The Cemetery Man and Other Darkside Tales

Boobytrap

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He finished making the third bomb just before nine Sunday night.

Except, of course, that it wasn’t a bomb. No. It was a “destructive device.” That was the official legal definition in the California Penal Code. Chapter 2.5: Destructive Devices. Section 12303.3: Explosion of Destructive Device. He knew the section’s wording by heart. It had been drummed into his head at the trial; he’d read it over and over again in the prison library.

“Every person who possesses, explodes, ignites, or attempts to explode or ignite any destructive device or any explosive with intent to injure, intimidate, or terrify any person, or with intent to wrongfully injure or destroy any property, is guilty of a felony, and shall be punished by imprisonment in the state prison for a period of three, five, or seven years.”

Point of law, Mr. Sago.

Ah, but that hadn’t been enough for them. The destructive devices he’d made six years ago, the three destructive devices he’d manufactured here, were more than just destructive devices. They were also Chapter 3.2: Boobytrap. Specifically, Section 12355: Boobytraps — Felony.

“Any person who assembles, maintains, places, or causes to be placed a boobytrap device as described in subdivision (c) is guilty of a felony punishable by imprisonment in the state prison for two, three, or five years.” Subdivision (c) stating in part “For purposes of this section, ‘boobytrap’ means any concealed or camouflaged device designed to cause great bodily injury when triggered by an action of any unsuspecting person coming across the device.”

Point of law, Mr. Sago.

Guilty as charged, Mr. Sago.

Five years of hell in San Quentin, Mr. Sago.

The rage was in his blood again, rising. He tamped it down by focusing on the bomb, destructive device, boobytrap on the table in front of him. And by thinking about Douglas Cotter lying dead on his lawn with his self-righteous, “You need psychiatric help, Mr. Sago,” four-eyed head blown off. Beautiful image, that, provided by this morning’s newscast. Device number one: mission accomplished. But Cotter was the one he hated least of the trio, a minor collaborator in the legal conspiracy. Much more satisfaction when device number two made a pincushion of Judge Norris Turnbull. And when this pretty little baby here, pretty little surprise package number three right here, tore the life out of Patrick Dixon... why, then he would really have cause for rejoicing.

Vengeance is mine, saith Mr. Sago.

Carefully, he rearranged his tools in the kit he’d bought in San Francisco. Put the rest of his materials away in their various containers and then wiped his hands on a rag. When he stood and felt the creak of his stiffened muscles, he realized for the first time how tired he was. And how hungry. He hadn’t eaten since noon. Better put something in his stomach before he went to bed; he’d sleep better. Three A.M. was only a few hours off, and there wouldn’t be time for even a quick breakfast. Drop the judge’s present off first, then drive all the way to Mountain Lake — two and a half hours, at least — and find a proper place to leave Dixon’s package. Very tight schedule.

He went into the cramped kitchen. The pilot light on the stove had gone out; he relit it, opened a can of Dinty Moore beef stew and emptied it into a saucepan, put the pan on to heat. Miserable place, this. “Charming one-bedroom seaside cottage, completely furnished,” the ad in the paper had read. Drafty Half Moon Bay shack with bargain-basement furnishings, no central heating, a propane stove that didn’t work right, and a toilet that wouldn’t stop running no matter what you did to the handle or the float arm or the flush valve. Four hundred dollars rent, in advance, even though he would be here less than two weeks. Criminal. Even so, it was better than the studio apartment near the beach in San Francisco — and palatial compared to his prison cell. Away from that hellhole two months now, and still the nightmares kept coming — the worst one again last night, the one where he was still trapped in the cell, crouching in a corner, the giant rats in guards’ and cons’ uniforms slavering all around him.

Cottage did have plenty of privacy, at least. Nearest neighbor was three hundred yards up the beach. And most important, it was even closer to the Pacific than the city apartment; the sound of the surf was with him every minute he spent here. He’d needed so badly to be close to the ocean when they let him out. Still did. Freedom. All that bright blue freedom after five years of torment.

The stew was ready. He poured it into a bowl, opened a packet of saltine crackers, and sat down to appease his hunger.

He thought about Kathryn while he ate. Did she feel warm and secure tonight, snuggled up to that bastard Culligan? Did she think he wouldn’t find out she’d married Lover Boy and moved to his old hometown in Indiana and had the brat she’d always wanted? Or was she afraid, huddled sleepless in the dark, knowing he’d come for her sooner or later? He hoped she was afraid. Aware that he was out on parole, knowing he’d come, and terrified.

All her fault, the bitch. Ruined everything, the good life they’d had together — blew it all up as surely as if she’d set off a destructive device of her own. “Intent to wrongfully injure.” She was the one who was guilty of that, not him. She was the one who should have suffered.

J’accuse, Mrs. Sago.

Guilty as charged, Mrs. Sago.

The sentence is death, Mrs. Sago.

The fourth boobytrap, the one he would begin making tomorrow afternoon, the biggest and best and sweetest of them all, was for Kathryn — and Lover Boy and the brat, too — back there in Lawler Bluffs, Indiana.

