Time Bomb

replacement.”

Ahlward raised the gun and sighted down it again. To my surprise I felt no fear, only weariness at his Little Dictator routine.

He said, “I’ve heard enough.”

Two winks from the couch. Milo’s big body remained motionless.

I said, “You mean you don’t want to hear the rest? The part you took charge of personally?”

He lowered the gun. “Go on.”

“Shortly after Ike and Grandma were taken care of, another unpleasant surprise came your way. Someone else Ike had confided in. So much for pledges of secrecy- guess Gordie wasn’t very convincing. A mentally dull shut-in who welcomed the cheer and conversation Ike brought with him when he delivered the groceries. Who appreciated the time he took to get to know her. And as he got to know her better, he lapsed into his favorite topic: politics. Not that she had more than a hazy idea of what he was talking about. Social justice, the evils of capitalism. But she was able to pick out the juicy parts. Conspiracies, murder. Wannsee Two. She sat there and listened. The perfect soundboard. Because Ike’s visits filled the emptiness in her life, she didn’t want them to stop.

“Then one day, they did stop. Forever. She found out he was dead. Murdered. People were saying he died buying dope, but she knew that was a lie became he didn’t take dope. He hated dope. She knew something was wrong- probably one of those conspiracies Ike had talked about. She withdrew further, confused. Just like when her mother died. But this time she came out of it angry. Wanting to understand why bad things happen to good people. To talk to someone who could explain it to her. Not her father- they never talk; he treats her like a servant. And she barely knows her brother. But she does recall a name Ike mentioned consulting. A former comrade of his parents who’s gotten famous- even been on TV. Someone Ike had suspicions about but didn’t share with Holly because he didn’t want to put her in jeopardy.

“Would someone like that talk to her? She was afraid. But she couldn’t forget Ike- his death. So she built up her courage and called the famous guy’s headquarters. One of the famous guy’s staff answers and hears her babbling about stuff no one’s supposed to know about, and knows this is a job for the High Command.”

I looked at Latch. “What’d you tell her?”

He smirked. “That she’d done the right thing by getting in touch with me. That I was investigating Ike’s death and she had to promise to keep everything secret until I got back to her.” He laughed. “She ate that up like cornflakes.”

I glanced at Ahlward. He’d put the gun down on the desk, had taken the knife out again, and was cleaning his nails.

“Proud of yourself, huh?” I said to Latch. “But D.F. here wasn’t too proud. He figured you’d fucked up. Decided to handle this one personally.” To the redheaded man: “You met with her- as Gordie’s assistant. Debriefed her to find out exactly what she knew, found out it was just enough to make her a threat, and realized she was custom- made for another try at Massengil, A better dupe than Ike, because she lacked the intellect to think critically. She was ripe to obey. So you went to work on her. Building rapport, gaining her confidence. Putting on the old paramilitary thing. Secret meetings in out-of-the-way places when her father was out of town. Night walks. You’d pick her up and drive her away. She had no job, no schedule, no one to miss her, no one else to confide in. You fed her secret codes, high intrigue- giving her a sense of purpose for the first time in her life. Resurrecting the old Massengil-as-Satan fantasy. Massengil as the vicious murderer of her friend. Feeding her rage, nursing it, bringing it to bloom. Making her sense of self-esteem contingent upon carrying out her mission. And she did eat it up. Snow White gobbling a poisoned apple. She was so eager to act, she told you she even had her own weapons- a closetful of guns. You got into her house when her father was away and took a look. Most of them were antiques, unusable. Except the Remington. But in her hands it might as well have been a flintlock.”

More winks from Milo. Keep going, pal.

