She'd slipped into a Burger King, to let the dust settle. She'd ditched the contents of the satchel, but, to her dismay, the police were spreading out and talking to everybody at the mall. Harriet decided she had to find a fall guy to take attention away from her. She'd spotted a solo shopper, a man about her height with light hair--in case the trooper had seen her in the backseat. She stuck her Glock in his ribs, pulling him behind the BK, then grabbed his wallet. She found a picture of three spectacularly plain children and made a fake call on her mobile to an imaginary assistant, telling him to get to the poor guy's house and round up the kidlings.
If he didn't do exactly as she said, they'd be shot, oldest to youngest. His wife would be the last to go.
She got his car keys and told him to stand in the crowd. If any cops came to talk to him he was to run and if he was caught he should throw the pack at them and keep running. If he got stopped he should say nothing. She, of course, was going to dime him out--and when the police went after him she would have a chance to take his car and leave. It would have worked fine, except that goddamn detective--O'Neil was his name--had her stay put so she could formally ID the sandy-haired guy. Oh, how she wanted to get the hell out of there. But she couldn't arouse suspicion, so Harriet had cooled her heels, sucking down Diet Coke, and tried to wrestle with the anger and sorrow about her brother and Gabe.
Then O'Neil and the poor bastard had returned. She'd IDed him with a fierce glance of warning and given them some fake information on how to reach her.
And now she was in his car, heading back to the Dunes Inn.
Oh, Wayne, I'll miss you! Gabe, too.
The motel loomed. She sped into the parking lot and braked to a stop.
She was then aware of an odd vibration under her hands. The steering column. What was it?
An earthquake?
A problem with the car?
She shut the engine off but the vibration grew louder.
Leaves began to move and the dust swirled like a tornado in the parking lot.
And Harriet understood. Oh, shit."
She pulled her Glock from her bag and sprinted toward the motel door, firing blindly at the helicopter as it landed in the parking lot. Several officers and, damn it, that detective, O'Neil, charged toward her. "Drop the weapon, drop the weapon!"
She hesitated and laid the gun and her keychain on the ground. Then she dropped facedown beside them.
Harriet was cuffed and pulled to her feet.
O'Neil was approaching, his weapon drawn and looking for accomplices. A cluster of cops dressed like soldiers was slowly moving toward the motel room.
"Anyone in there?" he asked.
"No."
"It was just the three of you?"
"Yes."
The detective called, "Treat it dynamic in any case."
"How'd you know?" she snapped.
He looked her over neutrally. "The cargo pants."
"What?"
"You described the man in the car and said one was wearing cargo pants. You couldn't see the pants of somebody inside a car from sixty feet away. The angle was wrong."
Hell, Harriet thought. Never even occurred to her.
O'Neil added that the man they'd believed was one of the conspirators was acting too nervous. "It occurred to me that he might've been set up. He told me what you'd done. We tracked his car here with his GPS." O'Neil was going through her purse. "You're his sister, Wayne's."
"I'm not saying anything else." Harriet was distracted, her eyes taking in the motel room.
O'Neil caught it and frowned. He glanced down at her keychain, which held both a fob for her car and the second one.
She caught his eye and smiled.
"IED in the room!" he called. "Everybody back! Now."
It wasn't an explosive device, just a gas bomb Gabe had rigged in the event something like this happened. It had been burning for three minutes or so--she'd pushed the remote control the second she'd seen the chopper--but the smoke and flames weren't yet visible.
Then a bubble of fire burst through two of the windows.
Armed with extinguishers, the tactical team hurried inside to salvage what they could, then retreated as the flames swelled. One officer called, "Michael! We spotted a box of plastic explosive detonators, some timers."
Another officer ran up to O'Neil and showed him what was left of a dozen scorched documents. They were the floor plan for the site of the attack at the CCCBA party. He studied it. "A room with a stage. Could be anywhere. A corporation, school, hotel, restaurant." He sighed.
Harriet panicked, then relaxed, as she snuck a glimpse and noted that the name of the motel was on a part of the sheet that had burned to ash.
