by Jason Parent
But he didn’t view things in such a cut-and-dried way. He should have listened to Detective Reilly. He should have investigated Kevin more seriously like she’d wanted him to, like he’d intended. With Derek’s death and all that had happened since, he’d barely found the time to have a key made. Kevin was exactly who Reilly claimed he was. Kevin was responsible for the explosions. And Clive believed that, in spite of all the innocents it had killed, this one had been meant for him.
“Him or me,” Clive said as his consciousness waned. “Him or me.”
The parking lot looked as though Christmas had come early. Blue, red, and white lights flashed and circled atop a battalion of emergency vehicles. Camera crews from all the major networks showed up. Guys in long jackets and well-pressed suits spoke into black microphones, relaying the morbid tale of the explosion and filming the dead with overzealous tenacity. They detached themselves from the human element. Clive thought they would shove their microphones against the mouths of each body if they could, hoping to get a statement.
He watched with disgust as the reporters swarmed like hyenas around victims, witnesses, and families. They would get nothing from him. But he knew who was responsible.
Wrapped in a coarse, unwashed blanket, Clive sat on a curb beside an ambulance. His head had been haphazardly cleaned and bandaged, but he knew stitches would be necessary. As the paramedics did what they could for the survivors, he hid himself from the crowds, hoping to hitch a ride to the hospital in one of the ambulances. His car likely totaled, he had few other options. From what he could overhear, a second, larger blast had obliterated the automotive-service area. At least I shouldn’t have to pay for the oil change now.
Calling Morgan would only make her worry needlessly. So Clive waited as they collected the bodies from the rubble. The waiting left him at the disposal of the police.
“It’s like I’ve been telling you, Officer. This guy’s been trying to kill me. He tried once before, and that was at a mall too.”
“So our demolitionist is a frequent shopper? Don’t you think an explosion of this magnitude would be an awful lot of work for just one untrained individual to pull off?”
Lieutenant Robert Boulanger of the Swansea Police Department was doing his job, questioning witnesses. But he seemed skeptical of Clive’s story. Clive couldn’t blame him. One college dropout blowing up a post office, a school, a police parking lot, a mayor, and now a mall? The Timothy McVeighs of this world were the exception to the rule. Most amateur bombers ended up blowing off their own hands or worse, suicide bombers excluded. If it had not been for the string of explosions in the area, Lieutenant Boulanger would have assumed the mall blast an unfortunate accident.
“And all just to kill one guy? Unlikely, don’t you think? What makes you so damn important?”
“You asked me what I saw, so I’m telling you. Don’t you have, like, security tapes or something? They’ll verify everything I’m telling you.”
“We’ve got people reviewing them now,” Boulanger said. Something told Clive he was lying and that there were no tapes. True, the mall had cameras, but they were probably for show. I bet they’re manned by one fat slob in a security booth who couldn’t possibly watch them all at once and never cared enough to try.
“Sir,” another Swansea policeman interrupted, “that detective from Fall River says she knows this guy and might be able to help.”
“Send her over.”
CHAPTER 36
D etective Reilly had been watching Clive. Her instincts told her Kevin would resurface somewhere near him. So when the explosion blew up half the Swansea Mall, her car received a fresh coat of building and people.
She knew, from Clive and through her own investigation, all about Kevin’s theatrics at Providence Place. She’d pegged Kevin as her suspect in not one but two cases. She fought for search warrants in both cases, but a judge ruled the evidence insufficient in the Page murder, and the Feds usurped her authority in the big-bang case.
Still, Reilly couldn’t let go of any case until it was solved. Whether or not she had any business at the mall in her official capacity, Reilly would use her position any way necessary to obtain closure.
