by Robin Cook
“How does it work?” Curt asked.
“The pest control powder goes into this hopper.” The man pointed to a dark green metal box. Most of the apparatus was green, except for the nozzles, which were orange. “It’s got an agitator in there to fluff up the powder with the help of compressed air. After going through a metering device, the centrifugal fan powers the material along with air out the nozzles.”
“So it’s pretty effective?” Curt asked.
“It’s unbelievable,” the man said. “The fan can go up to twenty-two thousand RPMs, which can push out up to a thousand cubic feet of air a minute. At that speed the air leaving the nozzles is moving at close to a hundred miles an hour.”
Curt and Steve whistled in admiration and began plotting how to get the truck back to the city. The plan they’d conceived they were now executing.
“Let’s just make sure that cop car’s not in the area,” Curt said. He took out his radio and checked with each of the other groups. When he got an all clear, he slipped the bolt cutters out from his jacket and made short work of the padlock. He gave the cutters to Steve before yanking off the broken lock. The gate squeaked as he pushed it open.
“Let’s make this fast,” Curt said as the three jogged to the pickup truck.
Steve raised the edge of the tarpaulin. Even in the moonlight, Curt and Steve recognized the dark green of the Power Row Crop Duster.
“All right, go to work,” Curt said to Mike and Clark.
Clark deftly wielded the Slim Jim between the driver’s side window and the truck’s side panel. Instantly the door unlocked. He looked over at Mike.
“Open the door,” Mike said from where he was standing in front of the pickup. “If an alarm goes off, pop the hood.”
“Wait a second!” Curt said. “You mean to tell me an alarm might sound?”
“There’s no way to keep it from going off if there’s an alarm,” Mike said. “But it won’t go long provided I get under the hood.”
Curt scanned the neighborhood. As late as it was, there were still a few lights in the apartments across the street. Recognizing he had little choice, he nodded to Clark to go ahead. But he wasn’t happy.
The instant Clark opened the door, the truck’s horn began beeping and the headlights began flashing.
Clark popped the hood open. Mike put the flashlight on the engine. In seconds, though not soon enough for Curt, the horn stopped and the lights went out. Mike closed the hood as quietly as possible and came around to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Clark was already leaning into the cab, expertly working under the steering column.
“I need the light,” Clark said. He stuck his hand out behind his back. Mike passed him the flashlight like a relay racer handing off a baton.
With his ears still ringing from the truck horn, Curt looked up and down the street. He half expected to see lights go on in windows all over the apartment building opposite. Instead his radio vibrated.
While Curt brought the communicator to his ear, the pickup truck engine turned over weakly.
“Shit, it sounds like the battery is low,” Clark said. He was now sitting behind the steering wheel. “This heap must have been parked here for a long time.”
Curt pressed the “listen” button. Nat’s voice came through, along with the usual static, saying that there was a problem.
“What kind of problem?” Curt demanded nervously.
“Kevin and Luke have taken off after a couple of fags,” Nat said.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Curt spat. “Go get them and get them back in your truck! And get the others, too.”
“Ten-four,” Nat said.
Curt threw up his hands in exasperation.
“What’s the matter?” Steve questioned.
“Don’t ask,” Curt said. “I’m going to kill them all!”
“Do you have any cables in your truck?” Carl called. “We may have to jump-start this sucker.”
“What else can go wrong?” Curt didn’t like the idea of driving his own truck into the fenced-in parking area, but there was no other way. He sprinted back to his vehicle. As he climbed into the cab, Nat went by in his truck heading for
Willow Street and beeped in greeting. Matt and Carl waved and grinned. Curt swore under his breath. How had he teamed up with such a bunch of lunatics?
As quickly as he could, Curt pulled into the parking area and nosed in next to the Wouton pickup. With his engine still running, he opened his hood, then leaped out. He grabbed his jumper cables from under the seat. Mike took the other ends as Curt attached his to his battery.
