The Detonator Read online

  “I’m not sure she ever used the title journalist or anything else,” I say. “Research. I think she said she was doing research.”

  I’m not defending Alison. I’m more interested in keeping my wife’s suspicions at bay. Better that she just forget about Alison altogether. Better that she not have the slightest suspicion about my mistake. My crime against her love and trust.

  Ellen nods. “Scientists do research, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  The rest stop is now coming up fast on my right. My pulse is pounding, far faster than it should. I’m doing my best to remain calm. Like nothing is happening right behind us.

  “Aren’t you stopping here?” she interjects.

  “That’s the plan.”

  I’m doing almost eighty. The turn-off is only about three hundred feet on my right. The right lane splits off onto an exit ramp.

  “Ike,” Ellen says, voice raised a decibel, “you’re going to miss it.”

  I stay in my lane.

  “Ike Singer.” Her voice is louder, more anxious.

  The exit is only twenty feet away. It looks like I’m about to drive right past it. Until I suddenly and abruptly twist the wheel to the right, jerking the Suburban over the grassy meridian and onto the exit ramp.

  “What the hell are you doing, Singer?!”

  Henry jerks awake. “Are we dead?”

  The Suburban bounces while I toe tap the brakes.

  “Sorry, guys,” I say. “Guess I spaced out.”

  “Space Mountain,” Henry says. “That’s what you are, Dad. Ike Singer from Space Mountain.”

  “More like shithead behind the wheel,” Ellen grouses.

  “Mom said the S word.” Henry laughs.

  “Tattletale,” Ellen says. “I’m gonna make you take extra Geritol tonight, young man.”

  “Very funny, Mom. Haha.”

  I find an empty parking space, pull in, cut the engine. My pulse is still pounding, but at least I lost Alison.

  “Let’s go, all,” I insist. “Still a lot of road left to cover.”

  Opening the door, I slip on out of the Suburban, content to breathe in some fresh oxygen. But instead, my heart goes south. Because pulling into an empty space behind us is a silver BMW.

  Chapter 7

  “Let’s make this quick,” I say, opening up the back passenger’s side door, undoing Henry’s seatbelt.

  “I’m not a cripple, Dad. I can unbuckle my own seatbelt.”

  “What’s the rush, Ike?” Ellen says. “You gotta give us a chance to stretch our legs.”

  “Just want to get back on the road ASAP.” Taking hold of Henry’s hand, pulling him along.

  “Easy, Dad. Remember, I’m not as spry as I used to be.”

  I slow down, allow him to walk at his own pace. Sometimes Henry insists on doing everything himself. Then, a mere moment later, he’ll realize his limitations. It’s a difficult, if not contradictory, existence for him. Sometimes I get frustrated over it. But those are the times I need to catch myself. Rein myself in. Show a little patience and compassion.

  “What’s gotten into you?” Ellen whispers. “You’re suddenly Singer the very strange.”

  I breathe in, breathe out. Heart be still.

  “I’m sorry, guys,” I say. “Just contemplating heading back to work. You know how it can be.”

  “Boring,” she says. “Remember, you said it yourself. Finding hidden bombs is boring. But somehow safer since it’s the robot that gets blown up. Not you. Which, of course, I greatly prefer. I’ll take boring over blown to bits any old day.”

  Her sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed. But I know it’s her way of masking anxiety. And who can blame her? I wrap my arm around her shoulders, plant a kiss on her cheek.

  “I love you,” I say.

  “Get a room, kids!” Henry bellows.

  We come to the doors of the facility. I grab hold of the opener, open the door for Ellen and Henry.

  “Nathan’s Hot Dogs,” he says. “I’ll have two with mustard.”

  “I’ll take one,” Ellen says. “I’m famished.”

  “Okay,” I say, looking over my shoulder. For the moment I’ve lost Alison. Who knows, maybe she decided to move on to the next rest area after all. “I’ll meet you at the Nathan’s stand after I hit the bathroom. Henry, you coming?”

  “Right behind you, Dad.”

  Together, my son and I disappear into the men’s room.

