The sunlight peeked through the blinds and streamed into Arnold’s eyes. He stirred, waving at the sunlight as if it were a physical entity. If it weren’t for his cell phone buzzing on the counter, he never would have felt motivated to rise from the couch. The television was displaying a terribly made infomercial, and he made it a point to spit toward the television in disgust.
Arnold’s phone continued to buzz, vibrating across the counter; he caught it just as it went over the edge. He read the number flashing on the screen—Kevin Bradley—and flipped open his phone. “What?” he answered.
“Arnie, you’re gonna want to come down here. Now.”
Arnold had never heard Kevin so urgent before. “What is it?” he asked.
“Just come down to the station. It’s something very important.”
Arnold pulled up to the police station, and ran inside. He found Kevin pacing by his desk, and before he could ask what the matter was, he was dragged into the evidence room. Kevin closed the door behind them and flicked on the lights.
“Okay,” Kevin said as he rummaged through the evidence boxes. “While we were sorting through the things in her purse, we found the usual things that would be there—make-up, wallet, feminine hygiene products—but it was when we were looking through her cell phone that we noticed something strange. We noticed that her screen had weird green wallpaper, and what looked like a counter for something. When we browsed through her messages, we noticed that she was being very cautious about what she was saying. It was when I looked back through received messages that I noticed something that troubled me, so I called you right away.”
“What is it?” Arnold asked uneasily.
“Take a look for yourself.”
Kevin handed the cell phone over to Arnold, who nearly dropped the phone at what he read.
“You have eleven days to live. Live them wisely.”
The same feeling of dread fell over him reading this message that fell over him the day before in the parking lot. “Do you know when this message was sent?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
Kevin sighed and said, “August 14, exactly eleven days before she was murdered.”
“Were you able to trace it back to a number?”
“So far, no; it came from a restricted number, and we haven’t contacted the wireless company to do some tracing. But I’ll bet that whoever sent her this text also sent it to you. It’s nothing really, but I just thought I’d let you know what’s going on.”
“Thanks.”
Arnold slowly walked out of the evidence room. He heard the words that Kevin said—“It’s nothing really”—but something told him that it was more than that. He looked at the counter on his phone. Ten days, ten hours, and 26 minutes. It seemed like such a long time for nothing to be happening.
“Detective!”
Arnold turned to where the voice came from. One of the mailroom workers was jogging toward him, carrying a large box.
“Here,” he said, handing it to him. “This just came in for you.”
Arnold thanked the worker and inspected the box. It was crudely wrapped in brown packing paper, and in permanent marker someone wrote, “Detective Arnold Baxter, c/o Lorendo Police Department.” The rest of the address was neatly written by a postal worker. There was no return address on the box, which made him uneasy. He gently shook the box, and his eyes widened when he heard the faint sound of cogs turning.
Arnold froze—his 32 years of police experience never prepared him for holding a bomb in the middle of a crowded police station. He called out for Kevin, who came rushing into the lobby.
“It’s a bomb,” Arnold said, answering the confused look on Kevin’s face.
A few people walking by froze, eyes wide, wondering if they misheard what he had said. Kevin turned and screamed at the top of his lungs, “We have a 10-79, potential bomb threat! Everyone to position!”
A few officers scrambled to get the bystanders away from Arnold and his lethal package. Out of curiosity, Arnold checked the packing paper for any notes; for some reason, he knew that whoever sent this also sent him the text message, and that he was going to help him survive until September 4, at 7:00 PM—exactly eleven days later. A quick search uncovered a tiny message scribbled in pencil on the bottom: “You have two minutes, Arnold.”
“Less than two minutes until this thing blows!” Arnold shouted. The short time frame eased the tension, but not the urgency, in the room. Bystanders were still being ushered into other rooms, and two members of the bomb squad led him outside into the busy intersection. Officers were already working to clear the streets, frantically yelling at stubborn drivers that a bomb was being brought into the street, and it would be in their best interest to get the hell out of the way.
The bomb squad officers slowly led Arnold to the middle of the intersection and told him to gently place the package on the ground. As soon as the package touched the ground, the officers pulled him back into the building. No one moved as the package sat in the middle of the intersection, the pending explosion stealing the breath from everyone watching. Kevin glanced at his watch. “Take cover in ten seconds,” he said.
Everyone ducked behind benches and parked cars. Ten seconds, and the package was going to spray God knows what across the area. Someone was going to be injured or maimed, and was going to be in the hospital for a long, painful treatment. Six seconds. Arnold could barely watch; he ducked low behind the car, hoping that any shrapnel wasn’t going to bounce under the car and enter his back, paralyzing him. Other officers were beginning to duck down, as well; Kevin counted down the last few seconds, and everyone waited for the inevitable.
The seconds stretched into hours. Nothing was happening, and the tension slowly melted away. Kevin waited another thirty seconds before standing up and calling out, “All clear. It’s just a dud.”
A deafening crash knocked everyone to the ground. Glass in the surrounding stores exploded. Pieces of glass and metal shot everywhere. Arnold heard them enter the car like bullets, shattering the glass and ricocheting off of the wall in front of him. He also heard screams of pain and fright, one of them being his own. A few moments passed, and the last bit of metal that was shot into the air tinkled on the ground. Kevin peaked up from behind his cover, and signaled “All Clear”. Officers cautiously crept into the intersection, searching for anything that would help in an investigation, but there was nothing but slivers of metal, and the occasional twisted shard that offered no help.
Arnold peeked over the top of the car. Several people lay bleeding in the streets, not seriously injured, but enough to require an ambulance. He walked and inspected his little area of street, and saw a smoldering piece of paper lying on the ground. He picked it up, and read the familiar handwriting:
“Cherish your life, Arnold. You don’t have long.”