"Where is this?" O'Neil asked her bluntly.
Harriet studied it for a moment and shook her head. "I've never seen that before. You planted it to incriminate me. The government does that all the time."
# # #
At the Bankers' party the high school students arrived, looking scrubbed and festive, all in uniforms, which Carol approved of. Tan slacks and blazers for the boys, plaid skirts and white blouses for the girls.
They were checking out the treats--and the boys were probably wondering if they could cop a spiked punch--but would refrain from anything until after the twenty-minute concert. The kids took their music seriously and sweets tended to clog the throat, her grandson had explained.
She hugged the blond, good-looking boy and shook the hand of the chorus director.
"Everyone, everyone!" she called. "Take your seats."
And the children climbed up on stage, taking their positions.
# # #
The clock in the interrogation room registered 3:51.
Dance broke off the debate for a moment and read and sent several text messages, as Wayne Keplar watched with interest.
3:52.
"Your expression tells me the news isn't good. Not making much headway elsewhere?"
Kathryn Dance didn't respond. She slipped her phone away. "I'm not finished with our discussion, Wayne. Now, I pointed out you were hypocritical to kill the very people you purport to represent."
"And I pointed out a hole a mile wide with that argument."
"Killing also goes against another tenet of yours."
Wayne Keplar said calmly, "How so?"
"You want religion taught in school. So you must be devout. Well, killing the innocent is a sin."
He snickered. "Oh, please, Ms. Firecracker. Read the Bible sometime: God smites people for next to nothing. Because somebody crosses Him or to get your attention. Or because it's Tuesday, I don't know. You think everybody drowned in Noah's flood was guilty of something?"
"So al-Qaeda's terrorist tactics are okay?"
"Well, al-Qaeda itself--'cause they want the strongest government of all. It's called a theocracy. No respect for individuals. But their tactics? Hell, yes. I admire the suicide bombers. If I was in charge, though, I'd reduce all Islamic countries to smoking nuclear craters."
Kathryn Dance looked desperately at the clock, which showed nearly 3:57.
She rubbed her face as her shoulders slumped. Her weary eyes pleaded. "Is there anything I can say to talk you into stopping this?"
3:58.
"No, you can't. Sometimes the truth is more important than the individuals. But," he added with a sincere look. "Kathryn, I want to say that I appreciate one thing."
No more Ms. Firecracker.
"What's that?" she said in a whisper, eyes on the clock.
"You took me seriously. That talk we just had. You disagree, but you treated me with respect."
4:00 p.m.
Both law officer and suspect remained motionless, staring at the clock.
A phone in the room rang. She leaned over and hit the speaker button fast. "Yes?"
The staticky voice, a man's. "Kathryn, it's Albert. I'm sorry to have to tell you..."
She sighed. "Go on."
"It was an IED, plastic of some sort... We
don't have the count yet. Wasn't as bad as it could be. Seems the device was under a stage and that absorbed some of the blast. But we're still looking at fifteen or so dead, maybe fifty injured... Hold on. CHP's calling. I'll get back to you."
Dance disconnected, closed her eyes briefly then glared at Keplar. "How could you?"
Wayne frowned; he wasn't particularly triumphant. "I'm sorry, Kathryn. This is the way it had to be. It's a war out there. Besides, score one for your side--only fifteen dead. We screwed up."
Dance shivered in anger. But she calmly said, "Let's go."
She rose and knocked on the door. It opened immediately and two large CBI agents came in, also glaring. One reshackled Keplar's hands behind him, hoping, it seemed, for an excuse to Taser the prisoner. But the man was the epitome of decorum.
One agent muttered to Dance, "Just heard, the death count's up to--"
She waved him silent, as if denying Keplar the satisfaction of knowing the extent of his victory.
# # #
She led the prisoner out the back of CBI, toward a van that would ultimately transport him to the Salinas lockup.
"We'll have to move fast," she told the other agents. "There're going to be a lot of people who'd like to take things into their own hands."
