Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

A cold rush of wind as something tore into a carton inches from my head.

Another turnoff, just a few yards away. We ran for it. Above all the noise I could hear Milo gasping, saw him put a hand to his chest.

More gunshots.

Then a louder sound.

Earthquake loud, rumbling up from the cement floor. Rattling the floor as if it were paper.

Cartons tumbled in our path like giant, tantrum-stricken building blocks. Someone screamed.

More screams. Panic. The way the schoolyard must have sounded.

Another rumble. Even stronger, bouncing us like toys, knocking us to the floor.

More boxes toppled. Cartons shot up in the air, tossed by an unseen juggler, and landed with dull, sickening thumps.

Milo tripped, was down. I helped him to his feet. He looked deathly, but resumed running.

No sign of Ahlward, a jumble of cardboard behind us, shielding us.

We made the turn. Black-shirts scattering. The auto-shop smell of seared metal…

Another roar.

The hiss of disintegrating plaster.

We climbed over boxes, ran around them. Milo stopped, hand on chest, legs bowed, head down.

I called his name.

He said, “… fine…” He swallowed air, did it again, nodded dully, and began moving again.

Another explosion. The building shivered like a wet puppy. More cartons crashed down around us, a Vesuvius of PRINTED MATERIALS.

We swerved, dodged, managed to make our way through the rubble. Another turn. Past the forklift…

Metal clatter, more hiss. More thunder. Screams of agony.

The hiss grew louder. Joined by an unmistakable odor.

Burning paper. A sudden, burgeoning heat.

Demolition music. Tongues of orange licking the ground just a few feet away.

Filthy, inky smoke oozed from between the boxes, rising to the top of the warehouse, darkening it.

The heat intensified. Through it another cold rush.

Thunk. Shredded cardboard.

Ahlward emerging from the smoke, howling soundlessly, ignoring the smoke that churned behind him, mindless with hate.

He aimed again.

There was a clearing in the cardboard wall. I ran toward it, realized Milo wasn’t with me. Looking over my shoulder, I saw him. Hand to chest.

A wall of smoke had risen between him and Ahlward. Shots came through it.

Milo looking from side to side, disoriented. I went back for him, grabbed his hand. Felt the resistance of his weight on my wrist, straining the sinews…

I pulled hard. He managed to get going again. I saw the sliding metal door of the loading dock just a few yards up. Shredded like foil and blackened around the edges.

Metal fragments scattered on the ground. Glinty treasure on a bed of masonry dust.

And something else.

A black-shirt. Prone. Blond crew cut. Pale, broad face. White eyes. Husky body stretched out, limp.

Two pieces of body. The trunk separated from the legs. Bifurcated by sliding-door shrapnel.

Closer to the door, another corpse, half buried in metal and offal. A charred head above hamburger. Four others, barely discernible, moist spots in the ash pile.

My gorge rose. I began to choke.

Chemical fumes.

The warehouse was a furnace, flames reaching to the ceiling, smoke thickening as it rolled toward us, a greasy tornado.

A black form emerged from the charcoal mass.

Ahlward, sooty and singed, jerking his head from side to side as if shaking off leeches.

Sighting us. Screaming. Lifting his big black gun.

I went for the largest hole in the shredded door, pulled Milo through it, slipping on the blood-slick floor, feeling the crunch of metal and bone beneath my shoes.

Outside. Fresh air. Gasoline-stink air.

The two of us lurched along the loading dock.

Fumes and flames poured out of the warehouse, out of shattered windows, the ravaged metal door. Shooting out of the gaping holes that had been blown in the wall.

Milo’s breathing was raw and labored. I pulled him down the stairs, into the parking lot.

An incoherent scream rose at our backs.

Ahlward out on the dock, highlighted by the burning building. Looking very small. Aiming. A true believer.

Gunfire.

A frog-song ratatat.

Didn’t know a pistol could make a sound like that.

Another burst. From our backs.

Trapped?

Frogs sang again.

I looked over my shoulder, saw Ahlward jerk and fall, saw the pistol go flying into the inferno.

The flames rolled out of the warehouse and ate him.

Dessert.

Then a voice, out of the darkness:

“You and your detective friend are safe, Dr. Delaware. I’ve saved you.”

He stepped forward, orange-lit by the fire, wearing a dark windbreaker and holding an assault rifle that looked too big for him. A complicated-looking scope had been mounted on the weapon. His thin hair was blowing. Embers fell all around him. There was a look of deep contentment on his face.

I said, “Mr. Burden-”

“Mahlon,” he said. “I’d say we’ve reached the appropriate degree of familiarity, wouldn’t you? Alex.”

Smile.

I saw Milo tense. I stood, rooted.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Burden. “I’m friend, not foe.”

He looked past me at the burning warehouse, gave the satisfied look of a Boy Scout who’d just rubbed two sticks together successfully. Over the roar and crackle I could still hear people screaming. Ashes fell onto my sweaty face, lacy, foul-smelling snowflakes.

Burden said, “You don’t look well, Detective Sturgis. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

Milo was working hard at taking in breath. In the shimmer of the firelight his bruises looked awful- congealed and livid as sloppy special effects.

Burden said, “Come on, Detective.”

Milo said, “Forget that.” Shaking his head and spreading his arms for balance. “Linda Overstreet. They’ve sent someone to her place. Gotta get to a phone, call it in.”

He took several lurching steps.

Burden said, “I’ll do you one better, Detective.” Snap of fingers. Another face out of the darkness. Early thirties, handsome, big walrus mustache over a clipped beard.

“Doctor, you’ve met Gregory Graff. Photographically. Here he is in the flesh. Gregory, help me with Detective Sturgis.”

Graff stepped forward, very big, very broad. A rifle similar to Burden’s was slung over his shoulder. He wore camouflage fatigues that looked as if they’d been French-laundered. His demeanor was pure concentration- a surgeon tying off a capillary.

He put one arm around Milo’s shoulder, the other on Milo’s elbow. Dwarfing Milo. Six five at least.

I took Milo’s other arm.

Milo tried to shake us off. “I’m okay, goddammit. Get me a phone!”

“This way,” said Burden. He turned his back on the inferno and began walking fast.

We followed him out of the parking lot, soot blowing in our eyes. Milo insisted on walking without assistance, but shakily, still breathing with effort. Graff and I stayed by his side. I kept looking at my friend. Finally his breathing regularized. For all the punishment Milo’d taken, he seemed in decent shape.

What shape was Linda in? I tried not to think of that, could think of nothing else.

Someone who knows how to bring out the best in a woman …

My own breathing grew clogged. I fought for composure. We made our way through the darkness. Then a hideous tidal wave of sound- monsters at feeding time- rose behind us, and the lot was engulfed in bloody light.

Still moving, I looked back. Flames had burst through the roof of the warehouse and were shooting into the sky, bloodying it.

A few people had made it out to the landing dock, engulfed in flames, arms flapping and throwing off sparks. One of them dropped to the ground and rolled.