He started moving towards the door, but Rhodes closed it.
“What are you doing?” Carlton asked.
“I’m trying to find out what that guy wanted, and what you told him.”
For a brief instant, Carlton’s face reflected some worry along with the pain, but he recovered quickly. “He thought I had Brennan killed.”
“What did you say?”
“That I didn’t, what do you think I said? Damn idiot, he didn’t even know the cops shot the killer.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know,” Carlton lied. He wanted Rhodes in the dark as much as possible; he didn’t trust him.
“What else did you tell him?”
“Nothing. This hurts like hell, you understand? If they don’t operate on it right away, it won’t heal right.”
“Carlton, you’re not in this alone, OK? Tell me what else you told this guy.”
“For the last time, Rhodes, I didn’t tell the guy anything. Now get the hell out of the way.”
But Rhodes was no longer looking at Carlton; he had nothing more to say to him. Instead he turned to William, making eye contact without saying anything.
William understood the unspoken question, and slowly shook his head from side to side. Carlton didn’t notice the connection between the two of them; he was already heading for the door.
He got his hand to the doorknob when the three bullets hit him in the back, pushing him into the door, before he slumped to the floor.
“Leave him right here; I want him found,” Rhodes said to William.
“He will be.”
“Just the latest victim of the outraged citizens of Brayton.”
William smiled. “They’re out of control.”
Barone had done an impressive job.
Whatever he had said to his counterparts in the three northwest New Jersey counties had certainly motivated them. By the time I got to state police headquarters, officers from all three counties had gathered there. There were probably sixty in total, more than I would have expected could have been spared from other work.
“We’re looking for someone who has been kidnapped and is being held in what we believe is an underground room. Our assumption is that it is a bomb shelter, though we cannot be absolutely positive about that.”
One of the officers asked what made me think it was a bomb shelter, and I said, “The room seems to be soundproof, and fits the design typical of shelters in the sixties. C rations were also found in a metal cabinet, though they have apparently expired.
“We have reason to believe that the shelter has been occupied recently, as there is a satellite television hookup that is operable and in use.”
I showed them pictures of Bryan; I didn’t mention that he was my brother, but it’s likely that some of them made the connection because of the name, and the rather slight resemblance between us.
“There is a complicating factor,” I said. “A major complicating factor. There is a limited air supply, scheduled to run out soon. So there is no time to lose.”
“What’s the plan?” an officer asked.
“The plan is to go door-to-door, asking everyone if they have or, more importantly, know of bomb shelters in their area. We can then cross-check that against our list of homes with satellites.
“Every single possibility must be followed up on immediately, and if we need more manpower, I’ll make sure that we get it. I am aware that this is a difficult assignment, but we are one knock on a door away from solving it, and saving Bryan Somers.
“There is no time to lose, ladies and gentlemen. This situation defines ‘life-and-death.’”
Alex Hutchison was gratified, but not surprised, at the response.
People were scared, and they were frustrated, and they were looking for someone to help them find a solution. Alex was providing, if not a solution, then at least a plan of attack. No one had a better idea, so they followed her.
People had started showing up the day before, bringing their tents and sleeping bags with them. Underneath them was the natural gas that Hanson was planning to bring up, in Alex’s mind destroying the environment in the process.
But no one would be able to drill while the land was inhabited by so many people, and it was Alex’s intention to keep a good number of protesters there 24/7.
Alex had confidence that the Brayton police would not attempt to evict them; those officers were the friends of the protesters. Their children went to the same schools, breathed the same air, and drank the same water. They would not turn on the protesters and do Hanson’s bidding.
Alex spent as much time as she could at the site, keeping morale up, and making sure as best she could that everyone was well behaved. Logical speculation was rampant that the recent violence was committed by protesters, so Alex wanted to keep these demonstrations as peaceful and law-abiding as possible.
But Alex instinctively understood that demonstrations could only be effective if there was someone to demonstrate to. Hanson Oil and Gas had paid a fortune for that land, and they were not about to pack up their drills and go home because there were people camping out on it.
Even if the Brayton police were reluctant to do their bidding, Hanson would undoubtedly get a court order, and then some police organization, local, state, or Federal, would be forced to act on it. Alex needed to make it as painful as possible for Hanson to try and do that.
The only chance to accomplish the goal was to win the public relations battle. That was why she had called a huge rally for Saturday evening. Her hope was to get at least ninety percent of the citizens of Brayton, plus many supporters from nearby towns, to descend on the contested land.
By publicizing the rally as much as possible, she hoped to get the media out in force. Interviews with worried parents, their children by their sides, would send a powerful message.
So Alex made the rounds, talking to the people camped out and offering them words of encouragement. It was not easy for them; these were not wealthy people who could afford to take time out of their lives. Husbands and wives were alternating staying on the property, each arriving as the other went back to their job, earning the money that they needed to pay the bills.
As she walked around, she noticed someone she recognized. She had spoken to the man at her diner; he had asked her a bunch of questions. There was a physicality about him that was intimidating.
But he was minding his own business, talking to no one, and in fact paying attention to no one. He seemed to be pacing the land, as if measuring it out. Then, as she watched, he walked over to one of the areas where test drilling had been done.
He leaned down, and although it was getting dark and hard to see, he seemed to be feeling the dirt. Then he walked over to another, similar place, and did the same thing.
Buttressed by the fact that there were a lot of people around to dissuade the stranger from doing anything to her, Alex walked over to him.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Bothering no one,” Gallagher said.
“Do you work for Hanson?”
“Go back to your friends.”
He didn’t wait for a response, just kept conducting his mysterious examination of the area. She kept following him, not backing down.
