Max left in the morning. Gault didn’t think he needed
him anymore. Gault had what he wanted. It looked silly
actually, like a cartoon prop–a couple of sticks of
dynamite, some wiring and an electric clock. Max had done a good job, but Gault couldn’t help wishing it didn’t look
better.

Gault carefully removed the device from the motel table
and placed it in the bottom of a laundry bag. Changing his
mind, Gault took the bomb back out of the bag. He found
dirty clothes scattered around the room and put it at the
bottom. Gault then replaced the device and covered it with
more laundry. He pulled the drawstrings and tentatively
lifted the bag.

Gault was worried–it looked too heavy. He moved to the
full-length mirror on the bathroom door. The laundry-bag
hung at his side. Too heavy. Deciding it was the way he
held it, Gault pulled the bag over his shoulder. It still
looked like he was carrying a sack of bricks.

Gault sighed. The one thing you hadn’t thought of.

He looked around the room for an answer. His eyes fell
on the hangers in the closet. No, they’d never believe it.
He wouldn’t be doing any dry-cleaning. Gault turned
back to the mirror. He tried to look casual holding the
laundry-bag. He walked in place, as if he was on the way to the laundromat, not a care in the world. It would have to do.

Gault checked his watch. It’s time. He stepped out the
door.

Beck ducked low in the car.

“What’s he doing?” he asked.

“He’s going to wash his clothes,” Johannsen said in the
driver’s seat.

“I didn’t know they did that.”

“It is suspicious,” Johannsen chuckled.

“I’m gonna follow him,” Beck decided as he opened the car
door. He rolled from the unmarked vehicle and waited until
he heard Gault’s car leave the parking lot. Beck climbed
into his Jeep.

Gault drove down the hill, right to the laundromat on the
edge of town. Beck pulled up down the street and watched
Gault go inside with his bag of laundry. Beck drove into
the laundromat parking lot.

Gault was starting his washing machine. Beck considered
going back to the motel, or handing out leaflets again. But the feeling that there was something wrong stuck with him. Beck went into the laundromat.

“Taking the day off?” Beck asked when Gault spotted him.

“Have to do my laundry,” Gault replied.

“Damn phone in my room doesn’t work,” Beck told Gault and
headed for the pay phone on the wall. The FBI man pretended to look for change while checking Gault. He’s doing his laundry, Beck told himself. What did you expect? Beck pulled out a dollar bill and went to the change machine. “I kinda overslept,” Beck said with a grin while the machine did its work. “Had a little too much to drink last night.”

Gault didn’t smile back. He’d constantly made
pronouncements to the protesters about self-discipline and
making a proper public appearance.

He’s not human, Beck decided, looking over Gault, who
seemed nervous. Beck glanced to the laundry bag. A big box of detergent inside, Beck guessed.

Beck went to the phone and dialed. The weather man
droned at the other end while Beck spoke.

“I’d like to make a collect call to San Francisco,” Beck
said. He waited and learned the weather was going to be
fair and warm, with a chance of rain at the end of the
week. Gault stared at Beck the whole time. He’s nervous
about something, Beck decided. Trying to stay cool. Afraid his shorts are going to shrink. “Okay, I’ll try later,” Beck said when he felt enough time had passed. “See you later,” Beck called to Gault on his way out.

Gault nodded and watched Beck get back into his Jeep and
drive away. Gault wiped the sweat from his brow. It’s hot
in here. He knew they were after him. He suspected Beck
all along. Gault wondered if he should wait for another
day. No, you can’t do your laundry again tomorrow. Next
week then. No, you can’t keep the device that long. Too
dangerous.

“Today,” Gault said out loud, wondering if the decision
would put him in prison.

Gault waited for the spin cycle to end. It seemed to
take forever. Gault hauled his clothes to a dryer and put
in a quarter. Ten minutes more. Gault checked his watch.
Right on schedule.

Gault hurried to his car with his bag of laundry. As
casually as he could, Gault surveyed the area. There was no sign of Beck or anyone else.

Gault drove from the parking lot. He’d make a small
detour–there was time. Gault stopped his car along Main
Street, down several blocks from the sheriff’s office. He
peered through the dirt on his windshield at the protesters
in the distance. He saw Leigh and spotted Kerry, but Gault didn’t see Beck. Gault looked in his rear-view mirror, half-expecting to see Beck’s Jeep, but it wasn’t there.

Gault breathed finally. He’d already made the decision,
he felt. Then Gault saw him, coming out from the grocery
store. Beck offered a bag to each of the protesters. They
reached in and took out what looked like cookies. Gault
hated the man. He was creep, even if he wasn’t a cop. He
smiled all the time and didn’t take the cause seriously. He insisted on his own room in the motel, as if this was some kind of vacation.

