Maybe if he just called the cops, and pretended he didn't know these were ancient bones ... by the time they figured it out, there'd be media here, lots of publicity, and the right people would know about it. And he'd have a chance to get in touch with the tribal elders.
The nearest phone was the cellular in the foreman's truck. Not a good idea. Next nearest was the one in the office-trailer on the side of the site. Maybe not such a good idea either. There was a Quik-Trip down Riverside-
Larry moved a little farther away as the foreman climbed up on the machine, getting right into Bobby's face and screaming at him. Bobby was screaming right back. No one seemed to notice that Larry was defecting.
Then he heard something; a high-pitched whistle, exactly like one of those sonic garage-door openers or motion-detectors that people 'weren't supposed to be able to hear,' but he heard all the time.
He didn't even get a chance to wonder what it was.
Because at that moment, the dozer exploded.
The machine rose three feet into the air on a pillar of flame and smoke, then came apart, sending shrapnel everywhere. Larry's instincts were still those of a combat vet; he hit the ground and covered his head and neck.
Things rained down out of the air onto him, dirt and debris, pieces the size of a handball and smaller. He kept his head covered while they slammed into his back, shuddering under the impact, feeling the sting of cuts- something came down on his head, knocking him out for a second. It was the pain of his smashed fingers that brought him around.
He looked up. It looked like something out of a war movie.
The dozer had broken in two and both halves were on fire; his machine was on her side. There were bloody bodies everywhere, some moving, some not. Of Bobby and the foreman, there was no sign.
Larry had been the farthest from the dozer when it went up; he was the least injured. He shoved off from the ground and sprinted for the foreman's truck, ignoring his throbbing head and useless right hand. It only took one finger to push 9-1-1, even on a cellular phone.
Rod Calligan took pains to seem perfectly cooperative to the detective; he'd gone over every inch of ground with them, and had answered every question civilly. Many men would not have gone that far.
The total was four dead-two of them, the ones who had actually been on the bulldozer, were hardly more than assorted body parts-and a dozen injured. He rubbed his temple anxiously, trying to figure out if these would be workman's comp cases or not-if the police proved sabotage, did that let him off the hook?
On the other hand, if he fought the cases, the local media might pick up the story. Bleeding-heart liberals. They could make him look very bad. Better not.
'Mr. Calligan?' the detective said, as if he had asked Rod a question.
'What?' Rod said automatically. 'I'm sorry, I was kind of preoccupied. What did you say?'
'I asked you if you thought there was any reason why someone would try to sabotage your operation here.' The detective's face was bland, but Rod had seen the Forensics and Explosives people swarming over the wreck of the bulldozer, and he was fairly certain he had also seen them carrying something off.
The Tulsa Police Department, for all their internal troubles and the incompetence of some of their patrol officers, was no half-baked and slipshod operation when it came to forensics. They had the use of some very sophisticated lab facilities. Rod had no intention of underestimating them.
'My foreman called some time before the explosion,' he said, carefully. 'It was on his cellular phone, so I'm sure you can find out exactly when that was. He said that the crew had uncovered some kind of Indian remains, bones or something, and that the Indians on the crew were rather upset about it and refused to go back to work.'
'But that was only a few minutes before the explosion,' the detective replied, dubiously. 'There wouldn't have been any time for anyone to get a bomb in place.'
'Perhaps not,' Rod replied, watching the detective's expression very carefully, 'but this isn't the first time I've had trouble with Indians on my crew here. They-' he paused, and selected his words very carefully. 'They have what I would call a 'flexible' idea about time and work-schedules, and I am a very precise man. I don't tolerate unnecessary overtime or goofing off on the job.'
The detective's lips tightened, just a little, and he squinted in the hot sun. It occurred to Rod that the polyester suit he wore must have been like wearing a sauna, but Rod wasn't much more comfortable in the linen blazer he used as summerwear. Rod wasn't about to take it off, though, despite the sweat that trickled down his back, tickling him. He wasn't going to sacrifice an iota of his edge in dealing with the police. Police respected a man in a suit; he'd learned that lesson quite completely over the years. They would treat a man in a suit a hundred times better than a man in blue jeans, and they were significantly more likely to listen to him than a man in shirtsleeves.
'Why would a troublemaker, Indian or not, go and blow up his own people?' the detective asked, finally.
'Why do terrorists do anything?' Rod countered. 'I've never seen a fanatic who wasn't willing to sacrifice a few of his own to get the enemy. What's more, if you take out a few people, it tends to make others take you seriously when you make a threat in the future.'
Slowly, the detective nodded. 'Sounds like you've studied the situation.'
Rod let a tiny hint of a smile creep onto his face. 'You know what they say; know your enemy. These days, a developer never knows who is going to decide he's oppressing them. Animal-rights nuts, ecology freaks, special- interest groups-we'd already had some problems before we started clearing this land. Troubles with the ecofreaks and the Indians, over the eagles and what have you. Maybe this is just an extension of that kind of thing.'
The detective didn't look as if he was convinced. 'I can't see where a bunch of back-to-nature nuts is much of a threat-and I can't imagine why they'd plant a bomb in a bulldozer.'
There; he'd let it slip. They had found the remains of the bomb. Rod schooled his face not to let his satisfaction show.
'You should ask loggers about that,' he replied, allowing himself to look and act a little heated. 'Ask them about the tree-freaks driving railroad spikes into trees they're about to cut. You know what happens when a logging-grade chain saw hits one of those spikes?'
Evidently the detective had handled a chain saw or two in his lifetime; he winced. 'But a bomb?' he persisted.
'I wouldn't actually put my money on ecology nuts,' Rod said with a sigh. 'I don't know what it is, but those Indians have it in for me. I think maybe this was their way of saying I'd better watch my step.' He let his smile turn bitter. 'Funny thing about people who claim they want equal rights-they don't, not really. What they want is superior treatment, not equal. And they squawk if they don't get it. Sometimes they do more than squawk.'
' 'All pigs are equal,, but some pigs are more equal than others,' ' the detective quoted, in a kind of mutter. He made a few more notes in his book, and flipped the cover closed. 'All right, Mr. Calligan, I think that will be all for now. Thank you for being so cooperative.'
'Thank you,' Rod Calligan replied automatically. 'Keep me posted on what you find out, will you?'
'Sure thing,' the detective replied. He wouldn't, Calligan knew that, as he knew they both had to go through the motions.
But as the detective headed for his sedan, and Calligan for the cool interior of his air-conditioned BMW, he was still a most contented man. The seed had been sown. Now to nurture it, and make it grow.
Jennifer tucked the phone between her shoulder and cheek, and waited for Ron Sinor's secretary to see if he was 'in' for her. Meanwhile, with one hand she grabbed the stacked sheets of paper off the printer, and with the other, she reached for a tamperproof Tyvek envelope.
'I'm putting you through to his office now,' the secretary said, and there was a click, and a short ring, picked up almost immediately.
'Miss Talldeer, glad to hear from you-' Ron said, cautiously.
'You should be even gladder when I tell you that the background checks you asked me to run took less time than I estimated,' she replied, evening the edges of the pile of papers and slipping them neatly into the Tyvek envelope. 'They're done; do you want me to send them by regular mail, or would you rather I called a messenger service or dropped them over myself?'
'How 'eyes only' are they?' Ron asked cautiously.
'Depends on how you feel about alcoholics,' she said.
'Personally, I wouldn't want one writing my software. Sometimes I suspect that was what was wrong with
