Cherry Bomb

by J. A. Konrath

  “Look the other way!”

  Alex turns her head, knows that the cop will approach her from a different angle to keep her off balance. As expected, Officer Stark comes at Alex on her left side, snicks the cuff on Alex’s right wrist with her left hand, grabbing Alex’s thumb to hold her steady. But it’s impossible to fully handcuff a suspect while holding a pistol. Stark has to holster her weapon before slapping on the other cuff. As she does this, Alex’s free hand snakes into the hoodie and grabs the Cheetah. Alex tilts left, twisting around under her armpit, and jams the stun gun into the officer’s hip, letting her feel a million volts.

  Officer Stark folds in half and drops to the street. Alex reaches for the gun, but it’s secured by a strap. She takes a second to find the release, then the pistol—a Sig Sauer .45—comes free. Alex sticks it in the back of her jeans.

  A car whizzes by, doesn’t slow down. The cop moans. Alex juices her again, then drags her between their cars, onto the dirt beyond the shoulder. She unclips a Maglite from Stark’s belt and takes her pepper spray and radio. The handcuff keys are in her breast pocket, and Alex removes her bracelet and binds Stark’s wrists. Then she waits.

  The cop stirs, opens her eyes. Alex focuses the beam on her.

  “Full name and car number.”

  “Ma’am…you’re in a lot of trouble.”

  Cops like Maglites. Illumination is only one of the reasons why. Alex raises it, heavy with six D batteries, and brings it down on Officer Stark’s leg. Not hard enough to break it—that would cause a delay—but hard enough to hurt like hell.

  This produces a sound somewhere between a whimper and a howl. Alex repeats the question.

  “Val…Val Stark. Car Five Victor Seven.”

  “Good. Now on your hands and knees. Back to your ride.”

  Alex follows while hunched over, keeping out of sight of the occasional passing car. She helps Officer Stark into the backseat.

  “Be right back, cutie.”

  Alex winks and slams the door. Then she gathers up the items from the back of the Honda and transfers them into the passenger seat of the cop car, save for a fist-sized chunk of PENO, a pyrotechnic blasting cap, and four feet of pink thermalite fuse. She pushes in the Honda’s cigarette lighter, then spends a few dirty minutes crawling under the chassis. Alex hums as she works, sticking the PENO to the gas tank, and the combined fuse and cap into the plastic. The road, and the undercarriage, are still damp from the earlier rain, but the explosive sticks like peanut butter.

  Boom time.

  Alex pops out the lighter, admiring the orange glow. She hesitates, savoring the moment, letting some anticipation build.

  The fuse ignites, hissing and sparking and making Alex feel like she’s ten years old again, behind Father’s barn with Charles, lighting cherry bombs and blowing up tin cans.

  Four feet of pink thermalite equals eighty seconds. Alex pockets the lighter and strolls to the police car, no hurry, and climbs into the driver’s seat. Officer Stark has left her keys in the ignition, the car still running. The car computer—a laptop—is attached to the armrest, its white screen blinking. Alex shifts into reverse and backs up along the shoulder until she’s a good hundred feet away from the Honda. Then she chews her lower lip and watches, eyes wide. Waits for it…waits for it…

  Eighty seconds pass.

  Nothing happens.

  The radio squawks, making her jump.

  “Five Victor Seven, status on the 10-73. Over.”

  Alex locates the handset, picks it up.

  “This is Five Victor Seven.” Alex’s pitches her voice higher, to match Officer Stark’s. “Standby, Central.”

  “Ten-four, Five Victor Seven.”

  Still no explosion. Alex wonders if the wet road snuffed out the fuse. Or if she grabbed an electric blasting cap by mistake. There could be a dozen reasons why it didn’t go off, but going out and checking doesn’t seem like the brightest of ideas.

  “Check under the can, Alex. See if it’s lit.”

  “You check, Charles. I don’t have to know that bad.”

  But in this case, Alex has to know. Her prints are all over that car, and a quick peek at Officer Stark’s computer shows it has been reported stolen. If the Honda doesn’t explode, it will give Jack an unfair jump on Alex’s location, and let the lieutenant know she has plastic explosives. Not to mention alert the local cops that an escaped serial killer is prowling the area.

