Trigger

by S. G. Redling

  She took a moment to answer. “Not as much as I probably should.”

  “There was a lot going on that day.”

  “Yeah.” She laughed softly. “Yes, there was.”

  Oh Dani. He wanted to pull the van over, turn to her and really look at her. He wanted her to see him seeing her. He wanted to tell her what he saw, how true and strong she really was to him. He wanted to assure her that she didn’t have to think about beating that man to death, that she didn’t belong in the pale world of cowards and moralizers who never risked anything worth any value because their lives were inherently worthless. He wanted to touch her face and assure her that he was the man she thought he was, that they were different and that they could understand each other. They didn’t have to wear masks. They didn’t have to be alone anymore.

  He wanted to say all of this and so much more but, as the miles passed and the moment lengthened, stretching too thin, he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he said, “I do have a plant.”

  “What?”

  “A plant. I have a house plant.”

  “Really?”

  Her laugh of surprise encouraged him. “Yes. I’ve had it for a few years. I found it by the dumpsters and saved it. It has a long botanical name, but it’s also called Mother-in-Law’s Tongue.”

  “Sansevieria.” Dani smiled.

  “That’s right.” He laughed, smiling back at her. “How did you know that?”

  She shrugged. “I know weird things like that.”

  “Me too. Most people don’t like details like that, but I do. And I like this plant. It’s really hard to kill.”

  “That’s kind of ironic, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s fitting? I don’t know. You can’t kill it. I don’t know...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Are you okay, Dani?”

  She hummed a high note. “I don’t think ‘okay’ is how I would describe myself right now, Tom. That doesn’t feel like the right word.”

  “What does feel like the right word?”

  She stared out at the world passing by, her voice staying in that strange singsong. “Uh, I don’t know. Like, maybe I’ve had a breakdown. Or maybe a stroke. Maybe I died and now we’re just driving around hell.”

  He made the turn for the motel. “I don’t think that’s the case, Dani. We’re in Connecticut now. I don’t think hell is legal here.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  8 a.m. – 60 minutes to trigger

  Did Tom Booker just tell a joke?

  That smile he threw her way when she laughed certainly made it seem that way.

  Tom Booker telling jokes, saving plants, living in Pittsburgh.

  Tom Booker helping her save Choo-Choo from the bomb implanted in his body.

  This had to be limit of her capacity for shock, right?

  When Dani saw who answered the motel door, she got her answer.

  There was more room.

  The woman who let them into the room had white skin and white blonde hair with black roots and ratty ends piled up on top of her head like a fountain. Not much taller than Booker, she outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, most of which was on display. The fuchsia bra did an admirable job holding in two of the largest breasts Dani had ever seen and the bright blue ruffled underpants did far too much work to be called panties. Around the optimistic fabric, brilliantly colored and painstakingly detailed mermaids and sea creatures swam from the woman’s collar bone to her toenails. On top of all that color and movement, the woman’s face shone with a bright smile and freshly scrubbed skin.

  “There you are! Come on in!” Her laughter made her body shake and she waggled her ruffled bottom at them as they followed her into the darkened room. “Kaneisha told me you might be on your way. You eat? I got tacos and fried chicken.”

  She waved her ringed fingers over a spread of food surrounding two laptops and a monitor as well as some other black boxed equipment Dani couldn’t identify. Booker glanced at Dani who shook her head.

  “No thank you, Tabitha. We won’t be staying long.”

  She shrugged, scooping up salsa on a chip as she settled into the chair before the computer set-up. “Your car keys are on the table by the lamp. Be sure to leave the van keys for me. How long do I have the room?”

  “I’m leaving today.”

  She snorted. “I know that. That’s not what I asked. What I asked is how long does that bitch think you’re staying here? How much more pay-per-view can I get in? The porn they got here is pretty vanilla but free is free.” She winked at Booker who seemed to take it in stride.