  When we’re finished, we head back into the general area of the rest stop. Turning toward the Nathan’s Hot Dog stand, I spot Ellen. And the woman standing beside her.

  Alison Darling.

  Her smile is matched by Ellen’s. It’s a benign smile, filled with the surprise and wonder that can only come from running into someone you haven’t seen in years and years, not once in twenty-four hours, but twice.

  “Look who the cat dragged in,” Ellen says with a wink of her eye. Without her having to say it, I know she’s a little weirded out by Alison’s presence. If only she knew what I knew about Alison. About her father. About her mother. She would not only be weirded out. She’d be screaming at me. Hitting me. Leaving me. Leaving me for good. I might do the same if the tables were turned.

  “Well, hello there, Ike,” Alison says, hugging me tightly, planting a peck on my cheek. “Nice duds,” she adds, referring to the last remaining black and red Master Blasters T-shirt I’m wearing. “Strictly old-school, dude.”

  I stand stone stiff. No words. No signs of affection. Only rage, which of course, I’m forced to swallow.

  “Better make it look good,” she proceeds to whisper in my ear. “We wouldn’t want the wifey to know what happened, now would we.”

  It takes all the strength in my body, but I try my hardest to paint a smile on my face, but what I truly want to do is scratch her eyes out.

  “And hello there, Henry, my old friend,” Alison says, releasing me. Then, pressing her fingers up against her lips. “Errrr, well, you know what I mean.”

  “Hi to you too, young friend,” he says, happily. Innocently. “Are you having Nathan’s hot dogs too?”

  “I was certainly thinking about it.”

  “Dad, can Alison join us?”

  A pain throbs in my stomach. I shoot a look at Ellen. She finger-combs her dark hair, crosses arms over her chest. Nervously.

  “Henry,” she says, “Alison is very busy. I’m sure she wants to get home.”

  “Nonsense,” she says, “I’d love to join you guys for lunch. That is, if you’ll let me buy.”

  The throbbing in my stomach turns into yet another slow burn that starts from the tips of my toes and runs all the way up to my brain. Maybe there’s steam rising up off my scalp and I don’t even know it.

  I nod.

  “Sure thing,” I say, through grinding teeth. “Alison, lead the way.”

  Together, we get in line for Nathan’s Hot Dogs. Like one big happy family.

  Chapter 8

  We small talk our way through lunch. The benefits of Cape Cod over Maine. The shorter drive, the nicer weather (in general), the warmer ocean temps. But of course, Maine kicks ass when it comes to lobster. Hands down, you can’t beat State-O-Maine (as Henry calls it) for the freshest lobster in the world. Not that he’s ever been there. Or so he’s quick to admit.

  As hard as I try, I can’t take my eyes off of Alison, even for a full ten seconds. It’s as if she might belt out the truth about our shared past at any moment. She’s dressed more like an in-lander today than a beach-goer. Jeans, cowboy boots, loose black button-down shirt over a black bra. A plain silver necklace matches the silver bracelets on her left wrist. She keeps a pen in her pocket that I initially confused for her e-cig device. I’m guessing she wants to be prepared if she’s suddenly overcome with the urge to write something do
wn.

  Eventually, Ellen gets down to asking the one question that has baffled her since we left the Cape.

  “Alison,” she says, while taking a tiny bite of her ketchup-, relish-, and mustard-covered hot dog, “I could have sworn you said you were a journalist when you met us on the beach yesterday.”

  “I did?” she says, her own hot dog held in both hands, a small thin line of yellow mustard gracing hers. She takes a big bite out of it. “I think I might have said I was doing research.”

  Ellen swallows, contemplates a second bite, but decides against it.

  “I stand corrected,” she says. “My ears are getting as bad as my husband’s.” Then, “I must confess, I did a little checking up on Google to pass the time during the drive and I see you’re quite the scientist. A professor, even.”

  “Wow,” Henry says, mustard stuck to his lips, while he polishes off most of his second hot dog. “You’re a real professor? How come I didn’t know that, Mom?”

  “You were sleeping, kiddo.”

