Chapter Twenty

Maxwell made it somehow to Culdero's residence. It was a house in Castaic Lake, square and boxy, three storeys, built right by the edge of the lake and isolated from its neighbors by a quarter mile of evergreen trees on either side.

He didn't remember most of the drive. It had happened on a kind of automatic pilot, a drugged maneuvering of the automobile in a robotic trance state. But, he had gotten here, and at 5:40 p.m. The first step through the gauntlet had been achieved.

Stopping the car in the u-shaped gravel driveway, he came back to awareness. He examined the home closely. Culdero had chosen well. A fairly large home, it was made of brick, with, suspiciously, the windows on the third level were either bricked up or closed tightly by heavy wooden shutters. Bomb-makers didn't like the public looking in their windows.

The lower dose of morphine had kept Maxwell from crying, but his hip pain radiated up into his abdomen and down to his right knee. Still, it was only pain. If he wound up having to get the whole joint replaced or was stuck in bed for a month after this scenario, he didn't care. It wasn't important. Ralph and the Counselor were important. Nabbing Culdero was important.

Two men came out of the house, guns in hand, and approached Bill in the car.

"Get out," one of them said, opening the driver side door, as the other turned away to ensure no one spied on them.

"Hold on," Bill said, "I'm not dancing a ballet here. I can hardly move." He lifted up his left arm. "Gimme a hand."

Frowning, the gunman put his gun in his holster and reached in for Maxwell, grabbing him under the armpits and roughly pulling him out, Maxwell's right leg, which he tried to keep as straight as possible, was the last body part out of the car. The man leaned Bill up against the car, and Bill rested his weight on his left leg.

"Get the crutches," he grunted, holding onto the bag.

"Don't boss me around," the man said.

Bill pinched his lips in annoyance. His pain gave him no allowance for prancing tough guys. "Shut up and do it."

The man waved his gun in Bill's face and Bill just shook his head towards the car. Brain dead goon, he thought. Putting his gun back again in its holster, the man brought the crutches out and Bill got them set under this arms, the bag hanging from his left hand.

"Inside," the man said, waving his gun toward the house.

"Sooner said than done," Bill warned.

He moved off at a snail's pace. He delicately placed the crutches, so that the pressure against his right shoulder wouldn't be too intense. As it was, his shoulder pain shot up into his neck and found its way down to his right fingers. Why pain couldn't just stay in one single spot he didn't know; nerves were unhelpful when injured. After the crutches were softly landed, he moved his legs forward, resting solely on his left leg, and ignoring the sharp throbbing each swing of his right leg produced. Well, not ignoring. Putting up with. Tolerating.

He progressed at the speed of one mile a day.

"Hurry up," one of the man ordered.

"This is hurrying. The recommended rate of movement for my hip is lying still."

It took five minutes to toddle thirty feet, but he made it inside the house, whose entryway he was relieved to find was right on ground level; no steps. His joy was quickly squashed.

"Upstairs," the men directed.

Maxwell looked up. There was a flight of fifteen stairs to the second floor and it seemed there was an equal number of stairs going to the third. If he could do it, which seemed unlikely, it would take hours.

"Where's the escalator?" he asked, turning his head left and right, checking out the house.

The ground floor was decked out as a typical living space: living room, kitchen and dining room, and other rooms in the back Bill couldn't delineate. Perfect for entertaining nosy neighbors wishing to come and be social.

"No escalator. Move it."

"Elevator? Dumb waiter? Crane?"

A gun poke in his back settled the questions.

It was out of the question Resting on his left leg, Bill put his crutches on the first step; using his shoulders, particularly his left, and doing a little hop, his legs ascended and Bill got himself balanced out. His heart was pounding and his hands were already slippery on the rubber crutch handles. It was getting hard to think—pain signals were taking over his brain, like a tornado warning alert was screeching inside his head. He was afraid he would lose focus and blow his simple, yet promising plan. Yet, another poke in his back set his course upwards. He made the second step; the third. He had to rest on that step.

"What's taking so long?" Culdero's voice floated downstairs.

"The stairs, Mr. Culdero," one of the man answered. "He's on crutches."

"Well, carry him up," came the answer. "I'll send Etienne down to help."

A third criminal joined them and was handed the crutches while the other two men figured out how to get the 6'2 agent upstairs. Maxwell remembered being carried out by O'Neil's colleagues when his ribs were fractured, with his legs straight out and his back slightly bent. It was better than a fireman carry. He explained it to the men and they nodded in understanding.

