Angel Landing (6 page)

If he had been caught, if someone had wrestled him to the floor and ripped the paper bag from his hands, nothing could have been proven against him. There was no dynamite, no TNT, not one Molotov cocktail. Finn knew nothing about dangerous explosives; it would have taken him months of study to learn how to make a bomb, and Finn hadn't had the idea for months. What he intended to do was not even a plan; it was more like a storm of thoughts that encircled him, so that every step he took was soft and far off the ground, as if his ideas had sprung from the sky.

When he first began taking a check valve apart in the basement, beneath the sporting goods store, Finn did not know exactly why he had brought home the two-inch black iron valve. The reason came to him slowly: he would create a fault. He reversed the tappet, and reamed the valve until it was half of its original thickness. The steam that poured through the piping system during testing would build up pressure and blow out the valve Finn had tampered with. An oxyacetylene torch unit was stored nearby. There would be an explosion. Suddenly, simply, all of the work that had been done on the second unit would be blown away.

Finn tucked the paper bag into the front pocket of his suede jacket. He walked in circles in the parking lot through the half-hour lunch break. He couldn't stand still, he couldn't sit down, he dared not talk to anyone. When the whistle blew once more, and other men returned from the Modern Times or the deli on Route 18, Finn climbed back up the scaffold carefully, as if he carried a sack of diamonds, or a bag of gold.

It was one-thirty by the time he had welded the valve into place. He admired his work; the welding was beautiful, as neat as a dime—so neat that the inspectors wouldn't think to X-ray the welds for porosity. Finn's work never showed the little air holes that could appear between the welding beads. No one had any reason to be suspicious. His initials would be in place. And what fool would stamp his own treason? Only a man like Finn, after eleven years with the taste of iron in his mouth and the smell of metal caught in his nose. It was not so much a calculated act as it was a last-chance effort; if his life kept on the way it was going, Finn couldn't have survived. He would not have wanted to.

That afternoon, at the end of the working day, Finn said hello to men he usually ignored. He thought, briefly, of joining some other welders at the Modern Times; but he knew he would have ordered only one beer, and he would have left it untouched. So, Finn left the power plant right on time—at four—and he walked across the parking lot to his car. That day Finn was certain that there was nothing left of him that anyone could take away. He sat in his Camaro, but he did not start the engine. And, as the other men began to drive away, Michael Finn waited.

It happened quickly. Only one apprentice, who lost half his thumb, was hurt—everyone else had already left for the day when the testing crew turned on the steam. Finn was not alone when the roof blew; other welders were gathered around the coffee truck, and Finn got out of his car and raced toward the truck. And he watched just as innocently as the others, as if some other man had caused the spark.

The first thing to go was the roof; Finn had not known a roof could blow so high. And when the fire on the second floor began, Finn had not imagined that the fire had a sound, its own hissing voice.

“Holy shit,” the men gathered around the coffee truck said. “Fucking incredible.”

Finn stood still as the sirens began to scream. “Was anyone hurt?” he asked.

“Who the hell knows,” another welder shrugged. “Fucking incredible,” he whispered.

The fire trucks pulled up, and their hoses began to splash water on the burning plant. Finn watched with real amazement as the sky filled with fire.

“This will put the schedule back a while,” someone said, “and give us another year's worth of work.” He grinned.

“Well, then,” the coffee vendor said to the shivering group. “It must be an act of God.”

Finn stood without speaking. But whenever he thought someone might have spoken to him, he turned quickly, as if he held his heart in his hand. When the other men tired of watching the explosion, when the firemen had drenched the plant leaving only sticky ash behind, Finn felt he had to turn away. He did not want to seem suspicious, but he could have watched for hours, forever. When he drove out of the parking lot, Finn realized for the first time that he had not thought beyond this one act of treason. To the other welders the explosion meant that their work would last longer—months longer, perhaps even a year. But to Finn the explosion meant only that he would not be able to sleep that night.

