Gunner came running up and scolded me.
"What the hell are you doing? You could’ve gotten us all blown up."
I ejected the spent cartridges from the beanbag gun.
"Not with that truck," I said.
"And why the hell not?"
I calmly closed the weapon’s breech and leaned it against a nearby tree.
"First of all, there’s no way that guy got his hands on enough diesel fuel to make a proper bomb with that much fertilizer. And if he had, it would’ve been dripping out the bottom of the truck."
"And reason number two?" Gunner was still hot.
"Even if he had gotten enough diesel fuel to get the right explosive mixture, the bomb wasn’t contained. I could see some of the nitrogen piled up over the top of the trailer. The best he could do with an uncontained mixture like that is make one helluva campfire."
Gunner shook his head at me.
"Beck," he said. "You are one lucky sonofabitch!"
"Thomas Jefferson," I said.
"Godliness," I said.
CHAPTER 64
Given my current state of attire, cleanliness and aroma, I elected to leave the Pilot parked at the airport for the day. A kind deputy agreed to give me a ride home — as long as I brought along my ‘Haz-Mat’ tarp. I was happy to oblige.
When I finally poured out of the back seat of the cruiser, together with the tarp ("No thanks. You can keep that." "Okay."), I looked and smelled like I had fallen into a chemical spill at a fish farm. Beth tried to come over to meet me, but I waved her off. Seeing I was okay despite my appearance, she agreed to let me clean up a bit.
I rinsed myself off in the back yard with our garden hose for fifteen minutes before I felt clean enough to enter the house. After a thorough going over in our real shower, several times, lather-rinse-repeat, I finally looked, and smelled, human again.
Beth handed a bath towel to me over the glass shower door so I could dry myself. When I exited the shower, she was waiting and jumped into my arms, wrapping her tanned legs around my waist. I didn’t even have a chance to properly secure the towel.
Some brunch, a bottle of champagne and a couple hours later, Beth and I were lying close in bed. Each of us had small beads of perspiration on our foreheads. Neither of us cared.
She threw back the sheet and we lay there, side by side on our backs, waiting to cool down after our recent exertion.
After a bit, Beth said, "So are you going to tell me how you got to be in such a state of disrepair?"
"Disrepair? I’m hurt. I thought I did okay just now. Maybe not great…"
Still lying on her back, Beth slapped me in the stomach with the back of her right hand.
"Ouch!"
"You know what I’m talking about," she said. "Tell me about your night."
"You’ll be able to read all about it in the newspapers tomorrow. Lock and Dam Number 3 gave out due to age and deterioration. The Prairie River Nuclear Plant was shut down as a precaution.
"In an unrelated incident, a former postal worker stole a B24 and crashed it into the Mississippi. No survivors.
"The Ottawa County Sheriff’s Department and BCA SWAT team apprehended a suspect in the murder of Professor Donald G. Westerman, PhD. They never comment on an open investigation, but they’re pretty sure they’ve got their man.
"Oh yeah… one more thing. Urland and Brenda Umber were booked into county jail for grand larceny and car-jacking relating to the disappearance of two semi-loads of fertilizer.
"I think that’s about it."
"And where were you exactly when all of this happened?" Beth asked.
"Well, I took a plane ride, shot off some fireworks, did a bit of skydiving and took some target practice with a bean bag gun."
"So how did you end up so dirty and stinky?"
She really knew how to hurt a guy.
"I spilled some of the fireworks stuff on my pants. And my parachute landing was a bit off course — hit the middle of a mud lake, actually."
"Was your muddy parachute adventure anywhere near the plane crash and/or the nuclear plant?"
She clearly had skills as an interrogator.
"Sort of both."
She rolled on top of me and tousled my hair. "Babe. You can’t keep playing Rambo. I like our life here in Red Wing. And I’d really love for us to grow old together." Her voice was playful, but poignant at the same time. She worried for my safety — for our lives together.
"Beth," I said, looking up into her gorgeous green eyes. "I can’t stop being who I am. And part of that will always involve taking calculated risks. Would I be the same husband if I spent my days cooped up in that law office, or my evenings in front of the television?"
She didn’t answer. She understood, but still looked worried.
"Remember when the Agency told us we shouldn’t have kids? That it was too dangerous?" I asked.
"Yes."
"But we knew we could have a family and keep us all safe, so we did it anyway. A calculated risk. What would our lives mean without our girls today? Seeing them mature into adults and go off to college, all grownup and independent. What would our purpose have been — what would it be now — without them?"
Beth smiled down at me.
"You’re right, I suppose. We can’t stop living life, hiding in corners to avoid possible negatives. Risk is part of life, and for us, maybe more than most. Sometimes I just can’t help worrying about you. That’s all."
"Worrying is fine. And I love you for that. But you know we have to be who we are — both of us."
She nodded. I pulled her close. We lay like that for a bit, her body on top of mine. Silent.
Beth spoke first.
"So how are you going to compensate me for all the duress you have caused of late?"
"How ‘bout I make us a gourmet dinner?"
Beth pushed herself to her knees, sitting on my hip bones and stomach.
"I’ve told you before. You don’t know how to cook."
She playfully tousled my hair again and rolled off me, across the bed and onto her feet.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
Standing there naked in our bedroom, she looked at me and smiled. "To sign you up for a cooking class."
She turned and headed for the shower.