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Mountain Lake lay nestled in a deep hollow among pine-and fir-crowded Sierra foothills, glittering like a strip of polished silver under the late-morning sun. It made Patrick Dixon smile as it always did when he first glimpsed it from the crest of Deer Hill. And, as always, memories flooded his mind. The day his father had let him take the outboard’s tiller for the first time. The day he’d swum the length of the lake and back on a dare from one of the other summer kids and nearly drowned from exhaustion. The night he’d lost his virginity with Alice Fenner in the woods along the east shore. Sixteen, then... no, still fifteen, three weeks shy of his sixteenth birthday. Lord, what a young stud he’d been that night. Four times, one right after the other — bam, bam, bam, bam. Twenty-five years ago already. Didn’t seem half that long. Now, though, the tired old stallion was lucky if he could go the distance once a week.

“... looks like their car down there.”

“What?” He glanced over at Marian beside him. “Sorry, I was woolgathering.”

“I said I think the Andersons are here. Car down there looks like theirs.”

“Good.” He liked the Andersons. Half of the ten cottages that ringed the lake were now owned by newcomers who’d bought within the past five years, and of all of them, the Andersons were the friendliest and most compatible.

“I’ll go over after we’re settled and invite them for dinner and bridge one night.”

“Dinner, anyway.” He didn’t like bridge.

In the backseat, Chuck had been leaning out the window for a better view. He drew his head back in and said, “Bet there’s some big babies in those reeds at Rocky Point this year. Bass, not crummy channel cats.”

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

“When? Tonight?”

“Or first thing in the morning.”

“Bass bite better at dusk, Dad, you know that.”

Twelve years old and a fishing junkie. It was all Chuck talked about. Didn’t seem to be a passing fad, either; his room had been cluttered with angling books and paraphernalia for two years now. Hemingway in training; he was already making plans to go down to Florida when he turned eighteen, to troll for sailfish and marlin.

Dixon thought again, as he often did, how lucky he and Marian were. Their son could have turned out like so many other kids these days, even ones from good homes — that other kind of junkie he saw nearly every day at the Hall of Justice and City Hall, the ones the DA’s office sometimes had to prosecute as adults...

Uh-uh, he told himself, none of that. You’re on vacation. Fourteen days of sorely needed R&R, thanks to Nils Ostergaard’s insistence that he take his first two-week block a month early. No work, no phone at the cabin to yank him back into the urban jungle he occupied for forty-some weeks a year. Felons and felonies — and tragedies like the bomb killing of poor Doug Cotter yesterday morning — were part of his life in San Francisco. Up here, they were verboten.

At the bottom of the hill, he turned onto the narrow blacktop that skirted the lake’s rim. The road dipped up and down, cutting sharp around trees and outcrops: Most of the cottages were set below it, down near the water’s edge. Theirs was the third to the north of the intersection, half hidden among moss-hung lodgepole pine and Douglas fir. He smiled again when he saw the wooden arrow marker with the name “Dixon” burned into the wood. His father had nailed that sign to the tree nearly forty years ago, the day he’d finished building the cabin, and it had remained there ever since — a symbol of security and stability. If he had his way, it would continue to be nailed there at least throughout Chuck’s lifetime. Father to son, father to son.

He swung the station wagon onto the two-car parking platform opposite the marker. The cabin and its lakeside deck were mostly visible from the platform: old redwood boards, shingles, and shakes and dark green shutters. Built to last with simple materials. Below the deck, the ground sloped to the boathouse and stubby dock. Trees and other vegetation grew densely on both sides, almost to the waterline, to provide additional privacy.

Chuck bounced out of the car and began to unload his fishing gear from among the clutter in back. Tucked away in the storage shed behind the cabin were poles and reels and tackle that had belonged to Dixon’s father, more than enough equipment for all three of them. But Chuck preferred his own new Daiwa rod and reel. He’d even learned to tie flies and had brought a case of his creations along to try out on the bass population. He was tired of yanking in bullheads and catfish, he said; he’d designed his flies to attract only bass. Mr. Optimism.

Marian said, “I wish I had half his energy.”

“Me, too. We’ll build up fresh reserves after a few days.”

“Sure, but then you’ll want to work them right off.”

He waggled an eyebrow at her “Good old mountain air does wonders for the libido.”

“Doesn’t it, though.”

Dixon went down and unlocked the cabin and took a turn through each of its five rooms, as he always did first thing to make sure everything was in order. Okay. No one had had any real problems with break-ins or vandalism up here — one of the cottages was owned by Bert Unger, a retired Sacramento sheriff’s deputy, and his wife who lived at the lake year-round and kept a sharp eye on things — but nowadays you were wise not to take anything for granted.

The day was hot, and several trips up and down the platform stairs had them all sweating when they were done. In the kitchen, Chuck said, “I’m for a swim. How about you, Mom?”

She sneezed. “Not right now. This place needs airing out before I do anything else.”

“Dad?”

“Pretty soon. You go ahead.” Marian sneezed again. Dixon said to her, “Must be bad this year, whatever you’re allergic to. Usually you don’t start sneezing and snuffling until we’ve been here a few hours.”

“I wish I knew what it was. I’d rip every bit of it out of the ground with my bare hands.”

“Better settle for taking an allergy pill.”

“Thank you for your advice and sympathy, Doctor Dixon.”

