Boobytrap

By EJKatz

tick…

She finished making the third bomb just before nine pm on Saturday.

Except, of course, that it wasn't a bomb. No. It was a "destructive device." That was the official legal definition in the Washington Penal Code. Chapter 4.5: Destructive Devices. Section 1308.7: Explosion of Destructive Device. She knew the section's wording by heart. It had been drummed into her head at the trial; she’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, Ms. Sarris.

Ah, but that hadn't been enough for them. The destructive devices she’d made six years ago, the three destructive devices she'd manufactured here, were more than just destructive devices. They were also Chapter 4.8: Boobytraps. Specifically, Section 1231: 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, Ms. Sarris.

Guilty as charged, Ms. Sarris. Five years of hell in Washington State Women's Correctional Facility, Ms. Sarris.

The hatred was bubbling through her blood again, threatening to obliterate all rational thought. She forced it down by focusing on the bomb, destructive device, boobytrap on the table in front of her. And by thinking about Keith Cutter, psychiatrist, lying dead on his lawn with his self-righteous, "You need psychiatric help, Ms. Sarris," four-eyed head blown off.

Beautiful image, that, provided by this morning's newscast. Device number one: mission accomplished. But Cutter was the one she hated least of the group, a minor collaborator in the overall legal conspiracy. Much more satisfaction was to be had when device number two made a pincushion of Judge Morton Westport, the third. Snooty ass. He was the one who passed down the sentence, the one who had taken the last of her freedom.

And when this pretty little baby here, pretty little surprise package number three right here, tore the life out of Captain Simon Banks, head of Cascade's Major Crimes Division -- why, then she would have cause for more rejoicing for she would be that much closer to her final targets.

Vengeance is mine, saith Ms. Sarris. She felt the bubbling up of hysterical laughter and she forced it back.

Carefully, she rearranged her tools in the kit she’d bought in Seattle. Put the rest of her materials away in their various containers and then wiped her hands on a rag. When she stood and felt the creak of her stiffened muscles, she realized for the first time how tired she was. And how hungry. She hadn't eaten since noon. Better put something in her stomach before she went to bed; she'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 Cascade -- two and a half hours, at least -- and find a proper place to leave Bank's package. Very tight schedule.

She went into the cramped kitchen. The pilot light on the stove had gone out once again so she relit it and turned on the oven. It was an old gas lit piece of crap that only worked half the time but for now it was all she had. She pulled a package of frozen macaroni and cheese from the freezer, tossed it on an old oven pan and put the pan in to heat.

Miserable place, this. "Charming one-bedroom seaside cottage, completely furnished," the ad in the paper had read. In reality it was nothing more that a hovel half way between Seattle and Cascade right up on the coast. It cost her four hundred dollars rent, in advance, even though she would be here less than two weeks. Criminal. Even so, it was better than the studio apartment near the beach in Seattle or Cascade -- and palatial compared to her prison cell. Away from that hellhole two months now, and still the nightmares kept coming -- the worst one again last night, the one where she was still trapped in the cell, crouching in a comer, the giant rats in guards' and cons' uniforms slavering all around her.

A woman's prison, they'd told her. Country club style, they promised. Ha. Truth was that the place was no better than any prison. The things that went on it there, no one talked about. Rape, murder, torture. The guards were anything but!

Enough of that. It was behind her now and she had vowed to move on… that is, after her little revenge plans were completed.

This cottage did have plenty of privacy, at least. Nearest neighbour was three hundred yards up the beach. And most important, it was even closer to the Pacific than the city apartment; the sound of the surf was with her every minute she spent here. She'd needed so badly to be close to the ocean when they let her out. Still did. Freedom. All that bright blue freedom after five years of torment.

Her dinner was ready. She lifted it out of the oven and pour it onto a plate, opened a can of generic brand diet soda, and sat down to appease her hunger.

She thought about that Hippie-wanna-be Sandburg while she ate. Did he feel warm and secure tonight, snuggled up in his nice warm bed, living with that bastard Ellison? Did he think she wouldn't find out about that? Or was he afraid, huddled sleepless in the dark, knowing she'd come for him sooner or later? She hoped he was afraid. Aware that she was out on parole, knowing she'd come, and terrified. She needed him to be terrified. She'd been that was for five years now.

It was all Ellison's fault, the bastard. Ruined everything, the good life she'd had -- blew it all up as surely as if he'd set off a destructive device of his own. She knew he'd crashed that chopper intentionally, just to kill her father and destroy everything she'd ever known.

"Intent to wrongfully injure." He was the one who was guilty of that, not her. He was the one who should have suffered.

Guilty as charged, Captain Ellison.

The sentence is death, Detective Ellison.

The fourth boobytrap, the one she would begin making tomorrow afternoon, the biggest and best and sweetest of them all, was for Ellison -- and Hippie Boy, too -- back there in Cascade, Washington.

tick … tick …

The cabin was on Lake Chelan, in an area nestled in a deep hollow among pine- and fir-crowded Cascade mountains, glittering like a strip of polished silver under the late-morning sun. It made Jim Ellison smile as it always did when he first glimpsed it from the top of the rise. The pristine beauty was a sight to behold even for those not gifted with Sentinel sight.

One of the most scenic lakes in the Pacific Northwest, Lake Chelan is in a glacial trough extending 55 miles into the Cascade Mountains. More then 1,500 feet deep, the lake bottom drops to 400 feet below sea level at its deepest point. This clear blue lake is fed by 27 glaciers and 59 streams. Lake Chelan's 50.5-mile length acts as a natural conduit between the rugged mountain peaks up lake and the lush, fertile down lake valley. At 1,486 feet, Lake Chelan is the third deepest lake in the nation, extending nearly 400 feet below sea level.

