01 Summoned-Summoned (15 page)

I'm kind of a coward that way.

But that is only part of my interest. I can't shake the thought that if I could get my life back to normal—with less wishes to fulfill—I could figure out how to keep Syd. I've never wanted something so much. Not enough to throw all my previous self-imposed rules out the window. 

I can't keep this relationship with Syd while I'm hopping from one brutal crime to another, though. She isn't going to tolerate my antics forever. I need to find out how long this situation is going to last, and if I can hurry it along. Yet anyone who would know what's happening isn't going to tell me.

Except . . . 

I halt in my step then lean back and peer down the hallway.

There is one option. 

I stalk to Silvia's door and knock.

After a moment, the door opens. 

Her eyes widen. “Dimitri? Daddy summoned you?”

“Yeah, he didn't want to wait to tee off.” I push past her and close the door. “What's going on with him?”

She lets down her dark hair and ties it back up. I'm sure it is for my benefit, but I don't see any difference.

“Going on with what? I don't play golf, Dim,” she says. “You know that.”

I roll my eyes. “We weren't really playing golf. I'm asking about the one and a half million dollar donation to the hospital.”

She groans and flops down on her bed. “Don't even get me started on that.”

I cross the room and sit in a chair opposite of her. “So you do know?”

“That he's an idiot?” She gestures toward the ceiling. “Why doesn't he just leave my money alone?”

“It's not yours yet,” I say, mostly to annoy her.

“It's my inheritance. Everything in this house is my inheritance.” Her eyes dart to me. “He needs to fall on a spike.”

“Calm down. You'll get your puppy soon enough, Cruella.” I lean forward, my hair falling into my eyes. “What was the transaction a cover for?”

She shrugs, then her gaze locks onto me. I smile a little. Her tan cheeks turn pink. Then she grabs a pillow off her bed and chucks it at me.

“Get out of my room, Dimitri.” She looks at the ceiling again.

I catch the pillow and hold it on my lap. “Just tell me what you know.”

“I don't know anything!” She growls. “I have no idea what's going on.”

“Well, you can find out.”

She scrambles to sit. “Yeah? How? Tell me, Oh, Wise Oracle.”

“Genie, not Oracle. Though if the position is open . . . ”

“Seriously, Dim.” She frowns, staring down at her blankets. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Ask the accountant.”

“He's not going to know.” Her eyes land on the manila envelope in my hand. “What is Daddy having you do this time?”

“Just some work in San Diego.”

“I want to go too.” She looks at me with pleading eyes.

“Not a chance.” I push to my feet. “It's awful just driving to Phoenix with you.”

She falls back onto her bed. “Get used to it. I plan to travel a lot.”

And here we go, subtly making wedding plans. Why isn't this weird for her? It is for me.

Then again, I'm not a Walker. I have morals. At least, when their lack of conscience isn't being forced onto me.

I cross the room to drop the pillow onto her head. “See what you can find out for me, okay?”

I turn for the door. She doesn't say anything, but the pillow hits me square in the back on my way out.

Life under Silvia is going to be that slow death I had hoped to avoid.

***

Intel has provided me next to nothing for this assignment. In a way, I'm relieved. After the disaster at the downtown office, I will never fully trust their hookups again. 

Still, a little more information to go on would be great. All I have is the address, shift schedule, and the description of the books. They have gold colored spines, and they should be sitting in a box together.

The “should be” is unsettling. I “should be” in bed with Syd, but I'm stomping the gas pedal between Phoenix and San Diego.

I've only visited San Diego once, and that was to break into a home and steal some business plans. As it turned out, the owners had been on vacation. No alarm had been engaged. I miss the easy wishes.

When I arrive into San Diego, the clock shows nearly nine at night. According to the schedule, the lab is used during business hours as a research and teaching facility. At night, it's rented out to a college class and some independent groups.

This means that at no time will the facility be completely empty. It also means I'm better off going during the second shift. The day researchers are more likely to notice someone who doesn't belong than the tenants at night. 

