Shock Wave (42 page)

Virgil called Barlow: “He's moving. Headed downtown.”

“We're still hovering out here. . . .”

 

 

SHRAKE CALLED:
“He's at the Wells Fargo drive-through. Jenkins will take him from here, I'm going to fall off.”

O'Hara said to Virgil, “That was probably his paycheck in the mail.”

“He's going to be late for class, if he doesn't hurry,” Virgil said.

Shrake called again. “Jenkins is on him, he looks like he's headed over to the school.”

Jenkins, a few minutes later: “He's inside the school. He was hurrying.”

Virgil called Barlow: “He's at the school. Let's go.”

 

 

VIRGIL AND O'HARA ARRIVED FIRST.
As had been the case with the other divorced suspect, William Wyatt, Haden was a renter. Virgil had gotten a key from the home's owner, and had silenced the owner with threats of life imprisonment (“accessory after the fact to four murders”) if he talked to anyone about it.

They parked in the street, walked up to Haden's door, and went inside. Once in, Virgil walked around to the garage and opened the door. Barlow and two techs arrived a minute later, drove into the garage, and Virgil dropped the door again.

They did a quick walk-through, found a small shop in the basement, with the bodies of three gorgeous electric guitars hanging from the rafters.

“That's great work,” one of the techs said. “This guy knows what he's doing, guitar-wise.”

“He's got everything he needs to make the bombs,” the other tech said. “If he's the guy, this is where he made the bombs.”

They had a wheeled cart full of electronic equipment, which they'd brought into the kitchen from the garage. Now, they went back up the steps, picked it up, and carried it down the stairs. “Tell you something in five minutes,” Barlow said.

While the techs ran some preliminary tests, Virgil and O'Hara cruised the main floor. Haden was a neat man. Virgil pointed out that he'd vacuumed two of the rugs in a way that left the short nap standing upright, “So that when we walk on it, we leave footprints.”

“We'll re-vacuum before we leave,” she said. “Of course, we'll be clothed.”

 

 

THEY TOOK TEN MINUTES
working from his bedroom outward, and found nothing that would point to him as a bomber; not that it was all uninteresting. They found a box that once contained a gross of ribbed, lubricated condoms, with maybe thirty left; and two vibrators, including one with a wicked hook on it. In a storage closet, they found a PSE X-Force Vendetta bow with a five-pin sight and a Ripcord fall-away arrow rest, and a batch of high-end carbon-fiber arrows, five of them set up with Slick Trick magnum four-bladed arrowheads.

In a backpack hanging in the same storage closet as the bow, they found a range of deer-hunting gear. Two bottles of scent-killing detergent sat on a shelf.

“Now,” Virgil said, in his best pedantic tone, “what's wrong with this whole scene?”

“I dunno,” O'Hara said. “I woulda got a Solocam, myself, but that PSE's a pretty good bow.”

“What's wrong, my red-haired friend, is that he's got all this scent killer, but where's the camo he's gonna spray it on, or wash it with?”

“There is no camo,” she said.

“Because he got rid of it, because he read in the paper that we found that video recorder,” Virgil said. “There are no bow hunters without camo. Most of them wear it when it's anything less than ninety degrees, just to prove that they're bow hunters. His mistake was, instead of just throwing away the old stuff, he should have also bought some new camo pattern that wasn't Realtree, run it through the washer a few times, then hung it up here. That would counter what was seen on the video.”

“I believe you,” O'Hara said. “I also believe that if you made that argument in court, the judge would hit you on the head with her gavel.”

 

 

THEY HEARD BARLOW
running up the stairs. They stepped out to look, and Barlow said, “Okay. He's the guy. We've got molecules of Pelex in the basement. But . . .”

“I hate that. I hate when people say ‘but,' ” Virgil said.

Barlow ran on: “But . . . what he did was he scrubbed up the whole basement with some kind of strong chemical cleaners. You can still see the marks on the floor. We don't have anything physical except our test, which is good, but a defense chemist could make the argument that all we're picking up is some chemical signature of something used in the cleaners.”

“Is that possible?” Virgil asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Barlow said. “I don't believe it, in this case, but we don't know what cleaners he used. We need to check that now.”

“Do we have enough to bust him?”

Barlow stroked his mustache a few times and then said, “It'd be marginal. Just the fact that he scrubbed up the basement in a rental house would tell you something. We did get that Pelex signature. If we had an aggressive prosecutor . . . and then, whatever Mrs. Wyatt could tell us, if she'd tell us anything.”

“All right. We're about done up here and we didn't find much to help. Just another negative,” Virgil said. He told Barlow about the missing camo.

“What does it all mean?” O'Hara asked.

“It means we may have to go to my Plan B,” Virgil said.

“
Your
plan B?” Hands on her hips. “Wait a minute, buster . . .”

J
OHN HADEN FOUND HIMSELF
in something of a trap. Not a legal trap, but a relationship trap. Sally Wyatt had come over and had thrown her . . . psyche . . . at him, after she'd come back from the scene of her husband's death. She'd been overcome with remorse, both at his death and about her relationship with Haden.

She still loved him, she said, but this death changed everything: she needed space to think, she needed time to grieve, she needed to be alone with her children. She needed help. He calmed her down, as much as he could, he let her weep, he gave her the name a grief counselor he'd heard about from another instructor whose wife had died.

“She's supposed to be really good, and as I understand it, she really did help Jeremy get through his wife's death,” he'd told her, sitting beside her on the couch, one hand on her shoulder. “You think you have to go through it on your own, but you don't. It helps to have somebody who understands the fault lines of family tragedy.”

As soon as she was out the door, he said aloud, “Jesus Christ, this is gonna be a pain in the ass.”

