13 Suspense
Page 25
But suppose it doesn’t get destroyed in the bomb blast? Then I don’t get destroyed in the bomb blast, and there’s no point at all.
So what if that’s not it? So what if it’s another cryptic message, like the one he left for me? Guess who? That was in an envelope lying on the floor. What if it’s another one of those?
Well. Small problem there. It can’t be for me, because how am I going to get over there and get it? Obviously, I am not. So it can’t be another message left to taunt me. If it’s a message, it’s for someone else.
But who?
No one’s gonna read it until after the bomb blast.
Would the letter survive the bomb blast?
Would I?
Full cycle.
Four forty-eight.
Good god.
Four forty-eight.
Well done, Mr. Kraswell. Very effective.
And then.
Hope!
A sudden, desperate, exhilarating leap of hope.
The sound of the door latch clicking open.
Rescue!
Or could it be ... cruel doubt ... Carlton Kraswell back to gloat one last time?
No. Not likely. By now he’s miles away.
No. It’s your savior, salvation, it’s the cavalry to the rescue, it’s a deus ex machina, it’s everything you ever hoped for, wished for, dreamed of, desperately within the last hour, it’s the answer to your prayers.
I sat there in the chair, holding on for dear life, straining to hear in the darkness what my eyes could not yet see.
The door creaked open.
Yes!
Come in!
Yes!
Then footsteps entering the room. But not the heavy tread of cops. A single person, light of step.
It doesn’t matter. Someone. Anyone. Come get me.
The footsteps came closer. A figure appeared in the darkness.
I strained my eyes.
The figure stepped into the light.
My heart stopped dead.
Oh god.
Alice.
48.
AND SUDDENLY I KNEW EVERYTHING.
Suddenly it was all clear.
In a lightning bolt of horror and revulsion, I saw everything he had planned, everything he had set in motion. Just how it was he had intended me to suffer.
Oh, my god. Victory, Carlton Kraswell. Game, set, and match. I concede, I confess, I apologize, I grovel. I’ll do anything, just come back now and make it stop.
Not a chance. Not a prayer. It was happening, and there was nothing I could do but sit and watch.
Not that I didn’t try. With all my might I willed myself to shout against the gag, to strain against the tape, to heave against the chair.
To absolutely no avail.
For all my effort, not a muscle moved.
All I could do was watch and hope.
Alice walked in two steps, stopped and looked around.
Her eyes passed right over me. It was excruciating. If she saw me, she’d untie me, get me out of here, there was still time. But there was no way that she could see me.
Her gaze swept the room.
Reached the lockers.
No!
Not the lockers. Don’t look at the lockers. Look away.
She did.
She looked down, saw the letter on the floor.
She stooped, picked it up.
Looked at it and frowned.
She tore the envelope open, pulled out the letter.
Unfolded it.
Read it.
Then looked at the lockers.
No!
Good god.
No!
Alice looked at the letter again, then folded it up, stuck it back in the envelope.
She turned and walked over to the lockers. She went to the one closest to her, the one on the far end. She stopped in front of it, reached out to the handle. It was one of those metal handles that slides up and down and has a hole for a padlock. There was a loud, metallic clang as Alice slid the handle up and opened the door. She looked in the locker for a moment, then closed the door again.
And moved to the next.
No, Alice, no. Whatever the note said, ignore it. Ignore the lockers. Get out. Just turn and walk out of here now.
Clang.
Alice raised the handle, opened the second door, looked in the locker.
Clang.
She closed it again.
Clang.
She opened the next.
Good god, which locker was it? From here I can’t tell. She’s on three, and it’s somewhere near the middle. How many are there in all? Why didn’t you count them, you moron? Why did you just estimate? If you’d counted them, maybe you’d know.
I counted them now.
There were twenty lockers, as near as I could tell. I was somewhat distracted making my count, distracted by the fact that Alice was moving on. Had opened locker number four.
The locker with the bomb was somewhere near the middle, but with twenty lockers, there was no middle. It could be eleven or it could be ten. Either one was equally close. And who’s to say it had to be either, and couldn’t be nine or twelve.
My god, she’s on locker number five.
And it’s four fifty-one.
Alice, read my thoughts. ESP. Vulcan mind meld. Sixth sense. Woman’s intuition. For whatever reason, stop, get out now.
Clang.
Locker five closed.
Clang.
Open locker six.
Good god, Alice, you’re getting faster. One glance and you know the locker’s empty. Or, at least, what you’re looking for, whatever it is, is not there.
Clang.
Was that six? I’m losing count. Did she just close six? Is it seven she’s about to—
Clang.
Be there. Let something be there. Something in the locker. Anything to attract her attention. Slow her down.
Clang.
Damn it. Nothing. What was that? Seven? Surely that’s enough. Let her stop there.
Clang.