  “She’s expecting me to check out today. I need the tracker back. She’s called me in. I’m going to meet her.”

  Tabitha dropped her chip and looked at Tom crestfallen. “Are you shitting me? God damn it. Now I owe that bitch a hundred bucks.”

  Booker cocked his head in confusion. “You do?”

  She waved him off, banging the keys of one of the laptops. “Not your bitch. Kaneisha. We had a bet going. She told me what was going on and I bet a hundred bucks you’d get the hell out of here. She bet you’d stick around and see this shit-show through to the end. I can’t believe I got that wrong, Tom. You should pay her, not me. I’m not the one acting crazy.”

  Dani revisited the possibility that she had had a mental break somewhere along the way. These were Tom Booker’s associates? This was a Paper Sister?

  As if reading her mind, Tabitha turned the chair around to examine Dani from head to toe. There was none of the Charbaneaux subtlety here. Her eyes moved openly over the borrowed clothes and uncombed hair, even glancing around as if to take measure of her ass.

  “So, you’re the thing that’s got our knife guy in such a twist. Huh.” Dani said nothing, pointedly not looking at Booker. “Not much to ya. You color blind or you just got bad taste?”

  Booker saved Dani from answering. “Tabitha Papers, this is Dani Britton.”

  “I figured,” Tabitha said. “I’m the one who assembled your packet. You’re gonna be Anna Adkins? You take care of that girl. I put a lot of work into building her. She’s got great credit. Don’t blow it. Not that you’re likely to live long enough to have the chance. Seems a shame to waste good paper on bad odds.”

  “What?” Dani finally found her voice.

  Tabitha reached around the food and equipment to pull out a small cardboard box. “Here you go, Tom. Got you rigged up with an earpiece. Shouldn’t interfere with any security in place on-site. I assume you are going somewhere there will be security?”

  Booker accepted the box and pulled out the small earbud. “That’s a safe bet. I have security credentials. I don’t know if they work or not.”

  “You do?” Dani asked.

  They talked around her as if she weren’t there. “Kaneisha said to call her if you want her to walk you through it. She asked me if I wanted to help but I’m not really in the mood to listen to your dying screams.”

  “Do you have the tracker?” Booker asked. “Do you have it… handy?”

  “I kept it nice and warm for you, Tom. You ready for it?” She laughed at his discomfort and winked at Dani. “Don’t get the vapors, Tom. I kept it under my boobs. I didn’t put it in my dirty lady parts. The question is where are you going to put it? Gonna tuck it up under your boys? Bet it’s nice and warm up there.”

  “I’ll just tape it under my arm, I think.”

  She continued to laugh, and Booker continued to take it without offense. In all possible scenarios Dani had ever imagined finding Tom Booker, she hadn’t ever come close to this.

  “Since I had all this time to kill, what with the subpar porn available on the TV, I did you a little favor.” She plugged a cord into the laptop. “Never in a million years thought you’d need it. I thought for sure you would make like an exorcist and get the hell out of here but I had time to kill so I reverse engineered your tracker so that you can track the one who is tracking you.”

  “Really?” Dani
asked, trying to keep up.

  “Yes, really.” Tabitha scowled at her. “I’m not just a pretty face and banging body. I got skills you can’t even spell. Give me your phone, Tom. I’ll load the program for you.”

  He handed it over. “How did you work on it while it was, um, hidden?”

  “You mean, nestled snugly under my sumptuous breasts?” She winked at Dani again, seeming to see her as an ally in this bizarre dynamic. “I created a practice of randomly blocking the signal for varying periods of time. Just enough to make it seem like coverage was spotty or like maybe the device was glitchy. That way when I boxed it out long enough to work on it, it wouldn’t seem suspicious.”

  Booker looked as confused as Dani felt. Almost.

  “How did you manage that?”

  “Faraday cage. You know what a Faraday cage is, Dani?”

  Dani jumped at being addressed. “Yeah, it’s a metal container that blocks electromagnetic fields.”

