Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  When she sped up the farm lane she found her mother and Congressman Varnish on the veranda, talking to a fat man holding a paper bag, and Cashmere Boy holding a leash. She wondered if she should give the sweater back.

  The dope with the dog didn't recognize her; a dark-haired girl driving a luxury car was apparently too much for his powers of observation. Bugle Boy remembered her, and offered to tussle once more. She said not while I'm wearing my only suit, and aimed some snark at the handler and his hound. “Are all bloodhounds this weird, or is it your training?”

  Duane was overwhelmed by this new woman, one Buge seemed to know. “Miss, ma'am, Ol' Buge is one of a kind. Like all celebrities, he's quirky, but he found my escaped felon's boot in that pile of steel.”

  “That felon was my father. And I blame you for his death.” That shut down the conversation. But Mags was just getting started. “The way I understand it, this whole disaster started with a traffic stop. For speeding. No big deal.” She turned to her mother. “Except he was driving a stolen car. Mine.” She swiveled back to Duane. “I was in Washington at the time.” She pointed at Congressman Varnish. “Handing this man a fist-full of campaign cash, so I'm not the one who reported the BMW to the police. My mother did, because she was mad at my stepfather, for some imagined slight.”

  She addressed the fat detective. “Maybe it was about the stupid art she wants to buy. She tried to get me to wheedle it from him, can you believe it? The company is in the midst of the biggest project it ever took on, and they're fighting over a couple of cartoons.

  “You weren't at the job site when it happened, but the explosion was premature. And I suggest you stop worrying about the people inside the Iron Works, and concentrate on that creepy Spider.”

  Belknapf said, “Spider? This is news to me. You think he was bit by a deadly spider in there?”

  Mags said, “Spider is the man who rigged the explosives. He's supposed to be some kind of demolition expert. My stepfather said he saved his life, and gave him the job. His real name slips my mind, but I bet my mother can tell you. She and Spider are pals.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Spider found a buyer in a bar for the MilSpec Berettas, and headed for Fort Dix. Sober. Had to; the truck was filed with Primacord, shock tubes, and what was left of the stolen C4, after the Reagan Memorial went skyward.

  Worth ten grand to the right party, but he didn't know any. Maybe his pal could hook him up. Jersey mobsters liked dynamite.

  In the meantime he had enough cash to lay low until they either found Mr. Mac, or gave up. Then he could safely return, and enjoy the widow Poitrine. Perhaps the daughter as well. “Spider, you fell in clover this time.”

  “Roll me over in the clover, lay me down, and do it again.” Time for a little traveling music to make the miles fly by. He found a cassette, and sang along with Toni. “Do it to me one more time.”

  The twenty year old pickup came with utility boxes in the back, a cassette player up front, and a glove box full of music. He ejected the Captain and Tennille, and slammed in AC/DC's Highway to Hell. Now that's traveling music.

  “Shame, though, about Mr. Mac. He was a good dude. Didn't worry too much about the rules and regulations.”

  “That's the bad thing about the military. Everything by the book.”

  “Hey, I rigged that old building by the book. I don't know why it came down in the river.”

  “Maybe the broad forgot to arm all four remotes. There was supposed to be a two second delay, before the river supports blew.”

  “Maybe Mr. Mac got to touching things in there, disconnected something.”

  “Could be. Civilians; you can't trust 'em.”

  “Maybe not, but you sure can fuck their women, and spend their money.”

  “Hoo-rah. Especially if they ain't there to complain about it.” Spider checked his speed, and ejected the cassette. He had the old truck sneakin' up on seventy, and it wouldn't do to get stopped, get his numbers in some damn database. He pawed through the glove box for something soothing and serene, found a Barry Manilow tape. The previous owner had a wide taste in music. Or else the truck had more than one owner.

  “The man was in over his head. I could see that from the git-go. First he hired some fireworks dude, and when that didn't work, he reached out to an unlicensed blaster. Me.”

  “At just the right time. Man didn't know shit about explosives.”

