Thorndike: “It’ll look worse for you if I have to dismiss you.”
“You do, and you’ll regret it.”
But he did. And he was going to regret it.
Just ahead was the railroad station. And just beyond it was Ekonomee Gas.
Ekonomee Gas was a filling-station, an independent not connected with any of the major gasoline companies. Ekonomee, like many similar independents, had no underground storage tanks. The station was built next to the railroad line, and a short spur track ran across the rear of the station property. Ekonomee bought gasoline in tank car lots, and piped the gas straight from the tank car into the pumps. There were always three or four tank cars full of gasoline on the spur behind Ekonomee Gas.
That was the place for the last grenade. That one ought to start a lovely fire. Two fires then, one at the plant and one at Ekonomee. Maybe three, if the firehouse had caught. In any case, they’d have plenty of time to spread. There was no longer any fire-fighting equipment in town. The radio station was disabled, the transmitting equipment at police headquarters had been riddled with machine-gun bullets, and once he’d blown up Ekonomee he’d go over to the telephone company and put thatout of commission.
No fire-fighting equipment in town, and no way to call to Madison or anywhere else to get some help. It would be hours before they could get organized to fight the fire, hours. With luck, the whole goddam town would burn down.
And Parker and the others would have to help. All this racket would attract the attention of the state police, at the barracks down 22A. Parker and the others would have to put that barracks out of commission; they’d have no choice.
“I toldyou you’d regret it, Thorndike!”
He ran past the railroad station, over the blacktop driveway of Ekonomee and around the corner of the building. Three tanks cars there. The spreading fire back at the plant glinted in smudged reflection on their sides.
Edgars paused at the corner of the building. He had the last grenade in his hands, and heard someone shout his name. He turned and saw two of the others running toward him, the prowl car standing behind them.
“Keep away!” he shouted. “Keep away!”
“Stop!”
He pulled the pin. He whirled, and threw the grenade at the tank cars.
9
The blast knocked Wycza off his feet. He went sprawling, his revolver flying out of his hand. He rolled and started to his feet, and a second blast knocked him down again. He was a wrestler sometimes and his body reacted instinctively to a lack of balance, adjusting itself, shifting, rolling, avoiding falls that could hurt.
He made it to his feet this time, and saw Parker braced against one of the pumps. The gas station building had fallen forward, and leaping flames behind it lit the whole area. He looked around but couldn’t see Edgars.
He shouted the name, and Parker shook his head, pointing at the rubble. “Under there.”
“We’ve got to get out of here, Parker.”
“I know.”
They ran back to the car, and Parker got his walkie-talkie. “G! Get hold of Littlefield, fast. Tell him to get down to the east gate, we’ll pick him up there. Then you get over to Raymond, on the double.”
Wycza, getting into the prowl car on the passenger side, heard Grofield’s voice saying, “What the hell’s going on?”
“Later. Get moving. S, watch that road, the troopers may come in. If they do, don’t stop them, just warn us.”
Salsa’s voice said, “Will do.”
“I never did like that trooper barracks,” said Wycza. “I never did.”
Parker had started the prowl car. He spun out away from the station, headed toward Raymond Avenue.
People were coming out on the sidewalks. Some of them, recognizing the prowl car, waved their arms, wanting the police to stop and answer questions. Wycza looked at them and muttered, “It’s sour, Parker. It’s gone sour.”
“I know. You drive the truck, I’ll take the wagon. Get your people in it and get going. Pick up Salsa and Grofield. I’ll get Littlefield and Phillips.”
“Right.”
Raymond Avenue. Parker turned the wheel hard right, and braked next to the truck. “Don’t wait for me,” he said.
Wycza grinned under the hood. “Don’t worry.” He clambered out of the prowl car and ran around the truck cab.
They were all clustered there, Paulus and Kerwin and Wiss and Elkins. Wycza told them, “Get in. All in back, I got others to pick up.”
Everybody moved but Paulus, who wasted time asking, “What’s going on? What’s happening?”
“Get in or I leave you.”
Wycza got up in the cab, kicked the engine on, and pulled away from the curb. They’d taken the truck around the block when they’d first come in, so it would be facing the right way; he was grateful for that now.
He went four blocks and there was Grofield waiting for him, on a corner, without his hood. And not alone.
