The Detonator Read online

  I shake my head, free of the cobwebs. In all the confusion, I just assumed he was lying right beside me. I look around but he’s nowhere to be found.

  “He’s not here. The blast must have knocked us out.”

  “Henry!” Ellen screams. “Henry! Henry!”

  I shout for him.

  My phone chimes.

  Down on my knees, I find it on the floor. It’s covered in dust and the glass screen is cracked and chipped in the corner. But it still works.

  Knock Knock

  My stomach sinks. Index finger trembles as I tap the screen.

  Who’s there? I text.

  Henryis

  Pulse pounding, head aching, heart breaking.

  Henryis who?

  Henryis with me now say buh bye asshole

  Another chime and another text.

  It’s a picture.

  I see Henry, on his knees, mouth covered in duct tape, hands taped at the wrists behind his back, that mini pipe bomb still strapped to his chest. He’s bathed in white flashlight.

  “She’s got him,” I say, the words tearing themselves from the back of my throat. “Alison has taken our boy.”

  Chapter 45

  Text: What do you want Alison?

  Revenge.

  Your mother…she knew what she was doing.

  A pause in the communication. Like she’s mulling over her mother’s responsibility in the affair in her warped brain. Like maybe there remains the possibility that she’ll call this whole thing off, return Henry to us unharmed, turn herself in to Detective Miller and the APD.

  The phone chimes, vibrates. Another Alison text.

  No police. If I see police, Henry dies. If I see the army, Henry dies. If I see FBI, Henry dies. If I see Home Sec, Henry dies. If I see Santa Claus, or Jesus, or Elvis, Henry dies…Tonight I’m going to test you, push you to your limits. See for realz just how good the bomb sniffer really is…We’re going to prove to Ellen and Henry and the world, just how frail and weak and afraid is the Master Blaster. The coward who ran away from my mother. The coward who killed my father and my brother and my child

  I text, Tell me where you are

  Knock Knock

  The words, like a swift kick in the gut.

  Who’s there? I answer.

  Waitforfur

  Waitforfur who?

  Waitforfurtherinstructions dummy

  I stand, go for my gun. But it’s gone. She must have taken it when she nabbed Henry.

  Ellen stands. Wipes tears from her eyes. “Please tell me what’s happening and why Alison Darling is torturing us.”

  I look her in the eye.

  “Ellen.” I swallow. “I haven’t been entirely truthful.”

  Chapter 46

  It only takes a few minutes to spill the truth.

  An old, rotting, festering truth…

  But when I’m done telling her everything, she drops to her knees, raises her hands to her face, begins to weep far harder than before.

  “How could you?” Her voice deep, guttural, hateful. “How could you do this to me? Do this shit to us?”

  My heart sinks. So low that if I were to take a step forward, I would stomp all over it, like a gut-shot deer trampling all over its own intestines.

  “It was a long time ago, El. Right after Henry was born. Immediately after. You know the effect it had on me…on us…I was in a dark place. A place so dark I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face.”

  She wipes her eyes, raises herself up slowly. Painfully.

  “You’re not reading me,” she says, her voice wavering between a whisper and an almost all-out scream. “What I’m trying to get through to you is this: How could you have known that Alison was out to get us, and not be honest with me? Get us for your mistake. Now look at what’s happened. Our son is abducted. There’s a bomb strapped to his chest, Ike. A fucking bomb. For all we know there are bombs planted all over the house. All over the yard. That as soon as she’s a safe enough distance away, Alison is going to flick a switch and blow the place to bits with us inside it. And all because you had to put your dick inside her mother during one of the most difficult times of our lives.”

  She raises her hand, slaps me. Hard. I feel the pain, but it doesn’t seem to register. Like my nerve endings are no longer operable. Coming from outside the house, the sounds of the barn collapsing under the weight of the now charred wood. The crash resonates in my ears, my head, my heart.

  “I didn’t want to alarm you. I thought I could handle the situation all by myself. Take control of it.”

  “Tell that to the poor woman she killed outside the Planned Parenthood office. Tell that to the other two men who were nearly killed.” She slaps me again. This time, I don’t feel it at all. “Tell that to Henry, you son of a bitch.”

  Sadness and anger mix like a lethal soup. I grab her by the shoulders.

  “Look it, Ellen. What I did…not telling you about Alison, about her mother and what happened all those years ago…I did out of concern for our safety. I love you. I love Henry. I’d never do anything to put you at risk. You have to know that.”

  Her eyes wide. Teeth clenched. If her frustration and anger were daggers I’d be bleeding out all over the wood floorboards.

  Cell phone chimes inside my pocket.

  “No, I don’t know that,” she goes on. “You didn’t say anything about Alison not because you wanted to keep us safe, but because you were afraid of my reaction. You were afraid I would kick you out for cheating on me. For living a lie for as long as we have. That’s why you didn’t say anything. So don’t pretend I don’t know what your motives are. And do not, above all else, make it sound like you’re playing the martyr, the hero, the knight in shining armor trying to take the bullet for the family.” She inhales, exhales. “I will do everything in my power to help you find our son. But from this moment forward, you are nothing to me.”