  “I was the answer to his prayers.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “I will. Shit, I just did.” Spider made a mental note to take his meds. Wouldn't do to start talking to himself when he was in bed with Honey. She didn't strike him as the kind to go for a three way. And a shame, what with that ripe young daughter sharing the farmhouse.

  —o—

  At the farmhouse Honey realized the fat detective, the one always playing to the cameras even when there weren't any, was the one in charge. Whenever she'd made a commercial with an actor playing a doctor they called him the Principal. Because Star was too much of an ego boost for a Lead or a Featured.

  She'd started out as a U-5, under five lines of dialogue, and worked her way up to a Supporting, before Saylor Brannigan rescued her. Selling Magic Ladders made her a real Star, one you couldn't shut up.

  “Spider wasn't a friend, in spite of what my daughter says. I don't even know his real name. Something Italian that sounds like tarantula.” She gave Mags a filthy look; she could soothe those troubled waters, after the cops were gone.

  “Magnolia is going through the Terrible Teens, with all it entails.” She paused, searching for something these men would understand. “Breasts. Acne, the Curse. Detective, do you have children? Girls hate their mothers, and love their daddy. It's just the other way around for boys. You only have to remember Oedipus to know how true that is.” You didn't need to have been on the couch to know that story.

  She touched Belknapf's sleeve, because being first to make the Alpha Move gave one an edge. The suit was a poly blend. Perhaps it was necessary, doing detective work in all sorts of unsavory places. Still, an occasional trip to the dry cleaner would make dealing with important people more pleasant for them.

  “I only spoke to the man twice. The other day, at the job site, when I was looking for Mac, and once right here, when Mac sent him out to change a flat tire.” She turned to Duane. “That was the day you arrested my husband. I tried to call the police, and say it was a mistake, but it was too late.”

  Belknapf extracted a card from a coat pocket, offered it to Honey. “You find anything else in your memory, as to helping us locate this Spider man, give me a call.” He hefted the bag. “Meanwhile, I got some solid evidence here, clues to pursue via tried and true avenues.”

  Honey said, “Give your card to my daughter. She's my Vice President, Operations. That means she's in charge of the day to day stuff.” Clearly, this man did not understand family dynamics.

  Mags, memory refreshed, took the card. “It's not tarantula, it's Tarantella, and he was in the army.” Like her mother, she concentrated on the detective. “And the army keeps records. It shouldn't be all that hard for an experienced investigator to find out who he is.”

  Belknapf was used to civilians telling him how to do his job, the mayor being number one on the list. But a teenage girl was a first. “I'm fully aware we need to locate this blaster, whoever he is, and in due time I am sure we will. But first I need to get these items to the lab.”

  Mother and daughter watched the detective and the cop drive away, with the congressman and the dog in the back seat. Honey sighed, “Lord, what a day. Worse than the time my first husband—your father—blew out his knee.” She wrapped Mags in a smothering embrace, gathered Mags to her breast. The new hair smelled funny. “We need to stick together in these troubling times.”

  Mags was having none of it, and broke free. “What's this bullshit, 'I only spoke to him twice'? And the second time, I suppose you were whispering in his mouth? Ma, you and Spider are
into something I don't even want to think about. But I will. Because that detective isn't going to.”

  Honey saw neither anger nor tears were going to work, and she couldn't think of a third option, so she went off to message Shelly, see what he'd learned from his ride with the two cops. And the dog.

  Mags needed some comfort and counsel of her own, and a better understanding of the triangle that was Honey, Spider and Daddy Mac. So she sought out Dr. Q, a man who claimed to be a professor of comparative religion. Maybe he could link her mother's behavior to Jezebel or Delilah; explain it was God's will. Or fault.

  Her brief brush with Sunday School had left her wholly ignorant of the more interesting Biblical women. Even Eve got short shrift, compared to Adam and the Serpent. Perhaps Lady Macbeth was a better comparison. She wished she'd paid more attention in English Lit.

  Mags headed for the remains of the old barn, where the doctor had built a lean-to shelter from barn siding and roofing tin. A palace, he said, in the slums of Caracas. Mac had offered him a room in the farmhouse, but Dr. Q said he needed to sleep beneath the stars. A time-out, to reconnect with realty, after his stint at Columbia University.

