“Yes.”
“Did you notice any fishing line?”
“Fishing line? I don’t recall.”
Gorman puzzled over that. Cork felt that he was letting the bomb technician down. He should have checked more thoroughly, but he’d been worried about getting his family and his neighbors out of harm’s way.
“Okay. You’re sure about the clothespin?”
“Yes.”
Gorman went to the van, came back with a pair of binoculars. He looked for a minute toward Cork’s house.
“The Bronco, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He looked some more. “You like it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m thinking of getting one. I just wondered if it’s been a good vehicle for you.”
“Good enough that I’d hate to see it end up in little pieces.”
“Well, we’ll see what we can do about keeping that from happening.” He turned to his companions. “Let’s take the van in, Greg. Rich,” he said to the man who’d driven the unmarked car, “you stay with the sheriff, keep him apprised.”
Gorman and Searson got back into the van. Cork’s people moved the barricade aside and let them pass. They drove to the end of the block and stopped a good five hundred feet short of Cork’s house.
“They’re parked in the cold zone, a safe distance from the explosive,” Sergeant Klish said. He was much shorter than Gorman, and older. He had a square face that seemed oddly unconcerned about the danger his colleagues might be facing.
“You go out on a lot of these calls?” Ed Larson asked.
“Sometimes two or three a day. Not usually this far north, though. A Bronco, you said, Sheriff?”
“That’s right.”
Klish nodded. “Probably too high for the camera on the robot. I’m guessing Dave’ll suit up and go in for a look-see.”
They watched as Gorman laboriously donned a heavily padded green suit with a high collar and large helmet. Slowly, he began to walk toward the Bronco down the street.
“Looks like he’s taking it pretty careful,” Cy Borkmann said.
“He’s wearing eighty pounds of Kevlar plates,” Klish replied. “He doesn’t have any choice but to go slow.”
Gorman reached Cork’s drive and approached the Bronco. He stood for a while peering under the hood.
“He seemed interested in fishing line,” Cork said. “What was that about?”
“You said wires were connected directly to the battery?”
“Yes.”
“Every explosive needs a power source. In this case, that’s the battery. With power already supplied, the only thing that’s needed to detonate is to complete the electrical circuit. That’s where the clothespin comes in. On this type of device, the electrical contacts are often thumbtacks pushed into the legs of the clothespin. What keeps them from connecting and completing the circuit is a thin piece of plastic or maybe cardboard that’s been slipped between. The question is, how does the plastic or cardboard get removed so the tacks can make contact, complete the circuit, and detonate the explosive? The answer: fishing line. Secure one end of the line to the cardboard, the other to the hood. When the car doesn’t start, the victim lifts the hood to see what the problem is, the fishing line gets pulled up, the cardboard gets yanked out, the thumbtacks connect, the circuit is completed, and…boom.” He gave Cork a wistful look. “You’re a very lucky man, Sheriff. All I can think is that the fishing line broke.”
Cork nearly staggered under the thought of what almost happened, thinking less about himself than the fact that Jenny had been with him.
“What’s in the pipe?” Larson asked.
“Could be anything,” Klish said. “Black powder, dynamite, even C-4, I suppose. They’ll check that out next.” He shook his head. “You know, the hell of all this is that it’s a very destructive device, but simple to make. Instructions for it and bombs a lot more sophisticated are all over the Internet. Go figure.”
Gorman backed away from the Bronco and, when he was a safe distance, turned and walked to the van. He returned to the Bronco with what Klish described as a portable X-ray machine. Fifteen minutes later, with Gorman at the van, Searson began assembling a tall stand with what looked like a rifle barrel on the end.
“They’re going to shoot,” Klish said.
“My Bronco?”
“Relax, Sheriff. They’ll probably shoot just the battery, or one of the cables, to remove the power source. Then they’ll probably shoot the device to break it open so they can take a look inside. What Greg’s constructing is called a PAN disrupter. It’s basically a remote gun. It has a laser beam for aiming, a barrel that’ll fire anything from shot to a slug to plain water.”
Half an hour and two PAN shots later, they sent the robot in to lift the explosive from the Bronco. Searson guided the small wheeled device back to the van where Gorman waited, still suited.
“Dave’s going to remove the detonator, then he’ll drop the explosive into the trailer for transport and disposal. You wouldn’t happen to have a gravel pit around here, would you?” Klish inquired.
“Just west of town,” Cork replied.
When Gorman was finished and the explosive was safely in the transport canister, he removed his suit and walked to where Cork and the others waited. He was drenched with sweat and looked beat. He carried a liter bottle of water, from which he frequently drank.
“What was inside?” Klish asked.
“Trenchrite. Four packs.”
“That’s a very common explosive,” Klish explained. “That gravel pit of yours probably uses it. What about the fishing line, Dave?”
“It was there. Broken.”
“I explained to the sheriff his good fortune.”
“You were lucky on two counts,” Gorman said to Cork. “The line broke, yes. But also whoever made the bomb inserted a dead blasting cap. It had already been used. Even if the line hadn’t broken, there’s no way that bomb would have gone off. That was one really stupid perp.”
Within twenty minutes, the bomb team cleared out, heading with Cy Borkmann to the gravel pit, where they intended to dispose of the explosive. The barricades were removed, the pumpers went back to the firehouse, and the crowd dispersed. Cork told Larson and Rutledge that he’d meet them in his office in half an hour.
He walked his family home and checked his Bronco. The cable to the positive battery terminal had been severed and there were white PVC fragments everywhere, but the damage seemed minimal. Inside the house, everything felt different, as if they’d been gone a very long time.
“Everybody out of the kitchen,” Jo said. “I’m going to make us something to eat.”
The children mutely drifted toward the living room.
When they were alone, Jo said, “Why, Cork?”
“I don’t know. But one thing is certain. I don’t want you or the kids around until we’ve nailed this guy.”
“I agree. I’ve been thinking. Jenny wants to see Northwestern and Annie’s dying to have a look at Notre Dame. Why don’t I call Rose, see if we can stay with her and Mal in Evanston?”
“That’s a good idea.”
“I don’t suppose you’d come, too.”
“You know I can’t.”
She accepted it with an unhappy nod.
“I’m sorry, Jo. Sorry about all this.”
“Not your fault, sweetheart.” She tried to smile.
