Kill Jill (21 page)

Jill DiPiese.
Private Airfield, Jackson, Mississippi.
4:00 a.m.
Seven-and-a-half Hours Earlier.

After calling Jack’s number twenty-six times without getting an answer, Jill tells the cabbie to take her to the Memphis airport as fast as possible. Once there, she enters the bathroom, washes her face, looks in the mirror. Wonders what she’d pay for a hairbrush, toothpaste and toothbrush. But all the shops are closed. She thinks about Jack and bursts into tears. After composing herself as best she can, she walks back out and flags the first cab in line.

“I’m Frank,” he says.

Taking note of her swollen eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, filthy clothes, he asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m not at my best, today, Frank. I’m…Emma. Emma Wilson.”

He pauses, then says, “Where to, Emma?”

“Ever heard of Willow Lake, Arkansas?”

“Heard of it? Yeah. Been there? No, not yet. Is that where we’re going?”

“Do you have time to take me that far? And help me run some errands when we arrive?”

“Of course.”

“You’re sure?”

“It’s what I do, Emma.”

La Pierre, Louisiana.
Bobby’s Basement.

“There aren’t many basements in Louisiana,” Bobby says, as they head down the steps. Then adds, “And there are none in the world like this one. Come, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

The basement is well-lighted, but musty. At the bottom of the steps there’s a small sitting area, and two steel doors. One’s in front of them, the other, to their right. Bobby removes a card from his pocket and slides it through a scanner. The first door clicks, and Bobby opens it, revealing a hall with twenty-four jail cells. As they walk down the hall, Bobby introduces Jack to the prisoners. Sounding more like a tour director than a fiend, he says, “First cell on the left belongs to Don Hess. Don, meet Jack.”

Don hisses at him.

“That’s Don’s kid, Billy, on the right. Say hi, Billy.”

Billy hisses.

Bobby says, “On the left is Don’s wife, Blair. I’ll give Blair a good fucking from time to time, just to annoy Don and Billy.”

There are fourteen prisoners. Two men, eight women, four children. The children’s ages range from approximately sixteen to early twenties. All heads have been completely shaved, and each prisoner hisses when Bobby commands. When they come to the end of the hall Bobby says, “You’re probably wondering who these people are, am I right?”

Jack says nothing.

Bobby says, “You’ve heard of the witness protection program?”

“What about it?”

“It’s a federal program.”

“So?”

“Most people don’t know it’s federal, not state. And there’s a lot of hassle and red tape involved, and certain criteria needs to be met before they’ll accept a witness or his family into the program. The bottom line, most witnesses don’t get approved. Ask me where I’m going with this.”

“Where are you going with this?”

“I know some unscrupulous prosecutors who want the witness’s testimony so badly, they tell the families they’ve been accepted even when they weren’t. They promise new identities, housing, living expenses, medical care, job training, and employment assistance in return for their testimony. That’s where we come in. I get two of my guys to put on suits and pretend they’re U.S. Marshals. We give them twenty-four hour protection in high-threat environments like pretrial conferences, court appearances, and trials. When the trials are over, my guys drive them here and I put them in cells.”

He laughs. “Can you imagine the look on their faces? They’re expecting this whole new life, and they wind up worse off than the guys they testified against!”

He laughs some more. Then says, “I usually sell the informant to the guys he testified against, and keep the wives and children. I fuck the females, and feed the males to my hogs on the Blood River.”

“You have sex with their
children
?”

“Of course! But not till they’re of age. I mean, what sort of monster do you think I am?”

“The kind who just admitted fucking the females.”

“I’m not the heartless bastard you make me out to be. I make a point to celebrate every child’s eighteenth birthday.”

“You don’t strike me as a cake and ice cream kind of guy.”

“I celebrate in my own way. When girls turn eighteen, I pop their cherries. When boys turn eighteen, I crush their feet and toss them in the hog pen. Any other questions?”

“Why are they hissing at me?”

“We cut their vocal cords to keep the sound under control, and discourage communication between family members. We’ll cut your cords, too, after the explosion.”

They retrace their steps, go out the door, and Bobby runs his card through the scanner beside the second door. When it clicks, Bobby opens it and says, “This is where you’ll be spending the rest of your life, unless I decide to turn you into hog meal.”

This hall is identical to the first one, except shorter. It contains twelve jail cells. The last two are empty.

“There are currently three noteworthy guests in this wing,” Bobby says. “First on the left is the dickless wonder, Professor Owen Wolfe. The cell beside him belongs to Todd Hardy. Across from him is my old driver, Marcus Wisby. Take a good look at Todd and Marcus’s private area, because that’s what yours will look like in a couple of days. Like a twig without the berries.”

Jack feels a pinch in his right shoulder, but before he can react, his legs give way. Within seconds he’s completely paralyzed.

“Don’t be upset, Jack. Over the years we’ve learned it’s easier to strip our prisoners when they’re drugged. The effects will wear off in a couple of hours.”

