Time Bomb (57 page)

He aimed again.

There was a clearing in the cardboard wall. I ran toward it, realized Milo wasn’t with me. Looking over my shoulder, I saw him. Hand to chest.

A wall of smoke had risen between him and Ahlward. Shots came through it.

Milo looking from side to side, disoriented. I went back for him, grabbed his hand. Felt the resistance of his weight on my wrist, straining the sinews . . .

I pulled hard. He managed to get going again. I saw the sliding metal door of the loading dock just a few yards up. Shredded like foil and blackened around the edges.

Metal fragments scattered on the ground. Glinty trea-sure on a bed of masonry dust.

And something else.

A black-shirt. Prone. Blond crew cut. Pale, broad face. White eyes. Husky body stretched out, limp.

Two pieces of body. The trunk separated from the legs. Bifurcated by sliding-door shrapnel.

Closer to the door, another corpse, half buried in metal and offal. A charred head above hamburger. Four others, barely discernible, moist spots in the ash pile.

My gorge rose. I began to choke.

Chemical fumes.

The warehouse was a furnace, flames reaching to the ceiling, smoke thickening as it rolled toward us, a greasy tornado.

A black form emerged from the charcoal mass.

Ahlward, sooty and singed, jerking his head from side to side as if shaking off leeches.

Sighting us. Screaming. Lifting his big black gun.

I went for the largest hole in the shredded door, pulled Milo through it, slipping on the blood-slick floor, feeling the crunch of metal and bone beneath my shoes.

Outside. Fresh air. Gasoline-stink air.

The two of us lurched along the loading dock.

Fumes and flames poured out of the warehouse, out of shattered windows, the ravaged metal door. Shooting out of the gaping holes that had been blown in the wall.

Milo’s breathing was raw and labored. I pulled him down the stairs, into the parking lot.

An incoherent scream rose at our backs.

Ahlward out on the dock, highlighted by the burning building. Looking very small. Aiming. A true believer.

Gunfire.

A frog-song ratatat.

Didn’t know a pistol could make a sound like that.

Another burst. From our backs.

Trapped?

Frogs sang again.

I looked over my shoulder, saw Ahlward jerk and fall, saw the pistol go flying into the inferno.

The flames rolled out of the warehouse and ate him.

Dessert.

Then a voice, out of the darkness:

“You and your detective friend are safe, Dr. Delaware. I’ve saved you.”

35

He stepped forward, orange-lit by the fire, wearing a dark windbreaker and holding an assault rifle that looked too big for him. A complicated-looking scope had been mounted on the weapon. His thin hair was blowing. Embers fell all around him. There was a look of deep contentment on his face.

I said, “Mr. Burden—”

“Mahlon,” he said. “I’d say we’ve reached the appropriate degree of familiarity, wouldn’t you? Alex.”

Smile.

I saw Milo tense. I stood, rooted.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Burden. “I’m friend, not foe.”

He looked past me at the burning warehouse, gave the satisfied look of a Boy Scout who’d just rubbed two sticks together successfully. Over the roar and crackle I could still hear people screaming. Ashes fell onto my sweaty face, lacy, foul-smelling snowflakes.

Burden said, “You don’t look well, Detective Sturgis. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

Milo was working hard at taking in breath. In the shimmer of the firelight his bruises looked awful—congealed and livid as sloppy special effects.

Burden said, “Come on, Detective.”

Milo said, “Forget that.” Shaking his head and spreading his arms for balance. “Linda Overstreet. They’ve sent someone to her place. Gotta get to a phone, call it in.”

He took several lurching steps.

Burden said, “I’ll do you one better, Detective.” Snap of fingers. Another face out of the darkness. Early thirties, handsome, big walrus mustache over a clipped beard.

“Doctor,
you’ve
met Gregory Graff. Photographically. Here he is in the flesh. Gregory, help me with Detective Sturgis.”

Graff stepped forward, very big, very broad. A rifle similar to Burden’s was slung over his shoulder. He wore camouflage fatigues that looked as if they’d been French-laundered. His demeanor was pure concentration—a surgeon tying off a capillary.

He put one arm around Milo’s shoulder, the other on Milo’s elbow. Dwarfing Milo. Six five at least.

I took Milo’s other arm.