All the bombings had been well planned. This one was no exception. Something about it didn’t sit well with her. She couldn’t shut off her investigative instincts and detach herself from her work. Why was Clive Menard, the roommate of her prime suspect, here? She knew Kevin was guilty of something. His every action screamed guilt. But he didn’t seem to have the wherewithal or the clout to pull off such high-profile and catastrophic explosions. And he couldn’t have killed Mayor Sousa. She’d taken over surveillance duty outside Kevin’s apartment herself that evening. Kevin had never left. Clive had.
Reilly had tried to relay her suspicions to the FBI but was blocked every step of the way. She tried to tell them that if Kevin was a part of all of this, he wasn’t alone. Her federal counterparts were more concerned with bureaucratic bullshit than solving the crime, too egotistical to accept the help of an “unsophisticated” Fall River detective.
But Clive didn’t seem the explosive type, either. He, too, had foolproof alibis for some of the explosions. For the school detonation, Clive had been hospitalized. For the bombing of the Somerset Police Department’s parking lot, Clive had spent the night with Morgan Donnelly, confirmed by Morgan herself. Something, though, was going on between the two roommates. Perhaps together, Clive and Kevin could pull off the blasts. Then again, two idiots together made for added idiocy, not criminal genius. So a third suspect seemed likely. Someone who was smarter than both of them. Someone who had thus far proven to be smarter than Reilly. She needed answers.
“Detective Samantha Reilly, Fall River PD,” she said, introducing herself to Boulanger.
“Lieutenant Robert Boulanger. You got information for us?”
“Yeah. I’ll fill you in later. But first, do you mind if I ask this man some questions?”
“Go right ahead.”
“Detective Reilly, will you please tell this guy about my roommate?” Clive asked with a smile. Reilly wondered whether Clive was trying to suggest he was a friend of hers to Lieutenant Boulanger. She quickly dispelled that deceit.
“Why are you here, Clive?”
“I was trying to get an oil change.”
“When did you make your appointment?”
“I didn’t have an appointment. I just brought my car in, hoping they’d take me. Pretty shitty luck, huh?”
“Where’s your car?”
“It was in the shop when it blew up.”
“What did you drive again?”
“A Ford Escort. Why? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“From the looks of things, there were two explosions. One was in the automotive center where you were sitting. The other was in the work area, centralized around a now completely dismantled Ford Escort. Your car, I presume?”
“I guess. Wait a second. Are you telling me I’ve been driving around with a bomb attached to my car?”
The thought seemed to shock Clive. Reilly could see that his reaction was genuine. She relaxed her suspicions just a little. Clive seemed so innocent, seemingly missing the fact that Reilly or anyone could think he had some part in the explosion. Still, that didn’t explain how he’d managed to avoid both explosions largely unscathed.
“Have you seen your roommate lately?”
“Yeah, today. He was here. I was just telling him that.” Clive’s eyes rolled toward Lieutenant Boulanger. “He told me I was dead. At the time, I was sitting in the waiting room. Had I stayed there, I would be dead.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“I went after him.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“There wasn’t much time.” Clive shook his head, visibly shaken by his near-death experience. “I can’t believe it! You were right about him all along. He always seemed like such a wimp. This is like something out of a mafia movie. How the h
ell did he learn how to make bombs, never mind attach them to my car?”
“Clive, focus—”
“And how long had that thing been stuck to my car? Kevin knows what I drive. I suppose it could have been there forever. Fuck!”
“It’s amazing what one can learn at a library.” Reilly turned to Lieutenant Boulanger. “His roommate, Kevin Ventura, checked out the Anarchist Cookbook from the Westport Public Library months ago. He’s purchased some interesting products online with his credit cards, but how he got access to ammonium perchlorate, a highly unstable chemical explosive that could explode if exposed to sunlight for more than a minute, is anyone’s guess. Pretty volatile stuff that seems beyond Mr. Ventura’s know-how. It’s used in missiles and rocket fuel! Certainly, the explosives used at each site haven’t been professional grade despite their potency. Perhaps he has help.”
