The Hearing

by James Mills

“I’ll be in heaven, talk all I want.”

  “Heaven!” Aguilera shook his head and snorted.

  Carl said, “You believe in marriage, having kids, blowing people up, what else? What do you believe in, Rubi? Money, for sure. Career opportunities? Who’s gonna get the big job? You really love your wife, or you just screw her and have kids?”

  Helen couldn’t see Aguilera’s face, but she saw the muscles tighten on the sides of his cheeks.

  Carl said, “You want another kick in the head?”

  “I love my wife. And my children.”

  “Good start. You’re not all bad. Maybe there’s hope. You ever beat your wife, the kids?”

  “Why are you asking me all these dumb questions?”

  “Gotta talk about something. You tell me the time, we’ll stop. You ever beat your wife?”

  Aguilera took a deep breath. Helen knew he was weighing the indignity of answering Carl’s questions against the pain of another kick in the head.

  “I do not beat my wife.”

  “Tell me something, Rubi. I mean, seriously. I really want to know. No disrespect intended. How can a man with three kids of his own blow up a school bus?”

  “I never blew up a school bus.”

  “September, nineteen ninety-two, Calle Bolivar, San Isidro, four kids died. An accomplice, worked over by FARC, gave your name. The bomb had the same characteristics—RDX, remote antenna, electronic detonator—as the one in that Mercedes.”

  “You know everything.”

  “Answer my question. How do you do it?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “Oh, it’s gotta be more complicated than that, Rubi.

  Who d’you hate? You gotta hate someone a lot to do that. Would you agree? Have I got it wrong?”

  “Hate has nothing to do with it.”

  “You’re just an evil bastard, and that’s all there is to it, you telling me that?”

  “What’s evil?”

  “You tell me. You’re an expert. The devil’s friend, remember?”

  Aguilera sighed.

  “You want another kick in the head?”

  “I don’t know what evil is.”

  “You know what good is?”

  “I don’t know that either. Why don’t you stop asking questions? Marriage. Kids. Evil. Good. That’s all idiots like you ever think about.”

  “What do geniuses like you think about?”

  “How come you do all the talking? Your partner doesn’t have anything to say?”

  “Do you have anything you’d like to add to this, Helen?”

  Before Helen could answer, Carl’s eye caught a sudden movement on Blossom’s darkened front porch.

  Not wanting to alert Aguilera, Carl concealed his concern, but shifted his position on the grass to give him a better line of vision to the porch. In a moment, he saw the movement again, and this time he picked out the shape of someone in short pants and a white T-shirt. He was sure, beyond a doubt, that it was Samantha.

  Why was Samantha on the porch? Had something gone wrong in the limousine? Where was Gus? If the bomb went off while she was on the porch she wouldn’t have a chance.

  As the questions rocketed through Carl’s mind, he saw the figure move again—definitely Samantha. She opened the front door, reentered the house, and closed the door.

  What should he do? What if someone in the Trade Commission had seen her? He studied the commission windows and saw movement. Someone was still there. How could they have missed seeing her? Would they go to the house, try to get in?

  Helen and Aguilera stopped talking. The only sound was the distant hum of traffic beyond the security perimeter. From his position on the lawn, Carl could not keep both Blossom and the Trade Commission in his vision at the same time. He studied the commission for movement, ranged his eyes across the lawn and the street, and studied Blossom. Everything was still. He said, “Do you have something to tell me, Rubi?”

  “If you mean the time, I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. I don’t know.”

  “If you don’t know, no one knows.”

  Rubi shrugged, but there was an uncertainty in the shrug that hadn’t been there before. He said, “What time is it?”

  Carl said, “Why do you care what time it is? If you don’t know anything, why do you care?”

  Rubi jerked his head and twisted his upper body.

  “Just tell me the time. What’s wrong with telling me the time?”

  “It’s getting close, isn’t it, Rubi? You can feel it, right? Tell me, Rubi. It’s not worth dying for.”