The area was largely deserted. But just then Dan Simmons, the blogger who'd pestered Dance earlier, the Jude Law lookalike, peered around the edge of the building as if he'd been checking every few minutes to see if they'd make a run for it this way. Simmons hurried toward them, along with his unwashed cameraman.
Dance ignored him.
Simmons asked, "Agent Dance, could you comment on the failure of law enforcement to stop the bombing in time?"
She said nothing and kept ushering Keplar toward the van.
"Do you think this will be the end of your career?"
Silence.
"Wayne, do you have anything to say?" the blog reporter asked.
Eyes on the camera lens, Keplar called, "It's about time the government started listening to people like Osmond Carter. This never would have happened if he hadn't been illegally arrested!"
"Wayne, what do you have to say about killing innocent victims?"
"Sacrifices have to be made," he called.
Simmons called, "But why these particular victims? What's the message you're trying to send?"
"That maybe bankers shouldn't be throwing themselves fancy holiday parties with the money they've stolen from the working folk of this country. The financial industry's been raping citizens for years. They claim--"
"Okay, hold it," Dance snapped to the agents flanking Keplar, who literally jerked him to a stop.
Dance was pulling out a walkie-talkie. "Michael, it's Kathryn, you read me?"
"Four by four. We've got six choppers and the entire peninsula com network standing by. You're patched in to all emergency frequencies. What do you have?"
"The target's a party--Christmas, I'd guess--involving bankers, or savings and loan people, bank regulators, something like that. It is a bomb and it's under the stage in that room you texted me about."
Wayne Keplar stared at her, awash in confusion.
A half dozen voices shot from her radio, variations of "Roger... Copy that... Checking motels with banquet rooms in the target zone, south of Moss Landing... Contacting all banks in the target zone."
"What is this?" Keplar raged.
Everyone ignored him.
A long several minutes passed, Dance standing motionless, head down, listening to the intersecting voices through the radio. And then: "This is Major Rodriguez, CHP. We've got it! Central Coast Bankers' Association, annual Christmas party, Monterey Bay Seaside Motel. They're evacuating now."
Wayne Keplar's eyes grew wide as he stared at Dance. "But the bomb..." He glanced at Dance's wrist and those of the other officers. They'd all removed their watches, so Keplar couldn't see the real time. He turned to an agent and snapped, "What the hell time is it?"
"About ten to four," replied Dan Simmons, the reporter.
He blurted to Dance, "The clock? In the interrogation room?"
"Oh," she said, guiding him to the prisoner transport van. "It was fast."
# # #
A half hour later Michael O'Neil arrived from the motel where the bankers' party had been interrupted.
He explained that everyone got out safely, but there'd been no time to try to render the device safe. The explosion was quite impressive. The material was probably Semtex, Abbott Calderman had guessed, judging from the smell. The Forensic Services head explained to O'Neil that it was the only explosive ever to have its own FAQ on the Internet, which answered questions like: Was it named after an idyllic, pastoral village? (yes). Was it mass produced and shipped throughout the world, as the late President Vaclav Havel claimed? (no). And was Semtex the means by which its inventor committed suicide? (not exactly--yes, an employee at the plant did blow himself up intentionally, but he had not been one of the inventors).
Dance smiled as O'Neil recounted this trivia.
Steve Nichols of the FBI called and told her they were on the way to the CBI to deliver the other suspect, Gabe Paulson. He explained that since she'd broken the case, it made sense for her to process all the suspects. There would be federal charges--mostly related to the explosives--but those could be handled later.
As they waited in the parking lot for Nichols to arrive, O'Neil asked, "So, how'd you do it? All I know is you called me about three, I guess, and told me to get choppers and a communications team ready. You hoped to have some details about the location of the attack in about forty-five minutes. But you didn't tell me what was going on."
"I didn't have much time," Dance explained. "What happened was I found out, after wasting nearly an hour, that Keplar was kinesics proof. So I had to trick him. I took a break at three and talked to our technical department. Seems you can speed up analog clocks by changing the voltage and the frequency of the current in the wiring. They changed the current in that part of the building so the clock started running fast."
