Torn (2 page)

Not that it wasn’t a challenge. And luck played a role, right from the start. It was luck that we ever met. Blame it on Chili’s. Jed was working his way through Rutgers—he’d already cut all ties with his family—slogging through four-hour shifts at a local Chili’s three days a week and full-time—often twelve hours per shift—on weekends. Forty hours busing tables, thirty hours in lecture halls and labs, another thirty hitting the books—it didn’t leave much time left over for things like sleeping, let alone meeting mall girls from South Orange who just happen to be at a Chili’s celebrating a friend’s birthday, downing way too many Grand Patrón margaritas. Mall girls who get whoopsy drunk and barf in a tub of dirty dishes. Mall girls who are then so humiliated they burst into tears and cry inconsolably.

Well, not inconsolably. I wasn’t so drunk I didn’t have the presence of mind to take the dampened napkins the hunky busboy provided to clean up with, or let him walk me outside so I could get some fresh air. He was so sweet and kind, and so careful not to put his hands on me, even though I could tell he wanted to. And when I came back the next evening, cold sober, to formally apologize, we sat down and had a coffee and by the time we stood up I knew he was the man for me. The very one in the whole wide world. All the other boys—hey, I was a hot little mall girl—all the others were instantly erased, gone as if they’d never existed. My heart beat Jedediah, and it still does.

Jedediah, Jedediah, can’t you hear it?

After dropping Noah off at school I stop by the Humble Mart Convenience Store for a loaf of bread and some deli items—the selection is limited but of good quality—but mostly to hear the latest gossip being shared by Donald Brewster, the owner/manager. Called ‘Donnie Boy’ by everyone in town, which dates from his days as a high school football hero. Donnie Boy Brewster keeps a glossy team photo up behind the deli counter, blown up to poster size. When the customers mention it, and they do so frequently, Donnie Boy rolls his eyes and chuckles good-humoredly and says who is that kid? What happened to him, eh?

The ‘eh’ being the funny little Canadian echo some of the locals have, from living so close to the border.

Anyhow, Donnie Boy is one of the nice ones, a local kid who made good by staying local. He obviously loves his store, keeps it spiffy clean and well stocked, and he knows everything that’s going on in the little village of Humble and, best part, loves to share. Even with recent immigrants like me.

“Hey, Mrs. Corbin!”

I’ve given up trying to get him to call me Haley. All of his customers are Mister, Missus, or Miz, no exceptions. On the street he’ll call me Haley, but when he’s on the service side of the counter, I remain Mrs. Corbin. Donnie Boy’s rules.

Donnie in his little white butcher’s cap and his long bulbous nose and radar scoop ears, going, “We’ve got that Swiss you like. No pressure.”

“No, no, give me a quarter. It’s Noah’s favorite.”

“Coming right up,” he says, placing the cylinder of cheese in the slicing machine. “Thin, right?”

“Thin but not too thin.”

“Not so thin you can read through it. Got it. D’ja hear about the dump snoozer?”

Why I come here, to hear about mysterious local events like dump snoozing.

“Old Pete Conrad. You know, out Basel Road? The farmhouse with the leaning tower of silo?”

Happily, I am indeed familiar with the ‘leaning tower of silo.’ Nice old farmstead, with the main house kept up and painted and all the other buildings, barns and sheds in a state of disrepair, including a faded blue silo that’s seriously out of plumb. I don’t know Mr. Conrad personally, but have seen him at a distance, fussing at an ancient tractor.

“Pete’s out the dump—excuse me, the recycle center—in that old Ford, and it’s parked there most of the day before anyone notices Pete’s not in the freebie barn, which is where he usually hangs out. They’re about to lock the gate when somebody thinks to check his truck, and there’s Pete, lying on his side, obviously dead.”

“No!”

“That’s what they thought. So they call Emergency Services, the ambulance and crew arrive, everybody is hanging around, reminiscing about the deceased, when all of a sudden Pete sits up and demands to know what’s going on.”

“No!”

“Sound asleep! Said his wife’s snoring kept him awake all night and he came out the dump to catch a few winks. He finds garbage peaceful. Lulled to sleep by the sound of front-end loaders. Which is apparently a whole lot less noisy than Mildred snoring.”