  Hence the nakedness. When he'd hijacked Mac he left behind a dozen bespoke suits, as well as the trappings of Oxford University, where he claimed, without evidence, to have taught philosophy.

  “When I came to America, I discovered there was neither interest nor money in philosophy, so I switched to religion. Two sides of the same coin. And the United States offered such an endless font of subject matter. Glossolalia—speaking in tongues for the unlearned— handling snakes, calculating the exact date of the Rapture. By comparison, Zoroastrianism is quite mainstream, combining as it does a cosmogonic dualism and eschatological monotheism.” Mac accepted this as proof of the doctor's bona fides, and more portable than a Latinate sheepskin.

  She found Dr. Q, modestly clothed in threadbare coveralls with Copeland's Spring Water embroidered on the back, butchering the goat. “Pemmican,” he said, glancing at a recipe on his iPad. “The MRE of the Native American. It would be a shame to let this meat go to waste, and I have a long journey ahead.”

  “Journey?” Mag's heart sank. She needed this old man and his advice. He was Uncle Saylor, reincarnated, if you believed that nonsense.

  “Yes, it is time for me to move on.” He studied his lone pupil. “My work in the orchard is complete, both as pomology and metaphor. I have been offered the directorship of a new New Age spa, in Palm Springs. A group of Hollywood celebrities are involved. Following the path of L. Ron Hubbard, we have already applied for tax exempt status on religious grounds.

  “It will the twenty-first century's Hard Rock Café. Individual kivas, a sweat lodge build over a hot spring, and journeying with peyote, psilocybin mushrooms, and ayahuasca tea. Rosetta is joining me; Southwestern cuisine has deep roots in Spain, and she does not enjoy your winters.”

  “Well, shit. Now that Daddy Mac is gone, I hoped you could help me on my own journey. Like, where do I go from here?”

  “Your stepfather is not gone, my child; he is temporarily missing from the temporal. If there had been a disturbance in the force I would have noticed.” He scrolled, pinched, swiped his iPad until he found an image that made the Sistine ceiling simplistic by comparison. “The bhavacakra, the Tibetan Wheel of Life. Of cyclic existence.”

  “You lost me at temporarily temporal.”

  “Sorry. My enthusiasm for my new venture has led me too far afield. I'm used to teaching postgraduate students, and wearing a well-cut suit when I do it. Let me get out of this western garb, and put on my koteka.” He answered her puzzled look with, “The penis sheath. Then we will go up to the orchard, and discuss your future.”

  “Will that be like Dr. King's 'I've been to the mountaintop'?”

  “No, it more like General Lee's order to take the high ground, at Gettysburg. In this instance it is a metaphor, for seeing all of your adversaries, in all directions.”

  “In that case, let me get out of this vice president suit. I'll meet you up there.”

  Mags met him at the mountain top, also in less clothing; a tank top and bikini bottom. She told him her suspicions, told him about Daddy Mac hiding from the cop and his dog in the Iron Works. Her eyes glistened. “He knew it was coming down any minute. Why didn't he take off in the company truck?”

  She wailed, “Why the hell did he even go to the job site?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Jack called and told him the cop was looking for him.”

  Dr. Q did not offer succor or comfort, but waited for the salty tsunami to subside. Emotions are how the self centers itself. The swing of the pendulum, the balance of yin and yang. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. He told her none of this; she was bright enough to see it was fortune cookie philosophy.

  Instead, he explained, “Mr. Tarantella saved your stepfather's life, and the debt was paid when he gave Spider a job.” He glanced at the crater that was recently the home of a Spartan. “He does seem to know his trade. Your mother was impressed when he blew up an heirloom apple tree.”

  Mags said, “He impressed her enough to get a lip lock in the shade of my 'dozer.”

  “Your mother is insecure, and given to impulse. Perhaps the kiss was no different than the one I hear you bestowed upon your stepfather.”

  “Hey, that was purely platonic; a thank-you kiss, for the BMW.”

