlights as I braked to a quick stop. The lead police car stopped abruptly and the yacht’s anchor imbedded itself in the roadway directly in front of it.
“Shit!” Horner screamed.
“Hush up,” I said. “Cottonmouth, you come with me. Johnny, stay here and keep Mr. Horner in this vehicle.”
“I can do that,” Johnny said. “But this is hazard pay, I’m telling you.”
“Tell it to him,” I said.
Cottonmouth and I climbed out as the rain of boat parts ceased. I reached over and brushed a piece of radio antenna off the hood of the Expedition. It had made a small dent. Jessica wasn’t going to be pleased about it.
By the time we got to the next cruiser, Clark Tanis was screaming. The officer got out of the car and slammed the door.
“I’m going to shut you up once and for all,” he said, and started to open the rear door, but I stopped him.
“Officer, wait. Let him stay in there and freak out. It may have been his mother on the boat. Let’s walk away so you don’t have to hear him.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Lightning strike set off the prima cord. Any electricity will do it.”
“I’ve got spots in front of my eyes,” he said.
“Let’s go check out the damage.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
T he “damage” was utter and complete. I had expected a series of small fires to be quickly put out by the sheeting rain, but there were none. The blast had destroyed the boat. It was gone, but for ten thousand pieces of debris littering the docks and the water. Those that didn’t sink moved on downstream with the dark torrent. Over the next hours or days, they would make their way into Galveston Bay and perhaps on out into the Gulf of Mexico.
The phone in my wet shirt pocket rang as we walked toward the spot where Dale Horner’s yacht once sat at anchor. I knew who it was going to be.
“You’re late, dad,” Jessica said.
“I know. I can’t help it. It looks like I’m wrapping things up now.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
“Is the little one asleep?”
“No. She’s watching one of those animal shows on the television.”
“Well, tell her I said to go to bed.”
“What’s happening?” she asked.
I considered explaining it to her, but quickly realized I’d be on the phone for far too long. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get in. I’m tired, I’m soaking wet, I’m hungry, and I’m starting to get mad.”
“Oh. Okay. Hurry up and come back to the hotel.”
“There’s a couple of dings in the hood of your car,” I said. “Maybe the roof, too.”
“Dad, what the hell did you do?”
“Me? Nothing, I assure you. Hey, I gotta go. I love you, honey. Tell Jennifer to get her butt in bed.”
“Oh, she’s in bed. She’s just watching the TV is all.”
“Bye,” I said, and hung up.
“Your kids really run you, don’t they?” Cottonmouth said.
I ignored him.
Detective Gresham got out of his car. His eyes blinked rapidly.
“Vision problems?” I asked.
“I’ll be okay. That was terribly bright.”
“It was. I’m wondering if we’re going to start finding body parts any minute?”
Gresham nearly tripped on something. He looked down and shined a small penlight flashlight. “Good God,” he said.
It was a human hand. A woman’s hand, by the look of it, severed savagely just above the wrist.
“Mrs. Horner, I presume,” I said.
“Yeah. Maybe. Hmph. No wedding ring.”
“Maybe she’s fingerprinted somewhere,” I said. “If that’s all we find, then it’ll be hard making a positive I.D.”
“Maybe we better not show this to Mr. Tanis. Or Mr. Horner.”
“Good call,” I said. I looked at Cottonmouth, but he seemed unfazed by the macabre discovery. Then I remembered that he’d been in Vietnam. He’d likely seen a lot worse.
“Can we get a toxicology screen?” I asked. “I mean, from just a hand?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had this problem before, but that’s a good idea.” He opened his car back up and reached inside and came out with a plastic ziplock bag, opened it and deposited the hand. “I do know a girl in the HPD lab. Works the late shift. I can get it to her now and see if she can find out anything. A toxicology screen might be the only thing we can get of out this.”
“Right.”
“Okay, I’ve got to take Horner and his lackey, Johnny, back to his bar and drop them off. Then I’ve got to get Cottonmouth home, get to my hotel and take a shower and get on a fresh change of clothes.”