  Rubi took a deep breath, lifted his chin, and fixed his eyes on Carl.

  Carl nodded at him, slowly. “If you tell me right now, Rubi, I’ll let the sentencing judge know how you saved all our lives. Maybe he’ll give you a deal, knock off a few years.”

  From the corner of his eye, barely within his vision, Carl saw something move at the side of Blossom. Carl turned his head and glued his eyes to the spot. It moved again, toward the back of the house, then stopped, motionless.

  Carl glanced quickly at the commission. Someone came halfway into the window and withdrew. He looked back at Blossom. The figure took slow steps toward the front of the house, staying close to the side of the building.

  Which was the bigger threat—the bomb or the man creeping toward the front of Blossom?

  Carl stood and said to Helen, “I’ll be right back. You get outta here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Aguilera looked sharply from Carl to Helen, back to Carl. It was the first time Carl had seen on Aguilera’s face anything resembling fear.

  Carl said to Helen, “Get out, Go back.”

  Aguilera pulled at the cuffs and said, “Where’re you going?”

  “Tell me now, Aguilera. What time?”

  “Where are you going?”

  Carl thought, He’s scared to death—it’s going soon. He looked at his watch. “The time right now is five past one. What time is it going?”

  Rubi’s eyes were black balls of fear.

  Carl gave him five seconds, and said to Helen, “Go back. Run.”

  Then he walked rapidly across the lawn to the street, crossed to the front of Blossom, and removed the Walther from his waistband. He heard Aguilera’s panicked voice shouting, “Come back!”

  Carl edged through the shadows at the side of Blossom, heading toward the back entrance, searching through the darkness for the man he’d seen from the lawn.

  Gus awoke with a cramp in his back. He’d slept for an hour, knocked out by exhaustion, and was still too tired to think.

  “Hi! Have a good nap?”

  Samantha. Thirteen-year-olds were never tired.

  “Well, a nap, anyway.”

  She said, “I have something to tell you.”

  Attempted rape and homicide—could there be more?

  “Promise you won’t be mad.”

  “I won’t be mad.” No more, no more.

  “When you were sleeping I had to go to the bathroom, and while I was out of the car I took a walk—”

  A walk. His head snapped around to look at her. Was she joking?

  “—and I saw some people outside.”

  “People?”

  “Yeah. Three people on the lawn.”

  “Where?”

  “Across the street.”

  “Where were you?”

  “On the porch.”

  The porch!

  “What were you doing on the porch?”

  “I just went out to get some air.”

  He couldn’t believe it. To get some air. Just like that.

  “Did they see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Just sitting there.”

  “And then you came back inside, and they didn’t see you?”

  “Yeah, right. You’re mad, aren’t you?”

  “No, Samantha, I’m not mad, but you shouldn’t have done that. If the bomb ha
d gone off while you were out there it would have been very, very bad.”

  “I saw the station wagon and—”

  “You went up to the Mercedes?”

  “Of course not. You think I’m crazy? I just looked at it from the porch.”

  Was this real? Who had she seen?

  Gus said, “Wait here. Don’t move.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Samantha, I mean it. Don’t leave this car.”

  “I won’t. Are you going outside?”

  “Don’t even open the door.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  He left the garage and hurried to the back vestibule off the kitchen. He wanted to know who those people were on the lawn, but he did not want to show himself at the front of the house. If someone had seen Samantha, they might be watching the porch.

  He cracked open the back door and slipped out into the darkness. Standing in the narrow corridor between the house and a row of hedges, he heard a distant siren. Through the hedges, across the street, he could see the outline of the Colombian Trade Commission’s roof. He could not see the front lawn where Samantha had said the three people were sitting.

  He moved slowly toward the front of the house. When he could make out the lawn across the street, he saw the people, two dim figures crouching in the shadows next to a tree. Samantha had said three. Maybe she’d made a mistake. Or maybe the third was hidden behind the tree. It didn’t matter. He decided to return to the limo and call Carl at the command truck.

