The Color of Wounds

by Frank Martorana

  “Don’t bullshit me,” the mechanical voice snapped. “The CVC does all its banking through that bank. You’ve got close to thirty full-time veterinarians, a slew of interns and residents, probably fifty technicians, and a huge bunch of others. Hell, the CVC transacts five times that amount almost any day of the week, especially on payday. And guess what?”

  Kent took the voice’s cue. “Tomorrow is payday,” he said, amazement quickly turning to anger.

  “Correcto mundo, Doctor. So, you better get going. Remember. I’ll be watching. And tell your fat-ass brother, as long as he’s sitting there, to get lost.”

  The line went dead.

  The brothers simultaneously turned hopeful gazes to the telephone technician.

  The tech shook his head. “Nope.”

  Kent set the phone back in its cradle. “This guy. Excuse me. This guy, gal, gang, what-have-you … They’re good.”

  “He’s got his timing down, for sure,” Merrill said.

  “He knows so damn much about the high school, the CVC,” Kent said. “It’s got to be somebody local.”

  “Probably. But I don’t have the slightest idea who, and I make it my business to know every soul in Jefferson. Hell, we grew up with most of them.”

  Kent had to admit no one came to mind that would be a remote possibility. He sat in silence for a moment, then blew out an angry breath. “I’m going to do it.”

  “Like hell you are.”

  “We’ve got no choice.”

  “The rule when dealing with extortionists is ‘Never deal with extortionists.’”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  “We wait. As always. Keep communicating with the asshole or assholes. Hopefully, they’ll get frustrated and give up on their plan. Then, we gradually track them down.”

  “Yeah right. Maybe they’ll blow up something else. Maybe even the school. Jesus Christ, there’s a thought. Listen, Merrill, nobody’s been hurt yet and I want to keep it that way. This bomber has done some real planning. He’s not just going to throw his hands up and go away.”

  Merrill said, “We can’t risk the school kids. Period.”

  “He already focused on the school. So the kids are in danger either way. I say we do as he says. Maybe the jerk will get sick of the heat, settle for the hundred grand, and split.”

  Merrill thought for a moment. “If word ever got out we did this while school was in session, we would be crucified.”

  Kent thought of Emily and Barry, wondered what classes they were in at that moment. “Jesus.”

  “There is no way I can give you any support inside. They could be in there waiting for you.”

  “I’d love to get a crack at him.”

  Merrill blew out a long, slow breath that ended in a nod. “It’s your money.”

  “It’s worth a hundred thousand dollars to get this guy.”

  “Not if some kid gets hurt.”

  “The only way that would happen is if the bomber already has explosives planted in the school or if we have a shoot-out with him. He’s more likely to detonate his bomb if we don’t follow through and there won’t be a shoot-out if I’m alone and unarmed.”

  Merrill didn’t look convinced. “I’ll arrange surveillance on the outside.”

  “At a good distance,” Kent said. “And remember, no shooting, no matter what. I don’t care about the money, and we don’t want any kids hurt.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Kent left the CVC alone in his Cherokee, exactly as the bomber instructed. He felt like a squirrel duped by a weasel to flee up a lone tree. As the weasel ascends behind him, the squirrel climbs higher and higher until he is trapped among the wispy branches at the top. His choice? Leap off into space, or be dinner for the weasel.

  The steering wheel felt oily in Kent’s palms. He rolled up the windows and cranked the air to high, all the while scanning, trying to spot the weasel.

  He drove slowly west on Route 20 into town. Merrill had been emphatic about that. “Go slow. My guys need time to get a radio transmitter into the bank.”

  As Route 20 entered the village, it became Albany Street, Jefferson’s main thoroughfare. He crept past the park where he could see yellow police tape sagging around the remnants of Willard Covington. Reflexively, he reached to his right, then remembered that Lucinda was not allowed on this trip. It made him feel even more vulnerable.

  He pulled to the curb directly in front of Talbot’s, slid out of his vehicle, and with a few steps was inside the five-and-dime. A bell announced his entry. Fans on a high pressed-tin ceiling whirled slowly overhead. Ancient hardwood floorboards creaked under his feet. A musty mix of new and old merchandise cluttered the shelves, their smell familiar since his boyhood.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Talbot,” Kent said to the store’s proprietor. She had gone to school with Kent’s mother. He hoped his nervousness didn’t show.

  “Hello, Kent,” she said, setting the newspaper she was reading on the counter. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes.” He pointed to the front window that displayed a conglomeration of wares. “I’d like that Jefferson backpack.”

  “Then you shall have it,” she said cheerfully, and with great effort pushed herself up from a stool behind the counter.

  Kent realized it would take a lifetime for her to round the counter and fish the backpack from its hook in the window. “Let me help you with that,” he said, then quickly stepped over and retrieved the backpack.

  She smiled wistfully. “You young folks are in such a hurry these days. I can’t keep up.”

  Instantly he felt sad for the old woman and his bad manners. “Mrs. Talbot, there’s no one in this whole town I’d rather chat with. But, you’re right, I am in a hurry today.”

  “That’s okay,” she said, accepting things the way they were. “Let me ring you up.”

