Ben glanced at his watch. “Well, Christina and I need to head back to the jailhouse.”
“Can you give me a lift?” Mike asked. “I need to go back to my office and do some paperwork.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Trans Am in the shop again?”
“No, I walked over here. Thought I needed some exercise.”
“You? Why?”
“If you must know, since I quit smoking, I’ve put on a pound or two. So I try to get some exercise whenever this impossible job of mine allows.”
“I see.” Ben smiled. “Well, I’d be happy to give you a ride back. I think my Honda can still carry three people. Can’t it, Christina?”
Christina wavered her hand in the air. “Close call.”
Ben led Mike and Christina out to the street where he had parked his Honda Accord. Mike grimaced when he saw the dented, rust-encrusted silver frame, the dragging muffler, the crushed grille. Mike took the front seat; Christina took the back.
Mike crawled into the bucket seat and slammed the door closed. The entire frame seemed to shudder and shake. “Good grief, Ben. When are you going to get a new car?”
“When I’m rich and famous.”
“Hell, you’re already famous, thanks to this case. And I assume Barrett is paying you.”
“True. But holing up in the Adam’s Mark isn’t exactly cheap. Neither is finding new office space.”
“Well, whatever it takes, do it. Riding around in this bucket of bolts is embarrassing.”
Christina piped up from the back. “Agreed.”
Mike continued. “You don’t see me driving a heap like this, do you?”
“No, I see you driving a Trans Am, like some teenager on his way to peel out at the drag races with Betty Lou.”
“A Trans Am is not a teenager car. It’s for all ages. Cool people of all ages, that is.”
“Look,” Ben said, “I don’t have my ego wrapped up in my car. It’s not a status symbol. It’s a way to get from Point A to Point B.” lf you say so.
Ben turned the key and started the engine.
Mike grimaced. “Listen to that. That’s pathetic.” He paused for a moment so they could all appreciate the clanging and rattling. “Sounds like your carburetor is gasping for air. And I can hear the brakes grinding. Your pads are probably worn down to nothing. And listen to that exhaust! And—”
He paused. There was something else, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“What’s that other noise? The high-pitched one.”
“Don’t ask me,” Ben said. “I don’t know beans about cars.”
“Well, I do, and I’ve never heard—”
He quieted again, tried to block everything else out and focus on the mysterious noise. It was high-pitched and rhythmic, a back-and-forth sound, a sort of sonic—
Ticktock. Ticktock. Ticktock.
A cold chill gripped everyone in the car.
“Get out!” Mike shouted.
Christina leaned forward. “Our stuff is in the trunk—”
“I said, get out!” Mike dove out his side door, then whipped around and hauled Christina out of the back. Ben opened his door and hit the pavement. All three scrambled to their feet and ran.
They had barely made it to the other side of the street when the bomb detonated. The force of the explosion knocked Ben facedown onto the sidewalk. The hood of his car flew up and a red fireball leapt out of the charred engine. Safety glass flew everywhere. The sound of the explosion reverberated off the buildings on either side of the street. It was earsplitting, Ben thought. And disturbingly familiar.
The frame of the car disintegrated, like a clown car in the circus, falling outward onto the concrete.
Ben scrambled back onto his feet, then looked frantically for Christina and Mike.
They, too, were a safe distance from the car. As far as he could tell, they were fine. Ben cautiously made his way to them.
“Like I said,” Mike offered, “I think you should consider getting a new car.
“Everyone okay?” Ben asked.
Christina and Mike nodded. “Just a little shaken up,” Christina said weakly. “This is becoming monotonous.”
“Right. My thought exactly.”
“Fact is, Ben,” Mike said, “you’re becoming a pretty damn dangerous guy to know.”
“Yeah.” Ben steered them down the street, away from the smoke clouds. “Well, maybe now that this sadist has had his fun, he’ll lay off.”
“If you think that, you’re kidding yourself,” Mike said. “It’s obvious this creep enjoys tormenting you, and it’s obvious he wants you to suffer. But he’s not going to be happy with that. He’s not going to be happy until you’re dead.”
Ben continued walking down the street, eyes straight ahead, not saying a word.
Chapter 56
DEANNA COLLAPSED INTO HER hotel room, kicked off her heels, threw herself down on the bed, and cried.
My God, my God—what was she doing here? She had never meant to mislead anyone, never meant to be a fraud. And now, here she was on the jury of the Wallace Barrett case, probably the most publicized murder trial in the history of the state. The cameras were rolling, the prosecution was piling on evidence, and all she could think about was her daughter. Her own daughter.
My God, Martha. What have you done?
Voir dire turned out to be a breeze. She hadn’t even had to lie, not really. No one ever came close to the truth. True, she had blanched a bit at the end of the jury examination when that young attorney, the one representing the mayor, asked if anyone knew of any other reason not already discussed that might prevent anyone from serving as an impartial juror. It was a vague, broad question. Easily ignored. And yet she knew why he had asked it. He had asked it in an attempt to root out people like her, people who might be biased one way or another by factors he couldn’t even imagine, much less ask about.
But she had not raised her hand. She had remained painfully silent.
After that, she had become a full-fledged member of the Wallace Barrett jury. She’d had to get her friend Suzanne to stay with Martha while the jury was sequestered at the Downtown Doubletree Hotel. Sequestered—that was a laugh. It felt more like they’d been indicted. The whole juror compound, as they called it, was run like a prison camp. The jurors had had to meet in secret, at the fairgrounds, before the trial started. They were searched, first by hand, then by metal detectors. Their luggage was searched as well. Then they were herded onto a bus and, escorted by six men from the sheriff’s office, taken to their hotel.
Security was no less tight at the hotel. Everyone had their own room, but none of the rooms had locks on the doors. Officers from the sheriff’s office were posted in the hallway outside, not to keep them safe, but to keep them from meeting and talking about the case. No one said that the rooms would be searched while the jurors were out, but it was obvious to Deanna that they were. When she returned to her room each evening, personal belongings had been moved slightly from where they had been left that morning.
No juror was allowed to go to any other juror’s room—ever. There was one communal meeting room, which was the only place two or more jurors were allowed to gather. Again, deputies were posted in the room at all times, to make sure no one talked about the case. Meals were served in the same room, and under the same scrutiny.
The jurors were getting along well enough for the most part, but there was no denying the fact that tempers were fraying. The isolation was causing irritation, and irritation was always dangerous when people were in such close quarters. If for nothing else, Deanna was grateful that the lawyers and the judge seemed to be moving the trial along in an expeditious fashion. She couldn’t imagine living in these subhuman conditions for months on end. She was sure it would drive her mad. It would drive anyone mad.