by Deforest Day
For days TV commentators would compare it to the Twin Towers coming down, the difference being that this time the crowd stayed put, too busy celling images to friends and family to bother running away.
Most were unaware the detonation was ahead of schedule. Mags turned to Spider, yelled above the noise, “Where's my father? What the hell did you do?” He answered with a shrug. “Not me.”
Honey rushed to the stage, found the Governor at the podium, in heated conversation with his aides. She planted a seed. “Governor Heftshank! What the hell did you do?”
The principals huddled center stage, loudly voicing their astonishment, concern, and avoidance of responsibility. Governor Heftshank said he wasn't going to hang around this amateur clusterfuck, he had a fund raiser to attend in Philadelphia, and was escorted to the helicopter by his state troopers.
Honey seized upon his swift departure as an opportunity to say in a loud voice, “The governor pushed the wrong button. That's what happens when amateurs get involved.” She noticed a print reporter furiously thumbing his iPhone, and slowed, allowing him to catch up. She hoped he was from a major daily. “I just wish I had been up here to stop him.”
Spider busied himself disconnecting the fake firing controller. He'd cobbled it together with leftovers from rigging the Reagan Memorial Anthracite Processor, and he didn't want any CSI investigators investigating it. It was bad enough they would pick through the ruins, looking for something or someone to blame.
Mags fired daggers at her mother as she screamed, “Where the hell is my father?”
Now that the governor was gone, Congressman Varnish realized he was the senior elected official present, and seized the mike. He got shocked, yelled “Shit!” loud enough to get the crowd's attention, and said, “Paging Mr. Poitrine. Paging Mr. Poitrine.” Honey whispered in his ear, and the congressman tried again. “Mac McClintock. Paging Mac McClintock. Please come to the main stage.”
Fire and Rescue made their way into the rubble, climbing over, and crawling under twisted beams, as they searched for Mr. McClintock. News helicopters circled overhead, vying for airspace, feeding live video to cable networks, where the words BREAKING NEWS crawled across screens, competing with a waving stars and stripes, time and temperature, and images of the building coming down played on an endless loop.
Network news directors frantically searched Google for Wilkes-Barre. It sounded like some British Royal. If they could find a human interest angle, and get a reporter to the scene, this would be bigger than yesterday's Reagan Memorial false alarm.
A tense ten minutes passed before a crew of four emerged from the rubble with a body secured in a Ferno basket stretcher. Honey wasn’t sure how to react when she saw her husband. Was he so badly mangled, from tons of concrete and twisted steel, she couldn't identify him? Would they have to use dental records? Did he even have any?
She suddenly realized how little she knew about the man she’d been married to for the last five years. Her husband. Ex husband. What's the word for deceased husband? Late, that's the one.
The cop was lifting the sheet, touching her elbow, directing her to look at the corpse. She clamped her hand across her mouth, sure she was going to barf, embarrassing herself in from of all these people—the media, for Pete’s sake—and she decided to faint, instead.
The blood rushed from her head, and Honey's face paled to percale, pure Egyptian cotton, as she stared down at the body. She threw her hand to her forehead, and her eyes rolled up, reprising Fay Wray’s reaction to King Kong. Much more convincing than Naomi Watts’ performance, was her final thought, as she collapsed into a heap of seven-hundred dollar designer silk.
The body wasn’t mangled, the face wasn’t marked in any way. It wasn’t Mac. Mac wouldn’t be caught dead in a bow tie.
Shouts echoed in the rubble, excited voices crackled on two-way radios. “We’ve got a live one in here!” Another stretcher was carried out, a body was gently transferred to a gurney. An oxygen mask was fitted to a face, a stethoscope was applied to a chest.
The live one swore, “Get the fuck off me,” and sat up. George Glum, battered, bruised, and belligerent, struggled to his feet. “I'm gonna sue somebody.” He windmilled his arms. “You can't go around blowin' up buildings, with people inside. It ain't civilized.” He paused, searched for an apt comparison. “You'd think we was in Syria, or someplace.” A pair of personal injury lawyers stepped out of the crowd. “And, what about my brother's boat?”
