What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

  A few more heads tuned toward Clive. Reilly brushed them off. “Sorry… Tourette’s.” That seemed to satisfy the busybodies.

  She turned back to Clive and continued in secret. “Yes way. How well do you know the guy?”

  “Not well, but—”

  “But nothing. Look, all I’m asking is that you pay more attention to him, maybe take a look through his things one day when he’s not home. You know, stuff like that. Nothing major.”

  “Again, what would I be looking for?”

  “Bomb components. Anything that can be turned into an explosive. In the school alone, our perpetrator used at least four different types of bombs and incendiary devices. From what we’ve found, he doesn’t use advanced materials. However, he manages to use what he can get effectively. When it comes to blowing shit up, he goes for quantity over quality. Sadly, he has proven to be good at it.”

  “I don’t know anything about bombs. The closest I’ve been to anything like that is fireworks and this one time when this kid destroyed my mom’s rug by showing me what mixing milk and chlorine does. What an asshole he was.”

  “I don’t know much about bombs, either.”

  “Detective Reilly, you don’t understand. I never so much as cherry-bombed a toilet, and that was a popular thing to do when we were kids. I wouldn’t know an explosive from a toaster.”

  “Still, if you notice objects like pipes, circuits, wires, tubes, plastic, etcetera—things that seem to have no purpose inside your apartment—let me know.”

  “I think you got the wrong guy.”

  “We’d appreciate your help on this, Mr. Menard.”

  “Oh, I’ll help you. By ‘wrong guy,’ I meant that I don’t think Kevin would do that.”

  “If you’re right, then we can check him off our list and move closer to the real murderer.”

  “So people died?” he asked.

  “Lots.”

  “Why can’t you just get a warrant?” Clive was quick to come up with an answer to that question. He wouldn’t give Reilly time to make up an excuse. “Ah, no evidence.” Thank God! There’s probably some shit I’ll need to hide before the piggies come knocking.

  “We have some. Just not enough yet, or so sayeth Judge McIntyre. At this time, we’re doing an initial investigation into those who were recently expelled from the school. When I saw Ventura’s student ID picture… let’s just say he has a familiar face. I’ve been watching him, but I could use some help. That’s where you come in. Keep my card this time. Call me if you find something.”

  Outside, Morgan sucked down the last drag of her cigarette. She shivered in the cooling autumn breeze, clenching her arms in close by her sides. Cradled between her ear and her shoulder, her cell phone hummed. She waited impatiently for Derek to pick up.

  “Hello.” Derek sounded half-asleep.

  “Can you meet me somewhere in like a half hour?” she asked.

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Something’s going on with Clive. He’s not right. He looks so empty. And now, some detective is coming around, asking him questions.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. Clive has always steered clear of trouble. As for him acting strangely, he just had brain surgery.”

  “It’s not only that. He lied to me. I know him. He never lies to me. He may… I think that maybe he’s still hearing voices. If not that, then something serious must be up. Just meet up with me. I could use someone to talk to about it, someone who knows him like I do.”

  “All right.”

  “He’s talking with the detective. We can talk more about this when I can get away from them. I’ll call you back in a few. We need to figure out some of the details for his party, anyway.”

  “Paintballs hurt like hell in the cold weather. Plus, Clive can’t be running around like crazy, risking reopening his head. Let’s just go drinking. He’ll be fine with that, and it’ll save me and you some money.”

  “My thoughts exactly, minus the cheapskate part.”

  Morgan let out a sigh. She had another reason for agreeing. She would get Clive drunk. Clive couldn’t keep his mouth shut when he was drunk. He’d talk then. He’d tell her everything going on in that convoluted head of his. Maybe she’d finally be able to release the burden weighing down her spirit. Maybe she could finally tell him that what wasn’t supposed to happen had happened. Maybe she could finally tell him she loved him.

  CHAPTER 20

  W hat’s he doing here? What business could he possibly have in a place like this? And what’s that in his hand?

