What Hides Within (18 page)

The man slid down in his seat to evade detection. Kevin's rapid footsteps grew louder, then began to fade. The man slid up a bit, just in time to see Kevin turn a far-off corner and disappear from his surveillance.

Who was he waiting for? Does he know that we're on to him? Where's he going in such a hurry?

The man in the car had so many questions for Kevin. Of those questions, one stood out among the rest.
What is he going to blow up next?

***

"How does one top a school?" he asked rhetorically. No one would answer. He was alone. "This is going to be so awesome."

He hid crouched behind a row of cars. Dressed in black from head-to-toe, he went about his business with cold deliberation. Over his shoulder, a large duffel bag was slung, hunching him like Quasimodo. His face was cloaked in shoe polish. Its invidious, unavoidable odor made him jovially dizzy and slightly intoxicated. But the unnatural stimulus paled in comparison to the natural high from the endorphins his body released. His muscles tensed. Beads of sweat ran off his face in black greasy droplets. Adrenaline filled him with power, the strength to finish what he had started.

All the cars were lined up, so orderly, all facing the same direction. Once he managed to pry open the first gas tank with a putty knife, the rest was easy. He slid alongside the black Ford Taurus and began to dig. Effort was unnecessary, the tank lid popping open with ease.

He opened his duffel bag, his eyes widening as he reached for his materials. Excited, he slid a long, thin string into the gas tank. He delicately pulled the string back out, careful not to smear off its fresh coat of gasoline. The fumes gave him pleasure. The fire would give him more. And the boom, that would be pure ecstasy.

The cylindrical stick at the opposite end of the string pushed through the tank opening with moderate force. Aside from a few paint chippings, his paper-wrapped boomsticks fit perfectly. It was as though they were made for this occasion. He smiled. He had planned well.

One-by-one, he moved down the lot. He dipped each wick and planted in each tank what resembled a Roman Candle, thinner but with a much bigger kick. Much bigger. It was his own special blend of dynamite, and no mere quarter stick.

With each explosive he placed, he grew more anxious.
Patience
, he told himself.
The longer the wait, the bigger the thrill
. He wished there were more than nine cars in the lot. But he would make do, this time. After all, it left room for improvement.

Seven explosives were in place when he heard a noise, the click of a door latch sliding out of place. The creak of a swinging hinge followed. Then came the footsteps.

Son of a bitch!
The would-be perpetrator sprawled onto the hard cement. His hands scraped across the pavement, leaving torn skin scattered with pebbles and dirt.

What the fuck! Where did I go wrong? I checked for shift changes, details, assignments. This was supposed to be the perfect fucking time!

He listened intently and dared not make a move. With the metal clink of a Zippo top flicked open, he realized what he had failed to take into account.

A cigarette break? Doesn't he know those things can kill him? Guess I'll have to wait it out.

Officer Vincent Bell sucked down a long drag just outside the precinct's back door. It was a slow night for the Somerset policeman. It was always a slow night.

Officer Bell looked up at the sky, a cool, clear, beautiful late-October evening. He could spend his whole shift staring up at the stars on a night like that. It put him at peace, away from the drunken ramblings of the kid who didn't decide to walk with his Johnnie Walker and the peculiar odor of the homeless regular in holding cell number two. He grinned, content as he smoked the last of his Camels. He threw the butt to the ground, flattening it beneath his heavy black boot. Tomorrow, maybe he'd quit.

The officer began his retreat back to his boring night behind a desk, counting the minutes remaining of his shift, when his cellphone rang. He cursed quietly and answered it. The relief from stress his cigarette had offered him was instantly undone. He was no longer at peace.

"Hello? Yes . . . Honey, slow down. You can't keep calling me at work . . . I know, but listen . . . Honey, can you just be quiet for a second? I'm only supposed to get calls if they're for emergencies."

Officer Bell's annoyance grew. He began to pace. It wasn't the first time he got a call like this, a nervous, inexperienced mother, who would call in the Coast Guard if her newborn son farted. Her "you should be home more with the baby" nagging was a constant sore spot for Bell. Didn't she realize he needed to work to support her and the baby? He held his breath and counted backward from five.

