The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers)

by Lawrence Kelter

  Chapter 3

  Walking toward a bomb was not a task I cherished, but walk toward it I did.

  Sadeq was trembling. He was resting on his haunches, trying desperately to remain still. “Mather, I sitting on bomb,” he said in his feeble English.

  Without a metal detector or bomb-sniffing dogs, the actual explosive device might have been yards away, almost anywhere, and experience had taught us that where there was one IED, there were others. I approached him slowly, doing my utmost to scour the ground in front of me for signs of man-made disturbances—he may have been squatting on the pressure plate, but I certainly didn’t want to be standing on the bomb if he passed wind. “Ma shora (Don’t move).” Don’t breathe. Don’t talk. Don’t even think out loud. I pulled out my radio and communicated the situation to my battalion commander who had gone on ahead and taken the rest of the detail to the next village up the road, almost an hour away.

  Sadeq balanced on the balls of his boots with his pants pulled down around his ankles. His clasped hands had been placed in front of his junk for modesty.

  Luckily for me, the danger of being blown to bits had proven for him a mighty constipating agent.

  It did, however, look like if the bomb didn’t explode, Sadeq would. He pointed to a wire that didn’t look like a trip wire. It looked like an electrical lead that fed current from a hidden battery to an explosive charge. The trigger, so to speak, was the pressure plate Sadeq had unwisely chosen for a toilet. He pointed to a wooden plank between his feet—just inches away I saw where the aforementioned wire disappeared under the ground, leading to where it most likely articulated with the wooden pressure plate. The Taliban had been clever enough to construct their pressure plates of wood so that they wouldn’t be detected during metal detector sweeps. I wasn’t sure why the charge hadn’t already gone off, but insurgent-made IEDs had a pretty significant failure rate.

  I crossed myself. One could only hope.

  The IEDs were usually made from a common nine-volt battery, a jury-rigged pressure plate, and an explosive charge made from stolen fuel and Pakistani fertilizer. The supplier of the fertilizer was not a bomb maker, but one of the largest companies in Pakistan. Pakarab was the nation's largest producer of the fertilizer calcium ammonium nitrate, the raw ingredient for as many as seventy-five percent of all the IEDs found in Afghanistan. The fertilizer was completely legal in Pakistan, where a quarter of the gross domestic product and half of the workforce depended on agriculture. CAN, as the fertilizer was commonly known, was illegal in Afghanistan, yet enough of it was still crossing the porous border between the two countries to help create some sixteen thousand bombs per year.

  Sadeq had grown jittery and was struggling to maintain his balance. If he toppled over, the IED would most certainly explode. I handed him a food ration so that he could nibble on it and distract himself from his plight.

  My CO had told me that a British-led counter-IED taskforce was about an hour away in the next village with my battalion. “Hegheh oreteh meshoreh orekeṛeh …” I explained to Sadeq that help was on the way. “They’ll be here—” I’d forgotten to translate. “D lemer lo ado d mekheh (before sunset).”

  Sadeq nodded slowly and nibbled on the ration bar as if he was a tiny gerbil, taking infinitesimally small bites so that it would last as long as possible. He paused after a moment and motioned for me to move away from him. “Tasse delta tsa kawai? (What are you doing here? Tersha! (Go on. Move!)”

  There was no telling where the bomb was actually buried. I could’ve been standing right on top of it, or it could’ve been twenty yards away. I didn’t want to leave him, but there was nothing I could do for him, and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to avoid peeking at his junk, so I strolled thirty yards away, out of the probable blast zone, copped a squat, and waited for help to arrive.

  Chapter 4

  “They’re not coming?” What do you mean they’re not coming?

  “They won’t be able to get there for hours,” my battalion commander explained. “A bomb went off while they were searching for IEDs, and there were casualties,”

  God, what do I tell Sadeq? “Well, sir, what do you want me to do?”

  “You’ve had some training on IED disarmament, haven’t you?”

  Well, yeah, I watched a video. I could watch a video on open-heart surgery but that wouldn’t qualify me to crack open someone’s ribcage. I didn’t express any reservation in my response to my CO. “Sir. Yes, sir.”

  “Well then, do what you need to do, marine. Copy that?”