“What a riot,” I say, chuckling.

“Anyhow, that’s my cheesy gossip for the day,” he says, handing the neatly wrapped Swiss across the counter.

“Thanks, Donnie.”

“
De nada,
Mrs. Corbin. Noah’s in for a treat today, eh?”

“He loves his cheese.”

“No, I meant Chief Gannett. He’s giving his talk to the elementary school kids. For D.A.R.E.?”

“Really? Is there a drug problem in the elementary school?”

“Not that I know of. And Chief Gannett will tell you that’s because he starts early. He gives a wonderful presentation, very entertaining in a this-is-your-brain-on-drugs kind of way. Fire and brimstone but sort of funny, too, you know?”

I leave the Humble Mart with a smile on my face. Fire and brimstone, but sort of funny, too. Perfect. Plus Noah will have a treat when he gets home from school. He likes to take little bites around the holes, pretending they are black holes in the universe and he’s the cheese monster, one of the many nicknames given to him by his doting father.

Ruggle Rat, Crumb Stealer, Noah-doah, The Poopster, The Cheese Monster. When I pick him up at two-thirty, no doubt full of excited, exaggerated stories about the visiting police chief, that will be the highlight of my day. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

5. Killing Yourself To Live

The van windows are so dirty and pitted it’s hard to see inside, but when the cop car eases into the school parking lot Roland Penny nevertheless slinks down in his seat, to
avoid being recognized. Can’t be too careful. The chief knows him, and may recall certain events in Roland’s teen years, and that might prove awkward, or even lethal. Later, once events have been set in motion, there will be time for recognition.

Hey, Q, remember me?

‘Q’ came from ‘cue ball’ because longtime Humble police chief Leo Gannett is bald, completely hairless with alopecia totalis, a condition considered comical by many teenage boys. As funny as being retarded or crippled or, for whatever reason, hideously uncool. Yo, Q! shouted on the street as the cruiser rolled by was guaranteed to get laughs from your buds. Or the derisive snorts of those you wished were your buds.

Whatever. That was over. That was the old Roland, before he emerged from his chrysalis.

Eyeballing the scene in his rearview, Roland watches the familiar figure of the tall, paunchy cop get out of his cruiser, straighten his uniform, and set his lid on his shiny head. Roland knows that big city police officers refer to their regulation hats as ‘lids’ because he watches lots of cop shows on TV. Just as they call their uniforms ‘bags,’ supposedly. And how they like to sum up situations by saying things like ‘code four,’ which means ‘everything is okay,’ and ‘code five,’ which means there’s a warrant out on a suspect, and ‘code eight,’ officer calling for help.

Hey, Q! Code eight coming right up, sir!
Roland chuckles, amazed by his own ability to think humorously, wittily, at such a critical juncture. Obviously he has developed nerves of steel, strengthened by training and practice. Amazing that when the big moment finally arrives he ex
periences no uneasiness, no fear, just a pleasant feeling of anticipation. Various tasks to be performed. The next level to be attained. Homage paid to the Profit.

Not the prophet. Never the prophet. The Profit. Crucial difference.

Once the big, bald cop is safely inside the school, Roland emerges from the van. He opens the creaky rear door. His tools are inside, neatly laid out. First to be removed is the small janitorial cart, rattling as it hits the pavement. Inside the cart he places a ragged string mop, intended for show—look, I’m a janitor cart!—and then, very gingerly, a zippered gym bag. The bag is heavy, more than fifty pounds heavy.

Careful, careful, don’t want that little sucker activated before the time comes.

Then, clipped to the inside of the cart rim, just out of sight, a canvas holster, quick release, containing a Glock 17, modified with a reduced-power spring kit for the lightest possible trigger pull. Perfectly legal and not, as the kit warned, for self-defense. Point and shoot without even having to squeeze, that’s how soft the pull—the gun will practically shoot itself.

