by Josie Brown
“Whom is Mary babysitting for?” Emma asks.
“Believe it or not, the Powells. They’re on the show’s big finale tonight.”
“Should we take bets as to who will win?” Arnie asks.
“They’re all losers, as far as I’m concerned,” Abu declares as he opens the back gate. “To put themselves through all that grief? And what for?”
“Well, in Franklin’s case, it’s a way to raise money for his charity,” Jack replies.
“Yeah, you know, I put it into Charity Navigator. Its ranking might as well have been nonexistent.”
“That’s not a good sign,” I murmur.
“It wouldn’t have mattered to Brin as long as he came through with the surgery,” Emma declares. She looks around. “Where’s Evan?”
“Evan is on a date,” I’m doing a piss-poor job of hiding my smile.
Cheever snickers.
Not a good sign. Time to ask—and then, possibly, to yell: “Did I say something funny, Cheever?”
He shrugs and then tosses his silly little ball to Jeff.
By the time Jeff throws it back, I’m close enough to Cheever to catch it one-handed—
But it is slippery enough to fall out of my hand. It plops onto the terrace floor.
The boys are laughing so hard that they fall onto the grass.
I lean over to pick it up. “What’s so funny? And what the heck is this thing?”
They break out into another spasm of giggles.
I pull Cheever up by the neck of his shirt. “Maybe I should drop you off at your house…just in time for your mother’s little dinner party.”
That sobers him up. “It’s…a boob.”
Jack spews his beer. “Come again?”
“You know—a titty! A knocker. A tah-tah—”
I slap my hand over his mouth. “We get the picture.” Angrily, I turn to Jeff. “Where the hell did it come from?”
Jeff blushes a deep red. “Dr. Powell’s home office. The window was open, so we climbed in to spy on Mary…and Evan.”
“Evan is over there—with her?” I’m so angry that I toss the breast.
Jack catches it with one hand.
“Hey, that’s mine! Give it back!” Cheever shouts.
“No, I’m going to give it to its rightful owner: Dr. Powell,” Jack informs him.
“I’ll just bet,” Cheever growls. “Admit it! You like how it feels.” He puts up both palms and squeezes them open and shut as he makes kissy sounds.
“Hardly,” Jack retorts. “There’s nothing like the real deal.” He nods toward me.
“You’re only saying that because your wife happens to be standing right beside you,” Cheever jeers. “If I’d taken two of these, you’d shove her onto some operating table in heartbeat—”
I twist Cheever’s arm behind his back.
“Aw, hell! There’s a rip in this thing…and it’s…” Jack’s face is now ashen.
“What?” I say crossly. With my free hand, I reach for my cell. How dare Mary—
Cupping it carefully in both hands, he walks it over to Ryan.
Ryan stares down at it. He picks it up to take a closer look. “Emma, get the kids in the house.”
Without question, she picks up Nicky and grabs Trisha’s hand. Jeff, stunned, follows her. He knows better than to ask questions.
Cheever stares at all of us, slack-jawed. I shove him toward Emma. “You heard him—move! Now!”
After Emma shuts the door behind them, I walk over to Ryan. “Is that what I think it is? I ask.
“An IED? Yes,” Jack says. He grabs his beer and pours it directly onto the exposed metal pieces. “We better get over to the show—now.”
Jack stares at me. The realization hits us at the same time:
Franklin Powell is the terrorist.
Chapter 20
Deadwood
“The world ends when you're dead. Until then, you got more punishment in store. Stand it like a man... and give some back.”
—Al Swearengen
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to die?
Unfortunately, there are very few around to give you the deets. So here is some wisdom from those who were nearly dearly departed and lived to tell their tale:
First, the lack of a physical presence means that many of the sensations you’re accustomed to will no longer distract you. (Huzzah! Gone are all the aches and pains! Oh, pooh! So are all those euphoric orgasms.)
Next: Yes, you emotionally feel, but you can’t physically touch.
Yes, you are there—but somehow, strangely, you aren’t.