  “I am indeed a teacher, Henry,” Alison says. “An Explosives Engineering professor.” Then, holding up her free hand. “Correction. An associate professor. I’m only just getting started.”

  “So why say you’re a reporter?” Henry presses.

  I shift my focus to Alison. Is she shaken up by the question? By all appearances, not in the least. She calmly smiles, gives her head a slight shake so her soft hair falls behind her ear.

  “What I meant was, I’m researching a report on dangerous jobs that require daily contact with violent explosives. Sometimes I don’t communicate as clearly I should. That’s the problem with us lab rats. Long hours spent in solitude researching and experimenting. Plus, there’s a method to my madness. People like to talk about themselves especially when they think they’re going to be in the paper or on television. If you knew I was a scientist right off the bat, you might not have been so willing to engage,if you get my drift.”

  “Ahhh, classic bait and switch,” Ellen says. “You work on nano-bombs? Am I getting that right?”

  Alison chuckles. “Not exactly. But I do study nano-thermites. The super bombs of the future. Also, super bullets, if you can believe that.” She shifts her focus to me. “Something you might be interested in, Ike. Both as a bomb disposal man and a demolitions man.”

  I nod.

  “Bullets,” I say, playing along. “Wouldn’t the heat generated from a thermite round melt the gun barrel?”

  “Well, the bullet itself is more or less conventional.” Her eyes wide, like she’s finally inside her element, she pushes aside the Nathan’s garbage and spreads out a white napkin on the table. “You can’t even see the super-thermite tip with the naked eye. But a bomb is a bomb once it goes boom. Isn’t that right, Henry? You and I witnessed more than a few explosions and implosions back when we were little kids. Our dads had the greatest job in the world.” Her expression suddenly sours. “Until, well, you know…”

  A start in my heart. As if that was the segue she needed to start spilling the truth to my family. Instead, her spirits seem to suddenly lift.

  “I need a pen,” she says.

  “What about the one in your pocket, Alison?” I say.

  “Oh, it’s out of ink.” She looks over one shoulder, then the other until she spots what she needs. Getting up from the table, she goes to the counter, comes back with a pencil. She proceeds to sketch a firearm cartridge that appears fairly garden variety to me, aside from the tip which she darkens, as if to illustrate a very tiny, almost pinhead-sized warhead.

  “And the gun you fire it out of?” I press.

  She exhales, bites down on her bottom lip. “We use the most durable, heavyweight model handgun we could find currently manufactured in the global ballistics marketplace. Something that should, conceivably anyway, handle a very, very high-caliber round.”

  “There’s still the issue of propulsion heat,” I offer.

  She peers up at me quick, like I’m pressing too hard.

  “We’re dealing with it,” she says. “For now, it’s imperative that only one round at a time be fired from the gun. Anything more than one round…or should I say, anything fired rapidly…and the thermite charge will overheat and explode in the shooter’s face while evaporating his or her shooting hand.” She grins as if something’s funny. “In fact, that kind of explosion would probably cut the shooter in half at the waist or at the very least, blow his or her head clean off.”

  She folds up the napkin, stuffs it into her chest pocket selfishly, like it’s a government secret.

  Henry swallows the last of his hot dog, looks up at us with a pensive expression. He issues me the nod and wink which I automatically interpret as, I need to use the men’s room, now!

  Poor Henry. Because of his advanced progeria, he no longer produces some of the digestive proteins and amino acids we normally take for granted as adults, decades away from old age. The result is a fragile digestive tract.

  “Let’s go, partner,” I say. “Race you there.”

  He gets up slowly. Soon, he will need a walker. The realization brings tears to my eyes. But I hold them back. Ellen and I have become experts at holding back the tears.

  “Might need your help on this one, Dad,” he says.

  “How much is it worth to you?” I say, taking his arm, gently helping him to his feet.

  “How much do I owe you so far?”

  “I haven’t added it up. But it’s got to be somewhere around a million and a half. Give or take.”

  “Tell you what,” he says, “I’ll leave the entire estate to you and Mom.”

  “Not if we go first,” I say.

  Alison laughs. But nothing’s funny.