  He was halfway back to the kitchen door when he heard a noise ahead of him and dropped silently to the ground. He lay still, holding his breath, his face pushed to the dirt. When he raised his eyes, he saw the dark outline of a man pressed against the wall, inching his way toward the back of the house.

  Gus had left the back door unlocked. All the man had to do was walk into the house, go to the garage, and that would be the end of Samantha.

  He thought of the Uzis in the cabinet next to the board where he’d found the door key, and wished he’d had the sense to bring one with him. Certainly the man himself would be armed. Gus would have to tackle him and hope for the best. He had the advantage of surprise, and no matter what happened—even if he died doing it—he had to keep the man away from Samantha.

  The man continued slowly along the wall toward the back corner by the kitchen. Gus bolted, sacrificing silence for speed. He’d try to hit the man hard from behind, grab his throat, drive his fingers into the windpipe, hang on as they fell, choke the breath out of him until there was no more struggle.

  Gus was six feet away, moving with increasing speed and noise, when the man wheeled in the darkness and raised an arm. In the exploding flash from the muzzle of a pistol, Gus caught the image of Carl’s face.

  “Max!”

  Iverson took a step toward the TV monitor showing the Trade Commission’s rear door. “What is it?”

  “Hang on.”

  The agent at the monitor rewound a tape, studying the monitor, fingers poised to hit the stop and replay buttons.

  An image flashed backwards. The agent reversed tape. On the monitor, two men burst from the Trade Commission door, took two quick steps, and disappeared from the image.

  “They came out running.”

  Iverson said, “So would you. They say anything?”

  “They were screaming at each other, just before they hit the back door, when they were still upstairs. I heard ‘ten minutes.’ And then the other one said something I couldn’t get.”

  Iverson glanced at a clock over the monitor.

  One thirty-five. If they gave themselves ten minutes, that’s one forty-five. Plenty of time.

  Iverson called the limousine.

  A girl answered. Wrong number. He said, “I’m sorry,” and was about to hang up and call again. Then he said, “Excuse me. Is this the number for Judge Parham?”

  That sounded stupid. Like Parham lives in a car.

  “This is his daughter. May I help you?”

  “Samantha?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling, please?”

  “Where is Judge Parham?”

  “Who is this, please?”

  “It’s Special Agent Iverson of the FBI. Where is the judge?”

  “I don’t know. He left for a moment. If you’d like to leave a number I’ll have him call you when he returns.”

  About to get blown up, and she sounds like an answering machine.

  “Where did he leave for?”

  “I don’t know. I think he just wanted to look around.”

  Parham gets bored and goes for a stroll in the garden? Car bombs don’t hold his attention?

  “Would you tell him to call me immediately? Would you do that?”

  “Sure. Special Agent Iverson. How do you spell that?”

  “I … V … Never mind. Just tell him to call the command truck. Carl’s number.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  Iverson hung up and yelled, “Where’s Falco?”

  No one answered.

  A voice boomed from a speaker: “In the truck!” An agent at Baker post.

  Iverson yelled, “Go!”

  “Two subjects exiting the area, a hundred yards from the Trade Commission, Daine Street, and they are moving, southwest, running like hell.”

  Iverson said, “Buckley?”

  Three consoles down the row, an agent wearing a telephone headset talked into his mouthpiece. “Captain, this is Buckley in the truck. Two Latin males on Daine Street, running southwest, two blocks from the Trade Commission. Please detain?”

  Iverson shouted, “Baker post! The three subjects on the lawn?”

  “Still there. No activity.”

  “If you—”

  “Now they’re moving. Number two walking fast toward Blossom. Number one still at the tree. Female approaching number one.”

  Buckley, still on the phone, shouted, “PD has two Latin males in custody on Daine Street!”

