Time Bomb (61 page)

Main Street was a couple of blocks that crawled past a one-story bank so petite it resembled a county-fair model. Yellow brick, tile roof, gilt script on the windows over drawn Venetian blinds. Closed. Then a general store, a couple of saloons, one with a handwritten Menudo today poster taped to the front window, and a silvered-wood barnlike structure advertising auto repair, tack and ferrier supplies, bait and tackle.

Milo drove another half block until we reached more empty freightyard. Stopping and consulting his
Thomas Guide,
he jabbed a finger at a map page and said, “Okay, no problem. No problem finding anything here. We’re not talking Megalopolis.”

“No problem,” I said, “if you know there’s something to look for.”

Circling the tack shop, he drove down a back street, crossed Main, and coasted for another couple of blocks before turning off onto Orchard. The road took on a mild grade, turned to dirt, and ended at a bungalow court. Flat-roofed buildings of yellow stucco. Half a dozen of them, less than a foot of separation between the units. In the center, a plaster fountain that hadn’t spouted for a long time. The Volvo was parked at the curb, windows open, unoccupied, with a cardboard sunscreen stretched across the windshield.

We got out. The air was broiling and smelled like marmalade. Milo pointed again, this time for direction. We walked past the bungalows, taking a dusty path that ran along the right side of the court. Behind the units, in what would have been the backyard, was another building, fenced by waist-high pickets that needed priming and painting. White frame cottage, green sash and shutters, tar roof, warped porch, plank swing hanging lopsided from one piece of rope. To the left, a weeping willow grew out of the dirt—dreaming the impossible dream. Huge and rich with foliage it imprisoned the tiny house in a wide black ellipse of shade.

The drapes were drawn. Milo pointed to the left of the big tree and I followed him. Two-step cement porch. Rear panel door. He knocked.

A voice said, “Who is it?”

Milo said, “
Naranjas
.”

“Sorry, we’ve got.”

Milo raised his voice and gave it a plaintive twist.
“Naranjas! Muy barato! Muy bonito!”

The door opened. Milo shoved his foot in it and smiled.

Ted Dinwiddie stared out at us, startled, his ruddy face mottled by patches of pallor.

He said, “I—” and remained frozen. He was dressed the same way he’d been at the market, minus the apron: blue broadcloth shirt rolled to the elbows, rep tie loosened at the neck, khaki slacks, rubber-soled cordovans. Same good burgher’s uniform he wore every day . . .

He kept staring, finally managed to move his lips.

“What is it?”

Milo said, “Even though my mother spent years trying to convince me otherwise, I never developed a taste for asparagus. So I guess we’re here to see your other special.”

Dinwiddie said, “I don’t know what you—”

“Look,” said Milo, his voice gentle and scary at the same time, “I was never any fashion model—I need all the help I can get to be able to walk down the street without freaking out little kids. This”—he pointed to his eye— “ain’t exactly help.”

Dinwiddie said, “I’m sor—”

“Can the apologies,” said Milo. “Your being a little more forthcoming in the first place might have prevented substantial pain and suffering to my person.”

I said, “He’s understating. The two of us nearly lost our lives trying to figure it out.”

Dinwiddie said, “I know that. I read the papers, for God’s sake.” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry. I never meant for it to—”

“Then how about you let us in out of the heat?” Milo said.

“I— What purpose would that really serve?”

Milo turned to me: “What’s that word you used, Dr. Delaware?”

“Closure.”

“Closure, Ted. Dr. Delaware and I would like some closure.”

Dinwiddie bit his lip again and tugged his straw mustache. “Closure,” he said.

“You took psychology,” said Milo. “Or was it sociol-ogy? Either case, that should mean something to you. Man’s search for meaning and finality in a cruel, ambiguous world? Man trying to figure out
what the fuck is going on?”

He grinned and put his hand on the doorknob.

Dinwiddie said, “And after that, what?”

“That’s it, Ted. Scout’s honor.”

“I don’t believe much in honor anymore, Detective.”

Milo lifted the bill of his baseball cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Brushed away black hair and exposed white, sweaty skin, knobbed and scraped and scabbed.

Dinwiddie winced.

Milo tapped his foot. “Lost your innocence, huh? Well, bully for you, Mr. Clean, but there’s still plenty of explaining to do.”

A voice sounded behind Dinwiddie, the words incomprehensible but the tone pure question mark. The grocer looked over his shoulder and Milo took the opportunity to grasp his shoulders, move him aside like a toy, and walk into the house.

