Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  Duane parked the Vibe in the Official Vehicles Only lot with his K-9 cruiser and Mag's roadster, then led her inside the old Earl M. Swarthout Elementary School, and down the hallway to the Shaleville Department of Public Safety. He left her with Marge Defarge, Number Three in the department, and found the sheriff in his office, reading the BMW owner's manual.

  “You're back faster than I thought, Corporal Milt. Got the prisoner cuffed and shackled in the back of your wife's car?”

  “No, sir. I do have his daughter, and she wants her car back. See, there was an explosion, and Mr. McClintock is missing, and feared dead. Those big city cops didn't want my help, so me and Buge quit, come on back to Shaleville.”

  While Mags studied Spider's handiwork on the cell door, Sheriff Claxon listened to Duane recount his attempts to apprehend the escaped felon, and the disastrous outcome. “You should have gone to the farm first.”

  “But, Sheriff, you told me to start at the demolition site.” He handed the sheriff the expense receipts. “Gas for the Vibe, and a Subway I shared with Buge.”

  “Give 'em to Marge, and tell the kid to come in here.” This was an unexpected annoyance, and one he didn't need. He'd been driving the sporty little car since he'd impounded it, and thought it met the needs of his midlife crisis. The way he saw it, the BMW was forfeited as a result of the drug bust. And he told the kid that.

  Mags had just lost her stepfather, tangled with the Wilkes-Barre police department, her mother, a banker, and a congressman. She'd aged ten years overnight, and wasn't about to let this overbearing asshole push her around. The sheriff held the BMW registration, but she had a pair of aces.

  She'd learned how to read people dealing seven card stud at Uncle Saylor's Tuesday night game, and she saw this guy, with his four stars on his collar, was as big a bully as Detective Belknapf.

  She removed her license from her wallet and tossed it on the desk. Hole card number one. The title was inside her double-breasted Ellen DeGeneres, and she laid it beside her license. “I don't know who reported the car stolen, but it wasn't the owner. Me. I was in Washington, meeting with my congressman. The same congressman who arranged for you to have a K-9 unit, and Bugle Boy, the Wonder Dog.”

  She'd watched enough episodes of Law and Order to know the buzz words. “So you acted on a false stolen vehicle report, and that means your arrest was a violation of my stepfather's constitutional rights. The search and seizure are null and void. Fruit of the poisoned tree.”

  She returned her license to her wallet and the BMW title to her suit coat. “My attorney will be filing a civil suit against you and your department, unless I walk out of this place with the keys in my hand.” She was on a roll. “And it better have a full tank of gas.”

  Sheriff Claxon fumed. Teenagers today; Jesus. No respect for authority. Not like the good old days, when you could slap 'em around, scare the shit out of them. Back then, he'd have this girl out back, and on her knees. She sounded like a goddamn lawyer, spouting off on constitutional rights. But she didn't know about the thirty thousand dollars, and the weapon. The sheriff had played some poker in his day, and he knew when to fold a losing hand. “Miss, I apologize for the misunderstanding.” He fished her car keys out of his trouser pocket, and handed them to Duane. “Corporal Milt, go gas up her car.”

  Duane listened to the girl give the sheriff what for, and grinned behind a hand. The sheriff lied about going to the farm first, and it made him mad. Mad enough to say, “What about the bank bag full of hundred dollar bills, and the Beretta? Ain't they also poisoned fruit?”

  Wordlessly, Sheriff Claxon unlocked a desk drawer, and handed Mags the First Union bag and the Beretta. “You'd better apply for a permit to carry that weapon before you leave the building, or you'll find your backside in one of my cells.”

  She handed Duane the pistol. “I'll be boarding a plane in an hour, so I have no use for this.” She kissed him in front of Sheriff Claxon and Marge Defarge, pretty sure the moment would find its way to LuAnn. “Thanks for all your help, stud.”

  Mags drove her sporty little red car to Harrisburg, where Siri helped her find the BMW dealership. She signed over the title of her almost-new car, and added their check to the bank bag.

