Dark and Deadly

He’d practiced and practiced tossing the bombs and bottles. He knew it would work faultlessly because he’d had plenty of time to perfect his technique. Five long years to plan, to decide, to study. To practice.

He dabbed his forehead and neck with his handkerchief. He was still sweating from moving the body, drat it. He’d worked out with a trainer to prepare, but he really needed to get more exercise, as annoying and disgusting as it was.

He hated it, but he needed to go to the gym more often. Otherwise, how could he possibly manage his new life, once his revenge had run its course?

Two left turns got him onto the quiet Society Hill side street where she lived. To his delight, his scan for dog walkers and busybodies showed nothing. No one was out.

That would change quickly, he decided with another giggle. It was the work of seconds to jump out, throw the bombs, light the bottles and throw them, then dive back into the car.

The devices arched through the air, breaking the windows just as he’d envisioned it. Perfect. Everything was perfect. He tossed the last pipe bomb hard enough to break the windows in her car where it sat out front.

Fire blossomed with a roar in the house as he sped away.

“What a total rush!” he exalted.

Behind him, the boom of the explosives he’d tossed in both house and car shattered the calm night. “Woooo- hoooo!” he screamed, laughing like a loon. The only thing that would be better was if he could stay and watch.

That’s how real criminals were exposed though, he reminded himself. His work was about justice. Not crime. So he knew better than to make low-class, un-educated mistakes.

Slowing to a sedate pace, he drove to another lot on Chestnut, switched the plates to a different rental car, and dropped that rickety junker back at a third, unrelated agency four blocks away. Peeling out of the workman’s coverall he was wearing, he packed the clothes, gloves, and wig into a plastic bag, and put that in a plain black gym bag. He threw the second pair of gloves into a McDonalds’ trash can as he walked up to Fifth and hailed a cab. There were always cabs in Society Hill, even at night. The bars and nightspots were popular, and since both the Phillies and the Flyers were playing at home, the town was busy.

His elegant suit was only slightly rumpled, and it got him immediate attention.

“Where to, sir?” the cabbie inquired.

“Market and Ludlow, over by the Shops at Liberty Place. My car’s on the street there. I had to bring an, uh, mmm, tipsy friend home.”

“Oh, yeah,” the cabbie nodded with sage understanding and a glance at the gym bag. As hoped, the cabbie assumed he had been unlucky in love. “Bummer. You want I should drop you at the car, or somewhere else?”

“I think this was enough of a letdown that I’ll head on home.” Pretending to be tired was far more difficult than he’d imagined. Delicious joy pulsed within him.

Todd was dead. Hopefully Torie was, too.

They deserved it. Every bit of it.

Now, there was only one last thing to do. He nearly giggled aloud at the thought. He was so high, it would be easy. Easy peasy rice and cheesy, he singsonged the playground chant in his mind.

What a wonderful day.

Torie dropped her keys on the hall table and headed back to the kitchen. Stopping only long enough to plunk her purse and grocery bags on the counter, she continued through her townhouse to the stairs.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she called to the dog whining behind the baby gate across her bedroom door. Her young Labrador retriever was wiggling in doggie ecstasy as she approached, as if to say, “You’re home! You’re home!”

Torie kicked off her shoes in the hall and grabbed the dog’s collar before she disengaged the gate. Hanging on for dear life, she managed to keep Pickle’s feet mostly on the ground, preserving her skirt and blouse.

“C’mon, Pickle, let’s get you outside, girl.”

With the dog bounding around the small backyard, Torie hurried upstairs to change. For the first time in weeks, she hadn’t brought work home. She was going to cook herself a nice dinner, and spend the evening with the dog and a good book.

She was tired of work, tired of being everyone’s go-to girl. She figured she’d beat her mother to the punch, call early and get off the phone right away. As much as she loved her mother, the prospect of an evening free of questions about her dating habits and marital prospects was worth the pain of being the first to call. Now that her mother was in assisted living, her chief entertainment was calling Torie and bedeviling her only daughter about her social life.

Torie decided jeans and a sweatshirt would withstand Pickle’s enthusiasm. Her bare feet were silent on the lovely wood floors as she padded to let the dog in. She was absorbing the licks and absolute happiness of the dog’s greeting when she heard it.

The crash was loud. The sound of breaking glass was unmistakable. So was the pungent smell of gasoline. And fire. What on earth? Had someone hit her car? The house? Struggling to her feet, she held Pickle’s collar. The dog barked frantically as they started toward the living room.

Then the world exploded.

Flung backward, she and the dog slammed against the wall. It was a moment before the sounds and smells penetrated her shock. The roar of flames, the nauseating smell of burning curtains and upholstery.

Phone. The phone. She had to get it, call nine-one-one.

A whimper made her pause. Pickle was struggling to rise as well, and Torie scooped her up with a grunt, grabbed her purse, and ran for the back door.

The second explosion threw them through the door and into a heap on the back deck. She saw stars as her head connected with the edge of the concrete planter.