Cracks in Reality (Seams in Reality Book 2) (20 page)

"That's the good stuff," the old man said, "just like I promised. Grade A, chemically pure, straight from the factory."

"I trust you," Blake said.

Forty bags were loaded into the moving van. He didn't actually know if he could make enough explosive to destroy BPI headquarters. The place was a fortress built to withstand anything smaller than an atomic bomb.

When the transaction was done, the old man drove off in his pickup truck.

Blake turned to Dean. "Where are we delivering the ammonium nitrate?"

"It's a barn in the hills," Dean said. "I'm pretty sure I can find it."

Chapter Nine

Blake parked the car in front of a wooden barn which was possibly as old as himself. Only traces of the original red paint remained on the warped grayish boards. One side of the barn sagged a little, and piles of stones under the wall were the only thing preventing it from collapsing.

A pasture surrounded the barn, and a dense forest lay beyond the pasture. The hilly land had no flat spots.

Blake got out and tromped through weeds to reach the barn. He peered through the open door. He didn't see any light bulbs, and the only illumination came from sunlight streaming through a high opening. Cobwebs decorated the corners and roof beams. A little bit of straw was scattered across the dirt floor.

"This is it?" Blake said.

Dean came up behind him. "I know it's not much," Dean said.

"How are we supposed to do precise, delicate work here? The roof isn't even waterproof, and are those owl droppings?"

"We'll fix it up a little. We can cover the roof with plastic."

Blake frowned. "I suppose. The location is certainly isolated. I'll have my men unload the fertilizer, and then we'll drop you off in town. After this, you and I are done for the day."

"You have something to do afterwards?" Dean said.

"Yes. For one thing, I have to find somebody who can sell us fine aluminum powder. It's a bit of a specialty item, and we'll need a lot."

Blake turned and headed back towards the blue moving van.

* * *

Blake and Phillip walked into their furnished apartment in downtown Charleston. Blake had signed a six-month lease even though he intended to stay only a few days. He hadn't paid a penny, of course. A touch of mind-control had convinced the rental agent to accept the first payment a month late, and Blake would be long gone before then. He rarely spent money these days and never his own.

The apartment had hardwood floors which were scuffed and needed refinishing. A brown couch faced a small television in the living room. An attached kitchen wasn't big enough to cook a proper meal, but he didn't like to cook anyway. He generally had food delivered. Ugly track lighting reminded him of the 1970's.

"That went well," Blake said.

Phillip nodded. "Should we wait a day or proceed to the next stage in the plan immediately?"

"It's hard to say. We'll get the aluminum tomorrow."

"The BPI will need some time for its investigation. At least a day."

Blake scratched the stubble on his chin. "Let's plant the evidence now, and you can do your performance tomorrow evening. That should work out perfectly."

"If there are no mistakes or surprises."

"We can always make adjustments if necessary."

"Maybe we should do some contingency planning," Phillip said.

"I don't want to do any more planning right now. Everything has gone smoothly so far, and that trend should continue."

"But...."

"Be quiet and follow orders," Blake said.

He went to the single bedroom. He slept on the queen-size bed, and Phillip used an air mattress on the floor. Blank white walls reminded him too much of a prison cell Blake had spent five years in. There was a window, but it faced the wrong way and didn't admit much sunlight. The carpet was yellow, but odd brown stains encouraged him to keep his shoes on.

Blake went to his suitcase which was still packed. He wanted the ability to leave on very short notice. He dug into his belongings until he found a paper bag. He brought the bag to the kitchen, and Phillip came forward eagerly.

Blake took out two plastic jars with bright orange labels. One contained a white powder which he knew was pure ammonium nitrate. The other jar held gray powdered aluminum. He grabbed a plastic bowl from the cupboard and carefully mixed the powders in the proper ratio. He used about a quarter cup of ammonium nitrate and just a teaspoon of aluminum. He stirred the mixture with a spoon until it was completely blended.

Phillip frowned and backed away.

"Why are you worried?" Blake said. "This stuff is supposed to be very safe."