Gault started his car. He checked his watch again.
Still time.

The parking lot of the pulp mill was only half full.
There’d been layoffs recently, despite the size of the cut.
Gault considered it a good sign. But it made his job tougher. He parked behind a pickup truck, reached under the car seat and pulled out a lunch-pail.

That was Max’s brilliance. He’d bought a lunch-pail and
used it as a model to build a similar one, but slightly
wider and twice as tall. Gault opened it.

Gault checked once more to be sure no one was watching
before he reached into the laundry bag. Carefully, Gault
pulled the device from warm underwear and jeans and placed
it in the lunch-pail. The bomb fit snugly inside. Gault
closed the lid and clicked it shut.

Now all there was to do was wait for the lunch crowd to
come out. They all sat in their trucks for a half an hour,
eating from paper bags. Gault cursed himself for not
bringing anything. They’d notice that, wouldn’t they?
Gault decided he’d nap. He’d seen some do that before.
Gault rested his head against the head-rest. He heard the
lunch-whistle from inside the mill. Gault reviewed his
plans in his head. When the whistle blew again, he’d go
back in with the other men, the same way he had on two
previous dry runs. He’d slip into the store-room as if to
put his lunch away on the shelves they had there. He’d set
the timer then. For that night. Nine o’clock.

“Take off your shirt,” Scott ordered. Yula’s brow
narrowed. Scott produced a bottle of menthol rub.

“What’s that?” Yula asked.

“Medicine.”

“I told you–”

“All natural. Nothing really. Menthol.” Scott showed
her the ingredients on the bottle. “Now lay down.”

Worried, Yula laid back on the grass. She looked up through the trees, thick in this part of the forest, while Scott unbuttoned her shirt.

Her breasts were soft waves, rising and falling. Scott
stuck his fingers in the gooey jar and touched them to her
chest.

“It goes through the skin?” Yula asked.

“No,” Scott said. “Your skin heats up and the menthol
goes up your nose.”

“Charming,” Yula cringed.

Scott traced a wide arc around her nipple. Easy boy,
she’s sick remember.

Yula murmured softly. A breeze ruffled her hair. The
smell of menthol practically choked Scott.

“Is this for me, or is this for you?” Yula asked.

“Both.”

“I could have put this on myself,” Yula said.

Scott shook his head.

“You aren’t familiar with it. Very special touch
required.”

Yula grinned.

“You’re a dirty old man,” Yula told him.

“Yes, I am,” Scott admitted. He clapped the lid back on
the jar. “Now button up.”

With slight disappointment, Yula started to obey.

“No,” she said. “There is other medicine.” And she left
her shirt open and tugged at Scott’s jeans. They made love
casually, the smells of the menthol mingling with the pine
and grass. When they were done, on the ground with a
lifetime of sadness between them, Scott spoke.

“I talked to the FBI,” he admitted.

“What’s that?”

“The secret police,” Scott told her.

“We have done nothing wrong,” Yula protested.
“That won’t stop them,” Scott told her.

Yula swallowed hard.

“I have just one more question,” she said.

“What?”

“What’s ‘cop a feel’ mean?”

Scott choked.

“Where’d you hear that?” he asked.

Yula tapped gently on Scott’s skull. Scott’s face turned
red.

When they returned to the cabin, Xavier was coughing
violently.

“Did you take some of that medicine?” Scott asked.

“It tastes terrible!” Xavier exclaimed like a schoolboy.

“Take some more,” Scott said.

Gault removed his shirt. Sweat poured down his chest
between his ribs. He checked his watch for the hundredth
time that evening. 9:12. It should have gone off by now!
He picked up the motel phone. He’d make one more call.
Gault hung up the phone. No, it looks too suspicious. He
had a number of calls on record as an alibi already. Gault
stood and went to the door. Open it. Get some air, maybe
say hello to some of the other protesters. He’d already
been to the desk to check his mail. Four witnesses for an
alibi. Might as well find some more.

Gault stepped out onto the balcony and leaned on the
rail. He heard the laughter of people in the restaurant
below as he gazed in the direction of the pulp mill.

Beck’s Jeep pulled up below. Beck came up the steps. It was the last person Gault wanted to see. Still, if he was FBI, he could verify Gault’s whereabouts. Gault prayed the
bomb would go off right then.

“Hey Armstrong,” Beck greeted as he came down the
walkway.

“Hi,” Gault replied.

“Finish your laundry?”

“Yeah.”

“How come you didn’t come out to the picket line?” Beck
asked.

“Touch of flu,” Gault told him.

Beck looked at the sweat on Gault’s brow and believed
him. Clucking his tongue in sympathy, Beck entered his own
room.

copyright 2007 Brenda H all rights reserved

[tags]Brenda H, fiction, sci-fi, thriller, novel, action[/tags]