“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!”