It didn't take too long. Bill was lean even though tall, and the two men managed fairly easily to lug him upstairs. Each jolt of his bent hip felt like an anvil directly clobbering his hip bone and caused him to cry out a few times, but it was no more painful than climbing each stair individually on crutches. And it was over in a couple of minutes, not the hours his climb would have taken.

Bill was put down at the top of the stairs on the third floor and given his crutches back. The room was lit only by hanging electric lights. It was designed more like a loft, with no walls or divided areas, just free, open space full of boxes, work tables, wires, and metal. Just a few tiny holes tapped through the walls enabled someone to view the outside, probably for monitoring anyone approaching the house.

Tied up nicely in two chairs but not gagged were Ralph and the Counselor, staring at him like he was an otherworldly ghost floating around the hall of some dark, gothic castle. Did he really look that bad or had they doubted he would come? He hoped the former; the latter would be insulting.

Bill wiped his face of perspiration. He felt like throwing up or passing out but instead headed their way.

"Bill!" Ralph said.

"Ralph. Counselor." Bill slowly dragged himself directly in front of Ralph and shook his right index finger at him. "Now will you listen when the old geezer gives advice?"

"I will, Bill. I will."

"You look awful," Pam said.

"Counselor, Rosie the Riveter is supposed to be positive and support the troops."

"Enough!" Culdero said, coming up to the three of them. "I see you came alone. Jose will maintain his watch, ensuring no one else arrives." A man went to one of the holes and peeped out.

"Good for Jose."

"You are a fool, Maxwell, to walk in here alone, your death trap."

"Maybe. But, perhaps you and I can make a deal, worth my life and the life of my friends."

"No deal can salvage one's honor."

"Cut the Knights of Glory garbage, Culdero. There's no honor in blowing up civilians."

"There is honor in getting one's job done right."

"Not if you're a mass murderer. Honor doesn't apply to limbs ripped from women and children. Now, do you want to talk business or kill me? Choose one or the other because I've got no stomach for listening to the nutcase philosophy of bomb-makers."

Ralph sat there mesmerized by his friend's audacity. Deal from strength, certainly, but couldn't he push Culdero too far?

Culdero glared at Bill, stroking his thin mustache. Tense seconds passed.

Bill looked around, "While you're thinking there, Culdie, could I get some water?" Due to his perspiration and his anxiety, Bill's mouth was parched.

The impasse lasted another few seconds, as Ralph and Pam exchanging alarmed looks. Bill looked frankly indifferent.

Culdero finally spoke to one of his men, "Get him water." To Maxwell he said, "You mentioned your partner being bomb-proof. Is that what you think might save your life?"

Bill drank down the large glass of proffered water. "I've got something you want, and therefore you should give me something I want. I'll make you bomb-proof, and you'll release my friends and me."

Culdero laughed. "Show me."

Bill wrangled the tunic out of the bag and held it out for Culdero to view. "This is a secret government prototype suit made of special material, various metallic and plastic polymers forged together. No shrapnel can penetrate it and the force of an explosion cannot break through the material either, so limbs stay attached to bodies. It's an Army project, and me and Ralph were assigned to try it out in our investigation of you. Let him put it on, then toss a grenade at him or wire him with plastic explosives—he'll be fine."

"I don't believe it," Culdero said, pulling the whole suit out and studying it. "Even you Americans cannot have such technology."

"Oh? Then how did Ralph escape the condo bomb and stop the one in my hospital room?"

Culdero glanced at Ralph who knew enough to sit quietly and let Bill run the show. "What about his face? There is no protection for it."

"It came with a face mask, but Ralph lost it. He's bad with losing things."

But, he can protect his face by covering it with his arms or the cape."

Ralph remembered JJ Beck telling Bill he had a middle-level mind, and how Bill shot an embarrassed look at Ralph at that declaration. He hadn't needed to. Ralph knew then how off the mark JJ was. Bill wasn't a rocket scientist and didn't know much about classic literature or the opera, but his mind was rapid fire quick, he was cunning, and he could take disparate clues and mold together the answer to any confusing case. He could also get bikers to leap off roofs, maniacal mafioso to chase him in armored cars, and now, have an explosive expert convinced the US Army had invented a bomb-proof suit. He was amazing to watch at times. He noticed Pam was equally enthralled. Bill's proficient manipulation of Culdero made up for another sarcastic reference to him losing the instruction book.