Finn did not go back to his apartment; and although he drove past his parents' house in Harbor Heights, it was just to make certain that his father's Buick was in the driveway. Finally, he wound up at a Burger King on Route 18, where he ordered a hamburger; but he found he could not eat, he couldn't even chew. He wished that he had somewhere to drive to, or that something special would happen, so that the feeling he had when the purple smoke filled the sky wouldn't go away. But he had nowhere to go, so he drove his Camaro to the service road alongside the Long Island Expressway. Because he had no one to race, he drove alone at seventy miles an hour, at eighty; the tires screamed when he made a fast U-turn and dust covered his windshield. And even though the heater in the car was broken, Finn slept in the Camaro that night. He pulled off the road, parked in the dirt, and covered himself with the blanket he kept in the truck to put under the tires whenever the car got stuck in snow or mud.

He rested in the back scat, a gypsy, a thief. Although the traffic on the expressway was like a moving lullaby, Finn hardly closed his eyes. In the morning, he drove to Harbor Heights. He drove there every Thursday, giving his father a lift to work, so that his mother could have the car one day each week. It was the same as any Thursday morning. The only difference, when Finn pulled up to his parents' house that morning, was a patrol car in the driveway parked next to his father's Buick.

Finn didn't think twice, he didn't even imagine an escape. He parked on the street and got out of the Camaro. He walked up the gravel driveway, past the patrol car, past the Buick. Pieces of old engines Danny Finn had taken apart but never put back together again were scattered over the brown lawn like vines. The walk to the front door had never seemed so long, Finn's steps never sounded so quiet. And, if he had thought faster, Finn could have run then. He could have slipped behind the wheel of the Camaro and taken off to New Jersey; he might have gotten as far as Canada. He could have let his beard grow, and changed his name. But Finn did not think that way; his thoughts were too hazy and too slow.

Danny Finn was waiting for him when Michael Finn walked up the porch steps and opened the glass door. When Finn looked past his father, he could see his mother and two uniformed officers drinking mugs of coffee at the Formica table. Still he did not panic. He felt nothing at all, except for the tightness he often had inside his chest, as if something pulled at his heart.

“Now you're going to get it,” Danny Finn said, and he kept a cigarette between his lips, so that when he spoke his breath was hot. “I don't know what you've done, but if you've done anything at all, if you've fucked up, I'm going to let you have it.”

Finn didn't answer; he couldn't. He wondered if he was slowly disappearing.

“I'm going to make you sorry that you ever lived,” Danny Finn said. “That's what I'm going to do.”

But Finn saw his father's arm move. He knew Danny Finn's punch, and he had picked up his timing from the beatings he had had as a boy. And so, Michael Finn was able to sidestep out of his father's aim, and Danny Finn put his fist right through the door. The crash surprised both men; they stood watching as bits of glass fell on their shoes. Danny Finn's cut hand spilled blood onto the pile carpeting and both men watched the blood as if it were an intruder. Neither of them moved; not even when one of the officers ran over and tied his handkerchief around Danny Finn's hand.

“We just want to ask your son a few questions,” the officer said as he kicked away pieces of glass. “That's all. Nothing to get excited about. We'll be questioning every welder sooner or later.”

Neither man answered; neither moved. The sky was gray and pink, and down by the harbor, where the gates of the power plant stood, two construction workers were absent. And as if they had made a pact, these men did not look at each other, not even as Michael Finn was taken away.

FIVE

“T
HE POLICE QUESTIONED
me for half an hour, then they let me go. But they know it was me,” Finn whispered. “It's only a matter of time.”

“Be positive,” I suggested. “A lot may depend on your attitude. If you would try and think of yourself as innocent, other people might also believe it.”

Finn shook his head. “They'll go over the power plant inch by inch. All the welders have been laid off for two weeks, but the company could have the plant cleaned up in two days. If they wanted to, if they didn't need more time. They know it's someone from the inside. They know it's me.”

“It could have been an accident,” I insisted. “How can they know?”

“They'll find the exact spot in the pipe that triggered the explosion. They'll find my initials. Then they'll know.”