The real problem is finding those books. The case file managed to leave out that tidbit. This will be like treasure hunting without a treasure map.

Oh, and then I get to burn down everything when I'm done. Hopefully the people inside will escape unscathed.

I scratch my head as I shuffle through the papers again. The night is about to get interesting. This wish shouldn't take too long—I won't even need to stay overnight—but I'm going to need supplies.

***

I've never burned down a building before. 

Hell, I haven't even started a campfire. Maybe I should have asked Counselor Robert to teach me.

Luckily, Internet access is available everywhere. I have no idea how the other suckers stuck in this role managed without Google. They must have been smarter, because my first inclination to ignite a building was gasoline and a match.

Come to find out, this is not the most realistic idea. It would have been about as efficient as lighting a bunch of candles on a birthday cake and throwing it. Sure, it would catch the place on fire, but probably just make a sizable hole in one wall and do some smoke damage before the fire department put it out.

Karl said he wanted the place to be ash. Gasoline isn't going to cut it.

No, the Internet tells me I need to make thermite. So that is what I am going to make. 

This wish is going to take longer than anticipated.

My GPS and I find ourselves at a home improvement store right before closing. The staff are not amused when I ask for iron oxide.

The Internet has led me astray.

I have no choice but to make the ingredients myself. 

I am not Mister Wizard. I might be the first genie to blow himself up.

After spending more than two hours at a big box store, I leave with a plastic bin, mason jars, coffee filters, convertors, a car battery, cables, rubber bands, a package of balloons, salt, a gram scale, all of the Etch-A-Sketch toys, and gum.

The gum is for my nerves. Everything else is going to make an enormous mess and, possibly, a bomb.

***

The more my mind wraps around what I'm up against, the more I realize this is going to take at least a solid day of prep work. 

I check into the first hotel that has an available room, unload my car, and setup a lab right there between the coffee maker with Wolfgang Puck coffee grounds and the the little card asking me to re-use towels to save water.

On second thought, I hang the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. Last thing I need is the maid walking in while I have nails rusting at super-speed and video streaming to my phone on repeat about how to make my own thermite.

I brew and drink the Wolfgang Puck coffee while I strain mixtures and lay the results out to dry. I bash open the front of the Etch-A-Sketch toys and pour the contents into a clean jar. 

The night passes, the sun rises. I've gone through the entire package of gum, all the coffee provided by the hotel, and at least a quarter of my sanity.

Before I resign to sleep for a few hours, I run through the scenario one more time. Measure the ingredients, combine in the balloons, light, and run. 

Light . . . and run.

How the hell do I light this?

I plug in my phone because it has another long hour ahead of it, and so do I. As it turns out, I need magnesium ribbon, and there are only two places to buy it:

The Internet, but I find no one who can overnight it. Plus, I can't exactly have it delivered to the hotel.

Or, a local lab store. I bet the bastards have iron oxide too.

The catch is, I have to be a student to make a purchase.

It is seven in the morning in Arizona. I call Karl.

He picks up on the second ring. “Dimitri?”

Doesn't he ever sleep?

“Hey, yeah,” I say. “I need a student ID
pronto, pendejo
.”

He hesitates.

Ah, shit. I hope he hasn't picked up any Spanish recently. Probably not in my best interest to call him an idiot in any language, even if he is one.

He finally speaks. “What do you need a student ID for?”

“To study classical music.” I cringe at my words. Maybe I shouldn't call him when I'm damn near delirious with nerves and exhaustion. “For supplies. Please just send one over.”

“What wallet do you have?”

I make an “uh” sound because I have no idea who I am today. 

I work the wallet out of my pocket and flip through it. “Alex Parker.”

“This is very last minute, Dimitri,” he says.

Great. He's pissed.

“Learning curve.” I fight back a yawn. “Can you make sure they set me up as a science major?”

He says, with some hesitation, “The student badge doesn't state your program. Send me your hotel, and I'll get a delivery to you this afternoon.”