  At Harrisburg International airport she bought a one-way ticket to Belize, hid five thousand dollars where no one ever goes, and Fedexed the rest to King, for safe keeping.

  Seven hours later Peter J. Abbott met her at the Philip S.W. Goldson International airport. He was the only one waiting who looked like a K Street lawyer, and she was the only one who looked like the daughter of a Kingman Brewster client.

  Nonetheless, she handed him King's letter. He handed it back. “Save it for your scrapbook. He emailed me a copy. King says you have some construction experience.” He checked out her suit, hoped she had plenty of shorts and T-shirts in the backpack. The Doc Martens were a plus. “Built sets for the Drama Club? Helped your dad build a deck?”

  “More like deconstruction experience. But I can help you with site prep. I know how to operate a D3 Cat, and a backhoe.” She grinned, feeling pleased with herself.

  “Oh, really? We don't have much need for that here. No frost line, so no footers. Everything's slab built, tilt up. You know how to swing a framing hammer, tape sheet rock?”

  “I painted my bedroom.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Shelly found Honey where her daughter said she'd be. Stretched on her bed, heels off, television on. Oh, Lord, she was watching Jerry, with the sound off. It had become his own guilty pleasure, after Debbie Melon seduced him with a single show. Two women fighting over a man; what's not to like? Debbie used something called TiVo to record the shows, and when the House was in recess they binged at the Watergate. Also with the sound off. The sexual tension on the screen seeped into their own sordid reality.

  Now Shelly and Honey watched an obese, tattooed woman trade wild slaps with a skinny, toothless harridan, while the audience roared in a silent display of glee. Shirts were lifted, pixilated breasts were flashed.

  Shelly eased down on the end of the bed. “Those people are my constituents.”

  “You know them?”

  “No, no; I meant the archetype. Unemployed drug and alcohol abusers. Morally-challenged morons. My challenge is getting them to the polls.”

  “How can you think about elections at a time like this?” Honey draped the back of her hand across her forehead. “Can't you see I'm distraught?”

  “Oh, you poor dear.” He reached out and tweaked her toes. “What you need is a foot massage.”

  “Oh, Shelly, you're such a dear, but I'm not in the mood for dalliance. My husband just died.”

  “Well, if we can't tarry here, then we should go to the bank, get your husband's last will and testament out of whichever box holds it. We need to start the probate process as soon as possible.” All those millions sitting idle was more tempting than a 501(c)3.

  She rolled off the bed. “Shelly, darling, I need to change into a more banker friendly outfit. Wait down stairs, and ask Rosetta to make you a cup of coffee.” Honey was in a quandary. She had her own key to the box with the wills, but there was Mag's key to the other box, the one full of cash.

  She headed down the hall to her daughter's rat's nest of a room. When she couldn't locate Mags' obscene little box, she ducked across the hall to Mac's monastic cell. She found both safe deposit keys among his cufflinks and a swimming medal from high school.

  If there was a way to get her hands on the cash, Shelly would know it. And probably find some way to cheat her out of half. Best to wait until the estate was settled, and she could get it legitimately. What could it take, a couple of days? She slipped the key to box 342 in her bra. For safe keeping.

  Honey selected a classic black Armani and matching pumps, appropriate both for banking and incipient widowhood. If they ever found Mac she would have to buy a hat with a veil.

  She found Shelly in the great room, toying with an antique candle snu
ffer. “I don't know who Rosetta is, but I just saw an old woman and an odd-looking man drive off in your husband's Mercedes.”

  “My au pair. They're probably heading to the Catholic church. Primitive people depend on it, in times of loss.” She glanced at his Lincoln. A stodgy American vehicle; probably a necessity for his constituents. “Your car or mine?”

  “Let's take your Lexus. That way I won't have to deduct the mileage from my congressional account. Ever since the House post office scandal the CBO has been quite strict on non-government usage of private vehicles.” He hoped she was suitably impressed with his honesty and care for the People's money.

  “Fine with me, Shelly.” She handed him the keys. “You can drive. And we need to stop for gas, so you can pay for that, instead.”

