| |
Wilbur and Violet Banks had been watching TV most of the day. They flipped channels for a while, but soon everything looked the same, the awful footage losing its shock value even as it mesmerized. Little new information was being released on the first full day after the attacks. Maybe there was little new to release. Names of the dead shooters still hadn’t been made public. But it was virtually certain they had been identified, with all the networks quoting law enforcement sources saying the killers had connections in Chicago. The victims were being identified, and some television stations crawled names and photos that seemed never ending. The confirmed death count kept creeping up, like a thermometer on a viciously hot day.
Every so often a network would trot out a photo of the embassy attackers, speculating once again about whether they were the gunmen still at large in the interstate massacre. Each time it happened a mild fight would break out in the Banks’ living room.
“Yep, those two could be our renters,” Wilbur would say. “They’ve changed the way they look some, but not enough. They could be the ones.”
“Wilbur, those photos are not of Alexander and Demetri. They just aren’t.”
“Look at the eyes, damn it. You got to look at the eyes. Nothin’ else matters.”
“I’ve looked and I’ve looked. And look as I might I’m able to sleep just fine, thank you. Do you think I’d be sleepin’ just fine if mass killers lived on this place? No sir, I would not.”
“Well, I’m not sleepin’ just fine, I’m tellin’ you. Last night I got up to sit in the rockin’ chair, my shotgun pointed right at the door. I still couldn’t sleep.”
“Wilbur, you didn’t. Sit in the rockin’ chair with your shotgun, I mean.”
“Yes, Mother, I did. It’s a fact. I’m surprised I didn’t wake you up. And I likely will tonight, too.”
“Well, don’t expect to sleep, sittin’ up in a rockin’ chair and pointin’ a shotgun. I declare.”
A bit sullenly, both were again staring at the television when Maple and Stickman’s pickup eased up the driveway toward their rented trailer.
“What I oughta do is ring up the Sheriff’s Office. They could just pay a little social call on ole Alexander and Demetri. There’d be no harm done if they had nothin’ to hide.”
“Don’t you dare, Mr. Banks. Little social call, my hinny. Can you ‘magine the commotion there would be out here if the sheriff thought mass killers were in his county. He’d probably bring National Guard tanks with him!”
Violet’s outburst caught Wilbur’s attention. Hinny was as profane as she got, pretty much, and calling him Mr. Banks told him to be ready for a battle royal if he ignored her.
“Yes, Mother,” he said, resigned for a time.
––––––––
Stickman and Maple had seen the TV’s cheerful flicker as they drove by the turn to the Banks’ house. “Wonder what they’re watching?” Stickman asked rhetorically. “Yeah, I wonder,” answered his partner.
They were surprised to not find Cornell’s colorfully painted company van sitting outside his trailer. Usually he was well into a six-pack by now. “Could be he’s on call this week,” Maple speculated.
He grabbed his small travel bag and was turning up the trailer’s short flight of steps when muddy footprints stopped him. “Looks like we had a visitor,” he said over his shoulder.
Hearing someone coming up the driveway, they turned to see it was Cornell. “We’d better say hello to the man,” Stickman said, moving into the open space between the trailers.
Cornell unwound himself from behind the van’s steering wheel and greeted them. “You gents have a good trip?” he probed.
“We did,” Stickman replied. “Fishing sucked, but the trip was nice.”
“Say Cornell,” began Maple. “Did you notice anyone at our place while we were gone? Anyone who went up the steps to the door?”
“No, sure didn’t.”
“Sure you weren’t over here?”
“Me?”
“Whoever was here left muddy footprints that came from boots with a big grid. Like you’re wearing, Cornell.”
Cornell looked at his feet and glanced toward the steps, wondering how far he could press the lie. “Sorry, slipped my mind. I did come over. Ran out of beer. The way you asked I thought you might be mad. Sorry.”
“You feeling all right, Cornell. You’re sweating something fierce.”
“Really? No. I mean I’m fine. My last job today took me into an attic. It was hot as hell. Haven’t been able to stop sweating, I guess.”
Lie one admitted. And lie two? Maple mentally replayed Cornell’s appearance when he drove in. He wasn’t sweating, Maple was almost sure. Now, perspiration dripped from his nose and his shirt had soaked through at the armpits. He was one scared fucker.
