J. Konrath: Cherry Bomb

I weighed my choices, realized I had none, and took a leap of faith.

“Alex gave me one of those twelve phones. She’s called me, text messaged me, a few times. Could we get her location from the SIM card?”

Hajek’s face fell. “She gave you a phone?”

He sounded a bit more upset than I would have liked.

“I just said that. Can we get her phone number from it?”

Hajek rolled his chair a few inches backward, like I’d suddenly become a leper.

“Withholding evidence in a murder investigation is a felony, Lieutenant. Obstruction of justice.”

“Blame stress.”

“How long have you had the phone?”

The look on his face told me he’d gone from ally to adversary. I pulled the friendship card.

“Scott, this is really important to me.”

“I’ve followed this case. Read all the files for research. She’s seriously evil, and totally dangerous. If you’ve had the phone for more than a day or two, keeping it to yourself might have cost the lives of several people.”

I switched to the sympathy card.

“If that’s the case, I’ll head straight for the hundred and third floor of the Sears Tower with a glass cutter and a laminated photo ID so they can identify my body afterward. Come on, Scott. Alex killed the man I loved.”

He shook his head. “You have to turn it in.”

I tried the vamp card, walking up to him with a forced smile and trying my damnedest to get my voice low like Kathleen Turner in Body Heat.

“I’d be really grateful if you could help me out, Scott.”

Instead of melting into putty, Hajek grabbed for the landline on his desk.

“I’m not losing my job over you, Lieutenant. It’s my duty as a police officer to inform your captain that-”

I played my last card. The tough bitch card.

“Officer Hajek.” There was so much steel in my words that he flinched as if hit. “Put down that phone right now or this is going to get ugly.”

Hajek obeyed.

“Give me the number.”

“I…uh-”

“Now!”

Hajek grabbed a sheet of paper off his desk and offered it meekly. I spun on my heels and headed for the door, hearing him pick up the phone again as I left.

AN ASTHMATIC BLOWS HARDER than the complimentary hair dryer in room 114 at the Old Stone Inn, but Alex makes do, brushing out her new strawberry red color while standing in front of the bathroom sink. She tilts her head forward, shaking out her long bangs, straightening while drying. When she finishes, her hair is still in front of her face. Alex looks into the mirror, then parts the bangs with her fingers, pushing the right side behind her ear and letting the left side hang flat. Covering her scars.

Alex stares. Sees someone she recognizes. Someone she hasn’t seen in a while. A beautiful old friend who has gone away and is never coming back. Fit. Trim. Still attractive, even a year shy of forty.

“I miss you.”

She kisses the tip of her index finger, then touches the glass, running it down the reflection of her jawline. Her hair falls back, revealing the pink ugliness underneath.

Without telegraphing the move, without even changing expression, Alex makes a fist and drives it into the mirror. Her image shatters.

She feels like there are coiled springs nestling in her muscles, bursting to be set loose. Naked, she lifts her arms above her head and rolls into a handstand, walking over to the area the bed used to occupy before she pushed it into the corner. She tilts farther forward, her feet touching the wall, and begins to do reverse chin-ups, her head touching the carpet with every dip.

When she reaches seventeen, the sweat comes, rolling down her ears and soaking into her hair.

Her arms begin to wobble at forty-six. She starts to pant, oxygenating her muscles, the lactic acid building and burning.

Alex pushes on to sixty, even though her arms are shaking so badly her balance is wavering.

By seventy-three, her left arm gives out, causing her to collapse onto her side. She rolls with the fall, tucking in her head, using momentum to get to her feet. Alex turns and launches into an explosive tae kwon do kata, kicking, twisting, and punching.

Her mind is both focused and clear as she forces her body through the moves, grunting exhalations called ki-hops with each blow. Her muscles remember every thrust and spin. The par tic u lar form she uses is traditionally done with four assistants, who hold boards at various heights to be broken by hands, feet, and head.

Rather than boards, she flails at the air, directing each strike at the unscarred face of Jack Daniels.

The kata ends in the splits, the toes on the forward leg pointed sky-ward, hands clenched into fists and spread out like wings. Her body glistens with sweat, and her breath comes in gasps.

With her heart rate still up, Alex flips over and begins a set of fingertip push-ups. She knocks off a hundred, rolls gracefully to her feet, and pads into the bathroom to towel off.

The cracked mirror tells her she’s still ugly. As if she needed the reminder.

The clock on the nightstand reads ten after three. Her date isn’t due until four, but from experience she knows he usually comes early. In more ways than one.

Alex doesn’t dress. Instead, she digs into her gym bag and removes a fresh roll of duct tape, a package of rubber bands, a box cutter, a Cheetah stun gun, and a handheld butane torch. The stun gun is pink, the shape and size of a cigarette pack. The torch looks like a phaser from Star Trek. It’s also pink, which delighted Alex when she found it at the home supply store. A girl has got to know how to accessorize.

Then she sits on the bed, lotus style, and waits.

Ten minutes later, David “Lance” Strang knocks on her motel door. She confirms it with the peephole.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Lance.”

She opens the door, lets him ogle her. Lance hasn’t changed much in the fifteen years since she’s last seen him. Same broad shoulders. Same strong chin. His thick brown hair has receded just a bit, and now it’s salted with gray, but other than that he’s exactly as she remembered him from their Geiger days.

Lance takes Alex in, staring at her legs, her tits, before moving up to her face. When he sees the scar, his grin falters.

“Yeah, sorry about that, Lance. And about this.”

Alex brings up the Cheetah and hits David Strang in the gut, applying a million volts to his nervous system. He jerks forward, and all two hundred and twenty fit pounds of him crumple to the carpeting.

I CABBED IT from the Crime Lab, heading for the nearest Washington Mutual bank branch. Again, the driver commented on how soaked I was. Next time it rained, I’d indulge in a thicker bra. Or an umbrella.

During the ride I made some calls. One I didn’t want to make. The other I really didn’t want to make. I began with the easier one.

“Wilbur? It’s Jack.”

“How are you holding up, sweetheart?”

“I’ve been better. Thanks for respecting my wishes and not attending the funeral. Mom would have shot you if she saw you.”

“Um, about that…”

I took a deep breath-never a wise move in a Chicago cab. This one smelled like gym socks and cheap incense.

“Tell me you weren’t there, Wilbur.”

Pause.

“Wilbur…”

“Your fiancé died. Of course I was going to come.”

“I didn’t see you there.”

“You didn’t see me at any of your graduations or your wedding either, Jacqueline. I’m good at being discreet. Look, I know I only met Latham once, when you brought him over, but for what it’s worth I really liked him. I’m so sorry for your loss, sweetheart. If there’s anything I can do…”