And, as always, memories flooded his mind. This place only brought good memories. Memories of his family all together, doing family things. Before his mother had left, they had come here a lot. Fortunately after she left his father had never brought him back here so the memories remained untainted from the bitter years before he'd left home to join the army.

He could readily remember the day his father had let him take the motorboat for the first time by himself. He'd almost wrecked the boat but his father had been in good spirits that day and had merely frowned but let it go without words. He'd been not quite ten and Stevie had remained with his mom on the shore watching and waving in excited encouragement.

That had been the year his mother left. Vanished without a trace from their lives which had become bitter and withdrawn. Thirty years ago. God that made him feel so old.

"…looks like their car down there." A soft voice interrupted.

"What?" He glanced over at Blair Sandburg beside him, bouncing slightly in his excitement. He grinned at the sight, relaxation filling him once more and replacing the more morbid direction his thought had been taking him. "Sorry, I was reminiscing."

"I said I think Simon and Daryl are here. That looks like their car down there."

"Yeah it is." Jim confirmed. The four men were going to be staying in the cabin which Jim's grandfather had left him when he'd passed away a few years earlier. They had a four day weekend and were planning to enjoy themselves. He pulled the truck in beside the sedan. Daryl's youthful face lit up at their appearance and he waved wildly from the shore of the lake.

Jim was amazed at the changes that the last few years had brought to the now college student. A maturity and a strength of character had grown so strong that every day he seemed more and more like his father. A trait which everyone could see easily but which neither man would admit to.

Jim liked spending time with Simon and Daryl Banks. His boss wasn't the same uptight man he'd known even five years ago. With a grin he glanced over at the reason for the change. Not just the change in his boss but the same reason for the change in himself and even in young Daryl.

Blair Sandburg… walking, talking, annoying excuse for a good reason to change.

The enthusiastic exuberance of the young man had reached out and touched the heart of a cold SOB and made it believe again. Made it believe in love, life and happiness. No longer did bitterness touch James J. Ellison. Those days were long gone and Jim was more grateful than he could ever say. The once frozen heart had thawed and allowed a few precious friends to take root.

For Simon, the tension had eased greatly with the entrance of Sandburg into his life. Sure he loved to tease the younger man mercilessly but that in and of itself was a way to relieve stress and Blair now knew just how much Simon cared for him and allowed it.

For Daryl, having the young observer to talk to, to confide in had made it easy to develop the strong bond he had with his father. The two communicated easily on all levels now. The damage done by Simon and Joan Banks' divorce had long since been undone and even the relationship between Simon and Joan had taken a positive turn.

There was one other change that only Jim was aware of and that was the one in Blair himself. The once nomadic anthropologist had found a home and a reason to settle. He'd developed his first strong ties to a community and to a group of people who loved and supported him, something he'd never truly had while growing up with his nomadic hippie mother.

"So you say the fishing is good here?" Blair asked, for the fourth time since they had left the loft that morning.

"Excellent. Bass mostly but there are a few others too."

"Cool. Which cabin is yours?"

"That one." Jim pointed to a two level bungalow about three hundred yards from the parking lot as he pulled open the tailgate so he and Blair could unload their gear.

"I thought you'd never get here." Simon groused. "Daryl has been asking for you every ten minutes since we arrived."

The man in question sauntered over with the same wide grin still holding court on his face. "Hey Jim, Blair. Isn't this great." He waved his arm wide and Blair had to duck under it. Not a difficult feat since Daryl was now almost as tall as his father.

Blair caught the look Jim gave him and merely shrugged. "I thought you hated fishing, Daryl?"

"Yeah well, I like the camping and the hiking. But standing around all day in the freezing cold water, how dull it that." Daryl shuddered mockingly as Simon gently swatted the back of his head. "Ow, Dad. Child abuse, here."

Simon grinned and grabbed for his son. "Child abuse, I'll show you child abuse." Loud shrieking laughter could be heard around the lake as Simon mercilessly tickled his son.

"Dad, stop. Dad, please I'm going… to pee… my pants… here." Daryl panted harshly between laughs. Simon grinned again and hugged his son once more before letting him go.

Simon thought to himself, as he often did, how lucky he was for Daryl. His son could have turned out like so many other kids these days, even ones from good homes. They'd had a rough start but things were good between them to the point where roughhousing like this was permitted now. Not so long ago, it had been forbidden. He shuddered to think how his son might have turned out… like all the other kids he ran into on a regular basis -- the kind he saw nearly every day at the Hall of Justice and City Hall, the ones the DA’s office sometimes had to prosecute as adults…

Uh-uh, he told himself, none of that. You're on vacation. Four days of sorely needed R&R. No work, no phone at the cabin to yank him back into the urban jungle he occupied for fifty plus hours-some weeks a year. Felons, and felonies -- and tragedies like the bomb killing of poor Keith Cutter yesterday morning -- were part of his life in Cascade. Up here, they were verboten.

Jim was just finished unloading his gear from the back of the truck when Blair pulled out a strange looking device. It was shaped like a spear, long and narrow but the end had three prongs curved slightly inward and very shape looking.

"Sandburg, what the hell is that thing?" Simon growled.

"It's a Cree fishing spear. I never get to try it out. Every time we've planned a fishing trip like this is gets cancelled or someone gets kidnapped. I thought I would give it another try."

"Fine but you are carrying that thing yourself. And don't fish near me. I don't want you scaring the fish away with laughter." Jim cut in, hefting his pack up onto his shoulders.

Blair's pack carried an inflatable rowboat and pump, which he'd insisted on bringing as well as his laptop and a number of large heavy tomes he insisted he needed to read this weekend. He hoisted it onto his shoulders, and turned to find both Banks men ready and waiting.