  Alex speaks into the radio, reading the call number off the screen.

  “Central, this is Five Victor Seven. Negative on that 10-73. It was the own er, spent a few days out of town, forgot to call home, over. I’m giving her a warning. Over.”

  “Roger that, Five Victor Seven.”

  Alex turns around, faces the cop in the backseat.

  “Officer Stark, I need you to check to see why my car hasn’t blown up.”

  Officer Stark doesn’t move, and her face reveals she isn’t pleased with the idea.

  “Chances are pretty good that it went out,” Alex says, soothing. “I don’t think it’s going to blow up in your face.”

  “Then you go check.”

  “I have the gun, so I don’t have to. Now, are you going to help a civilian out, or do I have to put two in your knees?”

  “You’re making it worse for yourself. You need to stop before this goes too far.”

  Alex considers this woman. She’s tall enough, but the eyes are wrong.

  “Are you married, Stark?”

  “Yes. I have a husband and three kids. You don’t want to do anything stupid.”

  “Exactly. Which is why you’re the one who’s going to check the fuse.”

  Alex exits the vehicle and walks around to Stark’s door. One hand opens it. The other points the Sig.

  “Check if the fuse died, or any other problem you can find.”

  “I don’t know anything about explosives.”

  “It’s easy. If you see a spark, run. And make sure you run this way, or I’ll shoot you.”

  Stark pulls herself out of the backseat—not the easiest of tasks with cuffs on—and stands before Alex.

  Alex extends her empty hand. Stark flinches, but Alex brings the gun up under her jaw to keep her still. She pushes a stray auburn bang out of Stark’s face, tucks it behind her ear.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Alex says. “Things happen beyond our control. We can’t do anything to stop them. But we do have control over how we react. How we respond. Being afraid is a choice.”

  The speech seems to have the opposite effect on Stark, who begins to tremble. Alex rolls her eyes.

  “Just get over there, ’fraidy cat.”

  Stark moves like a robot, joints stiff, head down, scanning the road. Alex waits behind the open door of the cruiser, one hand aiming the Sig, the other aiming the Maglite.

  The closer Stark gets to the Honda, the slower she becomes. At this rate, the sun will be up before the car explodes.

  “Let’s pick up the pace, Officer Stark. I’m hoping to get laid to night. You find the fuse?”

  Stark mumbles something, the words lost in the night.

  “Crouch lower,” Alex says. “It’s a skinny pink fuse.”

  Another mumble. Alex aims, fires a round over Stark’s head, close enough for her to feel the wind. The cop drops to the ground.

  “That’s what I mean. Keep looking.”

  Another minute passes, along with three rubberneckers. One slows down enough to maybe see that things aren’t right. The radio squawks again.

  “Five Victor Seven, what’s your twenty? Over.”

  Alex doesn’t know radio call signals. And she can’t trust Officer Stark to give her the correct response. She chooses to ignore it, hoping to get out of there shortly.

  “See the fuse?” Alex calls to Stark, who is now on all fours next to the Honda, shaking so bad she looks like a wet dog.

  “No.”

  “Check underneath, by the gas tank.”

  Stark doesn
’t budge. Alex shoots out the tire Stark is crouching next to, the pop almost as loud as the gunfire.

  “I hate repeating myself, Val.”

  “Five Victor Seven, status.”

  Goddamn radio. Alex opens the front door, grabs the hand mike.

  “Just finishing up here, Central. Computer problems.”

  She tosses the mike back inside, and notices Officer Stark is under the car. But there’s a faint blue light under there with her.

  The bitch has a cell phone. Probably one of those ultra-thin models for Alex to have missed it in the pat down.

  “Five Victor Seven, do you have a 10-86? Over.”

  Dammit. Alex figures she said something wrong, which means another patrol car will cruise by any minute. She needs to get out of here, pronto.

  “Throw away the phone, Val!”

  Alex fires two rounds into the trunk of the car. The cop can’t drop the phone fast enough, and it skitters across the pavement.

  “Now grab the plastic explosive I put on the gas tank!”