  Clive didn’t feel right tailing his roommate. That detective had asked him to keep an eye on Kevin, but he’d gone beyond the call of duty, following him miles out of the city to some forgotten part of New Bedford in which neither of them had any business being. The whole damn thing was silly. Who am I, Scooby-Doo?

  Not wanting to start up his car and draw attention to himself, Clive watched quietly from the driver’s seat of his beat-up Ford Escort. He wore dark clothes and a hat to avoid detection, though Kevin would surely have been able to pick out his car if he could see it under the busted streetlight where Clive had parked it, sandwiched between two other junk heaps. Sipping his coffee, he leaned back in his chair and watched his roommate do absolutely nothing.

  This was a stupid idea. He shrugged. Well, at least I can tell her I tried. But he kept at it, watching and waiting, not another soul in sight. In that neighborhood, people kept to themselves, especially in the dead, dark hours.

  Across the street, Kevin paced nervously about two hundred feet away. His hands were crammed into the pockets of his black leather jacket as he shivered against the killing chill of the night air. The heat wave had reverted, giving way to the harsh bite of an early winter—typical New England weather: unpredictable.

  He meandered back and forth along the length of a metal fence topped with barbed wire, the only barrier between him and a lone warehouse that had likely prospered in the whaling city’s earlier days. But no one remembered those days. Fence and warehouse were as neglected as the rest of the city.

  Dilapidated apartment buildings and old storefronts barricaded by iron shutters encircled both watcher and watched. Out there, nothing prospered. Out there, no one belonged. And Kevin didn’t look as though he wanted to be out there.

  Kevin repeatedly glanced at his watch. In his hand was a plastic bag. Clive couldn’t make out its contents. Kevin chewed on the nails of his other hand.

  With the aid of binoculars and just enough moonlight, Clive could read the single word “fuck” mouthed by Kevin’s lips. Kevin stopped and checked his watch then began to pace all over. After a moment, he took off in long strides, racing directly toward Clive.

  Clive slid down in his seat. Kevin’s rapid footsteps grew louder then began to fade. When he no longer heard them, Clive slid up a bit, just in time to see Kevin in his rearview mirror as he turned a far-off corner and disappeared from sight.

  Who was he waiting for, and where’s he going in such a hurry? Clive couldn’t deny that his roommate’s actions were suspicious. Still, he didn’t see how they added up to serial killer and explosives expert. He turned the key in the ignition and drove home with more questions than answers, thinking next time he’d leave the detecting to the detectives.

  “How does one top a school?” the bomb maker asked rhetorically. No one would answer. He was alone. “This is going to be so awesome.”

  He hid crouched behind a row of cars. Dressed in black from head to toe, he went about his business with cold deliberation. Over his shoulder, a large duffel bag was slung, hunching him like Quasimodo. His face was cloaked in shoe polish. Its invidious, unavoidable odor made him jovially dizzy and slightly intoxicated. But the unnatural stimulus paled in comparison to the natural high from the endorphins his body released. His muscles tensed. Beads of sweat ran off his face in black, greasy droplets. Adrenalin filled him with power, the strength to finish what he had started.

  All the cars were
lined up, so orderly, all facing the same direction. Once he managed to pry open the first gas tank with a putty knife, the rest was easy. He slid alongside the black Ford Taurus and began to dig. Effort was unnecessary—the tank lid popped open with ease.

  He opened his duffel bag, his eyes widening as he reached for his materials. Trembling with excitement, he slid a long, thin string into the gas tank. He delicately pulled the string back out, careful not to smear off its fresh coat of gasoline. The fumes gave him pleasure. The fire would give him more. And the boom? That would be pure ecstasy.

  The cylindrical stick at the opposite end of the string pushed through the tank opening without too much force. Aside from some paint chipping, his paper-wrapped boomsticks fit perfectly. It was as though they were made for this occasion. He smiled. He had planned well.

