Deaths of Jocasta (52 page)

“Do it and maybe I’ll let you go after the first few bombs explode.”

“And maybe you won’t.”

His jaw started working angrily. “You’re a cunt, just like she is,” he spat out. “You all deserve to die.”

I slowly got up and started doing his dishes. I had pushed him enough. I glanced surreptitiously around the kitchen, looking for something to…I didn’t even know. I would have to try something before one o’clock. I couldn’t sit here helplessly and let Cordelia, Elly, Millie, Sister Ann, Bernie, and the others be blown to bits. If that happened, I didn’t want to be around to know about it.

“Your dishes are done,” I said, as I finished them. I hadn’t done a very good job, but I doubted he’d notice.

“Good. What else can I make you do?”

I stiffened, wondering what he had in mind.

“Lunch,” he said, “Make me lunch.”

I wondered if he wasn’t interested in sex, or if he’d had it blown off him.

I looked in his refrigerator. There wasn’t much to make lunch with.

“You don’t have much here,” I said. “Why don’t I run to the store and get some food?”

“I’m not that hungry,” he retorted.

“How about a beer?” I suggested. There were a few in the refrigerator. Maybe I could get him drunk, although what good that would do I wasn’t sure.

“No, no beer. Make me coffee. Real coffee. Not instant.”

“It’s too hot for coffee.”

“Make it,” he ordered.

He had an old drip coffeepot. I hoped I was doing it right. After what seemed a reasonable amount of time, I poured some into a cup and brought it to him.

“You taste it first,” he demanded.

I took a sip.

He chuckled and took the cup from me.

“Did you write the letters?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. My brother brought me a little computer. I really just wanted to write Bea, but she would have known. By writing the others first, it made hers seem like just one of many. Misdirection can be very useful,” he added bitterly. “Yes, I like misdirection.”

“How did you get the information?”

“Bill told me those things. Some young girl worked there and he knew her.”

“Betty Peterson?

“Who? I guess,” he answered offhandedly.

“Will murdered her,” I said heatedly. “She didn’t do anything—”

“She’s not important,” he cut me off, dismissing Betty.

I started to make an angry reply, but stopped myself.

“More,” he demanded, pointing to his coffee cup.

I picked up the pot and refilled his mug. His hand never moved away from the switch. I set the coffeepot back on the stove, turning the burner on low to keep it warm.

“Don’t you want to ask me how I got the dynamite?” he gloated.

“No,” I replied.

“It took a while. I wanted to start bombing much sooner, but Rome wasn’t built in a day, they say.” He chuckled at his witticism. “So I had to content myself with letters. Did you like yours?”

“Oh, yeah, a brilliant epistle,” I retorted.

“Love letters from an old beau.”

“An old bastard,” I amended.

“Don’t try my patience,” he chided me, then continued, “If you’d learn to shut up, you’d make some man a good wife. Coffee, dishes, all the domestic chores. Too bad you’ll never get a chance.”

“You could let me go.”

“No, I think not.” Then he looked me over appraisingly. I didn’t like the glint that came into his eyes. “Too dark, too tall, but you might do,” he finally told me after having thoroughly raked me over with his eyes.

I said nothing. His game was power, humiliation. The best response was none. He wanted my anger and rage.

“Take off your clothes,” he ordered me.

“No.”

“I’m still a man, you know. I should have had a wife. Instead of looking at girlie magazines. Just take off your clothes. Let me look at you. Fifteen years ago my brother brought a whore out here for my birthday. That was the last time I saw a real woman.”

“No.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he cajoled.

“No.”

“You think I’m disgusting, like Bea, don’t you,” he spat out bitterly. “An ugly cripple.”

“I think you’re disgusting because you’re about to murder hundreds of people. I don’t give a damn about your legs.”

I turned my back to him, to make my refusal more adamant.

And then I wondered if I had done the right thing. Offer him sex, a hand job. Get his fingers away from that switch. I shuddered at the thought. He didn’t look like he’d had a bath recently, an odor of decrepitude hung about him. I glanced at my watch. A little past eleven thirty. I didn’t need to get back to the city, just the nearest phone. Not yet, I told myself. A few minutes before I do that to myself. He and his prick aren’t going anywhere.

“More,” he commanded.

I glanced back at him. He was pointing to his coffee cup, retreating to something he could order me to do.

I got the coffeepot off the stove.

“Fill ’er up, honey,” he told me as I reluctantly made my way over him. “See, you can be made to do things.”

Then it happened, the half second I needed.

One hand was curled around the coffee mug, the other, the hand next to the bomb switch, moved absentmindedly to wipe sweat off his brow.

It was the only opening I would get.

I threw the coffee grounds into his face, letting the coffee spill into his lap. At the same instant, I pushed against the table, not sharply enough to jerk the wires, but enough to make sure he would have to grope to find the switch.

Then I ran. I could hear his furious screaming as I crashed into the screen door, throwing it open. I hurdled off the porch and over the debris in the yard, trying not to wonder how far the explosion would carry, how far away I had to be.

The truck. Get to the far side of the truck, I thought as I reached the dirt road. I ducked behind it, crouching on the running board next to the cab door. For a second I debated moving on, trying to run to my car.

My decision was made by the roar of the explosion, the torn timbers of the house booming hollowly against the other side of the truck, rocking it. Debris flew over my head, landing in the road and beyond to the woods. Part of a cheap printer bounced off the hood of the truck and into the ditch. I clung to my perch, wondering how long the deadly hail could last.