He grinned and helped himself to a cold beer from the ice chest they’d brought. He carried it out onto the deck, stood admiring the lake’s silver-blue placidity. It was a mile and a half long, a third of a mile wide toward the middle, and much narrower at the ends, tightly hemmed by trees and by bare-rock scarps along the south shore, All of the land was privately owned, and so far the newcomers had kept the faith and brought in none of the trappings of modern society to spoil its natural beauty. Peace and privacy were what the people who came here were after — people like Marian and him, who had stressful city jobs. Mountain Lake offered plenty of both qualities. And you really did need to love bucolic isolation, because it was nearly ten miles by switchbacked mountain road to the village of Two Corners and the nearest dispenser of beer, bread, and toothpaste.

Lean and wiry in his trunks, long hair flying, Chuck came racing out of the cabin and down to the boathouse. He had Marian’s symmetrical features, her intense blue eyes, her ash-blond hair — and a good thing, too, that her genes had dominated. Nobody had ever accused Pat Dixon of being a handsome hunk; “craggy” was about the most complimentary word that had been used to describe his looks—

“Dad! Hey, Dad!”

Dixon shaded his eyes. Chuck was at the side door to the boathouse, excitedly waving an arm.

“What’s the matter, sport?”

“Somebody’s been in the boathouse.”

Under his breath, Dixon said, “Damn!” and went to join his son. Sure enough, the padlock was gone from the hasp, and the boathouse door stood open a crack. Chuck had hold of the handle and was tugging on it, but the bottom edge seemed to be stuck.

“Crap,” he said disgustedly. “Who do you figure it was? Homeless people?”

“Way up here? Not likely.”

“I’m gonna be pissed if they stole our boat.”

Dixon took the handle, gave a hard yank. The second time he did it, the bottom popped free, and the door wobbled open. He leaned inside. There were chinks between warped wallboards; in-streaming sunlight let him see the aluminum skiff upside down on the sawhorses, where they’d laid it at the end of last summer. Its oars were on the deck beside it. The Evinrude outboard had been locked away in the storage shed.

“Whew, still there,” Chuck said. “Looks like everything else is, too. So how come they busted in?”

“Place to sleep, maybe.” But it didn’t look as though anyone had been sleeping inside. Or had used the boathouse for any other purpose.

“You think they got into the storeroom, too?”

“We’ll soon find out.”

The shed was attached to the back wall of the cabin, and much more solidly constructed than the boathouse. The padlock was missing from the hasp there, too. Tight-mouthed, Dixon opened the door. He had put fuses in the switchbox just after their arrival; he pulled the cord to light the overhead bulb.

“Hey,” Chuck said, “this is weird.”

Weird was the word for it. Nothing seemed to be missing from the shed, either. The Evinrude outboard, their fishing equipment, shovels, rakes, an extra oar for the skiff, miscellaneous items and cleaning supplies — all in place on shelves and the rough wood floor. No sign of disturbance. No sign that anyone had even been inside.

“Maybe it’s the padlocks,” Chuck said.

“What?”

“What they were after. You know, a gang of padlock thieves.”

Dixon didn’t smile. Both locks had been the heavy-duty variety, with thick staples — the kind that were advertised on TV as impregnable. They couldn’t be picked or shot open, maybe, but the staples were certainly vulnerable to hacksawing. You’d need the right kind of blade, though, and it would take some time even then. Why go through all the trouble, if you weren’t going to steal anything? There didn’t seem to be any sense in it.

Gang of padlock thieves. It was as good an explanation as any.

Dixon turned off the light, shut the door, and walked around to the front, Chuck at his heels. Marian was doing cleanup work in the kitchen. She turned to glance at him with allergy-reddened eyes and then said immediately, “What’s the matter? You look odd.”

He told her, with embellishments from Chuck. “But that’s crazy,” she said. “Kids, you think, playing some kind of game?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m going to have another look around in here.”

He found nothing amiss this time, either. No objects gone, no indication that anyone but the three of them had been inside.

“Weird,” Chuck said again. “Weird, man.”

Marian said, “Well, it’s not anything we should worry about. I don’t see how it could be.”

“Neither do I,” Dixon said.

But it did worry him, a little. City-bred paranoia, maybe; but he thought he’d talk to the Andersons and the Ungers about it, just to be on the safe side.

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Two down, four to go.

The news bulletin came over the car radio as he was driving back from Mountain Lake. Explosion in the garage of Judge Norris Turnbull’s Sea Cliff home at seven-forty this morning. Turnbull dead on arrival at Mt. Zion Hospital. San Francisco police refuse to speculate on a possible motive, or link between this bombing incident and the one yesterday morning that claimed the life of attorney Douglas Cotter.

He laughed when he heard the last part. And when he pictured Turnbull lying broken and bloody with his wrinkled old face full of metal barbs like porcupine quills, he laughed even harder. Always hunching forward at the trial — a big vulture in his black robes. Always peering down through his glasses, too, stern-faced, eyes like hot stones, as if he thought he was God on the judgment seat. Hunched and peered once too often, didn’t you, judge? Passed judgment once too often, didn’t you?

I sentence you to five years in the state prison on each count, Mr. Sago.

