by Phoef Sutton
He just walked up beside her and looked inside the barrel. Yep, there was a bomb there, all right. Red wires, blue wires, blinking red lights. It looked just like a prop bomb from a TV show. Donleavy picked up a pair of wire cutters from a tray on top of the barrel, getting ready to defuse the detonator. She brought the tool close to the wires and hesitated.
“Really?” Crush asked. “The red wire or the blue wire? What is this? Are we watching Homeland or 24?” He didn’t know if Donleavy could hear him through the heavy mask, but she gestured to Stegner and Kagan to come drag Crush away. Stegner hesitated, but Kagan was on the move. Crush had always liked Kagan.
“Hey, Kagan!” Crush called out. “Who was this bomb addressed to?”
“What?” He stopped, confused.
“Who was it sent to?”
“Emil Zerbe.”
Donleavy gestured impatiently for Kagan to keep coming. Crush looked down. There was another pair of pliers on the barrel’s edge. Crush picked them up, bumped Donleavy’s heavily gloved hands aside and cut both the red and the blue wire.
He couldn’t hear Donleavy’s voice through the mask but her body language said something like, “Are you completely insane? You’ve just killed us!”
The blinking red lights went out on the bomb. There was dead silence for a moment.
“See? Done and done,” Crush said.
Then the bomb went off.
It went off with a loud click, then it burst open and a mound of shaving cream flowed out of it. That was all.
Donleavy ripped the mask off her head. Her short-cropped gray ‘do’ had a bad case of helmet hair. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Stegner got up from the ground where he’d thrown himself when Crush clipped the wires and shouted, “Yeah, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Stegner was always Donleavy’s yes-man.
“Relax,” Crush said. “It wasn’t a real bomb.”
“Did you know that? How did you know that?” Donleavy demanded.
“Well, look at it. It looks so fake. And the truck had a bad paint job. It was total amateur-time.”
“That’s it?”
“And it was addressed to Emil Zerbe. Trust me, they don’t want Emil dead.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Them.”
“Do you know who sent the bomb?”
“No idea.”
She stripped the heavy gloves off. “You didn’t know that bomb was a dud, did you?”
“I was pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure? Pretty sure?!”
“Almost a hundred percent. But I might not be thinking too clearly. I might have a concussion.”
“You might, huh?” Donleavy hauled off and slugged him in the jaw. Crush didn’t expect it. He shook it off, but staggered. Kagan caught him. “How ’bout now?” Donleavy yelled.
Angela came running up from the Bentley. “What are you doing? He’s been hurt.”
It was only then that Donleavy noticed the blood all over Crush’s dark T-shirt. “What happened?”
“He was in a car wreck.”
Crush corrected her. “It was more of a fender bender, really.” Then he threw up all over Donleavy’s bomb-disposal suit and passed out.
CHAPTER TEN
The first three days Crush spent in the Zerbe castle after his mother moved in, he stuck mainly to his room and to himself. He made occasional forays to the library to find something to look at, but all Emil had was stuff about ancient Rome and that kind of shit. He was forced to read histories by somebody name Tacitus. It was actually pretty good when you got into it.
The reason he stayed in his room was that Emil’s kids were in the house, and they’d be staying there for the next two weeks. It wasn’t that Crush was afraid of them. He just didn’t see the point in getting to know them. Because, though he hated to admit it, Angela was right. It would be better if Toni cleared out soon. This place was nice. This place was money. But come on. This place wasn’t for them. It was too dangerous.
He was stretched out in bed—he’d gotten used to the mattress—reading his Loeb Classical when he heard a knock on his bedroom door. He closed the book and told whoever it was to come in. The door opened and Samantha and Angela walked in.
“What do you want?” he asked. “You’re interrupting the Year of the Four Emperors.”
“This is a serious matter, Caleb,” Samantha said.
“Why don’t we just forget it?” Angela asked. “It’s not important.”
“Why are you saying that now?” Samantha said. “You brought me here.”
“Anybody want to tell me what’s going on?” Crush asked. “Or do I just get to guess?”
“Angela says she’s been robbed,” Samantha said.
“There was five hundred dollars on my dresser,” Angela said.
“And you want me to figure out who took it?” Crush said.
“I want you to give it back.”
“You think I have it?”
“Nothing was ever stolen in this house before you came.”
“We’re not saying you stole it,” Samantha said. “We’re just concerned.”
“We want to search your room,” Angela said.
“Go ahead,” Crush said. “And take out my dirty laundry while you’re at it.”
Samantha started going through his chest of drawers, but Angela objected. “I don’t know why you’re looking in such an obvious place. He’s smarter than that.”
“It’s true,” Crush said, opening his book again. “I’m a criminal mastermind.”
“Look at him,” Angela said. “He’s lying on the bed. Why is he lying on the bed?”
Samantha looked at her as if she was waiting for an answer.
“I give up,” Crush said. “Why am I lying on the bed?”
“Get up,” Angela said. “Let me look under that mattress.”
“Really?” he asked.
“See?” Angela turned to Samantha. “He doesn’t want to do it. He’s hiding something.”
“Could you get off the bed?” Samantha asked him, a little embarrassed.
