Not the End of the World (43 page)

But the bomb on the boat wasn’t Nate’s problem. He was more concerned about whether the asshole might have a bomb concealed a little more locally, like right under where he was sitting, as a built‐
in revenge against the Feds if they got to him. A booby‐
trap intended for anyone who went snooping around the secrets of Corby’s computers in his absence. It wasn’t as paranoid a concern as it sounded: Nate had rigged up precisely such a trap on the Militia’s own system. He’d never mentioned it to Corby, but Nate was unlikely to be the only guy in the world ever to have had the idea. Of course, if he was right then they could walk out the door and wait for some dumb field agent to wipe the evidence for them in one big bang, but if he was wrong then there might be all sorts of incriminating shit for the Feds to sift through. As Liskey pointed out, this guy could’ve been stockpiling stuff to offer up in a deal to avoid the chair if he got caught.

Christ, he thought, sweat forming on his forehead as he opened another file. Why couldn’t the fucker have lived in Venice, someplace on the coast? That way him and his fucking system would just get washed away. But Glendale was probably only going to get its carpets wet, so here they were.

‘Girl’s gonna kill herself on national TV,’ Vern muttered. ‘Wonder what they’re charging for spots. More than for the Superbowl, is my guess.’

Nate needed to be rational about this. Corby had obviously learned plenty about making bombs since the abortion clinic deal St John had told Liskey about; the big hole in the Pacific Vista illustrated that. But on another monitor he could see the bomb on the Ugly Duckling, and could see also why Corby had placed it under his own surveillance. It would sure do the job, explosion‐
wise, but it wouldn’t take a bomb‐
squad technician five minutes to defuse it. He was still a long way short of being an expert, and he knew it.

Corby had blown himself up once and been lucky because the explosive wasn’t powerful enough. What he was using these days was a different story. Would he – knowing his past record – really take a chance on rigging up something like that under his own ass?

‘Fuck it, I’m just gonna wipe the whole thing,’ Nate decided aloud.

‘But won’t that set off the bomb on the boat?’

‘Sure, but who gives a shit? They’re all gonna be dead in a coupla days anyway. We’re planting nuclear fucking weapons off the coast of LA and you’re worried about blowin’ up eighty‐
eight people?’

‘No, it ain’t that. If you blow up the hostages, the girl won’t need to do this. I wanna see if she really has the guts to off herself.’

‘You’re sick, Vern.’

‘We’re just talkin’ a few more minutes, man. Come on. I got a hundred bucks says she goes through with it. If she chickens out, it’s yours. You can go ahead and clear the system after that.’

Nate looked up at the TV screens, all but two of them showing Madeleine Witherson’s face, pale, tearful and nervous, as she stood by the Pacific Vista’s beachside swimming‐
pool. She looked like she might pass out from fear at any second. A hundred bucks. Jesus. A short time from now they’d be millionaires, and there’d be an annual hush bonus topping it up, too. He sighed and smiled.

‘Shit. All right, you’re on. It’s just about dawn now – I’ll give her five minutes to start slicin’ for your hundred bucks. After all, that’s how our late buddy here would have wanted it.’

A motor launch bearing a network camera crew pulled up to join the ring of police and coastguard vessels surrounding the Ugly Duckling, all engines idling.

There was unbroken hush across the boat as pictures of Witherson’s emergence from the hotel came into focus on the TV screens. With all voices silenced, the sound of waves lapping gently against the hull could be heard above the noise of the television. There was something perversely idyllic about it, Jo thought, looking up momentarily at the blue skies of a crisp, silent dawn over the Pacific.

Witherson wore a white dress. Given the nature of what they were dealing with, it had obviously been decided there was no point skimping on the symbolism. The camera zoomed in on her face. She looked scared to death. There were no more aerial pictures now, just the shots from the crew that had been given access to the terrace. Jo wondered distantly about how they had decided which broadcaster got the nod, and guessed the LAPD would be getting a shitty press from the others for the foreseeable future.

Witherson looked straight into the camera.

‘I have something to say,’ she announced, swallowing. She closed her eyes tightly as if fighting back tears.