Stickman joined the party. “That was some mess near St. Louis, wasn’t it? Men, women and children. I can’t get how someone could do that. Must be some kind of sick.”
The silence was heavy. “Me ether, er, either.” Cornell searched for words, not knowing how much anger he could safely vent. “There’s a lot wrong in this country,” he said quietly, lamely. “People, even okay people, can have their reasons or just, you know, suddenly snap.”
“But women and kids?” Stickman spat in a show of disgust. “My God man, women and kids?”
“Maybe whoever did it had lost a woman, kids.”
“It wasn’t a whoever, Cornell. It was a bunch, a gang, a wrecking crew.”
“Maybe they ...,” Cornell tried to continue, beset by confusion, just wanting to walk away. “I don’t know, no I don’t. Just thinking ...”
Thinking too hard, trying too hard to figure us out instead of just rolling with anger. That was Maple’s take. Any self-respecting HVAC guy would be outraged, not be a suck-up, trying to figure out what we want him to say. Lies had turned to strikes and now there were three.
Cornell gave a wave of his hands, as if to say he was out of answers. “Well, Cornell, we don’t have any beer.” Maple made eye contact and Cornell turned quickly, calling over his shoulder as he walked hangdog toward his trailer, “No problem. I’m good. Yep, I’m good. See you guys later.”
Two sets of eyes followed him, sensing danger in his every step. Maple looked past him, to the trailer that, unlike his own, didn’t have skirting. A dark line caught his eye. Or was it just a shadow? It seemed to go too far under the trailer, was too definitive to be a shadow. It may be something that has been there all along and I’ve never noticed it, Maple thought. Or not. He tried to follow the line, or shadow, into the lawn, staring hard at the ground between the trailers.
The terrorists didn’t speak until Cornell disappeared inside. “I think he’s made us,” said Stickman.
“Me, too. Just move in front of me, with your back to his trailer like we’re talking. I need to try to see ...”
At a couple spots between the two trailers, the ground looked like it may have been disturbed, as if a trough had been cut and the sod then returned. Maple was far from sure. “It’s been a tough couple days. Maybe I’m paranoid, but I think there could be a cord or something under his place, hanging down to the ground before coming across the yard. I need to know if it comes all the way to our trailer. I don’t think we can just walk over there and look.”
“Maybe you are seeing things,” Stickman said quietly. “But you’re right, we need to know for sure, especially since we think Cornell made us.”
“I could go in the trailer and check from the middle window, see if I can see more.”
Stickman was thoughtful for a minute. “He might spot you at the window. Listen, if he has wired our place he’ll want both of us inside when he blows it ...The truck’s pretty dirty. One of us can stay outside, give it a wash. The other gets tools and goes inside to flip on a few lights, then crawl under the trailer to see if we’ve got a problem. What think?”
“You know how I like tools. If everything goes up, chances are you’ll buy it, too.”
“I’ll try to keep the pickup between us,” Stickman said, forcing a grin.
Within a few minutes Maple was taking loose two sheets of siding. He slipped into the dark space beneath the trailer and started toward the opposite side, Cornell’s side. God, don’t let there be a lot of spiders or a nest of snakes, he said through clenched teeth. Fuck, how they scare me. With late afternoon shadows lengthening, he hoped the flashlight wouldn’t cast a glow Cornell could see. Directing the beam behind him, Maple still had enough light to crawl toward the trailer’s midpoint. There, he estimated, he would intersect with the cord – or shadow.
He saw a gap in the siding as he approached the opposite side. A sliver of light danced through dust particles. The gap could have been there a long time. He snapped off his flashlight and crawled toward the light, his head brushed something soft. Fuck, a spider web. He hastily reached to brush it off, and found an electrical cord in his hand. Oh my God. Now I wish I’d been wrong about the line, the shadow. Maybe I’m still wrong. Maybe this has been here forever. He followed the cord toward Cornell’s side of the trailer, to confirm where it was coming from, before tracking down where it went. A few inches from the siding the electrical cord went down, to ground level. Shit. This is starting to look real.