  “Sir. Yes, sir.”

  “Godspeed, marine. We’ll join you as soon as we can.” He disconnected.

  Holy shit! I looked up at the sky. There was only about thirty minutes of daylight left, and Sadeq looked as if he was ready to roll over and pass out. He had been squatting on his haunches for more than an hour and was shaking. I made my way over to him and explained what I was going to do. He knew the protocol—I’m sure he had seen it before, not once but many times. The first order of business was to locate the battery and then the bomb. I had a starting point, the exposed wire we had discovered before. I didn’t know where it would lead, but I figured it was the most expeditious way to find either the battery or the charge. I got down on my hands and knees and carefully began brushing dirt out of the way in an attempt to trace the wire. It wasn’t close by. It took a full twenty minutes for me to locate the battery. It was, in fact, a small nine-volt battery like the kind used in smoke alarms. I cautiously unearthed it and laid it atop the ground.

  The sun was dropping quickly. No time to waste. I began excavating the soil around Sadeq, looking for a wire that would lead to the explosive charge. Lucky me, the wire was right in front of him, right between his legs—his johnson was pointing right at it. This expanse of wire was much shorter. I found a homemade IED just two feet away. All the while Sadeq found additional reserve and balanced on his haunches as solidly as the Sphinx itself.

  I unearthed the bomb, praying that it wouldn’t go off while I was directly above it. The next step was for all the marbles. I had to snip the wires. Bomb experts carry special apparatus that allows them to snip the wires from a great distance, but I was no more than an arm’s length away. I studied Sadeq’s face for a moment. His expression was a mixture of fear and anticipation. I said an Our Father, covered my eyes, and squeezed the ends of the wire cutter. I heard the blast and felt the charge rip through me.

  “Hey what?” I clutched my heart and jumped even before my eyes sprang open. “Oh my God.” It took a moment for me to realize that I hadn’t been blown to bits. I wasn’t even in Afghanistan. I was in our SUV with my guy, Liam. I was drenched in sweat as I came to. “Oh shit! What was that?”

  He was grinning as I turned to him. He pointed to an old clunker next to us at the filling station. “Backfire from the old Toyota pickup truck,” he said, most matter-of-factly. “You were out cold, Chloe. I begged you to go to sleep last night, but did you listen? Noooo. You had to stay up until the roosters began to crow.”

  Liam was a meteorologist by trade, so I thought it amusing that he used a farm reference instead of scientific nomenclature to categorize the time I went to bed. I mopped my brow with the back of my hand. “Hey, lay off, would you? I just woke from a nightmare. I thought the backfiring car was an exploding IED.”

  His expression became concerned. “Shit. I’m sorry. Another wave of combat-related dream terror?”

  “Uh-huh.” My heart had been knocking and was just beginning to settle down. I was three years out of the marines but was still suffering from intermittent bouts of PTSD. Some say that when you come back from foreign deployment, you leave a little piece of yourself behind and that you’re never the same afterwards. I suppose that was true of me as well. I never knew what would trigger a psychological event. They’d spring up when I least expected them. Sometimes I’d stay up until I passed out, trying to avoid the prospect of another nightmare.

  “Hey,” Liam sai
d. “You mind grabbing some supplies for the trip while I fill up the tank?”

  “Mind? No.”

  “Get me some beer, okay—I’ll let you drive.”

  “Will do.” I was still a little groggy and disoriented. I looked around and spotted the gas station minimart. “Some fresh air will do me good.” I pushed the door open and jumped out in search of junk food and highly caffeinated soft drinks.

  All told, I was gone about five minutes. I went in for a six-pack and came out with a smile.

  “They proofed you?” Liam asked as I approached the SUV.

  “They did indeed. How’d you know?”

  “You’ve got that look on your face as if the captain of the football team just asked you to the prom.”

  “I guess I still look young enough to pass for jailbait.” I continued to grin as I handed Liam the beer and a plastic grocery bag filled with goodies. “I love gas station markets; they have so much great stuff in them. Look what I bought for you. I’m glad you want me to drive because I need something to concentrate on—I’ve got to keep Afghanistan out of my head. I’m still a little tired, and I don’t want to revisit my days of my foreign deployment.”