I sentence you straight to hell, judge Turnbull.

He laughed so hard, tears rolled down his cheeks.

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“The Andersons haven’t had any trouble on their property,” Dixon said “No break-ins or missing items, no acts of vandalism. Tom hasn’t seen anyone around who doesn’t belong at the lake. But then, they’ve only been up from Stockton four days.”

Marian sneezed, said, “Damn allergies,” irritably, and blew her nose. Then she said, “Are you sure you’re not worried about those missing padlocks?”

“It’s the inexplicability that bothers me.”

“Well, there has to be some logical explanation. Why don’t you go see what Bert Unger has to say about it?”

“I will, after lunch. But I doubt he knows anything. Tom went fishing with him yesterday, and Bert didn’t say a word about any trouble.”

Marian blew her nose again and then went to the sink to wash her hands. Through the kitchen window, Dixon could see Chuck with his snorkeling mask on, swimming back and forth beyond the end of the dock.

“Pat, do you know where we put the bread board?”

“Bread board? Not where it always is?”

“No. I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Did you look in the pantry?”

“What would it be doing in the pantry?”

“I don’t know — having sex with the toaster, maybe?”

“Ha ha. Why don’t you take a look? My eyes are so teary, I might’ve missed it”

The pantry was a tiny alcove about as large as the storage shed. Dixon put on the light and wedged himself inside. And found the bread board in thirty seconds — on a top shelf, half hidden in the shadow of a slanted ceiling beam. Now what had possessed one of them to put it way up there? He caught hold of the paddle-shaped handle, started to pull it down.

Something that had been on top of the board came flying down at him.

His reflexes were good; he twisted and managed to jerk his head out of the path of the falling object, though in the process he cracked his elbow against the wall. The object clattered against another shelf, dropped at his feet. Muttering, he bent to pick it up with his free hand.

“Pat? What was that noise?”

“Damn can of pork and beans. It nearly brained me.”

“Be more careful, will you?”

“Wasn’t my fault.” He set the can down so he could rub his elbow. “Somebody put the board on the top shelf and the can on top of the board.”

“Well, I don’t think it was me, and Chuck’s not tall enough. Guess who that leaves?”

“Okay, so maybe it was my fault. In a hurry or distracted at the time.”

“At least you found it,” Marian said when he brought the bread board out to her. Then she sneezed again, explosively, and almost dropped it. “Damn these allergies!”

“That medicine of yours ought to be working by now. Maybe you’d better take another pill.”

“I would, except that I don’t have any more.”

“I thought you packed an entire bottle.”

“So did I. But I had two, one full and one almost empty. I put the wrong one in my case.”

“Uh-huh. The old in-a-hurry-or-distracted excuse.”

“I’ll need to take a couple tonight, or I won’t sleep.”

“I know. And then I won’t, either. I’ll drive down to Two Corners after lunch, before I see Bert Unger.”

“Do you mind? I’d go myself, but the way I keep snuffling and sneezing...”

He kissed her neck. “I don’t mind,” he said.

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Sago’s good humor lasted most of the way back to Half Moon Bay. Would have lasted the entire distance if it hadn’t been for the car overheating as he rode up through Altamont Pass. He had to swing off the freeway in Livermore and find a service station and wait around until a mechanic fixed the problem with the cooling system.

Fifteen-year-old piece of crap, that car. But it was all he’d been able to afford when he was released from San Quentin. A wonder he’d had any money left after his lawyer and Kathryn and her lawyer and all the creditors got done slicing up his assets. A few thousand dollars, that was all they’d left him — and at that he’d had to hide it away in cash in a safety deposit box. On top of the world one day, successful business, financial security, nice home, good clothes, a Porsche to drive, what he’d thought was a rock-solid marriage — and then Kathryn had brought it all crashing down around his ears. Bitch! Having an affair with that bastard Culligan, a lousy big-eared pharmacist, and then telling him it was all his fault because she was starved for genuine love and affection. Calling the cops and filing an assault charge when he smacked her. Finally walking out on him, straight into Lover Boy’s scrawny arms. He’d had a right to do what he’d done in retaliation. He’d had a right.

Not according to Cotter and Turnbull and Dixon, though. They’d picked up here Kathryn left off, persecuting him, all but destroying what little of him was left. Well, now they were the ones who were being destroyed. And with perfect justice, too. As ye sow, so shall ye reap, and they’d sown the seeds of their own destruction.

Maybe he’d make a few others pay, too, when he was done with Kathryn. Maybe he’d come back here and send a present to that lawyer of hers, what was his name? Benedict? Snotty, self-righteous prick. And the tough cop, Michaels, who’d arrested him after the destructive device blew the ass end off of Lover Boy’s house; treated him like dirt. And Arthur Whittington, his old buddy the banker, who wouldn’t give him even a small loan so he could pry himself out of debt; he’d made the son of a bitch thousands in mutual funds investments, and that was the thanks he got. They deserved to suffer, too, by God. So did a couple of other business associates and fair-weather friends who’d deserted him before and after the trial, left him to endure five years of torment alone. Make little presents for all of them.

