Dunes Inn, which had been their staging area. And would have been where they’d wait out the next few days, watching the news. But now, sadly, Plan B was in effect. She’d go back to collect all the documents, maps, extra equipment and remaining explosives and get the hell back to Oakland. She bet there was a goddamn snitch within the Brothers of Liberty up there—how else would the police have known as much as they did?—and Harriet was going to find him.
It was a good thing they’d decided to split up behind the outlet mall. As the Taurus had temporarily evaded the Highway Patrol trooper and skidded to a stop, Harriet in the backseat, Wayne decided they had to make sure somebody got back to the motel and ditched the evidence—which implicated some very senior people at the BOL.
She jumped out with the backpack containing extra detonators and wires and tools and phony IDs that let them get into the banquet hall where the CCCBA was having their party. Harriet had been going to hijack a car and head back to the Dunes Inn, but the asshole of a trooper had rammed Gabe and Wayne. And police had descended.
She’d slipped into a Burger King, to let the dust settle. She’d ditched the contents of the satchel, but, to her dismay, the police were spreading out and talking to everybody at the mall. Harriet decided she had to find a fall guy to take attention away from her. She’d spotted a solo shopper, a man about her height with light hair—in case the trooper had seen her in the backseat. She stuck her Glock in his ribs, pulling him behind the BK, then grabbed his wallet. She found a picture of three spectacularly plain children and made a fake call on her mobile to an imaginary assistant, telling him to get to the poor guy’s house and round up the kidlings.
If he didn’t do exactly as she said, they’d be shot, oldest to youngest. His wife would be the last to go.
She got his car keys and told him to stand in the crowd. If any cops came to talk to him he was to run and if he was caught he should throw the pack at them and keep running. If he got stopped he should say nothing. She, of course, was going to dime him out—and when the police went after him she would have a chance to take his car and leave. It would have worked fine, except that goddamn detective—O’Neil was his name—had her stay put so she could formally ID the sandy-haired guy. Oh, how she wanted to get the hell out of there. But she couldn’t arouse suspicion, so Harriet had cooled her heels, sucking down Diet Coke, and tried to wrestle with the anger and sorrow about her brother and Gabe.
Then O’Neil and the poor bastard had returned. She’d IDed him with a fierce glance of warning and given them some fake information on how to reach her.
And now she was in his car, heading back to the Dunes Inn.
Oh, Wayne, I’ll miss you! Gabe, too.
The motel loomed. She sped into the parking lot and braked to a stop.
She was then aware of an odd vibration under her hands. The steering column. What was it?
An earthquake?
A problem with the car?
She shut the engine off but the vibration grew louder.
Leaves began to move and the dust swirled like a tornado in the parking lot.
And Harriet understood. Oh, shit.”
She pulled her Glock from her bag and sprinted toward the motel door, firing blindly at the helicopter as it landed in the parking lot. Several officers and, damn it, that detective, O’Neil, charged toward her. “Drop the weapon, drop the weapon!”
She hesitated and laid the gun and her keychain on the ground. Then she dropped facedown beside them.
Harriet was cuffed and pulled to her feet.
O’Neil was approaching, his weapon drawn and looking for accomplices. A cluster of cops dressed like soldiers was slowly moving toward the motel room.
“Anyone in there?” he asked.
“No.”
“It was just the three of you?”
“Yes.”
The detective called, “Treat it dynamic in any case.”
“How’d you know?” she snapped.
He looked her over neutrally. “The cargo pants.”
“What?”
“You described the man in the car and said one was wearing cargo pants. You couldn’t see the pants of somebody inside a car from sixty feet away. The angle was wrong.”
Hell, Harriet thought. Never even occurred to her.
O’Neil added that the man they’d believed was one of the conspirators was acting too nervous. “It occurred to me that he might’ve been set up. He told me what you’d done. We tracked his car here with his GPS.” O’Neil was going through her purse. “You’re his sister, Wayne’s.”
“I’m not saying anything else.” Harriet was distracted, her eyes taking in the motel room.
O’Neil caught it and frowned. He glanced down at her keychain, which held both a fob for her car and the second one.
She caught his eye and smiled.
“IED in the room!” he called. “Everybody back! Now.”
It wasn’t an explosive device, just a gas bomb Gabe had rigged in the event something like this happened. It had been burning for three minutes or so—she’d pushed the remote control the second she’d seen the chopper—but the smoke and flames weren’t yet visible.
Then a bubble of fire burst through two of the windows.
Armed with extinguishers, the tactical team hurried inside to salvage what they could, then retreated as the flames swelled. One officer called, “Michael! We spotted a box of plastic explosive detonators, some timers.”
Another officer ran up to O’Neil and showed him what was left of a dozen scorched documents. They were the floor plan for the site of the attack at the CCCBA party. He studied it. “A room with a stage. Could be anywhere. A corporation, school, hotel, restaurant.” He sighed.
Harriet panicked, then relaxed, as she snuck a glimpse and noted that the name of the motel was on a part of the sheet that had burned to ash.
“Where is this?” O’Neil asked her bluntly.
Harriet studied it for a moment and shook her head. “I’ve never seen that before. You planted it to incriminate me. The government does that all the time.”
# # #
At the Bankers’ party the high school students arrived, looking scrubbed and festive, all in uniforms, which Carol approved of. Tan slacks and blazers for the boys, plaid skirts and white blouses for the girls.
They were checking out the treats—and the boys were probably wondering if they could cop a spiked punch —but would refrain from anything until after the twenty-minute concert. The kids took their music seriously and sweets tended to clog the throat, her grandson had explained.
She hugged the blond, good-looking boy and shook the hand of the chorus director.
“Everyone, everyone!” she called. “Take your seats.”
And the children climbed up on stage, taking their positions.
# # #
The clock in the interrogation room registered 3:51.
Dance broke off the debate for a moment and read and sent several text messages, as Wayne Keplar watched with interest.
3:52.
“Your expression tells me the news isn’t good. Not making much headway elsewhere?”
Kathryn Dance didn’t respond. She slipped her phone away. “I’m not finished with our discussion, Wayne.
