The Detonator

by Vincent Zandri

  No one gives her a second glance as Alison approaches Ike’s big black Suburban. Walking around to the back end of the gas guzzler, she pulls the pen from out of her pocket, takes a knee directly behind the passenger’s side rear tire. Bringing the tip of the pen to the interior of the brake drum which is bolted to the metallic tire rim, she presses the top of the pen with her thumb pad.

  Under normal circumstances, an ink-tipped ballpoint would pop out of the bottom, business end of the writing instrument. But in this case, the pen is not a pen at all, but a retrofitted dispenser which she developed in secret inside the Albany University Nano-Tech laboratory. With a steady, unwavering hand, she thumbs the button, careful not to press too hard while dispensing a translucent sol-gel composite energetic material directly onto the taut rubber.

  “One cc,” she whispers to herself while releasing her thumb from the device. “That’s more than enough.”

  Standing, she replaces the pen to her shirt pocket and calmly crosses the lot to her own car. Unlocking the driver’s side door with the electronic key device, she slips back inside, turns the engine over. The sunbaked seat is so hot it feels as if she will burn up. Opening the window, she also blasts the AC. She’s reminded that the pen in her pocket contains enough heat-sensitive material which, if spontaneously ignited, would not only evaporate herself and the car, but would take out almost all the cars in the lot, plus much of the rest stop structure.

  She’s been taking a real chance by carrying the pen around in her shirt pocket. But truth be told, she enjoys the challenge of carrying it. The danger. The control she has over it. The feeling of knowing that at any second, the world around her…her world…could simply cease to exist in a single brilliant, super-heated flash of white light. Like she heard her father say to his partner and best friend, Ike Singer, not long before the detonations that disintegrated his flesh and bone, “Sometimes you control the blast as best you can. Most times, as best you can is good enough. But then there are the times, as best you can doesn’t come close.”

  The summer heat, if respected, can be a blessing. Under normal conditions, she would require a flame or even a laser pulse to ignite the material placed on the interior of the Suburban’s back passenger’s side wheel. But in this case, the heat generated from both the external temperature and the friction from the tire spinning at high speed against the road will be enough to create the super-thermite reaction she’s looking for.

  She might tail the Suburban like she did earlier, but this time she knows the prudent thing to do is to hold back a ways. Allow nature to take its course. Once that happens, she’ll be there to pick up the pieces.

  It will be Alison Darling to the rescue.

  Now, coming out of the rest stop, the Singer family. That’s her cue to pull out of the parking spot, drive around the back of the facility, await the moment when Ike pulls back out onto the highway, oblivious of the fiery danger that awaits him and his loved ones. A danger he will no doubt handle as best he can.

  Chapter 10

  Approaching my big, black, all-wheel drive Chevy Suburban, family in tow, I try not to be entirely obvious when looking for Alison’s car. When I see the spot she occupied is empty, I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe it’s possible she’s gone for good and I’ll never have to be reminded of what happened between me and her mother again, or what happened between me and her father.

  But then I once again see Patty in my head and I know that my past isn’t going anywhere soon. Of course, Alison is going to show her face again. Alison has got Ellen’s phone number for God sakes. For all I know she’s liable to show up at my front door this week. She’s angry, wants revenge for what happened. I feel something cold run itself up and down my backbone. Maybe I should think about doing something about her. Maybe I should do something before it’s too late and before she exposes me for who I really am.

  “Earth to Ike,” Ellen says, standing outside the front passenger’s side door.

  “Yeah, earth to the old man,” Henry says.

  Suddenly snapped out of my trance, I pull the key ring from my pocket, thumb the lock release. The chirp sounds, the locks release.

  “I’m not old,” I say, opening the back door for Henry.

  “That’s what I keep telling myself,” he says. “But then I look in the mirror and it ain’t pretty.”

  “You’re our handsome young son,” I say, offering him a hand to help him up into the back seat. “Never forget that.”

  The expression on his face is pain-filled as he settles himself in. I know that soon, I’ll have to trade in the Suburban for something he can more easily climb in and out of. I go to help him with the seatbelt, but he slaps my hand away.

  “I can do it, Pops,” he says, proudly.

  Holding my hands up in surrender.

  “I know when I’m beat,” I say, closing the door.

  Ellen is standing beside me, stone stiff, her hand gripping the opener, her face looking forward, staring at the pavement. When she looks up at me, I see that her eyes are glassy, tear-filled. She gives her head a quick shake.

  “He doesn’t have long to go,” she whispers.

  My chest feels as if it were a balloon that’s unexpectedly been pin-pricked.

  “We’ve got to prepare ourselves, babe. We have to be ready. But not yet.”

  I might say something more, but that’s all I can get out.

  Ellen opens the door, inhales a deep breath, paints a smile on her face. A smile that’s about as happy as a cancer. But a smile that she bravely wears anyway.

  I head around to the front of the vehicle, slip myself in behind the wheel, and start her up.

  “Everybody good?” I say, backing out of the spot.