  The blood in my veins feel like it’s been replaced with embalming fluid. It is cold realization. My wife is absolutely right. I release her shoulders, stare down at the tops of my boots.

  The phone chimes again. I pull it out with a trembling hand. A missed call from Miller. He’s left a voice message. I dial in the code that will retrieve it.

  “Ike. There’s been an explosion reported near your address. We sent out a squad car. Everything all right out there? Check in, pal. Check in ASAP.”

  If I see police, Henry dies…Alison’s exact words.

  “Who was it? Was it the police?” Ellen begs, her voice softer somehow. Perhaps more accepting of our situation. However bleak.

  “Miller. He’s sent a squad car.”

  Her eyes go wide. “That a good thing, right, Ike? We need the police.”

  Heart pounding, pulse drumming.

  “Listen, El. All it will take is a quick text and the police and SWAT will be on this place like flies on the dead. But we just can’t take the chance.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because Alison explicitly said no police or Henry dies. We just can’t risk it. She’s psychotic. We have no choice but to go after him on our own.”

  “And why should I trust you?”

  Looking her in the eyes. “Because I’m all you’ve got.”

  My focus drifts to the burning barn. A series of sparks fly out from it as the flames begin to burn out, now that the old dry wood is all but consumed.

  “You need to put some clothes on,” I add. “We need to do something. We need to go find Henry now.”

  She bites down on her bottom lip, brushes past me with cold contempt, and heads back upstairs to get dressed.

  Chapter 47

  She stares up at a brilliant night sky made more brilliant by the crisp, cool country air. The kind of clear sky you look for on the eve of destruction. Or
, in this case, the implosion of a ten-story building like the Wellington Hotel. It’s also the kind of night that makes her think. Reminisce. About the things she’d rather forget. But at the same time, things she wants never to forget.

  Her foster father.

  The first one. The one who went after her. The short, stocky, solidly built man with the bald head and the small brown eyes. The one who always smelled of body odor morning until night when he drank himself to sleep. The one who impregnated her.

  What was his name?

  How could she ever forget his name?

  David. Such a plain name for such an evil man.

  She looks up at the sky. She doesn’t want to remember, but she can’t help but remember.

  David taking long walks with her in the woods. By the light of the moon, or so he would say. A night just like this one. A bright round white illuminating moon with which you could see in the dark of night, even inside the thick tree cover. David was a bit of a prankster. An evil prankster. Because after he’d walk her out into the woods back behind their house across the river in Chatham, he’d begin to lay his hands on her. Naturally she’d resist. But this made David mad. Happy too. Mad and happy. Judging by the smile on his round, scruffy face and the big purple vein that popped out of his neck like he swallowed a live snake.

  He’d grab her arm, run his tongue up and down the smooth white skin. Then, letting her go, he’d tell her to run.

  “Run, rabbit,” he’d say. “Run rabbit run, like your life depends upon it.”

  Of course, she’d run. And soon, when she’d hear him howling at the bright night moon, she’d feel a cold shiver run up and down her backbone, and she’d run even faster.

  “The big bad wolf is coming!” David would shout. “The big bad wolf is going rabbit hunting. And tonight, you—you little succulent creamy cunt—you are the furry rabbit.”

  Chapter 48

  To be on the safe side, I wait for her at the bottom of the stairs, Maglite in hand. Maybe Alison has wired the house to blow or maybe she hasn’t. But her last text tells me she is not about to blow Ellen or me up anytime soon. She’s got something far more creative in store for us. But all we need to be concerned about is getting our son back. Then, and only then, can we get the hell out of here.

  God willing.

  When Ellen comes back down a couple minutes later, she’s wearing jeans, a long-sleeved denim shirt, and a pair of tan lace-up boots. Her long hair is pulled back in a ponytail.

  “What’s the next move?” she says, acid in her voice. “This is your show, right, Singer?”

  “We need to figure out a way to leave the house and search for Henry.”

  “So why don’t we just leave through the front door?”

  “No,” I insist. “You said it yourself, there could be charges set all over the house. Chances are the house is booby-trapped. At the very least, we can only assume she’s watching us, a remote detonator gripped in her claw.”

  “What if we take a chance and call Miller back?”

  “Alison insisted no cops. How many times I gotta tell you that? The first sign of a cop car, or a cop, Henry will die.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “She’s already committed murder tonight. The first one is always the hardest.”

  “She’s not the only one who’s killed something tonight. Murdered something special.”

  “Okay,” I say, “fair enough, El. But we cannot take a chance on calling Miller into this. As it is, he’s already sent out a cruiser.”

  I go to the far window on the opposite side of the stone fireplace, look out on the fire. Alison is nowhere to be found. What the hell are we going to do? We can’t just stay in here knowing the place could erupt at any second. My poor sickly son. He hasn’t got long to go as it is, and now his mother and father can’t even decide on a plan.

  Sirens. Coming from the direction of the city.

  Ellen and I turn to one another. Lock eyes.

  “Police,” I say.

  “Alison will hear them, Ike.”

  “Gotta find a way to turn them back.”

