The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara (13 page)

Regretting that the flight was over, Ryan sat down for the champagne brunch that was included in the package. He engaged in small talk with the young couple, who told him they were from Maine. He thought about Carol and imagined bringing her to this spot someday on a honeymoon, should he live long enough and be lucky enough to find her still waiting for him.

R
yan didn’t go back to the hotel after the tour concluded. Instead, he began his search for Gilbert Hayward, who he already knew lived outside of town near Oak Creek Canyon. He’d learned that much from the article he’d read about him.

Going to the post office to inquire about Hayward’s address was out of the question. To do so would be setting himself up as a suspect in Gilbert’s demise, should some postal worker recall his inquiries after the bombing. No, he’d have to go through the monotony of exploring any side roads in the area of the canyon. He hoped there wouldn’t be too many of these leading
off the main highway and that he’d be able to quickly locate his quarry.

Ryan searched for the remainder of the morning and into the early afternoon. After passing numerous campsites and a few empty cabins, he finally came across one that looked as though it was inhabited. It was situated in the woods well off the beaten path, away from people.

Any plans for sneaking up on the dwelling were soon dashed by the bark of a golden retriever that sauntered up to where he’d parked at the edge of the wood line that skirted the clearing surrounding the cabin. The dog was friendly and vigorously wagged its tail as Ryan emerged from the car.

A man appeared in the door and called out, “May I help you?”

Ryan immediately recognized the man as Gilbert Hayward. He’d seen many pictures of him. He looked just as disheveled and unkempt in person as he did in the photos published in the underground press.

Ryan approached the cabin and replied, “Well, maybe you can. I don’t know. Are you Professor Hayward?

“Yes, I am,” Gilbert answered. He looked curious. “What is it that you want?”

Ryan had to think fast. His plans didn’t include actually meeting the man before he killed him, but then everyone knows that plans are rarely carried out as conceived.

“I’m a reporter and I’m here to do a follow-up article on the one written about you a few months back. I’d like to know how your book’s coming along and what plans you have after it’s completed,” Ryan said. He hoped that
would do and that Gilbert wouldn’t ask for a press card, which, of course, he wouldn’t be able to produce.

Gilbert surprised Ryan by inviting him into the cabin.

Once inside, Ryan understood why the guy was so careless. The sweet smell of marijuana hung thick in the air. Gilbert Hayward was high and his guard was down. Absent his usual paranoia, he was feeling no pain, emotional or otherwise. Not only was he letting a total stranger into his home, he didn’t ask for press credentials or even for what publication Ryan wrote. This was going to be too easy.

“Would you care for a joint?” Gilbert asked, as if that was as natural a thing to offer a guest as a cup of coffee or a beer.

“No, thanks, but I’ll take a glass of water,” replied Ryan, who soon regretted the request when he saw the greasy, dirt-stained glass that Gilbert brought him.

Setting the glass aside, he sized up his prey and began contemplating what would be the best way of getting on with his task. He was uncomfortable in the dark cabin with this filthy pothead and was anxious to be on his way.

They sat and discussed Gilbert’s radical past, his book, and his future plans. Gradually, the former professor began to come down off his high and the paranoia returned. “Who did you say you write for?” Gilbert asked.

“I didn’t,” Ryan replied.

“Well, you know, I think you should show me your credentials before we continue this interview. I should have asked you earlier but I, uh…”

Ryan sprang from his chair and sent Gilbert Hayward crashing to the floor with a right cross to the jaw.

Bending over, he checked to make sure Gilbert was out cold. He looked around the room for something to restrain him with and located a couple of dog leashes, which he used to hog-tie the aging radical’s hands and feet.

Ryan left the cabin and crossed the clearing to his car. He got in and drove it around to the back of the dwelling, retrieved his carry bag from the trunk, and reentered.

Gilbert was beginning to stir and was soon fully conscious. He looked frightened as he asked, “Is this about…?”

“Yes,” Ryan replied, without letting Gilbert finish his question. “This is about your past and should make a nice addition to your unfinished book, which I’m sure will be a best seller. That is, if one of your radical colleagues decides to have it published.”

