building in Omaha before he chose Oklahoma City. Plus, Junction City, Kansas, is only a couple hundred miles from Omaha.'
'So you're familiar with some of the details.' And she was pleased he still remembered some of those details. Junction City, Kansas, was where McVeigh and Nichols rented the Ryder truck they used to contain and transport their mobile bomb.
'I started teaching law at UNL the year before McVeigh's execution. The whole thing made a good case study. The guy was a defense attorney's nightmare.'
'Because he admitted to planning and carrying out the plot?' Maggie tapped her laptop's keyboard to bring up the document she'd just read.
'His first attorney?Jones, I think. I can't recall his name,' Nick started then scratched at his jaw, trying to remember.
'Stephen Jones.'
'Jones claimed McVeigh wasn't being honest with him. He changed his story even when they talked privately. Jones believed there were others involved. Not just Terry Nichols.'
'And McVeigh was protecting them?'
'Or McVeigh wanted his own role to be elevated. Sort of fit with the notion that he wanted to be a martyr.'
'No one's claiming to be a martyr here. In fact, no one's making any claims for this one,' Maggie said with a shrug. 'I've been sorting through file after file. If it is the same guy he didn't use the same M.O. I can't find anything that's similar about this bombing and Oklahoma City. The bombs alone were dramatically different. Four thousand eight hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate and jet fuel stuffed into a Ryder rental truck is a huge contrast to three backpacks.'
She ran her fingers through her hair, resisting the urge to yank. This felt like a waste of time. Henry Lee hadn't given her anything to go on.
'Bomb-making technology's changed in?what is it? Fifteen years since Oklahoma City? Maybe he didn't need a Ryder truck this time.'
She looked over at Nick. He was right in a sense. Post 9/11, three backpacks stuffed with explosives in the middle of a crowded mall would possibly be as damaging to the American psyche as 4,800 pounds of ammonium nitrate and jet fuel.
'I have to tell you,' Nick started again and paused. 'I never thought John Doe #2 was an absurd idea.'
'Really?'
'Too many coincidences. I know eye witnesses are notoriously unreliable but there were too many people who swore they saw someone with McVeigh. Someone who didn't come close to fitting the description of Terry Nichols. Just a lot of unanswered questions.'
'I never would have pegged Nick Morrelli for a conspiracy theorist.'
'If the case was so clear-cut why are you bothering to go through this stuff? Why not dismiss what the guy said?'
She sat back and let out a frustrated sigh. Her eyes felt swollen, her wounded side wouldn't stop aching.
'Because I have nothing else. A.D. Kunze is doing a background check on the informant. Wurth is looking to see if there've been warnings or bomb threats at any of the airports. All the informant gave me was a warning. Another attack. Tomorrow.'
She let it sink in, watching Nick rub at his jaw like someone had punched him. Yes, that was what it felt like. Being punched without warning.
'He told me it'll be an airport,' she continued, pulling herself back to the front of the chair and clicking up the list Henry Lee had downloaded to her e-mail address. She had gone over it at least a dozen times trying to find some hidden clue as to why these seven were chosen and which one would be the target.
'He gave me a list,' she told Nick, 'but didn't give me a clue as to which airport will be hit. Wurth is trying to warn all of them, but where do we send extra reinforcements?'
She hadn't noticed that Nick had edged forward to get a closer look, his brow furrowed, his arm leaning against her arm.
'Where did you get this?'
'Why?'
'I've seen this list before. This exact list.'
CHAPTER 63
A thunderstorm of noise raged above. Rebecca had no idea what her captors were doing. It sounded like claps of thunder. She imagined sledgehammers against metal. Glass shattered. Heavy objects banged against the floor, or what was her ceiling. She wouldn't have been surprised to see something crashing through the wood rafters.
She no longer cared what they were doing. As long as they stayed up there, they wouldn't be hurting her. She had searched the entire crawl space, hunched over, arms still twisted and tied behind her back. She tried to keep down the nausea of fear. The overwhelming smell of gasoline burned her lungs and gagged her. It brought on the dry heaves. Nothing in her stomach except acid. All she wanted was something sharp?a left-behind tool, scissors, something jagged, anything?to cut the plastic tie that bound her wrists together.
There was nothing. The empty gas cans. Some shelves. A monstrosity of a furnace rumbled in the corner. Rebecca stared at it. The huge metal box had rusted on the bottom. Pipes going in and out of the contraption had been piecemealed together. She looked closely for bolts or screws that might be protruding. Then she found a bent piece of metal at one of the corners that made up the furnace's storage cabinet. Someone had hammered it back into place but it still stuck out, battered metal, the edges ragged?and sharp.
Excitement dared to shove aside the nausea.
The bent metal was a bit high. She'd need to do some maneuvering to back up to it and raise her arms up. Pain shot through her wounded arm and Rebecca had to stop. Had to sit down. She waited it out. Steadied her breath. Then she tried again, slowly raising her arms up behind her. She'd have to bring her wrists high enough to bring the plastic down onto the sharp metal corner. She could do it but could she keep her arms raised for that long while she rubbed against the jagged edge, using it like a serrated knife?
Just a little higher. She almost had it when all the noise from above came to a sudden stop.
She brought her arms down and waited, listening. Maybe they would start up again. They might be taking a break. Or leaving. Could they be leaving? She heard voices. Raised voices. An argument. Then the trapdoor started to creak open.
Rebecca scooted farther into the corner though she knew there wasn't anywhere to hide. If she had only a few more minutes she could have cut her wrists free and at least been able to defend herself. She'd kick this time, she decided. And scream. She didn't care if no one heard her.
The light from the open trapdoor had a bluish tint, not as glaring as she'd expected but she still found herself squinting after being in the dim-lit crawl space. She tried to slow her breathing so she could listen, but her heart pounded in her ears.
Someone was coming down. She could see shadows hovering over the opening. The voices were louder but she couldn't make out the words. A scuffle, rubber soles squeaking against linoleum, dragging or being dragged. Then without warning a body tumbled down through the hole, thumping hard against the concrete.
The trapdoor slammed shut and tight, this time closing off all light, but not before Rebecca recognized the motionless body. It was Dixon.
CHAPTER 64
