Now, I pointed out you were hypocritical to kill the very people you purport to represent.”
“And I pointed out a hole a mile wide with that argument.”
“Killing also goes against another tenet of yours.”
Wayne Keplar said calmly, “How so?”
“You want religion taught in school. So you must be devout. Well, killing the innocent is a sin.”
He snickered. “Oh, please, Ms. Firecracker. Read the Bible sometime: God smites people for next to nothing. Because somebody crosses Him or to get your attention. Or because it’s Tuesday, I don’t know. You think everybody drowned in Noah’s flood was guilty of something?”
“So al-Qaeda’s terrorist tactics are okay?”
“Well, al-Qaeda itself—’cause they want the strongest government of all. It’s called a theocracy. No respect for individuals. But their tactics? Hell, yes. I admire the suicide bombers. If I was in charge, though, I’d reduce all Islamic countries to smoking nuclear craters.”
Kathryn Dance looked desperately at the clock, which showed nearly 3:57.
She rubbed her face as her shoulders slumped. Her weary eyes pleaded. “Is there anything I can say to talk you into stopping this?”
3:58.
“No, you can’t. Sometimes the truth is more important than the individuals. But,” he added with a sincere look. “Kathryn, I want to say that I appreciate one thing.”
No more Ms. Firecracker.
“What’s that?” she said in a whisper, eyes on the clock.
“You took me seriously. That talk we just had. You disagree, but you treated me with respect.”
4:00 p.m.
Both law officer and suspect remained motionless, staring at the clock.
A phone in the room rang. She leaned over and hit the speaker button fast. “Yes?”
The staticky voice, a man’s. “Kathryn, it’s Albert. I’m sorry to have to tell you…”
She sighed. “Go on.”
“It was an IED, plastic of some sort… We don’t have the count yet. Wasn’t as bad as it could be. Seems the device was under a stage and that absorbed some of the blast. But we’re still looking at fifteen or so dead, maybe fifty injured… Hold on. CHP’s calling. I’ll get back to you.”
Dance disconnected, closed her eyes briefly then glared at Keplar. “How
Wayne frowned; he wasn’t particularly triumphant. “I’m sorry, Kathryn. This is the way it had to be. It’s a war out there. Besides, score one for your side—only fifteen dead. We screwed up.”
Dance shivered in anger. But she calmly said, “Let’s go.”
She rose and knocked on the door. It opened immediately and two large CBI agents came in, also glaring. One reshackled Keplar’s hands behind him, hoping, it seemed, for an excuse to Taser the prisoner. But the man was the epitome of decorum.
One agent muttered to Dance, “Just heard, the death count’s up to--”
She waved him silent, as if denying Keplar the satisfaction of knowing the extent of his victory.
# # #
She led the prisoner out the back of CBI, toward a van that would ultimately transport him to the Salinas lockup.
“We’ll have to move fast,” she told the other agents. “There’re going to be a lot of people who’d like to take things into their own hands.”
The area was largely deserted. But just then Dan Simmons, the blogger who’d pestered Dance earlier, the Jude Law lookalike, peered around the edge of the building as if he’d been checking every few minutes to see if they’d make a run for it this way. Simmons hurried toward them, along with his unwashed cameraman.
Dance ignored him.
Simmons asked, “Agent Dance, could you comment on the failure of law enforcement to stop the bombing in time?”
She said nothing and kept ushering Keplar toward the van.
“Do you think this will be the end of your career?”
Silence.
“Wayne, do you have anything to say?” the blog reporter asked.
Eyes on the camera lens, Keplar called, “It’s about time the government started listening to people like Osmond Carter. This never would have happened if he hadn’t been illegally arrested!”
“Wayne, what do you have to say about killing innocent victims?”
“Sacrifices have to be made,” he called.
Simmons called, “But why these particular victims? What’s the message you’re trying to send?”
“That maybe bankers shouldn’t be throwing themselves fancy holiday parties with the money they’ve stolen from the working folk of this country. The financial industry’s been raping citizens for years. They claim—”
“Okay, hold it,” Dance snapped to the agents flanking Keplar, who literally jerked him to a stop.
Dance was pulling out a walkie-talkie. “Michael, it’s Kathryn, you read me?”
“Four by four. We’ve got six choppers and the entire peninsula com network standing by. You’re patched in to all emergency frequencies. What do you have?”
“The target’s a party—Christmas, I’d guess—involving bankers, or savings and loan people, bank regulators, something like that. It
Wayne Keplar stared at her, awash in confusion.
A half dozen voices shot from her radio, variations of “
“What is this?” Keplar raged.
Everyone ignored him.
A long several minutes passed, Dance standing motionless, head down, listening to the intersecting voices through the radio. And then: “This is Major Rodriguez, CHP. We’ve got it! Central Coast Bankers’ Association, annual Christmas party, Monterey Bay Seaside Motel. They’re evacuating now.”
Wayne Keplar’s eyes grew wide as he stared at Dance. “But the bomb…” He glanced at Dance’s wrist and those of the other officers. They’d all removed their watches, so Keplar couldn’t see the real time. He turned to an agent and snapped, “What the hell time is it?”
“About ten to four,” replied Dan Simmons, the reporter.
He blurted to Dance, “The clock? In the interrogation room?”
“Oh,” she said, guiding him to the prisoner transport van. “It was fast.”
# # #
A half hour later Michael O’Neil arrived from the motel where the bankers’ party had been interrupted.
He explained that everyone got out safely, but there’d been no time to try to render the device safe. The explosion was quite impressive. The material was probably Semtex, Abbott Calderman had guessed, judging from the smell. The Forensic Services head explained to O’Neil that it was the only explosive ever to have its own FAQ on the Internet, which answered questions like: Was it named after an idyllic, pastoral village? (yes). Was it mass produced and shipped throughout the world, as the late President Vaclav Havel claimed? (no). And was Semtex the means by which its inventor committed suicide? (not exactly—yes, an employee at the plant did blow himself up intentionally, but he had not been one of the inventors).
Dance smiled as O’Neil recounted this trivia.
Steve Nichols of the FBI called and told her they were on the way to the CBI to deliver the other suspect, Gabe Paulson. He explained that since she’d broken the case, it made sense for her to process all the suspects.