“You spelled out her assignment, went over it with her, putting her through dry runs, until you were sure she had it down. Her sister-in-law saw her holding the gun, weeks before, muttering about Wannsee Two, Which she thought was gibberish. As would anyone else hearing it. The worst that could happen was she’d freak out before the big day and start rambling on about conspiracies. Who’d believe her? As it turned out, she didn’t talk to anyone. Never saw anyone. And the big day drew near. You notified her with a coded call. Monday morning. Perfect time and place for a hit. Bramble had informed you of Massengil’s plans to use the school for a press conference. You knew exactly what time he’d show up, precisely where he’d be standing. But getting Holly out of the house was a problem. Her father was an early riser, so sneaking out early on Monday was out of the question. You had her do it Sunday night, while he was still asleep. Told her to take the Remington out of the closet and wrap it in something, close the door to her bedroom so he’d think she was still asleep, then sneak out really quietly, sure to close her bedroom door. Disengaging the alarm, resetting it, and slipping out of the house with the wrapped rifle. Though Ocean Heights is so deserted at night, she could have carried it out in the open.

“You picked her up a couple of blocks away, brought her a change of clothes, a paper cup for elimination. The two of you drove toward the school, parked a few blocks away, and walked over. Hand signals. High adventure- she must have loved it.”

Ahlward gave a disgusted look. “She was a pain to work with, took a long time to learn everything. Pure Mengele fodder, destined to live and die as shit. I gave her the gift of immortality, more than she could ever hope for.”

“Real act of kindness,” I said.

“Sometimes,” he said, stroking his gun, “it’s cruel to be kind.”

I said, “You popped the lock on the storage shed and camped out for the night. She with her rifle, you with your pistol. Waiting. Stalking. Just like Bear Lodge. Telling her to go to sleep- you’d take first watch and wake her when her turn came. Letting her sleep until sunrise and then letting her know there’d been a change in plans: You were going to do all the shooting, just to make certain everything went smoothly. Not to worry, she’d still be a hero. Your assistant. Maybe she accepted that. Or maybe she put up a fuss- wanting personal revenge. You thought you had her convinced. But when the time actually came to shoot- when Massengil and Gordie and the kids poured out on the yard, she pulled a fast one on you. Grabbed the rifle. Second cadre wasn’t good enough for her.”

I gave Latch a smile, turned back to Ahlward before I see his reaction.

“Her shot went wild. Of course. The recoil knocked her down and she dropped the rifle. You got hold of it, had to think fast, consider your options. The optimal choice would have been taking aim, squeezing off a good one at Massengil, and then doing her. But looking out the window you could see the moment of opportunity had been lost- panic, everyone screaming, running for cover, no clear shot. Not that you’d have minded a few dead kids, but that would have complicated matters. Vis-a-vis P.R. So you took your pistol and shot Holly in the face- kept shooting her. Eight times. Shot three rounds from the Remington- all of it together sounded like war to those out on the yard. Then you walked back to the yard carrying your smoking gun, ready to play savior. No one had seen you actually enter the storage shed, but the panic took care of that: No one remembered anything but their own fear. And the press hadn’t arrived yet, with their cameras and their recorders. Besides, if anyone asked, Gordie and the troops could always be counted on to step forward as eyewitnesses to your heroic dash to the shed. Quick reflexes and calm under fire, D.F. Job well done.”

Wink from the couch.

I said to Ahlward: “It must have been nice being the star for a change. Getting the credit you deserved instead of standing in his shadow- such a puny shadow at that. But after all your planning, you still hadn’t managed to get rid of Massengil. The guy was turning out to be a goddammed Rasputin. Another assassination attempt soon after would look funny, raise all sorts of questions. Your instinct was to wait, let him live out another term, bide your time. But Gordie didn’t like that. He pushed you. And now you know why: He knew he’d be losing his hope chest soon. Fortunately for him, the productive Ms. Bramble had gleaned another bit of inside info on Massengil: kinky sex with Cheri Nuveen on a regular basis, Dobbs looking on. Bramble even knew when the next appointment was. Given that, the rest was easy. A simple hit, Dobbs as dessert, no apparent connection to the schoolyard. First day, Gordie comforts the widow and plays Mr. Compassion. Next day, you leak the hooker stuff to the press and knock off the widow as a viable candidate. Along with any of Massengil’s cronies: guilt by association. The voters would have to wonder if they’d attended any of Massengil’s parties. Leaving guess who.”