Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [28]
To the other members of the Bomb Squad, Delgaldo Lopez, the cop they called Geronimo, was indeed a warrior.
• • •
“HOW YOU WANNA play it?” Dumane asked, rubbing the back of his neck, looking around the boarded-up church.
“It’s a simple mech,” Geronimo said, still studying the bomb. “Won’t take more than two minutes, three at the outside, to shut down.”
“So what’s the problem?” Dumane said. “Do it and let’s get the hell outta here.”
“It’s too easy,” Geronimo said. “Guy goes to all the trouble of putting one in a church. Even calls it in, lets us know where it is and how much time is left. Then he leaves this, something a kid with a scope and scissors could take down?”
“Whatta ya sayin’, G?” Dumane asked. “Maybe he’s just not that good.”
“Or maybe he’s better than we think.”
Geronimo was on his feet now, scanning the empty church, searching for the shape of a bomb, the scent of the powder, his mind no longer that of a cop, but of a lone man bent on destruction.
“The crew peel through the church?” Geronimo asked, eyes looking up at a silver organ in the balcony.
“They stopped when they found the device,” Dumane said. “Why?”
“I’ll take this one down,” Geronimo said. “But have them check everything else while I do.”
“You make me so fuckin’ nervous when I hear you talk like this,” Dumane said. “Whatta ya tellin’ me?”
“He laid in two, Commander,” Geronimo said, looking at Dumane. “The other one’s the blaster. This one’s just here to keep us busy.”
“You sure about this?”
“We could take a vote,” Geronimo said. “If you think we got the time.”
“Dummy this one,” Dumane said, running from the altar. “I’ll send for you if we find another.”
“If I’m not here, I’ll be up there,” Geronimo said, pointing to the balcony. “Up by the organ.”
“Why there?” Dumane shouted over his shoulder.
“I like organs,” Geronimo said with a smile.
• • •
GERONIMO WOULD SPEND vacations losing himself in the hills of Arizona, hiking and horseback riding through the ragged terrain of the Sedona red rock region. He went for weeks at a time, alone, seeking to keep alive the ways of his Indian ancestors and to hold on to a promise made to his mother the year he first became a member of the Bomb Squad.
“You now live among the violent,” his mother told him on that day, her voice a lyrical mix of Ponce and prairie. “Your mind and body travel in their circle. Keep your spirit strong and alive. Put it in a place it cannot be touched by evil hands.”
“I will, Mama,” Geronimo said, gently stroking the thick skin of the old woman’s face. He looked in her eyes, dancing to their own flame, and saw in them the beauty of her youth. He didn’t need the strength of the spirit world to know how easy it must have been for his father to fall in love with her.
“You visit the lands where the spirit still roams,” she said, holding his hand to her face. “Let them show you the way. It is what will keep you safe. And make me know that I will not lose a son as I have lost a husband.”
“I miss him too,” Geronimo said. His father had suffered a stroke and died halfway through what would have been his last voyage on a merchant ship. It took three weeks for the body to make its way back home. As he had requested, Carlos Lopez was cremated and his ashes scattered about the family farm in the tropical hills of Puerto Rico.
“You have your memories,” his mother said. “And I have his heart.”
“I should go,” Geronimo said. “Won’t look good to be late on my first day.”
“Before you go, take this,” Gloria Lopez said, opening the hand that rested on her knee. Curled up in her palm was a medallion in the shape of a horse hung from a thin gold chain.
“What is it?” Geronimo asked, holding it up to the dim light of the shuttered apartment.
“Put it on,” his mother said. “And never take it off. Promise me.”
Geronimo took the medallion from his mother and hung it around his neck, tucking it inside his sweater collar. He leaned over, kissed her cheek, and held her close. It was the body of an old woman, and he would not have her for