We sipped coffee; like passengers aboard a ship, we discussed the weather: storms and bombings and seas. Finn seemed without hope, totally lost in the aftershocks of his own explosion.

“What you should do right away,” I said, “is get yourself an attorney.”

“An attorney?” Finn smiled. “And how am I supposed to pay him?”

“Or her,” I said. “It could be a woman.”

“Well I couldn't pay her either,” Finn said. “After they arrest me I'll get a court-appointed lawyer.”

“But you need someone special,” I said. “Someone who can handle your case; someone who can win.”

“I could never afford someone who could win,” Finn sighed.

Now I thought of Carter: he could still command a fortune with one telephone call, he could hire an office full of New York attorneys by selling off one small bit of Sugarland stock.

“Soft Skies can afford an attorney,” I told Finn.

“No dice,” Finn said. “Uh uh. I'm not getting mixed up with a group like Soft Skies. I don't want people to think what I did was political. It wasn't; it had nothing to do with Soft Skies.”

“What does that matter?” I asked. “Do you want a good attorney or don't you?” Finn shrugged. “Do you want to go to jail?” I then asked.

“All right,” Finn said. “But how am I supposed to get in touch with Soft Skies? What makes you think they'll be interested in me?”

“It's not a they. It's a he. Carter Sugarland. And he'll be very interested; he'll probably be willing to pay for the entire defense.”

Finn eyed me suspiciously. “How do you know?”

“Carter's a friend,” I admitted.

“Oh,” Finn nodded. “A good friend?”

“Yes.” I shrugged.

“I see,” Finn said. “What do you get out of all this?” Finn now asked me.

“I really don't know what you mean,” I said.

“You don't even know me. I could be a liar, I could be insane. Why are you willing to help me?”

“Your case is one in a million,” I said.

“Thanks,” Finn nodded.

“Of course you're more than just a ‘case.' I'm interested in you, as a person.”

“As a person, huh?” Finn smiled.

“All right,” I said. “Having you as a client would be great for my professional reputation.”

“Reputation,” Finn repeated.

“I might get a promotion at Outreach,” I said. “There could be some journal articles, maybe a book—of course, only if you agreed.”

“I'll think about it,” Michael Finn said. He stood and stretched his legs.

Now I was worried that I might never see him again. “If you come to my office on Tuesday I can arrange for you to meet Carter.”

Finn ran his hand through his hair. “I don't know,” he said. He spoke so softly I had to strain to hear. I concentrated on Finn alone; Fishers Cove might have been miles away, the field we were in could have been moving slowly in space. “I never even thought of being afraid when I installed the valve,” Finn whispered. “Never.”

When he spoke that softly, I grew confused, I nearly forgot why I had come to meet him. I nearly forgot the articles and books; I couldn't quite remember the importance of succeeding at Outreach. It now seemed to me that I was there in the field because I wanted to be there; I needed to be comforted. I needed to talk just as much as if I'd been wanted for a crime, just as much as Finn.

Finn had gathered the coffee cups together. Now he shook his head, and as he did he seemed to shake off his sadness as well. He turned to me and said, “It's late.”

“It is,” I agreed. I wanted time to move backward so that the night could be just beginning, so that there was nowhere else I would have to be. I had gotten lost in Finn's sorrow, in every word he had said; I wondered how it could be possible for me to ever find my way back.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” Finn asked.

“Better not,” I said. “A therapist and a client are supposed to meet only in the office.”

Finn nodded. “All right.”

“Don't forget Tuesday,” I said as Finn walked away so quickly that he seemed to disappear before his shadows had passed over the beer bottles and the fallen leaves. “Good night,” I called, not knowing whether he could hear.

I walked through town, past the shuttered library, past Ruby's Café. When I reached Minnie's the porch light was still on. Even though the wind was strong, I stayed out on the porch for a while. Finn might have gone home to his apartment, or he might have decided to park his Camaro on some deserted beach, he might be looking at the same stars that I looked at. From where I stood on the porch, I could see through the lace curtains into the parlor; it was nearly midnight, but Minnie was still awake.