Simon watched Watson assume his public persona, meaning he sucked in his gut, rendering the earlier pants-hitching moot.
"
Good to see you again, Ms. Malone," the sheriff said. "What can I do for you?
"
Her camera man already had his light on and was shooting from the shoulder. Simon
cracked open the door of
the motor home as Malone pulled out her notebook.
"
We understand that two men are missing from the barges," she was saying. "Can you tell us...
"
Inside the command center, two men and a woman were gathered around a table, studying a map of the harbor. One of the men looked up as Simon
entered
and
the ATF agent
was struck, not for the first time, by how uncannily Lieutenant Jeff Longenecker resembled his name. Though not as tall as Simon, Longenecker had an unusually lanky neck and a protruding Adam’s apple that made him look like a caricature
of himself
.
"
Aamot. Glad you’re here.
"
The lieutenant turned to the other two.
"
Simon Aamot, with ATF.
"
"
I assume you’ll want to get out to the barge as soon as you can?
"
Longenecker
continue
d, not bothering with further social niceties, liked the names of the petty officers he had been talking to.
Simon nodded.
"
It’s still afloat, then?
"
The lieutenant pointed at three rectangles penciled on the map.
"
Steel-topped river barges--it takes a lot to sink them. We’re assuming that Pasquale Firenze was
blown into the water
by the force of the blast on his own barge and that Ray Guida was swept off the south barge by the wash. We need to talk to Guida's wife, who was out there with him.
"
"
No sign of either Firenze or Guida?
"
Longenecker didn’t look up from his map.
"
Not yet. We’ll keep looking, but I’m doubtful we’ll find any body until morning."
Longenecker had a disjointed way of speaking. Doubtful became "doubt full." Anybody became "any body." Appropriate in this case, if macabre.
The young male petty officer next to Longenecker spoke up.
"
I hate to ask this, sir, but can you give us any idea how far out we should be looking?
"
Simon drew a finger circle around the center barge.
"
In theory, a sixteen-inch shell would have a sixteen-hundred foot bursting diameter."
The young officer rubbed his chin.
"
A third of a mile.
"
Simon nodded.
"
Yes, but I said in theory. If the shell never left the mortar, the burst would have been more contained.
"
Longenecker’s Adam’s apple quivered.
"
So, what is your best guess here?
"
"
I’d say Pasquale would have been thrown in the immediate vicinity of the barge, probably well within 500 feet. If Guida was washed off, he’d be closer in. But that’s just a guess. You guys probably have a better idea of the currents than I do, which might affect their locations more by now, anyway. Can you get me out there?
"
Longenecker nodded.
"
Kutche
ra here is heading back
," he said, pointing to the petty officer. You can go with him.
"
*****
The way Jake figured it, it was Martha’s own fault the ATF guy
, who she'd apparently ignored in favor of the sheriff,
had gotten away. So why was she taking it out on Jake's crew?
Because she could, apparently. Dragging a camera man in her wake, the anchor was still searching for this Simon-Whoever. When she found him, she planned to shoot tape and then
have
the cassette
run
back to Jake at the production truck.
Meanwhile, George
Eagleton
was calmly continuing the live coverage from the set, and Neal
Cravens
was about to do a remote with the young family he had interviewed earlier. It was what Jake thought of as a
"
Howdy,
"
or "How-do-you..." interview:
How do you...feel?
How do you...go on living?
Whatever Howdy fits the occasion. Jake hated Howdys. But they were broadcast staples. Especially a live disaster broadcast.
"
Neal, you’re on in thirty seconds.
"
The reporter nodded solemnly into the camera lens. Neal didn’t like Howdys any more than Jake did, but he knew that this kind of exposure could win him an anchor job somewhere. And Neal was making the most of the opportunity.
A countdown and Neal and his guests were into the interview, pretty Mrs. Jenson recounting how she felt at the moment of the explosion.
Jake mentally turned
down the volume
,
just as
Luis called in from the main barge.
"
I’m going to interview Pat Firenze,
" Luis said without preface. "A
nd then I’ll get the tape to you.
"
The cameraman was so excited he forgot to say "over."
"
And how are you going to do that? Walk on water?
"
Jake asked, not
sure she wanted to know
the answer
. If the camera was waterproof, the kid would probably try it, climaxing his act by scaling the ladder that ran twenty rickety feet up the seawall from lake level. Taping all the
while
, of course.
"
Just do the interview and stay put for now. Do you need some questions for Pat?
"
"
Got it covered. What does he think happened, how could it have happened, how does it feel knowing that your fireworks may have killed two people. The usual.
