When I embrace her, it does not feel like it always felt before, and I know exactly how it’s different. She’s not holding me. I am holding her.
When my mother grows old, this is how it will feel to cradle her in my arms, and I will do that. I will never turn away from her.
Then, as if she has read my thoughts, she leans back and looks me in the eyes. We both laugh and cry at the same time, me and my dangerous, evil, wonderful mom. Then Julius interrupts us. There is a police car waiting for us. We can’t use the limo—the crowd is too hysterical.
I cannot express how weird this all makes me feel. You know they are putting you on a pedestal, but you still feel like yourself anyway.
So here we are in the back of a police car, and the cops are handing me programs for autographs for their kids. It’s looking like I’m more of a guy thing than a girl thing, which is okay, I guess. Wonder who buys the most music?
I am a bit boy crazy, so it fits, I suppose. Interesting to be boy crazy while sealed up in the cocoon of fame. No boys in here, that’s fer sure. Unless I want to be taken to a tea dance by some guy from, say, Megadeth, which I’m sure our publicists could arrange. Problem is, no celeb is going to date jailbait, and guys my own age are way too intimidated. I mean, who would invite me to a prom?
I have a tutor, hello? Is there a tutored-kids prom somewhere? Note to self—check that out.
We go into the Beresford by the back entrance, and the pig Frank is there. I’ll get him, one way or another.
Back upstairs, the silence is kind of strange. You get used to applause real fast—and miss it just as fast.
I am sitting in the middle of my bed. I scoot up to the head of the bed and press my ear against the wall. It seems like just a minute ago I was being terrified by his breathing. But now it’s totally quiet. Just the wall, nothing more.
I go out to the hall, heading for the den. From Mom’s room, I hear music. And this is incredible: it’s my music. She never just listens. It’s always for work. Not tonight, though. She kissed me earlier. She had tears in her eyes.
Now she’s shut up in there, and I’m wandering the halls, full of wishes that won’t come true and desires that won’t be fulfilled.
I go into the den and look at where his hatch used to be. Knowing Mom, the entire apartment is now encased in concealed armor plating.
He couldn’t get in here, even if he was in the building.
I know he won’t be coming out of juvie anytime soon. My one real way to get to him is to persuade Mom to hire a lawyer who can game the system for information.
Now that the concert has come and gone, maybe Mom will calm down, not only about my music but about life in general. She’ll realize that she can’t go bananas just because I like somebody.
Once we were transferred from the cop car to the limo, she put her head back and closed her eyes. Normally, she would have been all over me with critiques, checking things off on her clipboard, yelling into her BlackBerry, and sucking the plastic cigarette.
I leaned over and kissed her cheek, and a sort of rueful little smile came and went on her face. The rest of the way home, the car was quiet.
I go back to my room, lie down, and close my eyes.
Was it him in the audience, after all? Did I make a horrible mistake tonight?
No, he’s lost deep in Willamette, or maybe somewhere else by now, even farther away. Could be anywhere.
Tomorrow is Sunday, but on Monday I’m going to ask our lawyers about him, and Mom is going to let me. She has no right to stand in my way.
I look at the clock—it’s nearly three. I’m unbelievably tired but I’m also wired.
Safe in this big, strong building. Lonely. And so to sleep, perchance to dream of my poor lost boy.
CHAPTER 16
Frank arrived at Mr. Szatson’s house gobbling Tums. Building the first device and then nearly getting caught had brought the whole situation home even more forcefully. If he did this, people were definitely going to die, and he was definitely going to be found out and given the needle.
He had no appointment and no idea how Mr. Szatson would react. But this was how it had to be.
As the ornate black gate swept open, he looked for signs of the guards he felt certain were there, but he saw nothing except the peaceful lawn and the flower beds.
He’d never considered himself a man with much of a conscience. What he had was a will to live, not a will to help others stay alive. But, dammit, didn’t Szatson realize what he was doing? The investigation would be incredible. If they didn’t both get caught, it would be a miracle.
He stopped his car in front of the house and got out, going up the steps to the big white front door. It was a formal house, red brick, that had once belonged to the chairman of some film studio. Probably to famous actors as well.
As he lifted his hand to ring the gleaming brass doorbell, the door swept open. Mrs. Szatson stood in front of him.
She smiled at him. “Luther?” she said softly, her voice a gentle lilt.
Szatson appeared behind her. “Good to see you again, Frank.” He smiled. “Come on in.” As they walked toward his office, he added, “Are you bringing a problem to our doorstep on a Sunday morning?”
“A little problem.”
This time, there was the ghost of a reptile in Szatson’s smile. “I don’t handle little problems.”
“It’s not a little problem.”
“I thought not.”
Szatson crossed his big office and dropped into a chair. He gestured to Frank, but Frank remained in the doorway.
“Mr. Szatson, I don’t think we can do this.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Szatson, it’s the crime of the century. It’s going to be investigated beyond anything we’ve ever known. It’s going to draw incredible, detailed, and prolonged attention to you.”
“Frank, excuse me for being so blunt, but don’t think ahead. That’s my job, okay? So don’t. Now, if you don’t mind, my wife and I have to leave in five minutes.”
