She quit hugging and held me at arms’ length. I could see she had been crying and was starting to again and that made me feel really bad, even though none of it had been my fault. I think only your mother can truly make you feel lower than whale shit.
“Was it Liz?” And without waiting for an answer: “It was.” Then, in a low and deadly voice: “That bitch.”
“I had to go with her, Mom,” I said. “I really had to.”
Then I started to cry, too.
28
We went upstairs. Mom made coffee and gave me a cup. My first, and I’ve been a fool for the stuff ever since. I told her almost everything. How Liz had been waiting outside school. How she told me lives depended on finding Thumper’s last bomb. How we went to the hospital, and to Therriault’s building. I even told her how awful Therriault looked with half his head blown out of shape on one side. What I didn’t tell her was how I’d turned around to see him standing behind Liz’s car, close enough to grab my arm… if dead people can grab, a thing I never wanted to find out one way or the other. And I didn’t tell her what he’d said, but that night when I went to bed it clanged in my head like a cracked belclass="underline" “I’ll be seeing you… Champ.”
Mom kept saying okay and I understand, all the time looking more distressed. But she had to know what was happening on Long Island, and so did I. She turned on the TV and we sat on the couch to watch. Lewis Dodley of NY1 was doing a stand-up on a street with police sawhorses blocking it off. “Police appear to be taking this tip very seriously,” he was saying. “According to a source in the Suffolk County Police Department—”
I remembered the news helicopter flying over the Frederick Arms and figured it must have had enough time to chopper out to Long Island, so I grabbed the remote from my mother’s lap and flipped over to Channel 4. And there, sure enough, was the roof of the King Kullen supermarket. The parking lot was full of police cars. Parked by the main doors was a big van that just about had to belong to the Bomb Squad. I saw two helmeted cops with a pair of dogs on harnesses going inside. The chopper was too high to see if the Bomb Squad cops were wearing bulletproof vests and flak jackets as well as helmets, but I’m sure they were. Not the dogs, though. If Thumper’s bomb went off while they were inside, the dogs would be blown to mush.
The reporter in the chopper was saying, “We’ve been told that all customers and store personnel have been safely evacuated. Although it’s possible this is just another false alarm, there have been many during Thumper’s reign of terror—” (Yup, he actually said that) “—taking these things seriously is always the wisest course. All we know now is that this was the site of Thumper’s first bomb, and that no bomb has been found yet. Let’s send it back to the studio.”
The chromo behind the news anchors had a picture of Therriault, maybe his City of Angels ID, because he looked pretty old. He was no movie star, but he looked a hell of a lot better than he had sitting on that bench. Liz’s manufactured tip might not have been taken so seriously had it not caused one of the older detectives in the department to recall a case from his childhood, that of George Metesky, dubbed the Mad Bomber by the press. Metesky planted thirty-three pipe bombs during his own reign of terror, which lasted from 1940 to 1956, and the seed was a similar grudge, in his case against Consolidated Edison.
Some quick researcher in the news department had also made the connection, and Metesky’s face came up next on the chromo behind the anchors, but Mom didn’t bother looking at the old guy… who, I thought, looked weirdly like Therriault in his orderly’s uniform. She had grabbed her phone, then went muttering into her bedroom for her address book, presumably having deleted Liz’s number after their argument about the serious weight.
A commercial for some pill came on, so I crept to her bedroom door to listen. If I’d waited I wouldn’t have heard jack shit, because that call didn’t last long. “It’s Tia, Liz. Listen to me and don’t say a word. I’m going to keep this to myself, for reasons that should be obvious to you. But if you ever bother my son again, if he even sees you, I will burn your life to the ground. You know I can do it. All it would take is one single push. Stay away from Jamie.”
I scurried back to the couch and pretended to be absorbed in the next commercial. Which turned out to be as useless as tits on a bull.
“You heard that?”
Her eyes were burning, telling me not to lie. I nodded.
“Good. If you see her again, you run like hell. Home. And tell me. Do you understand?”
I nodded again.
“Okay, right right right. I’m ordering take-out. Do you want pizza or Chinese?”
29
The cops found and defused Thumper’s last bomb that Wednesday night, around eight o’clock. Mom and me were watching Person of Interest on TV when the station broke in with a special bulletin. The sniffer dogs had made lots of passes without finding anything, and their Bomb Squad handlers were about to take them out when one of them alerted in the housewares aisle. They’d been in that one several times before and there was no place on the shelves to hide a bomb, but one of the cops happened to look up and saw a ceiling panel just slightly out of place. That’s where the bomb was, between the ceiling and the roof. It was tied to a girder with stretchy orange cord, like the kind bungee jumpers use.
Therriault really blew his wad on that one—sixteen sticks of dynamite and a dozen blasting caps. He’d moved far beyond alarm clocks; the bomb was hooked up to a digital timer very much like the ones in those movies I’d been thinking about (one of the cops took a picture after it was disarmed, and it was in the next day’s New York Times). It was set to go off at 5 PM on Friday, when the store was always busiest. The next day on NY1 (we were back to Mom’s fave) one of the Bomb Squad guys said it would have brought the whole roof down. When asked how many people might have been killed in such a blast, he only shook his head.
That Thursday night as we ate dinner, my mother said, “You did a good thing, Jamie. A fine thing. Liz did too, whatever her reasons might have been. It makes me think of something Marty said once.” She meant Mr. Burkett, actually Professor Burkett, still Emeritus and still hanging in.
“What did he say?”
“‘Sometimes God uses a broken tool.’ It was from one of the old English writers he used to teach.”
“He always asks me what I’m learning in school,” I said, “and he always shakes his head like he’s thinking I’m getting a bad education.”
Mom laughed. “There’s a man who’s stuffed with education, and he’s still totally sharp and in focus. Remember when we had Christmas dinner with him?”
“Sure, turkey sandwiches with cranberry dressing, the best! Plus hot chocolate!”
“Yes, that was a good night. It will be a shame when he passes on. Eat up, there’s apple crisp for dessert. Barbara made it. And Jamie?”
I looked at her.
“Could we not talk about this anymore. Just kind of… put it behind us?”
I thought she wasn’t just talking about Liz, or even Therriault; she was also talking about how I could see dead folks. It was what our computer teacher might have called a global request, and it was all right with me. More than all right, actually. “Sure.”