The trap part of the relationship was . . . he needed to keep her close, but he wouldn't want Flowers to see them together. Actually, he didn't want anyone to see them together, at least for a while, and that wasn't easy, in a small city like Butternut Falls. So he needed her close for strategic reasons—their potential marriage—but at the same time, for tactical reasons, he now needed a little distance. At least until Flowers got out of town.

He got Flowers's cell phone number off his own cell phone and called him.

“Virg: you never called to tell me what happened out there,” he complained. “Was Bill the guy? We're hearing that up at the school.”

“We're about ninety-eight percent and climbing,” Flowers said. “The thing we don't know is, was it an accident, or was it on purpose? There's no question that most of the remaining Pelex must've been touched off. There're pieces of that farmhouse in fuckin' Farmington. And probably far-off Faribault.”

“To say nothing of freakin' Fairmont,” Haden said. “Well, you know what? I'm still not sure. So when you get to a hundred percent, let me know.”

“I'll do that,” Flowers said. “You could buy me another beer or two.”

“You're on,” Haden said.

 

 

WHEN HE GOT OFF
the phone, Haden got a half-full bottle of red wine from the fridge, popped the vacuum cork, and carried the bottle over to the couch, where he could think.

This whole thing would have to be carefully handled. He'd made Sally fall in love with him—that wasn't difficult. She'd needed somebody, in the biggest emotional crisis of her life, and there he was. He'd been funny, and sensitive, and sexy, had listened thoughtfully to her complaints about Wyatt, and to her intellectual and political positions.

Had argued with her, from time to time, had confessed that as a mathematician, he was sometimes pulled toward the arguments made by the Republicans about the economy. He'd only done that, though, after hearing that her father had been a longtime Republican county chairman, and figuring out that her father was a major force in her life. The old man was, thankfully, dead, so at least Haden wouldn't have to deal with that.

But.

The big But.

When their relationship came out in the open, there'd be talk. There was always talk, especially in the academic community. He could handle that, as long as it was off in the future . . . when the bomber had faded, at least a bit, from people's concerns.

He took another long pull at the wine.

Almost done, now.

 

 

THEN . . . WELL,
he knew she was going to be a pain in the ass. He'd finished the bottle of wine, and then had driven to the grocery store and stocked up on Smart Dogs and Greek yogurt, had gotten a premade black-bean salad and a baguette and a six-pack of Dos Equis, stopped at the coffee shop for a cappuccino. He'd had a quiet dinner, took to the couch again, to digest it, then spent ninety minutes at the Awareness Center, his yoga school.

He was in the parking lot, throwing his yoga bag back in the car, when his cell phone rang. He looked at the LCD: Sally Wyatt.

“Sally? Everything okay?” he asked. He let concern seep into his voice.

“Oh, God, that man was here. That agent. He thinks . . . I don't know what he thinks. I'm worried about . . . things.”

“You want me to come over?”

“Better not. The neighbors are having a barbeque, there are people all over the street. I really don't need any . . . questions.”

He mentally sighed in relief.

“Could I come over to your house?” she asked. Nearly a whimper. She was falling apart. “I sent the kids to my mom's, until I could get the funeral stuff taken care of.”

“I didn't think . . . Never mind. Come over, please.” He got off the phone and groaned, and then half-laughed. He'd almost said, “I didn't think there was enough left to bury.” Christ, that would have been sticking his foot into it. He had to be more careful. Thinking about it, he started laughing again.

 

 

SHE WAS THERE
in ten minutes. When she came through the door, he went for a little squeeze, a little hug, a quick kiss on the neck, but she fended him off and perched on his easy chair. She said, “John, my God, what am I going to do? I've got no money, I've got nothing, the funeral expenses . . . and now, maybe I need a lawyer. This Flowers, he kept asking about what I thought about PyeMart and if I'd noticed anything going on in Bill's workshop. He thinks I was involved.”

“I've talked to him,” Haden said. “He thinks he's a pretty smart guy, but he's not as smart as he thinks he is. What you do is, you're just honest. You don't know anything about anything. If they make an actual accusation, tell them you need a public defender. But, I really don't think it'll come to that. Bill was obviously unbalanced. It's not something that two people would do.”

“I can't believe . . . I lived with Bill fourteen years. He could be a jerk, but I don't see this. I'm, I'm . . .”

“Well, you know . . . the prospect of that money,” Haden said.

She looked away from him. “That's something else that Flowers said. Virgil said. He tells me to call him Virgil, like he's a friend of mine, but I can tell he isn't. I can tell he's up to something. . . .” She trailed off, put her face in her hands for a moment.

He was sitting on the couch opposite her, and asked, “What was the other thing he said?”

“He said that if the town development went back the way it was, I'd be rich,” she said. She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, one after the other. “He thought that might be a motive. He thought that was Bill's motive, and he thought it might be mine.”

“What'd you say?” Haden asked.

“I told him that Bill didn't care that much about money,” she said. “When the town changed direction, he just laughed it off. Said he didn't need the money for another thirty years, and by then, it'd be even more valuable.”

“And what'd he say?”

“He said that was interesting,” she said.

 

 

HADEN LOOKED AT HER
for a moment, and then asked, “When did you send the kids away?”

“Right after the bomb . . . right away. Oh my God, they're going to be so messed up. Bill would come over every other day, take them out. He really was a good father. Good as he could be, anyway, you know . . . He never even said good-bye to them.”

“Okay.” Haden got up. “You want a beer? Or a glass of wine?”

“No . . . but I need to ask you something.”

“Yeah?”

“I just remembered, you asked a lot of questions about the farm,” she said. She twisted her hands together. “You know, that first night I came over. I just, I mean, you seem really interested. . . .”

He frowned. “Sally, where are you going with this?”