She had been waiting for this for a while, starting even before she brought home Denny, watching this Mike guy every day as he painted her house and did the landscaping. But every time Mike had touched her, she had shrugged and turned away, teasing him, waiting until she was ready. And then today she had looked at him while he painted the wood trim on the patio and said, "We can have sex if you want to." And now here she was astride him, one foot on the floor, her knee on the bed, her eyes closed, concentrating on the very moment she had pulled the trigger in the shower. Killing Denny still excited her. Her orgasm was long and slow, unfolding like a distant peal of thunder.
When she finished, Mike reached for her, trying to pull her to his chest, but she slid quickly from his grasp, picking up a towel and wiping herself. Then she turned to pull on her shorts. She had stripped only minimally-just enough to accomplish her purpose-and when her shorts were on, she was dressed and ready to go.
"You're not particularly cuddly for a woman who just made love." Mike watched her from the bed.
"It was good sex," she replied, otherwise ignoring him.
"You could be a little more friendly about it, that's all. Do you hate all men?"
"I need to work."
He shook his head incredulously. "When can I see you again?"
"When my shades aren't pulled, I suppose you'll see me through the window."
"That's not what I mean."
"But that's what I mean."
After he had dressed in silence, she watched his curly brown head disappear down the stairs. At least he had the fortitude not to whine like Denny. She wouldn't kill this one.
She opened a locked door off her bedroom, accessing another large room. It contained nothing but numerous shelves, a rack from which hung a wide assortment of tools, and a single large table.
On the table was a twenty-four-inch length of six-inch diameter pipe, crammed with nails and TNT. Next to the pipe was a battery, and the innards of a clock lay beside a pile of clocks. Even an untrained observer would have been able to tell that she was building a bomb.
As the time drew near, the adrenaline rush began. A feeling of power surged through her veins. The time of the blast, its lethal force, the manner of its placement- everything was hers to decide. The only problem with the arrangement was that she wasn't certain that Kim Lee's car would still be in the parking lot after dark. On Monday nights his habit was to leave late, between 9:00 and 9:30. According to a local human-interest article, many Amada executives and supervisors ordered pizza and watched Monday-night football together. On two Thursdays in a row, Kim Lee's car had been in the lot.
Once again the voice on the phone had instructed her to turn on the news. And there was Kim Lee explaining that violence against timber companies only strengthened their resolve. Damaged logging equipment could and would be replaced and more effective safeguards were being implemented. Then Maria Fischer was interviewed, claiming that people who committed violent acts against others could not be considered environmentalists. She and Lee were two different faces of the same liar.
Something about the arrogant confidence of Kim Lee as he read the words had infuriated her. Perhaps because they had been preceded by the prodding voice on the phone telling her that the only way to get the attention of the masses was to move directly against the spokesman for Amada. It would draw the world's attention to the plight of the redwoods unlike anything else. Then the facade of the industrialists' power would crumble, their vulnerability exposed.
The likelihood of press coverage was good. She was certain the media would ask-and answer-the question of why anyone would want to blow up Mr. Kim Lee's car with him inside it. She had included the nails in the pipe bomb for a heightened sense of drama. Nails could have no purpose other than shredding the body. The concussion from the TNT would be enough to kill.
Taking up the six-inch pipe, she felt its heft, much as a hunter might take stock of his rifle. Running her fingers along its rough gray surface, she noted the little pits left by the galvanizing process, then studied the flawless threads she had turned herself in her work shed. There was a clink when she placed the end piece on top, and a quiet sound like glass sliding on metal when she screwed the heavy cap slowly into place, noting with satisfaction that the threads were smooth and unmarred.
"Come on, lover boy," Corey said to herself as she caressed the large bomb.
She walked through the master bedroom, past the hand-carved hope chest, made in China for a wealthy socialite in the 1920s; she passed the sideboard and the paintings in the wide hallway, several of which were worth thousands. Occasionally she supposed her little painter friend imagined that he might steal some of these things when his work was completed. But then he would think about her rock-hard core, the trappings of her military training, the strange, scary looks she gave him sometimes, and decide it just wasn't worth it. She knew that he was afraid.
Back in the bedroom, she placed the bomb in a nylon travel bag. Pipe and timer were packed in a rectangular wood box, about twice the size of a shoe box-because of its weight the muscle rippled on her arm when she handled it. Suddenly she felt an even bigger rush. That box was real. She was actually going to hurt somebody who mattered.
There were three entrances to the Amada office complex that were passable by vehicle. She took none of these. Instead, she entered via a park and wooded area of several hundred acres nestled between a huge rock and gravel quarry on one side and the office buildings on the other. After parking a large Ryder rent-a-truck several miles away, she had opened its rear doors and rolled out a white Ford Mustang, about as plain vanilla as there was-except for the bored-out engine and the custom suspension. She sped through the dusk to the park, where she left the souped-up car. Using a dim red light, she proceeded down a trail through the forest for about a quarter mile, arriving at the edge of a large parking lot.
It was well lit. Metal stanchions rose at least forty feet into the air, before splitting into a T-shaped top. There were very few cars remaining, no more than ten in the area that she could see. A very black 1998 Buick with a gray interior and specialty license plate (KIM LEE AM) was parked within thirty feet of the tree line. Probably he had come to work later than most and therefore had to park in this far corner.
She thought it odd that a big shot like Lee didn't have an assigned space near the front door. When she first observed his customized license plate at a demonstration, she had felt a great sense of superiority. Her adversaries were dumb shits.
Like a lot of company cars, it sported a small black telephone antenna in the back windshield. She could put the bomb under the car, but it wouldn't be absolutely guaranteed to penetrate the floorboards and kill him. On the other hand, she wasn't sure the bomb would fit under the seat. The stock-model Buick she had experimented with had just enough clearance under the seat to hide the bomb.
Staying low, she made her way to the vehicle, crouched down, and removed her field pack. She took out the two rodlike tools-the kind used by emergency vehicles to aid motorists who have locked their keys in their car. Although she had practiced at home, she didn't have a lot of experience and she had never tried a Buick. She inserted the two rods and attempted to grab the lock bar.
As she worked, she began to think about the voice on the phone. Whoever it was had prodded her to do this. While killing Kim Lee was something she might have thought about doing herself, it unnerved her that she had this unknown accomplice. Suddenly she felt like the puppet instead of the puppeteer. Though no one had told her to kill him, the thought had somehow slithered over the phone line even if not embodied in a word.