by John Locke
Callie and I show our credentials to the deputy guarding the tent, and he goes through the process of pretending to study them while scoping out Callie’s crotch. I swear, her pants are annoying the shit out of me, even though I’m enjoying the view as much as anyone.
The three of us go in the tent and I tell Joe to remove everyone except the cute twenty-year-old girl.
“Where should I take them?”
“Stand with them outside the tent. We’ll call you in a minute.”
Joe escorts five people out, leaving Callie and me with the young lady.
“What’s your name?”
“Abbey Rhodes.” She, too, checks out Callie’s lower half. Then says, “You ain’t from around here.”
“Sadly, no,” Callie says.
“Where’d you get them pants?”
“They’re not pants,” Callie says. “It’s spray paint.”
“No shit? You just sprayed paint on your legs?”
Abbey practically puts her face in Callie’s crotch to get a closer look. As she does so, Callie smiles at me to prove how easy it is for her to get female attention. Trying to make the point if I want her to be faithful I need to stay on my toes.
Callie says, “You’re not related to the Rhodes Scholarship folks, are you?”
“No ma’am.”
“What a shock.”
I say, “Abbey, I understand someone wrote some letters on your backside.”
“Some asshole, you mean. What about it?”
“Show us.”
“Fuck you!”
Callie’s body and hands become a blur. She drops into a crouch and jabs her thumb and forefinger deep into Abbey’s stomach. As Abbey starts to double over in pain, Callie unbuttons her jeans, pulls them down to her knees, along with her panties. By then, Abbey’s torso has fallen onto Callie’s shoulder. Callie stands, and holds Abbey over her shoulder like a fireman rescuing a woman from a burning building.
The entire procedure took less than two seconds!
The fact that Abbey’s quite pretty has nothing to do with how carefully I inspect her ass. And the longer I stare, the harder she kicks. She’s seconds away from getting her breath back, at which point she’ll probably scream.
“Getting an eye full?” Callie says, with great annoyance.
“Let’s change places.”
We do, and Callie sees what I saw: a helluva nice ass with no writing on it.
No initials, no grease residue, no marks of any kind.
I can’t blame Abbey for being mad. On the other hand, I did ask her nicely to show us her ass. Even Callie would admit that.
I lower her from my shoulder so she can stand comfortably, and sidestep her attempt to kick my shin. She takes a deep breath, preparing to scream, but just before the sound comes, I say, “If you’re about to scream, pull your pants back up so the others won’t see you naked.”
It takes her a second to realize her pants are still around her knees. She pulls them up. Then—without so much as a thank you for protecting her modesty—she screams bloody murder. Callie grabs her throat and gives it a pinch.
The screaming stops.
As people come pouring into the tent, Callie whispers something into Abbey’s ear. I frown at Joe for letting the deputies and others get past him, but he’s just a kid. A bomb-builder, not an assassin. If they knew he was a bomb-builder they’d fear him. But you know what they say about “if.” —If your aunt had wings and a nut sack she’d be your uncle, in heaven.
“What the hell’s going on here?” the deputy yells.
Abbey tries to speak, but her voice won’t cooperate. Finally she squeaks, “Everything’s fine. I just had a flashback to when Darryl got shot.”
I ask, “Who else had grease marks on their butts?”
A woman and a young man raise their hands.
“You’re Millie Reston?”
She nods.
I look at the kid. “Who are you?”
“Ellwood Fillmore. My parents own Fillmore’s Grocery.”
“Abbey washed the evidence off her backside,” I say. “What about you guys?”
“I did too,” Millie says. “No one told us it was evidence.”
I look at Ellwood. “And you?”
“Hey, if it ain’t Saturday, I don’t bathe.”
“Well, hey, Ellwood,” I say, pointing at his pants. “Since it ain’t Saturday, shuck ’em.”
“What? Right here? In front of everyone?”
“No. Just me and the blonde. Everyone else out. Now!”
When they leave, Ellwood asks what right we have to make him strip. Callie takes care of it by telling him he’s a hero. Says his ass could save the country from terrorism. He reluctantly removes his pants, and sure enough, the letters BWC are written on his ass. Callie and I take pictures with our cell phones. Then mine rings, and Larry the dwarf tells me a woman named Emma Wilson checked into the airport hotel in Memphis just after 3:00 a.m. She’s in Room 232, and so is her phone.
“Our driver will be there in ten minutes,” Larry says.
I hang up and tell Callie and Joe we need to hustle back to the chopper.
“We’re going to Memphis?” Callie says.
“We are.”
“I had plans for this afternoon.”
“What time?”
“Two o’clock, give or take.”
“You might need to postpone.”
“I’d rather not.”
I know better than to ask Callie about her plans. We’re determined not to have that type of relationship. So I say, “I’ll have the chopper drop me off in Memphis, then you and Joe can take it back to New York City.”
“I’d like to get back to Vegas,” Joe says.
“Fine. You can catch a commercial flight out of Memphis.”
