When a Man Loves a Weapon (5 page)

She rubbed her eyes and squinted at Riles and he intoned, “Six-thirteen,” without her having to ask. Okay, good. Six-thirteen. Six. Thirteen. She looked back at him.

“A.M.”

Okay, morning. Morning was good. Right? Right. Trevor
had said two days, and maybe three, and yeah, it was tipping over into the fourth, but she wasn’t going to worry. She wasn’t going to let herself even get to the same zip code as Worry because that might bring on an avalanche of bad karma, and she had already stacked up enough for a few lifetimes. Day four didn’t mean that something horrible had happened, because really, he was fine.

She just had a bad feeling, that was all.

Please God, don’t let her be starting down the shiny happy insanity of “visions” that her Aunt V’rai had. Don’t let it be hereditary.

One more coat. That’s all this needed, one more. Trevor was fine.

Riles, on the other hand, was not fine. That he was even still alive was a sheer freaking miracle and she wanted brownie points with someone, somewhere, dammit. He had followed her everywhere—to the kitchen, to the mailbox, to the bathroom—where he had stood outside (facing away) for her “protection”—and had sat in that fucking lawn chair while she painted.

“You missed a spot,” he said again, and pointed.

She picked up the can of butter-cream paint, pivoted, and dumped it on his head.

Yeah, maybe she should have slept.

The mechanic parked across the street from the equipment rental shop, bouncing to a stop in the broken-asphalt lot of the sleazy strip club conveniently situated on the only road in and out of this area of chemical plants and parts houses, welding services and bolt suppliers. Dozers and backhoes and twelve-ton cranes rested shoulder-to-shoulder in a line on the white shale of the equipment yard. He watched as the rental company’s employee off-loaded the last of the mechanic’s modified pieces of equipment from the delivery truck. The employee snagged a clipboard from his dash and reviewed a checklist on the equipment, verifying it was ready to go out to the next customer.

Of course it was. The mechanic had made sure of that—no
problems, adequate number of hours added to the meter to give the appearance that it had been used—properly—but not overused, not in need of maintenance. Gassed up, oil at the appropriate level, ready to go.

Seven pieces of equipment. Seven bombs. He knew exactly where they’d been earmarked to go—he’d made sure of that himself. Once he’d had the idea, it had taken four years to work his way into ownership of the kinds of companies who’d use the same type of equipment that PF used. Four years to acquire enough ownership position to mandate which rental companies were used. Another year after that to cultivate the right sort of connections who could hack into PF and make sure that any orders for rentals were sent to the rental companies the mechanic’s companies used.

Over the last three weeks, he’d made sure there were orders for seven pieces of equipment by PF. The requirements of each piece were very specific and not terribly common. He’d made sure his own companies had rented each piece first—and that the “release” date—the day he’d turn them in—coincided with the rental request from PF.

His modifications to each piece were nearly complete.

The bastards at PF were already dead. They just didn’t know it yet.

PF. Poly-Ferosia. One of the biggest liquid chlorine producers in the state. A plant which was also one of the sole producers in the U.S. of two other chemicals used in plastics.

The plant that had killed Chloë.

Irony, he mused. Plastique explosives taking out the plastics plant.

PF was about to cycle up for a turnaround—a very intensive weekend of maintenance where they took the plant offline, replaced worn parts, valves, pipes, or whatever was needed—and did so as quickly as possible in order to get the plant back up and running in the shortest amount of time. One day of being offline cost the plant around fifteen million. Three days’ maintenance was a staggering cost and companies sometimes put off the maintenance longer than they should in order to keep that profit rolling.

Maintenance was a necessary evil, though. Without it, there were leaks and safety problems—the very kind it had been Chloë’s job to find. If PF had done the proper maintenance when they were supposed to, Chloë would be alive today. So it was fitting they were going to go out in a blaze doing what they should have done regularly . . . and had been doing regularly after Chloë’s death—and the controversy his lawsuit stirred up—gave the media a bone to gnaw on and made the PF owners nervous about cutting corners again. Now, PF would be pulling in extra equipment all week long, getting all of their orders filled so that there’d be no delays once the turnaround began.