  Heston Collander stood as Shelly ushered Honey into the banker's office. The congressman was not going to allow any minions to handle this. He'd weighed the possibility of additional personal slights from Collander versus the need to impress his client with the rarefied air he traveled in. “Ms. Poitrine is here, with her key, to pick up her husband's will.” He settled her into a chair, and patted her hand as though she were a doddering dowager. “Heston, you mentioned McClintock has two boxes?” He quickly added, “We need to be sure we have the latest copy of his will.”

  Collander ignored the slimy weasel and addressed the widow. The woman he hoped to keep firmly enamored with First Union. “There are, indeed, two. One that he and you hold, and one he and his stepdaughter have access to.” He did not mention the very recent addition of Magnolia Poitrine as an authorized key holder. There was only possible use for a large box that was accessed weekly by McClintock, and the less he knew about that, the safer he was. FDIC regulators lurked like termites in the walnut paneling behind the portraits.

  Honey didn't want this old fool to know she knew about the box, or that she had used her wiles to get a look inside. She hoped the Welsh squirt would keep his mouth shut. Maybe if she arranged to meet him after hours. . . “What's in this other box? Surely, as his wife, and now heir, I can open it.”

  Collander recalled the unseemly scene, just a day or two ago, when she stormed into the bank, looking for her husband. Some imagined slight, involving her daughter. He never did learn exactly what it was. Women were beyond his understanding, even after thirty years of marriage to one. “Since your daughter is authorized, why not just ask her open it? I'm sure it would be mutually beneficial to all parties to resolve this.”

  “My daughter is out of the country; Belgium, if you can believe it. Building houses for some hands across the sea group.” She sighed; just a touch theatrically. “We all have our own way of dealing with grief. I remember when her kitty died, and little Magnolia spent the entire day building a coffin.”

  Varnish knew next to nothing about estate law, so he shot from the hip. “If Ms. Poitrine can find the decedent's key, we can open the box.”

  Collander washed his plump, pink hands beneath a superior smile. “Indeed, you can. But only after the clerk of superior court presents himself to an officer of the bank. Together they can open the box, but only to inventory the contents.” He saw the need to tread lightly, and reined his tongue. There was the clear and present danger the congressman would get his nose out of joint, and move his considerable PACS and slush funds to another bank. That went double for H. Poitrine & Assoc. It seemed the congressman had her ear. He wondered if he shouldn't have done some preemptive schmoozing, when McClintock first opened his accounts, and named his wife as the titular head of the company. He spread his arms and sighed. “My hands are tied by the regulations of the Probate Court. If Ms. Poitrine cannot find the key, then the box will have to be drilled.”

  Honey pressed a hand to her bosom, feeling the key. What was the Welsh boy's name again?

  Back in the privacy of the Lexus, Honey handed Mac's will to Shelly. “I can't make head nor tails of this. You're a lawyer, tell me it says I get everything.”

  He skimmed the boilerplate, extracted the pertinent nuggets. “More or less. Mac's attorney, this Kingman Brewster, named himself both executor of the estate and guardian of your daughter. Not unusual. Lawyers always look out for number one.” He handed the dozen trifold pages back to Honey, wishing he'd paid more attention in his class on probate law. “We need to go see him.”

  —o—

  Honey appraised the Porsche, said, “If that's his car, he must be good.”

  “Unless it's leased.”

  They found the office on the fourth floor, and Varnish appraised Margo, the cool blonde paralegal, then scanned the lawyer's outer office, trying to get a handle on the man. Audubon prints on the walls, magazines arranged on a coffee table. The Smithsonian, Greenpeace Quarterly, Sierra. A damn tree-hugger. Alumni magazines from Stanford and Yale Law, carelessly tossed on a glass-topped coffee table. Uh huh. Probably swiped from some other lawyer's office, down the hall.

  King kept them waiting just long enough to refresh his memory with Google. Sheldon Varnish, six-term congressman. Several marriages, night school law degree, lifetime member of the NRA. And sat on the powerful Appropriations Committee, hence Mac's yearly cash donation.