He hangs up. I text over the information, pick up my empty paper cup, frown at the lack of coffee, then kick off my shoes.

I need to sleep. My eyes feel like I've been shining them with sandpaper.

From the bed, I survey my work area and let reality sink in: I'm building a bomb.

No one should try this at home. Or at a hotel room. Ever.

Especially me.

But I kind of don't have a choice.

***

A knock on the hotel door jars me from sleep. I'm not ready to get up, but chances are, it's one of Karl's men. I need that student ID so I can buy magnesium ribbon from the lab store. Otherwise, my bomb has no fuse. And, I'm going to need quite a bit of ribbon, considering it burns at a rate of about thirty seconds per foot.

I jerk back the sheets and stumble to the door. The moment I pull it open, I realize it could be hotel staff. 

Lucky for me, it's a man in casual clothes, clutching an envelope.

I hold up my hands. He thrusts the package at me and walks away.

“Good morning to you too,” I call after him and slam the door shut.

The package contains the student ID for Alex Parker, just as requested. I now attend the University of California. I should check my classes online and stop by one, just for the hell of it.

No time. I have an anthropology center to destroy.

I pull the sheet from the bed and drape it over my science experiment, then make my way out of the hotel. The sky is partially overcast, but with big white clouds that seem harmless. 

I head toward the lab supply store. The GPS takes me the long route, but I eventually arrive. Then I grow nervous again.

What if they ask what I'm using the supplies for?

“Just making a bomb, ma'am,” is probably the wrong answer.

Maybe I should find out what normal people use magnesium ribbon for before venturing inside. I glance at my phone. The day staff should be leaving the archeology center soon.

Tonight is the night.

I will be setting it off, without a doubt.

***

The supply store doesn't ask, not even in passing, why I'm buying magnesium ribbon. They don't even request to see my student ID.

I will file away that tidbit of information for the next time Karl wants me to make soot out of a building. Also, I won't mention to him that I called in an unnecessary request.

Back in my hotel room, I run through the how-to videos one more time because I feel like I have missed something. Bomb making should not be quite this simple. Granted I've been creating, scraping, and drying rust for half a day, but the Internet has provided everything I need.

Everything I need to take down a relatively large building.

If I was still in Arizona, I would drive to the middle of the desert and test out one of these Balloons of Mass Destruction, but I don't know my way around California enough to risk it. Time is short. I want to finish tonight. 

According to the bomb directions, I will need either a super hot flame or a way to flatten the magnesium ribbon. I opt for both and swing by the store for a hammer, a small blowtorch, and a backpack. Then I pull behind a shopping center, roll out the magnesium ribbon, and start pounding away.

Each echoing thud is like a sucker punch to my brain. Aspirin isn't going to touch this headache, because the driving power is the hum. 

I need to hurry up and blow up the lab. But first I have to take the loot.

Back in my car, I frown and shuffle through the case file again. No indication of where the books could be. I don't even have a map of either of the two floors in the facility. The Internet has let me down.

I don't know what books I'm looking for. They're in a box and they have gold colored spines. Other than that, I'm clueless.

Pretty sure Karl won't appreciate if I bring back copies of The Poky Little Puppy.

Somehow, I will need to get into the lab, find the books, set the bombs, and escape.

And if I plan to do this before the hum goes Emeril Lagasse on me and kicks it up a notch, I have to clean up the hotel room and get moving.

***

I carry the backpack at my side as I enter the anthropology center. My interior jacket pockets hold my phone, my gun, and the blowtorch. 

The lobby contains a curved reception desk and a badge-activated door. The receptionist looks up. She has a pleasant face. A mother, a wife. She has had an easy shift. Too bad it's her last day—on Earth.

The thought sinks to the pit of my stomach. 

“Can I help you?” She smiles, and her question sounds genuine.

I stare dumbly, as I usually do when I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.

“Yeah, I . . . ” My brain dies. Like a junk car. Why don't I ever work out my script before I show up? “I have a class here tonight. I think. For school.”