Desperation (56 page)

“Too bad I'm not a map.”

Johnny dropped his hand and they walked back to the others.

“David?” Steve asked. “Is that the place?”

He pointed past the cluster of heavy machinery and to the left of the rusty Quonset with the stove-stack. About twenty yards up the slope was the squarish hole she had seen earlier. Then she hadn't given it much consideration, as she'd had other fish to fry—staying alive, chiefly—but now looking at it gave her a bad feeling. A weak-in-the-knees feeling.
Well,
she thought,
I did the bear, anyway. It'll never stare at anyone else cooped up in the back of that police-cruiser. There's that much.

“That's it,” David said. “China Shaft.”

“
Can tak
in
can tah,
” his father said, as if in a dream.

“Yes.”

“And we have to blow it up?” Steve asked. “Just how do we go about that?”

David pointed to the concrete cube near the field office. “First we have to get inside there.”

They walked over to the powder magazine. Ralph yanked at the padlock on the door, as if to get the feel of it, then racked the Ruger. The metallic
clack-clack
sound it made was very loud in the stillness of the pit. “The rest of you stand back,” he said. “This always works great in the movies, but in real life, who knows.”

“Wait a sec, wait a sec,” Johnny said, and ran back to the Ryder truck. They heard him rummaging through the cartons of stuff just behind the cab, then: “Oh! There you are, you ugly thing.”

He came back carrying a black Bell motorcycle helmet with a full face-shield. He handed it to Ralph. “Brainbucket deluxe. I hardly ever wear this one, because there's too much of it. I get it over my head and my claustrophobia kicks in. Put it on.”

Ralph did. The helmet made him look like a futuristic welder. Johnny stepped back from him as he turned to the lock again. So did the others. Mary had her hands on David's shoulders.

“Why don't you guys turn around?” Ralph said. His voice was muffled by the helmet.

Mary kept expecting David to protest—concern for his father, perhaps even exaggerated concern, wouldn't be unusual, given the fact that he had lost the other two members of his family in the last twelve hours—but David said nothing. His face was only a pale blur in the dark, impossible to read, but she sensed no agitation in him. Certainly the shoulders under her hands were calm enough, at least for now.

Maybe he saw it was going to be all right,
she thought.
In that vision he had . . . or whatever it was. Or maybe—

She didn't want to finish that thought, but was slow closing it off.

—maybe he just knows there's no other choice.

There was a long moment of silence—
very
long, it seemed to Mary—and then a high whipcrack rifle report that should have echoed and didn't. It was just there and then gone, absorbed by the walls and benches and valleys of the open pit. In its aftermath she heard one startled bird-cry—
Quowwwk!
—and then nothing more. She wondered why Tak hadn't sent the animals against them as it had sent them against so many of the people in town. Because the six of them together were something special? Maybe. If so, it was David who had
made
them special, the way a single great player can elevate a whole team.

They turned and saw Ralph bent over the padlock (to Mary he looked like the Pieman bent over Simple Simon on the Howard Johnson's signs), peering at it through the helmet's faceplate. The lock was now warped and twisted, with a large black bullet-hole through the center of it, but when he yanked on it, it continued to hold fast.

“One more time,” he said, and twirled his finger at them, telling them to turn around.

They did and there was another whipcrack. No bird-cry followed his one. Mary supposed whatever had called was far away by now, although she had heard no flapping wings. Not that she would have, probably, with two gunshots ringing in her ears.

This time when Ralph yanked, the lock's arm popped free of its ruined innards. Ralph pulled it off the hasp and threw it aside. When he took Johnny's helmet off, he was grinning.

David ran to him and gave him a high-five. “Good going, Dad!”

Steve pulled the door open and peered in. “Man! Darker than a carload of assholes.”

“Is there a light-switch?” Cynthia asked. “No windows, there must be.”

He felt around, first on the right, then the left. “Watch for spiders,” Mary said nervously. “There could be spiders.”

“Here it is, I got it,” Steve said. There was a
click-click, click-click,
but no light.

“Who's still got a flashlight?” Cynthia asked. “I must've left mine back in the damned movie theater. I don't have it, anyway.”

