A Bomb Built in Hell

by Andrew Vachss

  “They should be the ones up here in this fucking window,” flashed through Wesley’s mind. He carefully plucked the thought and tossed it into the garbage can of his brain—the part that already contained questions about his mother and the name of the first institution he had been committed to when he was four years old.

  By 11:15, the crowd was good-sized, but not unruly. Traffic was backed up on the West Side Highway as people rubber-necked to see what was going on down at the Pier. The dock, which could accommodate two ocean liners at the same time, was still empty.

  At 11:45, the Mayor arrived in a helicopter with three men who looked like politicians from the ground, but like bodyguards through the scope.

  At 12:05 p.m., the first tugs steamed in, towing the ship. The crowd let out a major cheer, drowning the voices of the demonstrators. Wesley trained the scope on the face of their leader, searching carefully for anything dangerous. But he seemed too beside himself with rage to have planned anything that might get in the way.

  At 12:35 p.m., the gangplank was lowered from the ship to the dock. An honor guard came first, flying the Haitian flag and the American flag in separate holders. The soldiers held their rifles like they were batons. As the TV crews trained their cameras toward the entrance to the gangplank, the reporters jockeyed for position at its foot.

  At 12:42 p.m., Fat Boy started to walk down the gangplank. In what must have been a carefully orchestrated move, he stood alone, with bodyguards in front and behind, his fat body contrasting photogenically against the gangplank’s fresh white paint.

  Fat Boy halted—from the way the men behind him halted too, the whole thing must have been rehearsed to death.

  Fat Boy turned and waved to the crowd—a huge roar went up and surrounded him. Wesley felt a lightness he had never felt while working before—a glow came up from his stomach and started to encircle his face.... But it had too many years of breeding and training to compete with. Wesley focused hard on the scope, watching Fat Boy’s face fill the round screen. He watched the crosshairs intersect on Fat Boy’s left eye.

  The crowd was now in a huge, rough semicircle around the base of the gangplank and the noise was terrific. The wind held steady at seven m.p.h. from the west—the tiny transistor-powered radio which picked up only the Coast Guard weather reports gave Wesley a bulletin every fifteen minutes. He had cranked in the right windage and elevation hours ago and stood ready to adjust ... but everything had held ... static.

  Wesley slowed his breathing, reaching for peace inside, counting his heartbeats.

  Fat Boy turned to his left to throw a last wave at the crowd, just as Wesley’s finger completed its slow backward trip—the sharp cccrack! came at a higher harmonic than the crowd-noise. It seemed to pass over everyone’s head as Fat Boy’s head burst open like a rotten melon with a stick of dynamite inside. The screaming took on a higher pitch and the bodyguards rushed uselessly toward the fallen ruler as Wesley smoothly jacked a shell into the chamber and pumped another round into Fat Boy’s exposed back, aiming this time for the spinal area. It seemed to him as if the shots echoed endlessly, but nobody looked in his direction. Still, it wouldn’t take the TPF too long to figure things out.

  Wesley stood up, stuck the two expended shells in his side pocket out of habit, and ran to the window. Without looking down, he tossed the coil over the sill and followed it out. Wesley rappelled down with his back to the waterfront, both hands on the nylon line. Either the kid would cover him or he wouldn’t—he didn’t have any illusions about blasting somebody with one hand holding on to the rope. The bottom of his eyesight picked up the Ford as he slid down the last twenty feet. Wesley hit the ground hard, rolled over onto his side, and came up running for the back door, which was lying open. He grabbed the shotgun off the floor of the Ford, heard running footsteps, and saw the kid charging toward the car with a silenced, scoped rifle. The kid tossed the rifle into the back seat and the Ford moved off like a soundless rocket, as good as Pet ever could have done.

  78/

  The quiet car spun itself loose in the narrow streets of the area. The kid hadn’t said a word—he was watching the Halda Trip-Master clicking off hundredths of a mile. Just before the machine indicated 99/100, the kid slammed the knife-switch home. A dull, booming sound followed in seconds, but the echoes reverberated for another full minute after the Ford had re-entered the West Side Highway and was passing the World Trade Center on the left.

  The Ford sped back to the Slip without seeming to exceed the speed limit. A touch of the horn ring forced the garage door up, and the kid hit it again to bring it down almost in the same motion. The door slammed inches behind the Ford’s rear bumper. Both men sprinted out from the Ford and jumped into the cab, which was out the door and heading for the highway again almost immediately.

  Wesley inserted the tiny earplug and nodded to the kid who turned on the police-band radio under the front seat. It was more static-free than the regular police units and Wesley could hear everything clearly.

  All units in vicinity Pier 40, proceed to area and deploy ... TPF is in charge ... acknowledge as you go in ... repeat: acknowledge as you go in ... unknown number of men spotted in building directly across from pier ... eighth floor, fourth window from left ... shots fired.

  Central ... Central, this is 4-Bravo-21, K? We’re going to try the rear door. Get us some cover, K?