“All right. I’ll do it for you.” He got off the bed with a sigh. “Now what?”
“Look under the mattress,” Angela said.
Crush looked at Samantha, who reluctantly nodded. Crush shrugged and lifted the mattress up off the bed. Angela pointed at the box spring in triumph. “There! Do you see?”
Samantha looked. “See what?”
There was nothing on the freshly exposed white box spring. Angela moved in on it in disbelief. “It has to be there! I…”
There was a profound silence in the room. “You what, Angela?” Samantha asked her.
“I…I was sure it was there.”
“You want to keep looking?” Crush asked.
“Should we keep looking, Angela?” Samantha asked, but in an accusatory tone.
“Well, I don’t know. I’m sure he took it, but…” her voice dwindled off.
Samantha turned to Crush. “I’m sorry, Caleb. Truly sorry.”
Crush threw the mattress back onto the box spring. “No worries. She probably just misplaced the money.”
“Yes,” Samantha said. “That’s probably what happened, Angela. I’m sure you’ll find it.”
Angela looked daggers at Crush. “I’ll tell Daddy about this.”
“Yeah, do that,” Crush said, plopping back down on the bed. “I’m sure he’ll give you another five hundred.”
Angela huffed and stormed out of the room.
Samantha eyed Crush. “What did you do with it after you found it, Caleb?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, turning a page.
“Okay. Just keep it hidden. Angela, she doesn’t give up easily,” she said as she left the room. Crush grunted a noncommittal grunt, not lifting his eyes from the page. He wasn’t worried. If there was one thing that life with his mother had taught him, it was how to hide things well.
Dr.
Milland shined a light in Crush’s eyes. “Who is the vice president?”
“Don’t remind me,” Crush said.
“Knock it off, Crush,” Donleavy said. “He’s trying to see if you’re coherent.”
“Then why doesn’t he ask me who won the World Series?”
“Because he doesn’t know,” Donleavy said.
“I resent that,” Dr. Milland said. “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m not a baseball fan.” Dr. Milland was the physician on call for Tigon Security. He looked like a doctor on a late-night infomercial, all well-coiffed white hair, bronze tan, and deep blue eyes. “Now what’s three times twenty-four?”
“Mike Pence,” Crush replied.
“Wise-ass,” Donleavy said.
“So how long have I got, Doc?” Crush asked. They were in the parlor of Emil Zerbe’s mansion and Crush was resting on the sofa where Kagan and Stegner had carried him, with some difficulty, after he’d passed out in the driveway.
“The way you live?” Dr. Milland asked. “I’d give you five years at most.”
“What about the concussion?” Donleavy asked. “Does he have one?”
“Hard to say without an MRI.”
“I’m fine,” Crush said.
“See, he says he’s fine,” Dr. Milland said. “Think of how much money we’d save on tests if we just took the patient’s word for it.”
“What should he do for it?” Angela asked.
“Rest,” the doctor said.
“Just rest?” Angela said in disbelief.
“Rest is the best treatment for a concussion,” Dr. Milland said.
“See, all I have to do is rest.” Crush started to get up.
“That’s not resting,” the doctor said, pushing him back down. “Resting means lying down. Resting means not reading, not listening to music, not watching TV. It means no texting, no email, no cell phone. Resting means physical and cognitive rest.”
“Sounds boring.”
“It should be. Most people who sustain a concussion are back to normal in a week or two. A few months at most.”
“How ’bout an hour?” Crush asked. “’Cause I feel fine.”
“Others can have long-term problems either from the concussion or from injuries to the surrounding soft tissues of the brain. And a word of caution: the injured person may lack clear judgment to make an informed decision regarding what goes on around him.”
“Like whether or not to set off a bomb?” Donleavy said.
“That’s just a for-instance,” Crush said.
“Well, I’ve given my advice, which will no doubt be ignored. And for which I will be well paid. Take care, Victoria. And tell me where to send the wreath when Mr. Rush’s time comes.” With that Dr. Milland was gone and Crush started to get up from the sofa.
“What are you doing?” Angela said.
“I’m going to watch TV, listen to music, and read,” Crush said. “Oh, and I’m going to get my car.”
“Lie back down.”
“Let him go. You can’t stop him,” Donleavy said.
Crush looked around. “Why aren’t the police here?”
“Samantha didn’t call the police,” Donleavy said. “She called Tigon.”
Samantha was sitting by the window. “I only did what Emil told me to do.”
Crush turned to Donleavy. “So she called you?”
“That’s right,” Donleavy said.
“But you didn’t call the police either?” Crush asked. “Even though you thought it was a real bomb?”
“Go home,” Donleavy said. “Get some rest. Real rest.”
“I can’t,” Crush said. “Didn’t you hear? I’m working for you again.”
“That’s the concussion talking,” Donleavy said.
“No, that’s Angela Zerbe talking,” Crush replied. “She said you hired me again.”
“Since when?”
“Since this morning,” Angela said. “To protect Noel.”
Donleavy looked offended. “Tigon is protecting the entire family.”
“I don’t like the way you do business,” Angela said. “And Crush has better motivation.”