Culdero gave Maxwell a look of incredulity.

"Look, don't trust my words," Bill said, shrugging his right shoulder by habit, only to grimace at the pain. "Have Ralph put the suit on, and then do your stuff. If it works, wouldn't you want to have it? This is the only one in existence. I bet you love to watch your explosions. You could stand in the marketplace as your bomb went off, enjoying your masterpiece at it happened."

Bill was disgusted even thinking about what he was saying, but his intuition had pegged Culdero correctly and his nemesis was wholly drawn into his scenario.

"If I give him the suit, he will be invincible," Culdero said.

"Nah," Bill lied. "Just bomb-proof. It doesn't give him Super Speed or Super Strength or make him invisible or anything. He can't stop you shooting me or his wife."

"What will keep me from taking the suit, and then killing you all anyway?"

"Your honor, I suppose."

"Yes, my honor…" Culdero said. "Which you disdain."

"Yeah, but I also disdain your caterpillar mustache, and you wear that. Honor is self-motivating, Culdero, not dependent on what anyone else thinks. So, do we have a deal or not?"

"Why shouldn't I have one of my own men try it on?"

"Sure, go ahead. But, they should first watch Ralph do it, to show them how to stand correctly to buffer the blast force."

It was a bravura performance. Twenty years in the FBI replete with dangerous confrontations and active experience, combined with a keen insight into the criminal mindset made Bill Maxwell's ruse successful. It was, frankly, remarkable. By controlling Culdero like a puppet on strings, Culdero agreed to allow Ralph to put on his jammies.

"Untie him. Give him the suit," Culdero said, pointing at Ralph.

Ralph and Pam kept their lips zipped tightly together as Ralph's bonds were undone, thus enabling them to contain their shrieks of joy.

A freed Ralph stood up almost too excited to coordinate his motions. It took him several attempts to get his shirt buttons undone and he stumbled taking off his shoes, causing him to fall to the floor.

"They gave someone so clumsy such important technology?" Culdero asked.

"Something I've wondered a few times myself," Bill agreed.

It was equally difficult for Ralph to put the suit on, and the tunic got stuck on the top of his head for a few seconds as his clothed arms flailed in the air.

Ralph, get a move on. I'm t-minus five minutes from meltdown, Bill thought. His pain was now winning the battle. Standing up on the crutches maintained a straight hip, but all the abuse it had suffered in the last two hours felt like a white hot brand was pressed against his side, searing his flesh. The crutches irritated his shoulder. His head wound throbbed, he hadn't eaten all day, and he was physically exhausted. He had pushed himself longer than imaginable and was sensing a grayness surrounding his consciousness, like vultures circling over a dying animal. It was time for Ralph to grab the baton and start running. Bill had gone as far as he could.

Finally Ralph was all suited up. Culdero had a grenade in hand and Ralph cooperated by standing in the middle of the large room, everyone else moving to the sides behind boxes, the sofa, roof stabilizing poles. Pam was carried in the chair to safety. It was torture for Bill to spend more energy, but he rambled behind one of the wide wooden poles.

"Go ahead, Culdero, toss it," Bill said. "Ralph, when it blows, you know what to do."

Ralph understood. "Got it, Bill."

Culdero threw the primed grenade expertly and it rolled exactly to Ralph's feet. Ralph covered his face with his cape, and the grenade went off. Tossed back but uninjured by the weapon, Ralph landed on the floor as everyone cowered protecting themselves. Turning invisible, Ralph set about running throughout the loft. He took the criminals' guns, crushed them, and then sent them flying into whatever immovable object he saw. Men crashed into poles and brick walls, the metal edge of work tables, knocked unconscious. When all five were disposed off, Ralph became visible again, untied his wife and they all turned to face the shocked face of Culdero, his hand in his pocket.

"Sorry, Culdero," Maxwell said. "I lied. I'm not very honorable, I guess. Somehow I'm not too worried it's going to keep me up at night."

At that moment the back wall of the house exploded out over the lake. Ralph covered Pam's body with his own, while Maxwell, leaning up against his pole, was protected from the blast. The view from the loft now contained a deep blue lake, trees, cirrus clouds, and a boat or two motoring along in the distance.

Culdero pulled a device out of his pocket and dashed downstairs.

"Ralph! Use your mind—"

A second explosion occurred, this one significantly more forceful and from deeper in the room.

All three of them went airborne.