Boobytrap

From the notebooks of Donald Michael Latimer

Sun., June 30 — 9:00 P.M.

Kathryn.

Last night I dreamed about her. This morning I thought about her as I was fishing. This afternoon, when I paid Judson for gas from my dwindling supply of cash, I imagined again what she’ll look like when she opens her special gift and how good I’ll feel when she’s finally dead. Even better than I’ll feel when Dixon is finally dead.

Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathryn.

Dead, dead, dead.

I’m down to a little less than $200. I’ll have to get a job soon, some damn menial job, but not until after I deliver Kathryn’s surprise package to her in Indiana. First things first. Conserve my cash, meanwhile. I won’t steal if I do run out, that’s one thing I won’t do. I’m not a thief. Nobody will ever be able to accuse Donald Michael Latimer of being a common thief.

$3500 gone just like that. But what choice did I have? I needed wheels when they let me out of that hellhole prison, I needed all the tools and components for the bombs, destructive devices, boobytraps, I needed a roof over my head in the Bay Area and this place up here. Necessary expenses, all part of the Plan. $3500 for a hunk of secondhand Detroit crap that keeps overheating, inferior tools and goods instead of the quality material I had to work with in the Army, a drafty shack on the coast that ought to be blown up instead of rented out. Even this cabin is pisspoor compared to the luxury accommodations Kathryn and I shared in the old days. Gone, all gone, the good times and the easy life. And all because of her, what she started with her hot pants and her lying, vindictive ways.

A wonder I had any money left after my lawyer and Kathryn and her shyster and all the creditors got done slicing up my assets. $3500 was what they left me, and they’d have got that, too, if I hadn’t hidden the cash in the private safe-deposit box while I was out on bail. On top of the world one day, successful business, financial security, nice home, good clothes, a Porsche to drive, what I thought was a rock-solid marriage, and then she brought it all crashing down around my ears. Bitch! Screwing that lousy big-eared pharmacist and then when I caught her, telling me it was my fault because she was starved for love and affection. Siccing the cops on me, filing the assault charge after I smacked her, then walking out on me and straight into Lover Boy’s scrawny arms. I had a right to do what I did to them. I had a right to do a hell of a lot more.

Ah, but not according to the law. Not according to Cotter and Turnbull and Dixon and the California penal code. They picked up where Kathryn left off, persecuted me and took away my freedom, the only thing I had left. Well, now they’re the ones who’ve lost everything. Justice, by God. As ye sow, so shall ye reap, and the bastards sowed the seeds of their own destruction, the lot of them.

Maybe I’ll make a few others pay, too, when I’m done with Kathryn and I’ve saved up enough money. Come back to the Bay Area and send a package to that lawyer of hers, what was his name? Benedict? Snotty, self-righteous prick. Benedict fucking Arnold. And that fat cop who arrested me after the device blew the ass end off Lover Boy’s house, the one who treated me like dirt. And my old banker buddy Art Whittington who wouldn’t give me a loan, not even a small one, so I could pry myself out of debt. Made that son of a bitch thousands in mutual fund investments, and a cold shoulder was the thanks I got. They deserve a payback, too. So do all the others, business associates and fair-weather friends, everybody who deserted me before and after the trial, left me to endure five years of torment alone. Make little presents for each of them, boom boom boom boom boom!

Kathryn first, though.

Kathryn next.

Might as well start assembling her present while I’m waiting for Dixon to show up and claim his. I’ve done enough savoring, the way you savor sleeping with a woman for the first time. Now I’m ready for the preparations, the foreplay to the Big B. I have all the components except for the last one, and I can get that from any butcher shop on the way to Lawler Bluffs, IN. I brought everything in from the car Friday night, after dark, when I was sure nobody was around. Tool kit and the carton from the supermarket Dumpster in Half Moon Bay and the bag of bubble wrap and the micros witch and the black powder. And the jar of marbles, of course. It’s sitting right here on the table in front of me as I write. Glass marbles, different kinds, different colors, all very pretty, like eyes winking at me in the light from the desk lamp.

Those marbles were an inspiration. All the thought I gave to what to put in Kathryn’s surprise, something just for her — never mind the pharmacist and their brat, they’re incidental.

Couldn’t make up my mind, and then as soon as I saw the marbles in the toy store window I knew they were perfect, I knew exactly what else to get, too.

She took everything from me, she got all the marbles. Okay, then, I’ll give her two hundred more than she bargained for, two hundred cheap glass marbles that’ll fly apart in a million fragments from the force of the blast and rip her rotten flesh to shreds.

Second thing you give an unfaithful bitch for her final send-off? Why, a bagful of rancid bones, naturally. Soup bones that’ll splinter and gouge and tear the same as the marbles.

So long, Kathryn. Rest in pieces.

Too bad I can’t tell her beforehand what she’ll be getting. Too bad she’ll never know. Always accusing me of not having a sense of humor. Well, this proves different, doesn’t it? Proves I’ve got a terrific sense of humor.

She’ll get a bang out of her present, all right.

And then I’ll have the last laugh.

I just reread the previous page, the line about rest in pieces and the lines about her getting a bang out of her present and me having the last laugh. They started me chuckling, then roaring until my belly hurt. Now I’ve got the hiccups. I think I’d better

Somebody’s at the door.

Knock knock. Knock knock.

Who the hell can that be at this hour?