gave men such miraculous brains, didn't he?'
'Please, I'll do whatever you want. Do you want me to make a movie about God? I can do that.'
Hathaway looked at her for a moment. 'You know, Rune, there are clergy that will accept repentance at any time, whether the sinner's acting of his own will or whether he's, say, being tortured.' He shook his head. 'But I'm funny. I need a little more sincerity than this situation warrants. So in answer to your question: No, I don't want a little whore like you to make a movie about God.'
Rune said, 'Yeah? And what do you thinkyou are-a good Christian? Bullshit. You're a killer. That's all you are.'
Hathaway's eyes lifted to her as he picked up the wire. 'Swear all you like. God knows who His faithful are.'
He stood back. 'There we go.' He placed the assembly of boxes and wires on the night table and slid it into the middle of the room. 'Now let me tell you what's going to happen.' He was proud. He looked critically at the ceiling and walls. 'The explosion will take out most of the inner walls-they're only Sheetrock-and the floor and ceiling too. The outer wall is structural and shouldn't collapse. On the other hand you wouldn't want to be caught between that wall and the bomb.'
Hathaway bounced on the floor near the bomb.
'Wood.' He shook his head. 'Hadn't counted on that. Splinters are going to be a problem. Fire too. But you'll just have to hope for the best. Now, there's easily enough explosive here to kill you. In fact, I'd say you've got a. twenty percent chance of getting killed outright. So I would suggest you take the mattresses and springs and lay them over you…' He looked around. 'In that corner there. You'll be blown into the living room. It's hard to know exactly what'll happen but I can guarantee that you'll be permanently deafened and blinded. When C-3 goes off it spreads poisonous fumes. So even if you aren't blinded by the explosion you will be by the smoke. I think you'll probably lose an arm or leg or hand. Lung bums from the fumes. Can't tell for sure. Like I was saying, the splinters are going to be a problem. That's how most sailors were killed in nineteenth-century naval warfare, by the way. Splinters, not cannonballs. Did you know that?'
'Why are you doing this to me? What's the point?' 'So you'll tell everyone about us. People will believe us and they'll be afraid. You'll live off charity, you'll live off God's grace. You might die, of course. In fact, you can always choose that. Just pick it up.' He gestured to the box. 'But I hope you won't. I hope you realize what kind of good you can do, what kind of message you can leave for our poor sinful world.'
'I know who you are. I can tell-' 'You know Warren Hathaway, which isn't, of course, my name. And how are you going to pick me out of a lineup without eyes?' He laughed, then nodded at her and said, 'You have thirty minutes. May God forgive you.' Rune stared back at him.
Hathaway smiled and shook his head and left the room. She heard a half-dozen nails slamming into the frame of the door. Then there was silence. A moment later, the black box clicked and a red light came on. The hand of the clock started moving.
She ran to the window and drew her hand back to smash through the glass with her palm.
Suddenly the window went black and she gave a soft whimper as Hathaway began nailing the thick plywood sheet over the glass.
'No, no,' she was crying, afraid the huge booming of the hammering would set off the bomb.
Ten minutes.
The canvas bag was at the gap by the gangplank.
Sam Healy took a deep breath. Looked at the containment vehicle.
The longest ten feet…
'How you doing, buddy?' the ops coordinator asked through the radio headset.
'Never been better,' Healy replied.
'You got all the time in the world.'
Breathing. In, out: In, out.
He bent over the canvas bag and carefully closed the top. He couldn't keep it level holding it by the strap so he'd have to grip the base with both hands and pick it up.
He backed down the gangplank, then went down on one knee.
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Steadiest hands in the business, someone had once said about Healy. Well, he needed that skill now. Fucking rocker switches.
He bent forward.
'Oh, Jesus Christ,' came the staticky voice in the radio.
Healy froze, looked back.
The ops coordinator, Rubin and the other men from the squad were gesturing into the river, waving madly. Healy looked where their attention was focused. Shit! A speedboat, doing thirty knots, was racing along, close to the shore, churning up a huge wake. The boater and his passenger-a blonde in sunglasses-saw the Bomb Squad crew's gesturing and waved back, smiling.
In ten seconds the huge wake would hit the boat, jostle it and set off the rocker switch.
'Sam, get the fuck outa there. Just run.'
But Healy was frozen, staring at the registration number of the speedboat. The last two numbers were a one and a five.
Fifteen.
Oh, Christ.
'Run!'
But he knew it would be pointless. You can't run in a bomb suit. And besides, the whole dock would vanish in the fiery hurricane of burning propane.
The wake was twenty feet away.
He bent, picked up the bag with both hands, and started down the gangplank.
Ten feet from the houseboat.
Halfway down the gangplank.
Five feet.
'Go, Sam!'
Two steps and he'd be on the pier.
But he didn't make it.
Just as he was about to step onto the wood of the pier the wake hit the houseboat. And it hit so violently that when the boat rocked, the gangplank unhooked and fell two feet to the pier. Healy was caught off balance and pitched forward, still clutching the bomb.
'Sam!'
He twisted to the side, to get his body between the bag and the propane barge, thinking: I'm dead but maybe the suit'll stop the shrapnel.
With a thud he landed on the pier. Eyes closed, waiting to die, wondering how much pain he'd feel.
It was a moment before he realized that nothing had happened. And a moment after that before he realized he could vaguely hear music.
He sat up, glanced at the sandbags, behind which the squad stood immobilized with shock.
Healy unzipped the bag and looked inside. The rocker switch had closed the circuit. What it had set off, though, wasn't the detonator but apparently a small radio. He pulled the helmet off the bomb suit.
'Sam, what're you doing?'
He ignored them.
Yeah, it was definitely music. Some kind of easy listening. He stared at it, unable to move, feeling completely weak. More static. Then he could hear the disc jockey. 'This is WJES, your home for the sweetest sounds of Christian music…'
He looked at the explosive. Pulled off the glove and dug some out with his fingernail. Smelled it. He'd have recognized that smell anywhere-though not from his bomb disposal training. From Adam. The explosive was Play-