  One by one, he moved down the lot. He dipped each wick and planted in each tank what resembled a Roman candle but thinner and with a bigger kick. Much bigger. It was his own special blend of dynamite, and no mere quarter stick.

  With each explosive he placed, he grew more anxious. Patience. The longer the wait, the bigger the thrill. He wished there were more than nine cars in the lot. But he would make do this time. After all, it left him room for improvement.

  Seven explosives were in place when he heard a noise: the click of a door latch sliding out of place. The creak of a swinging hinge followed. Then came the footsteps.

  Son of a bitch! The would-be perpetrator sprawled onto the hard cement. His hands scraped across the pavement, leaving torn skin scattered with pebbles and dirt.

  What the fuck! Where did I go wrong? I checked for shift changes, details, assignments. This was supposed to be the perfect fucking time!

  He listened intently and dared not make a move. With the metal clink of a Zippo top flicked open, he realized what he’d failed to take into account.

  A cigarette break? Doesn’t he know those things can kill him? Guess I’ll have to wait it out.

  CHAPTER 21

  O fficer Vincent Bell sucked down a long drag just outside the precinct’s back door. It was a slow night for the Somerset policeman. It was always a slow night.

  He looked up at the sky. It was a cool, clear, beautiful late-October evening. He could spend his whole shift staring up at the stars on a night like that. It put him at peace, away from the drunken ramblings of the kid who didn’t decide to walk with his Johnnie Walker and the peculiar odor of the homeless in holding cell number two. He grinned, content, as he smoked the last of his Camels. He threw the butt to the ground, flattening it beneath his heavy black boot. Tomorrow, maybe he’d quit.

  The officer was retreating back to his boring night behind a desk, counting the minutes remaining of his shift, when his cell phone rang. He murmured curses as he reached to answer it.

  “Hello?”

  “Your son is pooing yellow again,” his wife’s elevate voice blared through the phone. “I can’t keep doing this alone. You should be here. You should—”

  “Honey, slow down. You can’t keep calling me at work. I—”

  “Your son needs his father. Your son—”

  “I know, but listen—”

  “You listen—”

  “Honey, can you just be quiet for a second? I’m only supposed to get calls if they’re for emergencies.”

  Officer Bell’s annoyance grew. He began to pace. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten a call like this from the nervous, inexperienced mother who would call in the Coast Guard if her newborn son farted. Her nagging that he should be home more with the baby was a constant sore spot for Bell. Didn’t she realize he needed to work to support her and the baby? As she rattled off perceived ailments their child was suffering, he held his breath and counted backward from five.

  “Honey? Honey! Is it swollen? Then just put some hydrogen peroxide on it. A spider bite does not qualify as an emergency unless he’s hypersensitive. Keep an eye on it, and call me if anything changes.”

  As he paced, Officer Bell moved closer to the line of black and whites, a squadron of Somerset’s finest police cruisers. Far too distracted by the ranting of his hysterical wife, Bell wandered aimlessly across the parking lot. An abandoned duffel bag drew his attention.

  “Honey, I’ll call you back,” he said, hanging up the phone despite his wife’s protests.

  Bell moved closer to the squad cars. His vision remained fixated on the bag haphazardly placed behind the cars. He wondered if a coworker had forgotten his gym clothes. He’d happily take it inside. It was the least he could do.

  The familiar clink of a Zippo caught Officer Bell’s ear. His hand instinctively went to his pocket, the sound alone enough to trigger his nicotine cravings. But he was all out of cigarettes, and the lighter was still in his pocket.

  Then he heard the sizzle, a crackling sound that reminded him of bacon sizzling in a frying pan. The sound doubled in volume, then tripled. It seemed to move closer and closer to him. His hand went to his holstered service revolver. That was when Officer Bell noticed the dynamite.

