Spilled Milk, no. 1

by Michael J. Scott

  “Yeah.”

  “What would you do to protect your kids?’

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, ‘What would you do to protect your kids?’ You know, if the government was trying to take them from you, and you knew it meant they might get sick and die? I mean, say you knew the government was wrong. Wouldn’t you fight tooth and nail to protect the ones you love?”

  “Mr. Smith, I have a copy of the court transcript here. Do you remember what it was that the judge said to you when you asked that question?”

  “Yeah. She said that she wasn’t the one standing there for sentencing. That I was. I told her the question was rhetorical. Then she sentenced me to ten years, and all hell broke loose.” I could vividly see the attack transpire. The bailiff putting his hand on me. The sudden turn when I threw my body into him and took his gun. The explosion of the bullet from the chamber, and the cordite-like smell of the discharge.

  “These are details the cops asked us not to release.”

  “So?”

  “So that means you’ve just confirmed for me that you are, in fact, the real Gerrold Smith.”

  I snorted. I knew that already. “Do I win a prize?”

  “You win an interview.”

  “Huh. Sorta thought that’s what this was.”

  He chuckled, and I grimaced. His laugh sounded forced. Condescending, even. “Would you like to meet somewhere?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You might call the cops.”

  “Let’s say I don’t do that.”

  “Let’s say we don’t go down that road at all.”

  “I know how to protect a source.”

  “And I know how to protect myself. And it ain’t by showing up for some sit down in front of a camera.”

  “But you do want to tell your side of the story.”

  “I think people should know the truth about what happened, but no, that’s not why I called.”

  “So why did you call?”

  “I called to tell you that I’ve placed a series of bombs in the city. Explosives I intend to detonate unless the following demands are met. You got a pen? You might want to write this down.”

  Chapter 15

  He sounded suddenly breathless, and a lot less condescending. “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead.”

  “This is important. I don’t intend to call back or repeat myself. Understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ I work for a living.”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Here’s the thing. I want a van with blacked out windows to meet me by the steps of the courthouse. The one I torched. I want it to drive me to the airport, where a jet will be fueled and ready. This jet will be cleared to take me and my kids to a non-extradition country that I will disclose to the pilot only as soon as we’re on board. Furthermore, I want the city to fork over a briefcase with one million dollars in non sequential hundred dollar bills—in payment for my family’s pain and suffering. Once we are in the air, I will disclose the locations of half the bombs. Once we land safely, I will give the locations of the remaining half, with instructions on how to defuse them safely. I will not speak to the police nor to any negotiators. I am not interested in negotiating. I will only speak to you. That being said, pack your bags, ‘cause I want you on that plane.”

  “Me?”

  “Think of yourself as a hostage, if need be. My little way of guaranteeing they won’t try and shoot me down once we’re in the air. Between you and the pilot, I figure that’ll keep us pretty safe.”

  “And why would I agree to this?”

  I smiled, knowing I had him. “Because this, my friend, will make your career. Just think about the book rights, the movie deal. The interviews. You won’t be reading the news. You’ll be the news. This is your ticket to everything you dreamed of.”

  “I’m not, like, going to be in any danger fr-from you, am I?” He laughed nervously.

  “Do I sound like a dangerous man to you?”

  “A little.”

  “That was honest. I like that. Mr. Durand, I am no more dangerous than any other father would be in a similar situation. I know they’ll want to portray me as a mad bomber and a murderer. And I am plenty mad, but I ain’t crazy, if you catch my meaning.”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll be counting on you to set the record straight.”

  “I think I can do that,” he said.

  “Excellent.”

  “Oh, I’ll need to bring a camera man along with me.”

  I pressed my lips together, considering this. In truth, I didn’t care who he planned to bring with him, because I had no intention of going anywhere with this media hound pinhead. But I wasn’t about to let him know that. “How will I know this man isn’t a cop?”

  “Oh. Good point. Umm, Marty Anderson is the guy I usually work with.”

  “Marty Anderson.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  “Young guy. Late twenties. Got kinda long hair. Blond. Wears it in a pony tail most days. He has a tattoo on his right bicep. One of them Celtic-thorn type things.”

  “Got it. You got any pictures of him and you working together? Maybe going to the company picnic or softball league together?”

  “I might be able to find something like that.”

  “Good. Get yourself a couple of photos together and have them ready for me to inspect at the airport. If I can’t validate who he is, he ain’t getting on the plane. Understood?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. You work for a living.”

  “Excellent. Now, before we set this plan in motion, you’re gonna need to call the police and tell them what I told you. You’ll have an hour before the first bomb goes off. The next will go off an hour after that. And then the next hour, and then so on.” I checked my watch. “It’s ten thirteen right now, so we’ll just call it eleven, and then every hour after that.”

  “Wait, the first bomb goes off at eleven?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So how will I get in touch with you?”

  “You don’t.”

  “So… you’re just going to set the bomb off regardless?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What if they comply with your demands?”

  “They won’t.”