  Kent waited as Mrs. Talbot plinked the keys of her old register.

  “Birthday?”

  “What?” Kent said. He was wondering where Merrill was at the moment.

  “The backpack. Are you buying it for somebody’s birthday?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Oh, I’ve gotten to be a pretty good guesser after all these years,” she said, reaching for a bag.

  “I don’t need a bag. Thanks.”

  He paid, and as he stepped back onto the street, he made a mental note to stop back in to see Mrs. Talbot when he had time to visit.

  He crossed Albany Street to the bank and returned greetings to both tellers on his way to the back. Through a large window he could see Fritz Luddington, the elfish manager working at his desk. To Kent’s relief, there was no one else in his office. He barged in without knocking.

  Fritz’s eyes flashed instant recognition. “Kent, come in,” he said, as he stood and extended his hand.

  The men shook hands, even though they had known and worked with each other for half their lives. Kent had a deep respect for Fritz Luddington and trusted him implicitly. He was pretty sure the feeling was mutual. He came straight to the point.

  “Fritz, I need a hundred thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills.”

  Fritz’s eyes twinkled. He patted his hip pocket. “In my wallet.”

  He studied Kent’s face, waiting for some clue as to the nature of the joke. When it was apparent that Kent was really asking for a hundred thousand dollars cash, he eased back down into his chair. His smile vanished.

  “You’re serious.”

  “As a preacher.”

  “Okay,” Fritz said. “When do you need it?”

  “This minute.”

  Fritz toyed with his gold college ring, turning it slowly on his finger, trying to decide how to be a banker and still not offend his friend and major customer.

  “I’ll need you to fill out a few forms, of cours
e. Routine bank stuff. You know.”

  “I don’t have time for that, Fritz. And I can’t explain why now. You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”

  Fritz’s mouth formed a twitching, nervous smile. “You want me to lend you a hundred grand on a handshake.”

  Kent reached over and snatched a sheet of bank letterhead off Fritz’s desk. Quickly he scribbled an I.O.U. “Here,” he said, handing the paper to his friend. “This is the best I can do, except for the handshake, which is worth a hell of a lot more than this paper anyway.” He held out his hand.

  Fritz glanced at the note for a moment. Gradually his face opened into the broad smile he was known for. “And some people think banking is boring,” he said, then took Kent’s hand and shook it firmly. “My dad used to tell stories about bank deals done on a handshake when he ran the bank, and he made out okay. I guess you’re as good a guy as any for me to try it on.”

  “Thanks, Fritz. I owe you.”

  “In more ways than one,” Fritz said. “Follow me.” He led Kent back to the vault.

  Kent was watching Fritz counting and dropping bundles of hundreds into the backpack as if they were nothing more than packs of cigarettes when he remembered, “Did Merrill’s guys drop anything off for me?”

  “Damn!” Fritz slapped ten thousand dollars against his forehead. “There’s a package on my desk I’m supposed to give you.”

  He ducked out of the vault and returned a few seconds later carrying a small brown paper bag rolled down tightly. Kent opened it and dumped what looked like a film canister into his hand. Around it, secured with a rubber band, was a note: Drop this in the bag. It is already turned on.

  Carefully he opened the vial and shook out a silver metal disc the size of a nickel and twice as thick. He buried it under the money in the bag.

  “I guess I’m set,” he said to Fritz, who was watching, his pupils getting wider by the minute.

  “Sometime, when this is all over, you’re going to have to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I will. I promise,” Kent said and left.

  He headed down Albany Street at the fastest walk that would not attract attention. As he passed the Presbyterian Church, he looked at the clock on the steeple. One o’clock. The kids would be through lunch and back in class now.

  He nodded hello to several acquaintances on the street, but did not stop. He knew some of them had kids in the high school that very moment. People were going about business as usual, totally unaware of what was happening. He looked around and did not see Merrill, or anyone out of the ordinary, for that matter. Where was Merrill?

  CHAPTER 15

  As he approached the school, he heard kids shouting and gym teachers blowing whistles out on the playing fields. Those kids outside are in the safest place, he thought. At least until they get back to the locker room. Then they are in the worst spot of all.

  God. What if the bomber really did rig a charge in the school? Like Merrill said, “You never know what’s going through a psycho’s mind.” He should have said the hell with this, evacuated the school, gotten the kids out.

  He entered Jefferson High through the main entrance and carried his backpack past the secretary, Mrs. Colligan, with just a wave. He had never been much of a believer in strict school security. Now he wished the school had security like the White House.

  A dozen steps into the building and he was engulfed in the domain of his town’s rising generation—the murmur of teachers lecturing, locker doors slamming, adolescents laughing. Cafeteria smells mixing with perfume and shampoo, art studios and science labs. Cluttered bulletin boards and gaudy school spirit posters hanging on the walls like animal hides. Painted high on the foyer wall was the Jefferson Jaguar. It was there when Kent and Merrill went to school there.

  He knew exactly where he was going. He dropped down a flight of stairs, and found the locker room at the end of the hall. He pushed the door open enough to stick his head in and scan the room. Not a soul. Straight ahead was a row of lockers and on top, in a bundle, as promised, was a moldering baseball uniform rancid with sweat.