Yes, some will feel you near them—but they can’t acknowledge your presence.
Yes, they can mourn you—but ask yourself: wouldn’t you rather they move on and find happiness again?
And finally: Despite lacking the senses we have learned to rely on for a lifetime, other sensations come to fill this void. You’ll recognize them as love, joy, remorse, sadness, and anger. Ironically, they matter less now because you can no longer share them with the living beings whom you have known and loved for a lifetime.
Do the next best thing: while you’re alive, thank them for the joy that they have contributed to nearly every day of your existence.
Abu still has his Lincoln Town Car. But before Jack and I pile into it with him, Jack grabs the bomb detector from the trunk of my car. “In the off chance that not all three patients—Penelope, Cassandra, and Patty—are body cavity bombs, we can pinpoint the right victims,” Jack says.
“Good thinking,” I reply.
“The BCBs will probably be activated by a cell call, which enables an electrical charge,” Ryan explains. “If Franklin reaches for his phone, I’ll subdue him.”
“I don’t have the cell phone jammer here. It’s at Acme,” Arnie opines. “I’ll alert the Orange County bomb squad to get over here ASAP. They’re sure to have one.”
“Abu, drive as close as you can get to the mansion so that you can stand by to drive them to the hospital,” Ryan commands.
“On it, chief,” Abu declares.
“Donna, as quickly as possible, hustle the women out of range of the detonator,” Ryan continues.
“Will do, boss,” I assure him.
Thank goodness we still have access to the webcams set up by the production staff so that Ryan, Arnie, and Emma can provide eyes and ears.
“The show is already in the second segment,” Emma informs us. “They’re about to start on the main course.”
“I’m right behind Jack and Donna in case you need back up,” Ryan declares.
“The more, the merrier,” Jack assures him.
I wonder how Brin will take to us crashing the show?
Not that it matters. If we don’t succeed, Brin will get the highest ratings she ever had.
Unfortunately, she may not live to appreciate the moment.
Abu waves at the security detail at the front gate of the mansion. Because they recognize him, they don’t even bother looking at their manifest. Instead, they wave us right through.
The Town Car screeches to a stop directly in front of the mansion’s grand entry. Jack and I pop out of the vehicle and run up the steps.
We rush into the dining room. Penelope, Peter, Cassandra, Gerald, and Patty are seated at the table—
And the bomb detector’s arrow is jumping around the screen like crazy.
But Franklin isn’t there.
Penelope is talking to the camera. “Now, to get the flakiest crust possible, start with—” Spotting me, she stops mid-sentence and frowns. “What the hell are you doing here? Missing the limelight already?”
Jack jerks Peter up out of his chair. “Where is he—Franklin?”
“Well, what do you know! Delicious Donna and Doctor McDreamy must have been an item!” Brin crows joyously “Damn, that girl is a player! Camera One, dump Pickled Penelope and follow Jacked Jack! Camera Two, stay with Donna!”
Peter, in shock, stutters incoherently.
I look around. No Ariel. “Is Ariel with him?” I ask.
Cassandra shakes her head.
The others crane their necks, looking for her. Finally, Patty points outside. “She said she promised to check in with the babysitter at seven-thirty.”
I follow her gaze: Ariel is standing by the pool.
“Donna—take the women out of here!” Jack shouts as he runs toward the pool.
I shove Cassandra and Patty toward the front door. “There’s a Town Car out front, waiting for you! Get in it—now! Your lives depend on it!”
The women see the look in my eyes. They don’t wait for me to ask twice.
Gerald leaps up as well and runs after them.
Penelope takes my wrist. “Donna Stone Craig, you’re always ruining my chance to shine! Well, not this time!”
She grabs a candelabrum from the table and swings it in my direction.
I duck just in time.
Unfortunately, Peter does not. As he falls backward, he pulls the tablecloth with him.
Plates, silverware, and glasses clatter to the floor.
I slip on something—apple jelly, I think. I force myself to my knees so that I can look out toward the patio—
Just as Jack tackles Ariel, taking her with him into the pool.