"Honey? Honey! Is it swollen? Then just put some hydroxide on it. A spider bite does not qualify as an emergency unless he's hypersensitive. Keep an eye on it, and call me if anything changes."

As he paced, Officer Bell moved closer to the line of black and whites, a squadron of Somerset's finest police cruisers. Distracted by the ranting of his hysterical wife, Bell wandered aimlessly across the parking lot. An abandoned duffel bag drew his attention.

"Honey, I'll call you back," he said, hanging up the phone despite his wife's protests.

Bell moved closer to the squad cars. His vision remained fixated on the bag haphazardly placed behind the cars. He wondered if a coworker forgot his gym clothes. He'd happily take it inside, the least he could do.

The familiar clink of a Zippo caught Officer Bell's ear. His hand instinctively went to his pocket, the sound alone enough to instigate his nicotine cravings. But he was all out of cigarettes, and the lighter was still in his pocket.

Then he heard the sizzle, a crackling sound that reminded him of bacon simmering in a frying pan. The sound doubled in volume, then tripled. It seemed to move closer and closer to him. His hand went to his holstered service revolver. That's when Officer Bell noticed the dynamite.

"Who's there?" Bell asked. No one answered. His ears strained to hear any sign of an intruder. He withdrew his gun, all the while canvassing the row of police cars. His eyes darted toward the flickering light of flame on wick. The dynamite tucked in the third car had been lit, its wick growing shorter by the second. Bell's horror grew as he turned to the second car. The wick on the dynamite in its tank was markedly shorter. His jaw dropped open in absolute terror as he glanced at the first car in the row. Its wick had all but vanished.

Bell turned to run. As he did, a loud blast sent shockwaves through the still air, followed by a second, larger blast. When the dynamite exploded, the gasoline in the tank ignited, causing a follow-up blast of far greater magnitude.

As the first car exploded, fear and self-preservation caused Officer Bell to duck and cover. No sooner than he could protect himself from the flying debris, the second police car followed suit. The air filled with smoke, but not before Officer Bell could make out the hazy figure of a man retreating behind a foreground of flame.

"Freeze!" he yelled, regrouping. He pointed his service revolver at the escaping figure. Then he recalled car number three and regretted his hesitation in pulling the trigger.

Another deafening blast, and the third car exploded, its metal contorting into some kind of appalling, post-modern sculpture. Glass shards that used to be windows launched through the air like shimmering daggers. The smell of melting rubber mixed with that of the ash.

Officer Bell stood in front of the fifth car in the row. The third car's explosion beat him to the ground as though he were weightless. He covered his head with his arms, thinking, hoping, praying that it was all over.

Car number four ignited as the precinct emptied behind Bell. The loud blare of the Fire Department's siren sounded next door. Several officers ambled speechless, not a leader among them. Nora from dispatch called out to Bell over the chaotic clamor. He turned toward her, placing his palms flat against the ground as he rose to his knees.

Car number five's explosion was as morbidly impressive as its predecessors. The force of the dynamite's ignition popped the Taurus' ass end into the air. The explosion of the gas tank sent the entire car airborne.

Bell struggled to regain his feet, his eyes locked with Nora's. But her gaze left his and ventured skyward. Her eyes widened, and in them, Bell could see his impending fate. Nora looked as though she were screaming, but no sound came out. Suddenly, she fainted. The blaze behind him cast hideous shadows on the ground before him. The darkness quickly grew, and Bell could guess its consequences. A heavy weight was about to crush him.

***

Two more cars exploded before the melee grinded to a halt. When the smoke cleared and the fire died, the remaining officers barricaded the scene with caution tape and began their search for evidence. After a thorough search of the area, all they found was the speckled remnants of the Roman Candles, a discarded gold Zippo lighter and a badly singed, but still largely intact, blue duffel bag.

"Where have you been?"

"What the fuck do you care?"

Clive watched as Kevin closed the apartment door behind him, double-checking the deadbolt. Dressed in dark colors, he crept by Clive as though the latter were asleep, even though the two had just spoken. Mud and grime fell from his shoes with every step, concealing itself within the fabric of the rug. His shoulders hung low, yet his body seemed tense. Some unknown pressure wore him down. It was readily detectable, and Clive was ready.

