by Lewis Shiner
The “we” brought a moment of irrational hope. Was Vaughan planning to take Michael with him? At least out of range of the explosion?
Vaughan hooked up the last of the alligator clips and began to set the clock. “You got the time?” he said. “No, never mind, I guess you can’t get to your watch at the moment.” Vaughan seemed like the jovial host of a successful lawn party. “The time at the tone is two fifty-nine. Ding!” Red digits flickered on the clock face and resolved to 2:59. “Let’s have our little surprise at, oh, say, 3:13.” He punched in the alarm time, then twisted the function dial to ALARM.
He set the clock down gently, facing outward, then turned to Michael and grabbed him under the armpits. Michael was childishly, absurdly grateful. He no longer cared about Duke basketball, he didn’t care about the Black Star Corporation. The only thing he wanted, fiercely and overwhelmingly, was to get back to the hotel room where Denise was waiting.
But Vaughan only moved him a few feet, sitting him up with his back against the bottom rung of rebar, then went for the roll of duct tape. “No…” Michael said.
Vaughan took two turns around Michael’s body with the tape, passing it inside the steel rod so that he was immobilized. “And in case you should, by some miracle, happen to get loose,” Vaughan said, “you better run like all hell. If you so much as touch that timer, the whole thing goes off.”
He tore off one more strip of tape and brought it toward Michael’s face.
“I think you broke my nose,” Michael said. “If you cover my mouth, I can’t breathe.”
Vaughan smiled and shook his head. “You think you’ll be breathing after that alarm clock goes off?”
Michael sucked in the deepest breath he could before Vaughan pasted the tape across his mouth.
“Take it easy, cousin,” Vaughan said. He turned away, taking the light with him, and Michael watched him clamber out the hatch in a flash of impossibly white daylight, then close and latch the door.
In that instant, as Michael knew beyond question that he was dead, something changed. He closed his eyes and his panic went away. In the absence of hope, it was possible to act. He found the muscles that flared his nostrils and forced them to open. He discovered that he could breathe, barely, as long as he did it slowly. The air came through flavored with blood.
He tried in vain to pull free of the rebar. The effort made his nasal passages shut down, and he had to calm himself and find his breath all over again.
He had a range of two or three inches in each direction that he was able to move his hands. He moved them slowly, all the way to the left, then all the way to the right, fingering the loose ashes, finding only crumbs of brick. He tried again, and something eased, allowing him another fraction of an inch. He went back and forth, back and forth, slowly, breathing carefully, gaining a little each time.
Something jabbed the side of his right hand.
He twisted his body to the left as far as it would go, straining his fingers to touch the hard, slick surface. The ends of his fingers were wet, whether with sweat or blood he couldn’t say. Nonetheless he got hold of the shard of glass between the ring finger and the little finger of his right hand and he dragged it toward the center of his back, where he could pick the whole thing up and turn the point toward the duct tape, feeling his way, wiggling the glass until it caught the edge of the tape and tore it.
He kept his eyes closed and did not look at the clock. His lungs hurt. He told them they would be okay and fed them a small trickle of air.
He flexed his wrists, and the fabric of the tape ripped some more and then stopped at a second layer of tape. He shifted the piece of glass in his hand and cut the second layer. It was easier now, his hands were loosening. Seconds passed, and then the second layer gave, and then there was a third.
All the while his mind was working. Everything was remarkably clear. If he got free, there was probably not time to get clear of the building. There was simply too much dynamite, the explosion would be too big. There was also the issue of all the others who would die when the bomb went off.
Vaughan said the bomb was booby-trapped. Michael knew nothing about bombs, but he knew someone who did. If he could get to his cell phone.
The last piece of tape ripped loose from his wrists, pulling hair and skin. He brought his right hand around and attacked the tape that held him to the ladder. It took only a few seconds to cut through, and then he finally reached up and pulled the tape from his mouth. It hurt too much when he went slowly. He gave up and yanked it free, screaming with pain as it tore the skin from his lips. Then he sat for a few seconds, guzzling air and blowing it out again, half drunk with the simple joy of it.