"Yoo hoo. Let's go!" Blair shouted and with a tiny bounce took the lead.

"Yo, Darwin!" Jim called out. Blair turned and glanced back at the other three men who were turned to head in the other direction. "It's this way."

Blair grinned sheepishly. "I knew that I was just testing you."

"Riiiggghhhttt." Jim grabbed his neck as he passed by, squeezed it gently before taking the lead himself. The words being muttered by Blair were only audible to Sentinel hearing and Jim couldn't help laughter as Blair gentle berated himself for his lousy sense of direction, especially after Jim had so kindly pointed out which cabin was theirs.

Blair was surprised at the luxury of the cabin. It was a one room cabin with a staircase to the left of the front door leading up to a loft style room. A kitchen sat underneath the stairs separated from the rest of the room by an island with a grill & stove top. A small fridge and freezer unit sat on the far wall beside a sink. It was small but lots of cupboard space lined the wall over the sink.

The livingroom/diningroom was one large room but divided by a long green couch between the fireplace and the dining table. There were also two very plush looking armchairs on either side of the fireplace with a heavy wooden coffee table in between them. A half open door at the far end of the cabin indicated a full bathroom with indoor plumbing.

It didn't take long for them to get set up and unpacked. Twenty minutes later the cabin was set up, fishing gear assembled and Blair was working on the front porch trying to get his inflatable raft blown up.

The peaceful quiet in the early afternoon air was only interrupted by the four men's voices as they joked and teased each other.

"Hey Sandburg, you know there is a motorboat inside the boathouse just a couple of yards over there?" Jim called out. Blair looked up to see Jim point in the direction of the lake. The white building stood a few feet from the pier.

"And you couldn't tell me this at home?" came the muttered reply.

"No fun in that," Jim laughed.

He grinned and helped himself to a cold beer from the ice chest they'd brought out onto the porch. He carried it to the pier and stood admiring the lake's silver-blue placidity. The section of the lake where they were was tightly hemmed by trees and by bare-rock scarps along the south shore. All of the land was privately owned, and so far the newcomers had kept the faith and brought in none of the trappings of modem society to spoil its natural beauty. Peace and privacy were what the people who came here were after. And you really did need to love bucolic isolation, because it was nearly ten miles by switchbacked mountain road to the village of Lake Chelan and the nearest dispenser of beer, bread, and toothpaste.

Lean and wiry in his trunks, Daryl came racing out of the cabin and down to the boathouse. He'd overheard the comment about the motorboat and wanted to take a look at it, hoping that maybe Jim and his Dad would let him take it out for a spin.

"Jim! Hey, Jim!" Daryl called to get the detective's attention.

Jim turned lazily and shaded his eyes against the brilliance of the sun's reflection off the waters. Daryl was at the door to the boathouse.

"What's the matter?" He called back.

Somebody's been in the boathouse. The lock is gone."

Under his breath, Jim cursed. He went to check it out. Sure enough, the padlock was gone from the hasp, and the boathouse door stood open a crack. Daryl had hold of the handle and was tugging on it, but the bottom edge seemed to be stuck.

"Crap," he said disgustedly. "Who do you figure it was? Homeless people?"

"Way up here? Not likely. Probably some teenager… sorry." He grinned in chagrin as he remembered who he was taking to. Sometimes it was easy to forget Daryl wasn't much older than a teenager himself. The youth was serious and much more mature than most kids his age.

"I'm gonna be pissed if they stole your boat."

Jim took the handle, gave a hard yank. Then another. The second time he did it, the bottom popped free, and the door wobbled open. He leaned inside. There were chunks between warped wallboards; in-streaming sunlight let him see the aluminium skiff upside down on the sawhorses, where it had been laid at the end of his last visit. The wooden oars were on the deck beside it. The Evinrude outboard had been locked away in the storage shed.

"Whew, still there," Daryl said. "Is everything else okay?"

"Looks like it."

"So how come they busted in?"

"Just fooling around, probably." But it didn't look as though anyone had been sleeping inside. Or had used the boathouse for any other purpose.

"You think they got into the storeroom, too?' Daryl asked remembering when they had come here last time, nearly two years before.

"We'll soon find out." Jim led the way to the small shed attached to the back wall of the cabin, and much more solidly constructed than the boathouse. The padlock was missing from the hasp there, too. Tight-mouthed, Jim opened the door. He had put fuses in the switchbox just after their arrival; he pulled the cord to light the overhead bulb.

"Hey," Daryl said, "this is weird."

Weird was the word for it. Nothing seemed to be missing from the shed, either. The Evinrude outboard, their fishing equipment, shovels, rakes, an extra oar for the skiff, miscellaneous items and cleaning supplies -- all in place on shelves and the rough wood floor. No sign of disturbance. No sign that anyone had even been inside. Nothing had been disturbed except there were obvious signs of mice or rats. That wasn't good.

"Maybe it's the padlocks," Daryl said.

"What?" Jim asked, breaking away from his thoughts of exterminators and rodent traps.

"What they were after. You know, a gang of padlock thieves."

Jim didn’t smile. Both locks had been the heavy-duty variety, with thick staples, ones that had been advertised as impossible to get through short of a bomb blast. They couldn't be picked or shot open, maybe, but the staples were certainly vulnerable to hacks sawing. You'd need the right kind of blade, though, and it would take some time even then. Why go through all the trouble, if you weren't going to steal anything? There didn't seem to be any sense in it.

Gang of padlock thieves. It was as good an explanation as any.

