A Safe Place for Dying by Jack Fredrickson Page A

cans from trucks, maids or nannies exiting beat-up cars left respectfully out on the street. Caretakers, silently serving unseen masters, like workers in ghost towns.
    â€œI heard a loud noise out by the road,” Stanley was saying. “I looked up and saw dirt and dust in the air outside of the wall. I figured a car accident—a car rolled, kicked up dirt. I drove out the gate, met one of my guys running from the guardhouse. We saw that.” He pointed ahead at the lamppost lying beside the hole.
    I looked at him. “No note?”

    He shook his head. “I checked the Board’s mailbox right after the explosion. Nothing.”
    In front of us, the two workmen, holding their shovels by the blade, poked gingerly into the hole.
    We watched for another minute, and then Stanley asked, “Anything new at your end?”
    It surprised me, because I thought he would have talked with the Bohemian. “I haven’t done anything since my report to Chernek. I told him the threat could be real, that you should take the letter to the police.”
    â€œI was wondering if you are investigating other things.”
    â€œI just did the letter and the envelope, Stanley.”
    We went back to watching the workmen. They probed into the hole slowly with their shovel handles, as if at pythons coiled in a pit.
    Traffic had picked up on the highway alongside of us. It was approaching six thirty, white-collar rush hour. Every few minutes, a Mercedes, B.M.W., or Jaguar, every third one of them painted black, slowed to turn into Gateville, their drivers oblivious to the workmen outside the wall. When I lived there, I used to wonder what it was with all that black. It wasn’t just the men with their luxury sedans. It was their pert, frosted blond wives, too, driving the most enormous of S.U.V.’s. Most of those were black, too, each looking big enough to haul four caskets, stacked properly. Amanda drove a white Toyota. Reason enough to love her, I’d told her once.
    The tall workman set down his shovel, bent down, and began lifting chunks of cement out of the hole. Then he got down on his knees and started scooping out dirt with cupped hands. After a minute, he stood up and gave us a wave. We walked back to the hole.
    â€œI don’t understand it, Mr. Novak,” the worker said, brushing off his hands on the sides of his overalls. “No gas pipe, just the wiring for the light post.”
    I bent down to look into the hole. Electrical wires of every color, reds, blues, greens, yellows, and more, severed by the blast,
spilled out of a ripped metal utility pipe and lay on the black dirt like multicolored baby serpents. There was no gas pipe.
    I kept my face calm, trying to ignore the vein pulsing in my forehead, as I thought about how much force must have been needed to pulverize the concrete. Stanley cocked his head slightly, warning me with his eyes to say nothing. He turned to the workmen. “Loose-fill the hole so no one can fall in.”
    I started back to the Jeep. He caught up with me.
    â€œNo way that was done with cherry bombs,” I said. I jerked open the door to the Jeep before Stanley could pull at it like a doorman, got in, and looked back out. His forehead sparkled with beads of sweat.
    â€œCall the cops, Stanley, or I will.” I twisted the ignition key, fed the engine too much gas, and cut ruts into his precious green parkway as I lurched onto the highway.

Five
    My cell phone rang at seven thirty the next morning, one minute after I’d switched it on. It was the Bohemian, and he didn’t take time to schmooze.
    â€œYou can’t go to the police.”
    â€œYour bomber is sending you another message.”
    â€œBy blowing up a lamppost?”
    â€œBy showing you he can do it anyplace.”
    â€œWe must wait for his letter.”
    â€œWhat if he doesn’t send one? He never did send a follow-up to collect money the last time.”
    â€œWe must