“Boat?” a fireman said. “There ain't no boats out there.”
Duane saw all the TV people jostling for space around the live victim, thrusting microphones in his face, and knew this was his chance to redeem himself. It wasn't his fault Buge caught the wrong person. If anything, the girl was to blame, for cross-dressing.
He moved LuAnn's fanny pack from back to front, and produced his badge. Overnight he had become the butt of police department jokes all across the state, but Bugle Boy was still a legend, and rather than wait for a Homeland Security search-and-rescue dog to be choppered to the site of the catastrophe, the fire captain gave the pair a chance to test their mettle.
Duane wanted to refresh his partner's nose with the blue polo shirt, but Mags said in your dreams, you pervert. Then she noticed the pink sweater draped around his shoulders. It matched her hair, so she asked, “Is that cashmere?”
“Beats me. It's my wife's.”
Mags knew Daddy Mac's polo shirt held his scent—the dog slobber was proof of that—and if it would help find her father, she'd gladly give it up. But Mac always said ask for something extra in any deal; you just may get it. “I'll trade you the shirt for the sweater.”
Since everyone has already seen everything there was to see, she peeled off the polo, and pulled on the sweater. Cashmere's extravagance against her bare skin was delightful.
Busy starring in her own mini-drama, Honey had missed the impromptu striptease. With much unnecessary groping, Congressman Varnish helped Ms. Poitrine to her feet. She pushed him away, shook out the wrinkles in her Armani, and left the stage in search of her daughter. It was time for some preemptive damage control.
Blaming the governor for pushing the wrong button had been a quick fix, and she knew it wouldn't last. Not after all the government investigators got their hands on Spider. OSHA would turn this into a career-making sinecure.
She had no illusions about Spider's loyalty, and her promises had been vague enough that he wouldn't see there was a payoff for keeping his mouth shut. Still, it was a reach from blaming the rigger to the chairwoman of H. Poitrine & Associates. They could beat him with rubber hoses, but it would still be his word against hers. He was the dynamite expert, not her.
She found her daughter at the edge of the twisted pile of rusty steel, arguing with the fire chief. Mags was telling him she was VP of Operations, and needed to join the search for Mr. McClintock.
The chief eyed the pink hair and sweater, and said, “Kid, I don't care if you're Lady Gaga, you ain't goin' into that rubble.”
Then he looked past her hair and youth; there was something in her feisty attitude that told him maybe she really was somebody. He covered his ass with, “Come back dressed like I am, and we'll talk about it.” He sped off to intercept a freelancer with a Nikon sneaking past the chain link compliance panels.
Mother and daughter returned to the stage, where they waited with bated breath, although with very different aspirations. “I don't understand,” Mags said, “why the heck Daddy Mac went in there.” It wasn't an hour ago he'd told her to sign the papers, said it didn't matter if the rigging was inspected.
Honey answered quietly enough that bystanders couldn't hear. “Oh, I thought you knew. He was hiding from that man and his dog.” She kept her eyes on the wreckage as she explained, “He's the cop who arrested Mac, yesterday.” She turned to her daughter, her voice filled with pathos. “And then that crazy dynamiter broke him out of jail.”
Mags wasn't having any of her bullshit. “After yo
u put him in.”
Honey dissembled. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Oh, Ma. A stolen BMW?” She pointed at Spider, his arms filled electronics. “And I think you and your new boyfriend had something to do with my father getting blown up!”
“Magnolia, keep your voice down, and that's an awful thing to say to your mother. I don't know what you thought we were doing in the orchard, but I swear it was no different from you kissing your stepfather.”
She paused, and decided to muddy the waters. “That is, if the way Mac told it was the truth. Mine was an innocent little kiss, a thanks for taking the time to blow up a tree. Just like your thank-you smooch for the car.”
She saw her daughter wasn't buying it, and went a step further. “I aimed it at his cheek, and missed. He took it the wrong way, the way men do. You never date boys, so you don't know what they're like, Mags.” She recalled Spider's three-fingered hand inside her shirt. “Grabby hands.” Maybe she was pushing it. “I admit, blowing up the tree was a dumb idea.”