Reilly stroked her chin. “Still, the stuff is so dangerous that it warranted fast action on our parts. I had him flagged as a potential suspect on this thing months ago. Yet, for whatever reason, the FBI has been progressing at a snail’s pace on this one. His apartment should have been searched a month ago. We should have had him in custody already. If Ventura is our bomb maker, the FBI’s procrastination is responsible for all the deaths here today.”
“I’d keep those comments hushed, Detective,” Boulanger warned. “I see some suits here now. You can always spot an FBI agent from miles away. They all look like robots to me.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I better sneak on out of here. They don’t seem to care for my persistence on this case. But they sure as hell ain’t getting the job done themselves. Someone’s got to put the work in. This case isn’t going to solve itself.”
She leaned in close to Clive. “Meet me at your apartment sometime soon after you get yourself all healed up. Let me have a look around. A private showing, if you know what I mean.” Reilly couldn’t help doubting that Clive knew what she meant. She nodded politely to Lieutenant Boulanger as she left the parking lot.
CHAPTER 37
W hen Victoria came to the door, she looked a far cry better than that first time Clive had seen her after her mother’s passing. She had improved a little each time thereafter but still wore the same indifferent look that had plagued her face since the funeral. Some rouge had returned to her cheeks and a small sparkle of life to her eyes. Her hair was washed and combed but getting long. She tied it back into a ponytail with an elastic band. Her clothes were stainless and unwrinkled. They even matched this time. Clive patted himself on the back for his part in her slow but now foreseeable recuperation.
The house was cleaner as well. The beer cans had multiplied, but they’d been neatly deposited in two large garbage bags piled in a corner. The kitchen, dining room, and living room were polished and neatly organized. Everything was in order save for a faint but unpleasant odor. It radiated from Kyle’s bedroom. The scent of Pine-Sol covered it up mostly, but every now and then, a waft of the stench came by on an unfelt breeze.
“Hi, Victoria. You look great!”
“Uncle Clive,” she said. “You’re three hours late. You should have called.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. Would you believe me if I told you my car blew up?”
“Maybe. What happened to your head? And where is your car?”
“I banged them both up at the same time. I had to go to the hospital. Morgan dropped me off here and went to get gas. She’ll be right back.”
“You weren’t drunk driving, were you?” Victoria asked. “My teacher, Mrs. Carlisle, killed somebody doing that.”
“No, Vickie. My car really did blow up.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding disingenuous. “I believe you. But you shouldn’t have made Auntie Morgan get gas. That’s ungentlemanlike.”
Auntie Morgan? “You’re right. What was I thinking? Anyway, she’ll be back any minute. Still want to go see The Incredibles sequel? There’s a nine p.m. showing, which would give us just enough time to get some Burger King.”
“Sounds good. I’ll get my jacket.”
Clive stopped her before she could sprint away. “Are you sure your father doesn’t mind you going out that late? It is a school night.”
“He doesn’t mind.”
“Where is he, anyway? Still in his bedroom? I’ve been trying to call him, but he never answers his phone.”
“He’s still in there,” she said, pointing to her father’s bedroom. “Probably drunk.”
“Well, at least he cleaned up the place.”
“He didn’t do that. I did.”
Victoria stood tall, looking proud of herself. Clive was amazed by her self-reliance, something he himself had trouble with. But wasn’t she lonely? She needs her father.
“How is he?”
“The same,” she said.
“Should I try to talk to him?”
“He won’t answer. He only comes out when he runs out of alcohol. I’d actually prefer that you didn’t open his door. It really stinks in there.”
Clive didn’t know what do to for his brother. Organize an intervention? Call Child Services? Try to comfort him? He knew none of his choices would be well received, alienating him from Kyle and, possibly, Kyle from his daughter. Still, he had to do something. That something didn’t have to be immediate. He decided to wait on it, maybe get Chester’s sage advice.
