by Dave Raines
Oregon resident Dave Raines makes his EQMM debut with this, his second published work of fiction. His first short story appeared in the 2006 paperback original anthology ThouShalt Not, a collection of horror and crime stories from Dark Cloud Press. This unusual and accomplished tale, whose action all takes place in a matter of seconds, hardly seems as if it could have come from the pen of such an inexperienced writer.
He picked up the suitcase and it exploded. And so Ben spent the moment before he died seeking justice. Time graciously slowed down for him. Once before, when he was twenty, time had slowed: runners on first and third, two runs down, bottom of the ninth and Ben at the plate, a banjo-hitting infielder who spent most of his at-bats slapping singles to right. Ordinarily he would count himself lucky even to foul off Alonzo Stein’s fastball. But this time as the pitcher’s arm reached the top of his delivery, suddenly Ben could see clearly Stein’s grip; fingers across the seams, it would be a rising fastball. Dreamily, Ben amused himself by watching the pitcher’s lips draw back from his teeth, ears pull back as his jaw clenched. The ball eased from Stein’s hand, approached the plate cautiously. By the time it was halfway there Ben saw that it would be high and over the plate, a dream pitch—for a home-run hitter, not for him. But when the time was right, Ben started his swing. He made minute adjustments—a little faster with the hands at one point, get the bat around, slip it upward a quarter-inch, slight upswing. The ball hit the bat with a low rumble. And then the rumble rose in pitch and became a satisfying whack; the bat accelerated and twisted in his grip, stinging his hands; the pitcher’s eyes widened in shock as time returned to normal, the ball leapt over the left-field wall, and Ben went with his team to the College World Series.
No time to dwell on the past.
Low in his field of vision Ben saw orange, the fireball ripping pieces from the side of the suitcase on its way out. Don’t look, he thought. You’ll dazzle your eyes.
But obviously, he was not going to need eyes much longer. Take a last look: baggage carousel like a miniature Superdome; passengers brushing shoulders and reaching in, a spiderweb of arms; himself, walking stick in left hand, suitcase in right, explosion at his fingertips.
His last magical moments. He needed some way to use this gift.
The latch was twisting loose, pushed out by the expanding gases. The webbing between his thumb and first finger started to bulge toward him as the handle rose. The fireball was nearing his fingertips.
Think, think! Moments left. How would he use his last few milliseconds?
Not watching his life flash before his eyes, certainly. I’d like to spend them with my family, he thought. A picture of his graying daughter developed in his mind, then pixelated away, to be replaced by his granddaughter giving him the green-and-yellow Oregon strap, cinched now around his suitcase. Go Ducks!
He was sad and wished tears would flow, but his tear ducts were not yet aware of this disaster. He was melancholy, and he was angry, but in a curiously detached way; adrenaline had not engaged and probably never would.
Angry. Hold on to that. I’m angry, he thought. I’m furious. Who dares rob me of my sunset years? “As I approach the prime of my life / I find I have the time of my life...” Oh, shut up, old fool. Will you waste your time singing old songs to yourself? Or will you have justice?
Justice, his mind whispered back. His was a life founded upon justice: law school, clerking, prosecuting, judging, all in pursuit of justice. Give me justice now!
Despair is a mental thing. He was going to be immolated. He would never know if his killer would be caught.
Who? He thought. I have sent very few bombers to the pen. Who could it be?
He turned his attention to his suitcase. Don’t look down, he thought. But fuzzily, in his peripheral vision, he could see the suitcase. Black pebbly plastic sides, now glowing red from the fireball (at his hand now; no, don’t panic). Latches with his initials, as best he could make out: B. L. Even a green-and-yellow binding strap. But it was not his suitcase. He should be seeing the broad white scrape he had given it just hours ago, throwing it on the curbside baggage cart in Denver. The scrape was not there.
Someone switched suitcases. Instead of Ben’s good slacks and sweater, there was a bomb inside. This was no general act of terrorism; the killer had matched Ben’s suitcase and must have been after Ben specifically.
Horror is a mental thing. At the margins of his vision, he saw his fingernails bubble, fingertips blacken. Even in slow time, the pain would be mere instants away. Don’t look.
He also saw debris. He pondered this, and thought: nails. Nails about the length of his finger. The heart of the fireball was pushing nails at him.
Who who who? he thought, and he thought, Justice.
But wait.
The killer was out to get him, him specifically.
So: A bomb with a timer would not work. The killer would have no way of knowing when Ben would pick up the suitcase.
And a bomb with a motion sensor would not work. The luggage would be tossed around like popcorn before it ever got to Ben.
Come to that, weren’t there inspections and bomb detectors in the luggage-handling system?
Therefore the suitcase must have been switched here, and the trigger must be some kind of radio control. Which meant the killer might well be in the building.
Or even within line of sight! Because the bomb went off exactly when Ben picked it up. The killer must have seen Ben pick it up.
Just then the nerves in his fingertips began to scream.
One time in his life he matched G. Gordon Liddy and held his hand over a flame, to prove he was tough. This pain was like that pain, as an avalanche is like a snowfall.
But he was still functional. Perhaps pain, too, was slowed down, gentled in some kind of macabre Doppler effect. It was bad, but not bad enough to stop him.
Were those tears starting from his eyes?
No! I have to see, I have to see who has done this thing!
His only chance was if the killer was in front of him. But, thought Ben, of course the killer is in front of me: He wants to see my face as the nails rip into it.
Oh God, my hand!
Little sparks were starting to flash in the corners of his eyes. Ben moved his attention to the upper-left limit of his peripheral vision. No people, just airport signs: carousels 1-4, arrow...
An escalator...
Families pushing Smarte Cartes...
Shoulders jostling shoulders at the baggage carousel...
And there. Center right, a face, a hand holding a TV remote. Or something. Pointed at him, with a clear line of sight.
Do I know you? Who are you? What did I sentence you for?
But he did not want to spend time remembering, putting a name to the face. He wanted to wreck this killer’s plans. (Was he the killer? The face was familiar...)
After blowing up Ben, the killer would toss the remote somewhere and blend into the crowd. Get away.
There was no justice.
A nail spun into the bottom of his view, like a gymnast on uneven bars, a very slow gymnast. He began to feel a brass pin from the handle of his suitcase as it plowed a furrow from knuckle to knuckle. I’m going to die, Ben thought.
Despair is a mental thing, but so is hope.
As he watched the spinning nail go past his vision, he remembered the pitcher and the diffident fastball.
He commanded his eyes to shift toward his left hand, and his left hand to move his cane. Quickly, quickly, he urged; but of course nothing moved quickly.
So he plotted as he moved. Even before he could focus, he located first the cloud of debris, then his cane, boundaries indistinct in his vision. The cane’s head was bound in steel.
Focus, focus, he urged his eyes, and faster, faster, his arm. Luckily he had only fractions of an inch to move: The cloud of debris was approaching his left hand, and there were plenty of nails to pick from.
His eyes focused.
He picked out the right nail. But the cane was out of position. You have to move, he told it, move just a fraction. The muscles responded, and the cane came around like a long-ago bat and slapped a single to right field.
No, what was he thinking? (Hard to think. There was a shard of plastic coming for his eye, and fire on his arm.) He slapped a nail between first and second. No, no. He slapped a nail to right center; right at the man with the remote. Nail him! Ha. Make him drop the remote. Make him leave a trail of blood. Would the police realize the connection? Do a DNA test? Fingerprint him?
The nail’s line of flight looked true. Of course by the time it got there, Ben would be dead.
But he had done what he could.
Time mercifully sped up as the nails ripped his belly and the fire flashed his face, and his hand no longer hurt as he died.