Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

More screams.

Burden turned nonchalantly, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and squeezed off a frog-burst.

Milo said, “Forget that, goddammit. Move!”

“Covering our tracks,” said Burden. “Always sound strategy in this type of mission.” But he lowered the rifle and sprinted ahead.

Milo cursed and tried to walk faster. His legs gave out. Graff lifted him, slung him over his shoulder as if he were a straw man, and kept going without breaking step.

Milo protested and cursed. Graff ignored him.

“And here we are,” said Burden.

The sheet-metal gate was propped open by a crowbar. Just beyond it, parked at the curb, was a van. Dark-gray, one blackened window on each side, the roof coiffured with antennas. Tongues of reflected fire from afar created the illusion of a low-rider mural along the slab sides. Dancing mural… hell on wheels…

I heard the shriek of sirens from somewhere in the distance. It reminded me of something… a crack alley… Dogs began howling.

Burden took something out of his pocket and pressed a button. Metallic click. The van’s rear doors swung open.

Milo looked up at the antennas. “You have a phone. Put me down and let me use the fucking thing!”

Burden said, “Gregory, see that the detective’s comfortable in the back.”

Graff lifted Milo, bride-over-the-threshold style, and slid him into the back of the van.

Milo disappeared from view, cursing. The doors slammed shut.

I grabbed Burden’s shoulder. “Stop playing games and let’s get to the phone!”

Burden smiled and peeled my fingers off. “Oh, this is no game, Doctor. I feel I’ve done a very fine job of saving your life. The least you could do would be to trust me.” He went around to the driver’s side and said, “Hop in.”

I opened the right-hand door. Two Recaro racing bucket seats in front; between them, a console bearing a mini computer and phone modem. I got in the passenger seat and lifted the phone. Dead.

Burden was behind the wheel.

I said, “Activate it, damn you!”

Burden was expressionless. He handed his rifle back to Graff and put a key in the ignition. I looked back; the rear of the vehicle was a carpeted shell. Milo lay on the floor, sharing space with several metal boxes and some electronic gear that I couldn’t identify. Graff knelt beside him, his big head brushing against the ceiling. A gun rack covered one wall of the shell. Semi-automatic handguns, rifles, something Uzi-like.

Milo forced himself up and grabbed the back of Burden’s seat. “You sadistic little asshole!”

Graff pulled him off and held his wrist.

Milo cursed.

Burden said, “Such gratitude,” and turned the key. The engine started and the dashboard became a light show: meters, dials, graphic displays, LED readouts. A row of circular dials on the front edge of the ceiling, parallel with the windshield. Still more dials on the console, on both sides of the computer, and surrounding the phone. Enough hardware to fill the cockpit of a 747.

Burden said, “Welcome to the official mobile testing lab of New Frontiers, Limited. Components come and go. I get free samples all the time, keep only the best.”

I thought of Linda. Now his narcissism was deadly. Fighting down the urge to strangle him, I said, “Please. It’s life and death.”

He touched dark space to the right of the steering wheel. A square yellow screen the size of a cocktail coaster appeared. Black numbers flashed: a two-digit combination followed by seven more numbers that kept changing. Below the screen a key pad. The light from the screen revealed two more phones, freehand, dash-mounted, their buttons banana-yellow.

“Police scanner,” said Burden, playing the pad with four fingers. “Programmable for any region of the world. Which in and of itself is nothing out of the ordinary. But this one has been modified- it can be used to interface with police dispatch systems and place calls.” Smile. Gorging himself on power. “Totally illegal. Please don’t tell on me, Detective Sturgis.”

I said, “For God’s sake, call it in!” and shouted Linda’s address.

“I know the address,” he said. “Would you like me to place the call or would you prefer to do it yourse-”

“Just do it!”

He clucked his tongue, punched another button that froze the numbers on the scanner, and picked up one of the dash phones.

“All West L.A. units,” he said in a voice not his own. “All West L.A. units and”- peering- “Eight A-twenty-nine. ADW in progress, possible attempt One-eighty-seven.” He rattled off street and number, specified Linda’s apartment. “Code Three. I repeat…”

The radio talked back via a speaker on the ceiling. A patrolman’s voice confirmed taking the call. Within seconds two more units had called in Code Six- assisting.

“There,” Burden said, pushing a button that darkened the dash, “that should take care of it.”

“Drive there, asshole,” said Milo.

“What about your injuries, Detective Sturgis?”

“Just get the fuck over there.”

Burden’s seat swiveled. He looked back.“Gregory?”

Graff lifted one of Milo’s arms, flexed it gently.

Milo said, “Get the fuck off me, Paul Bunyan. Drive, Burden, or I will bust you for something.”

Graff said, “Doesn’t look like anything’s broken, Mr. Burden.” A basso befitting his size. Good elocution. New England inflections.

The sirens grew louder.

Burden said, “The last thing I want is to be accused of medical negligence. Particularly with regard to an officer of the law.”

Milo said, “Get moving, you smug little fuck.”

Burden’s face turned stony in the dashlight. “I’ll put that down to shock, Detective.”

Milo cursed some more.

Burden’s face got harder.

I said, “Look, it’s been a long night for all of us. We appreciate what you’ve done- saving us. But let’s make it perfect by trying to save Linda too.”

He looked at me. “Perfect? No, I don’t think so.”

He sat with his hands on the steering wheel as the sirens grew deafening. Finally he fastened his seat belt, gave the van gas, and pulled away from the curb. Just as we turned out of the winding alley, the fire trucks came charging through.

I said, “Where are we?”

“Van Nuys,” Burden said. “That red light is Victory Boulevard.”

Milo said, “Shoot the light.”

Burden said, “Such a bad influence, Detective,” but he sped through the blackened intersection.

I said, “How about we turn the scanner on, hear what’s happening.”

He shook his head. “Not necessary. Have some faith, Doctor.”

At first I thought it just another power play, but a block later he said, “No doubt you’ll want to know how it was done. Your liberation.”

From the back, Milo said, “The fucking punch line.” He began to cough.

Graff said, “Here, drink some water.”

“Sure water is all it is, Paul?”

“That’s all it is,” rumbled Graff, babysitter-patient.

Burden said, “Detective Sturgis, you’re a hostile, ill-mannered man. Too many years of being on the outside?”

The therapist in me yearned to turn that back on him.

“Christ,” Milo said.

I heard him gulping, looked back, and saw Graff holding a canteen to his lips.

Burden said, “It’s water, all right. Pure spring water from Washington State. Artesian springs, water with a natural mineral composition miraculously matched to the body’s own electrochemical requirements. What page, Gregory?”

Slowing the van as he talked. The streets were desolate; clear sailing. I wanted to shove my foot down on the accelerator.