Be there. Let her find it, take it, and leave. That was your game, right, Kraswell? All a tease. What she’s looking for is in this locker, and she’s going to take it and walk out the door, now I’ve suffered enough.
Good god, I’ve suffered enough. Is this enough for you, Kraswell? Please, let her go. God, let her go.
Clang.
Was that eight or nine? No more. No more. And—
A prayer answered.
Yes.
Alice stopped.
Turned toward the door.
Someone was coming.
Kraswell. Coming back to let me off the hook. He’d had his fun, it was enough, the game was over, we could stop playing now. Carlton Kraswell, my favorite person in the world, come, get her out of here, take her away.
Clang.
Not the locker, but the front door.
Yes.
He’s back.
It’s over.
It’s all right.
Everything is going to be all right.
It’s probably not Kraswell, it’s better it’s not Kraswell, but it’s somebody, anybody, and whoever it is is going to take you out of here. Do you understand, they’re going to make you stop opening the lockers, and get you the hell out the door. Thank god, thank god, the answer to a prayer.
There came the squeak of the door swinging open. Then the sound of footsteps.
The new arrival stepped into the light.
And broke what was left of my heart.
Tommie.
49.
I SAT HELPLESS WHILE THE last piece of my world crumbled away. “Tommie,” Alice said. “What are you doing here?”
“Huh?” he said. “I got your note.”
“What note?”
“You left me a note. To meet you here.”
“I did not.”
“Did so. You wanna see?”
“What?”
“I got it here somewhere.”
>
Tommie began fishing in his, jeans, pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here you go.” He unfolded it. “Tommie. Meet me three fifteen Broome Street, second floor. Mom.”
“I didn’t write that.”
“Oh, sure,” Tommie said. “And I’m not here.”
“Let me see that,” Alice said.
And she crossed to him.
Away from the locker.
Yes.
Alice took the paper, read it. “Where did you get this?”
“It was in the mail.”
“The mail?”
“Yeah. I got home, I looked at the mail. There was a letter with my name on it.”
“Tommie, that doesn’t make any sense. Why would I send you a letter in the mail?”
“I don’t know, but this was it. It said to meet you here, and so I did. And you’re here. If you didn’t write this, why are you here?”
“I got home, there was a message on the answering machine telling me to meet your father here.”
“Dad? He left you a message?”
“No. Some man. He said Stanley was hung up downtown and wanted me to meet him here.”
“Oh, yeah?” Tommie said. “So where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“So what’s with the lockers?”
“There was a letter addressed to me lying on the floor.”
“What did it say?”
Alice pulled the letter out of the envelope, handed it to Tommie. He unfolded it, read, “Stanley got hung up. Take the bag in the locker and meet him on the corner of Broadway and Canal.” He frowned. “What bag, Mom?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is weird.”
“Yeah.”
“What should we do?”
“We gotta go meet Dad. If he’s really there.”
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“Because I didn’t write that letter.”
“This letter?”
“No. The one to you. You say it was in the mail?”
“Yeah.”
“I saw the mail. There was a letter to you. But it had an address and a stamp,”
“Yeah. That was kind of strange. But the envelope wasn’t sealed.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.” Tommie dug in his hip pocket, pulled out the envelope. “See? It wasn’t sealed, just folded over. And, look, there’s no postmark. So I figured you just stuck it in the envelope.”
Oh, god.
I had held that envelope in my hand.
It had been within my power to notice that it wasn’t sealed, that it didn’t have a postmark. I could have opened it, read it, known something was wrong.
I could have prevented this.
It’s my fault.
“Well, I didn’t,” Alice said. “I didn’t write that letter. And I don’t know who wrote this one to me. I have no idea what’s going on here.”
“So what do we do?”
“We get out of here.”
“What about the bag?”
“There probably is no bag.” Alice frowned. “I suppose I should make sure.”
Alice turned, walked back to the lockers.
Tommie followed.
And there they were, right in the middle of the lockers. Right next to the one with the bomb. If they opened the door it would go off. If they just stood there it would go off. Good god, four fifty-six. And who knows how close my watch is to that damn clock? I didn’t notice the time. Either watch or clock could be as much as five minutes off, which means it could happen any second, any second now.
You’ve got to get out.
Alice, get Tommie out.
“So, which one is it?” Tommie said.
“I don’t know. I’ve done all these. I think I was on this one.”
Alice grabbed the locker handle.
Clang.
Jerked it open.
Nothing happened.
Oh, my god. Which one was it? I can’t tell without counting. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. That was nine. Good god, stop there.
“Maybe this one,” Alice said.
Clang.
Number ten open.
And it’s empty.
Good god, number ten is empty.
Which means it’s gotta be eleven.
Good god, please, Alice, don’t open eleven.
Clang.
Ten shut.
Alice reached her hand toward eleven.
“This is silly, Mom.”
She stopped, turned toward him. “I know it’s silly. What do you want me to do?”