“You look like crap, Travis,” Gresham said.
“Thanks,” I said.
I looked at the hand.
“And somewhere,” I said, “somehow, I’ve got to get a bite to eat.”
*****
It was the quietest ride of my life, taking Dale Horner and his henchman, Johnny, back to the Blues Palace. At one point I tried to see if I could catch his face in the rearview mirror, but it was too dark, and I couldn’t.
As we pulled into the parking lot at the Blues Palace, there were only three cars remaining in the parking lot. It was all over for the evening.
Johnny and Horner got out.
“I’ll check back with you in the morning, Mr. Horner,” I said.
He stood there for a second, looking at me with doleful, red and bloodshot eyes, and for a moment I thought he was going to speak, but he demurred doing so.
I rolled the window up and noted that it had ceased raining for a bit. The sidewalks, gutters, and downspouts, however, continued to shed copious amounts of runoff into their proper channels.
“Take me home, if you please, Mr. Travis,” Cottonmouth said. “We can go through the neighborhoods. Just follow my directions.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’m sorry you didn’t get to pound Horner into the sidewalk.”
“He’s been pounded enough for the night, I’m thinkin’.”
I nodded and pulled us back out onto the roadway.
I thought, as we moved through deserted city streets, that it was all pretty much over, and that I would be able to sleep late the next morning, have a nice breakfast with the girls, and head back to Austin—a fine, leisurely Sunday drive.
Oh, the plans we make.
*****
It was 2:57 a.m., in the darkest hours of Sunday, when I entered the hotel room. I was wet, out of sorts, and exhausted.
Jennifer was asleep, but Jessica had her lamp on and she was sitting up in bed, texting on her phone.
“You’ve been up to no good,” she said.
I nodded.
“I laid your clothes out on your bed, including some pajamas, just in case you’re really going to sleep tonight. Also, there’s half a pizza in the box on the table, and there’s a coke in the little fridge.
“Thanks,” I said, bent over and kissed the crown of her head.
“What-evs.”
I wolfed the pizza and swilled the coke, then carried my clothes into the bathroom, locked the door and took a hot shower—so hot I nearly scalded myself, but it felt good.
Afterwards I dried off and donned my paj
amas and came to bed.
“Is it really over?” Jessica whispered to me from the next bed. Her lamp was now turned off, and mine was on.
I thought about it for a moment. Jimmy Atwell’s face flitted before my vision, then Cottonmouth, Bubba, and Delphina. Dale Horner and his bouncers likewise paid me a visit—one of them was named Johnny, the one who’d gone with us, and I couldn’t for the life of me recall the name of the other one. Rick, down at the Night Wing, sweeping up glass as we drove away. Clark Tanis, Dale’s crazy and confused stepson, skinny and bare-chested, wailing about his mother. The explosion that had caused spots before my vision. And the driving rain. All of these things came home to talk to me all at once.
“Dad?” Jessica asked.
“Huh?”
“I asked if you thought it was over.”
“Oh. Sorry, honey. No, I’m afraid it’s not.”
“Thought so. That’s what I told mom.”
“You did good, honey,” I said, and reached over and turned out my light.
I was hurting from head to toe, I was exhausted beyond the capacity to exhaust. I counted backwards from five, lost count, and with the missing number, I fell into the void.
And dreamed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
H ands were clapping, but they were hands without bodies, suspended in the air as if they belonged there.
Whenever they clapped, it was all thunder and lightning.
I was driving my Mercedes, but I wasn’t on the road, I was in the river. And the clapping hands were along the riverbank in the amber glow of the morning sunlight. I found it odd that there should be thunder, lightning, and sunlight all at once, but then again, I was driving a car in a river. And for some reason, this seemed perfect.
Even though I had never heard Cottonmouth sing a note, I passed him by on the riverbank and waved at him. Cottonmouth alternated by playing his harmonica and singing a song. But instead of a hat on his head, he wore a combat helmet.