  “Come back! Come back!” Aguilera stopped screaming at Carl and turned angrily to Helen. “Get him!” He yanked desperately at the handcuffs. “Make him come back!”

  Helen stood, taking care to stay out of kicking range of Aguilera’s feet.

  “Is it going to go off?”

  “It’s a bomb, you stupid bitch. Get him back here, get these cuffs off. Run! Go!”

  Go was just what Helen wanted to do. If the wild behavior of Aguilera was any indication, the bomb was ready to explode in seconds. But Carl was still here—or at least headed for the house—and so were Gus and Samantha, not to mention Aguilera.

  “Get these cuffs off!”

  Aguilera was raving now.

  “I can’t. I don’t have the key.”

  The soft, unhurried tone of her voice astonished her. With a steady authority that seemed not her own, she said, “I don’t have the keys. All you can do is wait for Carl.”

  Aguilera screamed at the Trade Commission windows, shaking his cuffs, flailing his legs to get the attention of anyone inside.

  But all movement on the other side of the windows had stopped.

  “They’ve gone! The bastard cowards have gone! Come back! Bastards!”

  He dropped to his knees beside the tree. His cheek pressing hard against the bark, he hugged the trunk as if fearful it would fly from the earth.

  Helen heard an explosion. Aguilera looked up and froze.

  She said, “What was that?”

  “I hope he’s dead.”

  “What was it?”

  “You’re friend’s been shot.”

  Helen ran for the house.

  Samantha heard an explosion, muffled by the thickness of the garage walls, and thought for sure the bomb had gone off. Obedient to the instructions of numerous flight attendants, she put her head between her knees and waited for something terrible to happen. The sound faded, silence returned, and in the continuing stillness she raised her head. She was still alive.

  What had happened? Maybe the bomb ha
d gone off, but it wasn’t as powerful as everyone had thought. Or maybe the explosion was a gunshot. Maybe Gus had been shot.

  She didn’t know what to do. She had promised Gus not to leave the limo, and she knew she should stay where she was. If everything was okay someone would come to get her. If not—well, she’d still better stay where she was.

  After five minutes, fear and curiosity were getting the best of her. How long should she sit here, waiting for she didn’t know what? Where was Gus? What if he’d been killed? She didn’t want to think about that. She picked up the tele phone, but the only number she remembered was the hotel they’d stayed at in Saint-Tropez.

  She opened the limo door and had one foot on the floor of the garage when she heard a voice scream her name.

  “Samantha!”

  The garage door flew open and before she could think, Carl had her by the hand, pushing her back into the limo. Gus, covered with dirt and mud, ran around the limo and jumped in behind the wheel.

  Samantha said, “What happened? Did the bomb go off? I thought you’d been shot.”

  Carl yelled “Stay in the limo!”, slammed Samantha’s door, and ran from the garage.

  Gus said, “It’s okay, Samantha. No one’s hurt.”

  Iverson, watching the clock, called the limo again. One thirty-seven. Eight minutes to go. Maybe the judge was back, hadn’t called.

  Parham answered, out of breath.

  “Judge Parham? This is Special Agent Iverson in the command truck.” He’d never spoken to Parham before.

  “What is it?”

  “We don’t have much time, sir. Colombian agents in the Trade Commission have left the building. We figure you’ve got about seven minutes before the bomb goes. We’d like you to drive out. If you—”

  “Drive out?”

  The phone was losing power.

  “Yes, sir. We’d like you to open the garage doors.”

  “Excuse me. You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you.”

  “The garage doors. We want you to open the doors and drive out. You should—Can you hear me?”

  “Just barely.”

  “When you get to the street, make a left. We’re removing all police barriers as far as the traffic circle. Drive as fast as possible. Can you hear me?”

  “You’re coming and going. It’s very faint.”

  “Open the garage doors and drive out. You’ve got about six minutes. Do you hear me?”