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But I’m getting off track. After I had my shower and put on some of my better threads I drove into the city to report to Big Billy.

Disposing of Jimmy H. was the nasty part of the assignment, but facing Big Billy wasn’t much better. You remember him? Sure. He’s long gone now, most of the uptown boys are long gone, but back then he was a force. I did a lot of jobs for him before that night, but none like the one with Brother James Earl. None that was even close.

An hour later I was standing in Big Billy’s office, surrounded by concrete, his hard little eyes boring into mine.

I dumped him, I said. It’s finished business.

Don’t tell me dumped, Big Billy said. Don’t tell me finished business. Where did you put the fucker?

You really want to know? I said. You told me handle it any way I want, just make him disappear. So that’s what I did.

I got to know, he said, so I can tell them uptown.

Well, they didn’t want to know uptown, he’d told me that before. He wanted the information only for himself. But if you didn’t want to end up like Jimmy H., you did what Big Billy told you to. And you never lied to him.

So I told him the truth. I put him where they’ll never find him, I said. The Meadowlands Stadium. Under the south end zone.

I thought he’d say that was a perfect spot, I couldn’t have come up with a better one. I thought he’d say Good job, you’ll get a bonus.

Get the fuck out of here, he said, and don’t come around no more.

That was the last I ever saw of him. But that was all right with me. I didn’t want any part of his operation after that night, any more than he wanted me to be part of it. I’m still above ground, so he must not have talked to the boys uptown. Or if he did, they decided I’d done the job right even if Big Billy didn’t think so. Nothing ever happened to me because I was right: they never found Jimmy H.

It seems simple when you look at it that way. But it’s not simple. New Jersey is not a state of simplicity, the sinkhole town of Rutherford not a site of easy answers. New Jersey is a place of secrets, complex, rotten with tangled branching vines and rivers of ancient, heaving blood. Somebody said that to me once, I don’t remember who.

Well, anyhow, that’s about it. They tore the stadium down after thirty-some years and still they didn’t find what was left of Brother James, that’s how good a planting job I did. I don’t know how they could’ve missed finding the skull, some of the bones, but I guess they were in a hurry and careless with the demolition.

If it didn’t make me sick now, thinking about it, I’d have to laugh about the turf wars between the Giants and all those other teams right there in the shadow of that end zone, in the end zone itself, players after they scored a touchdown spiking the ball down hard right above where the boss’s head was buried —

What’s that you said?

No, I sure as hell didn’t make all of this up. You got no right to say that. I told you before, it’s the gospel truth. Give me a Bible and I’ll swear on it.

What do you mean, New Jersey is full of mooks like me, little guys with big ideas? I was never a little guy, I had connections, I knew secrets. That’s how I got the job to take out the boss. One of the biggest jobs ever, horrible as it was, and my disposal idea was just as big. Smart. I couldn’t have got away with it for thirty-five years if it wasn’t big and smart.

Yeah, I got away with it, but I couldn’t get away from it. You cops can’t imagine what a burden it’s been on me all that time — not the Meadowlands part, the killing and butchering part. How much of a toll it’s taken. That’s why I’m here now, that’s what I been trying to get across to you. I can’t live with it anymore. The nightmares, the awful bloody images—

What? No! This isn’t another false confession. It’s my one true confession. Don’t you see, don’t you get it? Those previous confessions of mine... substitutes, surrogates. I couldn’t make myself tell what I did to the boss, so I copped to other murders, other crimes instead.

I was trying to pay my debt with phony claims so I could finally have some peace. But now I know the only way to stop the haunting and the hurting is to reveal my secret, New Jersey’s secret, America’s secret—

What’re you doing, Lieutenant? Who’re you calling?

Oh Christ, no, you can’t send me back to the Pines. I don’t belong in that place. I’m not crazy any more than John the Baptist was crazy.

Please, you have to believe me! I shot Jimmy H., I dismembered his body, I buried the pieces in the end zone at the Meadowlands Stadium. I did, I did!

Boobytrap

tick...

He finished making the third bomb just before nine Sunday night.

Except, of course, that it wasn’t a bomb. No. It was a “destructive device.” That was the official legal definition in the California Penal Code. Chapter 2.5: Destructive Devices. Section 12303.3: Explosion of Destructive Device. He knew the section’s wording by heart. It had been drummed into his head at the trial; he’d read it over and over again in the prison library.

“Every person who possesses, explodes, ignites, or attempts to explode or ignite any destructive device or any explosive with intent to injure, intimidate, or terrify any person, or with intent to wrongfully injure or destroy any property, is guilty of a felony, and shall be punished by imprisonment in the state prison for a period of three, five, or seven years.”

Point of law, Mr. Sago.

Ah, but that hadn’t been enough for them. The destructive devices he’d made six years ago, the three destructive devices he’d manufactured here, were more than just destructive devices. They were also Chapter 3.2: Boobytrap. Specifically, Section 12355: Boobytraps — Felony.

“Any person who assembles, maintains, places, or causes to be placed a boobytrap device as described in subdivision (c) is guilty of a felony punishable by imprisonment in the state prison for two, three, or five years.” Subdivision (c) stating in part “For purposes of this section, ‘boobytrap’ means any concealed or camouflaged device designed to cause great bodily injury when triggered by an action of any unsuspecting person coming across the device.”

Point of law, Mr. Sago.

Guilty as charged, Mr. Sago.

Five years of hell in San Quentin, Mr. Sago.

The rage was in his blood again, rising. He tamped it down by focusing on the bomb, destructive device, boobytrap on the table in front of him. And by thinking about Douglas Cotter lying dead on his lawn with his self-righteous, “You need psychiatric help, Mr. Sago,” four-eyed head blown off. Beautiful image, that, provided by this morning’s newscast. Device number one: mission accomplished. But Cotter was the one he hated least of the trio, a minor collaborator in the legal conspiracy. Much more satisfaction when device number two made a pincushion of Judge Norris Turnbull. And when this pretty little baby here, pretty little surprise package number three right here, tore the life out of Patrick Dixon... why, then he would really have cause for rejoicing.

Vengeance is mine, saith Mr. Sago.

Carefully, he rearranged his tools in the kit he’d bought in San Francisco. Put the rest of his materials away in their various containers and then wiped his hands on a rag. When he stood and felt the creak of his stiffened muscles, he realized for the first time how tired he was. And how hungry. He hadn’t eaten since noon. Better put something in his stomach before he went to bed; he’d sleep better. Three A.M. was only a few hours off, and there wouldn’t be time for even a quick breakfast. Drop the judge’s present off first, then drive all the way to Mountain Lake — two and a half hours, at least — and find a proper place to leave Dixon’s package. Very tight schedule.