I had no idea, Bud. I don’t think we have any choice. We have to put it on the line here. There’s no other place to dispose of it.”
Without giving Bud any more time to argue, he dropped the red tube down on the conveyor belt, about ten feet upstream of the aperture between the two buildings. Bud just stood there for a minute as the red tube advanced down the line, his piggish little eyes following. Then, to Carson’s dismay, Lambry stepped forward and snatched the tube off the line.
“Now you wait jist a damn minnit,” he said. He put it down on the floor.
Keeping one eye on Carson, he knelt down and started to undo the snaps on the packing tube.
Carson thought fast. Jesus Christ, now what do I do? He’ll know I switched it! He looked around desperately for some kind of weapon, but there was nothing close, and Bud now had the last snap undone. He opened the case, pulled out the fake, and pitched the red tube back onto the belt. He stared at the cylinder for a moment, and then, still in a crouch, whirled on Carson.
“You sumbitch!” he yelled, dropping the fake on the floor. “This ain’t it! You done switched it, you sumbitch!” Eyes wild, he straightened up, snatched a folding knife out of his pocket, and, in one practiced motion, opened it, and swiped furiously at Carson’s stomach. Carson, already recoiling, felt the blade tip just touch his jacket. There was no mistaking the killing fire in Lambry’s eyes. Without really thinking, he kicked out at Lambry, hitting him in the groin. Lambry grabbed himself, shrieking in pain, dropped the knife, and stumbled backward, tripping over the edge of the conveyor belt. He was so tall that he ended up sprawling across the belt, on his backside, his hard hat flying. Almost immediately, the moving belt dragged him up against a support stanchion and turned him parallel. Lambry, flailing wildly, inadvertently stuck his right hand between the belt and one of the rollers. As Carson watched in horror, the belt roller mangled Bud’s right hand. Bud screamed anew while he thrashed around on the belt, trying to extract his hand, until he fainted from the excruciating pain.
Carson just stood there, even when he realized that Bud had passed out.
But the belt never stopped moving, carrying Lambry’s limp form into the steel safety cage enclosure flanking the interbuilding aperture. By the time Carson realized what was going to happen, he could no longer reach Lambry through the screens.
He had to stop the belt.
He ran over to the connecting door, then remembered it was locked. He looked back over at the belt, where Lambry’s inert body, the key ring visible on his belt, was pushing aside the rubber sound strips in the aperture.
Jesus Christ, Carson thought, he’ll be carried into the Monster! I’ve got to find the emergency button!
He ran frantically toward the back of the room, trying to remember where the control panel for the belt was, then saw it in the back corner. By the time he reached the console, Lambry was no longer in sight. The sound of the Monster tearing into steel boxes next door was very loud in his ears.
Have to stop the damned belt! He found the emergency button and smashed down on it.
Nothing happened.
Frantically, he did it again. Still nothing.
He snapped his head around to look at the belt, but it was still moving.
Then he saw the problem. On the upper right of the console, a red indicator light stared triumphantly back at him: system lockout.
Oh my God, he thought. Because the Monster was running, control of the belt was locked out except at the demil operator’s console — in the next building, which he couldn’t get into. He stared at the belt as it cranked inexorably forward with its cargo of military components— and Bud Lambry. He did not want to think about what was going to happen, even as his feet propelled him unwillingly back. toward the connecting door, where the small window drew his gaze the way a cobra mesmerizes its victim, closer and closer. Don’t want to look. You must. Don’t want to. Maybe he’ll wake up in time. Can’t watch this; can’t watch this … He closed his eyes as he reached the window, hoping he would hear something — anything — but heard only the roar of the blades and the shriek of disintegrating metal, which stopped for a moment. When at last he did look, it was about one second too soon. He was just in time to see the seven whipping blades emerge from the top of Bud’s skull as it disappeared into the now-bloody waterfall of cooling oil.
He reeled backward from the window, fighting to control a wave of nausea. He closed his eyes again, then looked up into the overhead beams and pipes of the warehouse. One of the ventilation pipes looked exactly like the cylinder. Jesus Christ, what had he done! It was an accident, he told himself. It was self-defense. He pulled a knife, for Chrissakes!
But he couldn’t get that final image out of his mind.
He staggered out of the assembly room to the tarmac area outside, where he lit a desperately needed cigarette with trembling fingers. He sucked down half of it in one tremendous inhalation. Get a hold of yourself, he thought. You’ve still got to go through with it, despite what’s just happened. You don’t need Lambry anymore. Concentrate on the money. Then get out of here.
But first, he realized with a queasy feeling, he had to figure out how to shut down the Monster when it was done with the run. Reluctantly, he went back into the warehouse. He retrieved the fake cylinder. There was only one way: He would have to ride through the aperture on the belt. He swallowed hard.
3
On Monday morning, Carson stood in the baggage-claim area of Atlanta’s Hartsfield International Airport. He closed his eyes and commanded-his tumbling stomach to be still. This is getting scary, he thought. Really scary. Should have quit when I was ahead. Should have gone and put the real cylinder into the derail machine after Lambry had been … Jesus, what was the word for that? Even though Lambry had tried to shake him down. Dumb son of a bitch!
The area was only moderately crowded. Carson was standing between Delta carousels five and six, trying not to attract attention while he waited for the Washington hotshot — correction, the Defense Criminal Investigative Service investigator. Outwardly, he was trying like hell to look calm and collected. Inwardly, his stomach was doing flip-flops.
A cold sweat permeated the back of his undershirt, and his eyes felt sandy from lack of sleep.
He was very conscious of all the security people in the airport. He wondered when one of them was going to detect his nervousness and come over to ask him why he was just standing around here. Waiting for someone, Officer. Plane must have been delayed. That happens, right? But he sensed he was exuding fear, the kind of fear that tickles a cop’s intuition. He’d just about recovered from the horror of Friday night when the call came through first thing this morning from the Defense Logistics Agency headquarters in Washington. A DCIS investigator was inbound to Atlanta at eleven this morning. “D, on’t know exactly what it’s about, but we want you personally to meet him at Hartsfield,” he was told. “He’s to’ be given every cooperation. Call us immediately when you find out why he’s there. Oh, and have a great day, Mr. Carson.”
Now of all times. And just two days after Lambry had … disappeared. He wiped some perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand. Hot in here, he thought. Was that airport security guy staring at him? He turned away, trying to make the movement casual.