Bobby’s goons strip Jack and chain his neck to the wall. Then Bobby says, “We’ve given you five feet of slack in the chain, which allows you to stand, sit, or lie down beside the wall. But we can tighten the chain and force you to stand whenever we want. Sometimes we’ll tighten it for spite, sometimes for fun, but we always tighten it when you misbehave. You might think you can just relax your legs and hang yourself, but we’ve learned it doesn’t work that way. Human nature being what it is, your legs will find a way to save you every time. We’ll feed you once a day and remove your shit bucket twice a day. If you spill the bucket, you don’t eat that day. Sometimes you’ll spill the bucket on purpose, just to break the monotony. We understand it, but you won’t want to make a habit of it. Twice a week we hose you down, and if you’ve been cooperative that week, we’ll let you use soap. The barber comes in once a week to shave you, including head, underarms, and private area. I plan to let you keep your vocal cords and nuts till after the explosion tomorrow night, because what I’ve got planned is huge, and I want you to be a part of it. But if you cry or make any noises louder than a bowel movement before then, we’ll cut your cords and nuts ahead of schedule.”

Bobby starts to leave, then says, “It’s your call, Jack, but if I were you, I’d enjoy my dick as much as possible the next two days.”

With that, he closes the cell door, locks it, then he and his goons walk away.

“Jack, pay attention,” Bobby says. “I think you’ll be able to appreciate this.”

It takes Jack a moment to realize he’s not dreaming. Bobby’s actually sitting on a folding chair in the hall in front of his cell. He wonders how it’s possible only a day-and-a-half has passed since he began his imprisonment. To Jack it feels like a week. He assumed Bobby got busy with one of his many other nefarious activities, and forgot to mutilate him.

Bobby says, “You’ve got some experience with explosives, right? I mean, you blew up those hunters a couple nights ago.”

Jack starts to speak, but nothing comes out. He swallows, clears his throat, and tries again. “I know a little,” he says. “Why are you asking?”

“Have you ever heard of a double bomb?”

“No.”

Bobby says, “I’m not sure exactly how it works, but as I understand it, a master bomb-builder can fill a canister with eighty-pounds of powdered aluminum, and a fuel substance, and use a scatter charge to detonate it.”

“That’s just a conventional explosive, with aluminum powder. What’s the purpose of the powder?”

“The first explosion creates a mushroom cloud of aluminum powder. Then, a guy on the ground uses a rocket launcher to fire a small warhead at the cloud, and the cloud somehow makes the second explosion exponentially more powerful than it would have been on its own. Does that make sense?”

“You’re talking about some sort of FAE.”

“What does that mean?”

“Fuel-air explosive. There’s a more technical term, but I can’t remember it.”

Jack pauses. He didn’t expect to have a conversation with Bobby before having his vocal cords removed, nor did he desire one. And yet, here he is, chatting away like an old woman in a nursing home. Why? Because it suddenly dawned on him this could be the last conversation he’ll ever have, using his voice. More importantly, it could be a chance to find out what’s happened to Jill.

Bobby says, “I want your opinion on how much damage this type of explosive could do.”

“It depends on several factors.”

“Such as?”

“The quality of ingredients, the skill of the bomb-builder, the height of the initial detonation, the diameter of the cloud, the size of the warhead…”

“Assume the bomb-builder’s top notch. Assume the first bomb detonates a hundred feet above the target, and the warhead is equal to thirteen pounds of TNT.”

“That’s a formidable weapon. What’s the target?”

“Your lake house.”

“
What
?” Jack can’t see his face, of course, but knows it just turned white. When he’s able to find his voice again, he says, “
Why
?”

“The why is
my
business,” Bobby says. “But I’ll tell you the how. Two hours ago the bomb-builder loaded an eighty pound canister to the bottom of Mike’s crop duster. In half an hour or less, Mike’s going to fly over your lake house and pull a lever that will disengage the canister. If all goes according to plan, it’ll self-detonate a hundred feet above your home. Then, my man on the ground—the same one who saved Jill’s life two hours ago—will—” He pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and reads, “…use a rocket launcher to fire a thermobaric warhead at the target.”

Jack stares straight ahead. Thermobaric. That’s the term he couldn’t remember.

Bobby says, “I call it a double bomb. You know, keep it simple, right?”

Jack slumps against the back wall of his cell. “Why would you possibly want to do this?”

“Like I said, that’s
my
business. But the short version is I’m considering using explosives for personal gain. I’ve been working with an expert bomb-builder for months. The choice of target is quite recent, though, and I have you to thank for that. So this is a test, to see how well the weapon works. And it offers the added benefit of being a fun way to kill Jill.”

“You’re going to blow her up? That’s your plan?”

“Yup. Cool, huh?”

“More like insane.”

Bobby chuckles, then says, “The last thing that’ll go through Jill’s mind before she dies? Her ass!”

“That’s an old joke.”

Bobby shrugs. “What do you expect? I’m an old man.”