  “Go for it, marine.” Liam winked at me and went around to the passenger side of the car. He opened the bag and gushed over the surprise treats I had purchased in the gas station minimart. “Mango margarita in a sippy cup? You really do love me.”

  “And it has a straw too.”

  “That’s so cool, Chloe. I can get loaded without splashing my cocktail all over the interior. Don’t you just adore modern technology?” He reached into the bag and pulled out some of the garbage food I had purchased. “Want to split a Slim Jim?”

  “Sure. We can nibble at it from both ends like Lady and the Tramp.”

  “Look at you referencing a children’s cartoon—I guess there was a time when even you were childlike and innocent.”

  “Yeah. I remember that stage. It lasted about a week.”

  There was a time during boot camp when I used to live on beef jerky, and once you’ve acquired a taste for salt-cured meat, well … It’s become a dietary staple along with Sicilian pizza and spicy kung pao chicken.

  We were on our way up to Monticello after a slow and monotonous week on the job. It had taken days for me to complete all of the reporting on my last case, and babysitting a desk is not this girl’s idea of fun. Chevy had invited me to the Monticello Motor Club to drive the new C7 Corvette Stingray. I didn’t know why I had been selected for the exclusive event, but it was free, and for the opportunity to drive a brand-new 6.2 liter, 460 horsepower monster Vette … Well, it wasn’t an opportunity this adrenaline junkie was going to pass up. Chevy was transporting about sixty brand-new Z51 Stingrays to the racetrack so that a group of lucky car fanatics could drive the budget-priced supercar and then go forth to spread the word that it was pound for pound every bit as good as a Porsche or a BMW. I’m a Built-in-America girl and was more than happy to oblige.

  “The tank is full,” he said as he checked his watch. He looked up at the sky through the windshield. Ever the vigilant meteorologist, he gave me a spur-of-the-moment forecast. “We’d better get moving. It’s a good two and a half hours’ drive to the racetrack, and we want to stay ahead of the low pressure center moving across Long Island.”

  “Did you use your dual-Doppler to figure that one out?”

  “Not so much—more like my dual-peepers.”

  I grinned at Liam, cranked the engine, and peeled rubber.

  Chapter 5

  The Stingray sat on the turns as if it were bolted to rails. The pace car driver’s instructions came over the dashboard loudspeaker. “Give me full throttle down the straightaway.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” He certainly doesn’t have to ask me twice. I punched the gas pedal and watched as the tachometer surged toward the red line. I read the speed on the windshield heads-up display as the racer charged past a hundred. I had the brute up to one-twenty before the pace car driver instructed me to hit the brakes. Shoot! I wanted more speed, and there were only a couple of laps to go. You can do better than that. After whipping around a turn, I stomped on the gas pedal and kept it pasted to the floorboard. The raceway course was four miles of silky-smooth turns and twisty asphalt. It killed me when I had to lift my foot off the accelerator to stomp on the brake pedal. I had never driven the track before and was still getting used to the layout, but I was a quick study and when the right turn around a familiar apex came into view I stood on the gas pedal and hit the straightaway like a runaway freight train. I was begging for more as the Stingray hit one-twenty. Let’s go, baby. Show me what you’ve got. The roar of the engine sounded like bottled thunder as the small block V8 responded to my command. One twenty-five. One-thirty. Give it to me, baby. Give it to me. I was so excited I could hardly breathe. I hit one thirty-five with a sharp turn looming ahead. Hit the brakes, you maniac. One-forty. Christ, I hope this thing stops. I slammed on the brake pedal, and the monster cross-drilled brakes hauled the jet fighter down to fifty without batting an eyelash. “Whew! Man, that was fun.”

  Then, as if on cue, my cell phone buzzed, and I knew that I had exceeded my daily quotient of adrenaline rushes. I fished it out of my pocket as I pulled into the pit. It was Wallace, my CO. Geez, what a buzzkill. “Sir, what’s up?”

  “Where the hell are you, Mather, and what’s with all the noise? It sounds like you’re flagging down semis for spot inspections on the interstate.”

  “I’m at a racetrack in Monticello—testing sports cars.”