He says, “You want to hear my take on the explosion?”
“Of course.”
The crop duster was equipped with a conventional explosive. Probably a canister that fit in the cargo bay. They rigged a trap door, pressed a button, dropped the payload. Then used a scatter charge to detonate it.”
“Sheriff said it was a dust bomb.”
“The canister was filled with powdered aluminum.”
“Why?”
“The first explosion created a mushroom cloud of aluminum powder. Then the grease guy fired a thermobaric warhead from the ground into the cloud.”
“To enhance the explosion?”
“Right.”
Callie says, “Why not just drop a bigger bomb from the crop duster?”
Joe says, “They probably just had the one crop duster, and needed the two-step process to do enough damage.”
“But they didn’t kill anyone.”
“Only because they didn’t want to.”
“So it’s not a terrorist attack,” Callie says.
“I think it was,” I say. “Just not a conventional one.”
She stops walking a moment, so Joe and I stop. Then she says, “You should be relieved, but you’re not. You look concerned. Why?”
“I’m getting a really bad feeling about this.”
“Why?”
“The writing.”
“BWC?”
I nod.
Joe’s look says he thinks I’m crazy. “Someone detonated an FAE over a civilian neighborhood and the part that bothers you is three people got grease on their asses?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
Callie looks at me, then Joe, and says, “It’s a Monty Python.”
Joe says, “What’s a Monty Python?”
“Something completely different.”
“It fits no profile,” I explain. “This was a test of some sort. An attention-getter.”
“Which means?”
“Something big’s about to happen. And the letters are a clue.”
We start moving again. After a few minutes we pass Agent Phillips, who’s rolling around on the ground, glaring at us. Joe nods at him, a
s if apologizing.
Callie says, “There were three people with writing on their asses.”
“What about it?”
“What made you pick the young, pretty one?”
“I planned to photograph all three asses.”
“But you started with hers. Why?”
“Of the three, I figured Abbey would make the biggest fuss about stripping. If we saved her for third, she would’ve known what was coming. She would’ve thrown a fit. You know how cops are with locals. They would have insisted we didn’t have the right to pull her pants down.”
Joe says, “They’d have been right.”
“For a bomb builder, you’re an odd duck,” I say.
No one responds or comments, so we walk quietly for several minutes. As we near the chopper I ask, “What did you whisper to Abbey to make her stop screaming?”
“I told her if she kept her mouth shut I’d kill Emma Wilson for her.’”
“Brilliant.”
“Thanks.”
I pause a minute, then say, “But you can’t kill her. You know that, right?”
“We’ll see,” Callie says.
We climb in the chopper, take our seats. While awaiting lift-off, I eye Callie carefully. It doesn’t take much to set her off, and I hadn’t noticed it before, but she’s clearly on edge about something. While Callie’s not the only person on earth with bi-polar issues and a hair-trigger personality, she’s quite unique in how she expresses displeasure.
What I’m saying, when Callie gets like this, people die.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Peachy,” she says.
8.
Jill Whittaker.
JILL’S CELL PHONE is ringing?
Not possible.
Is it?
She answers, “Jack? Please tell me it’s you!”
“It’s me. What’s up?”
Shit, she thinks. Then says, “Who is this? How’d you get my number?”
“It’s Jack. Talk to me.”
“Look, asshole. First of all, Jack doesn’t sound like a cartoon character. Second—”
“Yeah?”
She hangs up. No point in continuing the conversation. Whoever called obviously found her number on the top edge of the bathroom door where she left it for Jack.
How the hell did the door survive the blast?
And how could she let herself think for one minute Jack escaped? And how could she expect him to talk to her after Bobby cut out his vocal cords?
Simple. She thought those things because she wanted to. Because she’s an optimist. And because hope springs eternal.
But this is the real world. If Bobby claimed he removed Jack’s vocal cords, then Jack will never speak again, period. Not that it matters, since Jack’s either dead or soon will be.
It’s not that she loves Jack. She barely knows him. But she does feel responsible. That said, she needs to move along. Needs to take care of herself. Needs to get as far away from her crazy husband, Bobby, as possible.
Ryan Decker, the terrorist, went to a great deal of trouble to help her. He lied for her. Told Bobby she died in the explosion. Then gave her a ride to Memphis.
She should have ditched her phone in the lake last night, but she kept it, hoping the information she heard about Jack was wrong. By answering her phone just now, Bobby’s goons have learned she’s alive.
Assuming the call was made by one of Bobby’s goons.
But what if it wasn’t?
She presses the redial button.
“You’re right,” the voice says. “I’m not Jack. I’m Donovan Creed, with Homeland Security. I found your number on a piece of wood at a blast site. Who am I talking to?”
Jill hangs up. The good news is Bobby doesn’t know she survived the blast. The bad news is it wasn’t Jack who found the number.
The phone rings again.