He didn’t bother with his legs until he had the cell phone out and had punched up the number. He began to work the last of the tape off as he listened to the phone ring on the other end.
He still had not looked at the clock, because it did not matter yet.
The phone rang once, twice, three times. The voice mail system would cut in after the fourth ring. Surely he was there, Michael thought, he was always there…
“Hullo?”
“Roger, it’s Michael.”
“Michael. I rather didn’t expect to hear—”
“This is life or death. I am sitting in front of a bomb. There’s a timer and twenty sticks of dynamite.”
“Twenty sticks? Lord God. This is not hypothetical?”
“No.”
“Describe the timer.”
“It’s a travel alarm clock. There’s one of those big, old-fashioned six-volt batteries.”
“How much time left?”
Michael looked. His panic returned. The clock read 3:11.
“Two minutes,” Michael said, and as he watched, the numbers changed to 3:12. “Oh, Christ,” Michael said. “One minute.”
“The dynamite has fuses, yeah? That go down from the caps to the clock?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Little copper alligator clips.” Michael was working from memory. He dragged himself across the ashes like a beached merman, his legs still not free from the duct tape. His instincts screamed to get farther away from the bomb, not closer. He held his glowing cell phone over the clock long enough to get a look. “Except they’re kind of bulbous and have wiry things at the end—”
“Model rocket igniters. This is straight out of the Anarchist’s Cookbook. Pull the fuses out of the dynamite.”
“I can’t. It’s booby-trapped.”
“How do you know?”
“The guy who set it told me.”
“He’s lying.”
“What?”
“Why would he have told you that if it were true? He doesn’t care if you set the fucking bomb off. He meant to keep you from doing the obvious. Pull the fuses—”
The connection dropped.
“Roger?” Michael said into the vast silence. “Roger?”
Michael reached for the array of dynamite. He could see his hand shaking in the half-light from above. This is wrong, he thought, this is wrong…
As he watched, the clock ticked over to 3:13.
Michael flinched, and for a half second he thought Vaughan had made a mistake, had set the alarm for a different time. Then there was a whoosh, like the burner on a gas oven catching fire. A tiny cloud of blue smoke rose from the back of the alarm clock and twenty fuses began to hiss and sputter.
He understood then what Roger had been trying to tell him. The dynamite was hooked up to conventional fuses, and all the alarm had done was ignite them. Hysterical, Michael tore the first fuse loose, then a second, then he was ripping at them with both hands, hurling them across the room, and when he was done he threw the travel alarm and the battery as well, and collapsed in the center of the ashes, shaking and crying.
*
Abruptly, he sobered up. Any minute now Vaughan would know that something was wrong. Would he come back? Run for it? If he’d brought his hood and sheets, he could fade into
the crowd of Night Riders outside, and no one would ever find him.
He ripped the last of the tape off his legs and got shakily to his feet.
The metal door latched with a notched lever, like a garden gate. Michael pushed open the hatch and stepped into daylight. He felt the heat of the sun and the cool fresh air on his skin. It was intense, emotional.
He was not in good shape. His ribs burned where Vaughan had thrown him over his shoulder. Between Vaughan’s blows and the duct tape, his face was a wreck. Blood from glass cuts covered his hands.
He heard a noise in the powerhouse. He looked around for something to use as a weapon; he would kill Vaughan, he thought, before he would let himself be taken captive again. He couldn’t find anything, not so much as a loose brick.
“Michael?”
The voice was not Vaughan’s.
“Harriman?” Michael said.
Harriman and Charles emerged from the shadows at the foot of the steps. “What happened?” Harriman asked.
“There was a bomb,” Michael said. “I stopped it.”
“Are you shitting me?” Charles asked.
“We have to find Vaughan,” Michael said. “He left here ten minutes ago.”
“He’ll be halfway to Argentina already,” Harriman said. “Or wherever it is that Nazis run to now.”