  He came out to greet them. “Honey Poitrine,” he said, taking her hand. “You are even more lovely than your husband proclaimed. I believe you were a television star?”

  Honey coyly replied, “Oh, in my younger days I dabbled a bit.” She checked out Mac's lawyer. Nice suit, decent tie. Tall; maybe six-four in those cowboy boots. It always bothered her that barefoot she was an inch taller than Mac, and towered in her Manolos.

  This guy she could look in the eye while wearing fuck-me pumps. How was it they never met? She was sorry she hadn't taken more interest in the legal details of the business. Sun-streaked hair in need of a barber. A younger Redford. No wedding band; probably screwing the Garbo clone.

  The congressman cleared his throat for attention, not used to playing second fiddle. “If we could get to the point,” he said, offering the will.

  King waved it off. “I'm familiar with the document, congressman. Not only did I write it, but earlier today I reviewed the codicils and any peremptory challenges, before I set the probate wheels in motion.” Settling behind his desk, he locked eyes with Varnish.

  “As Ms. Poitrine's attorney, you should be aware the Redevelopment Authority is bringing a civil suit against H. Poitrine and Associates. For negligence, mis and malfeasance, and non-performance. They hope to recover the two point three million their director just released upon completion of Phase One. I hope to convince them they are, ahh, whistling up a tree.”

  Honey said, “But that money is mine! Ours. I mean, the building was blown up on time.” She turned to her attorney. “Shelly do something!”

  “I don't—“

  King interrupted the congressman. “As Mr. McClintock's corporate council I have already threatened to file countersuit. And issued a press release, demanding the resignation of the Executive Director of the Lackawanna Redevelopment Authority. He reviewed the documents, and found them in order.

  “I explained to Lackawanna's attorney we view their suit as a defamation of character issue. By his action, he has cast aspersions on the integrity of an Officer of the Corporation.” He winked at Honey. “I'm talking about your charming daughter, Magnolia. Whom I sent to Belize, as the first move in this chess game.”

  He turned to the congressman, who would understand. “I intend to try this case in the press. Judge Hackett is up for reelection this November. As are you, sir,” he warned.

  Honey said, “I don't understand any of this. My husband is dead, and I inherit.” She pointed to the will. “It's right there in black and white. Just the way you wrote it.”

  King said, “Yes, you inherit. But probate for an estate this size is complicated. We need to have the farm appraised, then settle outstanding debts and claims against the estate. Pay the federal and Pennsylvania taxes. And this Lackawanna suit could drag on for months.”
<
br />   “Months!”

  He hurried to say, “Worst case. I think I can speed things along. Just bring me a copy of the death certificate, and I'll get started.”

  Honey yelled, “Death certificate? He just died a few hours ago.”

  King replied, “Actually, he went missing. And we all pray he somehow survived.”

  Varnish said, “Trust me; I was there, and nobody could have survived an explosion like that.” Not with an estate this size, and a widow to be wooed.

  King put his boots on his desk. “I hear someone did.” He leaned back, and locked his hands behind his head. “Go see the coroner, and persuade him to issue a death in absentia finding.” He turned his head ten degrees to the congressman. “Use your influence.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  13.8 billion years ago, give or take an hour or two, the universe began with a blinding flash of white light. The Big Bang. Ten minutes ago Mac McClintock's world ended with one.

  Seconds before everything went to hell, Harry thought McClintock might be right about firing a fifty thousand volt Taser in a building filled with explosives.

  But George was yelling shoot him, and George was holding the Python in a none too stable hand. Harry knew a .357 Magnum bullet would render the hostage useless, so he tasered McClintock.

  Mac had no idea if his warning was good advice or bullshit. Explosives were a mystery, and he vowed to keep them that way, if he ever had the opportunity to demolish another building. Losing ninety grand a day was better than losing your life forever. And giving a guy a job just because he once saved your life was proof no good deed goes unpunished.

  Nanoseconds after the Taser fired, and the barbs bit into his chest, and his muscles spasmed, miles of detcord flashed like lightning, the C-4 rumbled like thunder, and the walls came tumbling down.