  Val cowers, hands covering her head, as if that will protect her from a forty-five-caliber bullet.

  Alex takes a deep, calming breath, then exits the vehicle.

  “I’m going to count to three. If I don’t see the plastic in your hand, your children will grow up without a mother. One…two…”

  Officer Stark holds up the PENO.

  “Good. Now run back here. Move it, double time.”

  Stark half jogs/half stumbles to the squad car. Her face is wet.

  “Gimme the plastic, and get in the backseat. Close the door behind you.”

  The cop follows orders. Alex studies the PENO. The fuse has fallen out. Alex frowns with half of her face. She places the PENO on the passenger seat.

  “Now take your clothes off, Officer Stark.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so. Faster would be better. If you follow directions, you’ll live through this.”

  She uncuffs her and Officer Stark strips. Alex enjoys the show. From experience, she knows how difficult it is to undress a body. It’s much easier, and quicker, when they undress themselves.

  “Underwear too. This is just so you won’t be able to follow me.”

  Alex gives Officer Stark credit for not losing it. There are tears, but no begging or sobbing. Tough broad. Not a bad body either.

  “Very good, Officer Stark. Now I want you to get into the Honda. I’m going to leave you there.”

  Alex opens the door, checks for cars, then marches the cop to the Honda. Moving bodies is an even bigger pain in the ass than undressing them. Much easier to let them move themselves.

  “Sit in the driver’s seat, put your hands out.”

  Alex tucks the gun into her waistband. Naked, the cop has lost the will to fight back. It takes a few seconds to uncuff one of her wrists, then attach it to the steering wheel.

  “Are you afraid, Val?”

  Officer Stark stares hard at Alex.

  “Yes. But I’m controlling it.”

  “Good. Good for you. Are your children proud of you? That their mother is a cop?”

  Stark nods.

  “They should be.”

  Alex hurries back to the squad car, picks up the PENO and two feet of thermalite fuse. Dispatch comes on the radio. Alex switches it off, concentrating on inserting the fuse into the blasting cap. Once she’s satisfied it won’t fall out, she returns to the Honda, stopping once to pick up Officer Stark’s cell phone.

  “Normally I savor things like this, Val, but I’m short on time.”

  Alex takes the cigarette lighter from her pocket, and leans across Stark to press it into the outlet.

  “I’m using a forty-second fuse. I won’t light it until your call goes through. Forty seconds probably isn’t long enough to say goodbye to your kids, but it’s an unfair world.”

  Alex hands Stark the phone. She looks deep into the cop’s eyes, sees it all. Disbelief. Realization. Anger. Despair. Acceptance. Out of everyone Alex has killed today, this is the most memorable. Too bad she can’t stick around to watch her face during the final moments.

  The lighter pops out.

  “Call home, Val.”

  Val’s hands are shaking so badly she has to dial three times. Finally, she gets a connection.

  “Honey? It’s Mommy.”

  Alex caresses Val’s hair. Then she lights the fuse and tosses the PENO under the Honda.

  As she walks back to the patrol car, Alex wonders what she would do with only a few seconds left to live. What would she say?

  Nothing. She’d say nothing, because she doesn’t have anyone to call.

  The explosion is loud, and rattles the police car, but there is no huge pyrotechnic fireball like on television. The car burns, but it’s a small fire, won’t last long.

  Alex hits the siren and peels out. Mission accomplished. On to the next goal.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE CRIMEBAGO ACCELERATED with the speed and grace of a three-legged elephant, blowing through a red light and prompting a honking frenzy from all four corners of the intersection. Harry alternated between steering and punching buttons on the dashboard CD changer. I gave him a friendly tap on the back of the head to keep him focused.

  “What the hell are you doing, McGlade? Watch the damn road!”

  “I’m looking for car chase music.”

  “I’ll do it. Pay attention to driving.”

  “Find Steppenwolf. It’s disc five or six.”

  I pressed some random buttons, and Pink Floyd came on again.

  “Too mellow!” McGlade yelled, jerking the wheel left and turning onto Halsted. I fell into the passenger seat, and Phin appeared and punched off the stereo.