“I think it’s the US they run to now,” Charles said.
“He’s here,” Michael said. “He’s going to want to see it happen, and he’s not going to give up right away if it doesn’t go off on time.” He thought again of Vaughan’s face as he lit the burner in his trailer.
“Come on, then,” Charles said. “Let’s find the motherfucker.”
As they made their way to the boarded-up entrance, Michael said, “What’s happening on the street?”
“They got Mayor Bell out there,” Charles said, “tried to get everybody to cool out. I remembered what you said about the smokestack, went to find Donald.”
“I wish you’d gotten here ten minutes earlier.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
They pushed their way into the courtyard. Michael winced as he squeezed past the plywood, and Harriman finally noticed his condition.
“Good lord,” Harriman said. “What did he do to you?”
“I’m okay,” Michael said.
“You look like you need an ambulance,” Charles said. “We should get you some help.”
“After we find him,” Michael said.
Logic told him that Vaughan would need to be far enough from the blast zone that he wouldn’t get hurt, somewhere on the east side, to be clear of the falling chimney, and high enough up to get a clear view.
Michael pointed to the first building past the water tower. “Up there,” he said to Harriman. “Second or third floor. That’s where he has to be. He’s in a navy blue jumpsuit, no hat.”
Harriman got on his cell phone and ordered every available body to the Strickland building.
“You’re sure that bomb is disarmed?” Harriman said.
“Yes,” Michael said.
Harriman waved his arm and a big man in jeans and a sweater jogged over. “Cut through the powerhouse and watch the chimney,” Harriman said.
Charles added, “If Vaughan shows up, take him out. Then call for help.”
The man grinned and went inside.
“He saw us,” Michael said suddenly, the words coming out as fast as the thought hit. “He saw us come out of there. He knows it’s all over. He’s running for it.”
Michael started toward the water tower just as Harriman’s cell phone rang.
“Wait!” Harriman said. He flipped open the phone and said, “Harriman.” He listened, nodded, and looked at Michael. “They’re on him.”
“Where?”
“You called it. Strickland building, heading down from the second floor.”
“Where?” Michael said.
“Follow me,” Charles said.
*
They took off at a run, Michael fueled purely by brain chemicals, defying the agony of his body. So many things hurt that each new pain only helped distract from the others.
They cut across the grass, through the crowds around the water tower, where the bands were between sets, and into one of the buildings in the east side complex. Halfway down the gleaming hallway a massive black man in a Carolina Hurricanes jersey motioned them on, breaking into a run ahead of them. “He got past us,” the man shouted over his shoulder. “He’s on the street.”
“Shit!” Charles said.
The hallway emptied into a lobby area with another giant photo of Hayti. Another massive black man stood at the top of the stairs to Blackwell Street, wearing cargo pants and a black turtleneck with zippers. Either he or the man in the jersey might have been in the parking lot the night Michael was assaulted. The thought moved through Michael’s mind and was gone again. “This way,” the man said, and plunged into the crowd.
Michael’s insides felt like he’d swallowed broken glass. He forced himself up the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, and then he couldn’t go any farther. He sank to his knees to catch his breath.
The scene on the street had wound down, and boredom had thinned the crowd. Riders milled aimlessly, waiting for an explosion that hadn’t come. The police had pulled back to the sidelines, and the more militant of Harriman’s people had moved inside to help search for Vaughan.
A hundred feet away, Vaughan now stood in the center of the street, already protected by a hooded circle of Night Riders. Harriman’s two men had waded into the crowd, and the Riders had instantly surrounded them as well, locking them in place.
Michael watched the crowd’s chaotic mood begin to focus. Heads turned toward Vaughan. Charles stayed on the sidewalk, making his way north, staying even with Vaughan as the Riders eased him slowly toward downtown. Charles had his phone out, and as Michael looked around he saw a few of Harriman’s other people on their phones, mostly women and teenagers.
Harriman arrived at Michael’s side, also with his phone out. “Where is he?”
Michael raised his arm to point, and at that moment everything came apart.