There was no answer. Mary had also had a flashlight—the one she'd found in the field office—and she thought she had tucked it into the waistband of her jeans after disabling the pickup trucks. If so, it was gone now. The hatchet, too. She must have lost both items in her flight from the pit.

“Crap,” Johnny said. “Boy Scouts we ain't.”

“There's one in the truck, behind the seat,” Steve said. “Under the maps.”

“Why don't you go get it?” Johnny said, but for a moment or two, Steve didn't move. He was looking at Johnny with a strange expression, one Mary couldn't quite read, on his face. Johnny saw it, too. “What? Something wrong?”

“Nope,” Steve said. “Nothing wrong, boss.”

“Then step on it.”

3

Steve Ames marked the exact
moment when control over their little expeditionary force passed from David to Johnny; the moment when the boss became the boss again.
Why don't you go get it,
he'd said, a question that wasn't a question at all but the first real order Marinville had given him since they'd started out in Connecticut, Johnny on his motorcycle, Steve rolling leisurely along behind in the truck, puffing the occasional cheap cigar. He had called him boss (until Johnny told him to stop) because it was a tradition in the entertainment business: in the theater, sceneshifters called the stage manager boss; on a movie set, key grips called the director boss; out on tour, roadies called the tour-manager or the guys in the band boss. He had simply carried that part of his old life over into this job, but he hadn't
thought
of Johnny as the boss, in spite of his booming stage-voice and his chin-thrust-forward, I-know-exactly-what-I'm-doing manner, until now. And this time, when Steve had called him boss, Johnny hadn't objected.

Why don't you go get it?

A nominal question, just six words, and everything had changed.

What's
changed
?
What, exactly?

“I don't know,” he muttered, opening the driver's-side door of the Ryder truck and starting to rummage through the crap behind the seat. “That's the hell of it, I don't really know.”

The flashlight—a long-barrelled, six-battery job—was under a crushed litter of maps, along with the first-aid kit and a cardboard box with a few road-flares in it. He tried the light, saw that it worked, and jogged back to the others.

“Look for spiders first,” Cynthia said. Her voice was just a little too high for normal conversation. “Spiders and snakes, just like in that old song. God, I hate em.”

Steve stepped into the powder magazine and shone his light around, first running it over the floor, then the cinderblock walls, then the ceiling. “No spiders,” he reported. “No snakes.”

“David, stand right outside the door,” Johnny said. “We shouldn't all cram in there together, I think. And if you see anyone or anything—”

“Give a yell,” David finished. “Don't worry.”

Steve centered the beam of the flashlight on a sign in the middle of the floor—it was on a stand, like the one in restaurants that said
PLEASE WAIT FOR HOSTESS TO SEAT YOU
. Only what this one said—in big red letters—was:

WARNING WARNING WARNING

BLASTING AGENTS AND BOOSTERS MUST BE KEPT SEPARATE
!

THIS IS A FEDERAL REGULATION

CARELESSNESS WITH EXPLOSIVES
WILL NOT BE TOLERATED
!

The rear wall was studded with spikes driven into the cinderblock. Hung on these were coils of wire and fat white cord. Det-cord, Steve assumed. Against the right and left walls, facing each other like bookends with no books between them, were two heavy wooden chests. The one marked
DYNAMITE
and
BLASTING CAPS
and
USE EXTREME CAUTION
was open, the lid up like the lid of a child's toybox. The other, marked simply
BLASTING AGENT
in black letters against an orange background, was padlocked shut.

“That's the ANFO,” Johnny said, pointing at the padlocked cabinet. “Acronym stands for ammonium nitrate and fuel oil.”

“How do you know that?” Mary asked.

“Picked it up somewhere,” he said absently. “Just picked it up somewhere.”

“Well, if you think I'm gonna blow the padlock off
that
one, you're nuts,” Ralph said. “You guys have any ideas that don't involve shooting?”

“Not just this second,” Johnny said, but he didn't sound very concerned.

Steve walked toward the dynamite chest.

“No dyno in there,” Johnny said, still sounding weirdly serene.

