Knock Out

58

SAVICH FROZE, Sherlock behind him. He called out, “Okay, we’re not moving. Cully, is that you? What bomb?”

“Just a second, got to get this duct tape off my mouth. Damn, it’s hard to talk without any lips. Okay, listen, the young guy—Victor Nesser—I saw him string a wire across the bedroom doorway, floor level. I guess he didn’t mind I saw him, figured I would see you coming and not be able to do a thing about it. Thank God I finally managed to get the tape off my mouth or we’d all be dead.”

Savich knelt down and saw the wire, maybe a quarter inch off the floor, stretched taut. He called out, “We’re stepping over it. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, just humiliated. I’m here, on the other side of the bed. Like I said, I finally got the tape off my mouth, but I’m still tied up. Victor’s got me connected to a wire, too.”

“Okay, don’t move,” Savich said and walked slowly over to the bed.

Cully said, “I can see the bomb from here. It’s by the dresser.”

“Got it,” Sherlock said. “You just don’t move, Cully. Dillon and I are going to check it out.”

Cully said, “The girl—Lissy Smiley—she was laughing, really enjoying it, crowing that the instant some stupid fed tripped the wire the whole building would go boom—a hundred feet up, burn up the air, maybe all the way to heaven, she said. Then she hooted, doing a Madonna bump and grind, and said something about sending you, Savich, to heaven.” Cully sucked in a breath. “I usually don’t remember exactly what people say, but she was over the top.”

Sherlock said, “Hey, we’re really glad you got the duct tape off your mouth. No heaven for any of us yet.”

Cully Gwyn, amazingly, laughed. “I knew you guys would come here when you didn’t see me at the Chevron station and I didn’t answer my cell. Please tell me you’ve spoken to Bernie.”

“No, we haven’t,” Savich said. “We don’t have his cell number. Okay, Cully, I won’t try to get you free until we see what’s going on with this bomb.”

Sherlock dropped to her knees beside an ancient pine dresser, vintage Goodwill. “Okay, just eyeballing it first. What we’ve got is a large black metal box about the size and shape of a small suitcase. There’s a wire running from inside it across the floor over to the bedroom door and another to you, Cully, so don’t move a whisker.”

Cully said, “There’s no bomb squad in Winnett, no surprise there. Please tell me you guys know about bombs.”

Savich said, “Stop hyperventilating, Cully, it’ll be all right. Sherlock took a course at Quantico. She knows enough not to set the sucker off. How did Victor and Lissy get you?”

“Bernie and I were close to the empty house just down the street, the one that’s been deserted for only a few months, we were told, but the grass looks ready to take up residence it grows so fast here. We were hunkered down in trees a bit beyond the house, close enough to keep an eye on Victor’s end apartment, but not too close to spook them if they showed up.” He sighed. “Bernie had to use the john, so he went into the house, through the back. I never looked away from the apartment building. I swear to you, I never heard a thing, not even a whisper of movement. One minute I was wondering why Bernie was taking so long and the next I felt a gun stuck in my ear, and a girl giggled, told me I was the easiest fed she’d ever got. I couldn’t believe it, Savich. I have no clue how she snuck up on me. I didn’t hear a thing.”

Dillon said, “She and Victor were probably behind you, watching, for a good long time, waiting for their chance. When Bernie went into the house, you had no one covering your back.” Easy, Savich thought, so easy.

Cully sighed again. “I tried for her, twisted around, sent my elbow at her face, but she jumped back, waved the gun at me, and told me if I tried anything again, she’d shoot me. Then Victor comes up and tells me we’re going to his apartment, he’s hungry, and he wants to see if the bologna in his fridge is still good.

“First though, Lissy went into the house where Bernie was. I didn’t hear anything, not a yell from Bernie, nothing. When she comes out, she’s popping bubble gum. I asked her what she did with Bernie, but she just gives me a sneer and hits my ribs real hard with the butt of her gun. ‘That’s for trying to hit me in the face,’ she says.

“There was no one around, and believe me, I looked hard. They marched me over here to the apartment building, then Victor ties me up here in the bedroom while she’s got the gun on me. I watched Victor hook up the bomb. I asked him where Bernie was, and Lissy just laughs again, tells me to shut up.”

“You’re very lucky she didn’t just shoot you when you tried to take her down,” Sherlock said. “That’s what she does, Cully.”

“Yeah, I know. Fortunately for me, I think she wanted a show; she was hoping you guys would come. She laughed and laughed, and wondered if they’d ever figure out what body part went with what fed,”

“I recommend you forget that thought, Cully,” Savich said. “Okay, I can’t get you free until Sherlock disarms the bomb. Don’t move.”

Savich went down on his knees next to Sherlock. She’d gotten the lid of the black box open. “Okay, it’s definitely homemade, not sophisticated—thank you, God—nice and straightforward. Victor probably got this off the Internet, or out of a book, which is very good for us. Dillon, give me your Swiss Army Knife.”

He handed it to her without a word.

Sherlock looked down at a pair of wires, red and green twisted together, leading to a—timer. Why a tinier? The bomb was supposed to explode if someone hit the trip wire across the bedroom doorway, or if Cully pulled out his wire. Why a timer? Had they tried to rig the front door too?

Sherlock cupped her hand around the small screen and read out 00:34 seconds. She sucked in her breath, forced herself to calm.

“We’re on a timer here, guys, not much time left before the sucker explodes.”

Savich looked at the timer over her shoulder.

Thirty seconds, twenty-nine. He saw his son’s face clear as glass in his mind, bouncing a basketball, and then saw Sherlock leaning over him, tucking a sheet around his chest.

Eighteen seconds, seventeen.

He watched Sherlock untwist the wires, follow each one to its lead.

Thirteen seconds, twelve.

Time compressed itself into a moment, yet Savich felt each ticking second as a separate unit, each second a universe of time, yet each second somehow disappeared into the next. He couldn’t guess how many people were right now in the building, how many could die because of Victor and Lissy. He thought of the children they’d heard arguing. He heard Cully talking softly—maybe he was praying, but he wasn’t moving, and that was good since the wire connected to the duct tape around his ankles.

Seven seconds, six.

No more time.

He wanted to tell Sherlock he loved her, and he opened his mouth—

“Here we go,” Sherlock said, and he watched her slice cleanly through a yellow wire.

His heart thudded, and his breath eased out of his mouth.

He reached out and wiped away the line of sweat streaking down her cheek. “You did it, sweetheart, you did it.”

Cully gave a shout. “Good going, Sherlock. Hey, I can get this duct tape off—”

There was a loud pop.

Sherlock said, “Hold that thought, Cully. What’s going on now?”