It started with the man in the Hurricanes jersey, pinned by the Riders and frustrated beyond endurance. He reached out, grabbed the nearest hood, and yanked it off. He threw it in front of him and appeared to be grinding it under his feet.
The man under the hood was about 50, with thinning gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He blinked in confusion for a long second, then lashed out with his fists. The black man responded with a left jab that split the white man’s lip and knocked his glasses askew.
It was as if the crowd smelled the blood. Emotions that had cooked through the long afternoon boiled over. Blacks on both sides of the street plunged into the crowd, grabbing hoods and hitting whatever they found underneath. The Riders fought back, first with their fists, then ax handles and baseball bats began to emerge from under the robes.
Instantly the police began to blow whistles and yell at the crowd through bullhorns. “Disperse,” said the flat, mechanical voices. “Disperse immediately. We are deploying teargas. Disperse immediately.”
At the same moment, a wedge of young black men charged from the ballpark side of the street into the knot of Riders protecting Vaughan. Something flashed in the late afternoon light, and one of the Riders jerked backward, red stains opening like a time-lapse flower on his white robe.
Vaughan panicked. He surged toward American Tobacco as Charles paced him on the sidewalk.
Michael heard muffled explosions, like the sound of a bass drum in a marching band. White contrails arced over the crowd, and Harriman leaned toward Michael and said, “Let’s go. Move.”
Michael made it to his feet, Harriman first pulling him up and then shoving him forward, and then both of them were chasing Charles and Vaughan north along Blackwell Street. Some of the Riders, locked in brutal combat, held their ground. Most of them backed away, some running. Harriman’s two men, the ones who�
�d originally spotted Vaughan, had worked free and were sprinting just ahead of Michael.
Then the whole crowd caught the urgency, and suddenly everyone was on the run, most of them headed north, carrying Michael with them. At that moment white clouds of teargas billowed up from the ground, carrying a bitter, sour, sooty smell. Michael’s eyes stung, then began to water, on fire as if he’d wiped them with the juice of an onion.
Harriman was on the phone again, the words coming out between ragged breaths as he struggled to keep up. “We’re right behind you,” he said. “Don’t lose him.”
There was a break between buildings, and Harriman plunged into the mass of people clogging the narrow opening. Michael fought to stay close to him as the crowd closed in, packed shoulder to shoulder and being thrust forward by pressure from behind.
Then they all burst into the inner courtyard and fanned out. Though the teargas hadn’t penetrated this far, it still clung to Michael’s exposed skin, burning. As he ran, he took off his glasses and mopped at his face with a handkerchief. When he put the glasses on again he saw, blurrily, that they had emerged near the back of the powerhouse. They were only yards from the chimney where Vaughan’s dynamite was still taped to the inner walls.
Michael somehow kept running. He was only a few steps behind Harriman, who was in turn close behind Charles and the others. He heard a man on the PA system where the bands were set up saying, “Y’all be cool, now. We’re trying to get word as to what’s happening outside, so for now please stay where you are…”
The man in the Hurricanes jersey was nearly on top of Vaughan as they rounded the west side of the powerhouse, and then, in full view of hundreds of people, he caught Vaughan from behind and wrapped one arm around his windpipe.
They both went down. In another second Charles, Harriman, the man in the turtleneck, and Michael had formed a tight circle around the two of them. Charles faced outward and unabashedly used his lie again: “Police. Stay clear.” A fat white man in shorts stared, open-mouthed, a fork full of barbeque poised in midair. “Everything’s under control,” Charles said.
Michael was not so sure. When he looked down, the man in the Hurricanes shirt had a gun. It was a dull gray automatic like he’d seen in police holsters, and it was grinding into the lower part of Vaughan’s spine. His left hand was on the collar of Vaughan’s jumpsuit. “We going to stand up now,” the man said. “And you going to walk with us and not say anything. If you make a noise, and you live, you will never walk again and you will shit in a plastic bag for the rest of your sorry-ass life, do you understand me?”