O'Neil smiled. "That was the byword for this case, remember. You said it yourself."
And remember: We have two and a half hours. We've got to move fast...
Dance continued, "I remembered when we got to CBI Keplar started lecturing Dan Simmons about his cause."
"Oh, that obnoxious reporter and blogger?"
"Right. I called him and said that if he asked Keplar why he picked those particular victims, I'd give him an exclusive interview. And I called you to set up the search teams. Then I went back into the interrogation. I had to make sure Keplar didn't notice the clock was running fast so I started debating philosophy with him."
"Philosophy?"
"Well, Wikipedia Philosophy. Not the real stuff."
"Probably real enough nowadays."
She continued, "You and the crime scene people found out that it was probably a bomb and that it was planted in a large room with a stage. When the clock hit four in the interrogation room, I had Albert call me and pretend a bomb had gone off and killed people but the stage had absorbed a lot of the blast. That was just enough information so that Keplar believed it had really happened. Then all I had to do was perp walk him past Simmons, who asked why those particular victims. Keplar couldn't keep himself from lecturing.
"Sure was close."
True. Ten minutes meant the difference between life and death for two hundred people, though fate sometimes allowed for even more narrow margins.
One of the FBI's black SUVs now eased to a stop beside Dance and O'Neil.
Steve Nichols and another agent climbed out and helped their shackled prisoner out. A large bandage covered much of his head and the side of his face. O'Neil stared at him silently.
The FBI agent said, "Kathryn, good luck with this fellow. Wish you the best but he's the toughest I've ever seen--and I've been up against al-Qaeda and some of the Mexican cartel drug lords. They're Chatty Cathy compared with him. Not a single word. Jus
t sits and stares at you. He's all yours."
"I'll do what I can, Steve. But I think there's enough forensics to put everybody away for twenty years."
The law enforcers said good-bye and the feds climbed into the Suburban, then sped out of the CBI lot.
Dance began to laugh.
So did the prisoner.
O'Neil asked, "So what's going on?"
Dance stepped forward and undid the cuffs securing the wrists of her associate, TJ Scanlon. He removed the swaddling, revealing no injuries.
"Thanks, Boss. And by the way, those're the first words I've said in three hours."
Dance explained to O'Neil, "Gabe Paulson's in a lot more serious condition than I let on. He was shot in the head during the takedown and'll probably be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life. Which might not be that long. I knew Nichols'd wanted to have a part of the case--and for all we knew at that point he had primary jurisdiction. I wanted to interrogate the only suspect we had--Keplar--so I needed to give Nichols someone. TJ volunteered to play Paulson."
"So you just deceived the FBI."
"Technically. I know Steve. He's a brilliant agent. I'd trust him with anything except an interrogation with a deadline like this."
"Three hours, Boss," TJ said, rubbing his wrists. "Did I mention not speaking for three hours? That's very hard for me."
O'Neil asked, "Won't he find out, see the pictures of the real Paulson in the press?"
"He was pretty bandaged up. And like I said, it may come back to haunt me. I'll deal with it then."
"I thought I was going to be waterboarded."
"I told him not to do that."
"Well, he didn't share your directive with me. I think he would have liked to use cattle prods, too. Oh, and I would've given you up in five seconds, Boss. Just for the record."
Dance laughed.
O'Neil left to return to his office in Salinas and Dance and TJ entered the CBI lobby, just as the head of the office, Charles Overby, joined them. "Here you are."
The agents greeted the paunchy man who was in his typical work-a-day outfit: slacks and white shirt with sleeves rolled up, revealing tennis-and golf-tanned arms.
"Thanks, Kathryn. Appreciate what you did."
"Sure."
"You were in the operation, too?" Overby asked TJ.
"That's right. FBI liaison."
Overby lowered his voice and said approvingly, "They don't seem to want a cut of the action. Good for us."