A Bomb Built in Hell (25 page)

“Why me?”

“Carmine had two names, right? Carmine Trentoni. And Pet had one and a half … 
Mr
. Petraglia. How many names I got?”

“One. ‘Wesley' is all I know.”

“And how many you got, kid? What did we call you?”

“I see.…”

“But
they
won't. I
got
another name someplace—I had one in the Army, and I had one in the joint, and I had one that the State gave me until I really didn't have one no more. You ever see a giant roach?”

“No. Wesley, what're you—?”

“One time, Carmine and me decided to kill all the fucking roaches on our tier. We made this poison, right? It was deadly, had them all belly-up in a week. But after a few more weeks, we saw all kinds of strange roaches around. Some were colored almost white. And then we saw this giant sonofabitch—he musta been six inches long. And fat.”

“That was one of those Florida things, Wesley. I read—”

“The fuck it was. I seen too many roaches to go for that—it was a goddamn mutant roach. They breed much faster than humans, and they
evolved
a special roach. One that
ate
the fucking poison, you see?”

“No.”

“That giant roach would've died if Carmine and me
hadn't fed him, kid. All he could live on was the poison, and we didn't have too much left. When we ran out of the stuff, he just died.”

“How is that like your name?”

“I'm like that giant roach. I can only live on the poison they usually use to kill us off … or make us kill each other off. That's why I'm going home tomorrow. But that poison can't kill you—you don't need it to live on, so you'll be a ghost. The ghost who haunts them all.”

“How'm I going to find the answers?”

“I don't know. I
do
know they're not all in books. And don't be just listening to all kinds of silly motherfuckers.
Test
them all. You got enough money to hole up fifty years if you have to, right?”

“Yeah. How'm I going to bury you, Wesley? I don't want the—”

“The State birthed me—the fucking State can bury me, kid. Just watch the TV real close tomorrow. You'll see me wave goodbye.”

T
hey both went back into Wesley's apartment. After Wesley told the dog to stay put, he showed the kid all the systems, where everything was. It took several hours. Then Wesley stood up and stretched.

“I'm going up on the roof, kid. Get everything ready—I'll be pulling out around ten tomorrow.”

Wesley smoked two packs of cigarettes on the roof, thinking. The
News
only reported the “heart attack” death of the desk clerk because it was in the same hotel
where a half-nude man was found shot to death—a bullet in his chest, one in his eye, and another in the back of his neck. A low-yield explosion had blown out most of the floor.

He thought of calling Carmine's widow to tell her about the fifty thousand in the basement, but decided to tell the kid about it instead.

Wesley spotted a tiny fire out on the Slip—it was getting cold again, and the tramps would have to make their usual arrangements. Wesley realized that he wasn't sleepy.

And that he'd never sleep again.

B
y 10:30 the next morning, everything was ready. The dog sat on its haunches in the corner of the garage. When Wesley snapped his fingers, it ran forward and leaped into the truck's cab. Wesley started the engine; it rumbled menacingly in the sealed garage.

He looked down at the kid, who was looking up.

“How old're you, kid?”

“Twenty-six, I think.”

“I don't want to see you for a lot of years, right?”

“I'll be here, Wes.”

“You got your own brain, but you're my blood. All my debts are canceled—the only reason you're out here now is for yourself, right?”

“For all of us.”

“If something fucks up, I'll get across the bridge before I let go. You know what to do if they come here?”

“I always knew that.”

Wesley pressed his hand against the window glass, palm out—the kid's palm flattened against his.

T
he kid turned and hit the garage button. Wesley released the clutch, and the big truck rumbled out onto Water Street. As they headed for the bridge, Wesley spoke to the dog. “Keep your fucking head down. As ugly as you are, they'd see something was wrong for sure.”

The dog sat on the floor of the cab, on the other side of the gearshift lever. The thermometer on the dashboard, calibrated in centigrade, read a steady fifty degrees, the speedometer an equally steady forty-five.