  “Dad,” Henry says, his eyes wide. “I wanna thank you and Mom for the vacation. Best. One. Ever.” I see his shiny smile in the mirror. It’s surrounded by pale skin and age spots. “Can’t wait till next year and we can do it all over again.”

  Over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of Ellen, and the tear running down her cheek.

  “Me too, Henry,” I say, voice cracking, choking. “Me too, kid.”

  I pull out of the lot back into heavy traffic, my eyes searching the rearview for a silver BMW, but spotting nothing of the sort. Hands gripping the wheel, I shift into the left lane to pass a gasoline tanker that’s going too slow. My eyes naturally focus in on the high combustion warning painted onto the backside of the big tanker. A somewhat alarming illustration of red/orange flame.

  “You know, she’s really very nice,” Ellen says, after a time.

  “Who’s nice?” I say, as I attempt to pass the tanker. But it’s speeding up as I speed up, like the operator is deliberately preventing me from passing. I press down on the gas, the big Suburban engine churning out the rpm’s.

  “Alison, silly,” she says. “Who did you think I was talking about?”

  “Associate Professor Alison,” Henry says. “Give credit where credit is due.”

  “Associate Professor Alison,” I repeat, picturing her father seated on the bare concrete floor of an Alphabet City concrete warehouse that was wired to blow. “Her dad would be proud.”

  The tanker is still speeding, and I’m still trying to pass it. But now there’s a pickup truck on my tail. The driver is flashing his lights on and off, as if he doesn’t already have my full attention. I see his bearded face in the rearview, his tight mouth moving in anger. Shouting something out. Something four-lettered.

  I grip the wheel more tightly. Give the Suburban more gas, manage to pull up even with the tanker truck.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Ellen says, concern tainting her voice. “Why won’t he let you pass?”

  I lean in toward her, lower my head while looking up toward the driver. That’s when I hit the horn. The middle-aged, baseball-hatted man peers down at me through the driver’s side window g
lass. He’s wearing sunglasses on a face that bears no expression at all, so it’s hard to judge what he’s thinking.

  “Eyes on the road, Ike,” Ellen says, elbowing me in the chest.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  I straighten back up.

  “You’re making me nervous,” she says.

  “Yeah, Dad, let’s lose this asshole.”

  “Henry!” Ellen barks, shooting a look over her shoulder.

  “Hey, I’m old. I can swear.”

  The pickup truck is so close now, I feel like I’m wearing him. The driver is flashing his lights again while the tanker is still taking up my entire right side.

  “Good Christ, El. I’m pinned in here.”

  That’s when something explodes beneath us.

  Chapter 11

  The Suburban bucks severely to the right.

  It’s cutting off the tanker.

  For a split second, I feel like we’re going to slam into it and the whole thing is going to blow. The operator’s got no choice but to hit the brakes, swerve sharply into the left lane, narrowly missing the pickup truck. The operator punches his horn as he attempts to regain control of the big truck, veering past a half dozen cars, nearly slamming into them with a tank filled with hundreds or even thousands of gallons of combustible fuel.

  Ellen shrieks while out the corner of my eye, I catch Henry as he flops over onto his left side, his small, lithe body having slipped out of the shoulder strap. Why the air bags haven’t released, I don’t know.

  “Blowout!” I bark, holding as tightly to the wheel as I possibly can without dislocating my fingers. Inching over to the soft shoulder, I pull off the highway.

  “Hold on, everyone!”

  I pump the brakes. The vehicle bucks and bounces, the gravel spraying up against the metal undercarriage as we skid to a sudden stop.

  I kill the engine, thrust myself back against the seat. “Shit!”

  Ellen frantically releases her seatbelt, flips around onto her knees, goes to Henry’s aid.

  “Are you okay, sweetheart? You okay?”

  I turn, peer over my shoulder. I see him slowly sitting back up, dark round eyes opened wide. But in typical Henry fashion, he’s got a small grin planted on his face.

  “Jeez,” he says. “That was bitchin’. Like Fast and Furious number ten or something.”

  “Vin Diesel’s got nothing over me,” I say, my heart pumping in my throat. Then, “Everyone stay put while I do a damage check.”

  The cars and trucks whiz past, no one bothering to slow down or pull over to offer up assistance. Maybe a cop will be coming by soon. A Massachusetts State Trooper.

  Opening the door carefully, I slide out, close the door behind me. Heading around to the back of the Suburban, I immediately spot what’s left of the rear passenger’s side tire. Nothing but a steel rim, frosted with remnants of a steel-belted tire. Even the brake drum appears to be busted up. A severe blowout if I’ve ever seen one. In my head, I see the sparks that must have shot out of the wheel as I skidded across the concrete highway.

  I go around to the front passenger’s side seat, knuckle tap the window.

  Ellen puts the window down. “How bad is it?”

  “You don’t happen to have a Triple A membership, do you?”

  “That bad? What about the spare?”

  “The wheel drum is bent to hell. The brake’s gone. Spare is entirely obsolete. We need a tow.”

  “So much for getting home on time.”

  I reach into my jeans pocket, pull out my cell phone. “I’ll call for a tow. Sit tight.”