Before setting off with the cart, Roland places the white earbuds in his ears and activates the iPod. The Voice has instructed him in the use of the iPod, a device that does not respond well to his clumsy, insensitive fingers. Roland prefers buttons, switches, triggers, not wimpy touch screens. Still, he learned, he practiced until he got it right, and it’s not as if he has to scroll through the selections. The only playlist is a comp of Black Sabbath, specifically selected by The Voice. Even in the heaviest throes of his metal phase, Roland was never a Black Sabbath fan. Way
too old. Geezers in wigs. Pathetic. His taste tended more toward classic Megadeth tracks, or if he was really twisted, anything by Municipal Waste. Thrash? Don’t mind if I do. The fact is he hasn’t listened seriously to metal since he began to evolve—nearly a year now—but The Voice specified Black Sabbath, and once he has the Ozzified itch of “Killing Yourself to Live” buzzing in his ears it’s okay, strictly as a kind of soundtrack to the sequence of events that have been so painstakingly rehearsed and memorized.

Roland can see the task list in his mind’s eye, clear as day. Start from the top, follow the numbers, execute each task.

1. Gain Access

A wheel spins out of kilter as he pushes the cart across the parking lot, approaching a side door marked Exit Only. Although it is not marked as such, this is where the school takes deliveries. Roland knows this because he worked, ever so briefly, for custodial services. Ring the delivery buzzer and they will come. The buzzer sounds in the coffee room—little more than a closet—and the duty custodian will grudgingly put down his cup, amble out to the door, maybe cadge a smoke from the truck driver making the delivery.

Roland presses the button, waits. Counts to ten, pushes it again. Lazy bastards.

It seems to take forever. His heart pounds like a boxer’s padded glove hitting the canvas bag, but in less than a minute the fitted metal door yawns open.

“Hey, hey,” says Bub Yeaton, his usual salutation.

Roland figured old Bub would be on duty. Not that his presence is crucial to the plan. Any warm body will do, so long as the door opens. But seeing Bub start to squint, as
recognition dawns—his watery eyes tracking from the cart to Roland, looking comically quizzical—having Bub in his sights is pretty sweet, all things considered.

“Roland? Hey. Um, what are you doing here?”

“They give me my job back,” says Roland, reaching into the cart.

“I don’t think so,” says Bub warily. “Nobody told me.”

“Check with him,” Roland says, pointing at the empty corridor.

Bub turns to look. Pure instinct—if someone points, you turn to look. And as the elderly custodian turns his head, Roland withdraws an eighteen-inch length of lead-filled iron pipe from the cart and smacks old Bub on the back of the skull, midway up. Exactly as he has rehearsed, practicing on ripe watermelons.

The only sound the custodian makes is a flabby wet thump as he hits the hard rubber tiles of a floor he recently cleaned, waxed, and polished.

2. Subdue Custodian.

Roland turns up the volume and grins to himself as Sabbath bruises his eardrums. So far so good.

6. Eva The Diva

The sun has barely cracked the horizon in Conklin County, Colorado. Dawn oozing up over the eastern edge of the mountains like a tremulous egg yolk charged with blood. Blood is on the mind of Ruler Weems, who has been wide-awake and manning his operations desk for many hours. His work hampered by the fact that he dare not use cell, e-mail, or text in the certain knowledge that his adver
saries—mostly notably the Ruler security chief, Bagrat Kavashi—have broken his personal cipher and are monitoring all electronic communication coming from the Bunker.

All of which makes it difficult to marshal his forces, keep them informed. Difficult but not impossible. Back in the day, when Rulers were few, none of those media existed, and yet still he helped build an enterprise whose power and influence extended from Wall Street to the upper echelons of government. And now the entire organization is in grave danger. The county, the village, the institute itself—everything he’s helped forge, build, and create could be destroyed by the willful actions of one woman, in league with her ruthless security chief.

Weems rises from his command post, goes to the window slit, allows himself to be bathed by the slash of sunlight pouring through the two-foot thickness of the concrete bunker. He has many flaws, but physical vanity is not among them—he’s keenly aware of a homeliness that has not improved with age. At sixty-three his hatchet nose, wattled throat, and severe underbite make him look like an old tortoise without a shell. The curvature of his upper spine, naturally drooping shoulders, and dark, deep-set eyes add to the effect.