As soon as the leads were connected, the pest control truck engine leaped to life. Curt disconnected the leads from his own truck while Mike did the same with the Wouton vehicle.
“All right,” Curt blurted anxiously. “Steve, you and Clark drive this freaking pest control contraption back to the White Pride, but don’t drive back through town and go left here on Hancock! And drive the speed limit, no faster! If you’re stopped by the fuzz, the mission is a failure. Mike, you come with me! “
“But the White Pride will be closed,” Steve complained.
“So ring Jeff’s goddamn buzzer,” Curt retorted. “Jeez, do I have to think of everything?”
Curt swung into his cab and quickly backed out onto the street. Then he climbed back out of the truck as Clark steered the Wouton pickup through the gate.
“Where’re you going?” Mike questioned.
“I want to close the gate,” Curt said. “I don’t want to advertise that the truck’s gone.”
As the gate’s hinges squeaked closed, Curt heard distant shouts and cries for help coming from the direction of Willow Street. It made his hackles rise.
Back in the truck, Curt gunned the engine and took off toward Willow Street. He left his lights off.
“Did you hear those yells?” Mike questioned.
“Of course I heard them,” Curt snapped.
“It pisses me off,” Mike said. “I miss all the fun.”
Curt shot his minion a dirty look but resisted telling him off.
Curt screeched to a stop in the middle of the intersection so he could look both ways on Willow. He saw Nat’s truck about half a block down the street in the direction away from the commercial part of town. Turning the steering wheel hard, he headed in its direction. Off to the right on a lawn he could just make out figures in the darkness pummeling others who were sprawled on the ground. Lights in the surrounding houses were coming on in response to the commotion. That’s when he heard the police siren.
“Shit!” Curt yelled. As he pulled to a sudden stop behind Nat’s truck, he glanced in the rearview mirror. The blinking lights of a police cruiser were racing toward them.
“Get their asses into Nat’s truck,” Curt barked to Mike, who leaped out of the cab. Mike didn’t protest; the urgency of the situation was obvious.
Curt watched the police car approaching in the mirror. At first he thought he’d merely hunker down and stay out of sight until the cop exited his car and joined the melee. That would give him a chance to speed away and leave the troops to the fate they deserved. But then he got another idea. Having been to a half-dozen demolition derbies, he knew the best way to incapacitate another vehicle with your own was to back into the other’s front.
The critical question was whether the cop would pull up behind Curt as he expected. Fortunately he did.
The moment the lone policeman began to exit his vehicle, Curt put his truck into reverse and stomped on his accelerator, pressing it firmly against the floor. The truck tires spun with an ear-splitting screech before suddenly catching. The heavy king cab pickup lurched backward and gained considerable speed in the short distance between the two vehicles before smashing into the police cruiser.
Despite tensing for the collision, Curt’s head snapped back on impact. The sound was like beer cans being crushed and the siren, which until that moment had been piercing the night, went silent. The police cruiser’s hood p
opped open and a geyser erupted.
More important from Curt’s point of view was that the opened driver’s side door had been ripped off its hinges by its own momentum. It went skidding out across the road. The policeman, whose hand was still on the door, ended up face down on the pavement.
“Glory be,” Curt remarked. He put his truck into drive and stepped on the gas. At first the cop car remained attached to his rear bumper. By backing up a little and then going forward again, Curt succeeded in detaching the vehicles. Glancing into the street, he noticed the policeman had not moved.
Ahead, amid laughter and loud banter, the troops were piling into Nat’s truck, except for Mike. He sprinted back and got in next to Curt. In the middle of the lawn were two still, supine figures.
“Hey, cool move with the fuzzmobile!” Mike shouted while looking back through the rear window at the crushed front of the cop car. The geyser had abated. Now the engine just steamed in the glare of the car’s still functioning revolving lights.
Curt didn’t say anything. He pulled forward, then braked alongside Nat’s vehicle. “Listen, you clowns,” he snapped after the windows had come down. “No stops, drive the speed limit, and go directly to the White Pride for a debriefing! Got it?”