  The doctor waited an uncomfortable moment before softly replying. “Then maybe you should view your mother's kiss in the same state of innocence.”

  Mags wouldn't be so easily swayed. “Dr. Q, you may know all about religion, but you don't know my mother. She's a spiteful bitch, and the pair of them killed Daddy Mac. Now Spider has disappeared, without a trace. If he was innocent, wouldn't he stick around to explain himself? Doesn't he have any pride in his work?” She plucked a handful of grass, tossed it in the air like a golfer avoiding club selection. “The cops aren't interested, so I need to track him down.”

  Dr. Q wondered if Honey was dumb enough to kill the golden goose. But she was not his concern; although not quite beyond redemption, Honey was so far from salvation the doctor couldn't spare the psychic energy to balance her yin with her yang.

  “Magnolia, allow the universe to work its will. It is not for you to judge. If you are right, then her karmic consequence will come full circle.” He assumed the lotus position, not all that easy for an old man wearing a foot-long koteka. “The Upanishad teaches us,

  a person consists of desires,

  and as is his desire, so is his will;

  and as is his will, so is his deed;

  and whatever deed he does, that he will reap.”

  Mags replied, “Maybe so, but I'm not going to sit around, and wait for the reaper to arrive. Does it say anything about finding Spider Tarantella?”

  Dr. Q saw the child would not be dissuaded. Sometimes karma needed a bit of a nudge, so he opened his third eye. “I see he bought ammonium nitrate.”

  The clouds parted, and Mags shared his vision. “And they make you fill out a government form when you buy it!” She leapt to her feet. “I knew you would come through for me, Dr. Q.” She gave him a chaste kiss, then raced down the hill, and jumped into the pond to clear her head, and stiffen her resolve.

  Once again dressed as the Vice President, Operations, of H. Poitrine & Associates, she found Mr. Rennett stacking bags of dog food in the rear of Feed & Seed. “A couple days ago a Spider Tarantella was in here, bought some ammonium nitrate. You remember him?”

  “Surely do. Strange fella.”

  “Did he fill out the form?”

  “Surely did. Don't want the government pestering me. Let me fetch the Homeland Security logbook.” He shook his head in disgust as he turned the pages. “Back in my day you could buy real dynamite at the local hardware store. Here he is. Tazio Tarantella. Kansas driver's license. Called him on it, and he said he'd been in the army. License was valid, so my backside is covered. Hope there
wasn't no trouble. He talked like he knew what he was doin'.”

  Mags copied the information onto the back of a Purina sweet feed bag tag. “You met the man, Mr. Rennet, and I suspect you know trouble is his middle name.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Belknapf dropped Congressman Varnish at his regional office, a former Thom McAn shoe store in a strip mall, then drove to police headquarters, a tan brick building that had been the central post office. In a game of governmental musical chairs the post office was now in the Stegmaier Building, and the cops were in a relic from the sixties. The old cop shop was torn down to make way for an interstate cloverleaf.

  The current headquarters had been retrofitted with new windows that didn't open and a new air conditioning system that didn't work. Pedestal fans battled the summer while the mayor battled the Northeastern Regional GSA.

  The detectives were housed on the second floor, in what was once the sorting room for periodicals and parcel post. Mismatched steel desks and chairs, requisitioned from a government warehouse, replaced the battered wooden relics of an even earlier era.

  Captain Whelan, the bull-necked, red-faced Chief of Detectives, occupied a glass-walled corner office that offered a modicum of quiet if not privacy. When he saw Belknapf arrive with a man and a dog he left his office to get a first-hand report. The radio and television broadcasts offered a lot of speculation and little substance.

  Belknapf introduced Duane to Chief Whelan. Said he was a smart kid, and the chief said if the Shaleville sheriff agreed to pay his salary he could stay in Wilkes-Barre, until the situation was resolved. “The dog we can't be responsible for. We haven't had a K-9 Unit since Sisko passed. A German Shepherd, from the Czech Republic. Picked up English commands real quick.” He took a closer look at Bugle Boy. “Say, isn't that—“