He climbed down off the pen, watching to make sure that one of the dogs hadn’t doubled back, and then he went to the trailer. The telephone repair van was there, but Jared’s truck was gone, which he hoped meant that he and his partner were up at the arsenal, doing whatever they did up there at night. And trying to figure out the number on that counter, and whether or not he or a posse of cops was waiting for them in the industrial area. He needed about an hour to get set up inside and outside the trailer, and then he would wait for Jared to return from his nocturnal operations.
Then he would find out what Jared and his friend knew about Lynn and her friends. He dismissed the possibility that they might not know a damn thing.
Browne called it off at around 10:30. They’d looked over several of the buildings and found nothing, although Browne thought that some of the ladder rungs looked scuffed. Someone or thing had obviously tripped the deadfall. There were some stains on the concrete that could have been dried blood, although the darkness made it difficult to tell. The only other hard indication they had was the gate counter. Jared was still perplexed by the deadfall.
“That shoulda got him,” he kept saying.
“He might have sensed it coming, or heard something above him and jumped back,” Browne pointed out.
“Or only part of it got him. If those stains are blood, it didn’t do much damage.”
Jared could only shake his head. Browne decided that they should stay away from the site during the day on Saturday. Let the whole area cool off. He told Jared to check the power plant while he took the food and water to the girl. Then they’d leave, and come back two hours after sunset on Saturday night. They’d do a quick night-vision sweep, and then Browne would run the hydrogen generator all night while Jared either patrolled the industrial area or hid out on one of the rooftops to spot any intruders. He told Jared to just leave the pipes out in the street, but Jared pointed out that if the security truck came on Saturday, they would see them and wonder what the hell had happened. Browne concurred, and they spent fifteen minutes moving the pipes into an alley. Then they split up, agreeing to meet up at the main gates in twenty minutes. Jared suggested setting one more trap, in case their intruder came back Saturday.
“This time, I got just the thing,” he said.
Janet got back to the Roanoke federal building and drove her Bureau car into the security-lock parking area. She parked it near the vehicle-search rack and shut it down. It was Friday night, so the chances of finding one of the surveillance squad techs were slim to none. She was anxious to see if she could find the bug herself, but she knew she should let the pros have a clear field. If there was a bug under there, she’d have to call the RA. And he, of course, would want to know how the meeting had gone. Oh, just wonderful, sir. He told me that he didn’t need any help from me and that I was much too inexperienced even to be out on the street by myself without a nanny. He saw through those two Washington wienies and didn’t believe a word about the so-called bomb plot. Other than that, we bonded very
well and formed an effective and maybe a productive partnership. And I did manage to get him to take my pager along with him.
She leaned back in the seat and tried to think it out. They talked, and then he left to do—what? He’d said earlier that he was busy tonight.
Doing what? Going where? To Site R? What would he be doing down at the Ramsey Arsenal on a Friday night? Crashing the AntiAbortion League’s underground bomb makers’ happy hour at the abandoned munitions factory? The place was a mothballed military installation, for Chrissakes.
Why the hell didn’t Farnsworth and his new playmates just send in the army and rake through the place with a few hundred guys and see what’s what?
Because Foster and Bellhouser were blowing smoke. Kreiss was right:
Their interest was in him, not some outlandish bomb plot and the mysterious message that didn’t get delivered. He had ducked her question on that at the bar. There was a lot more going on here than just some simple bomb plot. That was why they didn’t want aTF in on it. She exhaled forcefully, trying to clear her mind. For Edwin Kreiss, there was just one point of reality: He was determined to find out what had happened to his daughter. Those oily bastards from headquarters and the AG’s office knew that and were trying to leverage his personal tragedy.
She banged the steering wheel in frustration. She literally did not know what to do. Then she remembered Farnsworth’s instructions: “Any sign of somebody else in this little game, back out and call me.” When in doubt, why not do what the boss says? What a concept, she thought, as she reached for her purse and her building key card.
Jared got back to his trailer just before midnight and parked his pickup next to the telephone company repair van. He went in the back door, as usual. He washed his hands, grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, slugged it down, thought briefly of taking a quick shower and heading down to Boomers, a local gin mill, and then decided not to. The West Virginia motorcycle crowd usually arrived just about now, and unless some of his own Black Hat buddies were there, he’d probably end up in a
one-sided brawl over nothing. He checked his answering machine, and there—thank you, Lord—was a message from Terry Kay. Her husband was out of town until Tuesday and she wanted to know if he would like to come over and make some Saturday-night noises at her place. He grinned, erased the message, and got another beer.
Terry Kay was a thirty-something housewife whom he had met on a service call out on Broward Road. He’d been out there once before, and she’d called in a second service call. Her husband was on the faculty at Virginia Tech and traveled a lot. Terry Kay was about five two, with black hair, teasing brown eyes, and a delectably round body. She had met him at the door wearing a short skirt, a straining cashmere sweater, and a pouty little smile. She was Terry Kay Olson, she said. With an 0, rounding her lips to show him. The problem was in her husband’s study; she thought it might be in the floor jack under the desk. When he had knelt down in front of the desk kneehole to examine the floor jack, Terry Kay had slid into the desk chair on the other side in such a fashion as to reveal what her real problem was all about. They had been together a few times after that, always on the spur of the moment, and always with an element of the danger of being discovered involved. Terry Kay liked it hot, hard, and fast, and Jared was just the guy for that. He had no time for the talkers. The prospect of an entire Saturday night with Terry Kay instead of another endless duty night with his grandfather at the power plant, well, hell, no contest. Besides, he was ready for a break. He finished the beer and decided to have just one more.
He called his grandfather, who always turned his phones off late at night, to leave him an excuse message. To his surprise, Browne answered the phone. Jared swore silently.
“What?” Browne said.
“Uh, I didn’t tell you what I set up. In case he comes again and we’re not there.”
“Yes?”
“I did the Ditch. You know, those steel plates out on the main street? I set them one of them as a pit trap. Took out them center support bars.
Anyone walks on that steel, he’s goin’ down twenty feet into the Ditch.
That’s all concrete down there. Break his legs, prob’ly. Then we’ll have his ass.”
“Yeah, that should do it. Which panel?”
“Second up from the power plant. That way, comin’ in, he’ll walk on several of them, and feel safe. Uh—”
“What, Jared? It’s late.”
“Tomorrow? I’m gonna be runnin’ errands all day—laundry, grocery store, stuff like that? Then this lady friend called me. Wants to get together tomorrow night.”