“Morning, sweetheart.”
She seemed surprised to find him there. “What happened?”
“Trouble sleeping.”
“Again?”
He ignored her remark, saw that she was dressed in jeans, a green sweatshirt, a billed cap, and her hiking boots, and he remembered. “All set for your canoe outing?”
“Yeah. Thanks for letting me borrow the Bronco.”
“Got the keys?”
“Right here.” She held out her hand to show him.
“Have a good time.”
“We will.”
“When should we expect you home?”
“After dinner. We’re going to eat at the Sawmill when we come off the lake.”
“Got money?”
“Plenty.”
She kissed his cheek, went into the kitchen, and a moment later he heard the door open and close.
Morning sunlight fired the curtain. He looked at the grandfather clock in the hallway. Seven-ten. He thought about getting up, but was so tired that he could barely move. Every muscle of his body ached. His head felt thick and fuzzy. But the dream he’d been having when Jenny woke him was still vivid.
Although he hadn’t had a cigarette in a couple of years, he wanted one now.
He heard the kitchen door open and Jenny came back in.
“Dad?”
“What is it, Jen?”
“I can’t get the car started. It won’t even turn over. I think the battery’s dead.”
“More likely a loose cable. Let’s take a look.” He slowly rolled off the sofa.
Outside, the morning was bright and crisp. The day had a peaceful feel. Cork loved this kind of morning, the light in the sky gold and promising, the smell in the air sharp with evergreen.
The night hadn’t been cold enough for frost, but there was a thick layer of dew on the Bronco’s windshield. “Give me the keys,” Cork said.
He got into the vehicle and turned the ignition. Nothing happened. He popped the hood latch and got out.
“Hop in,” he told his daughter. “When I tell you to, try to start it.”
Jenny slipped behind the wheel. Cork walked around to the front of the Bronco and lifted the hood. What he saw froze him.
“Jenny,” he said.
“Try it now?” she called.
“No,” he ordered harshly. “Don’t turn the key. Just get out of the car.”
“What?”
“Just get out, sweetheart,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.
Jenny did as she was told, then joined her father and saw what he saw.
“Oh, Jesus. What do we do, Dad?” She whispered, as if afraid that speaking too loudly might be dangerous.
“We’re going inside,” he told her. “I’m going to call the Department and then we’re going to wake everyone up and get them out of here.”
22
The bomb squad from the Duluth Police Department advised that everyone within fifteen hundred feet of the O’Connor house be evacuated. Standard procedure. The Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department barricaded the streets, and two yellow pumpers from the Aurora Volunteer Fire Department stood ready. The bomb squad indicated they would be there in ninety minutes. In the meantime, all there was to do was keep the crowd back and wait.
The deputies reported that most folks who evacuated had been cooperative. Cork himself encountered only one instance of outright hostility, this from Gunther Doktor, an old widower who’d lived on Gooseberry Lane forever. Doktor had turned his good ear toward Cork, an ear that sprouted hair like corn tassel, and said, “You O’Connors. Always been trouble.” Still, he’d abandoned his house as requested, muttering as he shuffled to the end of the block.
Most other neighbors made it a point to tell Cork they were outraged by this personal attack, and if there was anything they could do to help, then just, by God, let them know. The Women’s Guild from St. Agnes Catholic Church somehow got word of the situation and had very quickly set up tables outside the secured perimeter to offer coffee and juice, doughnuts, and banana bread to those for whom breakfast was now a long way off.
Jo and Stevie stood with the O’Loughlins in the street under the shade of an oak with russet leaves. Jenny and Annie mingled with the crowd and Cork wasn’t always able to see them. He would have preferred to keep his whole family in sight, but he had his hands full.
He stood beside a cruiser parked beyond the barricades at the west end of the block, and he talked with Cy Borkmann, Ed Larson, and Simon Rutledge.
Borkmann said, “Duluth bomb squad radioed their twenty. They just passed the casino. Maybe five minutes now.”
Rutledge had been in such a hurry that he hadn’t combed his hair, and he’d put his sweater on inside out. “Jo told me the guy wore a ski mask, that she couldn’t see anything that might ID him.”
“That’s right.”
“And you saw no one when you went outside to check?”
“Like I told you, Simon, only the cat. Rochester’s smart, but I don’t think he planted that dynamite.”
Rutledge was the only one who smiled. “We’ll want your Bronco for a while, so we can go over it carefully for evidence.”
“If it’s still in one piece when this is over, you’re welcome to it.”
The bomb detail arrived in a Duluth Police van with a trailer in tow. On the trailer was a large, heavy-looking metal canister. An unmarked car followed. Two men stepped from the van and another came from the car. The man who’d driven the van said, “Sheriff O’Connor?”
“Here.”
“Sergeant Dave Gorman.” Tall, tanned, early thirties, buzz cut, good shape.
They shook hands. He introduced his colleagues, Sergeant Rich Klish and Sergeant Greg Searson.
“Where is it?” Gorman asked.
“Down the street. Two-sixteen Gooseberry Lane. The Bronco in the drive with the hood up.”
Gorman nodded. “So what did you see?”
“A white PVC pipe, three inches in diameter, maybe fifteen inches in length, capped at both ends.”
“A timing device? Clock, watch?”
“I didn’t see one.”
“Where was the explosive placed?”
“On the engine block, near the battery.”
“Wires?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see where they connected?”
“To the battery.”
“The battery?” Gorman glanced at the men who’d come with him. “You’re sure?”
“With alligator clips.”
“Was there a clothespin glued to the pipe?”