  Tabitha whistled. “Look at you, bright girl. Now tell me you’re not scanning the room looking for an actual cage.” Dani froze, doing exactly that.

  The blonde shook her head in disappointment. “You don’t need a cage to make a Faraday cage. It’s just an expression. Here.” She grabbed a taco that spilled from a foil wrapper. “This will work. It’s just got to be metal. Aluminum foil, tin, stainless steel. About anything will work as long as the device is completely surrounded. Even an old cookie tin will work as long as it’s got a tight-fitting lid. You know what won’t work, though? A refrigerator. Isn’t that weird? You’d think a refrigerator would make a great Faraday cage. I mean, it can stop a bullet, but it can’t stop electromagnetic radiation.” She stared at Dani. “Is that the weirdest thing ever?”

  “No,” Dani said, looking at the tattooed woman and the hitman working with her. “That is not the weirdest thing ever.”

  Tabitha didn’t pick up on the implications. Instead she shrugged and turned back to her laptop. “Oh well, that’s all I got for you. Call Kaneisha on your way. She’ll tell you what she’s figured out. And tell her to get off my ass about the money. I’ll pay her when I see her.”

  “Okay,” Booker said, setting down the van keys and picking up another set with a large electronic fob and rental tag. “I appreciate your help, Tabitha.”

  “Don’t mention it,” she said as they headed for the door. “Hey, one thing, Tom. I don’t know what this little thing’s got going on in those ugly pants to make you decide to walk into a bomb, but I hope it’s worth it. It’s been a pleasure working with you. I’d say see you later but, you know.”

  Booker held the door for Dani and closed it to the sound of laughter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Clover Hall, Fairfield County, Connecticut

  Saturday, October 11, 2014

  8:15 a.m. – 45 minutes to trigger

  Cara enjoyed seeing the Charbaneaux clan being bossed around more than she anticipated. The revered photographer, Nonze, blew through the rooms like a dictator, ordering her minions here and there, sweeping open curtains, slamming doors, moving furniture. And they hadn’t even made it to the sitting room where the photo was to take place.

  In her wake, Charbaneauxs flowed with quiet, docile enthusiasm. Nonze was a big deal even among this big-deal-standard group. The photographer had sent pages and pages of detailed instructions to be carried out without question, the smallest infraction understood to be an instantaneous deal breaker. She had given obsessively detailed parameters for clothing, seating, lighting, background, and even catering instructions. The photographer had just disembarked from the private jet the family had paid for, covering what had to be the astronomical cost of transporting the artist from her home in Tanzania for this one family photo.

  A photo that was recreated every year under the same strict guidelines.

  It seemed the Charbaneaux clan did indeed answer to a higher authority and that authority rested in the hands of a bony, scowling artiste tracking red dust across thousand-dollar carpets.

  Cara’s eyes would have rolled far enough back in her skull to see her spinal column had she not entertained herself watching the arrogant Jack Charbaneaux mewling and purring at the slightest glance from Nonze.

  The whole family was behaving, even the horrific child who liked to run around screaming about cheese. It seemed that Nonze’s wardrobe restrictions had not precluded ascots so the little shit would be immortalized as the overprivileged freak he was. Cara kept her opinion on the kid and his little cousins to herself. She smiled at the fat little legs in short pants and simple cotton dresses that probably cost as much as a midsized Toyota. She oohed and aahed at the tasteful jewelry and subtly orchestrated color scheme the entire group managed to pull off. Caramel and azure with pops of celadon.

  Yellow and blue with green accents.

  Cara smiled and admired and laughed along with Senator Meeks at her pretense of being amused by the fuss her mother was making of the photograph. As if she didn’t expect the entire world to screech to a halt for the photographer as it did every year, as if the social cache of having a Nonze-graph wasn’t held at a price above rubies among the New York City social scene.