“I think we should find Dad.”
“I do too. But if he didn’t write these notes ...” Alice shrugged. “I mean, if there’s no bag, he’s not going to be on the corner, either.”
“I suppose.”
“So we should see if there’s a bag.”
“I wanna get out of here. It’s creepy.”
“Just a minute.” I could see it in slow motion.
Alice turned back to the lockers.
Reached out her hand.
Gripped the handle.
Raised it up.
Jerked it open.
And ...
Clang.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Had the tape come off? Had it defused? Was it a dud?
“Empty,” Alice said, and slammed the door.
Clang.
Suddenly, in horror, I realized.
That was ten again. Turning her back, she’d lost her place and opened locker ten. Eleven was next. Eleven was now.
Stop her, Tommie. Stop her again.
But Tommie said nothing.
Alice reached out her hand.
“Stop!”
A voice from the darkness.
“Don’t touch that. Get away from the door.”
Carlton Kraswell.
A change of heart.
A last-second pang of remorse.
Carlton Kraswell lurched into the light, followed immediately by MacAullif, who had him by the arm.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Hastings,” MacAullif said, “but we have a situation here. I want you to take your son and get out of here now.”
“But—”
“There’s no time to discuss it. Your son’s in danger. Get him out.”
Alice said, “Come on, Tommie,” and the two of them headed for the door.
MacAullif wheeled on Kraswell “All right, where is he?”
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
“You wanna get out of here, you tell me where he is.”
“There’s no time.”
“Then talk fast. Where is he?”
“There,” Kraswell said.
He pointed with his chin. That’s when I realized his hands were handcuffed behind him. MacAullif took him by the arm, pushed him toward me. Seconds later he was pulling back the curtain.
“Jesus Christ,” MacAullif said.
He grabbed the chair, tried to move it.
“Bolted to the floor,” he said.
He whipped out Carlton Kraswell’s razor, flipped it open, began slicing at the duct tape.
Kraswell turned and ran.
MacAullif stuck his foot out, tripped him up, and Kraswell went flat.
MacAullif had one arm free. My left one. I wanted to help, but there was nothing I could do. My arm hung limp at my side.
“Jesus Christ,” MacAullif said. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”
My second arm came free. But my head was still taped to the back of the chair. Two quick cuts took care of that. Then MacAullif was stooping to do my legs.
As my body sagged forward, I could see my watch.
Four fifty-nine.
We weren’t going to make it. Me, MacAullif, or Kraswell, who struggled to his feet. MacAullif must have seen him out of the corner of his eye, because without even turning he kicked him down, and sliced the tape away from my legs.
MacAullif straightened up, pulled
me from the chair. My legs were free, but they were taped together, wound up like a mummy. They would have been useless anyway. MacAullif took one look, cursed, grabbed me around the knees, flung me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He turned, grabbed Carlton Kraswell by the scruff of the neck, jerked him to his feet, and pulled him toward the door.
Hanging down MacAullif’s back, I saw my watch click over to five o’clock.
MacAullif carried me out the door, dragging Carlton Kraswell behind him.
We had just reached the landing when there was a roar like thunder, and a blast of hot air sent us flying down the stairs.
50.
“I’M SORRY,” MACAULLIF SAID.
He would say that. I grimaced, eased myself into a chair.
“What a pain in the ass,” I said. “Save a guy’s life and say you’re sorry.”
MacAullif leaned back in his desk chair, cocked his head. “You know what I mean. This shouldn’t have happened at all.”
“No argument there.”
“It’s the parole system,” MacAullif said. “It’s all fucked up. A guy gets twenty-five to life, he ought to do twenty-five to life. You shouldn’t expect to see the guy for twenty-five years. But, no, the system’s so screwed up if the asshole hasn’t managed to kill someone in jail, some bleedin’ heart parole board figures, whoop-de-do, rehabilitation, and before you know it the scumbag’s back on the street.”
“It was a bit of a shock.”
“No shit. What can I say? It wasn’t my jurisdiction, it wasn’t my case. Even so, there’s gotta be some system of checks and balances. You send a guy away on a murder rap, the least they can do is let you know when he’s getting out.”
“Yeah,” I said. I settled back in my chair, rubbed my head. “You wanna go on beating yourself up, or you think you might pause long enough for me to thank you?”
“Don’t mention it. Wife and kid okay?”
“All things considered. Tommie may need some counseling. Alice too. They were right outside when it went off. With no way of knowing we’d got out.”
“I know.”
I reached up, tugged at the Band-aid on my chin. Remarkably, a few scrapes and bruises were all we’d got out of it. The bomb blast had thrown us down the stairs. Which was a bit of luck. There wasn’t much left of the second floor.
“So, you wanna tell me why you did it?” I said. “Not that I’m complaining, but it seems to me you pooh-poohed the idea on the phone.”