“Get your wife to the Town Car outside now!” I shout at Peter.
He knows better than to argue. He is a bottom, after all.
As I run to Jack and Ariel, Abu’s voice comes in through my earbud. "I’ve explained the situation to the women. We’re headed for Hilldale Medical. Doctors are standing by for their emergency surgeries.”
Ironically, I can’t get Brin’s shrill voice out of my ear. “The only thing better on that man than a wet T-shirt is no shirt at all,” Brin declares. “Hey, New Girl! Go with him to—”
“She quit. Remember?” Lucy says wearily.
All of a sudden the house goes dark.
Make that the whole block.
Arnie declares, “I pulled the plug. Acme has officially canceled Hot Housewives of Hilldale.”
About damn time.
Brin is screaming now—about the disappearance of her cast; about the angry texts coming in from the viewing audience; about the livid studio execs whose concerns over her doing the show live are now validated; and above all, for Lucy to turn on the backup generator.
We also hear Dominic bemoan the imminent loss of, as he puts it, “my previously assured Emmy nomination.”
Boo hoo.
By now, I’ve reached Jack and Ariel. Ryan isn’t far behind me.
Wet and disheveled, Ariel shivers as she sobs, “But…why? Why would he plant bombs in those women?”
Jack kneels beside her. “This may be hard for you to believe, but he’s a terrorist.” He holds up her wet cell phone. “And calling from this cell would have set off the bombs.”
Ariel stares at the phone.
“You were out here for a while, but nothing happened. Why didn’t you dial the phone?” Jack asked.
“I tried. But it’s Franklin's cell, not mine," she explains. "I couldn’t use it because I don’t know his passcode. I must have picked it up by mistake before we left the house.”
Thank goodness.
“We all could have all been murdered!” Suddenly, she’s sobbing even harder.
I reach down to put my arm on her shoulder. “Ariel, everything is okay now. No one got hurt.”
Not yet, but the bomb detector’s arrow is jumping again.
Ariel sees the shocked look on my face when I remember:
He enhanced her breasts too.
“Our boss, Ryan, will take you to the hospital,” Jack tells her gently. “But Ariel, before you leave, we need your help. By now, Franklin knows we’re looking for him. He won’t be at his Beverly Hills office. Where would he have gone instead?”
“I don’t know! Maybe…” Her back stiffens. “He has a storage unit in Long Beach, near the Queen Mary, on Hanjin Road. A few months ago, I saw the rental invoice for it in Franklin's desk drawer. He told me it was for old office equipment and old family mementos…his brother’s stuff.” She shakes her head as if waking from a dream.
“It was one of our leads,” Jack exclaims. “The meth house that we raided! It’ll be locked and empty now.”
Ariel’s eyes glitter with anger. “Franklin would never make meth!”
“But he’d put bombs in women’s breasts?” I point out.
Her face crumples at the realization that she doesn’t know her husband at all.
The bawling starts again.
Ryan waves us on. “I’ll be taking Mrs. Powell to the hospital. Afterward, she’ll be held for further questioning. I’m sure she knows more than she realizes.”
With what Franklin has done to her, she’ll be ready to talk.
By the time Jack and I reach the front door, Abu is back from the hospital. “Where to?” he asks.
“Long Beach. The meth warehouse. Different bin.”
And we’re off.
We park a quarter mile from the warehouse. The moon’s glow can’t permeate the fog-shrouded sky.
The cement wall isn’t all that high: just six feet. We move up and over it in silence.
The warehouse is made up of several rows of long buildings—running a quarter-mile perpendicularly, from the highway to the waterfront. The ones closest to the water have their own docks.
The former meth lab is located in one of the many rear units in a back warehouse. The unit’s roll-up door sports police tape and a humongous lock, courtesy of the DEA.
We anticipate that Franklin will be armed. Since we had to load out in a hurry, we are only carrying our service pistols. Still, he may not be alone. Damn it, what I’d give to have my MP5 about now! A rifle is always better in a gunfight.
