a side alley. Finally, he could breathe, and, so far, no one was shooting at him. He lay back on the warm concrete and concentrated on clearing his lungs and eyes.
Acid—a flood of it. Where the hell had that come from? Obviously, the bearded man had initiated that catastrophe. This place wasn’t the ghost town it appeared to be. He rolled over onto his side and looked around.
There was nothing stirring in the morning sunlight. He could hear a faint slurring sound coming up from the tunnel, but nothing else. He took one final deep breath and got up. He’d lost his stick down in the tunnel, but he was lucky to have escaped. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if the rope had been eaten before he’d made it back up to the tunnel.
He climbed the nearest building and spent the next fifteen minutes scanning the entire industrial area from the roof, but there was nothing different about it—same collection of concrete buildings, empty streets, and dilapidated sheds on the bare, dusty hillsides. The man who had pursued him from the power plant was nowhere in evidence. The power plant. He studied the front of the building, with its four garage doors and windowless exterior. The man had come out of the power plant, so whatever they were doing here, that’s where they were doing it.
He climbed back down from the building’s roof and went down a back alley to the side of the power plant. The tank farm up on its side hill was visible behind its concrete mass, and he wondered for a moment if the acid had been dumped down out of one of those tanks up there.
Then he saw what looked like fresh tire tracks coming out of the tank farm’s dirt road. Big dual tracks, the kind a truck would leave. He remembered the truck in the garage bay of the power plant. He wanted to take another look into that garage bay, but he did not want to cross the open space between the explosives finishing building and the power plant, in case the man was in there, waiting for him. He’d taken enough chances already.
He looked at the tire tracks again, then knelt down and fingered the ridges in the dirt. Fresh indeed.
He checked his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock. He decided to go back to his own truck and then go to Blacksburg and look up Mr. Browne McGarand. That green-and-white tanker truck should be pretty easy to spot. Find that truck, find his shooter. And, he hoped, find Lynn. This time, maybe he would take a gun. He still had Jared’s .45 in his truck.
He’d have to find some ammo.
At 3:30, Janet, Ransom, and Ken Whittaker were waiting out in the bright sunlight on the main street of the arsenal’s industrial area. The two young rent-a-cops were finishing unlocking the padlocks on the final two buildings adjacent to the power plant. The Bureau team had arrived at the front gates at just after two o’clock, where they had been met by Ken Whittaker, the local aTF supervisor, and the same two kids in their little rent-a-cop pickup truck. The group had done a quick windshield tour of the bunker area and then descended on the industrial complex. Whittaker, a tall, thin man, wearing oversize horn-rimmed glasses, was in nominal charge. Sunday or not, he was dressed in khaki trousers and shirt, and he had his aTF windbreaker and ball cap on. When Willson had briefed him, he had been all business, and he surprised Janet by asking none of the bureaucratic ground-rule questions that had been swirling around this case from its inception. He agreed that it would be a joint scene, but he insisted on being in charge of any inspection for possible bomb-making facilities. Willson and Porter agreed to this immediately. Willson noticed Janet’s bewilderment, and while Whittaker was giving orders, he quietly pointed out that, at the working-stiff level, federal agents were federal agents and tended to focus on the business at hand. It was Washington where winning the turf battles seemed to be as important as the case, he said, which was the reason he was permanently homesteading in Roanoke.
Janet showed them the hole in the street where the car had gone down.
There was an eye-stinging smell coming up from the hole, which Janet recognized as being the fumes of nitric acid. The rent-a-cops said
they could smell it, too, but they insisted there hadn’t been any industrial activity in the arsenal for years. Janet didn’t remember all those pipes being near the hole, but then she didn’t remember much about getting out of there, period, after Kreiss had shown up. They had then driven up and down the streets and side alleys in a four- vehicle procession, seeing nothing but bare concrete walls. Ransom suggested that they ought to climb down into the hole in the street, but the fumes were too strong.
“There was nothing like that when we came out of that hole,” Janet said, staring down into the darkness.
“That’s new.”
“What’s the purpose of this tunnel?” Whittaker asked. One of the renta-cops said the site maps showed it only as the Ditch. Willson guessed that it was an emergency dump channel for the big buildings lining the street, someplace that an entire batch of chemicals could be dumped if something went wrong while they were making explosives.
“Wow,” Whittaker said.
“And I wonder into whose drinking water that would go.”
Neither of the two kids ventured an answer to that one. Whittaker had asked them if they had keys to all these buildings, and they said, yes, they had the series master-lock keys for every building in the complex. Whittaker had just looked at them until they understood what he wanted. With lots of dramatic sighs, they started at the high end of the street and began taking down padlocks. Whittaker split the joint FBI-aTF team up into groups of two. He briefed them on potential booby traps and told them to go through all the buildings, with orders to stop and back out immediately if something seemed wrong. He kept Janet and Ransom with him.
“And we’re looking for?” one of the agents had asked.
“These buildings are supposed to be empty,” Whittaker said.
“If you come on one that isn’t, back out and sing out. And be careful how you open doors: Bomb makers are into booby traps.”
The FBI agents looked at one another, and then Willson said, “Gee, with all that aTF bomb experience, maybe Whittaker ought to be the guy opening doors.” Whittaker laughed and even agreed, but then Willson said, “No, we’ll do it.” Whittaker, Ransom, and Janet had remained down near the big hole in the street. One of the rent-a-cops came back to where they were standing.
“That’s all the main process buildings,” he said.
“How about the power plant?” He was perspiring, but that hadn’t kept him from lighting up a cigarette. Cigarettes and pimples, Janet thought. Don’t they just go together.
Whittaker checked back with Willson’s team up the street by radio.
They were still working their way down, building to building. So far, they had reported seriously empty buildings.
“Yeah, open it up,” he said in a tired tone of voice.
“The weekend’s shot anyway.”
The kid gave a two-finger salute and trudged across the empty space between the last of the big buildings and the looming facade of the power plant. Whittaker followed him halfway down, then stood in the street, talking on his radio to the two team leaders. Janet walked with Ransom over to a building marked nitro FIXING.
“Now there’s a great name for a building,” Ransom said.
“How’d you like to work in a place that did—” Janet felt rather than saw a great wave of intense heat and pressure on her right side. The blast compressed her body with such strength that her chest, lungs, and extremities felt like they were being stepped on by some fiery giant. She wanted to turn to see what it was, but then she was literally flying through the air and right through a wooden loading-dock fence before rolling like a rag doll out onto the concrete of a side street, until she slammed up against the wall of the next building. She tried to focus, but there was an enormous noise ringing in her ears, and then she felt herself screaming as an avalanche of things began to fall all around her, big things that hit the ground with enough force to make her helpless body bounce right off the ground. The sun had gone out and she could not get her breath. Her right side felt as if she had been kicked by a horse, and she found herself spitting out bits of concrete and lots of dirt and dust. Then a huge mass of reinforced concrete wall, big as a house, crunched into the street right alongside her and she screamed so hard, she fainted.
When she came to, her whole body was buzzing with pain. She wasn’t able to get a good breath because of her side, and she was dimly aware that there were sounds around her she couldn’t quite hear. Her eyes were stuck