A baying bloodhound ended the argument.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Bugle Boy's nose led him to a Timberland boot—one with new laces. Bloody laces. Duane then spotted a shiny TAG Heuer, engraved with Happy Birthday Mac from Honey, Water Resistant to 100 meters. He wondered if this Mac was Mr. McClintock, and shoved it in his pocket.
Bugle Boy firmly clamped the boot in his teeth. No way was Duane going to get all the credit. Maybe he had a future in this burg; as they made their way out of the wreckage he wondered if Wilkes-Barre had an airport.
Spider kept clear of Ms. Poitrine while he busied himself dismantling the fake hot box. There were cameras everywhere, and investigators would be lookin' at them, lookin' for anything suspicious. Like Mr. Mac's wife, the head of the company, talking lips to earhole with the rigger.
Speaking of which, he knew from his years of rigging explosives, you never leave anything to chance. That he still had all his limbs and most of his fingers was evidence the faulty explosion was not his fault.
Kick out the poles, and a tent falls straight down, not into the goddamn river. An explosion can blow you out of your boots, but you can also take them off and go for a swim. Only you don't leave a thousand dollar wristwatch behind. Not one that was water resistant to a hundred meters. Mr. Mac was dead; blown to bits, crushed to pulp, or drowned.
He skittered down the steps and headed for the portapotties, first to retrieve the Rothenbuhler, then beat a hasty retreat. He would couch surf with a buddy at Fort Dix for a few days. Let the dust settle, then slip back, and settle up with Honey. The widow Poitrine.
Spider slipped into the big one with the wheelchair sign on the door. He flipped the latch, lifted the lid, stared down into the deep blue liquid with the cloying stink.
The smell reminded him of a lost weekend with a girl, a camp follower; she told him it was what they called hookers during the War of Northern Aggression. Spider said, “You mean the Civil War?” The girl was from Georgia, and liked taking part in reenactments, but only the ones where the South won. That weekend they were doing Chancellorsville. Where Lee whupped Hooker, and Stonewall Jackson got killed by friendly fire. Spider could relate to that.
She told him you had to be totally authentic if you wanted to really get into the moment. Period clothing, weapons and food, doing your business in a slit trench. Except they used portapotties, on account of some local ordinance said you couldn't shit in the woods, like real soldiers did, back at Chancellorsville and Antietam.
So they used corncobs, instead of toilet paper. For the authenticity, she said. Farbs would sneak a roll of Charmin into their bivouac. Farb being a reenactor who didn't fully buy into into the role of playing soldier for the weekend. Like Spider, who just rented a Blue Belly uniform, because he figured if she was playing a hooker, she might like to fully embrace the role.
The name, she explained, came from General Joseph Hooker, known more for his riotous encampments, than any prowess on the battlefield. She also explained that her attention to detail did not include fucking for Union or Confederate cash, which pretty much ensured it was a wasted weekend.
Spider dropped to his knees in front of the fiberglass throne and groped inside. Somewhere in the blue lagoon the Rothenbuhler lurked amidst his earlier deposit. He hoped. In a ziplock, if the damn woman had followed directions. He needed that Remote Firing Device. His future wealth and safety depended on it.
One end of the thin wire was still twisted around the seat hinge, and he slowly pulled it up. Yes! The ziplock, dripping deodorizer and coated with his own shit, held what Honey called the gizmo. A gizmo that was his ticket to ride.
He wrapped the bag in a wad of toilet paper, and shoved it in a cargo pocket. “Spider,” he said, “It's time to skedaddle.”
“Get while the gettin's good,” he replied, and ducked into the job site trailer. He yanked open file drawers until he found the personnel records, and pulled his. “Spider, you were never here.”
He climbed in his truck, leaned over the wheel, and peered through the windshield. Ms. Poitrine—Honey—was still on the stage, being a drama queen. He cranked up Lynard Skynyrd's Edge of Forever as he raced out the gate.