He’d studied them, over the years, studied everything about them. His attorney had done more than a hundred depositions on methodology and processes and, thanks to enough documents to fill an entire room, the two of them knew the plant better than anyone alive.

He knew the plant managers would be on location for the turnaround. He was going to notify them minutes before the first bomb blew—and he knew they would attempt to evacuate. Protocol, though, meant they’d be the last to leave. And he knew exactly where they’d be as they marshaled everyone else out of the plant and shut down all of the plant’s processors and implemented their disaster plan.

Only then would he let them know they were trapped—with their only hope to admit what they’d done to Chloë.

Of course, that would be his one lie. There was nothing they could do to save themselves.

The plant’s own first responders might figure out what was happening once it began, but by then, it would be too late.

Seven bombs.

He’d wanted eleven. He’d had everything in place, except the specific computerized detonators he’d wanted. He’d almost despaired of putting his final plan into place—he couldn’t exactly take out an ad on Craigslist:
DETONATORS WANTED
. When the opportunity had finally fallen in his lap, he’d pushed for eleven—one for each year Chloë had been
gone—but the financier could only get seven, and so he’d had to make do.

He’d put word out on the street. Word with one person, specifically, who knew the underworld, knew the arms market, and who was not in a position to double-cross him. And finally, his contact had brought him good news: someone had access to a supplier. They had the money to buy the detonators, and they were willing to do so as long as he completely blew the plant he’d proposed.

He’d examined the financier’s motives. They’d make money, once the bombs blew and the market was affected, and he didn’t even give a damn. If someone profited off PF’s misery? Fine with him. He wouldn’t be around to know about it anyway.

He watched as the rental company worker finished his checklist, tagged the equipment ready to go. Just as he walked back inside, the mechanic dialed the company from his cell phone, his number blocked so that it would show up as “unknown” on the rental company’s caller ID.

“GPC Rental,” a clerk answered on the first ring. One of the things he liked about them—they were prompt and efficient. Out here in the middle of a long stretch of highway, an area nicknamed the “chemical corridor,” they were the only rental company left in business after the bad economy a couple of years ago. They could have farted around and taken advantage of their customers. They hadn’t—they’d stayed prompt and competitive. If you were going to depend on timing, the last thing you want is an inefficient company who might screw it all up.

“Yeah, this is Talbot at PF,” he said. “I’ve got a work order here says you’re gonna be delivering a crane in the morning and I’m double-checking to make sure it’s gonna be here.”

“Just a second, sir, let me check.”

The mechanic, his eyes closed, pictured the man pulling up the information on his computer screen, the purchase order confirming the order that, sure enough, a Mr. Jack A. Talbot had placed a couple of weeks ago. The crane would
arrive a little early—a couple of days ahead of when it was needed—but Talbot—the mechanic’s fictional type-A purchasing agent inside a company so big entire divisions were oblivious to the existence of entire other divisions (not entirely unlike the government)—would want it there on Thursday so he didn’t have to spend Friday chasing it and worrying that his weekend plopped in front of the game would be ruined. It would be delivered and parked exactly where PF intended to use a crane next week. Only they wouldn’t be around next week.

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said, coming back onto the line, “we just got it in on the lot. It’s checked and ready to go.”

“You’ll have it here by seven?”

“Yes, sir. Anything else I can get you?”

“Nope, son, that’s all I need. Thanks.”

He severed the call, tossed the phone onto the seat next to him, and pulled out the parking lot.

“The judge wants to know why we let Bobbie Faye graduate the anger management class.”

“We liked breathing?”

—Court clerks Jackie Kessler and Dakota Cassidy

“Is the lot of it done?” the voice with the Irish lilt asked him an hour later, and the mechanic switched the prepaid cell phone to his good ear; he barely heard the lilt as he checked his hands and found a line of grease underneath his index finger. He needed to wash his hands.

“Yes, they’re finished. The last piece was returned this morning.”

“Sure, an’ that’s good work.”