Maple pulled out heavy electrical pliers and put the teeth to the cord, then paused. Depending on the wiring, if there is a bomb, making this cut could be the last thing I do. He removed the pliers, knowing he must backtrack and learn what, if anything, the electrical cord was wired to. He wiggled the piece of loose siding and was able to move it almost back into place, virtually cutting off the sliver of light. As he did, gray and black checkerboard images of slaughter suddenly played before his eyes. The tour bus and burning cars and the school bus. He shook his head violently but the images fought him, abruptly going to fast forward. Just hallucinating. It will pass. Don’t let it turn to color, he said in almost a prayer. The checkerboard started breaking up and he reached for the flashlight. Where was it? It couldn’t be gone, you dumb fuck, it just isn’t where you thought it was, where you so carefully put it before moving the siding. Fuck, how do I get out of here? The tiny sliver of light beckoned. No, not that way, Cornell will see. Calm down, calm down. He reached to the other side, finding the welcome torch, flipping it on.
Maple stretched out on his back and forced himself to take deep slow breaths, turning the beam nearly full in his face. He ignored the danger of a glow being visible through the siding, basking in the comforting light. Better. That’s better. The checkerboard had disappeared entirely. He waited for it to reappear, but it did not. He reversed direction, following the electrical cord back to the center of the trailer, where it split. Oh oh, this is getting more complicated. There may be explosives at two points, perhaps equidistance from the front and rear of the sixty-foot trailer. He chose the branch to the left, toward the back of the trailer. He did not have to go far. His beam played on a package, tucked into the frame of the trailer. Four sticks of dynamite. They sagged beneath the flooring, sloppily roped in place. That’s Cornell’s kind of job. Maple found himself shaking his head and giggled, feeling less tension. What a loser this guy is.
The wiring appeared straight forward, which should allow him to cut the connections without setting off what he assumed was a second charge on the branch going toward the front of the trailer. But he wasn’t sure. He laid back on the cool ground. Clearly, his first priority was checking out the other split. He crawled forward and was not surprised to find another badly tied bundle of dynamite, this one with three sticks. That must have wiped out Cornell’s supply. But together, the two bundles would be more than enough to turn the trailer into kindling and aluminum strips, leave little more than DNA samples of anyone inside. Maple crawled into the fading sunlight. “You’ve got to get back,” he told Stickman. “The trailer is wired, three sticks of dynamite at this end, four at the other. I think I can cut them without blowing anything, but I can’t be positive.”
“We can just run for it.”
“If we do Cornell will call us in to claim the rewards.”
“So we cut the explosives, then what?”
“We take out the asshole and move on. Where, we’ll have to figure out.”
“So why not just take out Cornell?”
“Dammit, Stickman, where’d you leave your smarts? If we don’t cut the explosives and he sees us coming he’ll blow the trailer, trying to get us but mostly to attract attention. Then we’ve got to kill him and try to get to the Banks before they can call 911. If they don’t hear the explosion and call, a neighbor likely will. The wiring looks simple. I don’t think it will blow if I cut it. That’s not one hundred percent, but that’s what I think. Then we take Cornell out and move on. It may be days before the Banks notice we’re gone.”
Stickman was a bit taken aback by Maple’s passion, but didn’t argue. He had to agree that if Cornell blew the trailer the yard would soon be crawling with cops. He moved the truck as if to better wash one side, putting a little more precious distance between himself and the trailer.
Maple focused the flashlight on how Cornell had wired the four-stick bundle. Might as well give Stickman a break and start as far away as possible, he thought. Besides, someone would need to wipe out that boney piss ant. Let’s get this over with, he declared, positioning the pliers. He shut his eyes tightly, as if that would shield him, and squeezed the handles. Click. He opened his eyes, feeling foolish, but broke into a private, ear-to-ear grin. Eyes wide open in exaggeration and still grinning, he positioned the pliers on the second wire. Click. With a penknife he sawed quickly through the light rope and pulled the dynamite free.
Then he had an idea. Stripping several inches of plastic insulation from one of the wires he had clipped, Maple fed the bare strand through a hole in the trailer’s metal frame. He looped the wire through the hole a second and then a third time before tying it off with the second wire. Moving to the front end of the trailer, he quickly disabled the three sticks of dynamite and again stripped one wire of insulation and rewired it into the metal frame.
Maple crawled from beneath the trailer with both packets of dynamite, setting them upright like booty of war on the trailer steps, in the dried print of Cornell’s boot. Stickman had remained in easy view of the neighboring trailer, pretty certain Cornell was watching. Now, he walked to the steps.
With a fist bump, Maple declared, “I’m ready to test your theory that Cornell wants both of us in the trailer when he hits the button.”