  “Is there a door to the roof?”

  “Skylight opens. Latch is above the sofa. Why’d you kill the tunes?”

  “Pull up next to a bus, then slow down and let them get close.”

  “You want to jump from the Crimebago to a bus?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Motorhead would be perfect for that. I think it’s disc eight.”

  Harry fussed with buttons. Phin locked eyes with me and said, “Make sure he does what I told him.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  It was slight, but he still smirked. It annoyed me. I shoved Phin to the side, grabbed a walkie-talkie, and turned it on.

  Then the RV exploded, a deafening thunderclap that made my knees buckle.

  “SACRIFICE! PAY THE PRICE!”

  No, not an explosion. Harry had found the Motorhead CD.

  I clawed my way up to the cockpit and smacked it off.

  “I’m the driver, dammit! I pick the music!”

  “Focus, McGlade. Get next to a bus and make sure the Feebies are right behind you, then come to a stop. They won’t be able to see up onto the roof if they’re hugging the bumper.”

  Harry reached for the stereo. I smacked his fake hand.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Jesus, sis, I got it the first time.”

  “We’ll go on your say-so. Lead them around for another ten minutes, then pull over. Got it?”

  “There better not be a body cavity search. I’ll give you up if they threaten me with a body cavity search. My ass is exit only.”

  “Relax, Harry.” Phin patted him on the shoulder. “They won’t think I’m hiding up your ass.”

  Harry nodded, then accelerated to catch up to a bus several car lengths ahead. Phin and I went to the kitchenette, strapping on our backpacks. He smirked at me again. I frowned.

  “I’m going with you to find Alex, Phin. That’s the only reason.”

  “I know.”

  His grin didn’t fade. I thought about mentioning the obstruction of justice charges I’d be facing if we were caught, along with accessory after the fact, all because he robbed a goddamn bank instead of getting an honest job. But instead I said, “What’s so damn funny?”

  He shook his head slightly. I realized he wa
sn’t amused by the situation, or anything I was doing. He was staring at me the way Latham used to, the way Alan did before our marriage imploded. Not lust. Something even more dangerous.

  Love.

  A quick romp in bed was one thing. An actual relationship was something I couldn’t even consider, especially at that moment. I wanted to smack him for being ten kinds of inappropriate.

  “They’re on my bumper!” McGlade yelled back.

  “How close?” I turned away from Phin’s stare but still could feel it.

  “Close enough to give me a reach-around. Bus is on the left. You got about twenty seconds before the light turns green.”

  Phin shouldered the backpack and hopped onto the sofa, fussing with the latches on the ceiling panel. It swung upward on hinges. He stuck his arms through, got his palms onto the roof, and hoisted himself up. I hung my purse around my neck and cast a longing glance at the rifles. We’d have to leave them for the time being.

  “Cross traffic is flashing the Don’t Walk light,” McGlade said.

  A hand reached down. I stepped onto the sofa and grabbed Phin’s wrist. His fingers locked onto my forearm and he yanked me through the opening, up onto my butt.

  Vehicle exhaust soured my sinuses and cold city wind spit drizzle on my cheeks. I knelt on the roof, rainwater soaking through the seat of my sweatpants.

  “The Don’t Walk light is solid.” McGlade’s voice was muffled, competing with the sounds of the street. Engines, honking, a siren in the distance. I looked behind me, couldn’t see the Feebies’ sedan. We were too high and they were too close.

  Phin pointed left, to the bus. A Chicago commuter, green on white, about a foot taller than the RV and too far away to jump onto.

  But Phin wasn’t reading my thoughts, and he sprinted up from a crouching position, took three big strides, then launched himself through the air.

  His jump took him at least eight feet, and as his arc crested and waned I knew he didn’t have enough height to make it. Phin must have realized it as well, because he tucked in his legs midair, and hit the roof of the bus on his knees, sliding across the top in a spray of dirty water.

  I knew I couldn’t follow. Too far.

  “Yellow light!” McGlade warned.

  Phin twisted around, beckoned me to jump. I got on my feet, but there was no way. Not without wings and a stack of mattresses. I shook my head.