He was right about the dynamite, but the chest was far from empty. The body of a man in jeans and a Georgetown Hoyas tee-shirt was crammed into it. He had been shot in the head. His glazed eyes stared up at Steve from below what might once have been blond hair. It was hard to tell.

Steeling himself against the smell, Steve leaned over and worked at the keyring hanging on the man's belt.

“What is it?” Cynthia asked, starting toward him.

A beetle came out of the corpse's open mouth and trundled down his chin. Now Steve could hear a faint rustling. More insects under the dead guy. Or maybe one of his nice new friend's beloved rattlers.

“Nothing,” he said. “Stay where you are.”

The keyring was stubborn. After several fruitless efforts to depress the clef-shaped clip holding it to the belt-loop, Steve simply tore the whole thing off, loop and all. He closed the lid and crossed the room with the keyring. Johnny, he noticed, was standing about three paces inside the door, gazing raptly down at his motorcycle helmet. “Alas, poor Urine,” he said. “I knew him well.”

“Johnny? You okay?”

“Fine.” Johnny tucked the motorcycle helmet under his arm and smiled winningly at Steve . . . but his eyes looked haunted.

Steve gave the keys to Ralph. “One of these, maybe?”

It didn't take long. The third key Ralph tried slid into the padlock on the chest marked
BLASTING AGENT
. A moment later the five of them were looking inside. The chest had been partitioned into three bins. Those on the ends were empty. The one in the middle was half full of what looked like long cheesecloth bags. Littered among them were a few escapees: round pellets that looked to Steve like whitewashed birdshot. The bags had drawstring tops. He lifted one out. It looked like a bratwurst and he guessed it weighed about ten pounds. Written on the side in black were the letters
ANFO
. Below them, in red:
CAUTION: FLAMMABLE, EXPLOSIVE
.

“Okay,” Steve said, “but how are we going to set it off with no booster? You were right, boss—no dynamite, no blasting caps. Just a guy with a .30-.30 haircut. The demolitions foreman, I assume.”

Johnny looked at Steve, then at the others. “I wonder if the rest of you would step out with David for a moment. I'd like to speak to Steve alone.”

“Why?” Cynthia asked instantly.

“Because I need to,” Johnny said in an oddly gentle voice. “It's a little unfinished business, that's all. An apology. I don't apologize well under any circumstances, but I'm not sure I could do it at all with an audience.”

Mary said, “I hardly think this is the time—”

The boss had been signalling him—signalling
urgently
—with his eyes. “It's okay,” Steve said. “It'll be quick.”

“And don't go empty-handed,” Johnny said. “Each of you take a bag of this instant Fourth of July.”

“My understanding is that without something explosive to boost it, it's more like Instant Campfire,” Ralph said.

“I want to know what's going on here,” Cynthia said. She sounded worried.

“Nothing,” Johnny told her, his voice soothing. “Really.”

“The fuck there
ain
't,
” Cynthia said morosely, but she went with the others, each of them carrying a bag of ANFO.

Before Johnny could say anything, David slipped back inside. There were still traces of dried soap on his cheeks, and his lids were tinged purple. Steve had once dated a girl who'd worn eyeshadow that exact same color. On David it looked like shock instead of glamour.

“Is everything okay?” David asked. He glanced briefly at Steve, but it was Johnny he was talking to.

“Yes. Steve, give David a bag of ANFO.”

David stood a moment longer, holding the bag Steve handed him, looking down at it, lost in thought. Abruptly he looked up at Johnny and said, “Turn out your pockets. All of them.”

“What—” Steve began.

Johnny shushed him, smiling oddly. It was the smile of someone who has bitten into something which tastes both bitter and compelling. “David knows what he's doing.”

He unbuckled the chaps, turned out the pockets of his jeans underneath, handing Steve his goods—the famous wallet, his keys, the hammer which had been stuck in his belt—to hold as he did. He bowed forward so David could look into his shirt pocket. Then he unbuckled his pants and pushed them down. Underneath he was wearing blue bikini briefs. His not inconsiderable gut hung over them. He looked to Steve like one of those rich older guys you saw strolling along the beach sometimes. You knew they were rich not just because they always wore Rolexes and Oakley sunglasses, but because they dared walk along in those tiny spandex ballhuggers in the first place. As if, once your income passed a certain figure, your gut became another asset.