“Got it,” Nat answered amid more laughter.
Curt accelerated, shaking his head in frustration. The whole operation was like a comedy movie that wasn’t funny.
“The cop car looks like it’s going to catch on fire,” said Mike. Curt glanced at the vehicle and was going to explain that the smoke was merely steam from the coolant coming in contact with the hot manifold when he caught his troops’final stupid move of the night. Instead of pulling forward, Nat backed up so that he ran over the prone policeman. Curt winced. He didn’t regard local sheriffs as the enemy the way he did federal agents or city police.
Mike faced forward when Curt turned west at the next intersection, heading back toward the city. “I know why Kevin and Luke took after those two fags,” he said.
“Sure you do,” Curt mumbled irritably and without particular interest. No matter what the explanation, Curt was planning on giving Kevin and Luke one hell of a dressing-down when they got back to base. Disobeying orders, even implied orders, was not to be tolerated.
“They were a mixed couple,” Mike said. “One of them was a paleface, the other was a nigger, and the bastards were holding hands.”
“No wonder!” Curt’s change of heart was genuine. Queer miscegenators. He immediately understood how provocative such a situation would have been.
Yuri’s eyes blinked open. He sat up from where he’d fallen asleep on the couch. He wasn’t sure what had awakened him. He looked at his watch. It was a little after one in the morning. The sound of the TV drifted through Connie’s closed door.
With a few choice Russian expletives, Yuri lifted his feet from the couch and slipped them into his slippers. Since driving the cab required early-morning rising, Yuri always went to bed early. Consequently, he had no idea of Connie’s bedtime habits other than knowing she stayed up later than he did. Yet after one was later than he’d imagined she stayed up. There was a good chance she’d fallen asleep without having enjoyed her butter pecan ice cream.
Standing up, Yuri winced against a momentary pulsating pain in his temples. He shivered through a fleeting wave of nausea that made him quickly close the cover of the cold, half-eaten pizza on the coffee table. Its congealed surface looked disgusting.
Yuri was exhausted and felt miserable. He drained off the residue of vodka in his tumbler and collected his thoughts. He had to do something. He couldn’t wait any longer for Connie to request her dessert.
Outside her door he paused for a moment. He debated whether to knock or just open it as he usually did on the rare occasions he went into her room. In the end, he just opened the door.
Connie looked away from the classic movie she was watching and glanced briefly at Yuri. Her left eye was even more swollen than before. At the side of her bed was the open and empty pizza box.
“What about your ice cream?” Yuri said in a gravelly voice.
“Are you still up?” Connie questioned. “What’s the matter? Are you sick?”
“Just tired.”
“I thought you’d gone to bed.”
“I fell asleep on the couch,” Yuri said. “How about that ice cream?”
“You’re like a dog with a bone about this ice cream,” Connie said. “Besides, it’s pretty late. I was about to fall asleep myself.”
“Come on,” Yuri urged. “You made me buy it from the take-out place.”
“Are you sure you’re not sick?” Connie asked again. “You’re making me worried the way you’re acting.”
“God damn it!” Yuri yelled, losing patience. “I told you, I felt guilty after hitting you and smashing your TV. I’m trying to do something nice, but you won’t even let me do that.”
“Now you’re sounding more like yourself,” Connie said. “Fine! Bring the ice cream if it’ll make you feel better! And you can take this pizza box while you’re at it.”
Relieved but still exasperated, Yuri snatched up the empty box and carried it back to the kitchen. He took the ice cream out of the freezer. From a drawer he got a spoon. He carried both back into Connie’s room and handed them to her.
Straining under her own weight, Connie worked her way up to a semi-sitting position and took the ice cream and spoon.
“This container has been opened,” she said. She looked up at Yuri for an explanation.
“I tried a taste earlier,” Yuri lied.
Connie let out a huff. “You didn’t ask me,” she complained.