‘I want to apologise. I want to say sorry and beg the forgiveness of the Lord, and of the Lord’s people whom my life has offended. I have been a sinner. I have sinned against God’s Word and against God’s law. I have denied the Lord. I have been a heathen and a fornicator. I have led a life of carnal lust and shameful example, and I accept now that these sins have polluted the world.’

She swallowed again, tears visible around her reddening eyes.

‘I accept also that the wages of sin is death.’ Now her voice broke up and the tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Romans 6:23. But that verse also says the gift of God is eternal life in Jesus Christ our Lord. I do not deserve such a gift, but ask only that … that my death will spare those eighty‐
eight other sinners, so that they may yet have the chance to see the light in this life, accept God into their hearts and change their ways for ever.

‘May they find …’ She sobbed, her face contorting with tears as she struggled to speak. Her last words were a broken whisper. ‘May they find salvation through my death.’

Witherson knelt on the ground before the swimming‐
pool, in which blast debris could be seen floating. She was side‐
on to the camera, which pulled back to reveal a med team standing a few yards away: doctor, paramedics, nurses.

‘God, looks like a fuckin’ state execution,’ muttered Lenny Weiskov.

‘It is,’ Jo replied.

Witherson produced a long knife, which she gripped tremblingly in both hands.

‘Aw Jesus,’ another voice gasped.

She brought it up to her neck, bowing over to meet it. Then she stopped and collapsed into sobbing. Nobody breathed. They were all thinking the same thing, heaven forgive them.

Witherson’s back straightened once more and she lifted the blade up to the side of her neck. She applied pressure and drew it across.

‘Aw Jesus. Aw Jesus fucking Christ.’

The blood seemed to well over the blade at first, running down her neck and chest and on to the dress. Then there was a spurt from somewhere, arcing out of the wound like it was a busted garden hose, provoking further gasps from those who were still watching. Witherson’s hands dropped to her lap, the blade clattering to the ground in front of her. Gradually, as if in slow motion, she slumped forward and lay down at the side of the pool, blood pumping out from her carotid artery and washing over the side into the water.

There was a sound of engines, startling all of them in their entranced silence. The police launches were moving in, getting ready for the evacuation. People started climbing to their feet, looking back and forth uncertainly at each other and at the image on the TV screen. Witherson’s body lay still while the red fluid continued to trickle out into the swimming pool, clouding amid the dust and flotsam.

The launches stopped a few yards short of the Ugly Duckling. Shouts were exchanged. Jo picked up something about ‘waiting for the doctor’s declaration’. On the TV screen, sure enough, the doctor was standing over Witherson, motioning to the paramedics to stay back. He held one of her hands in both of his, presumably testing for a pulse. Then he knelt down beside her and took hold of her head, his back to the camera.

A short time later he stood up, ran a hand through his hair and nodded to one of his assistants. Jo was no lip‐
reader, but she could still make out ‘She’s dead,’ from the doctor’s mouth. One of the nurses could be seen crying in the corner of the shot. The doctor approached the camera, whereupon his name and hospital were flashed up at the bottom of the screen.

‘I have checked for vital signs,’ he said, anger barely concealed beneath the calm timbre of his voice, ‘and it is my reluctant duty to confirm that Madeleine Witherson died a few moments ago. Now if you will excuse me, I wish to leave. I want no further part in this.’

The police boats began moving again, pulling right up alongside the Ugly Duckling and throwing ropes across to Baird and his crew members. Boarding planks were being lowered into place at the stern and on both sides of the deck, the cops motioning to the passengers to come forward.

‘Wait a second,’ said Paul Silver nervously, as the people around them started surging towards the gangways. ‘I know the girl’s been declared dead, but isn’t there supposed to be any kind of green light from the bomber?’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, come on,’ Jo urged, pushing Silver forward impatiently. ‘The guy’s got what he wanted. To be blunt, if he’s still planning to blow us up, it won’t be because we’re being presumptuous. He got Witherson – let’s get off this thing before he starts asking for the President.’

‘I’d stay on for the President,’ growled Weiskov. ‘Can we nominate?’

‘Get off the fucking boat, Len.’

‘Live snuff movies on daytime television. I ask you, Nate, what is the world coming to?’

‘Isn’t “live snuff” an oxymoron?’

‘A what?’

‘Never mind.’

‘Pretty gross, though, huh? That bit when it squirted. Blech. Kitchens all across America man, bye‐
bye breakfast, I’m tellin’ you. Like something out of that ER show.’