  Talking the way we do to one another…making fun of the situation we’ve been dealt. It might seem crass or even insensitive to some. Certainly we’re not the PC family. For Henry, his mother, and me, it’s like our defense mechanism. A way we let the cosmos know, without question, that even though my son is getting his ass kicked physically, he really can’t be beat. Not by a long shot.

  “Off we go,” I say. “Alison, good seeing you again. Don’t be a stranger.”

  She shoots me a wink. “Glad you said that. I was hoping to come around from time to time, maybe spend some time with Henry.”

  My boy turns. “I’d love that, Professor Alison. I don’t get to hang out much with people my own age. If you know what I mean.”

  “I do, Henry,” she says. “I’m not all that much older than you.” Then, turning to Ellen. “Why don’t you give me your cell number and I’ll put it in my phone.”

  “Absolutely,” Ellen says.

  “Ellen!” I bark.

  The two women shoot me a look.

  “Sorry,” I say, quickly toning it down. “I was just going to say, we can get in touch with Alison easily enough. You don’t have to do that.”

  “Nonsense,” Ellen says, eyes wide, like, What the hell is wrong with you, Singer? “What are we going to do? Send out a homing pigeon, Ike?”

  Alison shoots me another wink, her lips pressed together. Her face says, Gotcha!

  Henry and I turn toward the bathroom as my blood begins to boil.

  I hope never to see Alison again. See her alive, that is.

  Chapter 9

  She exits the facility while the nice little family deals with Henry’s overly sensitive stomach. The old boy’s timing could not have been more perfect. What she must do, she must do quickly. But she must also do it alone, far from the prying eyes of the Singers.

  Outside in the parking lot, she passes by the many vacationers and travelers. The cute nuclear families on the way to the beach are pale-faced but excited to the point of giddiness. The families on their way home from vacation, however, are tanned and in some cases burnt. The energy is sucked from their souls while all th
at awaits them is the daily routine and more credit card debt. It’s the latter group of people who are in no special rush.

  She often wonders what it might have been like to have a family of her own. What it might have felt like if she’d been brave enough to bring to term the offspring of the man who raped her. She wonders if the child would have been sweet and gentle, or more like a monster, like his father.

  She recalls the horror of first discovering her pregnancy. The pregnancy test kit she snuck into the bathroom, peeing onto the blue plastic thermometer-like test indicator stick. She was just fourteen years old. She still shudders at the helplessness, knowing she could never approach her foster mother with the news or else face the woman’s wrath. “You tempted my husband,” the short, overweight, salt-and-pepper-haired woman would accuse while lashing out with fists. “You forced yourself on him.”

  She couldn’t go to her mother. The woman was already close to death from drink and drugs and depression. Her only alternative had been to visit the family court on her own, to request a meeting with the judge who presided over her case. A judge who not only worked for the appellate court, but who also made the time to serve on family court as his civic duty. When she stood before him in his court and she expressed, in vivid detail, her mistreatment, the judge promised a thorough review, only to inform her two weeks later that there was nothing the court could do to alter her living situation. After several interviews with social services, her foster parents were deemed good people and she should feel lucky to be taken in by them. She should learn to follow their rules.

  “Is rape and abuse a rule?” she screamed before being forcefully removed from the courtroom, fully aware of the beating that awaited her when she returned home later that evening.

  Still she had the baby to think of, and still she would not give up. She visited a priest and explained the dire situation to him. But all he could manage was to shake his head and insist she go home, pray for God’s mercy and forgiveness. A child was a wonderful thing, regardless of how it came into this world.

  Finally, in a desperate attempt to put an end to the matter once and for all, she scraped together enough babysitting money to hop the bus to Planned Parenthood down on Lark Street in the center of the city. There she personally spoke to the woman in charge. A woman who seemed to speak down at her, as if disbelieving her fiction about a rape, about being chased around the woods in the night by an evil foster father. A woman who seemed to believe that her pregnancy was more the result of carelessness and of relying on the system as a means of contraception. Still, the woman planted a smile on her face and agreed to help her. Help her for no cost. In the end, they terminated the pregnancy and then politely showed her the door.