The cop turned to the woman policeman. She tilted her head.
“Me neither,” she added. “I hate those old trailers. Fire traps and big satellite dishes. Total community eyesore. Wish the town would condemn them. And when we do get called out there, it’s usually domestic disturbances-you know, someone drinking too much, starts beating on their spouse or the kids. Very poor folks for the most part-and it isn’t like this is a rich community, like Williamstown.”
“When were you looking to knock on his door?”
“Now.”
The man nodded. “Well, the young guy-our newest officer-is on patrol and he’s probably bored already. I’ll give him a call. Donnie’s just two weeks on the force-hell, there’s only four of us anyways-but he can use the experience.”
“That would be great,” Susan Terry said. She had the distinct impression that newly minted officer Donnie would catch all the pain-in-the-butt assignments for some time.
Moth and Andy Candy kept quiet.
I didn’t want to take this way out, but after all that’s happened it seems reasonable. None of it was MY FAULT. But those whose fault it was have all been taken care of.
Student #5 had painstakingly written each word with his left hand before leaving the single sheet of paper on the dashboard of his truck. He doubted that a real forensic handwriting examiner would be fooled, but he also doubted whether the local cops would have the money in their tight budget to hire some big-city expert. Before heading back into the trailer, he also took the time to spread around a dozen bright red tablets of pseudoephedrine on the floorboards and leave an open, half-empty box of baking soda on the passenger seat.
He heard a muffled cough from the bedroom. He didn’t turn that way; instead he continued to keep his eyes focused on the roadway down to his trailer. He had tried to invent some early-warning system, but hadn’t been able to come up with something that he thought would be reliable, so he was forced to keep watch, even though he was tired and his muscles ached both with strenuous work and tension.
Timing, he knew, was critical.
Three minutes. Maybe four. It could be a little less. Not much chance it would be more. They will pull in. Stop. Get out. Survey the front. Then approach. One one thousand, two one thousand, three… He counted seconds in his head, envisioning the scene in front of him.
He went over each detail. It was a little like the orchestration of a play in football. This player goes this direction while another takes a different route, everyone following a specific plan. Offensive success. Defensive confusion. He smiled. Coaches in football forever admonished their players, Do Your Job. The cliché was, Everyone on the same page.
Student #5 had pantomimed every action he expected to take, carefully clocking each motion until he was at four minutes. He was a little nervous because there didn’t seem to be any leeway for the unexpected-and one thing killing had taught him was to always keep the unexpected expected.
He reassured himself: You’ve prepared wisely. It will happen as you imagine it will.
The day before he had purchased seven canisters of propane-the sort used for outside gas grills. He had also acquired a half-dozen five-gallon plastic containers of gasoline, some plastic tubing, and glass bottles. He had carefully placed all of these in locations throughout the trailer where they couldn’t be immediately spotted. The large fan he’d obtained was to shift scents and fuels through the trailer rapidly.
Home becomes fake meth lab. Meth lab becomes bomb. Simple. Effective. The sort of basic plan that someone living in this run-down world might come up with. He had a sudden memory of the late, great Jimmy Cagney in White Heat standing on the roof of the burning oil tank: “Top of the world, Ma!”
When he looked up, he saw two cars approaching. The first was a marked Charlemont patrol car, the second a small rental. He could see three shapes in that second car.
Now! he told himself.
Without hesitation, he spun into action.
Young Donnie was a local boy less than a month out of police training academy after two tours in Afghanistan, unsure of whether he’d made the right decision in joining the hometown force instead of holding out for the more sophisticated and adventurous duties of a state trooper. The Charlemont Police Department job consisted primarily of giving out speeding tickets to folks who failed to notice that the town’s limit was 25, rousting local high school kids from hanging out and smoking pot behind the church, and occasionally acting as a referee in a beer-fueled husband-wife argument. He looked at his future and saw a thickening waist, a modest house, a day care operator wife, two kids, and the same old thing day in, day out. He didn’t like this vision.
When he’d received the radio call to accompany a big-city Miami prosecutor to a potential homicide case witness’s house, he’d leapt at the chance. This task seemed much more in line with what he’d hoped becoming a policeman would entail.
He’d never been to Miami. He imagined it to be always sunny and warm and filled with unusual crimes, drugs, guns, desperate criminals, and cops who frequently unholstered their sidearms. Shoot-outs, supermodels and high-speed chases-a television-show version of the city that while not precisely accurate, wasn’t exactly untrue, either. So he made a point of reminding himself to ask the lady prosecutor about policemen’s job opportunities down in Dade County after she finished interviewing the man in the trailer. Get out of Sleepytown and head to Dodge, he told himself.
He was driving slowly so that the trio in the car behind him could keep up.
On his radio, he called the main office. “Hey, Sergeant,” he said briskly. “We’re arriving at that location now.”
“Ten-four,” came the curt response.
This was, he thought, the most interesting thing that had happened to him in days.
Turn on the fan. It oscillated back and forth. Humming.
Spill the gasoline containers. Liquid sloshed across the floor.
Open the propane tanks wide. They hissed as the gas leaked out.
Kill the pilot lights on the stove. Rip out the flex tube that carried more propane from the large old tank outside. Kitchen explosion imminent.
Dash to the bedroom with a gallon jug of 100-proof vodka. Pour it over Homeless Guy. Open the propane tank Homeless Guy can’t see from his position, tied into the chair. More gasoline. On the bedding. On the floor. On the walls.
Fast. Fast. Fast.
“Okay, Homeless Guy, this is the big moment,” Student #5 said. Before the man had a chance to respond, Student #5 jammed a gas-soaked rag into his mouth, gagging him. Now you will understand: No chance; there never was a chance. He didn’t look to see-although he knew it was there-panic in the man’s face.
He took four votive candles and lit them with a safety match, hoping that the fumes instantly filling the room wouldn’t explode in that moment. He breathed a small sigh of relief when they didn’t. He balanced the candles on the man’s quivering legs.
“I wouldn’t let those drop,” Student #5 said.
Of course, that was an impossible suggestion. They would fall. It was inevitable.
He switched on the tape recorder.
Cries of “Help me!” filled the room.
Then he took the fishing line attached to the shotgun trigger, carefully tied it to the back of the door handle, and closed the door behind him.
Move! he told himself. They will be approaching the front door.
One minute. Two. Three. He had lost track of the time and hoped that his practice runs were close to the real thing. He felt a little like a sprinter in a track meet: hours, days, months, and years of training for ten seconds of flight.