Yuri didn’t respond. He was eyeing the phone next to Connie’s bed. He hadn’t thought of the possibility of her calling someone to describe her soon-to-arrive initial symptoms, provided she ate the ice cream. Anxious that she not reach a doctor, Yuri had to do something about the phone.
“I’m talking to you,” Connie persisted. “You know I don’t like people eating my food.”
“It was just one taste,” Yuri said.
“Just one?” Connie questioned. “You didn’t put the spoon in and out a bunch of times?”
“Just once,” Yuri said. “Open it up and look.”
Connie grumbled as she pushed the flaps open. The ice cream bulged from the container with a smooth, unblemished surface.
Yuri couldn’t think of any excuse to take the phone out of the room without raising Connie’s suspicions.
“I don’t see where you ate any,” Connie said.
“Because I took such a small amount,” Yuri said. “For crissake, forget it! Just enjoy it!”
“All right,” Connie said. “Leave me in peace.”
“Gladly,” Yuri said. “Just give a yell when you want me to come in here and take the container.”
Connie raised her unswollen eyebrow in disbelief, glared at Yuri suspiciously, then redirected her attention to her movie. “Maybe I’ll call you and maybe I won’t,” she said.
Yuri backed out of the room. He saw Connie absently take her first spoonful and swallow before he pulled the door partway closed. Retreating back to the sitting area he found that by positioning himself at the very end of the sofa, he could see into Connie’s room. It was only a narrow swath, but it included the foot of the bed and the tips of her toes.
Time dragged incredibly slowly for Yuri. He couldn’t be sure that Connie was eating the ice cream, although he would have been shocked if she didn’t once she’d started. The movie seemed to go on forever despite the numerous times the soundtrack seemed to come to a concluding crescendo. He was hoping that Connie would get up and go into the bathroom, giving him time to get the phone off her bedside table.
Finally, forty-five minutes later, Connie obliged him when the movie concluded.
Yuri moved quickly. He pushed open the door. The ice cream container was on the floor next to the bed with the spoon sticking out the top. Unfortunately, the door to the
bathroom was not completely closed. A commercial was playing on the television. It was the only source of light in the room.
With his pulse racing, Yuri stepped over to the bedside table. From that angle he could see a portion of the bathroom but no Connie. He picked up the phone and pulled the connecting wire taut to lead him to the wall plug. The trail led behind the table laden with dirty dishes and glasses.
As Yuri slipped his hand down the wire, he nudged the table. Several of the glasses toppled off and shattered on the floor. The noise was louder than the high-volume commercial on the TV.
Guessing that Connie would appear in an instant, Yuri yanked on the wire, tearing it out of the wall. The motion sent another glass smashing to the ground. Yuri bent down to retrieve the empty ice cream container. As he feared, the bathroom door swung fully open, and Connie’s form filled the doorway. She was brushing her teeth.
“What was that crash?” she demanded, cupping her mouth for fear of drooling her toothpaste. The toothbrush was clenched in her large fist.
“I don’t know,” Yuri said, hoping for the best. “Maybe it was something on the television.” He was holding the phone behind his back with his left hand. His right hand had the ice cream container. He raised it to show her and said, “I just came in to get this.”
Connie was as bewildered at Yuri’s behavior as she’d been earlier. But she didn’t say anything. She stuck her toothbrush back into her mouth, recommenced brushing, and returned to the bathroom.
Relieved, Yuri stepped out of the room and hurried into the kitchen. The first thing he did was hide the phone under the sink. Then he washed out the ice cream container before throwing it away. He did the same with the spoon, the bowl he’d used earlier, and the fork.
With a trembling hand, Yuri got out a highball glass and poured himself another healthy dollop of iced vodka. He was in dire need of its calming effect. In truth, he was disappointed to realize how nervous he was.
Retreating to the couch, Yuri sat down to wait. Unfortunately, he had no idea how long he would have to sit there. He wondered what would happen if Connie were to fall asleep before any symptoms appeared. He worried that maybe she’d just never wake up.