“We’re the best,” Keplar agreed. “But that’s still not good enough for us.”
“But violence is hypocritical.”
He frowned at this. “How so?”
“Because you take away the most important right of an individual—his life—when you kill him in the name of your views. How can you be an advocate of individuals and yet be willing to destroy them at the same time?”
His head bobbed up and down. A tongue poke again. “That’s good, Kathryn. Yes.”
She lifted her eyebrows.
Keplar added, “And there’s something to it… Except you’re missing one thing. Those people we’re targeting? They’re not individuals. They’re part of the system, just like you.”
“So you’re saying it’s okay to kill them because they’re, what? Not even human?”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Ms. Firecracker.” His eyes strayed to the wall. 3:34.
# # #
The helicopter set down in a parking lot of the outlet mall in Seaside and Michael O’Neil and a handcuffed suspect—no ID on him—climbed out.
O’Neil was bleeding from a minor cut on the head incurred when he scrabbled into a cluster of scrub oaks trees escaping the satchel bomb.
Which turned out to be merely a distraction.
No IEDs, no anthrax.
The satchel was filled with sand.
The perp had apparently disposed of whatever noxious substance it contained on one of his crosscut turns and weaves, and the evidence or bomb or other clue was lost in the sand.
The chopper’s downdraft hadn’t helped either.
What was most disappointing, though, was that the man had clammed up completely.
O’Neil was wondering if he was actually mute. He hadn’t said a word during the chase or after the detective had tackled and cuffed him and dragged him to the helicopter. Nothing O’Neil could say—promises or threats—could get the man to talk.
The detective handed him over to fellow Monterey County Sheriff’s Office deputies. A fast search revealed no ID. They took his prints, which came back negative from the field scanner, and the man was processed under a John Doe as “UNSUB A.”
The blond woman with the big soda cup—now mostly empty—who’d spotted him in the crowd now identified him formally and she left.
The crime scene boss strode up to O’Neil. “Don’t have much but I’ll say that the Taurus had recently spent some time on or near the beach along a stretch five miles south of Moss Landing.” Calderman explained that because of the unique nature of cooling water from the power plant at Moss Landing, and the prevailing currents and fertilizer from some of the local farms, he could pinpoint that part of the county.
If five miles could be called pinpointing.
“Anything else?”
“Nope. That’s it. Might get more in the lab.” Calderman nodded to his watch. “But there’s no time left.”
O’Neil called Kathryn, whose mobile went right to voice mail. He texted her the information. He then looked over at the smashed Taurus, the emergency vehicles, the yellow tape stark in the gray foggy afternoon. He was thinking: It wasn’t unheard of for crime scenes to raise more questions than answers.
But why the hell did it have to be this one, when so little time remained to save the two hundred victims?
# # #
Hands steady as a rock, Harriet Keplar was driving the car she’d stolen from the parking lot at the outlet mall.
But even as her grip was firm, her heart was in turmoil. Her beloved brother, Wayne, and her sometimes lover, Gabe Paulson, were in custody. After the bomb detonated shortly, she’d never see them again, except at trial--given Wayne’s courage, she suspected he’d plead not guilty simply so he could get up on the stand and give the judge, jury and press an earful, rather than work a deal with the prosecutor.
She pulled her glasses out of her hair and regarded her watch. Not long now. It was ten minutes to the Dunes Inn, which had been their staging area. And would have been where they’d wait out the next few days, watching the news. But now, sadly, Plan B was in effect. She’d go back to collect all the documents, maps, extra equipment and remaining explosives and get the hell back to Oakland. She bet there was a goddamn snitch within the Brothers of Liberty up there—how else would the police have known as much as they did?—and Harriet was going to find him.
It was a good thing they’d decided to split up behind the outlet mall. As the Taurus had temporarily evaded the Highway Patrol trooper and skidded to a stop, Harriet in the backseat, Wayne decided they had to make sure somebody got back to the motel and ditched the evidence—which implicated some very senior people at the BOL.
She jumped out with the backpack containing extra detonators and wires and tools and phony IDs that let them get into the banquet hall where the CCCBA was having their party. Harriet had been going to hijack a car and head back to the Dunes Inn, but the asshole of a trooper had rammed Gabe and Wayne. And police had descended.
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.