  He stuffed the bundle into the backpack and arranged it to hide the ten bundles of hundreds and the tracking device. He tossed it back up onto the shelf and retreated from the school.

  Out on the street, Kent backtracked toward the Cherokee, releasing his frustration in long, stomping strides like a scolded toddler. He was halfway there when a nondescript blue van pulled alongside. Its heavily tinted glass prevented him from making out the driver. Figuring it was the bomber, he was about to hurdle a low hedge and make a getaway across a lawn, when he heard Merrill’s voice.

  “Don’t panic. It’s me.”

  Kent stopped and turned. Merrill was staring at him through the window. A poorly concealed smile told Kent his brother enjoyed his reaction. Luckily for Merrill, he didn’t make a wise crack.

  “Get in,” Merrill said.

  The van’s sliding door rolled open, and Kent recognized the technician who had worked the phone in his office. Now the man was wearing headphones hunched on a low swivel stool amongst a complex of wires and gadgets. He nodded a greeting to Kent.

  As Kent climbed in, his anger melted into curiosity. “All this is to track the transmitter?”

  Merrill pulled the van away from the curb while he eyed Kent through the rearview mirror.

  “No. This thing’s equipped to do a lot of other surveillance. It comes as a package.”

  “From where?”

  “The state boys.”

  “There’s your backpack,” the tech interrupted, tapping a tiny blip on the gridded screen of his monitor.

  “What’s it doing?”

  “Just sitting there,” the tech said, as if he expected nothing else.

  Kent spoke to Merrill up front. “What do we do now?”

  “What cops do best, and what gets the most results.”

  “We wait,” Kent deadpanned.

  “You’re learning.”

  Merrill turned the van down a side street.

  “Where are we headed?”

  “We’ll make a block and park so we can watch the front of the school. Where you wait can be as important as the waiting itself,” Merrill said, his tone like a teacher.

  “I’ll be ready for a badge by the time this is over.”

  Merrill smirked. “Not quite, brother. Not quite.”

  And Kent was sure he was right.

  They pulled into a parking place that provided a good vantage point.

  Merrill turned off the engine, arched his back until it cracked, then shifted himself down in his seat like a mother hen settling on her eggs.

  “Now we wait.” Kent said.

  “Now we wait.”

  There was a long silence as Kent and the tech followed Merrill’s lead and settled in for a long span of boredom.

  “But I can tell you about the rest of our surveillance,” Merrill said, shattering the calm in a way that made Kent jump.

  “You do that,” Kent said, an edge on his voice.

  “There are two unmarked cars around back.”

  Kent waited for more, but Merrill seemed to have drifted to other thoughts.

  “That’s it?”

  The corners of Merrill’s mouth edged up slightly, and Kent knew he had taken the bait.

  Merrill pointed toward a small village work crew breaking a hole in the pavement a few yards off school property.

  “See that guy with the orange hardhat and clipboard?”

  Kent had not even noticed the crew.

  “He ain’t no inspector.”

  Kent nodded approval. “Wow.”

  “Like I said, you ain’t quite as ready for a badge as you think.”

  Merrill leaned close to the windshield and pointed up. Kent’s eyes followed. There was a helicopter, hi
gh and silent like a migrating bird. Anyone who was not consciously observing would never have noticed.

  “He’s with us, isn’t he?” Kent more stated than asked.

  “Yep.”

  Nearly two hours had passed when Kent next looked at his watch. Waiting the way lawmen waited was an occupational skill, learned and practiced, and not easily mastered. He fidgeted again.

  Merrill looked over. “School will be out in a couple of minutes.”

  As if on cue, a dismissal bell sounded.

  Kent rubbed his hands. “Here we go.”

  Within minutes teenagers began spilling out of every door. As he watched, his optimism fizzled.

  “Jesus. What’s with all the backpacks?”

  Merrill lifted his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “School spirit, I guess. Our guy isn’t dumb.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “Did we have that kind of school spirit?”

  “No way. Look at all the damn backpacks.”

  Merrill spoke over his shoulder to the tech. “Which one is ours.”

  “None of them,” the tech said. “Ours hasn’t moved yet. Hold it. I take that back. It’s moving now.”

  There was a nervous silence as they watched dozens of maroon-and-black Jaguar backpacks, identical to the one with the money, disperse in all directions.

  “It’s headed into the west parking lot,” the tech said.

  “That’s the seniors’ parking area,” Merrill said, reaching between the seats for his binoculars. “We can watch that from here.”

  “At least it’s not going on a school bus,” Kent said, as he watched kids boarding a dozen long yellow busses.

  Kent could see a line of cars in the west parking lot waiting to enter the street. There were kids everywhere, standing, talking, loading into cars, a few even sitting in pickup beds.

  “It’s moving south toward Albany Street,” the tech said.

  Merrill lowered his binoculars, grabbed a hand mic, and barked some call numbers into it. “I can’t see what’s going on,” he said to Kent while he waited. “I’m hoping the helicopter can.”