Gilbert grew exceedingly agitated as he watched Ryan remove the metal box from his carry bag and place it on the floor in from of him. “What is that thing?” he asked, his voice quivering.

Ryan smiled and replied, “Well now, you’re an intelligent man. What do you think it is?”

Any doubts Gilbert may have had vanished when he saw Ryan extend two lengths of time fuse from the portals at the bottom of what he was now certain was a bomb.

As he attached the two M-81 igniters to the ends of the two pieces of cord, Ryan asked, “Still don’t know what this is, Professor Hayward?”

Gilbert’s eyes watered and his voice shook as he half asked and half stated, “So you’re the one who burned the Delgadillos alive.”

Ryan grinned and nodded. ‘You’re a smart man. But don’t worry, I gave them special treatment, because with them it was personal. You, well…Dealing with you is more like tying up some loose ends. You were part of the problem but not really one of those who affected me personally, so I’m going to dispatch you quickly and by the same means that you found effective when waging your insurrection against innocent people. Compared to what I did to Bill and Brenda, you’ll go easy. Won’t feel a thing.”

Ryan was positioning the bomb under Gilbert’s chin when the golden retriever appeared in the doorway to the cabin. “Shit, I forgot about him. What the fuck am I going to do with him, Professor? I mean, he’s an innocent dog. He didn’t do anything to anyone and shouldn’t have to pay for what you did, now, should he? Come on, man, give me some ideas. Should I kill him or take him with me, or what?”

“For Christ’s sake, you lunatic, it’s a dog! You’re about to blow my head off and you’re asking me about my dog! What kind of an animal are you? Are you insane?” Gilbert had finally blown a gasket and was totally hysterical. Ryan wasn’t surprised. They all got that way when they were about to make their exit.

“Tell you what, Gilbert baby, you oxygen-thieving son of a bitch. I’ll put him in my car and see that he’s taken care of. He’ll be all right. Don’t you worry,” Ryan assured him.

Ryan picked up his carry bag and made sure he wasn’t leaving anything behind before leading the dog
outside. He closed the door behind him. Proceeding to his car, he put the dog in the back seat, placed his bag in the trunk, and drove across the clearing, parking just inside the trees. He returned to the cabin and found Gilbert soaking in his own sweat. He’d rolled off the bomb but hadn’t gotten far. Being hog-tied really wasn’t conducive to mobility.

“Goddamn it, Gilbert. Now why in the hell did you have to do that? Here I had you all propped up nice and neat with your jaw resting all comfy on my bomb, and you had to go and fuck it all up. I’m trying to be considerate and give you an easy way out and you thank me by causing me all this extra work. Maybe I should just forget about the bomb and do you like I did ole Bill and his pig. Waddaya think? You up for a roast?”

Gilbert was babbling incoherently and Ryan didn’t know if he was even cognizant of what was going on anymore. Maybe he’d flipped out and gone completely insane. Nothing he was mumbling was discernable.

Ryan placed the bomb back under the condemned man’s chin and began the final task of stretching the time fuse across the floor. He walked across the clearing to his car and placed the ends with igniters on the ground.

Walking back to the cabin, he went inside and took one last look at the former bomber and anarchist. His eyes were rolling around in his head like a couple of marbles. Yeah, he was out of it all right, totally oblivious and detached from reality. Donning gloves, Ryan grabbed a piece of paper and typed a message, which he left on Gilbert’s typewriter alongside his manuscript. It read, “Fuck Lenin’s Legion.”

Three quarters of the way back to his car, Ryan laid the typewriter down in the clearing before heading into the woods, where he picked up the time fuse and activated the igniters. The force from the blast, magnified by the IV-bag fluid, sent a shock wave that caused Gilbert Hayward’s head to fly, in thousands of pieces, through the roof of his cabin in the woods.

Guessing that the hills and other topographical features in the area had probably deflected and muffled the sound of the blast, Ryan traveled at a normal speed. There wasn’t any use in drawing attention to himself by driving too fast. He headed several miles south on Highway 179 before turning northwest at a connecting road and heading back to Highway 89a. By taking this route, he would enter Sedona from the opposite direction of the bombing and throw off anyone who might be monitoring traffic coming into town.

