Savich prayed they wouldn’t find Pinky lying on the cracked linoleum floor, his head blown apart. What were they doing? There were two of them, they’d killed Pinky, no doubt in Savich’s mind about that, and yet there was dead silence. Not a single muted breath, not a whisper, no old man’s cackling voice. He held the radio to his mouth and whispered, “Dane and I are going in. When you hear us break down the door, turn on the floodlights. Chief, use your bullhorn to order them to come out, the more noise the better. We know they’re here. They’ve got no place to go.”
Savich hoped the Pumis City police chief would do what he was supposed to and not hotdog it. He nodded to Dane, rose, and bashed his right foot against the doorknob. The door flew inward, slamming against the inside wall.
Dane was behind his left shoulder. He stayed high, Savich went in low. They quickly canvassed the empty room.
Dane shouted, “Come out of the bathroom. Now!”
“There’s no one here,” Savich said. “No one is here,” he said again more slowly. “I don’t understand—
how did they get out?” Then he knew, knew even before he saw the small red light on top of the night table, pointed directly toward the front door. He yelled into his wristband, “There’s a bomb in here! Get down!” He and Dane were out the open door and leaping over the rickety second-floor railing when they felt a tremendous jolt and the whole building shuddered with the force of it.
CHAPTER 3
SAVICH AND DANE landed ten feet away on the cracked concrete parking lot, rolled, and ran all out. A huge ball of flame erupted behind them, bursting outward from the room and through the roof like a volcano blowing. Suddenly the air was hot, a heavy pounding heat, and a noise like hell itself bursting apart. For a second the entire motel seemed to lift off its concrete foundation. They heard the top floor crashing into the rooms below as they ran, trying to protect themselves from the exploded debris flying outward with the force of missiles. Huge pieces of wood and jagged chunks of glass speared high into the air away from the gushing flames and rained down around them. Savich saw a television set hurtle down to the parking lot and smash into bits on the concrete in front of them. The heat was so intense Savich felt it searing the back of his thick wool coat, and wondered if he was smoking. Dane looked all right, so maybe not. He wondered if the Kevlar vests they were wearing had made the difference. When they’d dived into an ice-coated ditch some twenty feet beyond the parking lot, Savich yelled into his wristband, “Sherlock, are you all right?”
One second passed—too long—and then her voice came over, panting, “We’re all okay, but it was close, Dillon. The main explosion was in your direction, not ours. We’ve got lots of flying debris—I’m looking at most of a bed, with the sheets still on it—but we’re hunkered down behind an oak tree. Dillon
—” He heard the fear in her voice when she swallowed. “You’re okay? Dane?”
“Yes, we’re fine, I promise. We jumped over the second-floor railing, managed to land soft, and rolled. All the padding we’re wearing kept us from breaking anything.”
She gave a shaky laugh. “What happened, do you know?”
“When Dane and I went in, the room was empty. I knew in my gut it was a setup even before I saw the device—sitting on the side table, red light blinking right at us—and we got out of there.”
“Which means,” Sherlock said slowly, “that Moses Grace and Claudia got out of that room without us seeing them, somehow hauling Pinky with them. They would have had a remote detonator, a timer, or some kind of trip device.”
Connie said, “They had it all planned out. I’ll bet you anything they used Ruth’s primo snitch to set us up. She’ll rip out his pointed canines.”
Savich said, “That sounds right. We need to find Rolly, Connie, really get in his face. Put out an APB for him. We need to nail him as soon as possible.”
Connie said as she jerked out her cell, “I’ll track him down as quick as I can. They must have gotten out before we ever got here, Dillon. They could have cut through the bathroom wall, since the building is so cheaply built, or maybe they just slipped out the back window in the dark and Dykes didn’t see them. No way they slipped out after we got here.”
Savich said, “Have Police Chief Tumi and his men spread out through the woods and see what they can find. They obviously stashed another car or van somewhere. There’s an access road that runs behind the woods to the east.” But he knew it was too late. They were long gone, enjoying themselves, probably thinking that the cops outside the motel were dead or injured. That he was dead. Savich looked over at the old Chevy van. It was flattened under smoking debris. “Sherlock, we need everyone out here looking for Moses Grace and Claudia. See who you can roust. Dane called nine-one-one, so the fire department should be here soon.”
“Yes, I’m on it. Connie called nine-one-one, too, and probably every other deputy here. You swear to me you’re all right, Dillon?”
He couldn’t believe it, but he grinned into his wrist unit. He had been more scared for Sherlock than for himself. She was okay. “When this is over, I’ll take you dancing.”
He turned to Dane. “At least we’re not freezing to death anymore.”
Dane grinned, his face black with ashes, showing white teeth. “Wasn’t that a kick. A well-thought-out plan, except for that small timing glitch. They wanted you, Savich. I wonder if they saw us jump or if they think you’re dead.”
Twenty minutes later, Savich stood in front of what was left of Hooter’s Motel, watching the fire hoses douse the last of the flames. The smoldering carcass was puffing out black smoke, sending up little spurts of flame, the heat still too intense to get very close. The old building had gone up quickly. He’d had Chief Tumi send two deputies to find the owner, and at that moment he saw Raymond Dykes walking toward him, shoulders slumped, looking white and dazed. Savich wanted to kick the man into the frozen ditch where he and Dane had sheltered after the explosion. He heard Dykes say to himself, “Those bastards. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this wasn’t supposed to happen. I’m a dead man walking when Marlene finds out.”
The final piece slid into place. Moses Grace had double-crossed Raymond Dykes. It was all a setup, to kill him and as many cops as they could manage.
Dane walked up and stood behind Dykes. In a voice as nonthreatening as a nun’s at vespers, he said, “I can see how you’d be shocked that they blew up your motel, Mr. Dykes.”
“I’ve lost my livelihood here, my whole life.”
“They lied to you and showed you some money and you decided to believe them, right?”
Dykes looked at the smoking bones of his motel. “Only information,” he said, “that’s all they wanted—
information. They gave me five hundred dollars, that fast, all smiles—five hundred dollars for a phone call.” He snapped his fingers and moaned, now holding his belly. “Nothing about an explosion. I’m a dead man. You don’t know Marlene.”
“Your wife?”
“No, my sister.”
“So they paid you to tell them if the cops showed up? That was all?”
Dykes nodded, then as if suddenly realizing he was talking to an FBI agent, and saying things he shouldn’
t, he gulped and shut his mouth.
Dane said, a bit of threat in his voice, “Too late, Mr. Dykes. If you don’t tell me everything now, we’ll make it real hard for you. You phoned their room when we were getting into position outside?”