“All right,” Donleavy said. “Everybody out. I need to talk to Crush. Alone.”
“Why?” Angela asked.
“Go,” Crush said. “It’s all right. I’ll fill you in later.”
Angela and Samantha left the room. Donleavy looked through the cabinets. “You’d think they’d have something to drink in a house like this.”
“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” Crush said with disapproval in his voice.
“Too early for you?”
“It’s always too early for me.”
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot,” Donleavy said. “Well, I drink early on days when I defuse bombs.” She slammed the last cabinet shut. “Fuck it. I’ll have to make do with a stick of gum.” She sat down across from Crush and unwrapped a stick of Wrigley’s. “Tell me the reason Angela Zerbe hired you.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause you’d be involved then. She doesn’t want you involved. I don’t either.”
“How come? Are you afraid I’d go to the police?”
“Trust me,” Crush said. “I’ll tell you everything. At the right time.”
“Do you know who sent the bomb?”
Crush shook his head. “No. But I think I know why it was sent.”
“Why?”
“To get him to stop the train.”
“That’s what we figured. That it was probably one of the other protest groups that are targeting Emil.”
“There are quite a few.”
“Tell me about it. I’m thinking of joining one myself.” She took the gum out of her mouth and wrapped it up in the crumpled paper. “Yeah, at first I thought this was all about the bullet train. But….”
“But?”
“Now I think it’s about you, Crush.”
Crush didn’t react to that, not much. “Really?”
Donleavy went to the briefcase she always carried with her. Her Little Box of Secrets, she called it. She opened it and took out a piece of paper. “Remember this?” She showed him a copy of a Los Angeles Times clipping from December 30, 2000. The banner headline read:
ROSE QUEEN STILL MISSING
THE DEVIL’S GATE DAM MYSTERY
Crush didn’t have to read the rest. “Yeah, I remember.”
“I thought you would,” Donleavy said. “This was found in Emil’s mailbox today. Along with this note.” She showed him another piece of paper:
REMEMBER THE SEVENTY-SIX THOUSAND
“Do you know what that means?”
“I have no idea,” Crush said.
“Neither do I. Tell me about what happened back in 2000.”
“Oh, you know all about that.”
“Tell me again. Tell me about Renee Zerbe’s disappearance.”
Just then Crush’s cell phone rang. He recognized the tune (the theme from Enter the Dragon) as Gail’s ringtone. “Hey, what’s up?”
“He left,” Gail said on the other end of the line.
“Noel?”
“Yes. He said he had to go to a meeting.”
“Did he take off the ankle monitor?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it. I asked where he was going but he wouldn’t tell me. He said it was anonymous.”
“Thanks.” Crush clicked off.
“Something?” Donleavy asked.
“Noel’s on the move.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know. At some meeting.”
The door opened and Samantha came in. “I know where he is.”
“You were listening to us?” Donleavy asked.
“Sure,” Samantha said. “What did you expect?”
“Where is he?” asked Crush.
“He goes to a meeting at the Grace Brethren Church on Mission Street in South Pasadena at noon every day.”
“What kind of meeting?” Cru
sh asked.
“A Targeted Individuals support group,” Samantha said.
“What the hell is that?” Donleavy asked.
Samantha shook her head. “I can’t explain. You have to see for yourself.”
“I will,” Crush said, getting up.
“Sit down,” Donleavy said. “I’ll send Kagan to get Noel. We can protect him better at the house. Besides, you shouldn’t be on your feet. You should be resting.”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” Crush said.
Donleavy frowned. “I hate it when people say that.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The van was dark. He had been alone for hours. Or Zerbe thought it had been hours. Since he was tied to this chair, he couldn’t check his cell phone’s clock, so he didn’t really know how much time had passed. That was the hardest part about being tied up. That and the fact that he couldn’t get up and take off his wet pants. That and the fact that he couldn’t get up at all. That and the fact that he could barely move. Okay, there were a lot of hardest parts about it.
“Hey!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. He had tried hollering that a few times. And what the hell, he tried it again. He’d been glad when his kidnapper left him alone, finally, but now he wanted some company. He wanted to know he wasn’t forgotten.
He tried to peer into the darkness of the van. To see if that table with the iPhone and iPad was still there. But it was blacker than black in here. There were gaps around the doors that usually let light in, but there was nothing now. They must be parked in a garage. It was stuffy and hot, and Zerbe felt a little panic well up in his chest. What if they left him here? Forgot him? What if that was how they planned to kill him? To leave him to starve? To leave him almost buried alive?
“Hey!” he yelled again, to give the panic in his gut some outlet. “Hey! I’m here! I’m alive!” He was talking—yelling—to himself now. “I’m alive and I’m getting mad!” Then he started singing the theme to The Lone Ranger, the way he used to when he was a kid. “To-the-dump-to-the-dump-to-the-dump-dump-dump.” Anything to make himself heard, if only to himself.
When Crush stepped out of the Zerbe house, he remembered he didn’t have a car anymore. It bothered him a little bit that he’d forgotten that, but he shrugged it off and called Gail to take one of his cars and come pick him up. Then he sat on the front step and waited.