Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

He knelt beside the bag. “Now for the interesting part.” Tugging down and parting a foot of zipper. It sounded like something ripping.

A face stared up at us.

Female. Capuchin-monkey face under dirty-blond hair. Mussed hair. Eyes closed, the left one puffy and plum-colored. Skin tinted gray- the greenish-gray reserved for Death’s palette. A quarter-sized, black-edged ruby hole in the left cheek. Dry lips, parted. Between them a sliver of corn-niblet tooth.

“A woman,” said Hardy. “Can you top that? No ID, nothing on her. One thing we should have them dust is the bat. Hopefully we’ll pull something off of that.”

“She calls herself Crisp,” I said. “Audrey Crisp. That may or may not be her real name.”

“Yeah?” said Del. “Well, Crisp got herself crisped.” Shaking his head. Tugging the zipper another inch lower. “Want to see more?”

“Anything to see?” said Milo.

“Just two more holes down below.”

Milo shook his head.

Del zipped up the bag. “Lady with a baseball bat- all those spikes, like one of those medieval things. Mace, or something. Gotta be one for the books, right? Ever see that before, Milo?”

I walked back into the bedroom. Sat on the bed. Linda opened her eyes, muttered something that could have been my name.

With no evidence to the contrary, I decided it had been my name.

The power of wishful thinking…

I brushed hair away from her brow and kissed it.

She whimpered and turned on her side, facing me, looking up at me.

I lay down beside her and closed my eyes. When the ambulance attendants came for her, they had to wake me. Had to pry my arm from around her waist, and hers from mine.

Her father flew in the next morning from Texas. I’d expected Gary Cooper and got Lyndon Johnson out of a trash compactor: short, stout, big ears with banjo lobes, whiskey nose, crinkle chin. The only genetic link to Linda I could discern, a pair of small, delicate hands that he kept plastered to his sides. Nothing Texas Rangerish about his clothes either. Powder-blue sport coat, yellow golf shirt, white seersucker slacks, brown patent-leather loafers.

He called me sir a lot, not sure who I was. Not sure who his daughter was. When he walked into the hospital room, she gave a weary smile and I left the two of them alone.

She left with him the following day, promising to call when she got to San Antonio. Following through that evening, but sounding tentative herself, as if someone was listening in and she was unable to talk freely.

I told her to take her time healing. That I’d check to make sure the kids at Hale were okay. That I was there for her whenever she needed me. Working at making it sound convincing- putting a little therapist in my voice.

She said, “That means a lot to me, Alex. I know the kids are going to be okay. The person they’re using for substitute principal is really good. I went to school with him- he’ll do a good job.”

“I’m glad.”

“Can he call you? For advice?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. You’re so terrific.”

“My head is swelling swelling swelling.”

“I mean it- you are. By the way, Carla has your gift- we got a gift for you. Last week. It’s a set of Mark Twain. The complete works. I know you like books. I hope you like Twain.”

“I love Twain.”

“It’s an old leather set, really pretty. I found it for you myself, in an antiques store. Wish I could be there to give it to you. But Carla will send it to you. Unless you’re at the school. Then you can pick it up. In my office. On the desk.”

“I’ll go by. Thanks.”

Pause.

“Alex, I know this is nervy, but do you think you could possibly come on out here, spend some time with me? Not just yet, but maybe a little later?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Great! I’ll take you around. Show you a good time. I promise. You can have grits for the second time. As soon as things settle down.”

“Look forward to it. Remember the Alamo.”

“Remember me.”

Later that day Robin came by, with deli sandwiches and jug wine, a beautiful smile and a soft quick kiss on the lips.

We sat facing each other at the ash burl trestle table she’d hand-carved years ago.

First time in a long time we’d been in the same room. If we’d scheduled it, I’d have spent hours dreading it. But it ended up nice. Nothing physical, nothing covert or calculated or stiff. No excavation of old wounds, debridement of damaged flesh. It wasn’t denial. There just didn’t seem to be any scars either of us could see or feel. Or maybe it was the wine.

We sat talking and eating and drinking, discussing the piss-poor state of the world, occupational hazards, occupational joys. Trading bad jokes. The space between us smooth, soft. Baby-smooth. As if we’d birthed something healthy.

I started to believe friendship was possible.

When she left, my loneliness was tempered by the pleasant confusion of hope. And when Milo came by to pick me up, I was in an amazingly good mood.

Surveillance. Numb butts.

But nice to be on the other side.

The first couple of days yielded no results. I learned about cop boredom, about self-doubt. About how even the best of friendships get strained by too much of nothing. But I refused Milo’s repeated offers to drop out.

“What? Your year for masochism?”

“My year for closure.”

“If your guess is right,” he said.

“If.”

“Lots of ifs.”

I said, “If you don’t want to bother, I’ll do it myself.”

He smiled. “Joe Detective?”

“Joe Curious. You think I’m reaching? It was just a look.”

He turned to me. The swelling down, his wounds greening, but one eye was still puffy and wet and his gait was stiff.

“No, Alex,” he said softly. “I think you’re worth listening to. I’ve always thought so. Besides, what do we have to lose except sanity, and not much of that left, right? It’s only been forty-eight hours. Let’s give it at least another couple of days.”

So we sat in the rented car until our butts turned downright frozen. Ate stale fast food, did crossword puzzles, engaged in inane chatter that neither of us would have tolerated under different circumstances.

The second day it happened. The maroon Volvo rolled away from suburbia, the way it always did. But this time it abandoned home territory and headed for the 405 Freeway.

Milo hung back until it had climbed a northbound on-ramp, then followed, hanging back several car lengths.

“You see,” he said, turning the steering wheel with one finger. “This is the way it’s done. Subtly. No way short of psychic powers he’s going to see us.”

Bravado in his voice but he kept checking the rearview mirror.

I said, “How’re your psychic powers?”

“Finely honed.” A moment later. “I knew the Department would buy my story, didn’t I?”

His story. Post-traumatic stress reaction. A need for seclusion.

Escape from L.A.

He’d been thorough. Buying an airplane ticket for Indianapolis. Showing up at LAX only to duck out of line just before boarding. Picking up a rental Cadillac and driving into the Valley. Checking into a motel out in Agoura under the name S. L. Euth.

Then surveillance. The other side.

Picking me up at a preassigned place that changed each day.

Watching. Making sure we weren’t being watched.

Today he had on a brown polo shirt, tan cords, white sneakers, and an old felt Dodgers cap on his head.

“Umm, nice leather,” he said, fondling the mocha-colored armrest that bisected the sedan De Ville’s bench seat. “Nice, even if it does drive mushy. I can see why you hold on to yours.”