Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [30]
Geronimo rested the pliers on a long strand of white wire. His hand was steady, eyes were calm. All the tension was internal, buried inside nerve endings, heart beating at such a furious pace, he could feel it pounding against his vest.
He snapped the white wire and held his breath.
“It’s the red,” Geronimo said. “That’s the main hookup. Once I give you all the nitro, take it to the truck. I’ll meet you outside.”
“There you go, tryin’ to get rid of me again.”
Geronimo turned to look at his commander, less than three minutes left on the timer, and smiled. “I’m trusting you with the hard part,” he said. “I don’t like nitro. Makes me nervous.”
“I’ll try not to trip down the steps,” Dumane said.
“Ready?” Geronimo asked, setting the pliers down on his chest and reaching for the first bottle of nitro.
“No.” Dumane removed the lid from the chalice and gripped its base with his left hand. “But don’t let that stop you.”
Geronimo’s hands were steady as he lifted the first thimble-size bottle of nitro from its sleeve with two index fingers. He handed the bottle to Dumane without looking at him, his eyes never veering from the device, afraid to turn away. Dumane took the bottle with one hand, slowly rested it inside the chalice, and readied for the next.
Geronimo lifted the second nitro bottle, had it halfway removed, and then stopped. There was a thin copper wire attached to the base of the bottle, the other end connected to a sixty-second timer that started ticking down as soon as he touched the bottle.
“Shit!” Geronimo said, nearly dropping the bottle in his anger. “Smartass little fuck!”
“Please God tell me I’m the one did something wrong,” Dumane breathed.
“The whole bomb’s a setup. Everything’s here, on this nitro bottle. The rest is all bullshit. Only one fuse, one bottle, and all the dynamite.”
“How much time?”
“Just enough to get lucky.” Geronimo held the bottle between his two index fingers, watching the clock tick down to forty-five seconds.
“Cut the wire,” Dumane said. “It’s your only move.”
“It’s the move I’m supposed to make,” Geronimo said. “Every move’s been the one I’m supposed to make.”
“What ain’t you supposed to do?” Dumane asked. “Or maybe I don’t wanna know this part.”
The clock was down to thirty seconds.
Geronimo could feel his pulse pounding against the sides of his wrists, sweat running down his forehead, into his eyes, stinging his vision. He took a slow breath and swallowed hard, throat dry as stone. He eased two more fingers around the center of the nitro bottle, tightened his grip, and then waited for the timer to tick down to ten seconds.
“You sure about this, G?” Dumane asked, gritting his teeth as he held the chalice tight and steady.
Geronimo pulled the nitro bottle from its slot. The short tug snapped both the nitro and the sticks of dynamite linked to it from the cord.
No sound came out of the dark and empty church.
The timer stopped at six seconds.
“Call in the cavalry, Commander,” Geronimo said, resting the back of his wet head against cold marble. “We’re done here.”
“Now, that’s a funny request,” Dumane said, inching his way slowly from under the organ. “You being an Indian and all.”
“Redskin humor,” Geronimo said. “Works all the time.” He placed the nitro bottle back in its slot, unsnapped his vest, and folded his hands across his chest. His fingers felt for the medallion and squeezed it through the cold wetness of his shirt. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer of thanks to his God for helping him save the house of another.
• • •
GERONIMO SAT WITH legs crossed inside the large tent, facing the old man in the buckskin jacket. There was a full fire flaring between them, heat casting both faces in its auburn glow. The old man smoked tobacco from a thin wooden pipe and drank coffee out of a cracked black cup. Outside, heavy flakes of snow fell to the hard ground.
“Do you wish to smoke?” the man asked in a voice as lived-in as an old sweater.
“I’m okay with just the coffee,” Geronimo said, the flames dancing like lit matches in his eyes.
“Your face