Jim turned off the light, shut the door, and walked around to the front, Daryl at his heels. Blair was finishing some cleanup work in the kitchen, wiping the counters, stove and fridge. He turned to glance at Jim with concerned eyes and said immediately, "What's the matter? You look like trouble's following your heels, man."

He told both Blair and Simon who had joined them from upstairs, with extraneous embellishments from Daryl. "But that's crazy," Simon said. "Kids, you think, playing some kind of game?"

"I don't know what to think. I'm going to have another took around in here." Jim told them. Simon offered to join him and the two disappeared outside once more.

Blair threw the sponge he'd been using into the sink of soapy water, then dove his hand in after it. He pulled the plug, rinsed the sponge and replaced it on the side of the sink. He headed up the stairs to check on the bed situation. He already knew that there was a set of bunk beds and a huge king-sized bed in the loft area. He and Jim had agreed to share the big king-sized bed while Daryl got the top bunk and his father took the lower one.

Two years ago when the gang had come up here, Blair had been unable to join them. Commitments at the university had precluded that so this was the first time. He was excited about it.

Reaching the top of the stairs he realized that the bed weren't actual bed but bunk built into the cabin walls. The king-size bed was in the corner at the top of the stairs. The head was under the window with the foot not more than two feet from the steps. The bunk beds were the same length. The top bunk was two-thirds the width of the lower bunk but still wider that a regular single bed. The lower was about the size of a double. Tons of room.

Blair grinned, visions of sleep-overs racing through his head. "Cool never been to one before. He pulled out the sleeping bad and lay them over the thick foam mattresses which were placed over the plywood based bed. His he put on the inside by the wall, knowing full well his sentinel's protective nature would require the outside.

Daryl joined him and began laying out his bedroll and the few things he'd brought. Simon's stuff was already set up. A long dresser stood between the two sets of bed under the window and Blair lay out his books where he found space.

"This place is so cool," Daryl said. "Totally cool, man."

Blair concurred. He heard the others returning so the headed back downstairs. "Anything?"

"Nothing. I don't think we have anything to worry about. It was probably just kids." Simon told them.

"Neither do I," Jim agreed. "Nothing was disturbed. Don't worry about it, I'll get more locks tomorrow in town.

But it did worry him, a little. City-bred paranoia, maybe; but he thought he'd talk to the neighbours about it, just to be on the safe side.

tick … tick … tick …

Two down, four to go.

The news bulletin came over the car radio as she was driving back from Lake Chelan, a slight change in her plans with the new location but a better chance to catch the three men together. The bulletin stated , explosion in the garage of Judge Morton Westport's home at seven-forty this morning. Westport dead on arrival at Cascade General Hospital. Cascade PD refuse to speculate on a possible motive or link between this bombing incident and the one yesterday morning that claimed the life of attorney Keith Cutter.

She laughed when she heard the last part. And when she pictured Westport lying broken and bloody with his wrinkled old face full of metal barbs like porcupine quills, she laughed even harder. Always hunching forward at the trial -- a big vulture in his black robes. Always peering down through his glasses, too, stern-faced, eyes like hot stones, as if he thought he was God on the judgment seat. Hunched and peered once too often, didn't you, judge? Passed judgment once too often, didn't you?

I sentence you to five years in the state prison on each count, Ms. Sarris.

I sentence you straight to hell, Judge Westport.

She laughed so hard, tears rolled down her cheeks.

tick… tick… tick… tick…

"The Poulson's haven't had any trouble on their property," Jim said. "No break-ins or missing items, no acts of vandalism. Peter hasn't seen anyone around who doesn't belong at the lake. But then, they've only been up from Seattle for four days."

Simon said, "are you sure you’re not worried about those missing padlocks?"

"It's the inexplicability that bothers me."

"Well, there has to be some logical explanation. Why don't you go see what Tom Jessup has to say about it?"

"I will, after dinner. But I doubt he knows anything. Peter went fishing with him yesterday, and Tom didn't say a word about any trouble."

Jim stood at the front door watching the lake. He could see Daryl with his snorkelling mask on, swimming back and forth beyond the end of the dock. Blair was sitting on the pier, bare legs dangling in the cool mountain waters.

"Jim, do you know where you put the bread board?' Simon asked, as he closed another cupboard

"Bread board? Should be beside the fridge."

"No. I can't find it anywhere."

"Did you look in the pantry?" Jim moved to the small closet hidden around the corner.

"What would it be doing in the pantry?" Simon grumped as Jim opened the door.

"I don't know -- having sex with the toaster, maybe?" Jim grinned at the indignant snort from Simon.

"Ha ha. You are so funny… Not!" Jim laughed at Simon's perfect imitation of his son.

The pantry was a tiny alcove about as large as the storage shed. Jim put on the light and wedged himself inside. And found the bread board in thirty seconds -- on a top shelf, half hidden in the shadow of a slanted ceiling beam. Now what had possessed one of them to put it way up there? He caught hold of the paddle-shaped handle, started to pull it down.

Something that had been on top of the board came flying down at him.

His reflexes were good; he twisted and managed to jerk his head out of the path of the falling object, though in the process he cracked his elbow against the wall. The object clattered against another shelf, dropped at his feet. Muttering, he bent to pick it up with his free hand.

"Jim? What was that noise?"

"Damn can of pork and beans. It nearly brained me." Jim stooped and grabbed it, handing it to Simon as he placed the recovered cutting board on the counter beside the sink. "Be more careful, will you?"

"Wasn't my fault." Simon set the can down and watched as Jim rubbed his elbow.

"Somebody put the board on the top shelf and the can on top of the board."

"Well, I don't think it was me, and Daryl's not tall enough. Guess who that leaves?'