  Cara rolled with it all, making the appropriate sounds, remaining appropriately invisible and out of the way of the throb of anticipation pulsating throughout the house. The only unrequested interjections she made were the warm, off-hand mentions of how nice it was that Sinclair Charbaneaux had returned for the picture.

  He had missed several years of them much to Jack and Connie’s anger.

  Wasn’t it nice that he had finally come around?

  Wasn’t it nice (and by nice she implied surprising) how quickly his attitude had changed?

  He really seemed to want to be here this year, didn’t he? Wasn’t that nice?

  As always, Cara sowed her little seeds with care and restraint, not leaving any strings of thought that could be followed back to her. Certainly, nothing that would make any of the starstruck family members wonder too hard about the boy’s attendance.

  It would only seem remarkable in retrospect.

  The pieces of his motive would only fall together in a horrible revelation after the pieces of his body had been scattered all over the wall of river rock that served as the backdrop for the final photo of the entire Charbaneaux clan that would ever be taken.

  Such a magical plan.

  It had been a difficult sell to her superiors. They couldn’t understand the subtle yet effective magic of it. Once she had shown them the possibility of implanting an explosive device inside the body of a member of one of the most influential families in America, their rodent-like minds had turned immediately to prosaic plans. Assassinations.

  They debated heatedly over whom to kill, what pawn to take off their ever-changing game board. When she told them respectfully that they would be using a sledgehammer to kill a gnat, they had threatened to throw her out of the room and take over the plan – her plan – without including her.

  Idiots.

  Archaic idiots playing tic-tac-toe when she was offering them three-dimensional chess.

  She had broken it down for them in the simplest terms.

  Kill one person, you create a vacuum that might not be filled according to your wishes. One person would make a tiny splash in the news, a few headlines, before being engulfed in the ever-rising storm of information. They had hitmen like Tom Booker for simple assassinations. They were missing the bigger picture.

  It was almost 2015. The world was changing. Everyone warned about information being the new currency, but fear was the new power. Fear was the one-size-fits-all weapon of mass destruction that, when properly wielded, could shape nations, break economies, drive the market, and sweep the White House.

  Kill one power-player and the people would forget the name within weeks.

  Show the people the possibility that anyone could turn themselves into a weapon that was untraceable by all
modern security measures and you had a galvanized flock begging for protection. And protection cost money. It cost personal freedom and privacy and power. Regardless of what the official autopsy would say, Cara had teed up a full misinformation campaign for all the news outlets. Get a few talking heads discussing what kids were up to. (Always kids. Grown men changed the narrative in the most tedious ways.) Imagine the possibility of kids implanting bombs in their bodies to get their way. Where would it end?

  One of the many beautiful aspects of the plan, as she explained it to them, was that the story would pick up momentum without their help. A strategic leak of possible means of implanting explosives and at least a few morons out there would try it themselves. Someone would create a YouTube channel for it. Dark web sites would create DIY kits and the mainstream sites would obsess over the rumors of the goings-on on the dark web.

  Once activated, it would be a perpetual motion machine of rumor and fear.

  That two members of ISOC were developing patents for machines capable of detecting surgically implanted explosive devices and would be able to write their own check from the U.S. government in the name of public safety put the final cherry on top of this delicious sundae.

  In the end, dollars hollered. Cash was king. While it irked her that their decisions were predicated on such mundane matters, she understood their greed was necessary to implement the greatest, impenetrable and untraceable power grab of the 21st century.

  The photos of the Charbaneaux clan reeling in the smoke and gore of their beloved black-sheep’s corpse would become iconic. It didn’t matter whom he killed, if he killed anyone besides himself. Maybe one of the little kids would be situated on his lap for the photo. It seemed unlikely. Sinclair Charbaneaux was nobody’s idea of a good influence or a favorite uncle. Besides, the death of little American children might be too much for the public to absorb.

  Then again, maybe not. But Cara didn’t see the need to press her luck.