Since he was wheeling a truck, Wesley remembered not to take the exact-change lane. He paid the Whitestone toll and motored sedately onto 95 North. The big truck moved through New Rochelle without drawing a glance—it wasn't the only rig on North Avenue.

It was almost 11:10 when Wesley turned onto Pinebrook Boulevard, just as a squad car passed. By 11:15, he was turning into the school parking lot.

Wesley drove the truck right up to the front entrance of the stone building. He got out quickly and threw a series of switches. The carbon monoxide hissed into the giant tank loaded with the nickel bars; a heavy-voltage current shot through all the hardware holding the truck doors closed, also priming the system to release the explosive with that same move.

Wesley drew a couple of curious glances, but nobody said a word. He opened the cab of the truck and snapped
his fingers for the dog to jump down. Then he pulled two large suitcases and a heavy canvas duffel bag from the cab.

He reached back inside and pulled what looked like the choke cable. A tiny, diamond-tipped needle slammed into the plastic distributor cap, and five cc's of sulfuric acid ran into the points; nobody could hope to start the truck now, even with a key. A quick twist on the valve of each tire sent a similar needle slamming home, and the tires started to drain—the slow hiss was audible only if you stood very close.

Wesley shouldered the duffel bag, grabbed a suitcase in each hand, and walked up the flower-bordered concrete path to the main door, the dog trotting along behind him as silent as a fish in deep water. Students and teachers looked at him curiously, but the elderly lady didn't seem surprised when Wesley stopped in front of her. “Pardon me, ma'am. Could you direct me to the auditorium?”

“Certainly, young man. It's just down the end of this corridor.” She gestured with a ringless left hand. “You'll see the signs.”

“Thank you, ma'am.”

Wesley turned and began to walk down the corridor. A teacher who looked like a college kid, with long brownish hair, a red shirt, and a silly, authoritative face stopped him. “Can I help you?”

“The auditorium,” Wesley replied. “Gotta go fix the lights.”

The young man looked at Wesley critically, but finally shrugged. “It's straight ahead,” he said, and went back
to his dreams of a marijuana paradise where all men were brothers.

Wesley found the auditorium. It had three doors across the back and an entrance on each side—five in all, too many to cover. The floor plan had been accurate.

The big room was empty. Wesley walked down the center aisle to the front row. He threw his equipment up on the stage and opened the duffel bag. He pulled out a pair of holsters and cartridge belts and strapped them on, sticking an S&W .38 Special with a four-inch barrel in one, the silenced Beretta in the other. He calmly took out the grease gun and bolted in the clip. The stopwatch on his wrist told him four minutes had elapsed—ten minutes to go to be on the safe side.

Wesley pushed all the equipment toward the back of the stage and tested the PA system to be sure it was working. He climbed off the stage, and had started to walk back up the aisle when the young teacher with the long hair came running down the aisle toward him.

“Hey, you! I just called Con Edison and they said there wasn't any—”

Wesley's first shot with the Beretta caught the young man in the chest, knocking him over two rows of seats. There was no reaction to the muffled sound.

Wesley kept walking unhurriedly toward the rear auditorium doors. The sealant went all around the openings of two doors, leaving the middle one open.

Wesley checked his watch—no more time. He snapped his fingers, and the dog rose from where he had been resting. Wesley pointed toward the left-hand side door and said “Watch!” The dog trotted into position. Then
Wesley quickly bonded the door and switched positions with the dog again, finishing the other one.

Leaving the dog lying down near the center of the stage, Wesley walked through the middle door, toward the signs that said ADMINISTRATIVE OFFICES.

The walls were all glass, floor-to-ceiling. Students were hanging over the long counter, asking questions about clubs and transcripts and bickering over their schedules, when Wesley walked in and swept the entire field with a long, screaming burst from the grease gun. In seconds, the whole room was red and yellow with human death. Wesley walked quickly around the counter and into the big office marked PRINCIPAL. A nice-looking woman, apparently the man's secretary, was seated at a kidney-shaped desk with her mouth wide open. No sound was coming out. Wesley shot her in the stomach with the unsilenced piece and kept walking.