The boss wasn't wearing spandex, at least. Plain old cotton.

He did a three-sixty, arms slightly raised, giving David all the angles and bruises, then pulled up his jeans again. The chaps followed. “Satisfied? I'll take off my boots, if you're not.”

“No,” David said, but he poked a hand into the pockets of the chaps before stepping back. His face was troubled, but not exactly worried. “Go on and have your talk. But hurry it up.”

And he was gone, leaving Steve and Johnny alone.

The boss moved to the rear of the powder magazine, as far from the door as possible. Steve followed. Now he could smell the corpse in the dynamite chest under the stronger fuel-oil aroma of the place, and he wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.

“He wanted to make sure you didn't have a few of those
can tahs
on you, didn't he? Like Audrey.”

Johnny nodded. “He's a wise child.”

“I guess he is.” Steve shuffled his feet, looked at them, then back up at the boss. “Look, you don't need to apologize for buzzing off. The important thing is that you came back. Why don't we just—”

“I owe a
lot
of apologies,” Johnny said. He began taking his stuff back, rapidly returning the items to the pockets from which they had come. He took the hammer last, once more tucking it into the belt of his chaps. “It's really amazing how much fuckery a person can get up to in the course of one lifetime. But you're really the least of my worries in that respect, Steve, especially now. Just shut up and listen, all right?”

“All right.”

“And this really
does
have to be speedy. David already suspects I'm up to something; that's another reason why he wanted me to turn out my pockets. There'll come a moment—very soon now—when you're going to have to grab David. When you do, make sure you get a good grip, because he's going to fight like hell. And make sure you don't let go.”

“Why?”

“Will your pal with the creative hairdo help if you ask her to?”

“Probably, but—”

“Steve, you have to trust me.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I had a moment of revelation on the way up here. Except that's way too stiff; I like David's phrase better. He asked me if I got hit by a God-bomb. I told him no, but that was another lie. Do you suppose that's why God picked me in the end? Because I'm an accomplished liar? That's sort of funny, but also sort of awful, you know it?”

“What's going to happen? Do you even know?”

“No, not completely.” Johnny picked up the .30-.06 in one hand and the black-visored helmet in the other. He looked back and forth between them, as if comparing their relative worth.

“I can't do what you want,” Steve said flatly. “I don't
trust
you enough to do what you want.”

“You have to,” Johnny said, and handed him the rifle. “I'm all you have now.”

“But—”

Johnny came a step closer. To Steve he no longer looked like the same man who had gotten on the Harley-Davidson back in Connecticut, his absurd new leathers creaking, showing every tooth in his head as the photographers from
Life
and
People
and the
Daily News
circled him and clicked away. The change was a lot more than a few bruises and a broken nose. He looked younger, stronger. The pomposity had gone out of his face, and the somehow frantic vagueness as well. It was only now, observing its absence, that Steve realized how much of the time that look had been there—as if, no matter what he was saying or doing, most of Marinville's attention was taken up by something that
wasn
't.
Something like a misplaced item or a forgotten chore.

“David thinks God means him to die in order to close Tak up in his bolthole again. The final sacrifice, so to speak. But David's wrong.” Johnny's voice cracked on the last word, and Steve was astonished to see that the boss was almost crying. “It's not going to be that easy for him.”

“What—”

Johnny grabbed his arm. His grip so tight it was painful. “Shut up, Steve. Just grab him when the time comes. It's up to you. Come on now.” He bent into the chest, grabbed a bag of ANFO by its drawstring, and tossed it to Steve. He got another for himself.

“Do you know how to set this shit off without any dyno or blasting caps?” Steve asked. “You think you do, don't you? What's going to happen? Is God going to send down a lightning-bolt?”

“That's what
David
thinks,” Johnny said, “and after the sardines and crackers, I'm not surprised. I don't think it'll come to anything that extreme, though. Come on. The hour groweth late.”

They walked out into what was left of the night and joined the others.