carpenter and handyman wasn’t likely to have known that. What else was a hellbox? That sheet metal-roofed shed where he’d kept Kerry was a hellbox in the middle of a hot summer, but even if that was how Balfour had thought of it, why would he say the word? And why would he laugh with his last breath?
Runyon sifted through what else they knew about the man. Dishonest loner at odds with most of those who knew him, wife abuser, coward. Paranoid psychotic driven by hatred and revenge. Devious schemer: the blowing up of the Verrikers’ home, the attempt on Verriker’s life, the camper full of survival gear and weaponry… and the probable secret he’d been harboring that had kept him from breaking under pressure at the cabin. Kidnapper, but not by design-he’d grabbed Kerry because she’d seen him coming back from rigging the gas leak, an act of panic.
Why had he held her captive for four days? The obvious answer was rape, torture, only that didn’t fit the revenge-obsessed profile. The fact that Balfour had beaten his ex-wife didn’t necessarily make him a sexual sadist. If anything, according to those who knew him, he seemed to have shunned relationships with women. Kept Kerry as some kind of sick trophy? That didn’t fit his profile, either. Unsure of what to do with her or her body? Squeamish about murdering a stranger in cold blood?
Pretty obvious why he’d taken her out of the shed yesterday morning: hadn’t wanted her found there, alive or dead. All right, but why the decision to run in the first place? There was no proof that he’d booby-trapped the Verriker house, and if Verriker had been alone at the lake cabin and Balfour had succeeded in killing him, no proof that Balfour was the guilty party. Another panic reaction, maybe. Except that his actions yesterday and last night had been too calculated. The decision had to be connected to, or motivated by, whatever he’d been up to during the ten to twelve hours he’d been missing yesterday.
He’d kept Kerry in the camper for most of that time-the odor wouldn’t have permeated everything inside the cramped space if she’d only been in there a short time. As a hostage, as they’d surmised? Or for some other reason that was also connected to that secret plan of his? Wherever he’d left her, it couldn’t have been very long before he showed up at the cabin or very far from Eagle Rock Lake…
Runyon had had enough of the lumpy bed. His watch told him it was a little after seven-time to be up and moving. The plumbing in the adjacent bathroom made loud grumbling noises; when he was done in there, he went again for a quick check on Bill. Still asleep in the same facedown sprawl, his breathing heavy, congestive. He needed to see a doctor pretty soon, before he suffered a complete breakdown.
In the kitchen, Runyon slaked his thirst with a glass of cold water from the fridge. He knew he should eat, but he would have choked on anything solid he tried to swallow. He went back through the living room, out onto the front deck.
Still early-morning cool, but the clouds were gone, and already there was a whitish dazzle in the blue overhead. You could feel the heat gathering. Another sweltering day coming up, probably hotter than yesterday.
But he didn’t want to think about that. He sat at the table, his hands flat on the cold glass top, and stared out over the valley without seeing any of it. Going over the Balfour fragments yet again, trying to shape them into a pattern that had some meaning.
Psychotic driven by hate and hunger for vengeance. Rigged the explosion that killed Verriker’s wife. Tried to kill Verriker before heading for the backwoods with an arsenal of weapons.
Drove around with Kerry in that camper of his for half of another day before leaving her somewhere. Had to be a purpose in that. Nothing else he’d done had been aimless, unplanned.
Sticky gray substance that wasn’t clay or mud. And couldn’t have been on his hands or the steering wheel very long.
Sawdust.
Payback. Asshole valley.
Hellbox.
The pieces were like parts in a disassembled template that wouldn’t connect. He strained to get a mental grip on them, manipulate and force them together. They kept glancing off each other, as if the pieces were antimagnetized.
Payback. Asshole Valley.
Dark gray stuff that looked and felt like modeling clay.
Sawdust.
Hellbox.
Last breath, last laugh From somewhere down on the road below, a sudden series of popping noises disturbed the morning stillness. Runyon tensed until he identified the sounds: a string of firecrackers going off. Undisciplined kids getting an early start on the Fourth. He’d almost forgotten the holiday, the big celebration coming up in Six Pines. Parade, picnic, speeches, fireworks Fireworks.
Explosions.
Explosive devices.
He went rigid. And the pieces came flying together like digital images interlocking, until they formed the template of Balfour’s last planned act of vengeance. Insane, monstrous, but the pieces fit too well, explained too many things, for it not to be right.
Runyon stood so suddenly that the chair went skidding backward, toppled over. He ran inside, back to the master bedroom. Caught Bill’s shoulder and shook him, lightly at first, then harder.
“Wake up, Bill. Wake up.”
Bill’s eyes flicked open, blinking up half focused and groggy. But the grogginess lasted only a few seconds; he threw it off as if it were a heavy blanket, sat up scraping a hand over his face. “What is it? You’ve heard something?”
“No,” Runyon said, “but I think I may have figured out what Balfour was up to last night.”
“My God, Jake… you mean what he did with Kerry?”
“If I’m right, yes. He was crazier than any of us realized. It wasn’t just Verriker he hated and wanted revenge against, it was everybody in Green Valley. Asshole Valley to him. Pay back Asshole Valley for all the ridicule heaped on him… that’s what his dying words meant.”
“But how-?”
“That stuff on his hands… malleable plastic explosive, probably some crude homemade version of C-4 or Semtex. Got it from whoever supplied him with the illegal weapons. Rigged another explosive death trap last night, only this one in a place where it’d take out a whole bunch of people.”
Bill saw it, too, now. He was off the bed, scrambling into his pants. “The fairgrounds. Somewhere under the grandstand…”
“No. Too open, too much chance of it being spotted.”
“Then… Christ! That storage unit on the construction site.”
“Has to be. The repair work was finished last night, there wouldn’t’ve been time to have the unit hauled away. That’s where the sawdust came from, that’s what Balfour meant by hellbox.”
“And where he left Kerry. Holy Mother, inside a hellbox packed with explosives!”
29
I was wild to get out of there, get to Six Pines. I tried to push past Runyon, but he blocked the doorway with his big body.
“Stay calm,” he said. “Call the law before we do anything else, get a bomb squad out to the fairgrounds-”
“No. Broxmeyer won’t be at the substation and Sadler’s back in the county seat by now-we’d have to track them down, try to convince them. Closest bomb squad is probably Sacramento. All of that could take hours.”
“We can’t just go bulling in there on our own.”
“The hell we can’t. We’ve got to get her out of that death trap now.”
“Fairgrounds won’t be open yet. It’s barely seven-thirty.”
“Climb the goddamn fence-”