  Four-Bravo-21, 4-Bravo-21: Do not enter the building. Repeat: Do not enter the building. Back-up is on the way. You are under the command of the TPF captain on the scene. Do not enter. Acknowledge.

  Wesley slid back the protective partition between the seats, tapped the kid on the shoulder, “Slow it down, kid—they’re not even at the building yet.”

  The kid did something and the cab slowed to a crawl, although it still appeared to be keeping up with the traffic stream. Wesley kept locked into the police-band. Minutes crawled slower than the cab.

  All units now in position, acknowledge.

  A series of 10-4s followed as each car called in. Central went back to a stabbing in Times Square. Wesley tapped the kid again, and the cab sped up unobtrusively.

  The cab passed by the building on the highway very slowly; traffic was clogged as the drivers bent their necks to see what was happening. The Pier was crowded with people and ambulances. The cab finally came to a dead stop in the traffic. From where they sat, they could almost see into the blown-out window—the rest of the building was completely intact.

  “I guess we got the window blown out in time,” Wesley said. “They never noticed the rope hanging down.”

  “There was no rope hanging down—that’s what I was doing with the piece when you ran into the car,” the kid replied.

  “You fucking shot the rope down?!”

  “It wasn’t hard—black line against a red building, and I had almost a minute to get set up. I figured it would only cost us a second or so and the rope hanging down was the only bad part of the whole thing.”

  “How many shots you have to fire?”

  “I got it the first time—I cut loose as soon as you let go.”

  “You’ve got Pet’s blood in you, alright.”

  Wesley spotted the SWAT team deploying on the roof. He flicked the walkie-talkie to the intercept band.

  “Not a fucking sound in there, Sarge. Want us to go in?”

  “Negative! Stay right there! The Captain’s getting on the horn down here first—maybe the bastards’ll surrender.”

  The cop’s short laugh sounded just like a bark over the speaker. Then the bullhorn’s battery-powered voice blasted the air.

  “You men up there! This is Captain Berkowitz of the Tactical Patrol Force. Throw out your weapons and walk out of the back door one at a time, with your hands away from your bodies. You will not be harmed. The building is completely surrounded—you don’t have a chance. You have to surrender peacefully—don’t make it any worse on yourselves.”

  It didn’t surprise Wesley that only silence came back ou
t at the police from the building. The cop was back on the horn again.

  “Listen, you people ... the man you shot isn’t dead—he isn’t going to die! It’s not a murder rap yet—don’t make it one! Come out without your weapons ... you have thirty seconds.”

  The kid said “Fuck!” softly, almost beyond audibility, but Wesley had been listening for it.

  “He’s dead, kid,” Wesley told him. “The first shot took his face off. The cops are just running a hustle, that’s all.”

  “They said...”

  “Doesn’t mean anything. We’re not the only ones don’t play by the rules. Fat Boy is gone to heaven, I promise you.”

  One of the cops on the roof lobbed in a tear-gas grenade—the wind carried the gas right out of the window of the sealed room and it stayed quiet. A sharp bang! broke the silence.

  “They must of figured they wasn’t going to break in that street door,” Wesley smiled.

  While the TPF Captain kept up a steady stream of threats and promises, the floor of the building rapidly filled with cautious policemen who started up the stairs. They slid back, cursing and frightened. After they reported back to the Captain, he tried the bullhorn again. “All that crap on the stairs isn’t going to keep us out forever, men! You’ve got nowhere to go! Make it easy on yourselves!”

  A break in traffic opened up and the kid shot for it like any good city hackster. They followed the highway to 23rd Street and doubled back toward the building. Four blocks from the site, they found traffic choked off again—a burly cop was gesturing threateningly at anyone who tried to get by.

  The police-band was frantically screaming instructions to all units again—about thirty men had entered the building and were slowly making their way up the stairs with the aid of sandbags ... then they were even more slowly taking down each door on their way to the top. It was 2:45 p.m.

  The kid made a gross U-turn right in front of the cop and the cab headed back toward Times Square. This time, they angled toward the water and finally pulled up on Twelfth Avenue just past 26th Street, right in front of the Starrett Lehigh Terminal. The huge, abandoned building had a giant SPACE AVAILABLE sign on its facade.

  “There’s going to be a whole lot of motherfucking space available in one building I know about,” Wesley said. “Are we still within range?”

  “Easy,” the kid responded. “We got about four-tenths-of-a-mile leeway from the Erie Lackawanna Yard and that’s a couple a blocks further north.”

  “The building’s about as full as it’s going to get now. Hit the switch before they get into the room.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “I set the dynamite to blow upwards, you know? I just wanted to blow out that one room, so’s they won’t find anything. We need at least one body so they won’t catch wise—it should look like the guys in that room decided to check out together instead of surrender.”

  The kid didn’t reply. He reached forward and pushed the three buttons on the radio transmitter in correct sequence. In seconds, there was the familiar dull-booming throb, followed by a space-muffled crash. It wasn’t impressive at that distance.