A chubby man was in the office, crouched down behind a desk. A solid-looking older woman was frantically speaking into a phone. “Florence! Florence, get the police! Florence …?”

Wesley walked in, and they both fell silent. Wesley looked at the man. “You the principal?”

The lady stood up to her full five-foot height. “
I'm
the principal.”

She didn't look frightened.
Good
, Wesley thought,
maybe she'll do what she has to do
. “Get on the PA system and tell everyone to get into the auditorium,” Wesley snapped at her. “Tell them there's been an emergency and to get a move on—”

“I won't do any such thing! Those children are in my—”

Wesley ripped her open with a short burst from the grease gun, thinking,
Fucking women and children—I should've known
. He spun the gun's barrel into the face of the crouching man. “You do it. Do it
fast
!”

The man's fingers were wet and trembly as he pushed the button for the PA system, but he couldn't make himself talk—only spittle came out. Wesley shot him with the revolver and grabbed the microphone.

“Attention, please!”
He heard his voice echoing and knew the man must have turned it on correctly.
“There has been an emergency. All students and teachers proceed at once to the auditorium. Enter only by the middle door from the back. Repeat: This is an emergency—there is a bomb inside this building! Proceed to the auditorium at once!”

He stepped out into the corridor just as he heard the police sirens in the distance. His watch said six minutes still to go before the gas was certain to be ready. Wesley stepped over the bodies in the outer office and sprinted back toward the auditorium. The frightened students seemed comforted by the sight of the man in military gear, obviously armed for their protection. They were already milling into the auditorium as Wesley rushed into the side door, smashing a pathway with the butt of the pistol. The dog was patrolling in front, keeping the students away from the stage.

Wesley ran to the dog. He turned to see a mob of terrified students streaming in through the middle door.
A tall cop was trying to shove his way through to the front. Wesley waited until the cop almost got through, and shot him in the face with the unsilenced pistol. He dropped the pistol and snapped a fresh clip into the grease gun.

The screaming got worse. The auditorium was nearly full of students and teachers, with all the others trying desperately to get inside—to safety.

Wesley aimed the grease gun at the middle door and screamed, “Get the fuck away from that door!” and cut loose with another burst before he switched clips again. Bodies went flying out into the hall, and the screams from the kids already inside made it impossible to hear anything else.

Wesley charged the one open door. The dog followed. Wesley used the grease gun to clear out what was left of the remaining people, jacked in his last clip, and ran forward. He managed to slam the door even against the frightened tide—they fell back when they saw Wesley … and the gun.

The dog went berserk, mouth foaming, snapping, keeping the remaining crowd away from Wesley. Students ran to the side doors, now trying to get out, only to find it was useless. The Permabond went around the middle door in seconds. Wesley turned and ran back toward the stage. He leaped up and grabbed the microphone with one hand, firing another burst into the ceiling.
“Shut the fuck up! Keep quiet or I start blasting again!”
The place quickly silenced, except for occasional whimpers. One kid was crying and couldn't stop. Wesley
looked out at the horrified crowd, the grease gun still threatening the room.

“Stay quiet! The next one who screams gets killed!” He could hear the sirens clearly now—cops must be all over the place. His watch said it was still three minutes until the gas would be ready. Wesley's eyes swept the auditorium. He stopped at a husky-looking kid in a letterman's sweater. The kid caught Wesley's eye, too, and tried to look away.

“You! Come up here! Quick!”

The kid slowly climbed up out of his fear and walked quickly toward the stage. Wesley held the gun at the boy's face. He spoke without the microphone. “Climb up to that ledge by the side and go out a window. Tell the cops that I got me a few hundred hostages. Tell them I got enough dynamite in those suitcases over there to level this whole fucking school. Tell them I want to talk.

You got that?”

“The windows don't open,” the kid quavered “I—”