This was one of the amazing things about the weapon, something Wilson had learned from a marginal note of Tesla’s. The beam was versatile, capable of emitting paired waves from any part of the electromagnetic spectrum. In one manifestation, it caused total destruction of the target mass – Tunguska, in other words. But with a relatively simple focal adjustment, he could unleash an electromagnetic pulse like the one over Culpeper.
For Sozio, however, Wilson had something else in mind. With a tweak, he could irradiate the courthouse with energy from a different part of the spectrum, one that had much longer wavelengths and lower frequencies than gamma rays. Microwaves, in other words.
He was a kid when microwave ovens first became popular. People hadn’t understood how they worked. Not that they understood them now, but at least they knew enough not to put poodles in them to dry after a shampoo. Most people also realized that positioning was critical in a microwaved environment. For even cooking, you had to rotate the dish, or place it on a revolving turntable. Volume was important, too. The more you had in the oven, the longer it would take to cook. And metal was out: Even little kids knew that it would blacken, pop, and burn if you microwaved it.
Like poodles, people are mostly water. Put water in a microwave, and it will boil.
Or at least some of it will. Because of the building’s structural complexity and the nature of microwaves, the damage to people in the courthouse would not be uniform. Some would get a sunburn, probably a bad one. But others would be hit harder. They’d see their skin split open like the casing of a steamed hot dog. It would be terrible. And it would be even more dramatic in Courtroom 3, where everyone, but most especially his Honor, Judge Sozio, would explode like so many balloons.
He got up early the next morning and exercised for an hour in the Nikko’s gym. After he showered, he put on the hotel robe. Out of habit, he picked up the sewing kit and dropped it into his suitcase. In the old days, he used to save that sort of thing for Mandy. Her eyes had been starting to go and she loved the little plastic containers: the prethreaded needles lined up in an array of colors.
Mandy. She had been the hardest one to turn his back on, harder than Sharon, even. A couple of times he’d been tempted to drive out to the trailer and see her. He could imagine her, sitting outside in the white Adirondack chair he’d given her on her birthday. Iced tea perched on the armrest. A book in hand.
Forget it, he told himself, and called down to the front desk for his car. Then dressed and packed his bag, left a tip for the maid and headed out.
It was one of those quintessential California days, sparkling and clear, the air rinsed clean by yesterday’s rain. He drove to the garage on Turk Street and made his way to the roof.
His was the only vehicle there. He backed into the chosen slot and with the engine running, unsnapped the cover, pulled aside the Styrofoam that held the weapon in place, and attached it to the laptop. Then he waited for the barrel to telescope into position. When the green diode began to blink at its base, he took a deep breath, and flipped the toggle switch.
That was that.
Thirty seconds later, he toggled the switch a second time. The light blinked off, and the barrel telescoped into itself. He reset the Styrofoam blocks, buttoned the cover over the Escalade’s little bed, and got back in the truck. Then he wound his way down to the ground floor of the garage, forcing himself to drive slowly so his tires wouldn’t squeal on the floor.
This was the one drawback to parking on the roof. It took a while to get down and, when he did, he was hyperventilating. There were two cars in front of him, waiting to pay, and they took their time about it. When he finally pulled out of the garage into the street, people were staggering out of the federal building in droves, hysterical and screaming. Some fell to the ground and rolled. Others stutter-stepped, first one way, then the other.
Their flight was pointless and reflexive, like insects sprayed with poison. There was no escaping what had happened to their bodies, but escape they must, so flee they did. It was useless, of course. And these were the survivors! (At least, for now.) The scene inside the courthouse would be unimaginable.
Wilson turned toward the corner, only to find himself at a red light. He was desperate to get away. In a minute or so, the area would be in gridlock as emergency vehicles rushed to the scene and passersby panicked at what they were seeing. Wilson watched in horror as a sightless woman with suppurating skin ran blindly into the Escalade, then reeled away in the other direction, her mouth open in a silent scream.
His own vision was beginning to fray at the edges. It was just a flicker at the side of his eye, but he knew where it was going. The pattern was intricate and beautiful, scalloped and iridescent. In a couple of minutes, he’d be half-blind.
He heard sirens now, wailing in and out of harmony with the quavering cries of those who’d fled the courthouse. Already, traffic was grinding to a standstill as people got out to help, slowed to gawk, or succumbed to fender benders. On impulse, Wilson, turned the Escalade into the entrance to an underground parking lot that served the Civic Center.
Grabbing a ticket, he spiraled down to the third floor, pulled into a space, and sat, waiting for his sight to come back. It didn’t seem like a good idea to sit in the truck so close to the scene. Even in the garage, under tons of concrete, he could hear the sirens, a layered wailing effect that sounded like women ululating.
He stayed in the Escalade for what seemed like a long time, although he couldn’t be sure of the duration. Neither his watch nor the digital numbers on the dashboard were legible to him. A waterfall of light danced in front of him.
Taking out his wallet, he fumbled for the picture of Irina that he carried. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he tried to focus on it.
At first, he couldn’t be sure if he was looking at the picture, or at its back. But then, her face began to appear, almost like a simulacrum. Finally, it snapped into focus. The almond-shaped eyes, her bright smile.
When he looked at his watch, he almost laughed. He’d been disabled for less than ten minutes. Even so, he’d hoped to be on his way to the airport by now, the idea being to abandon the Escalade in a satellite lot and rent something else for the drive to Vegas.
That was out of the question now. Traffic would be frozen for hours around the courthouse and Civic Center. The best thing to do, he decided, was to leave the Escalade right where it was. Walk to the BART station, and get to the airport that way.
On foot, there was nothing to incriminate him. His laptop looked ordinary enough, and his suitcase could stay where it was, locked in the truck.
Plan B, then, Wilson thought, and walked quickly to the elevator.
Once outside, he kept going, head down, walking quickly. It was hell on a beautiful day. At the BART station, a red-haired woman was babbling about “a freak fire at the courthouse – they say a boiler blew, and lots of people were burned.”
A black man in a Zegna suit and Hermès tie nodded knowingly: “Superheated air.”
At the airport, people were clustered around television monitors, shaking their heads incredulously. On-screen, a platinum blonde reporter stood in front of the Civic Center, commenting on the scene in a smaller screen that showed people in spacesuits, or what looked like space suits, toddling in and out of the courthouse. The reporter was doing her best to keep her composure, but she was breathless and obviously rattled by what she’d seen. “No one – I can’t find anyone – with any idea about who, or what, is responsible for this.”
CHAPTER 45