Milo tried to shake us off. “I’m okay, goddammit. Get me a phone!”

“This way,” said Burden. He turned his back on the inferno and began walking fast.

We followed him out of the parking lot, soot blowing in our eyes. Milo insisted on walking without assistance, but shakily, still breathing with effort. Graff and I stayed by his side. I kept looking at my friend. Finally his breathing regularized. For all the punishment Milo’d taken, he seemed in decent shape.

What shape was Linda in? I tried not to think of that, could think of nothing else.

Someone who knows how to bring out the best in a woman
. . .

My own breathing grew clogged. I fought for composure. We made our way through the darkness. Then a hideous tidal wave of sound—monsters at feeding time—rose behind us, and the lot was engulfed in bloody light.

Still moving, I looked back. Flames had burst through the roof of the warehouse and were shooting into the sky, bloodying it.

A few people had made it out to the landing dock, engulfed in flames, arms flapping and throwing off sparks. One of them dropped to the ground and rolled.

More screams.

Burden turned nonchalantly, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and squeezed off a frog-burst.

Milo said, “Forget that, goddammit. Move!”

“Covering our tracks,” said Burden. “Always sound strategy in this type of mission.” But he lowered the rifle and sprinted ahead.

Milo cursed and tried to walk faster. His legs gave out. Graff lifted him, slung him over his shoulder as if he were a straw man, and kept going without breaking step.

Milo protested and cursed. Graff ignored him.

“And
here
we are,” said Burden.

The sheet-metal gate was propped open by a crowbar. Just beyond it, parked at the curb, was a van. Dark-gray, one blackened window on each side, the roof coiffured with antennas. Tongues of reflected fire from afar created the illusion of a low-rider mural along the slab sides. Dancing mural . . . hell on wheels . . .

I heard the shriek of sirens from somewhere in the distance. It reminded me of something . . . a crack alley. . . . Dogs began howling.

Burden took something out of his pocket and pressed a button. Metallic click. The van’s rear doors swung open.

Milo looked up at the antennas. “You have a phone. Put me down and let me use the fucking thing!”

Burden said, “Gregory, see that the detective’s comfortable in the back.”

Graff lifted Milo, bride-over-the-threshold style, and slid him into the back of the van.

Milo disappeared from view, cursing. The doors slammed shut.

I grabbed Burden’s shoulder. “Stop playing games and let’s get to the phone!”

Burden smiled and peeled my fingers off. “Oh, this is no game, Doctor. I feel I’ve done a very fine job of saving your life. The least you could do would be to trust me.” He went around to the driver’s side and said, “Hop in.”

I opened the right-hand door. Two Recaro racing bucket seats in front; between them, a console bearing a mini computer and phone modem. I got in the passenger seat and lifted the phone. Dead.

Burden was behind the wheel.

I said, “Activate it, damn you!”

Burden was expressionless. He handed his rifle back to Graff and put a key in the ignition. I looked back; the rear of the vehicle was a carpeted shell. Milo lay on the floor, sharing space with several metal boxes and some electronic gear that I couldn’t identify. Graff knelt beside him, his big head brushing against the ceiling. A gun rack covered one wall of the shell. Semi-automatic handguns, rifles, something Uzi-like.

Milo forced himself up and grabbed the back of Burden’s seat. “You sadistic little asshole!”

Graff pulled him off and held his wrist.

Milo cursed.

Burden said, “Such gratitude,” and turned the key. The engine started and the dashboard became a light show: meters, dials, graphic displays, LED readouts. A row of circular dials on the front edge of the ceiling, parallel with the windshield. Still more dials on the console, on both sides of the computer, and surrounding the phone. Enough hardware to fill the cockpit of a 747.

Burden said, “Welcome to the official mobile testing lab of New Frontiers, Limited. Components come and go. I get free samples all the time, keep only the best.”

I thought of Linda. Now his narcissism was deadly. Fighting down the urge to strangle him, I said,
“Please.
It’s life and death.”

He touched dark space to the right of the steering wheel. A square yellow screen the size of a cocktail coaster appeared. Black numbers flashed: a two-digit combination followed by seven more numbers that kept changing. Below the screen a key pad. The light from the screen revealed two more phones, freehand, dash-mounted, their buttons banana-yellow.