"I still don't have to stand right next to it," Phillip said.

"Coward."

"You would know. We're the same."

Blake smirked. It was exactly the kind of thing he would say.

"What would you do if I died?" Blake said.

"Go on without you, I suppose. Just leave the Russian Eye someplace where I can find it."

"I created you. You should be more reverent."

"My apologies, sir," Phillip replied with a hint of sarcasm, "but I didn't exactly volunteer for the job."

Blake rolled his eyes. There was no point in continuing the conversation. He was basically arguing with himself.

The mixture was a commercial product intended for use as an explosive rifle target. The impact of a high-power rifle bullet imparted just enough energy to detonate the combination. The aluminum acted as a catalyst, and most of the energy came from ammonium nitrate decomposing into nitrogen, oxygen, and water.

Triggering the explosion without a rifle bullet was difficult. Burning the mixture or striking it with a hammer wouldn't work. Even a regular bullet wasn't energetic enough.

Blake took a blasting cap out of the paper bag. It looked like a metal tube the size of an AAA battery, and wires were attached to one end. He buried the cap in the explosive.

He carefully ran the wires across the floor and into the bedroom. He went back and grabbed the jars of unused powder, but he left them in the living room on a coffee table. He made sure the jars would be seen by anybody walking into the apartment.

"Ready for the boom?" Blake said.

"Certainly," Phillip said.

They went into the bedroom together and knelt before the wire. The copper ends were exposed. Blake took the Russian Eye out of a pouch kept under his shirt, and he held the jewel tightly with both hands. Phillip placed his small hands over Blake's.

"It's been a long time since I created electricity," Blake said.

"It shouldn't be hard with us working together," Phillip said.

Blake focused all his attention on the copper wires and settled into a trance. Phillip did the same, and their minds automatically joined together. Blake felt his effective power double immediately. The two sorcerers worked in perfect concert, each knowing exactly what the other needed to create the maximum effect.

Physical sorcery was far more difficult than mind-control and other forms of mental sorcery. The universe didn't have emotional vulnerabilities to exploit. There was no easy leverage. The spell came down to who had the stronger will, Blake or the universe.

He visualized electrons jumping between the wires. Like all good sorcerers, he was an expert in physics and knew exactly what he was doing. He imagined the quantum potential fields stretching across space. He coupled his mind to reality in a way only a sorcerer could.

A tiny spark jumped between the wires, and an instant later, the bomb in the kitchen exploded.

He had expected a loud boom, but the concussion stunned him nonetheless. He stood up and peered into the other room. There was no smoke. Ammonium nitrate burned completely, leaving only gases and water vapor. The burned aluminum was messier and had left streaks of black residue.

The blast had wrecked the kitchen. The counter had split in half, and cabinet doors were barely hanging from their hinges if they hadn't fallen off entirely. There were cracks in the ceiling.

Blake nodded. "That looks good."

"The police should be here in a few minutes," Phillip said.

"Yes. You'd better hide."

The boy walked into the bathroom. They had agreed he would hide in the cabinet under the sink.

Blake stood by the door and waited. He was still holding the Russian Eye in his hand, and the tiny seam provided a delightful trickle of energy. None of this would've been possible without the precious jewel he had inherited from his father.

According to Blake's watch, it took seven minutes for the Charleston police to come to the apartment.

Somebody pounded on the door. "Open up!" a man yelled. "It's the police! The neighbors reported hearing an explosion."

Blake opened the door. Two men in dark blue uniforms rushed into the apartment and looked around. The damaged kitchen immediately grabbed their attention.

Blake used sorcery on the cops. "The blast was from a pressure cooker," he said in an authoritative tone. "The seal failed. Nobody was hurt, and there is no reason to stick around. I'll clean up the mess."

The cops faced him.

"No reason to stick around," one man echoed.

"That's right." Blake nodded. "You can go now. I feel bad you wasted your time. I should buy higher quality pressure cookers."

The policemen left, and Blake closed the door.