He came over to Frank and put a friendly arm across his shoulder. “Frank, Frank, Frank . . .” He chuckled. “You’re the smart one, so do the good job you’ve always done, you hear me?” Now he laughed. “Whatever will be will be, am I right?”
Not ten minutes after he’d arrived, Frank was back in his car. And what had he accomplished? Not a thing. It was still on. His warnings had been brushed off.
He drove around the corner and pulled over. He gripped the steering wheel, fighting for breath.
He couldn’t do this, no way. But either way, he was a dead man. If he went through with it, he’d certainly be collared, imprisoned, and given a death sentence. Of course, Szatson would never allow him to walk away now—he knew too much. Szatson wouldn’t just send him back to jail, either. He might even do it himself. But it would be done, no question. Frank would be dead, age thirty-two.
He drove back to the Beresford, passing the Beverly Hills Hotel and the restaurants and expensive boutiques along Sunset, then Amoeba Music and the ArcLight Cinema, where he sometimes went to the movies.
He turned into the parking garage, went down to his space, and cut the engine. He started to get out, but instead he began shaking. A feeling came over him as if he was immersed in ice water, and the shaking became almost uncontrollable. He gripped the steering wheel, striking his head against it again and again.
Now that his attempt to scare Szatson off with warnings had failed, what was his next move?
He went into the building and headed through the employees-only door into the office zone. As he passed security, he tapped on the window, and Joe gave a wave of his fingers. Joe was happy with his little bit of money and watching his damn screens. Then he passed what had been the office of Renee Titer, who had been their rental agent back in the days when they did that.
Oh, how careful was this plan. The building was even designed for fire values, the structure coming in just this side of codes—except for that shaft extensi
on, of course. That was the key to the whole plan, as it had been from the first.
From the first. That was the amazing evil of it. True evil. Satanic evil.
He reached his office, standing for a moment and looking at the black door with the sign on it that said, simply, SUPERINTENDENT. Then he went in and sat down. For a time, he stared into space. He opened his desk.
The new detonator he had built was black because he had covered it with electrical tape. It was about the size of a box of matches. He took it in his hand. It was feather-light and so simple. Its job was to ignite a tungsten filament. But this would happen deep in one of the fuel tanks, inside the oil.
He cradled it. He felt the weight of the building above him, and in his mind’s eye he saw the people in the apartments above, some sleeping, some watching TV, some just getting up late on a Sunday morning, others making love perhaps, whatever. He thought of the little singer way up there where there would be no escape. That death alone would make this fire famous.
He laid the detonator on his desk and looked at it under the hard fluorescent light. He could smell the faint odor of the electrical tape. Why had he covered it with tape? He’d wanted it to survive, somehow. But why? It would not survive, not any part of it.
He peeled back some of the tape. The electronics were simple. He had put them together in ten minutes—a twelve-volt battery, a small timer, a piece of tungsten. He’d designed it himself, and he knew it would be effective.
His fingers seemed huge in comparison with the small timer he’d bought at Target. He pressed the Set button. It began counting back from thirty minutes. Half an hour to the worst disaster in Los Angeles since the Northridge Earthquake.
He would drop it in tank two, the center of the three tanks, then he would tell Joe he was leaving, and he would go down to the IHOP on Olympic and eat pancakes until he heard the sirens.
Briefly, he thought he might just go ahead and kill himself. But he knew he was too much of a coward to do it.
Twenty-seven minutes. He touched the box. It was a strange thing to contemplate what it would mean to this building and its occupants, to the city and the world, if he closed it and took it down the hall.
He watched the timer count down until it reached the twenty-five-minute mark.
Making sure nobody was in the hall, he left his office. As he walked down the corridor with the device, he found that he had to wipe away tears. But he didn’t feel sad, at least not in any part of his heart that he was in touch with.
“Hey there, Frank.”
“Hi, Joe, where’d you come from?”
In answer, Joe glanced toward the men’s room down the hall. Then he returned to the security office. Frank went on. He didn’t think that Joe had the slightest chance of survival so he couldn’t even look at him. He reached the end of the hall and climbed down the spiral stairs that led to the main equipment floor, where the steam generators were housed, along with the backup electrical generators.
He didn’t see the figure that appeared in the hallway behind him, slipping out of a storage closet. Luther Szatson watched him carefully as he disappeared down the spiral stairs.
Luther had been hard at work on this for a long time, and Frank Turner was going to take the entire hit for the catastrophe.
Clear and simple, Frank had been set up. Even while he was still in prison, the frame was built around him. He’d been chosen carefully. First, he’d done good work in the past. Second, he could be blackmailed because he’d been released illegally.
Szatson went past the security office with its big window. He stuck his head in the door. “Joey, where’s Frank?”
Joe glanced at his monitors. “Don’t see him. Want me to give him a call?”
“Yeah, do that.”
Joe picked up his walkie-talkie. “Hey, Frank, Mr. Szatson’s here.” He waited. “Come in, Frank.” He waited longer, then repeated the message.