A car honk made his decision for him. Victoria fetched her jacket. Clive turned and smiled back at Morgan, pretending everything was okay. He hadn’t told her about the explosion that afternoon, only that he’d been nearby when it happened and had been knocked on the head. He left out everything about Kevin’s threat and Reilly’s questioning.
But Morgan was smart. Clive knew she would see right through him and piece together the details herself. The questions would be coming, so for that moment, he enjoyed the silence.
Chester spent the evening in silence. It wasn’t until Clive had tucked Morgan and Victoria into bed, kissed them both good night, and headed over to his company-necessitated sleeping spot on the sofa that Chester let her feelings be known.
What are you going to do about Kevin?
“What do you mean, what am I going to do? What do you expect me to do? I have no idea where he is or what he has planned.”
He’s already tried to kill you twice. It’s only a matter of time before he figures out you’re here and blows up the four of us.
“Oh, so that’s why you’re so concerned. If Kevin gets me, he might get you too. So you hope I get to him first. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”
You know that’s not it. I’m a survivor. No peon like Kevin will ever take me down.
“Well, I’m sure the cops will get him soon.”
The cops won’t do anything.
“Chester—”
Don’t you want him dead? Don’t you want revenge for what he tried to do to you?
“Revenge? I don’t know. Maybe.”
Where’s your killer instinct? I know it’s in here, but sometimes it’s tough to trigger.
“Don’t be pushing random buttons up there, Chester. Yes, I want this Kevin matter resolved. But I also don’t feel like going to jail.”
Trust me. It will be self-defense. I’ll set it all up. I know exactly where he’ll be. Just don’t do anything stupid like bring a weapon. If you listen to me, we’ll have the matter resolved in no time. I’ll make sure you get through everything safely.
“Sounds incredibly risky.”
Trust me, Clive. I saved your life back there. If I didn’t point out Kevin, you’d be nothing but a stain on the rubble that once was Sears.
“As odd as it sounds, I do trust you… to an extent, anyway. But it couldn’t hurt to have some added protection. Detective Reilly wants to see the place. Why not invite her along?”
Have it your way, Clive. I still don’t think you should let him get away with two attempts on your life. One attempt alone is unforgivable, but two? Two warrants retaliation. Remember, it�
�s him or you. You and all those around you who you love.
“I remember,” Clive replied, something dark inside him brewing, something screaming for vengeance. It offered him revenge without responsibility or repercussion. He could feel himself give in to the temptation. “You’re right, Chester! If I don’t do something about him, who will? The cops? What a great job they’ve done so far. That asshole is getting away with murder.”
In the old days, we believed in “an eye for an eye.” His punishment is past due.
“Agreed. I’d be doing the world a favor, and I’d be adhering to my right of self-preservation. I’m all yours, Chester. Let’s do this.”
Good, Clive. I won’t let you down.
CHAPTER 38
H
is teeth chattered incessantly. He thought they might grind themselves to dust. The cold bit through his skin, ate at his core. The shelter he’d chosen afforded him some relief from the icy winds, but the frigid air crept through its cracks. There was no escaping it.
His body shivered, trying hard to warm itself. It reminded him that he was still alive, although his was a frail existence. His fingers and toes were purple and dying, the blood deserting them despite their being hidden away in his pockets and sneakers. He was dying too. He knew he couldn’t stay there much longer. He hoped he could make it through another night.
Kevin huddled inside the tool shed outside his apartment. It would be his prison for the night, as it had been the previous night. The cold wore down his body. If he remained still enough, any onlooker would think him dead. The warmth of life had left him. Its absence shook his resolve. He thought he might give up, give in to the forces that had sent him spiraling downward. If that meant death, he welcomed it. But something inside forced him to fight until all fight had left him.
His landlord had retreated to Florida for the winter. Kevin considered following. But a life on the run? So far, it had crippled him and would soon kill him. The backyard shed was left unused, and with his landlord gone, at least he had a place to stay, humble as it was.