Just outside the town of Cornville, Ryan let the golden retriever out of the car and proceeded on. He felt confident that some animal lover in the small bedroom community just south of Sedona would surely adopt the pooch, especially in light of the fact that it wasn’t tagged and would probably never be linked to its deceased owner.

R
yan decided to stick around Sedona for a couple more days. Figuring that the authorities would be checking hotel registrations, he knew that leaving too soon could send up flags that might draw unwanted attention his way. He’d use the extra time to hike some of the local trails and rest up before moving east on the next leg of his journey of retribution.

Word of Gilbert Hayward’s gruesome death spread rapidly. Residents and tourists alike were horrified by reports trickling in about the headless torso and limbs found strewn about what was left of the late professor’s cabin. The question of the day seemed to be, “Who would do such a thing and why?” True, the man was an
unwashed oddball, but that hardly merited the wrath brought down upon him. Or so it seemed, until someone, probably from law enforcement, leaked something about an obscene note that disparaged Lenin’s Legion. A little research by the media soon suggested that this violent act of decapitation by bomb must somehow be linked to the late Mr. Hayward’s past. The assumption quickly took on a life of its own and became the main theme of the news stories that followed.

Ryan wondered how long it would take for someone to put two and two together and connect the murder in Sedona with the ones in Chicago. He knew there was the possibility that detectives or even perhaps an investigative reporter digging into the pasts of these murderous, subhuman reptiles would come up with a theory that the killings were related. Even so, he was secure in the belief that none of them would be linked to him. After all, he’d been a little boy when Lenin’s Legion was engaged in its insurrection. No, it was more likely that those curious enough to pursue answers would direct their attention toward former law enforcement officers or those associated with them.

As far as the two black militants who’d been killed at San Quentin were concerned, Ryan was confident that their demise wouldn’t be looked upon as anything more than the result of a prison-yard rumble between three racist prison gangs arguing over turf.

After two days, Ryan decided that enough time had elapsed since the bombing and headed out of town.

Passing Flagstaff, he drove north and then east through Monument Valley. Surrounded by red
sandstone buttes, he poked along toward Four Corners, where Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico meet, and then on to Moab, Utah, the gateway to the Arches National Park, where he called it a day.

Ryan found a small apartment in a home that had been converted into a day-to-day tourist rental by a family who occupied another part of the same house. Equipped with a living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom, it was a welcome change from the hotel rooms he usually stayed in when traveling. The proprietor even brought him a half dozen eggs and some bread for the following day’s breakfast.

Ryan decided to eat in and, after returning from a nearby store, he cooked himself steak, a couple of eggs, and some potatoes.

He fell asleep in front of the TV after dinner and missed the ongoing coverage of Gilbert’s death and the punditry that connected it to the Delgadillo killings.

“Q
UIET! DAMN IT, SHUT UP!” yelled Pat Finnegan. He was annoyed as he tried to hear the news. His small pub in upper Manhattan was abuzz with the noise and laughter that was the norm in his blue-collar, working-stiff’s bar. Finnegan had owned the place for years—a fact that seemed completely contrary to his anti-capitalist views.

“Hey, fuck you, Paddy! Who’s payin’ the bills here, anyways?” yelled a burly stevedore, whose sentiments were echoed by a chorus of profanity and catcalls from the other customers.

“Goddamn it, Gus, give me a fuckin’ break. They’re talking about some old friends of mine who’re turning
up dead all over the country. Looks like some sort of vendetta or pattern might be emerging or something.”

The place quieted down as the patrons, all in various stages of intoxication, put down their pool cues and looked away from the pinball machines. They focused on the local news anchor as he reported, “Gilbert Hayward, a sixties radical and former member of Lenin’s Legion, is believed to be the fourth victim of someone who may be a serial killer. A note found near the cabin where Hayward was killed by a bomb indicates that revenge may be the motive for what is clearly beginning to look like an assassination campaign targeting former members of the radical organization that spread terror on the streets and college campuses of America in the nineteen-sixties and seventies.