They’re probably trying to trace it. Get her on the line, keep her talking. On TV when the suspect calls, the screen starts with a map of the U.S. and keeps updating to a region, then a state. On TV there are lots of glowing, pulsing signals. On TV the tracer guy says, “Keep her talking. We’re almost there! Another ten seconds and—” But then the suspect hangs up and the screen goes black. Never fails. Somehow the TV villains always know just how long it takes the cops to triangulate the location of the cell phone. Does that mean if she doesn’t answer, they won’t be able to find her?
Wait.
Donovan Creed’s in Willow Lake, Arkansas, and she’s in Memphis, Tennessee. So even if he traces her phone, she’ll have plenty of time to get away. She’s on foot, but men like her. She can catch a ride with someone in the lobby or parking lot. And if not, she can take the shuttle to the airport, which is just across the interstate.
The point is, Jill can safely take the call. If she wants to.
Does she?
The phone stops ringing.
Should she wait till it rings again, or call back?
She presses the redial.
Creed answers. “Should I call you Emma?”
“That’ll work. For now.”
“Emma, I need your help.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“What do you want?”
“Are you kidding? I’m a woman.”
Creed chuckles. “Good answer. How much do you know about the bombing at Willow Lake?”
“Everything.”
“Perfect! Start at the beginning. Leave nothing out.”
“Sorry, pal. I don’t have that much time. But I’ll tell you the basics if you’ll do two things for me.”
“Name them.”
“I want you to rescue Jack Tallow.”
“Where is he?”
“Have you heard of Bobby DiPiese?”
“Bobby Dee? The mob boss? Yeah, sure. What about him?”
“He’s got a basement dungeon in his home, near La Pierre, Louisiana. Jack’s being held prisoner there, along with a bunch of others. You’ll recognize Jack right away. He’s the one who can’t talk.”
“Why can’t he talk?”
“Because Bobby cut his vocal cords out.”
“And you know this because?”
“The terrorist told me.”
“The one who blew up Jack’s lake house?”
“Yup.”
“You called him a terrorist, not a bomber, or dissident.”
“That’s how he identified himself. He said he’s an urban terrorist.”
“What’s his name?”
“I’ll tell you when you rescue Jack.”
“Consider it done. I’ll call you back as soon as I hear something.”
“Don’t. I’m ditching this phone. But give me your number and I’ll call you tomorrow. Save Jack, and I’ll give you the guy’s name and physical description.”
“Why should I believe you possess that information?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“You’re putting my life in danger with Bobby Dee and giving me nothing in return.”
“You’ll get what you want when I get what I want.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know. Just to whet my appetite.”
“Okay. I’m great in bed.”
Creed laughs. “I knew that already.”
“No you didn’t.”
“You had Jack’s house, credit card, and a huge stack of cash. You survived a physical assault from Darryl Rhodes and a bombing that leveled half the neighborhood.”
She laughs. “All of which tells you I’m good in bed?”
“The evidence screams it.”
“Well, how can we argue against the evidence?”
“We can’t. So tell me your real name.”
“Ask me something else.”
“The guy that fired the missile from the lake. The terrorist.”
“What about him?”
“He wrote BWC on the bodies of three survivors.”
“So?”
“Any idea what it
means?”
“If I tell you, will you promise to rescue Jack?”
“Does it count if he’s dead?”
“No.”
“If he’s alive, I’ll rescue him. If not, I’ll recover him.”
“Because we can.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what BWC stands for.”
“Because we can? What does that mean?”
“I’m not sure. But Ryan says it’s going to be a household saying.”
“Ryan?”
“That’s his first name.”
“When’s he planning to strike?”
“Soon.”
“Shit.”
“Save Jack. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Emma?”
“Yeah?”
“I will find Jack. But hang onto your phone.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re at the airport hotel, Memphis, Tennessee, Room 232, and I’ve got an agent stationed outside your door. You’re not going anywhere till I get there. You’re going to help your country find this prick, Ryan, and I’ll make it worth your while by keeping you out of prison.”
She hangs up, runs to the door, opens it, sees a giant man standing there.
He smiles. “Hi Emma.”
She does a double-take.
Then smiles back and says, “I’ll be damned! Frank Sturgis.”
He says, “What are the chances?”
They hug.
She says, “You still driving the cab?”
“I am. And you’re still on the run?”
“Yup. Give me a lift?”
“Let’s talk a minute first.”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“I know. But you may be in over your head this time. Can I tell you why?”
“Okay. But afterward, if I still want a ride?”
“I’ll take you where you want to go.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
As they enter her room his phone rings. He listens a while, then says, “Yes sir.”
When he hangs up, she asks, “Was that Donovan Creed?”
Frank nods.
“Is he really with Homeland Security?”
“Not exactly. But he kills terrorists for them.”
“But you can handle him.”
“No one can handle Creed. He’s the most dangerous person on earth.”
“You’re exaggerating. I just spoke to him twice. He’s all talk.”
“When Creed’s in Pamplona, the bulls run from him.”
She stares at him a minute. “I don’t have any idea what that means.”
