21
"Get out," Jamie said as she stared at the lump under the pale, flabby skin. She saw a pink line of scar tissue next to it. He had to be running a number on them. "A bomb?"
Blascoe nodded. "Yep. If I go more than a thousand feet from the house—they've got the line marked with wire—this will explode."
"What's the point?" Jack said.
"Well, as Jensen put it, this raises a minimum-security facility to maximum."
Jamie frowned, still staring at the lump. She couldn't take her eyes off it. "How did they—?"
"Get it in there?" He shrugged. "Jensen kept me under lock and key for a while after I threatened to go public. Then one day he drugs me up and hauls me off somewhere. I don't know where exactly because I conked out before we got there. I woke up here, in one of the bedrooms. I was hurting and when I looked down I saw a bunch of stitches and this lump.
"Brady and Jensen were here. They told me this place was gonna be my home till I came to my senses. They told me about the bomb and—"
Jack's eyebrows shot up. "And you believed them? For all you know that's just a couple-three big steel washers glued together."
"It's not." Blascoe's eyes were suddenly bright with tears. "They proved that to me the first day."
"How?"
"My dog."
Jamie gasped as her heart twisted in her chest. "Oh, no. I don't think I want to hear this."
"He was a mutt I'd had since he was a pup," Blascoe was saying. "I called him Bart because he was always getting into trouble like Bart Simpson. Anyway, Jensen taped one of these bombs to Bart's collar. I was still groggy from the anesthesia so I wasn't really following. I watched as Jensen teased Bart with this ball, then threw it past the thousand-foot mark." Blas-coe's face screwed up and he sobbed. A tear rolled down his cheek. "Blew poor Bart to pieces."
Jamie felt her own eyes puddling up. "Bastards."
She glanced over at Jack. He said nothing, simply stared at Blascoe with a stony expression.
Blascoe sobbed again. "Lots of times I think about crossing that line myself just to end it all, but I haven't got the guts."
Finally Jack spoke. "This means they've got perimeter sensors, and that means they probably know we're here. You can take it to the bank that someone—a number of someones—are on their way here." He looked at Jamie. "We've got to go."
She pointed to Blascoe. "But we can't leave him!"
"Why not? This is where he lives now." He tossed Blascoe's joint into his lap. "We'll leave him as we found him."
"But they'll kill him!"
"If they wanted to kill him, they wouldn't have bothered with this elaborate setup."
"But don't you see? Now that I've got his story, they have to kill him. Once I publish it, these woods will be crawling with people looking for him. They can't risk his being found."
Jack was staring at Blascoe. "They still won't kill you, will they?"
Blascoe shrugged. "Can't say. To tell the truth, I don't much care. Haven't got much time left anyway, and going quick sounds a lot better than getting eaten from the inside out. I think Brady would've had Jensen off me at the git-go when I started making trouble. But too many of his lackeys on the High Council knew I was alive and not so well, and after all, I am the Father of Dormentalism and that would be… unthinkable. They really believe in this shit. So he convinced them to exile me, like Napoleon. Probably rationalized it to them by labeling me with one of their stinking acronyms and isolating me for the good of the Church. I don't think his High Council cronies know about the bomb—that was Jensen's idea."
"So what you're telling me is there's a good chance they'll send you to the Hokano world for real."
Another shrug. "Yeah. I guess so. But you folks'd better go while you've got the chance, or sure as shit you'll both turn up missing."
Jack looked around. "Jensen's demo with your dog proves .there's a trigger transmitter nearby. If we can—"
"Find it? Don't waste your time. I've been searching for it since day one and never found it. And I was looking in daylight, not in the dark in a rainstorm."
"Ever think about getting a knife and cutting it out?" Jack said. "It's just under the skin."
Jamie's stomach turned at the thought. The idea of cutting into your own flesh—she shuddered. Didn't want to go there.
"Can't say as I have. 'Specially since Jensen warned me about just such a thing. Told me if the bomb's surface temperature drops five degrees—blamr
Jack was silent for a few seconds, then, "What if we cut it out and dunk it into a bowl of hot water?"
"Whoa," Jamie said. "What if it drops five degrees while we're doing it? Then all three of us will go."
Without taking his eyes off Blascoe, Jack reached into a pocket and pulled out a folded knife. He snapped it open with a flick of his wrist, revealing a wicked-looking four-inch stainless steel serrated blade.
"I'm game if you are."
Blascoe stared at the blade. He swallowed, but said nothing.
"Don't you want to kick their asses?" Jack said. "With Jamie's story and you to back it up on the talk show circuit, you can nail these bozos right where they live. Slice and dice them and stir-fry them for dinner."
"Is it gonna hurt?" Blascoe said.
Jack nodded. "Yeah. But this baby's sharp and I'll be quick like a bunny."
The old man licked his lips and took a long pull on the Cuervo. "Okay. Let's do it."
Jamie tasted bile at the back of her throat. "I'm not good with blood."
Jack waggled the knife in her direction. "Don't wimp out on me now."