Bill Pronzini: Boobytrap

Tues., June 25 — 9:00 P.M.

I finished making the third bomb a few minutes ago.

Except, of course, that it isn’t a bomb. It’s a “destructive device.” That’s the official legal definition in the California Penal Code. Chapter 2.5: Destructive Devices. Section 12303.3: Explosion of Destructive Device. I know that section by heart. It was drummed into my head at the trial. I read it a hundred, two hundred, three hundred times in the prison library.

“Every person who possesses, explodes, ignites, or attempts to explode or ignite any destructive device or any explosive with intent to injure, intimidate, or terrify any person, or with intent to wrongfully injure or destroy any property, is guilty of a felony, and shall be punished by imprisonment in the state prison for a period of three, five, or seven years.”

Point of law, Mr. Latimer.

Ah, but that wasn’t enough for them. The destructive devices I made six years ago, the three destructive devices I’ve manufactured here and now, are more than just destructive devices. They are also Chapter 3.2: Boobytraps. Specifically, Section 12355: Boobytraps — Felony.

“Any person who assembles, maintains, places, or causes to be placed a boobytrap device as described in subdivision (c) is guilty of a felony punishable by imprisonment in the state prison for two, three, or five years.” Subdivision (c) stating in part: “For purposes of this section, ‘boobytrap’ means any concealed or camouflaged device designed to cause great bodily injury when triggered by an action of any unsuspecting person coming across the device.”

Point of law, Mr. Latimer.

Guilty as charged, Mr. Latimer.

Five years of hell in San Quentin, Mr. Latimer.

The rage is in my blood again, pounding, searing. I have the old feeling, old terror, that it will burst my head like the bulb of an overheated thermometer. I can’t write any more now—

Later

Better. Calm again. Washed my face, came back and focused on the bomb, destructive device, boobytrap resting on the table. Such a simple, beautiful, deadly little object. Very soothing, especially when I imagine it in conjunction with the first device. Number one, Douglas Cotter: mission accomplished. Lying dead on his lawn with his self-righteous “You need psychiatric help, Mr. Latimer” four-eyed head blown off. Beautiful image, confirmed by this morning’s newscast. But Cotter is the least hated member of the trio, a minor collaborator in their legal conspiracy. Much more satisfaction when device number three, this little sweetie right here, pretty little surprise package number three right here, makes a pincushion of Judge Norris Turnbull.

And then, ah then, the greatest satisfaction of all, when device number two, already built and installed, the biggest and best for the man I hate most, does its work. Oh, is that going to be a blast! And the best part of that one is, I’ll be there when it happens, maybe even see it blow and his body ripped and torn and bleeding and dead. Riskiest part of the Plan, but I can’t deny myself the pleasure. Thrill of a lifetime. The ultimate high — sky high. A fireworks display to dazzle the eye, soothe the soul, write finish to an enormous injustice.

I’m so eager for it that I wonder if I ought to rethink my schedule, deliver number three to Judge Turnbull tonight. No, better not. The Plan is perfect, the timing is perfect, never tamper with perfection. Anticipation is half the fun. Knowing their miserable lives are in my hands, that I control their fate just as they once controlled mine. I’m the cat and Judge Turnbull is my second mouse. Toy with him one more day, let him live another twenty-four hours, and then — boom! — blow his fuzzy white head off and rip him up into little judicial pieces.

Besides, I’m tired now, and hungry. Nothing to eat since eggs and toast this morning. I need food, rest, a good night’s sleep. I need to be fresh for the work and the pleasures to come.

Vengeance is mine, saith Mr. Latimer.

Boom!

Boom! Boom!

Then off to Indiana and

Boom! some more.

Kerry said, “I can’t go.”

“…You’re kidding, right?”

“I wish I was. Lord, I wish I was.”

“Kerry, we’ve been planning this vacation for a month—”

“I’m as disappointed as you are. More.”

“Good old Jim Carpenter strikes again.”

“It’s not his fault, this time.”

“No?” I said. “Whose then?”

“Milo Fisher’s.”

“And who is Milo Fisher?”

“Wealthy Houston businessman. Fisher Products. That’s where I have to be this weekend and next week — Houston. Texas in late June instead of balmy Baja. Lucky me.”

“Lucky both of us.”

“I’d get out of it if I could,” she said, “but I can’t. It all came up suddenly — that’s the way Fisher is, Mr. Spur of the Moment. He’s expanding into California, and Bates and Carpenter has a good shot at handling all of his company’s West Coast advertising. With the right presentation, Jim thinks we’ll land the account.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s a big account. Six figures annually.”

“All right,” I said. “How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know yet. There’ll be meetings, social functions. And Fisher is arranging a tour of their factory for us. It looks like a full business week, at least.”

“Us, you said. Carpenter going, too?”

“Yes. Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“A touch, anyway, or you wouldn’t have asked if Jim’s going.”

“Okay, a touch. I’m always jealous when you’re out of my clutches. Hot-looking number like you.”

“I’ll be good,” she said seriously. “You know that.”

“Sure I know it.”

“You’re not upset about this?”

“No. Business comes first for both of us — we settled that a long time ago.”

“I know how much you were looking forward to our trip—”

“We’ll go to Cabo San Lucas some other time. No big deal.”

“You sure?”

“No big deal. When’re you leaving?”

“Friday morning. There’s a dinner that night and some sort of party at Fisher’s ranch on Saturday.”

“Ranch, no less. One of those big Texas spreads?”

“Like South Fork, only it’s near Houston.”

“South Fork?”

“The Ewing ranch. You know, Dallas.”

“I’ve never been to Dallas. Who’s this Ewing?”

“Never mind,” she said. “Listen, I have an idea. Why don’t you get away for a few days? While I’m gone.”

“Now where would I go by myself?”

“Well… how about the Sierras? Fishing — you haven’t been trout fishing in a long time. And you wouldn’t have to go alone. Get Joe DeFalco to go with you. He’s a fisherman, isn’t he?”

“A lousy one.”

“So you can show him up. You’ve already made arrangements with Tamara to cover the agency next week and your calendar’s more or less clear anyway. Why not? Nice in the mountains this time of year.”

“I don’t know…”

“No appeal at all? A few days of fishing in the Sierras?”

“A little, maybe.”

“More than a little. I can see it in your eyes. You need a vacation, you know you do, even if it’s only a short one. Why don’t you call Joe? See what he says?”

“All right,” I said. “All right, I’ll call Joe and see what he says.”