Cherry Bomb

Poor Lance is sleeping. He’s made quite a mess of the bed-even in the close-up Alex can see the mattress is off-kilter and the sheets under him have twisted around. She zooms the camera out, and sees the duct tape is still holding him tight, but it has bunched up on itself so it looks like gnarled gray rope. The secret to binding someone with tape is to make it as tight as possible; it stretches, and sweat and blood work against the adhesive. Lance has more than a little blood around his wrists. He fought hard. Alex feels strangely proud of him.

She zooms out farther, and sees that the rest of Lance hasn’t held up so well.

“Ouch.”

The rubber band has transformed Lance’s once proud manhood into something resembling a rotten banana, all brown and droopy. If Jack arrives in time, it’s unlikely that part of him can be saved.

Alex smiles with half of her face, using her finger to apply cream cheese to half the bagel, imagining macho Lance living out the rest of his days as a chaste monk in some Tibetan monastery. Certainly his wife wouldn’t keep him around. Infidelity can be forgiven. Having no dick would put an unrealistic strain on even the healthiest of marriages.

She zooms in, getting a close-up of the Greek letters burned into Lance’s chest, and uses her screen capture to save a JPG. Then she checks the time. Twenty minutes after five. Lance has thirteen minutes to live.

Alex transfers the picture to her cell, then sends it to Jack Daniels. At this late stage in the game, it’s unlikely Jack knows where Lance is. But there’s one clue left to give, and Alex wants to make sure Jack has every possible opportunity to figure it out and save him, so she feels even worse when she fails. Alex texts:

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN.

Simple. Clever. Elegant. After entering the message she tucks her legs under her in the desk chair, licks cream cheese off her fingers, and waits for the big bang.

CHAPTER 29

“HOW’S OUR TIME?” Phin asked.

I checked my watch. The pigstick was set to go off at 5:33 a.m. It was 5:24.

“Not good. How close are we?”

“I’m not sure. A few miles.”

My eyes locked on the speedometer. We were already doing sixty mph in a thirty mph zone, and I stopped counting all the red lights we’d blown through.

“Go faster.”

Phin nodded. The veins on the backs of his hands bulged out from holding the wheel so hard, and I noticed my legs were braced and my fingers had death grips on the armrests. As if that would help if we crashed.

The cell phone rang, and I pried off a hand long enough to answer it. Another picture of Lance, apparently asleep. The burns on his chest had scabbed over, becoming almost black. A message accompanied the photo.

“Got another text. Stairway to heaven.” I wrinkled my nose. “What does that mean?”

“That Lance is about to die.”

The truck crept closer to seventy, which seemed a lot faster on the narrow street we were on. Each pothole we hit felt like a thunderclap.

“No…I mean-yes-that’s part of it. But I think it’s a clue. She’s telling us something about his location.”

“What does Led Zeppelin have to do with rho and zeta?”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. An earlier call to the Old Stone I

I had also dialed 911, explaining the situation and telling them a kidnapping and murder of one of their own was being committed there. I was sure they’d send a car, but had no idea of their response time or their procedure. Even if they got there before us, it’s unlikely they’d get any more help from the clerk than I did. And no cop I ever met would kick in twenty-six doors without a warrant. Exigent circumstances and probable cause were weighty terms, but not as weighty as lawsuit and disciplinary action.

“What were the band members’ names?” I asked Phin.

He took a corner so fast the tires cried out. “Robert Plant…John Paul Jones…Jimmy Page…”

“Which one died?”

“The drummer. John Bonham. Died in his sleep. Choked on vomit.”

My heart rate jumped up even higher. “Did he die in a motel room?”

“Page’s house. Drank too much.”

Phin tapped the brakes and just missed clipping a Volvo, who laid on the horn to show his disapproval. I tried to swallow, but had no spit left.

“How about something in the lyrics?” I forced myself to focus, not the easiest thing to do when I predicted a car accident in the immediate future. “Any mention of rooms or motels?”

“It’s about a woman who thinks she can get what ever she wants.”

Phin swerved and climbed the curb, causing my body to rise up against the seat belt. I readied myself for the passenger-side air bag, but it didn’t deploy.

“We’re on the sidewalk.” I tried to sound calm, but my voice came out squeaky.

“Motel,” Phin said, eyes glancing right. I followed his gaze, saw the large Old Stone I

We came upon the parking lot fast-too fast-and Phin hit the brakes and still slammed into the rear of a parked SUV. Still no airbag. I wondered if the truck even had them.

I checked my watch. Five thirty.

The motel was laid out in an L shape, ground-level rooms stretching off in two perpendicular directions. Thirteen on each arm. With three minutes left, not enough time to check them all.

Phin and I ran for the lobby, at the center of the L. There was a Milwaukee police cruiser parked in front, and through the window I saw two uniforms talking to the desk clerk, who was shrugging and shaking his head.

“Four!” Phin yelled at me.

I looked at him, wondering if he had a golf club.

“‘Stairway to Heaven’ is on the album Led Zeppelin IV!”

Was it that easy? Was Lance in room four? I didn’t question it, I acted, yanking the gun out of my bouncing purse, ru

Phin outpaced me, getting there first, slamming his shoulder into the door. It popped inward, Phin stumbling into the room, me coming in right after him, dropping to a knee, gun out, eyes and ears open.

The room was bright, every light on, someone in bed.

Lance.

He was naked, eyes wide, terrified. He screamed at me through his duct tape gag.

The pigstick was set up on the nightstand next to him, the shotgun shell held in place by a metal arm. I followed the wire to a timing device, realized I had no expertise at all to disarm it, and chose instead to simply point the contraption away from Lance.

Two seconds after I grabbed it, the charge went off.

The explosion was deafening, and the shock-coupled with the powerful vibration of the shot-made me drop the pigstick. I cast fearful eyes at the bed, expecting to see blood and guts and carnage.

The mattress had an ugly, ragged hole in it. Lance did not.

Phin said something that sounded like “Jesus,” but my ears were ringing, so I couldn’t be sure. I spun around, gun sweeping the room, then did a quick search, tugging open the closet and bathroom doors. No Alex.

“Please…”

Phin had removed the duct tape from Lance’s mouth, and stared down at him, frowning. I glanced between Lance’s legs and had to look away.

“Freeze! Police! Drop your weapons!”

The two Milwaukee cops were at the door, their guns drawn, their faces bright with urgency. I moved slow, deliberate, not wanting to spook them.