He kept hoping there’d be another news bulletin before he reached the charming furnished seaside shack in Half Moon Bay, but there wasn’t. Not yet, but soon. Inside the cottage, with the door locked, he switched on the portable radio on his worktable and tuned it to an all-news station. He didn’t want to miss the announcement when it finally came.

Surprise, Mr. Dixon.

Surprise!

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The owner of Two Corners Grocery, a talkative old man named Finley, was watching television behind the counter. Another victim of the satellite dish, Dixon thought wryly. He paid no attention to the flickering images and droning voices as he was fetching Marian’s allergy medicine; but when he gave it to Finley to ring up, a familiar name registered and turned his head toward the screen. And he found himself staring at an enlarged photograph of Judge Norris Turnbull.

“Terrible thing, isn’t it?” Finley said.

“What is? What happened?”

“Mean you don’t know? Special news reports all day.”

He shook his head. It was a family rule that they left the car radio off on long drives, and even Chuck’s boom box had been silent so far.

“Well, that judge was killed this morning,” Finley said. “Somebody blew him up with a bomb.”

Dixon grimaced. Blew him up... Douglas Cotter yesterday, and now Judge Turnbull... good God! After a few seconds, shock gave way to an impotent anger. He hadn’t seen much of Cotter since Doug left the DA’s office four years ago to open his own practice, but they’d worked together for two years and had been friendly enough; and Turnbull was a man he’d respected and admired. It seemed unthinkable that either of them, of all the attorneys and jurists in the city, would become the target of some crazy bomber. Unthinkable and outrageous.

The news report was ending; what few details he was able to pick up from the newscaster’s closing remarks were sketchy. Finley tried to tell him about it, but he had no interest in a third-hand rehash. He cut the old man short and hurried out to where a public phone box was affixed to the grocery’s front wall. He used his long-distance credit card to put in a call to Nils Ostergaard’s private line. The DA was in; he answered immediately.

“Nils, I just heard about Judge Turnbull. Two in two days — what the hell’s going on?”

“No idea yet, Pat.” Ostergaard sounded tense and harried. “There has to be a connection; nobody buys coincidence. But aside from the fact that both men were in the legal profession, the link isn’t there yet.”

“No notes or calls from the bomber?”

“Not a word.”

“Same kind of device in both cases?”

“No. Both were set as boobytraps, but the one that killed Cotter was a simple type — black powder and metal frag packed into a lawn sprinkler and initiated by a tripwire hidden in the grass. The one that killed Norris... nasty. I hope I never hear of a nastier one.”

“Nasty how?”

“As near as the bomb techs could tell, the device was a small box of some kind left on the front seat of the judge’s car. Inside his garage; bomber gained access through a side window. When Norris opened the box to look inside, it blew fifty or sixty thin, sharpened steel rods straight up into his face.”

“Jesus,” Dixon said.

“Yeah. It’s obvious we’re dealing with the worst kind of psycho here — intelligent enough to construct a more or less sophisticated explosive device, crazy enough to believe he’s got a good reason for ripping a man’s head apart with sharpened steel rods.”

“Who’s in charge of the investigation? Dave Maccerone?”

“Dave, and Charley Seltzer of the bomb squad. Ed Bozeman’s working with them from our end. A-priority, down the line.”

“If Ed’s working with the PD, that cuts you thin. Maybe I’d better come in.”

“No, no,” Ostergaard said “We’re okay. For now, anyway. You’ve earned your vacation, Pat. I’ll yell if I need you. Where’re you calling from?”

“Grocery in Two Corners, a village about ten miles from Mountain Lake. But there’s a closer phone. Neighbors of ours, the Ungers, have one.”

“Give me the number. I’ll call if—” Ostergaard broke off, and Dixon could hear the mutter of voices in the background. Then, “Pat, hold on a minute, will you? Dave Maccerone just came in.”

“Right.”

Ostergaard put him on hold. The phone box was in a slant of direct sunlight, and Dixon was sweating; he wiped his face with his handkerchief, dried his hands. Thinking: why the two different types of bombs? The simple explanation was that the perp had hated Judge Turnbull even more than Doug Cotter, but that still didn’t explain the use of sharpened steel rods. Some significance in those rods? He couldn’t imagine what it might be, if so —

Click on the line, and Ostergaard said, “Pat?”

“Still here.”

“The lieutenant wants to talk to you.” There was a different inflection in the DA’s voice, a new tension that made Dixon grip the receiver more tightly. “Just a second... here he is.”

“Yo, Pat,” Maccerone’s heavy voice said. “Good thing you called in; timing’s right all around, for a change. Listen, I think we’ve got a handle on the bombings.”

“You know who’s responsible?”

“Pretty sure we’ve ID’d him. You know how each of these serial bombers has his own signature — the way he puts his device together, the kinds of connections he makes, the types of powder, cord, solder, circuitry he uses. Each signature’s different, and it seldom varies. Well, the lab techs finished going over the postblast evidence from this morning, and the signature’s not only the same as on the Cotter case but as on one other about six years ago. Computer match probability is ninety-five percent.”

“Whose signature?”

“Man named Leonard Sago. Name ring any bells?”

“Sago, Sago... vaguely familiar. Should I know him?”

