Jonathan Kellerman - Time Bomb

Ahlward sighted down the barrel of the big black pistol. His left eye closed. I fought to keep my eyes open, staring straight ahead. Behind him.

Concentrating on the spear logo, glowing scarlet and ugly. Thinking of photos at an exhibit. A wintry day in Bavaria. Bodies collapsing into a ditch.

“You’re a puzzling piece of turd,” said Ahlward. “I’ve researched you. Always getting into things that aren’t your business.”

“For the last time,” said Latch.

Ahlward said, “Show and Tell time, turd.” Gestured with the gun.

I said, “Why should I bother?”

Ahlward smiled. “Because,” he said. “Every second’s precious. Everyone thinks they’re immortal. Amazing the things creatures will do- how low they’ll sink- to buy seconds.”

I said, “Is that a fact?”

“Scientific fact. Toss a kike-creature in freezing water and watch him prolong his agony just to buy seconds.”

“Toss a penny in the pool and he’ll dive in voluntarily,” Latch added.

Ahlward smiled and said, “They gasped like fish and screamed in Yiddish for mercy, even though they knew it was no use. Just kept going until they turned into Popsicles. Scientists are using it today. Hotshot research on hypothermia. Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up benefiting mankind too.”

“An entire new area of inquiry,” said Latch. “Pain tolerance.”

“So,” said Ahlward. “You’ll cooperate. What’s the alternative?”

“The alternative is, I say fuck you.”

Ahlward put his gun away and pushed a button on the phone. His reward was a single short ring. He picked up the receiver and said, “Now.”

He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. Same stance I’d seen a few days ago. In a classroom.

A single knock sounded on the door.

Ahlward said, “In.”

Two clean-cuts came in, grasping something big and white and limp under the arms. Both of them were husky, very young. One was blond and had bad acne. The other, dark-haired, with a wispy mustache.

Twenty years old, tops. They should have been beer-bashing. Trolling for cheap thrills.

They stood at attention, grim, pithed of soul.

The white thing between them was Milo, head lolling, heels dragging.

Dead weight. My heart did a high jump and landed in my gullet, choking off air. I moved forward. Ahlward snatched up the gun and said, “Stay.”

Buy seconds.

I remained in place and looked at my friend.

He was barefoot and had been stripped down to his undershirt and trousers. The shirt was ripped and splotched with blood. His eyes were swollen shut, his lip split in a couple of places and blood-engorged. Worms of dried blood crawled all over his face, trailed down his chin and onto the shirt. One of his shoulders was exposed through a rent in the undershirt. Scraped raw and still weeping. Blue-maroon cabbage-shaped bruises blossomed along his arms. Despite his bulk, he looked small.

His head sank lower and bobbed. I saw more blood at the crown, crusting his hair. Where it hadn’t been damaged, his skin, always pale, had the dirty-porcelain cast of the terminal ward.

But faint pumping movement under the shirt. Respiration.

He passed wind; a raw growl.

Latch chuckled. The boys in black grinned.

I said, “Milo.” Louder than I’d intended; it made me sound desperate.

His face didn’t change but something passed through the raw-liver lips. Half sigh, half retch; I couldn’t tell if it was voluntary.

He sank again. The black-shirts tightened their grip. Eagle Scouts helping a drunk across the street, whether he wanted to cross or not…

Ahlward said to me: “Here’s the way it’s going to be. You’re going to sit down right now and not give me any shit, or I’m going to walk up to your asshole buddy and hurt him while you watch. When he’s no longer of any use, I’ll blow his brains out, making sure lots of wet gray stuff lands right on your shirt. Then I’ll cut the stuff with a fork and knife and feed it to you. Vomit it up, you’ll eat vomit for dessert. One way or the other, you’re going to get it all down. After that I’ll hurt you. Take you apart- surgery- and make you watch it happen. Turn you into a fucking cartoon. You’ll be the only one not laughing.”

Shrugging with my arms behind me was painful. I sat down. “Well, if you put it that way, D.F… D.F. Let’s see- gotta be Der Führer, right? You guys have a thing for initials. D.F., L.D.- where’s the harmonica, Gordon? Still playing requests? How about the old ‘Horst Wessel Song,’ or isn’t that in your repertoire?”

Talking fast. To keep from shaking.

Ahlward gave his hand an impatient wave. The Gestapo-scouts began dragging Milo out of the room.

I said, “No. I want him here.” Surprised at the assertiveness in my voice. Good clear sound, finally, shooting out of my aching throat.

Buy seconds; I half-expected to die.

But Ahlward looked amused. He held up a hand and the black-shirts stood still.

“You want.”

“You want what I’ve got, D.F. What I want in return is seconds. Just like you said. For both of us.”

“You want.”

He got up and put his hands on his hips. He wore a narrow tooled black belt with a gold spear buckle. Hanging from the left side of his belt was a black leather sheath that dangled like an off-center codpiece. He slid something out of it. A hunting knife with a black haft and gold crosspiece. Wide, tapering, foot-long blade. Big enough for butchering large game. Outdoorsman’s knife…

He turned it, examined the blade, then lowered it and held it parallel to his right leg. Then he came from around the desk with remarkable speed and stood in front of me.

“ You want ,” he said.

Smiling was as easy as chewing ground glass. “Got to play the few cards I’ve got, D.F.”

His pink eyebrows arched. “You think you have cards ?”

“I know I do. The only reason you brought me here is because I have something you want- information. You need to find out how much I know, who I’ve talked to. About Bear Lodge. Wannsee Two.”

“Three,” said Latch.

A silencing look from Ahlward.

I said, “We’re talking damage control, D.F. You worked on Milo and he didn’t tell you much. Maybe he just didn’t know, or maybe he was tougher than you thought. In either event, you figure I’ll be a softer touch. And maybe I will- but not if you’re going to kill him anyway.”

“You and he have something going, do you?”

“It’s called friendship.”

“Right.” He smiled, lifted his right arm, and brought the knife up to my chin. And under.

“It’s your kind of decadence that brings a society down,” he said. “Softness. Putting it and taking it up the ass.” Probing with the knife.

“All soft,” he whispered. “Every inch of you.” A tiny flick of his wrist and the blade came away red-tipped and wet. He turned again, holding it so that it caught the light- and stared at the candy-apple glint.

No pain for a moment, then a throbbing pang just above my Adam’s apple. Wet heat. Like a wasp sting.

“This is you- this is all you are.” Blood-entranced. I wondered how many animals he’d tortured as a kid. How many people…

I said, “What can I do, D.F.? Sure, you’ve got most of the cards. But I’ve still got to use what I have. Survival. Just like you said.”

His blunt face was motionless. Then amused once more.

Then something else, dark and empty.

He raised the knife high, stabbed down hard.

I stumbled back, away from the slashing blade, anticipating agony. But less afraid than a moment before. Less afraid than I imagined I’d be- nerves deadened, anesthetized. The same kind of anesthesia they say overtakes gazelles just before the hyenas rip them apart.