"Okay, so maybe it was my fault. In a hurry or distracted at the time. But the pork and beans, I know I didn't put those up there. I can't stand this crap. We didn't have any last time, did we?"

"I don't remember. At least you found the cutting board," Simon said.

tick … tick … tick … tick … tick …

Sarris's good humour lasted most of the way back to her little beach shack. It probably would have lasted the entire distance if it hadn't been for her car overheating as she rode up through the pass. She'd had to swing off the freeway and find a service station and wait around until a mechanic fixed the problem with the cooling system.

Fifteen-year-old piece of crap, that car. But it was all she'd been able to afford when she was released from prison. A wonder she'd had any money left after her stupid excuse for a lawyer. A few thousand dollars, all she had left in the world -- and at that she'd had to hide it away in cash in a safety deposit box. Of course it was all Ellison's fault. He was the one who killed her father so that she was alone in the world. Her fragile state had been because of that and that was why she'd lost her place with the navy. No more funds, no more job, no more anything. It was only right. She'd had a right to do what she'd done in retaliation. She'd had a right.

Not according to Keith Cutter, the psychiatrist and Morton Westport, the judge and John Lowell, the DA, Captain Simon Banks, though. Oh yeah and that hippie fag, the one who hit her and because of him her plan had failed. Because of him Ellison had succeeded. They'd picked up where Ellison left off, persecuting her, testifying against her, all but destroying what little of her was left. Well, now they were the ones who were being destroyed. And with perfect justice, too. As ye sow, so shall ye reap, and they'd sown the seeds of their own destruction.

Maybe she'd make a few others pay, too, when she was done with Ellison. Maybe she'd come back here and pick up where he'd been forced to leave off. Force the city of Cascade to pay for her incarceration, since it was their fault too. They deserved to pay, too, by God.

She kept hoping there'd be another news bulletin before she reached the charming furnished seaside shack, but there wasn't. Not yet, but soon. Inside the cottage, with the door locked, she switched on the portable radio on his worktable and tuned it to an all-news station. She didn't want to miss the announcement when it finally came.

Surprise, Detective Ellison.

Surprise!

tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick …

tick …

The owner of Lake Chelan Grocery, a talkative old lady who went by the name of Ma Talley, was watching television behind the counter. Another victim of the satellite dish, Ellison thought wryly. He paid no attention to the flickering images and droning voices as he was fetching the new locks for the boathouse and the shed; but when he gave it to Ma to ring up, a familiar name registered and turned his head toward the screen. And he found himself staring at an enlarged photograph of Judge Morton Westport.

"Terrible thing, isn't it?" Ma said.

"What is? What happened?"

"Mean you don't know? Special news reports all day."

He shook his head. There was no radio at the cabin, and Daryl's walkman only played CD's.

"Well, that judge was killed this morning," Ma said. "Somebody blew him up with a bomb."

Ellison grimaced. Blew him up… Keith Cutter yesterday, and now Judge Westport… good God! After a few seconds, shock gave way to an impotent anger. He hadn't thought much of the report of Cutter, hadn't connected the name but now… Westport was a man he’d respected and admired. It seemed unthinkable that both of them, with only one thing in common, would become the target of some crazy bomber. Unthinkable and outrageous. But only one possible reason.

The news report was ending; what few details he was able to pick up from the newscaster's closing remarks were sketchy. Ma Talley tried to tell him about it, but he had no interest in a third-hand rehash. He cut the old woman short and hurried out to where a public phone box was affixed to the grocery's front wall. He used his long-distance calling card to put in a call to Joel's office. Rhonda answered and he immediately requested Joel.

"Jim? Sorry Joel is out on a call."

"Is Brown or Rafe there." There was a momentary pause while she transferred his call. Brown picked up.

"I heard about Judge Westport and Keith Cutter. Do you know what is happening? The news reports were vague."

"No idea yet, Jim." Brown sounded tense and harried. "There has to be a connection; nobody buys coincidence. But other than the similarity between the two devices, the link isn't there yet."

"No notes or calls from the bomber?"

"Not a word."

"Same kind of device in both cases?"

"Not exactly. Both were set as boobytraps, but the one that killed Cutter was a simple type-black powder and metal frag packed into a lawn sprinkler and initiated by tripwire hidden in the grass. The one that killed Morton… nasty. I hope I never hear of a nastier one." Jim could hear the shiver in Brown's voice.

"Nasty how?"

"As near as we can tell, the device was a small box of some kind left on the front seat of the judge's car. Inside his garage; bomber gained access through a side window. When Morton opened the box to look inside, it blew fifty or sixty thin, sharpened steel rods straight into his face."

"Jesus," Ellison said.

"Yeah. It's obvious we're dealing with the worst kind of psycho here -- intelligent enough to construct a more or less sophisticated explosive device, crazy enough to believe he's got a good reason for ripping a man’s head apart with sharpened steel rods."

"Who's in charge of the investigation, you?"

"Yeah, Since Joel is covering for Simon this weekend, he put Dave Watson of the bomb squad. Rafe and I are working with them from MC. A-priority, down the line."

"If this is what or rather who I think it is, maybe I'd better come in."

"No, no," Joel said. "We're okay. For now, anyway. You've earned your vacation, Jim. I'll yell if I need you. Where’re you calling from?'

"Grocery in lake Chelan. But there’s a closer phone. Neighbours of ours, the Poulsons, have one."

"Give me the number. I'll call if I --" Brown broke off, and Jim could hear the mutter of voices in the background. Then, "Jim, hold on a minute, will you? Hang on, Joel just came in, I'll let him tell you himself."