Phillip emerged from his hiding place. "Let's have dinner," he said. "I saw a barbeque place around the corner that looked good. We're obviously not eating here."

Blake nodded. Before they left, he took a final look at his handiwork in the kitchen. It was perfect.
The stage is being set,
he thought.
Now we need to invite the audience.

* * *

A slight noise woke up Blake the next morning. He never slept easily these days, and any disturbance aroused him. He crept out of bed and peeked out of his bedroom.

Two of his bodyguards were seated in the living room. They were watching television with the sound off. They wore Kevlar vests over soft, black clothing. They each held a gun in their right hands with fingers on the triggers, and backup weapons were in holsters.

"Did you hear anything?" Blake whispered.

"It was outside," one of the assassins said.

Blake checked the window. A gardener was trimming tree branches in the early morning light.

Blake went to the bathroom and performed his morning ritual. When he was done, he opened the door and found Phillip standing there. While the boy took his turn, Blake got dressed.

Blake then took a notebook out of his luggage and skimmed his notes. One of the problems with getting old was losing his ability to recall details. As a young man, he had had a photographic memory, but now, he had to write things down, and that was dangerous. He had taken the precaution of using a private code, but he still didn't feel completely secure. Of course, a sufficiently powerful sorcerer could simply take the information from his mind.

Phillip entered the bedroom. "You're making the call now? It's a little early. He might not be awake."

"Then I'll wake him up," Blake said. "I have to talk to him before he goes to work."

He took a cell phone out of his luggage. It was brand new, completely unused. The factory plastic still protected the glass. He had obtained the phone for the purpose of making just one call. He consulted his notes again and dialed a number.

"Hello?" a man answered in a sleepy voice.

"Mr. Scott Kuperman?" Blake said.

"Yes. What? I was sleeping."

"I'm Herman Beltz, and I'd like to buy a large amount of aluminum powder from you."

"What are you talking about?" Kuperman said. "I work in a paint factory."

"Aluminum powder is commonly used to make certain types of paint. Am I right?"

"Yes."

"And your factory keeps a large supply on hand," Blake said.

Kuperman paused. "Yes."

"I want you to steal some for me. Two hundred pounds should do nicely. Fine grit. I'll pay in cash. Will five thousand dollars cover it? Just tell me where to pick it up."

"I don't think so."

"Mr. Kuperman," Blake said, "I know you're in some financial difficulty. The bank is threatening to foreclose on your house. You and your family will soon be tossed out onto the street. And you were arrested for heroin possession, resulting in legal expenses which you still owe. This seems like a deal you can't afford to pass up."

Kuperman was silent for a long moment. Blake waited patiently.

"Ten thousand," Kuperman said finally.

"What? I can buy it off the internet for a fifth as much. Aluminum powder isn't a controlled substance, unlike heroin."

"Then why are you talking to me?"

"I'm in a hurry," Blake said, "and I don't want to leave a paper trail."

He was lying as usual. He had lied about everything since arriving in Charleston. This deal was just another puzzle piece in his plan.

"Eight thousand," Kuperman said.

"Six."

"Seven."

"Done," Blake said.

"But I can't take that much cash. People will wonder where I got it."

"I understand. I'll figure out some other form of payment. Where should I meet you?"

"There is a back road behind the plant," Kuperman said. "It connects to an abandoned lumber mill by the river. I'll meet you back there at noon."

"Sounds perfect. I'll be there. Bye."

Blake hung up the phone and dropped it in his pocket.

"I gather a deal has been struck," Phillip said.

Blake nodded. "I'm always astonished by what people will do for money. That man is willing to commit a crime and risk going to jail for a mere seven grand. It's amazing. You can't even buy a new car for that much."

"The power of belief. He believes money is the most important thing in the world. And they accuse us of unethical mind-control when governments are the greatest offenders of all. The United States has three hundred million obedient, brain-washed slaves who only care about numbers printed on paper."

"We're just agreeing with each other as usual," Blake said. "Let's get going. I want some breakfast."