"You should know . . . Never mind."

Clive skirted the subject of his conversation with Detective Reilly. He'd promised to keep his mouth shut, but if he were truly living with a killer, he thought it might be in his best interests to find out. He didn't believe Kevin was who Reilly claimed he was, but there was still so little he knew about his silent real estate partner. He didn't fear Kevin. Rather, he began to detest him. Who was this guy he shared rent with? Where did he go at such late hours? Why was he tracking mud through their living room?

Kevin stopped, straining as if the pressure was too heavy to carry another step. He collapsed on top of the couch back, some unspoken struggle apparently ending in someone else's favor.

"You got something to say, then say it," Kevin said, sounding exhausted.

"I know you don't go to UMass anymore."

"Oh yeah? And how do you know that, smart guy?"

"I'm just saying--"

"What's it to you, anyway?" Kevin interrupted in uncharacteristic frustration. "I still pay my half of the rent, don't I?"

Clive hesitated, giving Kevin a minute to catch his breath and calm down. "I'm just saying, if you need somebody to talk to--"

"Oh, please! Since when did you give a damn? What's with the sudden urge to bond? Here's an idea: you keep to your shit, and I'll keep to mine."

With that, Kevin staggered to his room. Clive could hear Kevin lock the door behind him. He always locked the door behind him. Still, Clive followed Kevin's suggestion, outwardly at least. As far as Kevin would know, Clive would keep to his own affairs.

Inside, however, Clive had come to a different conclusion. He resigned himself to follow Detective Reilly's instructions. He'd keep tabs on Kevin. He'd get into Kevin's room somehow, even if it meant "borrowing" and copying Kevin's key. The goal was to do it undetected. If Kevin was who Reilly claimed him to be, his invasion into Kevin's privacy could be explosive.

"Chili's again, Morgan?"

"It was an easy place for everyone to meet!"

"I'm just kidding. You didn't have to do all this."

Clive smirked, embarrassed by the attention. Morgan had thrown him a surprise party and gathered all his friends and some strangers. She had done it because she cared about him. Not Derek. Him.

"Derek helped."

"Yep, Morgan and I spent a lot of quality time together, didn't we, Honey?" Derek said, putting his arm around her shoulder. Although she groaned, Morgan didn't remove it.

"How did you get all these people?"

"Derek called your work. He did a great job at compiling a list, I must admit."

"All in a day's work," Derek said.

"Your brother wanted to come, too," Morgan added. "He had to stay home with Rachel. We originally planned a paintball outing, but with your head the way it is . . . Well, we can plan that for an upcoming weekend."

"Yeah!" Clive said, excited. "That would be awesome."

"Hey stranger!" a voice called out from behind Morgan.

"Connie!"

Clive couldn't hide his joy. Paintball had already been forgotten. The object of his lust had finally arrived.

"I'm so glad you could make it," he said, opening his arms for a hug.

Clive feared his excitement might have come out too strongly. After all, Morgan was watching. He held Connie inordinately close for two people who were "just friends."

Tonight's the night you get her, Clive
, Chester coached.
All you have to do is follow my lead. You could start by offering the lady a drink
.

"Can I get you a drink?"

Connie waved her finger inches from Clive's face, ending with a playful tap on his nose. "No-no, Clive. This party is all about you. You're not supposed to pay for your drinks."

"Oh, so now we have to pay for all his drinks, too?" Derek's protest was met with Morgan's elbow careening into his pot belly. It looked to Clive as though it probably hurt. Derek's groan confirmed his conclusion.
What's her problem?
Clive wondered, starting to feel guilty but not guilty enough to leave Connie's side.

"Come on," Connie urged. She wrapped her arm around Clive's, ushering him to the bar. "The first few rounds are on me." The two turned to leave without so much as extending Morgan an invitation.

As Connie dragged him away, he heard Morgan's stern voice say, "Let's go Derek. Let those two get their drinks. You start getting mine, and you'll have yourself a date for the night." Clive had a feeling he was meant to hear that. The thought of Derek's grubby hands on Morgan disgusted him, but he had more important business to attend to.