As Luther knew perfectly well, the walkie-talkie’s signal wasn’t going to penetrate into the fuel storage area, blocked as it was by the big iron of the generators above.
“I saw him heading toward mechanicals, but he’s not in there now.”
“I’ll go take a look,” Luther said. “If he turns up, please ask him to wait for me in his office.”
“Is anything the matter, Mr. Szatson?”
“Nothing that can’t be handled.”
Luther then went down to the end of the hall and opened the fire door into the machine room. It was almost silent, with only one steam generator running, emitting nothing more than a soft whine.
Moving carefully so that his heels wouldn’t clatter on the grating of the floor and alert Frank, he went to the steel hatch that led down into the fuel storage area. Below, the lights were on. Frank was up on a ladder, bending over the middle of the three huge fuel tanks.
Very quietly, Luther lifted the hatch and put it down over the opening. He then slid the locking bar in place with his foot. He would later say that he had done it because there had appeared to be nobody in the fuel storage area and it was a code violation for it to be open.
He went back to the security office. “Not there,” he told Joe.
“That’s funny, because I didn’t see him come back. You looked down below?”
“It’s closed.”
Joe thought for a moment. “You can’t close it from inside, so he must’ve gone out while I was . . . I don’t know—I had my back turned.”
“You’re not required to be monitoring this hall, so it’s no skin.”
“I just like to notice. I like to be aware.” Joe stood up. His break time had arrived. “I’m taking my break, Mr. Szatson.”
“Sure thing.”
So Joe went upstairs, without the slightest idea that, by doing so, he was saving his own life.
In the fuel storage room, Frank was working up a sweat as he methodically unscrewed the big bolts that kept one of the inspection ports sealed. You could see through the ports, but the tanks were not intended to be opened unless absolutely necessary.
Grunting, pushing against the long handle of the wrench, he finally got the last bolt to move. As he opened the inspection port, fumes from the warm furnace heating oil filled his nose, choking him and making his eyes water. The oil had to be kept at a constant hundred degrees, or it would be too thick to flow through the system. This was no home heating system on a larger scale. It was completely different and far more complicated.
Now was the moment. He had laid the box atop the fuel tank. He picked it up and opened it. Just eleven minutes left. But that was good—it was enough time to get well out of the basement area before the explosion. He did not think anyone down here was going to survive for even a second.
The fire would travel up the building’s various chases and shafts, then blossom when it reached the top of the building. The top three floors would start burning immediately. Lower down, the process would be slower. To an unknown extent, the building’s sprinkler system would retard the flames. But in an explosion like this, standpipes would be wrecked up and down the line, and there was no way to tell how many of the sprinklers would work, or for how long. If Szatson had done his construction right, they wouldn’t work for very long at all.
He closed the small firebomb, then immersed the detonator in the oil. Circulators inside the tank kept the oil in motion, and the box soon disappeared into the thick blackness.
It was done. And he did not feel anything—except, of course, urgency. He had to get out now. He could not waste time, but even as quick as he was, by the time he was going up the spiral stairs again, he had only nine minutes left.
The hatch was closed.
He looked at it. How could this be?
Then his heart really started hammering. “Hey, Joe! Joey! You locked me in, dammit! JOEY!”
The moron had found the hatch open and closed it. What did they give him, a monkey brain? Obviously, if it was open, somebody was in here. With shaking hands, he pulled his walkie-talki
e off his belt. The damn thing had better work because eight minutes might not be enough time to get this open from the inside.
“Joey, you locked me in the oil hole!”
Static.
“Joey!”
Static.
Too much steel. It had never worked in here, and it never would. But hell, Joe would have at least called down. Nobody in his right mind would close this hatch without checking the space. The lights were still on. Joe wouldn’t close the hatch and leave them on. He would definitely have turned them off, which would have alerted Frank immediately.
The truth hit him. This was not an accident.
Of course not—how stupid had he been! Szatson would never, ever let a man with knowledge like he had live.
Szatson had done it.
Frantic now, he leaped down the stairs, grabbed the ladder, and threw it against the oil tank. He pulled off the hatch cover and peered in, but saw only slowly roiling blackness. Even if the box came to the surface, he would never find the incendiary sunken in all that oil.
Maybe he could drain the tank, then close the valve so that nothing would explode but fumes and residual oil.
Dropping down, he looked for some sort of emergency release valve, but there wasn’t one. He could see where the piping went out to the fuel oil fill station behind the building, but there was nothing anywhere that would release oil into the room itself. Maybe it was possible to drain it into the sewer. Surely the tanks had to be cleaned.
No, they didn’t. This was modern equipment that didn’t build up residue. It never needed cleaning.
Four minutes. Almost dizzy with fear, he took a wrench up to the hatch and began hammering on it with all his strength.
“Damn you, Joey, WAKE UP!” WHAM, WHAM, WHAM.
Fire. It would hurt, it would be agony, and it was death, the real thing, death—and why had he done it? He hadn’t wanted to. He had tried to talk Szatson out of it.
“God! God, it’s wrong, I know it’s wrong!” WHAM, WHAM, WHAM.
Two minutes.