“Financial consultant here in the city,” Maccerone said. “Ex-Marine with explosives training. Went over the edge when he found out his wife was having an affair. Put a boobytrap bomb in the trunk of the boyfriend’s car, hooked to the inside trunk release; that one didn’t go off because of a bad solder joint. A second bomb under the back porch of the guy’s house did go off — cut him up some with flying glass and debris. Sago claimed he didn’t intend bodily harm, the bombs were just messages to leave his wife alone. Insufficient evidence to nail him on attempted homicide, but enough to convict on two other felony counts: explosion of a destructive device and setting boobytraps. Five years on each count. Coming back to you now?”

Dixon had gone rigid. “Yes.”

“Well, Sago served a total of five years and was paroled two months ago. I just talked to his PO. Sago seemed okay at first, rehabilitated, but then he started to show signs of continued hostility toward his ex-wife and the people who put him in prison. He disappeared last week. The PO violated him right away, but he still hasn’t turned up.”

Dixon said thinly, “Doug Cotter was the assistant prosecutor on the case. Norris Turnbull was on the bench.”

“Afraid so, Pat.”

“And I was the chief prosecutor. Sago struck me as arrogant and unrepentant, and still dangerous, and I went after him hard. Now he’s after me, right? Cotter, Turnbull, and now me.”

“Looks that way,” Maccerone said. But it’s not as bad as it could be, believe me. If he did set a trap for you, it’s probably at your house here. I’ve already sent the bomb squad out; they’ll spot it if it’s there.”

“Suppose it isn’t. Suppose he found out I was going on vacation. He could have — I didn’t make any secret of the fact. He could’ve found out about my summer place, too—”

“Take it easy, counselor. You’re not in any immediate danger; if Sago was that smart, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now. You’re in a place called Two Corners, Nils says. Okay. Go back to your cabin, collect your family, drive to the nearest motel. If the bomb squad strikes out at your house here, I’ll call the Sacramento PD and have them send up a crew to sweep the cabin—”

The padlocks! Sweet Jesus, the missing padlocks!

Dixon threw the phone down and ran for the station wagon.

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Kathryn’s surprise was really going to be something.

As tired as he was from all the driving, he was ready and eager to start assembling it. The carton he’d gotten from the supermarket Dumpster, a little larger than the one he’d used for the judge’s package, was on the floor next to the table, along with the bag of bubble wrap for packing. And on the table, all neatly arranged, were the tools and other materials he would need. Pliers, screwdrivers, cold chisel. Soldering gun and spool of wire solder. Aluminum canister. Microswitch. Six-volt battery. Fresh tin of smokeless black powder, the last of the three he’d bought at the gun shop in Pacifica (said he was a duck hunter and loaded his own shotgun shells). C-4 plastic explosive, the kind they used in Nam, would have been better; more pucker power and a hotter blast, just right for sending Kathryn on her way to hell. But you needed connections to get C-4, and his military ties were a thing of the past. Along with just about everything else that had mattered in his life.

The other item on the table was one of two pieces de resistence — a glass jar, full to the brim. The second was spoiling on a shelf on the rear porch, where he didn’t have to smell it. He’d put that one in the package after he got to Lawler Bluffs, Indiana, just before he was ready to spring the surprise.

He’d given a lot of thought to what to add to Kathryn’s present. Something just for her; the pharmacist and their brat were incidental. The devices for Cotter and Turnbull and Dixon had been easy to arrange, but Kathryn was a different story. Had to be just right. He’d discarded half a hundred possibilities before he made his selections, and as soon as he thought of each, he knew it was perfect.

She’d taken everything from him; she’d gotten all the marbles. Okay, then, he’d give her two hundred more than she bargained for — two hundred cheap glass marbles from a toy store in Half Moon Bay, the kind that would fly apart in a million fragments from the force of the blast.

What else do you give an unfaithful bitch for her final sendoff? Why, a bagful of rancid bones, of course. Soup bones that would splinter and gouge and tear the same as the marbles.

Too bad he couldn’t tell her beforehand what she was getting. Too bad she’d never know. Always accusing him of not having a sense of humor. Well, this proved different, didn’t it? He had a terrific sense of humor, much better than hers.

Kathryn would get a bang out of her present, all right.

And then he’d have the last laugh.

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Dixon drove too fast, twenty and twenty-five miles an hour faster than was safe on the twisty mountain road; braking hard on the curves, recklessly passing the two other cars he rushed up behind. And he bad to fight the urge to increase his speed even more. Any faster, and he was liable to wrap the station wagon around a tree, send it hurtling off the road into one of the canyons, and what good would he be to Marian and Chuck then?

What if he was already too late —

No. Don’t think it, it isn’t so.

Where in God’s name had Sago hidden the bomb? Boathouse or storage shed, one or the other — had to be. Both padlocks missing, he must’ve been looking for something in one that wasn’t there, and so he’d gone to the other. But what? Some kind of container for the boobytrap? And what would initiate it? Tripwire, triggering mechanism attached to a box lid, something else entirely? The can of pork and beans that had come flying off the shelf when he’d pulled on the bread board... a bomb could be initiated that way, too. Usually bomb type and packaging and initiating mechanisms followed a pattern, part of the bomber’s signature, but Sago had varied the first two, and that made the third problematical.

