Chapter 42

 

Turning onto Milling’s street, Herbert realized what he’d really like to do was take his time, go in there with his peashooter, and have some makeshift office hours. Recite his essay from memory and have Milling analyze it again…at gunpoint.

But there wasn’t enough time. He had miles to go before he slept, after all, and Milling was just one enjoyable yet insignificant stop on the list, no matter how much Herbert would have loved to savor the experience.

Besides, the meatheads were still trailing him, and they would make an extended visit…difficult. As it was, he’d pull a hit and run, and he was all but certain the meatheads would take care of any leftovers.

Oh, he hoped to hell that Milling was home.

So far, he hadn’t had much luck with the list. Getting around town was harder than he’d expected. Too many crashed cars. So he’d ended up missing whole blocks, whole quadrants of town, whole stacks of names.

Oh well, if he ended up with extra ordinance, he’d just drive along Sorority Lane, play paperboy with his leftover pipe bombs, and call it a night. You couldn’t have everything.

But he sure hoped he had Milling.

Nearing the address, he thrilled to see the porch light, the people standing around. Not crazy. Normal. Maybe half a dozen shapes on the porch, some sitting, some standing, the sitting ones rising now, black lines jutting out of their silhouettes. Guns.

Armed citizenry.

Herbert grinned. Like all great men, he loved a challenge.

A quick glance in the rearview showed him the meatheads just spilling onto the street.

He had maybe ten, fifteen seconds to get it on. The noise would bring the meatheads like hyenas.

"Sit up," Herbert told the girl in the back seat. "You don’t want to miss this."

Not so much as "fuck" from her. He hoped she wasn’t dead or something. It would be fun to take her back to the basement and play hide-the-beaker with her for a while. Not if she was dead, though. He was no sicko.

Herb slowed, pulled to the curb.

The shapes on the porch, still mostly obscured by lights above and behind them, pointed weapons at him now.

Again, his scrotum tightened. He dowsed his grin. It was important to look shocked, fearful.

He rolled down the opposite window and leaned across the seat. "Um, hi," he said, and lifted a hand. "Are you people okay? I mean, you’re not crazy, are you?" His body trembled with the laughter that roared inside him.

Someone on the porch responded. No. They weren’t crazy. Someone asked who he was.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he asked if Professor Milling was home.

"Yeah," a deep voice said. "He’s inside. Gary, go get Chuck. A friend’s here to see him."

A friend? Herbert had to bite his lip to contain the laughter.

But now the speaker was coming down the steps, shotgun at port arms, a big guy in a heavy wool coat with a Navajo design.

Herbert lit the fuse on the pipe bomb he’d pinched between his legs.

The big guy stopped on the bottom step. "You hurt? You need help?" Then, leaning and squinting, but still keeping his shotgun angled away, Herbert was pleased to see, the guy said, "What’s that? A sparkler?"

"Yeah," Herbert said. "A sparkler. My daughter in the back seat, she loves fireworks."

"Huh?"

And in the back seat, the girl was sitting up.

"Fuck," she said.

The big guy’s face twisted with concern and confusion.

The whole time, Herbert had been flashing glances at the door, wishing to hell that Milling would show himself.

Now the sparks from the fuse were stinging his hand, sending the faint smell of burnt hair into his nose.

I wait too long, this thing’ll kill me.

He glanced down. The fuse was close. Mere seconds. And the pipe was up against his balls.

"Look down the street," Herbert said. "Those guys are crazy."

Falling for the oldest trick in the book, the guy said "Huh?" and looked toward the charging meatheads, and that’s when Herbert flipped the pipe Frisbee-style into the gloom of the porch.

Someone shouted.

Herbert let go the brake, stomped the gas, and scooched low in his seat as the Crown Vic leapt from the curb.

Then came the flash, like lightning, followed by its world-splitting thunderclap explosion, and glass sprayed the inside of the car. Herbert whooped, roaring away, then straightened, turned, and, through the blown-out rear window, eyed the rapidly receding scene: the big guy out in the street, literally afire but unmoving; more flames on the porch, lots of smoke…and the meatheads, predictable as always, charging through that smoke, up the steps, and into Milling’s house.

Now that, thought Herbert, is sick.