They hung up, and he ran the water in his sink. He scrubbed, pulling out a brush with stiff, short bristles and used it to dislodge the stubborn mark. Then he dried his hands, and washed them once more, for good measure.

They would remember Chloë;
remember, remember, remember
set up a resonance in his head. He knew they would remember him, as well. It’s not how he’d intended to be memorialized, and some would be shocked. Horrified. His family would grieve.

It was what he had to do. He finally had an opportunity for justice, and he took it.

This was the first time in eleven years he couldn’t bear to salute her photograph when he left the room. He hoped she’d understand.

Lonan leaned over the shoulder of Ian, their computer expert. The beautiful thing about technology was that money
usually won the race, and he’d had money to burn on this project.

“He’s placed the final order,” Ian said, tapping the screen. His hands dropped to the keyboard, “An’ I’m rerouting . . . now.”

With a few keystrokes, the final piece of equipment’s destination was changed. It wouldn’t do to have their bomb-maker aware of the change yet—that would come in time and then they’d have to deal with the mechanic. But for now, he’d served his purpose.

The most important part of his plan—to have someone as a scapegoat for the bombs. Someone to deflect potential suspicion from Sean.

“You’ve the bomb techs?” Sean asked, triple-checking. They were going to get a little creative with the mechanic’s bombs.

“In place,” Ian nodded.

Why in the hell she hadn’t thought of blue earlier, Bobbie Faye didn’t know, but the blue rolled on over the (new) primer, which was over the butter cream, over green, over red, and finally,
finally
, she thought it might be working. Blue was
soothing
. The color of Trevor’s eyes. That sort of blue that rocked you to sleep at night, soft swells on a peaceful lake, the kind of blue that—

“Bobbie Faye?” Nina asked from the speakerphone of Bobbie Faye’s cordless. “B? You still there?”

“Oh. Uh. Yeah. Sorry. Distracted.”

“You have to stop painting, B. Or at least start on another room.”

“I think the blue works.”

“Which you’ve said about a dozen times. When was the last time you ate anything?”

Bobbie Faye dipped the roller into the paint tray and made sure it was covered, then squished it onto the wall and rolled a “W” pattern. That’s what those stupid home porn networks said to make—a “W” pattern—although why a “Z” pattern wouldn’t work just as well, she didn’t know. Or an “M” or an—

“B? Where’s Riles?”

“Wednesday,” Bobbie Faye said.

“What?”

“Wednesday. Ate some Godawful concoction Riles made. Really, the man is trying to kill me.”

“B, Wednesday was
yesterday
. Put the roller down and go eat something.”

“I will in a minute. I’m almost done.”

“Where’s Riles?” Nina asked again.

Bobbie Faye had to think about that for a minute . . . she peered around, and he wasn’t in his chair. Then she remembered. “Oh, yeah. He’s talking to the sheriff. Something about me making the Home Depot people cry.”

“B, if I could come over there right now, I would.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“I know.”

“Six days.”

“I know.”

“He said three,
tops
. Three. He’s very meticulous.”

“I know, B.”

“He’s always early.”

“I know.”

“Pathologically early.”

“He is a little scary that way,” Nina agreed.

“He would know I’d be worried. And no one will tell me anything.”

“I know. But I’m guessing that sometimes these things can take longer.”

She tried to remember how many times Nina had said just that. “He’d have let me know, Nina. No way he wouldn’t have let me know.”

Nina didn’t answer that one right away and Bobbie Faye stopped rolling. Stopped, right there, halfway through the latest “W” on the wall and listened to the silence on the other end of that phone. She could hear the crickets outside the house, hear the fucking birds
chirping
, hear Riles somewhere down the driveway talking to the sheriff, but Nina was silent. Because it was true—Trevor would have let her know
if he wasn’t coming home in three days. He’d have gotten word to her somehow.

“I think he’ll be okay, B. Go eat something. Stop painting. Get some sleep. He’s going to need you sane when he gets home.”

“I don’t think she was sane before he left,” Riles muttered as he came in the door, making sure he stood outside the distance it would take for her to smack him with the roller brush.