Before Dinwiddie realized what was happening, I was inside too. Small kitchen hot as a steambath, with white cabinets and counter tops of yellow tile laid diagonally and bordered with wine-colored bullnose. Open doorway to a paneled room. Yellow enamel walls, white porcelain sink, four-burner gas stove, a Pyrex carafe half-filled with water on one of the burners. Five big paper double-bags printed with the name of Dinwiddie’s market sitting on the counter. A sixth bag, unpacked: boxes of cereal, bags of whole wheat flour and sugar, sausages, smoked meats and fish, spaghetti, tea, a jumbo mocha-colored can of deluxe-grade Colombian coffee.

Holding the can was a boy wearing a baggy T-shirt and cutoff jeans. I knew his age, but he looked younger. Could have been a high school senior. Varsity letter in basketball.

Mocha-colored himself. Very tall, very thin, light-brown hair worn in a two-inch Afro—longer than in his photo. Full lips, Roman nose. His father’s nose.

Almond eyes full of terror.

He lifted the can as if it were a weapon.

Milo said, “It’s all right, son. We’re not here to hurt you.”

The boy darted his head at Dinwiddie. The grocer said, “These are the two I told you about, Ike. The cop and the psychologist. According to the papers, they’re on the right side.”

“The papers,” said the boy. Aiming for defiance, but his voice was reedy, uneven, adolescent in its lack of confidence. Big hands tightened around the can. His legs were skinny and hairless—cinnamon sticks perched on bare feet.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he said.

“Maybe so,” said Milo, walking up to him and standing on the balls of his feet to go eye to eye. “But you owe us, son. You owe someone else, too, but it’s too late for that. At least this is a debt you can pay.”

The boy retracted his head and blinked. The hand holding the can faltered. Milo reached up and took it from him. “French roast,” he said, examining the label. “Only the best for a super-hip fugitive, huh? And look at all this other good stuff.” Motioning toward the counter. “Granola. Pasta—what is that, tagliarini? Looks like you’ve got yourself hunkered down for the long haul, son. Comfy. Lot more comfy than where Holly ended up.”

The boy clenched his eyes shut and opened them, blinked again. Several times. Harder. A tear rolled down his cheek and his Adam’s apple rose and fell.

“Ike,” said Dinwiddie, alarmed, “we’ve been through that. Don’t let him guilt-trip you.” A cold look at Milo. “Hasn’t he been through enough?”

Milo said, “Tell it like it is, Ted. Wasn’t that an axiom you once lived by?”

The flush had returned to Dinwiddie’s complexion and his thick forearms were lumpy with tightened muscle. He was sweating heavily. I realized I was sodden. All four of us were.

Dinwiddie tugged at his mustache and lowered his head like a bull about to charge. I smelled confrontation. Said to the boy: “We’re not your enemies. Once in a while the papers do get it right. We know what you’ve been through, son. The running. Looking over your shoulder. Never knowing who to trust—that’s got to be hell. So no one’s saying anyone in your shoes could have handled it any better. You did exactly what you had to. But what you know can be useful—to get rid of the evil that remains. Draining the whole swamp. Terry Crevolin’s agreed to talk, and he’s not exactly Mr. Idealistic. So how about you?”

The boy said nothing.

I said, “We’re not going to force you—no one can. But how long can you go on like this?”

“Lies,” said a brittle voice from the doorway.

A very small old woman, wearing a gray-and-pink print shift and over that, despite the heat, a coarsely woven porridge-colored cardigan. Beneath the shift, bowed legs encased in supp-hose ended in flat sandals. Her face was wizened and sun-spotted under a halo of white frizz. Big dark eyes, clear and steady.

I wasn’t surprised by her appearance. Remembering Latch and Ahlward’s reaction when I talked about their plucking her off the street and disposing of her body.

Blank stares from both of them. No smirking, no jumping to take the credit . . .

Just a look.

My educated guess . . .

But something did surprise me.

Steady hands in one so tiny and old. Gripping a very big shotgun.

She said, “Cossacks. Lying bastards.”

Clear eyes.
Too
clear. Something other than mental clarity.

Beyond lucidity. A flame that had burned too hot for too long.

Ike said, “Grandma, what are you doing! Put that down!”

“Cossacks! Every Christmas a pogrom, raping and killing and giving the babies to the Nazis to eat.”

She aimed the weapon at me, held it there for a while, shifted it to Milo, then to Dinwiddie. To Ike, then back to Dinwiddie.