  I go to the front door, put my hand on the closer.

  “Singer,” Ellen says, “what happens to Henry if the police get too close?”

  Then, a brilliant flash followed by a short, sharp blast. It’s the tragic answer to Ellen’s question.

  Chapter 49

  Another fireball. This one coming from the opposite side of the property. By the looks of it, at the start of the long driveway. The entire house shudders.

  My phone chimes, vibrates.

  I pull it from my pocket. Open the text.

  Knock Knock

  Who’s there?

  Crispybacon

  Crispybacon who?

  Crispybacon smells like dead cops

  I didn’t call them

  Lover boy gets a mulligan. But I see another cop, Henry smells like crispybacon. What’s left of him. Get it?

  Hands shaking, phone about to slip through my fingers.

  I gaze at Miller’s missed call, thumb the text option, type in All good here. No explosions. Trying to get some sleep. See you in the morning.

  Maybe the homicide detective will buy my lie. Maybe he won’t. But I have to at least try. Anything else is just too risky.

  The phone chimes again. I expect a reply from Miller, but I get something else instead. A series of photos. Photos of Henry. One snapped with him facing the camera. Another from the side, and yet another from the back. I can’t tell where he is, because the background is almost entirely blacked out, like Alison hung up a black bed sheet for a background. His hands are still taped behind his back, his legs taped at the ankles. There’s a piece of tape covering his mouth. The super nano-thermite explosive device is also still strapped to his chest.

  I’m not sure the purpose of the photos, other than to torture Ellen and me.

  Another photo arrives. This one a close-up of the IED’s digital timing device. 4:00. Glance at my wristwatch. 2:30 in the AM.

  I do the math.

  “She’s giving us one and a half hours,” I say.

  “One and a half hours for what, Singer?”

  “To find Henry.”

  “And if we don’t make it in time?”

  The oxygen escapes my lungs. My throat constricts suddenly, like I swallowed something I’m deathly allergic to.

  “You’re not going to answer me, are you?” she adds.

  “Do I need to?” Me, forcing the words.

  The phone chiming again. Vibrating. Tormenting.

  I open the text.

  Knock Knock

  I want to throw the phone against the wall, shatter it. As if the action will crush Alison’s slim little body, make her bleed to death.

  Who’s there? I text.

  Karmais

  Karmais who?

  Karmais a bitch. But revenge is sweet

  “What is she saying?”

  “It’s one of her knock-knock jokes.”

  Ellen exhales. I can feel the anger building up in her. Anger at me, at Alison. The need for her own brand of revenge.

  I text, When I find you I will kill you

  Alison: Sticks and stones

  Me: As God is my judge

  Her response: Time is ticking. Let’s see how good you are bomb disposal man. Let’s see if the Master Blaster is a Master Life Saver. But be careful where you step. Who knows the dangers that lurk in these woods

  I finger the green phone-shaped symbol that will allow me to call her directly. I do it. But all I get is a computerized answering service.

  Shove the phone back into my pocket. “We have to go get him, El. We have to find Henry before she does something bad. Worse than she’s already done.”

  “But how?
What if the house is rigged to blow the second we begin to step outside the door?”

  “We have no other options. We have to do something or for certain he’ll die.”

  “Where do we begin to look?”

  “She said in her text that danger lurks in the woods.”

  “The woods between here and Thatcher Park, Ike?” It’s a question.

  “Only makes sense for her to take him there. That’s why it’s so black in the photos.”

  “But if we have to watch our every step, we won’t get three feet before we both die.”

  “It’s amazing we’re not dead already.”

  “Singer, what the hell do we do?” Ellen shouting, her hands clenched into fists.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I spot my Suburban outside. It doesn’t look any worse for wear even with the barn having been torched.

  “I have an idea,” I say.

  Chapter 50

  Ellen follows me down into the basement. There’s a long counter pressed up against the far wall, and above it, a peg board where my tools are hung. Set out on the counter is my typewriter. The old World War Two–era Remington manual handed down to me by my late grandfather. Placed beside it, a stack of index cards. The cards Alison used to plant on the three bomb victims earlier tonight.

  At the far end of the wall to my right, directly under the den, is a new, rust-colored Bilco door with a small wood staircase in front of it that leads up to the house exterior.

  “We need those metal doors, El. Grab the hacksaw on the wall over the tool counter.”

  She does it. I grab the hacksaw, set it onto the first of the wood steps leading up to the Bilco doors. Pulling the Maglite from my pocket, I shine the white beam onto the doors, concentrating on the narrow spaces that exist between the edges of the doors and the box frame. Since the farmhouse is old, and no longer entirely level, the fit of the doors was never entirely airtight, which means I can see through the narrow cracks by shining the LED light on them.

  “Ellen,” I say. “On the counter, you’ll find a Leatherman. Can you get it for me?”

  She goes to the counter, comes back with the Leatherman.

  “Open up the blade.”

  “Please,” she says, agitated.

  “Pretty please.”

  She opens the blade, then hands it to me. Sticking the blade slowly, gently, almost surgically into the separation between door panel and frame, I’m able to feel the wire.