style="font-size:15px;"> They had just assumed their Sunday morning positions—Laura propped up on the pillows watching television with Garbo in her lap, Slick prone on the bed leafing through the “Parade” section of the newspaper—when Slick’s cell phone rang.
“Hello.”
The voice on the other end drew her full attention.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “We’re looking forward to it.”
Laura knew without asking.
Slick clicked off her cell.
“That was the official word. We go as planned. Tomorrow.”
“I’m ready,” Laura said.
“I’ll go make coffee,” said Slick. “Then we can go over the information I just got.”
Laura picked up the remote and clicked off Charles Osgood, then sighed.
This Sunday morning was definitely headed in a different direction.
8
At eleven thirty-eight Monday morning, Travis Bodine was fourth in line to enter the Jonathan C. Dooley IRS building at Newark’s Federal Plaza. He put his briefcase on the conveyor belt to get X-rayed and stepped through the metal detector. There were no alarms or buzzers.
The gorgeous blond security guard who handed the briefcase back to him smiled and said, “Have a good day.”
Travis let his hand linger on hers. The heat coming from her was like a blast furnace. He could almost taste the heat.
When he took the case from her, he could see the smile fade, but something warm stayed in her eyes.
Travis started toward the elevator but looked back at the blonde. She was busy with other items on the conveyor belt.
Travis looked at her ass. It was a great ass, supported by long shapely legs.
It was an ass a God-fearing man could fall down on his knees and worship. He felt a twitching in his stomach, and lower. He’d love to plunge himself into that ass, get lost in it. Riding her while she screamed. Making her born again. And again and again.
Travis whistled softly and sincerely hoped she took her lunch break away from the building. He looked at his watch. The bomb would go off in a half hour. He walked to the elevator and pushed the UP button. The doors opened; no one was inside, and no one got in with him. The doors were about to close when a cane stopped them.
A blind black woman tapped her way in, led by the smallest seeing-eye dog Travis had ever seen. What the hell kind of freaky little poofy dog was that, anyway?
He felt momentarily unsure, then let it go. The woman was blind, after all. She felt the braille buttons and pushed number nine.
The elevator started to rise.
The little dog started to sniff the briefcase; then it grabbed hold of Travis’s pant leg and wouldn’t let go. The dog wasn’t being hostile. It held on playfully, like it would a favorite old sock.
Annoyed, he could have easily kicked the dog away but decided against it. He didn’t want to attract more attention to himself.
Maybe this black bitch would survive the blast, and even though she was blind, he didn’t want to give her more to remember.
He remained focused on why he was there and tolerated the little mutt. Maybe the anger-management course had done some good after all.
The black woman tried to stop the dog but couldn’t make it let go of Travis’s leg.
“Bad girl,” she kept saying over and over in between apologies.
The elevator made its way up, passing the second, third, fourth, and fifth floors without taking on any other passengers.
When the elevator reached the sixth floor, it stopped suddenly with a bounce and a thud, and then all the lights went out. They were enveloped in darkness.
The only relief was a dim margin of light that filtered in somehow from above the elevator car.
“What’s happening?” the blind woman asked nervously. Her dog started to get agitated and began growling in the dark.
“Power failure,” Travis answered tersely. He cursed himself for not having thought of this possibility.
Travis stayed calm. He looked at his watch. Ten minutes remained before the detonator would engage.
Several moments passed. Travis could feel the time slipping away.
The woman became increasingly frantic. The dog was now barking excitedly. She picked it up to calm it down and held it close.
They all stayed silent in the darkness.
Tick, tick, tick…
“What’s taking so long?” she asked eventually. “Why isn’t someone coming for us?”
Travis started to assess his terrible reality. The briefcase was going to explode soon, and he knew with breath-crushing certainty he was going to die. He began to feel fevered. Panic was taking hold of him. His mind was unraveling. His heart was jackhammering.
He lunged for the elevator operating panel, pushing the buttons like mad, trying to get the elevator started again; then he tried the emergency phone.
It was dead.
“What are you doing?” the blind woman screamed.
“I’ve got to get out of here.” Travis had started to cry.
He was pounding furiously on the elevator doors. “I’ve got a bomb. It’s going to explode.”
“What!” the woman yelled at him.
“My briefcase! It’s a bomb!”
“What! You made a bomb and brought it here?”
“Yes! Yes, I did,” Travis slobbered through his tears. “Jesus help me! I’ve got to get out of here.”
Sweat ran down the back of his neck, across his forehead, and from his underarms down the length of his sides. His knees began to feel like they would soon fold.
Slick removed her sunglasses and smiled. “That sounds like a confession to me.”
She walked to the elevator security camera and said, “I hope you guys got all of that.”
Travis turned to look at her in disbelief. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a detective. And you’ve just confessed to trying to bomb a federal building. But dry your eyes there, Firecracker. The bomb squad is standing by just on the other side of those doors.”
Slick addressed the camera again. “Okay. He’s confessed. You can let us out now.”