“Police scanner,” said Burden, playing the pad with four fingers. “Programmable for any region of the world. Which in and of itself is nothing out of the ordinary. But this one has been modified—it can be used to interface with police dispatch systems and
place
calls.” Smile. Gorging himself on power. “Totally illegal. Please don’t tell on me, Detective Sturgis.”

I said, “For God’s sake, call it in!” and shouted Linda’s address.

“I know the address,” he said. “Would you like me to place the call or would you prefer to do it yourse—”

“Just do it!”

He clucked his tongue, punched another button that froze the numbers on the scanner, and picked up one of the dash phones.

“All West L.A. units,” he said in a voice not his own. “All West L.A. units and”—peering—“Eight A-twenty-nine. ADW in progress, possible attempt One-eighty-seven.” He rattled off street and number, specified Linda’s apartment. “Code Three. I repeat . . .”

The radio talked back via a speaker on the ceiling. A patrolman’s voice confirmed taking the call. Within seconds two more units had called in Code Six—assisting.

“There,” Burden said, pushing a button that darkened the dash, “that should take care of it.”

“Drive there, asshole,” said Milo.

“What about your injuries, Detective Sturgis?”

“Just get the fuck over there.”

Burden’s seat swiveled. He looked back.“Gregory?”

Graff lifted one of Milo’s arms, flexed it gently.

Milo said, “Get the fuck off me, Paul Bunyan. Drive, Burden, or I
will
bust you for something.”

Graff said, “Doesn’t look like anything’s broken, Mr. Burden.” A basso befitting his size. Good elocution. New England inflections.

The sirens grew louder.

Burden said, “The last thing I want is to be accused of medical negligence. Particularly with regard to an officer of the law.”

Milo said, “Get moving, you smug little fuck.”

Burden’s face turned stony in the dashlight. “I’ll put that down to shock, Detective.”

Milo cursed some more.

Burden’s face got harder.

I said, “Look, it’s been a long night for all of us. We appreciate what you’ve done—saving us. But let’s make it perfect by trying to save Linda too.”

He looked at me. “Perfect? No, I don’t think so.”

He sat with his hands on the steering wheel as the sirens grew deafening. Finally he fastened his seat belt, gave the van gas, and pulled away from the curb. Just as we turned out of the winding alley, the fire trucks came charging through.

I said, “Where are we?”

“Van Nuys,” Burden said. “That red light is Victory Boulevard.”

Milo said, “Shoot the light.”

Burden said, “Such a bad influence, Detective,” but he sped through the blackened intersection.

I said, “How about we turn the scanner on, hear what’s happening.”

He shook his head. “Not necessary. Have some faith, Doctor.”

At first I thought it just another power play, but a block later he said, “No doubt you’ll want to know how it was done. Your liberation.”

From the back, Milo said, “The fucking punch line.” He began to cough.

Graff said, “Here, drink some water.”

“Sure water is all it is, Paul?”

“That’s all it is,” rumbled Graff, babysitter-patient.

Burden said, “Detective Sturgis, you’re a hostile, ill-mannered man. Too many years of being on the outside?”

The therapist in me yearned to turn that back on him.

“Christ,” Milo said.

I heard him gulping, looked back, and saw Graff holding a canteen to his lips.

Burden said, “It’s water, all right. Pure spring water from Washington State. Artesian springs, water with a natural mineral composition miraculously matched to the body’s own electrochemical requirements. What page, Gregory?”

Slowing the van as he talked. The streets were desolate; clear sailing. I wanted to shove my foot down on the accelerator.

Graff said, “Seven, section two.”

“Beauty and Balance,” I said.

Burden said, “Very good, Alex.”

Another red light. Riverside. This time he stopped. “Let’s see, freeway or canyon—at this hour, I’d say freeway.”

He headed west.

I said, “Of course I want to know. How’d you do it?”

“Any hypotheses?”

“A few.”

“Let’s hear them.”

“For starts, you tapped my phone. The time you dropped in at my house.”

My very nice
home
. Asking to use the
facilities
so he could have time alone in the rear of the house. Crying and spilling his coffee in order to have time alone in the living room. Me adding to his worktime by waiting in the kitchen so that he could compose himself . . .