He placed the knocker carefully in the cup, so as not to jar it, the fuse dangling about three and a half inches over the lip of the cup, about five seconds’ worth. With the razor blade he split the end of the fuse, spreading it like a flower till its central vein of black powder showed.
He reached for the medicine bottle of grease. He began to pour it slowly into the soap cup — smiling to himself as he did; here was where Roger shined — here was what separated the pete-men from the boys: you had to have timing better than Bob Hope, to judge if the safe was drinking the grease right. And Roger had that sense of timing. The ability to make sure the knocker went off just as the last of the nitro was draining from the cup into the safe door.
Quickly, he lit three kitchen matches at once, producing a prodigious flame, which he touched to the fuse, and took cover twenty feet away, behind a desk.
He sat on the indoor-outdoor carpeting, his back to desk drawers, and covered his ears with pressed fingers; but he enjoyed the ka-WHOOM of the safe blowing.
He stood. He walked through the smoke to the safe. Its doors were swinging on its hinges. He smiled. Perfect. He wouldn’t be needing the crowbar.
He glanced inside at the two bins of cash, tens and twenties, amid computer circuitry. The money could be gathered later. Right now he had two more safes to blow, the little night deposit safes which Nolan said would probably hold more money than Presto-Change-O, given the Christmas shopping season.
He put his tools back in the duffel bag and moved to the next safe and began again.
The explosion, the third of the night, was the loudest yet, and jarred Jon, who was out of hot chocolate and a little drowsy in the cab of the Leech Bros, truck. He decided there was no getting used to occasional explosions. No way not to jump in his seat.
A face appeared in the window next to him and he jumped in his seat again. It wasn’t an explosion, but it sure was surprising.
It was also Cindy Lou.
Her big blue eyes were red and puffy, apparently from crying, and she seemed about to cry again. Then she disappeared, hopped back down to earth, or anyway the pavement of the mall parking lot.
Jon rolled down the window and cold rushed in as he looked out, looked down at her. “What are you doing here?”
She was in the denim jacket again, which against this cold snap was no defense, and her hands were buried in its pockets, and her teeth were chattering.
“We gotta talk,” she said, looking up at him.
“Get in on the other side,” he said, and rolled the window back up.
He reached over and opened the door for her and she climbed aboard.
“It’s warm in here,” she said.
“But it’s a cold world, Cindy Lou,” he said. “How did you get here?”
“Walked.”
“From where? The Holiday Inn?”
She nodded curtly. Added, “It’s not far.”
“Why did you do that? Why are you here?”
She looked at him and her lower lip was trembling. The cold had nothing to do with it.
She said, “I’m afraid... I’m confused... I been up all night... thinking...”
He touched her nearer arm. “Cindy Lou — what is it?”
She gave him a look that was part innocence and all yearning. “Did you buy that bus ticket like you said? Or were you shinin’ me on?”
“I bought the ticket. One-way to L.A.”
She pouted. “I probably missed the bus. I already missed the boat.”
“It’s an open ticket. It’s waiting at the window for you. You can take the first available bus out.”
Firmly, now, she said, “I’m gonna use that ticket.”
“Good for you.”
She looked at her lap. “My daddy’s a terrible man. It’s a hard thing to know, but I know it. Part of me still loves him, and maybe that’s why I’m scared to stick around with him. Maybe... maybe I’d like it, if he did it to me.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I don’t either. Ah, shit, I don’t know what I think. I just know I gotta leave.”
“What’s going on, Cindy Lou?”
She squinched her face up. “Way after midnight, Lyle come back to the motel room. He was bleeding. He had me help him wash up some.”
“He looks pretty bad, even so.”
“He was all bloody on his face.”
“Cindy Lou. Did he kill her?”
She paused. Then she nodded.
“Shit,” Jon said. Tears came, at once; he fought them.
“I asked him what happened to the girl,” she said, a whimper in her voice, “and he said she was dead. I asked him if he killed her and he tried at first to make out like it was an accident. But then he owned up to it.”
“Jesus fuck.”
She raised her hands — they made tiny fists and she pummeled the air. “I started to hit him and hit him and he got all confused. He didn’t understand why I was so mad at him. Then he said he was afraid Daddy was going to be mad, too.”
“Yeah. Lyle lost his birthday gun.”
That startled her. “How did you know?”
Jon just shook his head. He wiped the wetness from his eyes.
“He said he’d tell me the truth,” she said, “if I didn’t tell Daddy.”
“What’s the truth?”
“He was supposed to kill the girl, but she ran away. She put up a struggle, and he lost his gun. But he finally caught up with her. He left her body at the bottom of a well.”
“Goddamn!” Jon said, and smashed a fist heel-first into the dashboard.
“Don’t be mad at me,” Cindy Lou said, pitifully. “I didn’t do it.”
Jon swallowed; worked at controlling himself. He looked at her and she was a cute kid, a good kid, in spite of it all; he felt a sudden rush of warmth toward her and touched her face with his hand.
“You didn’t have to come tell me, Cindy Lou. You didn’t have to come here and tell me at all.”
She shrugged, rather helplessly. “I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid I waited too long. See... Lyle admitted him and Daddy were going to kill you and the other man, too. Real soon.”
21
Five A.M.
It would be dawn soon.
They were gathered at the final loading dock, an open cement garagelike area within the sprawling I. Magnin warehouse, a back-room catacomb of boxed merchandise, stacked and shelved. The last dollies and hand trucks and carts bearing microwave ovens and VCRs and TVs, taken from this department store, were being wheeled toward the trailer of the third, the final, semi. Cole Comfort stood at the right of the truck, watching, relishing it; you could see in his face, in his eyes, that this night had been his life’s dream come true. Lyle was at the wheel of a hand truck of unidentifiable boxes. Fisher had a cart piled with boxed Cuisinarts and other small but relatively big-ticket kitchen appliances. A pair of Leeches were within the truck, packing things tight, making as much room as possible for still more stolen stuff. Another Leech was having a smoke over at left. Winch and Dooley had one of the several suitcases of cash from the bank up on a waist-high stack of boxes, looking in at the green stuff, contemplating how much it would all add up to — checks had been left behind at the bank, just so much worthless paper on the indoor-outdoor carpeting, some of it scattered under the Christmas tree as if by a sloppy Santa. Everybody seemed sort of wasted, understandably so, but a little high, as well. Things were winding down.
Nolan accessed the scene. He stood at the outer edge of the open cement area, I. Magnin boxed merchandise stacked on rows of ceiling-high shelving behind him. One hand, his right, was behind him, too.
This, he thought, would be as good a time as any.