  “How nice for you,” he said in a condescending tone. “You come into some money all of a sudden?”

  Nope. Still eking out a meager existence on my government paycheck.

  “Do I have to report you to the Internal Affairs Division?”

  “Don’t I wish.” Some kid with a knit cap and face whiskers was waiting to get into my car. He looked impatient—well, actually I could see that he was chomping at the bit. “I’m having a hard time hearing you, sir. Let me find a quiet spot, and I’ll get right back to you.”

  “Make it quick, Mather,” he said in his patented no-bullshit-no-patience tone.

  “Two seconds.”

  Chin Whiskers almost knocked me over in his hurry to get behind the wheel. He pulled the door shut and got comfortable in the supple leather racing seat. He shot me a glance that said, “You’re still here? It’s my turn, biatch. Eat your heart out.”

  I skulked away, sad of heart but keen to hear why Bill Wallace had gone to the trouble of tracking me down on a Saturday afternoon.

  Chevy had spared no expense. A lunch buffet was set up in the racing center with lots of gourmet-looking victuals. I grabbed a giant-size chocolate chip cookie and a Coke and found a spot at the far end of the building, where I could chat quietly with Wallace. I had a view of the track as I bit into the cookie. The building was well insulated—I could just barely hear the Stingrays lapping the track. Damn. I want one of those cars. Let’s see, do I have any rich relatives who might die and leave me a large inheritance? I thought about it for a second, and then the notion disappeared. Alas, the Mather clan was a small one, and I couldn’t bring anyone to mind who had a pot to piss in. My folks used to be loaded until Daddy Dirtbag up and squandered all the family’s wealth. Oh well.

  Wallace picked up on the first ring. “You finished getting your jollies yet, Mather?” That was Wallace when he was tense, no banter, just cut to the chase—I want the bastard dead or alive.

  “What’s going on, sir?”

  “Homicide investigation. The rental contract on a storage unit expired, and a body was found when the unit was opened.”

  Ugh. Lucky me. So much for days of racing fast cars and nights of lingering nookie.

  “You’re only about four hours south of Saranac Lake. If you get started right now, you can be up there by dinnertime.”

  “Saranac Lake? Isn’t that the coldest spot in the country?”

  “I
have no idea.” Translation: “I could care less.”

  Well, I do, and I don’t want any part of that godforsaken frozen wasteland. “Why isn’t the Albany office covering this? They’re a hell of a lot closer than we are.”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation. The crime fits a pattern, and we’ve got the history on the case. The case we believe it ties to originally took place in the Catskills and was covered out of the downstate office. Besides, Stone, the deputy director, asked for you personally.”

  Me? Really? “Why?” The deputy director you say? “I’m surprised he even knows who I am.”

  “Oh, he knows who you are, Mather, and he liked the way you mopped up the Israeli mess. I guess you’re his flavor of the month.”

  Flavor of the month, like salted caramel or something? I am such a die-hard marine. I’m always striving to be the best, to be number one. It’s a principle that’s been drilled into me since my first day of boot camp—recognition is the name of the game. A shiver ran through me, and suddenly I was completely jazzed about the case like you couldn’t believe. “Details, sir. What’re we looking at?”

  “Our records on this case are about a year old, but that’s when we stumbled onto the first body. The killings might very well have been going on much longer. You need to get to a secure computer so that I can transmit the case file to you. Hold on a sec, I’ll look up the nearest … Yeah, the Monticello police station is on Jefferson Street. Just a minute … I’ll phone the police chief. His name is Max Teller. I’ll ask him for an assist.”

  “Jefferson Street—got it. I’ll finish up here and haul ass.” If I was lucky, I’d be able to meet Teller, print out a copy of the case file, and give it a quick once-over before the ride up north to Siberia.

  Liam had really lucked out. I couldn’t imagine anyone being a no-show for an event like this one, but Chevy actually had a cancellation, and they allowed Liam to participate in the test drive even though he hadn’t officially been invited. He had just come in off the track and was already on the lunch line, filling his plate with gourmet goodies. He waved to me like an excited teenager, his hair mussed from wearing a racing helmet and face sock. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I had to go find a bad guy and that he’d be going home alone.