“Come on, Sophie,” said the grocer.

“Back or I’ll blast you, you cossack bastard,” said the old woman, eyes jumping from one imaginary foe to the other. Hands shaking. The shotgun vibrating.

Ike said, “Grandma, enough! Put that down!”

Loud, a little whiny. A teenager protesting unfair punishment.

She looked at him long enough for confusion to finally settle in.

“It’s okay,” said Dinwiddie, pushing down with one hand in a calming gesture and taking a step forward.

Her eyes shot back to him. “Back! I’ll blast you, you goddammed cossack!”

Ike called out, “Grandma!”

Dinwiddie said, “It’s okay,” and walked toward the old woman.

She pulled the trigger. Click.

She stared down at the weapon with more confusion. Dinwiddie put one hand on the walnut stock, the other on the barrel, and tried to wrest it away from her. She held on to it, cursing, first in English, then louder and faster in a language I guessed was Russian.

“Easy does it, Sophie,” said Dinwiddie as he carefully pried her fingers from the gun. Deprived of it, she began shrieking and hitting him. Ike ran to her, tried to restrain her, but she struck out at him, continued to curse. The boy struggled with her, absorbing blows, taking pains to be gentle, tears streaming down his face.

“Unloaded,” said Dinwiddie, handing the shotgun to Milo as if it were something unclean. To Ike: “I took out the shells last time I was here.”

Ike gaped at him. “Where? Where’d you put them?”

“They’re not here, Ike. I took them with me.”

Ike said, “Why, Ted?” Talking loud to be heard over the old woman’s invectives, his tall body canopied over her tiny sweatered frame. Trying to contain her with his spidery arms while fixing his attention on Dinwiddie.

Dinwiddie held out his hands and said, “I had to, Ike. The way she is—how she’s gotten. You just saw that.”

“She didn’t even know how to use it, Ted!
You
just saw
that!”

“I couldn’t take a chance, Ike. She was so much worse the last time, so . . . you know that’s true. We talked about it—your worries. I didn’t want anything to happen. It’s obvious I was right.”

The boy’s face was a battlefield. Comforting calm for the old woman warring with the pain and rage of betrayal. “What about our
protection,
Ted! Our
arrangement?
Where did that
leave
us? Tell me
that,
Ted!”

“It was a judgment call,” said Dinwiddie. “What could I do? I couldn’t take a chance she’d—”

Ike stamped his foot and began shouting. “We need
pro-tection! Shotgun
protection! I know what a shotgun can do—I saw what a shotgun can do. That’s why I asked you for a
shotgun,
Ted, not some stupid metal tube that clicks and blows
air!
You got me a shotgun because that’s what I
needed
, Ted! Now you pull it out from under me without— How could you
do
that, Ted!”

The words rushing out, followed by short, harsh breaths. Fugitive panting. Fugitive eyes.

His passion had silenced the old woman; she’d stopped struggling, was looking up at him with the innocence and bafflement of an infant on a first outing.

Dinwiddie shook his head, turned away, and rested his elbows on the counter. One of his hands brushed against a package of pasta. He picked it up, looked at it absently.

Milo inspected the shotgun. “This thing’s right out of the box, never been fired.”

Silence filled the kitchen, choking it, draining the air of oxygen.

“Such a good boy,” said the old woman, reaching up and touching Ike’s cheek. “The cossacks come, you protect your
bubbe
.”

“Yes, Grandma.”

“Yes,
Bubbe.”

“Yes, Bubbe. How are you feeling?”

The old woman shrugged. “A little tired, maybe.”

“How about a nap, Bubbe?”

Another shrug. She took one of his hands in both of hers and kissed it.

He escorted her through the doorway.

Milo began to follow.

Ike turned around sharply. “Don’t worry, Mr. Detective. I’m not going anywhere. Can’t
handle
going anywhere. Just let me take care of her. Then I’ll come back and you can do whatever it is you want with me.”

We waited for him in the living room. Knotty-pine panels, working fireplace under a fieldstone mantel, brick-a-brac that had once been meaningful to someone, hooked rug, overstuffed chairs, tree-stump end tables, a couple of trophy fish on plaques over the mantel. Next to them, a snapshot of a beaming white-haired boy holding an enormous trout. It brought to mind the shot of the two children I’d seen in Dinwiddie’s office. But this one was black-and-white, the boy’s clothes two or three decades out of fashion.