David Duffy - In for a Ruble

“Can you tell what it is?”

“It’ll take a while.”

“Do it. I’ll call once I get out of here.”

“On it.”

I put the computer to sleep, wiped off any surfaces I’d touched, pulled the hanging blanket in the reception area aside, took a final look around and started down the stairs.

If I’d come in the front door, I would have missed it. A strand of monofilament stretched across the stairwell, third step from the bottom, ankle level. It shone with the dancing dust against the light outside the door. Coming in the other way, no light behind…

My flashlight beam tracked the strand through a staple in the wall back up the stairs.

Scanning each step, I reclimbed the stairs. Another strand of monofilament across the second from the top, in case whoever came in missed the first one. I’d chanced to step over it on the way down. I stepped over it again back to the lobby and followed both strands to the closet. They ran under the door. I reached for the knob and stopped.

Options. I was looking at an obvious booby-trap, Nosferatu the trapper. He could have rigged the closet door as well. But he expected whoever came up the stairs to trip the string. Still…

I took out my phone and called Foos.

“Update. Activate the zombies and download everything you can from the WildeTime servers.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, but Nosferatu’s wired this place to blow. I’m now a one-man bomb squad, so if I don’t call back…”

“Pig Pen will mourn.”

“He’s in my will. How long you need for the downloading?”

“Wait a minute.”

“Waiting may not be a good idea here.”

“Right. Lots of data. Terabytes. Few hours minimum.”

“I’ll buy you as much time as possible.”

“Keep me posted.”

“If I can.”

I went back through the space, carefully this time, opening every door, looking in every corner. Every hair on my back stood straight up—all telling me to get out while I could. I tried not to listen.

I found four wastebaskets in four bedroom closets, all filled with gasoline. The fifth closet held the kind of five-gallon can you get at any gas station. It was half full.

Nosferatu had improvised. He’d set the trap to kill the next person who entered, presumably one of the kids, then burn the place to the ground. Why? Time enough to worry about that later—or so I hoped.

I moved the five-gallon can to the working bathroom. I filled it from one of the trash cans and carried it out to the Valdez, careful to avoid both tripwires, and poured the contents into the tank. A messy operation, environmentally incorrect, but nobody would die. Two more can-fulls, two more trips to the car. One more survey of the space. No more improvised Molotov cocktails. Still the closet door to deal with.

I called Foos.

“How much more time you need?”

“Lotta dense shit. Three hours, maybe four.”

“I’ve got one more thing to do here. Might be the last thing. If you don’t hear from me there’s a reason.”

“Pig Pen…”

“I know…”

I went back to the closet door, the tripwires running underneath. Inside, almost certainly, was another container of gas connected to some kid of trigger. Question was, had Nosferatu triggered the door as well. I put the odds at eighty–twenty against. One in five. Not as good as Russian roulette, one in six. On the plus side, there was no reason for it. On the down side, he’d gone to a lot of trouble to make sure that he set off an inferno.

Foos needed three hours plus. If I called the cops, he wouldn’t get them. If I opened the door, and bet wrong, he wouldn’t get them either.

I grabbed the knob and pulled.

Nothing.

I leaned against the jam and exhaled.

Inside was another wastebasket. Next to it a mousetrap, the monofilament tied to the spring. Tin foil wrapping both ends and a cable running to a plug in the wall. Someone coming in trips the wire on the stairs, flips the trap, closes the circuit and…

Boom.

Nice guy, Nosferatu.

I pulled the plug. Breathing normally for the first time in an hour, I carried the last can of gas to the Valdez and dumped it in.

I called Foos again.

“I still need time,” he said.

“Take it. I’ve cleaned out the bombs. I’m going to get the kids. Call Leitz. Tell him I want Andras in the headmaster’s office—now. I need his okay to take him with me. If he argues, tell him I don’t want his blood on my hands.”

“Should I tell him about Crestview?”

“Only if you have to. This is life and death for his kid—thanks to his kid—and his best chance for life is with me.”

“Lucky you.”

“Remember who got me into this?”

It was still snowing as I drove back to Gibbet School, but the road had been plowed and sanded. I stopped in the driveway outside the administration building and called Batkin.

“I was wondering when I would hear from you,” he said.

“You’re not going to be happy that you did. I have no time to explain what’s going on, but none of it’s good for your stepdaughter. That’s her fault, I’m afraid. Seems she’s been pursuing the Internet’s oldest profession.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“She and some friends have been running an online pornography ring—with themselves as producers, directors and, I’m afraid, stars.”

I waited for the intake of breath, and I got it.

“Are you certain Irina’s involved?”

“Let’s just say I’ve seen a lot more of her than I was looking for.”

A pause while he processed what I said. I was pretty sure where he’d go, and I was right.

“Do you know…? Who’s responsible? Who got her into this?”

“Don’t know if anyone did. I think she and some pals were doing this on their own.”

“Is the Leitz kid involved?”

“I’m not saying who was involved. She’s got worse problems. I just left their production studio. It’s in the town next to Gibbet. It was booby-trapped to blow sky high. Irina could easily have been the one to set off the explosion.”

“What the hell? Who…?”

“How about a tall, ugly man, Belarusian, six-seven, pockmarked face, buckteeth, superhuman strength?”

Another intake of breath.

“Karp is here?”

“If that’s his name, yes.”

“I may have underestimated my old friend Efim Ilyich. You’ve met Karp, I take it?”

“Once.”

“I’m impressed. Not many survive the experience.”

“It was touch and go. He have a full name?”

“Karp is the only one I know. Konychev’s muscle. A man without a heart.”

“I can attest to that.”

“What did he want with you?”

“Tell me to mind my own business.”

“Were you interfering in his?”

“Not intentionally.”

“That wouldn’t make any difference to Karp. He was a zek who became a guard who became the right hand of the camp commander. Gorlag, after my time. They say he likes young boys and blood, not necessarily in that order. He has quite a track record on both counts. You should watch your step.”

I didn’t point out the irony of his advice. “I intend to. I need to get your stepdaughter out of town. When he finds out his trap didn’t blow, I don’t know his next move.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Help with the school. I need them to release the girl to me.”

“I understand. Where are you?’

“On the campus.”

“I’ll call the headmaster. You’ll bring Irina home?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“As soon as you can.”

I presented myself to the headmaster’s secretary—a sharp-faced woman of a certain age and dress, who looked me all over and didn’t hide the distaste at what she saw. Not entirely her fault—a night in the car and a morning spent transferring petroleum products out of a flop house porn den didn’t leave me presenting my best.