"
"
Try to use a little tact, Luis. One of those
'
people
'
is
Pat's
father, the other his brother-in-law. And they're missing at this point, not dead.
"
"
Faith, Jake. Trust me. How much of my stuff did you get before the van went down?
"
Jake had to admit Luis had gotten some great shots up to the time of the explosion. She told him as much.
"
Thanks. Did you get the old man going back to the mortar?
"
Jake cringed.
But Luis wasn’t waiting for an answer.
"
I started running tape when I lost the link. I think you’ll like it. I may even have the van going glub, glub, glub--
"
The sound of her career going under, Jake thought, practical concerns overriding the philosophical. Just how much would a microwave van cost to replace, did you suppose?
Jake could see Neal
wrapping up.
"
Okay, Luis,"
she said. "Do
the interview and get your butt back over here somehow. Safely.
"
"
Roger and out.
"
*****
Surreal, Simon thought, as Kutchera's 41-footer--what the Coast Guard considered "a small boat"--approached the center barge. The immediate area around all three barges was a mass of red strobes and searchlights, making the center
barge
's deck look like a half-scale model of an aircraft carrier.
"
Where are the fireworks people now?
"
Simon asked.
"
Mostly on the north barge.
"
Kutchera nodded toward it as they passed.
"
We have a boat transporting Mrs. Guida there, too. She was on the south barge with her husband."
"
No casualties on the north?
"
"
Just the TV truck, sir.
"
Simon looked over at Kutchera, who the rest of the four-man crew referred to as "Boats," short for "Boatswains Mate."
He was busy threading their vessel through a maze of official craft.
"
TV truck?
"
Kutchera kept his eyes on the water, but the corners of his mouth twitched.
"
One of those vans with the big antennae things on top.
R
eport
edly,
it’s in the drink.
"
That struck Simon as perversely funny, too.
"
What a damn shame. Where was it?
"
Now Kutchera grinned full out.
"
On the corner closest to the center barge. The swell from the blast swept it right off from the sounds of it.
"
Maybe not so funny. What had happened to the TV truck was a mirror image of what probably had happened to Ray Guida on the opposite barge.
"
Why don’t you drop me
at the scene of the explosion
so I can take a look around,
"
Simon suggested.
"
Then I’d like to talk to Pat Firenze and his sister.
"
Kutchera, sober again, too, nodded.
Simon surveyed the center barge as they motored slowly toward it. It seemed to have a small list to one side, but he couldn't see any other damage.
Nor anything else, except for two figures
.
"
Fire department?
"
he asked.
"
Just our people now. There wasn’t much in the way of flames, but the fire boat took care of what there was.
"
Not much left to burn, Simon thought. The blue shell had been the last one of the night.
He stepped off onto the barge's deck, loaded down with the digital, 35mm and video cameras he had retrieved from his truck before heading out. Simon turned back to Kutchera.
"
You going to wait?
"
"
We're at your disposal. You need help with that stuff?
"
Simon shook his head and approached the
two
petty officers.
"
Simon Aamot, ATF. I’ll be looking around.
"
They checked his credentials and waved him on.
By definition born of necessity, a river barge is long and narrow. This particular one was a hundred feet by about forty, probably used to carry oil or paper down the Wisconsin River. Simon moved toward the middle of the barge, his footsteps rasping on the steel floor strewn with sand. When he got there, he stood stock still and looked around.
The mortars for the sixteen-inch shells would have been heavy cardboard and the size of garbage cans. Sandbags would have been stacked
against
them
for stability
. But now in the white glare of the floodlights, only burnt remnants
,
black scorch marks
and the scattering of glistening sand
marked where any of it had been.
As for Pasquale Firenze, there was no sign that he had ever been there at all.
Luis
Burns
was stoked.
He'd been on his belly at the edge of the barge trying to get a shot of the microwave van under water, when Pat Firenze tracked him down.
It turned out Junior didn't have any idea that his dad was blown up on one barge and another guy was missing from the other. Talk about a communications problem. Luis filled him in and then, striking while the iron was in the fire, got the guy to agree to an interview.
Luis wished he'd had the camera up and taping when he broke the news but, hey, sometimes a little restraint was in order. He would probably get a better interview, anyway, because he was being sensitive.
"
So Junior...I mean, Pat,
" he said, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of a boat motoring toward them, "
what would you do different next time?
"
He asked the question over the top of th
e camera, thinking if only he'
d
brought
a tripod
for the camera
he could
step into the frame next to Junior.
The question was good, though. It was one
Luis
'd heard Martha Malone use a lot.