—o—
Duane and his partner emerged from the wreckage with their finds. He pried the boot from Bugle Boy's jaws, and showed their trophies to a Wilkes-Barre uniform, one of two on site for crowd control. The uniform had no idea what to do with a boot and a watch, both of which might be considered evidence. Or maybe not; he was a cop, not a lawyer. He radioed HQ for instructions.
“This is Officer Swerdlick, Shield 2437. I'm workin' crowd control, and I got a situation here. A man I am told is, make that was, in charge of the whole sheebang appears to have got hisself blowed up, along with the old Iron Works. And I need to know what to do with a wristwatch has his name on it.”
Duane, leaning over the uniform's shoulder, managed to thread the terms missing person, foul play, and crime scene, throughout the ensuing conversation. A detective was dispatched posthaste.
Detective First Grade Horace Belknapf, a soft, fat man with a jaded mien, drove his two year-old Taurus through the gate. The vehicle had been seized in a drug bust, and Belknapf bought it for a hundred dollars at a sealed-bid police auction. He regularly filled the tank at the motor pool, and swapped seized contraband for tuneups and tires.
He made a snap decision to park at the job site trailer instead of the bunting-draped stage. While it was where all the action appeared to be, he liked to ease up on a situation, listen long and strong, before announcing himself.
The trailer door was open, and he poked his nose inside. He found the usual shambles of a construction trailer. This appeared to be a scenario promising no quick or easy solution. No empty safe, the door hanging hanging on a hinge, with the scent of dynamite lingering in the air. No battered wife, smoking pistol in hand. The body—if there was one—wasn't in the trailer.
A few months shy of retirement, the detective was irked by the assignment. Belknapf based his professional persona on either Kojak or Columbo, depending on his mood. Sadly, the young pups on the force had never heard of either, so the lollypops only drew weird looks, and it was hard to smoke cigars in this day and age.
The Chief of Detectives told him to see a man with a dog, his way of pulling Detective Belknapf's chain. There was only one dog in sight, and he was attached to a man by a fancy harness and leash. This was probably the pair who did not find the body.
He listened with half an ear to Corporal Duane Milt. “Bugle Boy,” Belknapf said, interrupting the corporal's report. “Isn't he the dog from the internet? Likes to hump the ladies?”
“Yes, but that was a misunderstanding, and happened a long time ago.”
Bugle Boy had heard the word 'hump' often enough it was now part of his English vocabulary. And like Pavlov's pooches, it triggered the desire, if not the need, to apply tongue to testicles.
Belknapf chuck
led. “Boy, I wish I could get away with untoward behavior on the job.” The detective nudged Duane. “Tell the truth. Haven't you ever wanted to grab a boob, squeeze a buttock?” He scratched Bugle Boy's ear. “A dog can just sit down, and lick his dick in front of everybody. It's public masturbation, for chrissakes.” He winked at Duane. “And they call it a dog's life.” He turned the watch over, read the inscription. “Sorry, I got off track there, for a moment. How does this rate a detective?”
“Mac is Mr. McClintock, my escaped prisoner. After my partner detected the lone boot—that appears to be blood, by the way—I searched for anything not sniffable by Buge's amazing nose. That's when I spotted the watch. Unlike everything else in there, it looks to be a recent arrival.” Duane pointed to the mountain of twisted steel and broken masonry. “It's full of crap that looks like it's been there for years.”
“You're not from around here, are you? The Iron Works has been abandoned since God made little green apples.” He took a closer look at Duane. In the videos he was in uniform. “You're the guy from some hick town, the one with the old coal breaker. You know you were on the TV last night? The late show comics tore you and the dog new assholes.”
Chagrined, Duane said, “Didn't see it; I was on official duty.” He once again pulled his badge from his fanny pack. This time he pinned it to the pocket of his pink shirt. “I'm working undercover here.” He gave Detective Belknapf the rundown. “A simple traffic stop; I pulled McClintock over for doing seventy-eight in a thirty-five zone.
“Then he broke out of our jail, and Sheriff Claxon sent me after him. Only now it looks like he got himself killed in the explosion.” Duane stroked his chin. “I wonder, did he commit suicide, rather than face the music.”