Then there was an eerie silence, the cacophony from the explosion suddenly ended. No birds, no breeze, just an empty stillness. I didn’t move for another minute, to be sure. More lives than just mine were at stake now.

Then I hit the road running, not looking back. I didn’t want to see the destroyed remains of the house. And perhaps bits and pieces of a body belonging to an ugly, bitter man.

By the time I got to my car, I was drenched in sweat, the humid air a heavy weight in my lungs. I quickly started it and pulled out, ignoring the bumps and jars from the road.

No one was home at the first two houses I came to.

Get to a phone.
There was a little grocery back at the not-too-well patched road. The people out here might shoot me on sight.

I drove, going as fast as I sanely could, until I got to the store. I glanced at my watch. A little past noon. I hoped he hadn’t been lying about the timing for the bombs.

I called the clinic first. Bernie answered the phone.

“Clear the building,” I said before she had even finished her hello. “There’s a bomb set to go off at one o’clock.”

“Micky, where are you?” she asked, her voice scared and confused.

“Never mind. I’m on my way. Get everybody out.”

“Okay,” she agreed and hung up.

Then I dialed O’Connor’s number.

I told him that there were bombs set to go off at eight different clinics starting at one p.m.

“Which ones?” he asked.

“Cordelia’s. I don’t know the rest,” I replied.

Then, maddeningly, “Are you sure?”

I gave him the abbreviated version of my morning, finishing, “So, I’m being a good girl. Someone tried to kill me and I’m calling you.”

I didn’t get a gold star, but I didn’t expect one.

I got back in my car and drove, basically on the wrong side of the speed limit, back to the city. I wanted to get to the clinic before one o’clock.

I arrived a little after twelve thirty, parking my car a few blocks away. A crowd was gathered across the main street from the clinic, along with several police cars. And the ubiquitous camera crew.

“Hi, Micky,” Bernie called out as I approached them.

I had to stifle a sudden urge to run to her and hug her, glad that she was alive and well. I liked Bernie. I wanted her to have the chance that Betty had had taken from her. To grope and fumble for her own answers until she found them.

“Hey, Bern, what’s up?” I said, settling for giving her shoulder a squeeze.

“Just waiting,” she answered. “And worrying.”

I nodded agreement. I spotted O’Connor and headed for him, giving Bernie’s shoulder a parting pat.

“Miss Knight, back so soon?” he commented. “You must have driven over the speed limit to get here so quickly.”

“Naw,” I replied. “It was downhill most of the way. Have you found the bomb yet?” I asked, to forestall him giving me a speeding ticket on the basis of probability.

“No, not yet. Most of the bomb squad is occupied trying to find your supposed eight other targeted places.”

“Supposed?” I retorted irately. “I wasn’t making it up.”

“Probably not,” O’Connor agreed annoyingly, “but all you’ve given me is the ravings of a madman.”

“With two madmen helping him, who’ve already murdered a number of people.”

“Perhaps. Again, his words. Too bad we can’t question him.”

“So what are you going to do?” I demanded. “Wait until a few buildings blow up and then decide I was right?”

“We’re doing what we can. A lot of cops are searching for those bombs. We’ve called every clinic and hospital in the city and warned them.”

“Warned them? Is that all?” I questioned. “Haven’t you evacuated them?”

“Not yet. We’re looking for bombs. Also, we’re waiting to see what happens here.”

“What if I’m wrong? What if some of the other bombs go off first?”

“I just can’t call up every place in this city that might do abortions and order them out of their buildings,” he argued heatedly.

“Why not? Do you have to be a detective sergeant to do that?” I retorted.

He glared at me. “Don’t push your luck, Miss Knight,” he finally said, then he turned away, shaking his head. “No wonder you have so many people trying to kill you.”

“Go f…” I started to say, then realized I was two feet away from a nun. “…find the bomb,” I finished lamely, my Catholic training kicking is. “Hi, Sister,” I said politely. It was Sister Fatima.

“Oh, hello.” She peered at me, trying to place me, it seemed. “Michele, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sister. Pretty hot out here,” I replied, scanning the crowd for Cordelia.

“Yes, terribly,” she answered. “I think I need to find some shade to sit down,” she continued, her voice fading. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“Here, let me help you,” I said, offering her my arm. I led her to the steps of a close building that was shaded by a nearby tree. Then I went inside and got her a glass of water.

“Thank you so much,” she said after I handed her the water. “You’re a very nice person, very helpful.”

Good thing she didn’t know my underwear had “Sappho’s Diner. Eat out or Come on in” printed on the crotch.

After making sure Sister Fatima was comfortably settled, I headed off to find Cordelia. Tall women are easy to spot. At least when they’re standing up.

“Micky,” Cordelia said as I approached. “Where have you been? Bernie said you called with a warning before the police did?”

I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of telling her about my morning’s adventures. I didn’t think she’d be happy to hear how close I came to getting killed. Again.

“Well, it’s like this…” I started.

But I was interrupted by an explosion. Well, sort of, really a loud bang from the basement. One window broke. That was it.

Cordelia and I looked at each other for a moment, then she started laughing.

“I’ve been standing out here in the heat, waiting for my building to blow up,” she explained. “Not a cherry bomb.”

I glanced at my watch. One o’clock. Something was wrong, I puzzled. Maybe me. Maybe Sarry wasn’t the master bomb builder he had led me to believe.

“Well, Miss Knight?” O’Connor inquired, standing at my elbow.

I shrugged. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“How soon can we go back in?” Cordelia asked him.

“Soon,” he answered. “Let my men check it out.” Then he walked away.