  The cab turned right at 42nd and slowly threaded its way back east. They picked up the FDR Drive down by the river and headed back toward home.

  79/

  As soon as they got inside, they both went to Wesley’s apartment, first setting all the security systems and leaving the dog in the garage. Wesley flicked on the television. The picture showed a huge, milling mob that the police were trying to control, not being too gentle about it. The TV announcer had a huge bulb-headed microphone with a white numeral “4” on its base. He looked harried.

  “One of the worst tragedies in the history of our city—Prince Duvalier has been assassinated by person or persons unknown and the killers have apparently blown up the building in which they were trapped in an effort to avoid capture. At least four police officers are missing in the wreckage and presumed dead. The fire department is on the scene and rescue crews are working at top speed to clear the debris. The building from which the shots came is apparently owned by a major firm, but we have been unable to contact a spokesman....”

  Wesley clicked off the set and looked at the kid. “Not dead, huh? The fucking maggots.”

  “I should’ve known,” the kid said. “You think they’ll find anything?”

  “Not this year.”

  80/

  Wesley couldn’t get anything solid about Haiti on the radio or TV for days. The papers were mostly full of the destruction in the building across from the Pier. The one thing that puzzled the police so far was the absence of any bodies that could have belonged to the killers ... they continually referred to the job as the work of several men. Several cops privately told their reporter contacts that the killers had been blown into such small particles that the lab boys would never be able to identify anyone. The FBI was asked to enter the case on the presumption that the killers had crossed a state line in the preparation of the crime. The CIA outbid the FBI and the locals—and promptly collected a ton of useless information. Wesley finally found what he was looking for in the Times.

  Port au Prince, Haiti--A brief attempt at a military coup has failed on this Caribbean island once ruled with an iron fist by Prince Duvalier as it was by his father before him, the infamous “Poppa Doc.” A spokesman for the provisional military government announced that the island was completely under control and that Generale Jacques Treiste would temporarily assume command until free democratic elections could be held. If such elections follow the former pattern established by “President for Life” Duvalier, the island will undoubtedly remain a dictatorship.

  It is not known how the islanders will react to the rule of a strictly military regime. “Poppa Doc” was widely believed to have occult powers stemming from his intimate relationship with the dark gods of obeah. His son, appointed following the old ruler’s death, was actually controlled by Duvalier’s wife. Any relationship between Generale Treiste and Mrs. Duvalier is unknown at this time, but insiders believe there will be no change.

  Wesley read the article over several times, then slammed it to the floor in disgust. The dog jumped, startled—it had never seen Wesley move with such a vicious lack of smoothness. Wesley never left the room—the kid brought him the papers every day. Four days later, he found the confirmation.

  Port au Prince, Haiti--Earlier today, Madame Duvalier, the former wife of the infamous “Poppa Doc” Duvalier and mother of the recently assassinated Prince Duvalier, was married to Generale Jacques Treiste, head of the provisional military government of Haiti, in a lavish ceremony attended by thousands of cheering islanders.

  “President for Life” Treiste allowed his new bride to do most of the speaking to the assembled journalists. The crux of her remarks was contained in her opening statement: “I am in constant communication with my husband. This marriage is at his wish, so that the great nation of Haiti can continue to show the unity and strength that has marked its recent period of growth. My son died for his country, as did his father before him. In Presidente Treiste, we have a new leader ... a leader with the blessings of both my husband and my son.”

  Mrs. Duvalier, as she still prefers to be known, told journalists that her son knew there would be an assassination attempt if he came to America, and that a Communist plot to overthrow the government was behind the killing.

  Inside sources also reported that a brief armed rebellion by guerrillas in the southern part of the island was crushed by 2,500 Haitian troops without difficulty. Persistent rumors that American troops were involved have been denied.

  Wesley stared at the newsprint until it blurred and faded. He focused on the white paper from which the black print was disappearing.

  It was dark by the time he went down to the garage. The kid had the intake manifold and the heads off the Ford and was working under a single little trouble-light.

  “It didn’t work, kid.”

  “I know—I read it, t
oo. Those niggers got no fucking guts.”

  “Forget that shit. It’s not guts. All people got guts when it means enough to them. A woman once tried to take me out with a tiny little knife when I was holding a loaded M1 at her chest ... because of her kid, you know? I think ... there’s another way the weasels do it and I don’t know what it is. Like in the joint, right? How come we got any rats in the joint? We should all be against the hacks, right? But they get your nose open. They make you think about yourself so much you don’t ever think about yourself ... you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah. In the training school they used to give you a parole if you grabbed a kid trying to run. The bigger guys used to make the little kids run, so’s they could catch them.”

  “They make you run?” Wesley asked, curious.

  “The first time I was in, they did. And they caught me and beat me with that fucking strap until I couldn’t stand ... and I went in the Hole for thirty days ... and the motherfucker who caught me got to go home.”