Brown put him on hold. The phone box was in a slant of direct sunlight, and Jim was sweating; he wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. Thinking: why the two different types of bombs? The simple explanation was that the perp had hated Judge Westport even more than Keith Cutter, but that still didn’t explain the use of sharpened steel rods. Some significance in those rods? He couldn't imagine what it might be, if so --

Another pause as the phone was passed over and Joel's voice kicked in.

"Hey, Jim. How's the camping?" The bomb squad captain sounded tired and concerned.

"Fine, Joel. What's up?"

"Well, it's a good thing you called in; timing’s right all around, for a change. Listen, I think we’ve got a handle on the bombings."

"You know who's responsible?"

"Pretty sure we've ID'd her. You know how each of these serial bombers has his own signature -- the way he puts his device together, the kinds of connections he makes, the types of powder, cord, solder, circuitry he uses. Each signature's different, and it seldom varies. Well, the lab techs finished going over the postblast evidence from this morning, and the signature’s not only the same as on the Cutter case but as on one other about six years ago. Computer match probability is ninety-five percent. "

"Whose signature?"

"Remember the Switchman. Name ring any bells? "

"Like I could forget. I thought she got life?"

"Yeah, well she got out." Taggart said, wearily. "

Ellison had gone rigid. "Got out. Shit!"

"Yeah, Sarris served a total of five years and was paroled two months ago. I just talked to her PO. Sarris seemed okay at first, rehabilitated, but then she started to show signs of continued hostility towards the people who put her in prison. She disappeared last week. The PO violated her right away, but she still hasn't turned up."

Ellison said thinly, "Keith Cutter was her psychiatrist, if I remember correctly. And Morton Westport was on the bench."

"Afraid so, Jim."

"And I was the arresting officer and she already had reason to hate me, plus Sandburg was chief witness. Sarris struck me as arrogant and unrepentant, and still dangerous, and I went after her hard. Now she's after me, right? Cutter, Westport, and now me."

"Looks that way. Plus I think she will go after Banks and Blair too," Joel said. "But it's not as bad as it could be, believe me. If she did set a trap for you, it’s probably at the loft here. I've already sent the bomb squad out; they'll spot it if it's there. I did the same for Simon's place."

"Suppose it isn't. Suppose she found out I was going on vacation. She could have found out about the cabin -- I didn't make any secret of the fact that was where we were going. She could've found out about that, too --"

"Take it easy, Jim. You’re not in any immediate danger; if Sarris is that smart, you wouldn't be talking to me right now. You're in a place called Lake Chelan, Brown says. Okay. Go back to your cabin, collect the others, drive to the nearest motel. If the bomb squad strikes out at your house here, I’ll call the Seattle PD and have them send up a crew to sweep the cabin --"

"The padlocks! Sweet Jesus, the missing padlocks!"

Ellison threw the phone down and ran for the truck.

tick … tick … tick:… tick …

tick… tick … tick …

tick … tick …

tick …

Ellison's surprise was really going to be something.

As tired as she was from all the driving, she was ready and eager to start assembling it. The carton she’d gotten from the supermarket Dumpster, a little larger than the one she’d used for the judge's package, was on the floor next to the table, along with the bag of bubble wrap for packing. And on the table, all neatly arranged, were the tools and other materials she would need. Pliers, screwdrivers, cold chisel. Soldering gun and spool of wire solder. Aluminium canister. Microswitch. Six-volt battery. Fresh tin of smokeless black powder, the last of the three he'd bought at a less than reputable gun shop in Seattle. C-4 plastic explosive, the kind she'd used in the navy, would have been better; more pucker power and a hotter blast, just right for sending Ellison and that hippie fag on their way to hell. But you needed connections to get C-4, and her military ties were a thing of the past. Along with just about everything else that had mattered in her life.

Of course the device she'd left at the cabin might catch both Ellison and Sandburg but it was more designed for Banks. After all it was planted for him. That thought brought more laughter and she revelled in it. Once she'd calmed herself down again she continued to peruse the items on the table.

The last item on the table was one of two pièces de résistance -- a glass jar, full to the brim. The second was spoiling on a shelf on the rear porch, where she didn't have to smell it. She'd put that one in the package after she got to Cascade, just before she was ready to spring the surprise.

She'd given a lot of thought to what to add to Ellison's present. Something just for him. The devices for Cutter and Westport and Banks had been easy to arrange, but Ellison was a different story. Had to be just right. She'd discarded half a hundred possibilities before she made her selections, and as soon as she thought of each, she knew it was perfect.

He'd taken everything from her; he'd gotten all the marbles so to speak. Okay, then, she'd give him two hundred more than he bargained for -- two hundred cheap glass marbles from a toy store in Seattle, the kind that would fly apart in a million fragments from the force of the blast.

What else do you give an arrogant bastard and his fag sidekick for their final sendoff? Why, a bagful of rancid bones, of course. Soup bones that would splinter and gouge and tear the same as the marbles.

Too bad she couldn't tell him beforehand what he was getting. Too bad he'd never know.

Ellison would get a bang out of his present, all right.

And then she'd have the last laugh.

tick … tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick …

tick …

Ellison drove too fast, twenty and twenty-five miles an hour faster than was safe on the twisty mountain road; braking hard on the curves, recklessly passing the any and all other cars he rushed up behind. And he had to fight the urge to increase his speed even more as panic hit him full force. Any faster, and he was liable to wrap the truck around a tree, or send it hurtling off the road into one of the canyons, and what good would he be to Simon, Daryl or Blair then?

What if he was already too late --

No. Don't think it, it isn't so.