  “Good idea.”

  I can’t help but smile, despite the…let’s call it…less than convenient situation. I pull out my cell phone. At the same time, I make out the sound of a car pulling up behind me. Turning, I spot the very car I’d rather not see.

  A silver BMW, its driver wearing a broad smile on her face.

  Chapter 12

  “Oh my Lord,” she says, eyes wide. “Are you all right, Ike?”

  Ellen must sense the car having pulled up behind us, because she gets out.

  “Alison,” she says, “thank God you weren’t far behind.”

  My late partner’s daughter approaches Ellen, gives her a tight hug, like she’s just survived a plane crash.

  “Are you all right?” Alison begs, her face tight and filled with concern. “Is Henry okay? He must be so frightened.”

  The cars and trucks continue to speed past us. You can feel them punching through the air as they shoot on by at seventy, eighty, sometimes ninety miles per hour. You can hear their engines roar as they come and go in direct proportion to their speed. What do they call that? The Doppler Effect?

  It takes several tries, but it takes only a few minutes for me to connect with a local outfit that will come to our location and tow the Suburban to their garage. The mechanic informs me that he won’t do shop work on the Lord’s day of rest and therefore can’t get to the job until the morning, necessitating an overnight stay.

  “Plus there’s the Red Sox game,” he adds.

  I explain the situation to Ellen as we stand outside Henry’s open back seat window. The expression of disappointment on both their faces tells me how badly they want to get home. Home and settled.

  “Mind if I interject something?” Alison says after a beat. “If it’s okay with you, Ike, I can give Ellen and Henry a ride home while you do the manly thing and stay with the truck. How’s that sound?”

  The manly thing…Alison is most definitely picking a fight.

  “Thanks for interjecting, Alison,” I say.

  The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise up once again. My mouth goes dry. I know precisely what Alison is doing. Asserting control. Dominance. Taking over. Where it’s all leading to, I have no idea. But whatever it is, it can’t be good.

  Just then, the sound of another car pulling off onto the gravel shoulder, approaching us. I turn quick, spot the blue squad car of a Massachusetts State Trooper.

  Turing my attention back to Alison, I look into her eyes. She returns my gaze, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses. But I imagine they don’t blink, that they’re ice cold in the early afternoon summer heat. The gaze says, If you know what’s good for you, keep your damned mouth shut.

  The door opens on the cruiser. A trooper climbs out. He’s tall, uniformed, stoic in manner and movement. He’s wearing high, brown, lace-up boots and his sidearm is holstered on his left hip. I don’t know why this should give me comfort, but it does.

  When he comes to us, he asks the obvious question. “Who’s the owner?”

  “That would be me.”

  Ellen is standing to my left side. She’s leaning up against the Suburban, as if attempting to stay as close to Henry as humanly possible without getting inside and sitting beside him. To my right is Alison. She’s standing a few steps behind the trooper, who occupies the center. Like I said, she’s wearing her aviator sunglasses, so her eyes are impossible to see. But I feel them. Feel them burning holes in me.

  Here’s what I want to say: “Officer, this woman is following me and my family. She’s stalking us. She’s threatened to tell my wife the truth about my past. Threatened to reveal things that would not only upset her, but that would cause her not to trust me anymore. Cause her to leave me. Most certainly I am guilty for my transgressions, but this young woman has evil intentions. She feels cheated, violated, and wronged. Now she wants vengeance.”

  But here’s what I say instead: “My back tire blew out.”

  “You have the right amount of air in it?” he asks, as if air pressure matters at this point.

  “I checked before we left home for the Cape last week,” I say. But it’s a lie spoken to make me appear more responsible than I really am.

  “New York plates,” he observes, sticking both thu
mbs inside his utility belt. “Where’s home in New York?”

  “Albany.”

  “Still a couple hours away,” he says. Then, “It’s Sunday. You found a shop that will take you in?”

  I give him a nod.

  “Not gonna get those calipers and rotors fixed today.” He’s shaking his head like something’s wrong besides the obvious.

  “I already know that. Red Sox game.”

  The shaking of his head ceases. “You sure a simple blowout caused all this damage?”

  “The tire blew up. We ended up on the side of the road. That’s all I know.”

  Trooper, nodding, biting down on his bottom lip.

  “Listen,” he says, “I can recommend a decent hotel in town for you and your family.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It will just be him,” Ellen interjects.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  “We’re going back with our young friend here,” she explains.

  Trooper turns to her. “So you’re not family?”

  “That’s my BMW back there,” Alison says. “I too live in Albany. I’ve offered a ride.”

  Trooper’s eyes back on me. “You know this woman?”

  “Yes,” I say, peering into her eyes, through the dark sunglasses. “I know her.”

  In my head, I hear Patty’s voice so clearly it’s as if she were standing right beside me.

  “Play this one straight, Ike. Don’t say anything to this officer of the law that might make him suspect Alison is stalking your shiny happy family. Don’t do it, or there will be hell to pay later…Trust me on this one, lover.”