usual amount in an envelope," she concluded and added: "And remember, when your current lady dumps you, I'm here for you. Don't be shy, my boy," I heard her laughing.
"Sure, thanks," I finished the conversation.
Without delay, I called Dr. Jane Lockerby.
"Hi Jane, where are the Wimbledons, are they at the hospital?"
"Hi Mike, what’s happened? You seem very serious. The kids are here at the hospital. Lauren went back home."
"She might be in danger. What's her address? I need to get to her asap."
She gave me the address.
I dialed Martin's number: "Martin, I have to stay in Pittsburgh for a few more hours. I called Lilith and she saw the Wimbledons’ house being blow up. I have to pick her up and take her to the hospital, where she'll have police protection. Have you arranged that yet?"
"Yes, the cops should be at the hospital within two hours."
"Good, can you reschedule my flight for later today?"
"Sure."
"Thanks," I finished.
Squirrel Hill was a nice, leafy residential area. Wilkins Avenue was a very long street, cutting across Squirrel Hill diagonally and horizontally. I asked the cab-driver to stop a few houses before the Wimbledons’, paid him, asked him to wait, and briskly continued on foot. I scanned the area, it seemed quiet, no unusual individuals or cars. I knew this guy Ron Morgenthal was probably smart enough to realize that Lauren may get police protection, so he'd prefer to act fast. I just hoped it wasn't too late. It seemed too quiet for my liking.
I walked onto the property and approached the house. I knocked on the door and went along the porch to inspect the front of the house while waiting for Lauren. Then I noticed the explosives in a shaded area under the porch by the stairs. The self-timer showed “32 seconds.” "Fuck," I said and ran to the door. I kicked the door open, entered and shouted. "Lauren, it's Mike, there's a bomb, where are you?" I heard some music in the kitchen so I hurried there and saw Mrs. Wimbledon with an expression of surprise on her face.
I shouted: "Bomb, run!" and dragged her outside to the garden, as I’d noticed a sturdy brick garden shed in the far corner.
The explosion was massive, a hot wave swept thought the garden, splinters and masonry were flying all over the place. We were behind the shed. Its front wall caved in and the roof collapsed. But it held, and as it was quite far from the house, we were unscathed.
The Wimbledons’ house had ceased to exist. Lauren had had a narrow escape and was shaking with shock. The only words she managed to utter were: "Thank you Michael, you saved my life."
I took her to the hospital. The police were already there to keep an eye on her.
A little while later.
"Oh my god, Mike, what happened?" Dr. Jane asked anxiously.
"The gunman from the St Brigid School shooting wanted to finish off what he left unfinished. He planted a bomb in the Wimbledons’ house."
Jane couldn’t utter a word for a while.
"I'm so happy that you’re all right."
"I'm all right, but Lauren had a narrow escape," I answered.
"How did you know he would make an attempt on her life?"
"I have my sources," I said, I didn't mention it was a medium. That would cause more questions than necessary. "Besides, it was quite obvious. He didn't get her the first time, and didn't want to let it go."
"Poor girl, at least the police are here to protect her."
"She’ll probably need a shrink on top of that as well."
"Mike, you have no sympathy whatsoever."
"Just the opposite, I mean I wanted to pay for a few sessions with a psychologist, same as for her children."
"That's a different story now, but it didn't sound that way when you said ‘shrink.’ Have you ever heard about 'tact' in the context of human relationships? I’m not surprised you haven’t always had plain sailing with women." Dr. Jane added sarcastically.
Not knowing what to answer, I just said "She’s been through a lot recently, especially the bomb. Professional
Landon Dixon, Giselle Renarde, Beverly Langland