  “But what if—”

  “There ain’t enough time for them to get it together anyway. Not in forty-five minutes. Besides, there ain’t no way they’re gonna believe you—or me—until fire starts raining down on them. They have to see that I mean business, and that I can do everything that I’m telling them will happen if they don’t comply. Otherwise, any jack-off with a gun can get away with anything, and we can’t have that, now, can we?”

  He was quiet, and I began to fear that I’d just shattered the rapport I’d built with him, the dreamy façade of a future filled with money, fame, and all the accoutrements of success that I so needed him to believe. “Mr. Durand?”

  “No,” he finally said. “I don’t suppose we could.”

  “I wish it didn’t have to be this way. Honestly, I do. But unless I can hold the city hostage in a way that makes them genuinely scared, they won’t take it seriously, will they?”

  “I guess not.”

  “You see my hands are tied.”

  “Completely.” His voice was void of emotion.

  “All right then. I’ll be in touch.”

  I hung up the phone and pursed my lips. I’d meant for Durand to be my advocate. I wanted him to rally the cops, drive them to set up the van and the plane and even the million dollars all in the hopes of seeing his name in print and on the news. Nothing motivated people like a good old fashioned appeal to their vanity and pride.

  Fear was an effective motivator, too, but it drove people to act in self-preservation, and that usually meant moving
oneself out of harm’s way—away from the danger, rather than toward it. Sure, there were a few whose honor or commitment to a cause would drive them into the line of fire. Even some reporters who’d risk their lives for the sake of a story—adrenaline junkies who got high off the brush with death. But somehow I didn’t think Mark Durand fit in with that crowd. He’d already asked me if it’d be safe. That sort of question never crossed the mind of the adrenaline-juiced reporter running into the war zone. Mark Durand didn’t fit that sort of profile.

  There was a reason he was still a second rate news reporter stuck in a local affiliate in the relative middle of nowhere. But who knows? Maybe he was desperate enough to take that once in a lifetime risk. It’s not like he had much to lose otherwise.

  I checked my watch. There wasn’t anything else I could do about it now. I’d have to wait and see how it played out. For now, I was reasonably confident he was on the phone with the police, explaining things to Detective Rogan. Of course, he’d probably speak to his news director before that.

  At any rate, I had someplace else I had to be.

  ***

  I arrived at the address of Donald and Janet Bauer about five minutes before eleven and parked down the street. I had a good view of their front door from my side mirror, and an equally good bead in my convex mirror on the unmarked cop car parked across the street. There was only a single man in the cop’s car keeping an eye on the house. Occasionally he’d take a sip of coffee from his travel mug and glance around. He acted as though he might’ve been listening to the radio. I always wondered what cops did on a stake out.

  I was sure he’d spotted me already, and I wondered how long before he became suspicious. After all, why would someone park down the street in a truck with a camper on the back and then never bother to get out of the vehicle or go anywhere? Fortunately, I had just the thing to keep his mind off me.

  I checked my watch. Three minutes to go.

  I studied the house. It wasn’t much: a simple cape with yellow siding and maroon shutters. A single car garage sat adjacent to the house on the right, with a breezeway attaching the garage to a side entrance. Mrs. Bauer had a couple of rose bushes planted beneath the front windows, now void of flowers in mid-autumn. A chain link fence cordoned off the back yard, but I didn’t see any sign of a dog back there.

  Matt had always wanted a dog. I’d have liked one, too. Maybe a nice retriever to go hunting with me. Mary was allergic, though. We never talked about getting one even after she died. Once we got away from all this, I’d have to remedy that. Wouldn’t be right for a kid to grow up without a dog.

  Of course, that’d probably mean Sara would get a kitten. Didn’t have much use for cats, but I suppose it’d be useful to keep the mice and other rodents at bay. Just so long as it didn’t claw the furniture.

  My watch alarm chirped. I pulled out my cell phone, brought up the contacts menu, selected my first target, and pressed send. For a few seconds, nothing happened. The phone showed the number being dialed. Abruptly, then, the call ended.

  Chapter 16

  I actually heard the explosion. It sounded like a gentle pop rolling over the rooftops of the neighborhood, like a distant firework going off. Given that the shopping mall I’d just hit lay several miles away, my bomb must’ve blown bigger than I’d thought.

  I reset my watch alarm and turned on the radio. After selecting a local news station, I waited.

  I could see in the car behind me the cop suddenly turning down his radio and reaching for his microphone. He spoke briefly with whoever was on the other end, and I saw him nod in my direction.

  A twinge of panic rose my gut. I had two choices. I could get the hell out of there, or wait for him to come up to my window and start asking questions. I had to act fast. I turned the key and slipped the truck into gear, and then eased my way onto the street. I didn’t really want to leave, but I saw no other choice. To stay behind invited scrutiny I could ill afford. I reached the corner and saw that he wasn’t following, but he hadn’t stopped watching me, either. I figured he must’ve called in a description of my truck as a suspicious vehicle and asked a regular unit to come check it out. That way he wouldn’t have to leave his post at the Bauer’s front door.