Marian, Chuck stay away from the boathouse, the storage shed.

Don’t be hurt — please don’t be hurt.

Four more miles to go. He felt cold and feverish at the same time, a prickling on his skin as though it had sprouted stubble, his insides so knotted up that even his bones seemed tight. A gritty sweat kept stinging his eyes; he blinked and rubbed constantly to clear his vision.

Leonard Sago. He remembered him now, all too well. Classic profile of a bomber: intelligent but skewed and illogical in his thought processes; sociopathic tendencies; and a paramilitary attitude toward life. Owned guns, including a couple of semi-automatic weapons; even had a subscription to Soldier of Fortune. Workaholic, too, to the point of exhaustion. Add all of that together, and you had a ticking bomb in human form. His wife’s infidelity had been the first trigger. But the boobytraps aimed at her lover were only a partial release; Sago had been capable of more and greater violence, a fact made evident by his attitude and behavior. They could have plea-bargained if he’d been willing to accept psychiatric help, but Sago refused to admit he had a problem, wouldn’t even let his attorney plead temporary insanity. No choice but to go after him hard, put him away where he couldn’t harm his wife or her boyfriend or an innocent bystander. Except that the prison time had been counterproductive, had made him worse instead of better. True psychopath now. Sharpened steel rods... good God! His hatred must be an inferno, all-consuming, for him to contrive a horror like that.

What horror did he contrive for me?

No, don’t even...

Wait, those other bombs...

Tripwire, sharpened rods. Glimmer of a connection, and of a connection to something else, but I can’t quite... Think, think!

Gone.

Dammit, how much farther? Two miles.

Please don’t be hurt.

Please.

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Still no report on the radio about Dixon.

Didn’t mean anything; he just hadn’t opened his present yet. Or if he had, way up there in the Sierra foothills, the media hadn’t had time to get wind of it. Pretty soon now, either way. Pretty soon. Nothing to worry about.

The chief prosecutor wouldn’t get off the hook.

Ha! No, he sure wouldn’t. Chuckling, Sago paused in his work on Kathryn’s package to visualize what Dixon would look like after the blast. So much quieter, so much more bloody fetching than he had been in the courtroom. Strutting around during the trial like a rooster in a barnyard. Demanding that the jury convict Mr. Sago, demanding that Mr. Sago be given the maximum penalties as prescribed by law.

Well, Mr. Dixon, now I’m the one doing the demanding. I demand that you receive the maximum penalty for your crimes, as prescribed by Leonard Sago.

I demand that you be blown up, torn up, and spend eternity strutting your stuff in the Pit.

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They were all right, still all right.

No explosion, no fire, everything lakeside normal and quiet in the heat-drowsy afternoon.

He saw that much from the top of Deer Hill, with a thrust of relief so acute it blew his breath out in a grunting sigh. But the relief lasted for only a few seconds. He still had to get down there, round up Marian and Chuck... they were still in harm’s way.

He barreled the station wagon through the hill’s snake turns, skidded onto the lake road. Their parking platform appeared ahead; he could just make out the cabin’s roof through the trees. He braked hard as he came up on the platform, cut the wheel too sharply, and almost lost control as the wagon bumped off the road onto the pine-needled boards; the front bumper cracked against the low back wall. He shut down the engine, tried to run as soon as he was out. But he’d been driving under such tension that the muscles in his legs and upper body were constricted. His right knee cramped as he came around behind the wagon toward the stairs. He would have fallen if the railing hadn’t been there to catch his outthrust hands.

He saw Chuck in his first quick scan below. The boy was standing in the open door to the boathouse, looking up at him, held there by the unexpected tire and engine noise and the bumper hitting the wall. When he recognized his father, he waved and turned to go inside.

“Chuck! No!”

Another wave, and he vanished.

Dixon flung himself down the stairs, hobbling until he reached solid ground, then running with speed as the cramped leg muscle unknotted. Chuck was doing something inside the boathouse: shifting sounds of metal on wood. The skiff — moving the skiff. The door seemed to rush at Dixon as if it and not he were being propelled; he caught its edge, levered his body around it and inside, squinting to see in the dim light.

“Chuck, leave it alone!”

The boy swung toward him, startled. The sudden movement caused him to jerk the painter rope trailing from his hand to the skiff’s bowring; and that caused the skiff, already half off the sawhorses, to tilt and slide the rest of the way. Dixon lunged for it, but Chuck was in the way, he couldn’t reach it in time. He cringed, twisting to shield his son, as the skiff hit the decking with a booming metallic clatter—

That was all, just the clatter. And the after-sounds of the skiff bouncing off the deck boards, splashing upright into the narrow channel that bisected the enclosure.

“Jeez, Dad, you scared the crap out of me. What—?”

“Where’s your mother?”

“Mom? Why? Dad, you look—”

“Answer me, Chuck, where is she?”

“She said she was gonna go get the fishing stuff, yours and hers. We were gonna go out early to Rocky Point—”

The storage shed.

“Stay here, you hear me? Stay here!”

He ran out into the blazing sunlight. At first, after the gloom of the boathouse, the glare half blinded him, he faltered, swiping at his eyes. The cabin swam into focus, but from this angle he couldn’t see the shed. And there was no sign of Marian.