  “Who’s there?” Bell asked. No one answered. His ears strained to hear any sign of an intruder. He drew his gun while canvassing the row of police cars. His eyes darted toward the flickering light of flame on wick. The dynamite tucked in the third car in the row, the gas tank of which he could see from his vantage point near the rear of the fourth, had been lit, its wick growing shorter by the second. Bell’s horror grew as he turned to the second car. The wick on the dynamite in its tank was markedly shorter. His jaw dropped open in absolute terror as he glanced at the first car in the row. Its wick had all but vanished.

  Bell turned to run. As he did, a loud blast sent shockwaves through the still air, followed by a second, larger blast. When the dynamite exploded, the gasoline in the tank ignited, causing a follow-up blast of far greater magnitude.

  As the first car exploded, fear and self-preservation caused Officer Bell to duck and cover. No sooner than he could protect himself from the flying debris, the second police car exploded. The air filled with smoke but not before Officer Bell made out the hazy figure of a man retreating behind a foreground of flame.

  “Freeze!” he yelled, regrouping. He pointed his service revolver at the escaping figure. Then he recalled car number three and regretted his hesitation in pulling the trigger.

  Another deafening blast, and car three went off, its metal contorting into some kind of appalling post-modern sculpture. Glass shards that used to be windows launched through the air like shimmering daggers. The smell of melting rubber mixed with that of the ash.

  The third exploding car had been much nearer to Officer Bell than the previous two. Its wicked percussion beat him to the ground as though he were weightless. He covered his head with his arms, thinking, hoping, praying that it was all over, then summoned the strength to crawl on shaking limbs away from the heat.

  Car number four ignited, and Bell rolled onto his side down the row to escape the blast. The precinct emptied behind Bell. The loud blare of the fire department’s siren sounded next door. Several officers ambled speechlessly, not a leader among them. Nora from dispatch called out to Bell over the chaotic clamor. He turned toward her, placing his palms flat against the ground as he rose to his knees.

  Car number five’s explosion was as morbidly impressive as its predecessors. The force of the dynamite’s ignition popped the Taurus’s ass end into the air. The explosion of the gas tank sent the entire car airborne.

  Bell struggled to regain his feet, his eyes locked with Nora’s. But her gaze left his and ventured skyward. Her eyes widened, and in them, Bell could see his impending fate. Nora’s mouth opened into a scream, but no sound came out. Suddenly, she fainted. The blaze behind him cast hideous shadows on the ground before him. The darkness quickly grew, and Bell could guess its consequences. His head caved in under the car’s weight as though it were no firmer than a melon.

  Two more cars exploded before the melee ground to a halt. When the smoke c
leared and the fire died, the remaining officers barricaded the scene with caution tape and began their search for evidence. All they would find would be the speckled remnants of the Roman candles, a discarded gold Zippo lighter, and a badly singed, but still largely intact, blue duffel bag.

  CHAPTER 22

  “W

  here have you been?” Clive asked.

  “What the fuck do you care?” Kevin closed the apartment door behind him, double-checking the dead bolt. Dressed in dark colors, he crept by Clive as though the latter were asleep, even though the two had just spoken. Mud and grime fell from his shoes with every step, concealing itself within the fabric of the rug. His shoulders hung low, yet his body seemed tense. Some unknown pressure wore him down.

  “You should know… never mind.” Clive skirted the subject of his conversation with Detective Reilly. He’d promised to keep his mouth shut, but if he were truly living with a killer, he thought it might be in his best interests to find out. And after watching him the other night, he didn’t know what to think. He didn’t believe Kevin was who Reilly claimed he was, but there was still so little he knew about his silent real estate partner, who, regardless of whatever he was up to, was definitely in some kind of trouble.

  Clive didn’t fear Kevin. Rather, he began to detest him. Who was this guy he shared rent with? Where did he go at such late hours? Why was he tracking mud through their living room? And what kind of shit is he going to drag me into?

  Kevin stopped, his body straining as if the pressure was too heavy to take another step. He collapsed on top of the couch back. “You got something to say, then say it.”

  “I know you don’t go to UMass anymore.”

  “Oh yeah? And how do you know that, smart guy?”