J. Konrath - Cherry Bomb

More silence.

“Why would she go to Dollywood?” I thought it was a reasonable question.

“Everyone likes Western-themed rides and attractions,” said Coursey.

“And Southern hospitality at affordable family prices,” said Dailey.

I rubbed my eyes. “You rehearsed this. You planned this whole gag, and you’re going to laugh about this later on. Right?”

They exchanged another glance.

“Vicky cost sixty-five million dollars,” Coursey said.

My phone rang. The one Alex gave me.

“Excuse me, guys. I have to take this. Good luck with that cookie robber guy.”

I pulled on the door handle. Naturally, it didn’t open. Federal, state, city, or town-cop cars were all the same.

A second ring.

“You want to let me out?”

“Alexandra Kork has committed felonies in six states,” said Dailey. “So the Bureau is very interested in bringing her to justice.”

The phone rang a third time. I still didn’t pick it up.

“I promise I’ll check Dolly’s cleavage when I’m in Knoxville.”

“If you find her, call us,” said Coursey.

“We mean Alex, not Dolly,” said Dailey.

“If she contacts me, you’ll be the first to know.”

The door unlocked. I walked briskly away from the car, the rain a faucet on my head.

“It’s Jack,” I said into the phone.

No answer. I missed the call. I couldn’t call back, because the call would just forward to this number, giving me a busy signal. Shit. Then the phone beeped, telling me I had a text message. I accessed it.

THIS IS LANCE. HE’S A COP.

There was a picture. A man, from the waist up, duct-taped to a bed. Short brown hair. Brown eyes. Late thirties or early forties. He had no shirt, and his bare chest was covered with black and red marks.

Burns.

On the bed, dangling over his forehead, was some sort of metal arm, holding what looked like a microphone a foot above his face.

Though he had tape over his mouth, I could tell he was screaming when the picture was taken: A feminine hand with a pink manicure held a miniature blowtorch against his nipple.

A beep. Then a second text message came through.

HE DIES IN TWELVE HOURS.

I checked my watch: 5:33. He’d be dead by morning.

The phone was getting seriously wet, so I shoved it into my purse. The Feds were gone. But by some huge stroke of fortune, a cab came up the street. I stuck up my hand and waved. He only slowed down enough to splash curb water on me.

The WaMu was only four blocks away. Since I couldn’t get any colder, or wetter, I walked.

I didn’t want this phone taken from me. It was my only link to Alex, the only way I could find her. But now I didn’t have a choice. A man’s life was at stake, and the clock was ticking. Detective Tom Mankowski was running the Kork investigation. He was a good cop. Plus he had a team behind him. Resources. Equipment. Funding. They could do more with the phone than I could. They’d have a better shot at saving that poor schmuck tied to the bed.

It was the right decision, morally and legally. Mankowski owed me a favor, so he’d keep me in the loop. I had to turn in the phone-the sooner, the better.

But I didn’t.

God help me, I didn’t.

ALEX HAS THE CAR RADIO cranked to the max, singing along with the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ ode to Magic Johnson. It ends too soon, and some rap shit comes on. She hits a few presets, but the car’s previous own er apparently had a hard-on for hip-hop. A quick search of the glove compartment finds it crammed with every single goddamn CD MC Ice Koffee every recorded, plus three albums of other rappers doing MC Ice Koffee songs. She tries listening to one. After thirty excruciating seconds she chucks it out the window and fantasizes MC Ice Koffee is the one dead in the trunk.

She’s dressed in Levi’s, a Cubs hoodie she bought at the same thrift store she got the funeral hat, and some steel-toed Doc Martens. Her hair is in a ponytail under the hood, and an oversized pair of movie star sunglasses covers most of her face. From the sidewalk, from other cars, she’s ageless, sexless, anonymous, invisible. A lioness creeping through the high grass, unseen and unheard.

The GPS advises Alex to turn right in three hundred feet. She does. Bay View is one of the nicer neighborhoods in the city. Row after row of Late Victorian-style houses, tall green trees, well-maintained lawns.

“Arriving at destination.”

Alex pats the GPS screen and says, “Thanks.” She parks the Honda across the street from a white two-story bungalow. An American flag hangs above the front door, next to the obligatory porch swing. Alex half expects Aunt Bea to stick her head out the window and call Opie home for supper.

She pulls her purse onto her shoulder and subconsciously checks herself in the mirror, a habit she wishes she could break because it always sours her mood. This time is no exception.

“You need duct tape and rubber bands to get men to fuck you,” she says to her reflection.

Annoyed, Alex exits the car and walks up to the front door of the bungalow, giving the solid wooden door a firm knock.

A teenage girl, sixteen or seventeen, answers. She’s wearing a belly shirt that exposes a piercing, tight jeans that ride just above her crotch, and more makeup than Boy George in his heyday. Her hair is as blond as the bottles can get.

“You must be Leena. I’m Sergeant Friday. I’m working on a case with your father.”

Alex flashes Lance’s police badge and ID, her finger partially obscuring his picture. She needn’t have bothered; Leena’s eyes are glued to Alex’s face.

“What happened to you? Were you, like, burned or something?”

“Don’t you think it’s rude to ask that?”

Leena cocks out a hip.

“I think it’s rude to walk around looking like Freddy Krueger.”

Alex smiles, only half of her mouth moving.

“Is your dad home?”

A yawn. Alex is boring her.

“He doesn’t get home until six.”

“Mom?”

“Mom’s dead.”

“That’s hard.”

Alex knows this from experience. She helped to kill her own mother, and the bitch didn’t die easy.

“It’s a quarter to six,” Alex says. “I’ll wait for your father inside.”

She tries to enter, but Leena blocks her path.

“You can wait on the porch.”

Alex almost laughs.

“You’re not a very nice little girl.”

Cue the eye roll. “What ever.”

Alex leans in closer.

“I bet you get your way all the time, don’t you, Leena? Shake your perfect little boobies, stick out your size zero ass, and the men fall all over themselves trying to please you. I hope you’re getting it now. Because it doesn’t last.”

Leena doesn’t seem to know if that was an insult or not.

“I go to rainbow parties,” she says. “I’ve hooked up with plenty of boys.”

Alex glances left, looking up the street.

“Rainbow parties. I think I saw that on Oprah. You and your girlfriends take turns giving some guy head. What a waste.”

“You’re the waste.”

Alex looks right, down the street. All clear.

“It’s too bad you’ll never learn, Leena. Being a woman isn’t about giving.” Alex winks her good eye. “It’s about taking.”

Leena shrugs. “Are we done?”

“Almost. I was listening to MC Ice Koffee in the car. Do you like him?”

“Yeah. Ice is da bomb.”

Alex hits Leena hard enough to break the girl’s nose. Then she enters the house and shuts the door behind her.

“You ugly bitch!” Leena screams, hand pinching nostrils to stop the bleeding.

Alex takes Lance’s 9mm from her purse and puts a round through Leena’s flawless face, killing her before she hits the floor. Then Alex goes into the kitchen, prepares herself a ham sandwich and a glass of milk, and waits on the sofa for Dad to come home.