  Of course, most of those units were busy now, what with the sudden chaos erupting at the local mall.

  I turned left and accelerated down the street, and then right. I had to come at this from a different angle—preferably one that put me out of the officer’s line of sight. At least for now.

  The newscast came onto the radio. Unconfirmed reports of a severe explosion, a massive fireball, glass raining down on the shoppers below, and sheer panic in the parking lots and on the expressway as people scrambled to their cars and fled the scene. Witnesses reported seeing several accidents, and the sudden bottleneck on the highways made it difficult for rescue personnel and police to get to the wounded.

  I wondered if anybody had been killed.

  I did a large loop on the various side streets until I came upon the house from the corner. I parked out of the line of sight of the cop but within view of the house. It wasn’t the ideal spot, but it would do for now.

  Time for another phone call. “Mark Durand, please.”

  A moment later. “This is Durand.”

  “Did you get through to them, Mark?”

  “You blew up the mall?”

  “I blew up part of the mall. The front entrance. It’s about making a solid impression. There’s a whole lot more of it could go, if you catch my drift.”

  He swore.

  I ignored his outburst and continued. “So did you get through to the cops?”

  “Yeah. They want to talk.”

  “No talk. There’s nothing to talk about. My demands are non-negotiable.”

  “I told them that, but…”

  “But what?”

  “They say they need more time.”

  “They’re stalling.”

  “Well you seriously can’t expect them to have a plane ready and the van with blacked out windows and all that just waiting around for some lunatic to demand them, can you?”

  “Are you calling me a lunatic, now? You sure you want to do that?”

  “No. Not at all. Sorry.”

  “Good. Let’s try to keep this relationship between us positive, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re doing fine. Now, be sure you call them back and stress to them that you’ve talked to me—and tell them what I said, that my demands are non-negotiable. I’m not playing around here. I expect to see you heading up the newscast soon. You could call this my assault on the mass consumer society that’s pulled us away from organic foods or something like that. Gives you a great tie-in to the whole ‘the FDA is working against us’ angle, doesn’t it? Really think you could run with that. Speaking of which, why aren’t you at the mall? Your buddy Marty should be getting this on camera. You’ve got to milk this, Mark. Take advantage of it. This is your moment to shine—show us just what kind of reporter you are. Can you handle that?”

  “Sure,” he said stiffly.

  “Take a few deep breaths and relax. It’s not like I bombed the news station or anything.” I laughed, though I doubted he’d get the joke. Or the irony.

  After a moment he said, “It’s just that my wife works at the mall.”

  So that explained it. “Does she? What time does she take her lunch?”

  “Around noon. Usually.”

  “She work in the food court?”

  “Sears. Other side of the mall.”

  “Then she should be fine. Have you tried to call her?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “Couldn’t get through.”

  “Try again.”

  “The phones are all tied up. I doubt anyone’s getting through.”

  I paused, wondering if that would mess up my plans. Panic was useful, but if it shut down the phone lines, I might not be able to get through to my detonators.
That wouldn’t be good.

  “Give it a few minutes and try again, anyway. I’m sure you’ll be able to reach her.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Don’t forget to tell the cops what I want. They’ve got,” I checked my watch, “fifty minutes to get it right. I’ll be in touch.”

  “What if they comply before—”

  “You know they won’t. Now we’ve been over this already, haven’t we? Those cops can’t do anything until everyone believes they’ve got no other choice. Don’t worry. When they’re ready to cave, they’ll tell you before I call next time, and then we’ll be able to make the necessary arrangements. By the way, how old are your kids?”

  “Five and eleven, why?”

  “No reason.” I hung up the phone even as he demanded to know why a second time. I was sure they’d put this together, maybe even figure out the school was next on my list. Of course, that wouldn’t mean a thing when it came down to it. I doubted they’d be able to find the bomb in time.

  ***

  I spent the next hour sitting in the cab listening to news reports and watching the house from the corner. I’d taken my portable TV set from the back of the camper and set it on the passenger seat with the volume turned down. I had it tuned to KTPY news, waiting for Mark Durant to show up on screen. Periodically, I’d glance toward the cop’s car, checking to see if he’d spotted me yet. I didn’t see any other cops anywhere, and I figured they were either at the mall dealing with the aftermath of my bomb, or they were en route to all the different schools in town, having picked up on my hint to Durant.

  The minutes clicked by. The news broadcasts continued reporting on the number of casualties from the explosion. No one had been killed in the initial blast, but three people—a woman, an old man, and a child—had been trampled in the aftermath and were pretty badly banged up. Four more had been Life-Lined to the hospital as a result of injuries sustained in car accidents.

  I refused to accept blame for any more deaths, or even the car accidents. My bombs were designed to break things and cause panic, not death. That people had been seriously injured was a consequence of the mob mentality—people acting like cows rather than rational human beings. Never underestimate the power of stupid people in large groups. That should’ve been the headline right there.