Where in God's name had Sarris hidden the bomb? Boathouse or storage shed, one or the other -- had to be. Both padlocks missing, he must've been looking for something in one that wasn't there, and so he’d gone to the other. But what? Some kind of container for the boobytrap? And what would initiate it? Tripwire, triggering mechanism attached to a box lid, something else entirely? The can of pork and beans that had come flying off the shelf when he’d pulled on the breadboard… a bomb could be initiated that way, too. Usually bomb type and packaging and initiating mechanisms followed a pattern, part of the bomber's signature, but Sarris had varied the first two, and that made the third problematical.

Stay away from the boathouse, the storage shed. Please, God. Keep them safe until I get there.

Don't be hurt -- please don't be hurt.

Four more miles to go. He felt cold and feverish at the same time, a prickling on his skin as though it had sprouted stubble, his insides so knotted up that even his bones seemed tight. A gritty sweat kept stinging his eyes; he blinked and rubbed constantly to clear his vision.

Fear for his guide, best friend and best friend's son built in his gut, threatening him with nausea at the intensity. He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat, forcing himself to concentrate on the road.

Veronica Sarris. He knew her, all too well. Classic profile of a bomber, intelligent but skewed and illogical in her thought processes; sociopathic tendencies; and a paramilitary attitude toward life. Hated him with a passion that she could have put towards better pursuits. She blamed him for her father's death and then her own incarceration. Add all of that together, and you had a ticking bomb in human form. But the boobytraps aimed at her psychiatrist and then the man responsible for her sentence in Washington State were only a partial release; Sarris had been capable of more and greater violence, a fact made evident by her previous record of bombing's, her attitude at her trial and her current behaviour They could have plea-bargained if she’d been willing to continue with psychiatric help, but Sarris refused to admit she had a problem, wouldn't even let her attorney plead temporary insanity. No choice but to go after her hard, put her away where she couldn't harm innocent bystanders. Except that the prison time had been counterproductive, had obviously made her worse instead of better. True psychopath now. Sharpened steel rods… good God! Her hatred must be an inferno, all consuming, for her to contrive a horror like that.

What horror did he contrive for Simon? Sandburg? Oh God.

No, don't even…

Wait, those other bombs …

Tripwire, sharpened rods. Glimmer of a connection, and of a connection to something else, but I can't quite…

Think, think!

Gone.

Dammit, how much farther? Two miles.

Please don't be hurt.

Please.

tick … tick … tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick …

tick …

Still no report on the radio about Banks.

Didn't mean anything; he just hadn't opened his present yet. Or if he had, way up there in the Cascade Mountains, the media hadn't had time to get wind of it. Pretty soon now, either way. Pretty soon. Nothing to worry about.

The Detective wouldn't get off the hook.

Ha! No, he sure wouldn't. Chuckling, Sarris paused in her work on Ellison's package to visualize what Banks would look like after the blast. So much quieter, so much more bloody fetching than he had been in the courtroom. Strutting around during the trial like a rooster in a barnyard. Demanding that the jury convict Ms. Sarris, demanding that Ms. Sarris be given the maximum penalties as prescribed by law.

Well, Captain Banks, now I'm the one doing the demanding.

I demand that you receive the maximum penalty for your crimes, as prescribed by Veronica Sarris.

I demand that you be blown up, torn up, and spend eternity strutting your stuff in the Pit.

tick … tick … tick … tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick …

tick …

They were all right, still all right.

No explosion, no fire, everything lakeside normal and quiet in the heat-drowsy afternoon.

He saw that much from the top of the hill leading to the lake and the cabin, with a thrust of relief so acute it blew his breath out in a grunting sigh. But the relief lasted for only a few seconds. He still had to get down there, round up Simon and Daryl… they were still in harm's way. And of course his guide. God, where was his guide.

He barrelled the Ford through the hill’s snake turns, skidded onto the lake road. The parking lot appeared ahead, he could just make out the cabin's roof through the trees. He braked hard, cut the wheel too sharply, and almost lost control as the truck bumped off the road onto the pine-needled boards; the front bumper cracked against the low divider. He shut down the engine, tried to run as soon as he was out. But he'd been driving under such tension that the muscles in his legs and upper body were constricted. His right knee cramped as he came around behind the truck toward the pier. He would have fallen if the door hadn't been there to catch his outthrust hands.

He slammed the door closed and forced his body to move. Fear released more adrenaline and he found the necessary strength to move again.

He saw Daryl in his first quick scan below. The boy was standing in the open door to the boathouse, looking up at him, held there by the unexpected tire and engine noise and the bumper hitting the wall. When he recognized Jim, he waved and turned to go inside.

"Daryl! No!"

Another wave, and he vanished.

Simon heard the sound of squealing tires and the following shout. He came out of the cabin. His face showed first confusion, then fear as Ellison flung himself down the stairs, hobbling until he reached solid ground, then running with speed as the cramped leg muscle unknotted.

Daryl was doing something inside the boathouse: shifting sounds of metal on wood. The skiff -- moving the skiff. The door seemed to rush at Ellison as if it and not he were being propelled; he caught its edge, levered his body around it and inside, squinting to see in the dim light.

"Daryl, leave it alone!"

Daryl swung toward him, startled. The sudden movement caused him to jerk the painter rope trailing from his hand to the skiff's bowring; and that caused the skiff, already half off the sawhorses, to tilt and slide the rest of the way. Jim lunged for it, but Daryl was in the way; he couldn't reach it in time. He cringed, twisting to shield the young man, as the skiff hit the docking with a booming metallic clatter --

That was all, just the clatter. And the after-sounds of the skiff bouncing off the deck boards, splashing upright into the narrow channel that bisected the enclosure.

"Jeez, Jim, you seared the crap out of me. What --?'

"Where's Blair?"

"Blair? Why? Jim, you look --."

"Answer me, Daryl, where is he?