“Let’s spread out,” Jack whispers. “There are six rows. I’ll take the two furthest away—we’ll call them six and five—and work my way toward the water. Donna, you search the first and second rows. Start at the water’s edge. Abu, you cover rows three and four.”
We slip off quietly in different directions.
When I reach the first row, I scan for lights, try each lock, and listen for noises that sound different from the waves lapping up against the piers.
After checking the last unit, I head over to the second row—
But I don’t make it very far because whatever is in the sack that smacks me on the side of my head puts me out like a light.
The only reason I wake up is that there’s a light shining in my eye.
I can’t see who’s holding it, but I have a very good guess. “So, you’re Franklin’s brother,” I declare. “Phillip, isn’t it?”
He freezes. His silence seems to fill the warehouse. Finally, he has to ask: “How did you know?”
“The photo in Franklin’s home office—it’s signed in your real name. You’d sent it to him—your identical twin.”
“Good catch.” Phillip laughs as he slaps on his surgical gloves. “Actually, I sent it to Ariel. Franklin would have tossed it in the trash. She framed it, and put it in his office. She knew it would get under his skin.”
I look around to adjust my eyes to the light. “But you kept it because you’re still very proud of your work you did in the field.”
“I’m proud of my work now too.” Then why does his voice sound so defensive?
Not that I should point this out while strapped to a gurney.
I’ve got to stall until Jack and Abu find me.
Time to show I feel his pain.
I lift my head and look around. “You operate here too?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes.”
“Let me guess: you use it to alter the features of other ISIS sleeper cells.”
“Move to the head of the class, Mrs. Craig. Brains if not beauty.”
“I do
okay with all the original body parts.” I give him a wink and a smile. “Was it easy for you—killing your brother? Not to mention having to break the Hippocratic Oath and all. You know: ‘Do no harm.’”
Phillip laughs. “Honestly, it was much easier than I thought. It always is, when the cause is just.” He shrugs. “It helped that Franklin hadn’t cared enough to come looking for me after my capture by ISIS. For him, life went on as usual.”
He wheels a small cart in my direction. It’s filled with medical instruments: a couple of scalpels, a few forceps, and all sorts of long scary needles, some attached to syringes.
“And now you have that life–his life,” I point out. “Along with his fancy money-machine of a Beverly Hills plastic surgery practice. And let’s not forget his loving, beautiful wife, and adorable little son—”
“No!” His perfect smile fades. “Connor is all mine! Franklin was too busy fucking his famous clients to give Ariel the one thing she wanted—a child. He convinced her that her body would never have recovered.” He rolls his eyes at the thought. “And besides, a kid would have been a complication in a divorce.”
Connor is now two, which means Phillip has been under deep cover for three years at least.
“You think he would have left her?”
Phillip nods. “Yes, eventually. The only person he cared about was himself.”
He walks to a cabinet to get another scalpel. The ones he left on the cart are just out of reach. While he has his back to me, I inch closer…closer…
But the best I can do is finger one of the long needled syringes.
“I take it Ariel never found out you took your twin’s place in her life after you came back from the dead and murdered him?” I ask nonchalantly.
Phillip shrugs. “She never could tell us apart. When we were in high school, we took turns fucking her. I’m sure she flipped a coin to decide which one of us to marry.”
“She knew exactly what she was doing. She chose the smarter brother,” I reply.
Phillip stops what he’s doing—filling a syringe with some clear liquid—to contemplate this contention. Finally, he nods. “In hindsight, you’re right. Franklin was smart enough to swap our Medical College Admissions Tests when he figured out that a weekend spent stoned as opposed to studying wouldn’t get him into med school. And he was smart enough to convince me to sign up with the Army as a way to pay for my med school, so that it got me out of town for a few years. And he was smart enough to open a practice in Beverly Hills as opposed to work in a part of the world that very few people know or give a shit about; one that most people would prefer to have wiped off the face of the Earth.”