Running again, he shouted her name.

And she appeared, walking around the lower corner of the cabin.

He slowed, another faltering step. Surge of relief but in the next second, when he realized what she was carrying, it died under a new slice of panic. Two bamboo fishing rods in her left hand, his father’s battered old tackle box in her right. That tackle box... sinkers and flies and hooks—

Hooks.

He yelled at her, “Stop! Wait there! Don’t move!” and plunged ahead.

She froze in surprise, the tackle box hanging so heavy from her hand that she listed slightly to that side.

“Don’t let go of the box!”

It was as if he ran the last few steps in slow-motion, the mired, slogging slow-motion of a dream. The sensation was the opposite when he reached her, reached out to clutch at the box: everything then seemed to happen at an accelerated speed. He worked the box free of her grasp, warning himself not to wrench it, it was liable to explode if it were shaken or jarred or dropped. Marian didn’t struggle, but he heard her say in a thin, frightened voice, “What’s gotten into you? Have you gone crazy?” Then he was backing away, lowering the box gently to the ground. His hands tingled when he let go of it, as if its lethal contents had imparted a subtle radioactivity to his flesh.

He straightened, staring down at it. Ordinary-looking tackle box. But inside... God, inside...

He turned as Chuck, disobedient, came racing up. Dixon caught hold of his arm, of Marian’s arm, and herded both away from there, pulling and prodding until they were all the way up onto the parking platform. Only then did he release them. And when he did, the act seemed to release the tension in him as well, leaving him weak-kneed and sagging against the station wagon’s fender.

“Pat, for heaven’s sake, what—?”

“The tackle box.” He had to draw several deep breaths before he could go on. “It’s boobytrapped. There’s a bomb inside.”

Chuck said, “A bomb!” Marian blanched, staring at him goggle-eyed.

“And hooks,” he said. “Fish hooks, probably, I don’t know, but a lot of them. Attached to lines or wires or both.”

“What’re you talking about?”

Penal Code, he thought. Chapter 3.2, Section 12355, subdivision (c): “Boobytraps may include, but are not limited to, explosive devices attached to tripwires or other triggering mechanisms, sharpened stakes, and lines or wire with hooks attached.”

Stakes, not rods. Tripwire, sharpened stakes, and lines or wire with hooks attached.

We convicted Sago on that statute. He twisted it to suit his own perverted brand of justice, condemned us with the letter of the law.

Dixon pushed himself off the fender. “It’s a hell of a story,” he said to Marian. “Literally. I’ll explain on the way to the Ungers’.” And explain by phone to Dave Maccerone and Nils Ostergaard once they got there.

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He finished making the bomb, destructive device, booby-trap, big-bang present for Kathryn a few minutes past eight.

Nice job, Mr. Sago.

Why, thank you very much, Mr. Sago.

He sat back, smiling, pleased. Even the lack of news on the radio about Dixon failed to dampen his spirits; still nothing to worry about there. If the chief prosecutor hadn’t opened his present today, he’d open it tomorrow. Verification of that, on top of a good night’s sleep, and he’d be ready to leave for Indiana. Once in good old Lawler Bluffs, all he had to do was arrange the rancid bones inside the package, connect the leads to the microswitch, and then find a spot to leave it for Kathryn and Lover Boy and their brat. Just where depended on her living arrangements these days. A fitting and proper spot, wherever. Maybe even one where he could linger nearby and watch it happen. Wouldn’t that be sweet!

His stomach growled. He’d been so intent on his work that he’d forgotten to eat again. He started to put his tools away, then changed his mind. Cleanup tonight could wait. Good work deserved a reward; it was time for his reward right now.

He stood, stretched, and padded into the kitchen. And, of course, the damn pilot light on the stove had gone out again. Annoyed, feeling martyred, he reached for the box of kitchen matches.

tick!

The vacation had been temporarily postponed. Even if he and Marian and Chuck had wanted to spend the night at Mountain Lake after bomb techs from Sacramento removed the tackle box, which they hadn’t, it wouldn’t have been a wise decision with Leonard Sago still at large. So they’d slept at a motel in Jackson and driven to San Francisco that morning. For the time being, they were better off in the urban jungle.

Dixon felt that way even after Dave Maccerone’s telephone call, not long after they got home.

“I’ve got some good news, counselor,” Maccerone said. “You can quit worrying about Leonard Sago. We found him.”

He sank into a chair. “Where?”

“Half Moon Bay. Just enough of him for a positive ID.”

“You mean he’s dead?”

“They don’t get any deader. He blew himself up.”

“Christ. How? Making another bomb?”

“No,” Maccerone said. “Well, he was making another one, but that wasn’t what finished him. Pretty ironic, actually.”

“Ironic?”

“He was living in this cheap rented place, not much more than a shack, on the beach. It had a faulty propane stove, one of those old ones that the landlord should’ve replaced a long time ago. Connection worked loose or corroded through, and gas leaked out. You know how volatile propane is when it builds up. Sago lit a match or caused some other kind of spark — boom. One of the investigators down there called the stove an explosion just waiting to happen. Fire marshal had a better term for it.”

“I’ll bet he did.”

“Yeah. He said it was a regular damn boobytrap.”