"He said he was gonna go get the fishing stuff. We were gonna go out early --"

The storage shed. Fear caught his heart and sent it racing triple time.

"Stay here, you hear me? Stay here!" Jim pushed past Simon who was calling to him, demanding answers to questions Jim didn't have time to answer.

He ran out into the blazing sunlight. At first, after the gloom of the boathouse, the glare half blinded him; he faltered, swiping at his eyes. The cabin swam into focus, but from this angle he couldn't see the shed. And there was no sign of Blair.

Running again, he shouted his name.

And he appeared, walking around the lower corner of the cabin.

He slowed, another faltering step. Surge of relief… but in the next second, when he realized what he was carrying, it died under a new slice of panic. Two bamboo fishing rods and the silly spear in his left hand, his grandfather's battered old tackle box in his right. That tackle box… sinkers and flies and hooks --

Hooks.

He yelled at Blair, "Stop! Wait there! Don't move!" and plunged ahead.

Blair froze in surprise, the tackle box hanging so heavy from his hand that he listed slightly to that side.

"Don't let go of the box!"

It was as if he ran the last few steps in slow motion, the mired, slogging slow motion of a dream. The sensation was the opposite when he reached Blair's side, reached out to clutch at the box: everything then seemed to happen at an accelerated speed. Jim worked the box free of his guide's grasp, warning himself not to wrench it, it was liable to explode if it were shaken or jarred or dropped. Blair didn't struggle, but Jim heard him say in a thin, frightened voice, "What's gotten into you? Have you gone crazy? " Then he was backing away, lowering the box gently to the ground. His hands tingled when he let go of it, as if its lethal contents had imparted a subtle radioactivity to his flesh.

He straightened, staring down at it. Ordinary-looking tackle box. But inside… God, inside…

He turned as Daryl, followed by closely Simon, came racing up. Ellison caught hold of his arm, of Blair's arm, and herded both away from there, pulling and prodding until they were all the way to the parking lot. Only then did he release them. And when he did, the act seemed to release the tension in him as well, leaving him weak-kneed and sagging against the truck's fender.

"Jim, for God's sake, what --?" Simon started to ask.

"The tackle box." He had to draw several deep breaths before he could go on. "It's boobytrapped. There's a bomb inside."

Daryl said, "A bomb!" Blair blanched, staring at him goggle-eyed.

"And hooks," he said. "Fish hooks, probably, I don’t know, but a lot of them. Attached to lines or wires or both."

"What’re you talking about?"

Penal Code, he thought. Chapter 3.2, Section 12355, subdivision (c): "Boobytraps may include, but are not limited to, explosive devices attached to tripwires or other triggering mechanisms, sharpened stakes, and lines or wire with hooks attached."

Stakes, not rods. Tripwire, sharpened stakes, and lines or wire with hooks attached.

We convicted Sarris on that statute. She twisted it to suit her own perverted brand of justice, condemned us with the letter of the law.

Ellison pushed himself off the fender. "It's a hell of a story," he said to the others. "Literally. I’ll explain on the way to the Poulsons'." And explain by phone to Joel Taggart, Henri Brown and Brian Rafe once they got there.

tick … tick … tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick … tick …

tick … tick …

tick …

tick …

She finished making the bomb, destructive device, boobytrap, big-bang present for Ellison a few minutes past eight.

Nice job, Ms. Sarris.

Why, thank you very much, Ms. Sarris.

She sat back, smiling, pleased. Even the lack of news on the radio about Banks failed to dampen her spirits; still nothing to worry about there. If the Captain hadn’t opened his present today, he'd open it tomorrow. Verification of that, on top of a good night's sleep, and she'd be ready to leave for Cascade once more. Once there, all he had to do was arrange the rancid bones inside the package, connect the leads to the microswitch, and then find a spot to leave it for Ellison and the Hippie. Just where depended on their living arrangements these days. A fitting and proper spot, wherever. Maybe even one where she could linger nearby and watch it happen. Wouldn't that be sweet!

Her stomach growled. She’d been so intent on her work that she'd forgotten to eat again. She started to put her tools away, then changed her mind. Cleanup tonight could wait. Good work deserved a reward; it was time for her reward right now.

She stood, stretched, and padded into the kitchen. And, of course, the damn pilot light on the gas stove had gone out again. Annoyed, feeling martyred, she reached for the box of kitchen matches.

Tick!

Epilogue

The vacation had been temporarily postponed. Even if they had wanted to spend the night at Lake Chelan after bomb techs from Seattle removed the tackle box, which they hadn't, it wouldn't have been a wise decision with Veronica Sarris still at large. So they'd slept at a motel in town and driven the four hours back to Cascade that morning. For the time being, they were better off in the urban jungle.

Ellison felt that way even after Joel's telephone call, not long after they got home.

"I’ve got some good news, Jim," Taggart said. "You can quit worrying about Veronica Sarris. We found her. "

He sank into a chair. "Where?"

"Just outside Seattle. Just enough of her for a positive ID."

"You mean she's dead?'

"They don’t get any deader. She blew herself up."

"Christ. How? Making another bomb?"

"No," Taggart said. "Well, she was making another one, but that wasn't what finished her. Pretty ironic, actually. "

"Ironic? "

"She was living in this cheap rented place, not much more than a shack on the beach. It had a faulty gas stove, one of those old ones that the landlord should've replaced a long time ago. Connection worked loose or corroded and gas leaked out. You know how volatile propane is when it builds up. Sarris lit a match or caused some other kind of spark -- boom! One of the investigators down there called the stove an explosion just waiting to happen. Fire marshal had a better term for it."

"I'll bet he did,"

"Yeah. He said it was a regular damn boobytrap."

END

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