‘Must have hit an artery. Big red mess.’

‘Yep. Colour of money, Nate. One hundred dollars flowing right out of her neck and into my pocket – via your wallet. Come on, ain’t you done yet? I’ve seen this erasing shit before. You just drag everything into the little trash basket and that’s that.’

‘Well it’s just a little more complicated in this case, Vern, but thanks for offering me your considerable knowledge and expertise.’

‘This is takin’ too long. Why can’t we just shoot the shit out of the thing?’

‘Why didn’t you just shoot the shit out of Corby?’

‘’Cause it had to look like a suicide.’

‘Exactly, and this has to look like he wiped his own stuff, okay?’

‘Yeah, okay. Just hurry it up – the world’s gonna start peeling itself off the TV screen pretty soon.’

‘Well you were the asshole wanted to watch Good Morning Suicide, otherwise we’d already be gone.’

‘Yeah, okay, okay. Hey what does that mean?’

Active files could not be erased. Close and erase all applications? Yes/No

‘At last. It means we’re one keystroke away from outta here.’

‘Cool.’

Y.

Boom.

Larry was sitting at the bureau in the Pacific Vista suite they were using as an ad hoc operations room, praying to the great gods Caffeine and Aspirin to give him the strength to get through this. He heard noises in the corridor outside. There was a TV on in the suite, and all stations were showing the action from down by the pool. Well, maybe not all stations. He hadn’t checked Nickelodeon or the Home Shopping Network, but give it a month and the former would have an animated version and the latter would be selling commemorative kitchen knives.

From the window Larry had seen the paramedics lift Witherson’s body on to a gurney before rolling her back into the building. Kennedy was first through the door of the suite, holding it open and gesturing to Larry to close the curtains.

‘Show some fuckin’ respect, Sergeant,’ he commanded.

There was a blanket draped over the body, but the blood had soaked through it in dark patches around the chest. The paramedics stepped away from the gurney as Steel pulled up the rear and closed the door.

‘She gave her life for our sins,’ Kennedy pronounced solemnly, placing a hand over his heart and looking down at the gurney, which erupted in movement as an arm threw off the blanket.

‘Yeah, but I ain’t waiting three days to rise again – I need a shower right now.’

Witherson sat up and wiped a red‐
stained hand on her white dress. Kennedy took her arm and helped her off the gurney. She reached up and planted a kiss on his right cheek, at which he smiled bashfully; the guy behind the camera seldom enjoys the limelight.

‘So, everybody get off the boat yet?’ she asked.

‘Still waiting for confirmation,’ Larry told her. ‘I think one of the networks has pictures, though.’ He reached for the remote and flicked through the stations until the parade of aghast reporters gave way to diminishing images of the Ugly Duckling. The camera crew’s boat, like the others, was pulling back fast from the centre of attention.

‘Yeah, looks like your canonisation papers’ll be coming through, Miss Witherson.’

‘So what happens now?’ she asked.

There was a crackling sound from the TV, followed a few seconds later by a muffled bang from outside the window, just like Larry had heard at his desk yesterday morning. Everyone looked instantly at the TV.

‘Jesus,’ was the consensus. Witherson, having recently risen from the dead, sensitively resisted the temptation to say ‘Yes?’

The Ugly Duckling was obscured by flames, smoke and heat‐
haze. A reporter’s voice was burbling hysterically amid the pandemonium. He was taking an awful long time and using an awful lot of words just to say the boat had blown up.

The sound of a mobile phone broke the stunned silence a few moments later. Steel, over by the door, reached into his pocket and held the fragile‐
looking little black pad up to his face.

‘They were all off,’ he relayed to the room. ‘Nobody was on board when it blew. No major injuries. Just a few cuts from flying splinters here and there, and probably a change of underwear all round.’ Steel lowered his voice again and resumed talking to his ocean‐
bound associate.

‘Do you think he made us?’ Witherson asked.

‘Doubt it,’ Larry said. ‘Maybe just the opposite. Got what he wanted, then suffered a serious dose of anti‐
climax. His fun’s over, his fifteen minutes are up. So now we have to hope that he’s suicidal. Otherwise he’s soon gonna want another day in the sun, and we could be looking at Unabomber II.’