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  They needed solid evidence. He was going to run out of time in a hurry, if his boss decided to put his foot down. He cranked the gas and tore up a freeway ramp. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Geoff grab his knit hat with both hands and pull it down over his ears.

  CHAPTER 12

  MARK ASSUAGED HIS GUILT over the illegal purchase by remembering the look on Detective Owens’s face when he told him the case was closed, no matter what new evidence turned up or how much proof he uncovered. There was something going on. He didn’t know what it was, but it bothered him, a lot. Rapists go free on a technicality, murderers get slaps on the wrist because they had bad childhoods or they didn’t get to go to Disneyland, but hundreds of innocent people are murdered, and the authorities call it an accident.

  He peered at the dark highway illuminated only by his headlights. He didn’t care if it was after eleven, he was going to get answers, one way or another.

  * * *

  AFTER TWENTY MINUTES ON the expressway, Mark made his way into what appeared to be a lower-class residential area. He looked again at the address he’d written down, making sure he didn’t miss the street he wanted.

  East Bower Street.

  He turned right onto a narrow car-lined road with tall apartment buildings on both sides. Seeing a sign marked, The Birches in the front of a large, brick complex, he pulled in and drove around to the back.

  There it was. Building Eleven Forty-Seven, Apartment C. He pulled in a few doors down and shut off the engine. Even in the dim lighting, he could tell the red brick building had seen better times. Lights from scattered windows lit up the three-story complex like fireflies in a jar. He pushed the window button and rolled it down several inches. All was quiet in the apartment building, but not in his heart.

  He swallowed. Now what?

  He pulled the heavy case from the backseat, then set it on the passenger seat and opened it. After a quick glance at his surroundings, he loaded the gun until all nine rounds were in the magazine. After pumping it, he set it next to him on the passenger seat, opened the door and met a blast of bitter cold wind.

  Apartment C faced the street, so he had to round the corner on the second floor landing to get to it. The porch light was on. He hoped that meant someone was home. As he knocked, his mind raced with possibilities, most of which were not good. Before he could scroll through them all, he heard the lock release. The door cracked open and a nose peeked out underneath the chain lock.

  “Who is it?” The voice sounded like a woman’s. It was weak and quivered when she spoke.

  He ignored her question. “Sorry to bother you so late at night. I was wondering if Pat Rotter still lives here.” A wisp of thin, white hair fluttered into the opening, like a stray strand of cotton.

  “Oh, I thought you were Pat.” She looked at him confused. “He’s out right now, but he should be back in a little bit. Do you want me to tell him you stopped by?”

  “No, I’ll come back some other time.” He thanked her and hurried away before she could ask any more questions. He pulled up his collar around his neck, shuffled back around the building and down the metal stairs toward his BMW.

  Getting back into his car, he turned on the heat full-blast and sat there, rubbing his gloved hands together and thinking about what to do next. He could wait. He didn’t want the old lady to warn Rotter that a strange man was looking for him. The guy might spook and run. He needed answers, and he needed them tonight.

  * * *

  AN HOUR PASSED. MARK listened to the radio and tapped his finger on the steering wheel in time with the music. It would be worth the wait if he got some answers. But, how would he recognize Pat? And what could he tell him about the explosion?

  He was just about to call it a night, when he saw a car in his rearview mirror.

  The crumpled compact slid on the ice and hit the curb as it bounced to a stop just a few spaces away. A kid in his twenties opened the door and stepped out. He was wearing a beanie cap and a thick winter coat. He pulled a backpack onto his shoulder and tried to lock his car door with the key, but the lock wasn’t cooperating. Mark studied the college-age youth as best he could in the dim light. Judging from the flat skater shoes, the baggy low-ride jeans and thick, messy hair, he figured the guy was more likely to be a skateboarder than a student.

  A surge of adrenaline pumped through his body. He quietly opened his door, slid out and started toward the man. He tried to stay calm, but it was too late for that. As he got closer, his body filled with rage and his mind emptied. It was as if he’d stepped through a looking glass and now was on the other side in a world completely foreign to him.

  Coming up behind the kid, who was still fumbling with the lock, Mark grabbed the back of his jacket and spun him around. The kid staggered and his backpack fell to the ground. A look of shock, then fear, ran across his face. “Hey! What the—” The kid tried to break free from his grasp, but Mark held on, shoving him against the side of his car with more force than he intended, but it worked.

  “Are you Pat?” But just as he asked, he realized who Pat was. But it couldn’t be. He died in the explosion. Nevertheless, here he stood, the youth who’d set the bomb, who’d run from the supermarket. His face was scarred, probably from skin grafts and surgeries. Half his mouth sagged on one side, like Batman’s adversary, the Joker. But it was him, he was sure.

  “You!” Mark dragged the terrified youth across the parking lot.

  “What do you want from me? I don’t even know you, man!” The helpless kid tried to squirm free, but a knee to the gut sent him sprawling across the ice-covered pavement. Mark opened his car door and reached inside. He grabbed the shotgun and swiveled toward the floundering boy-man. “One move—and it’ll be your last.” Mark was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. Inside he could feel his heart pounding faster and faster. Any minute, he expected a heart attack, but he hoped to God it wouldn’t happen before he got his answers.

  Pat froze when he saw the shotgun in Mark’s hand. “Hold on, man. Don’t shoot!”

  “Get into the car, and you might live.”

  Pat slowly moved toward the BMW, eyeing the gun, hands in the air. Mark opened the back door and shoved Pat inside. “Scoot over!” He got in beside him, making sure to keep the shotgun leveled at the kid’s head.

  “Look, man, you can have my money.” He dropped his hands and reached for his pocket.

  Mark jabbed him in the ribs.

  Pat’s hands flew up. “Please, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Too late! You should’ve thought of that before you blew up the Super Mart!” He felt his heart rate start slow down and wondered if he was calming down or if he was just adjusting to the situation.

  Even in the dark, he could see Pat’s face pale. “Uh… I, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you even try to con me. I have you on video from the store’s security cameras. I was there, in the parking lot. I saw you run out of the store.”

  Pat clasped his head with his hands and cowered in the seat.

  Mark shoved the business end of the shotgun in his neck, making him squeal in fear.

  “You tell me everything you know, or I’ll splatter your brains all over this car!” He felt his lip curl as he drilled the shotgun’s muzzle into the kid’s neck.

  Pat started to whimper. Tears ran down his cheeks. His shoulders shook and snot bubbled from his red nose. “It wasn’t me who made the bomb. It was someone else. I just supplied the C-4. They offered me fifty grand to get them some C-4 and fifty more if I put the bomb in the store. Please don’t kill me. I needed the money. Please, mister.”

  Mark looked at the kid who should have died in the blast. “Who are they?” he demanded. “I want names!”

  “I don’t know. I swear I don’t! They just call me on a cell phone they shipped to my house when they need something.” He pointed to his jacket pocket. Mark reached in and pulled out a red cell phone.

  “How do you get a hold
of them?”

  “They told me to sit on a park bench at First and Holly whenever I want to talk, or if I want to do a job.” He blubbered and sniffed. “It has to be at nine a.m. on a Tuesday. If I’m there, they call me an hour later.” His eyes had puffed, making his scarred face look even more hideous in the dim moonlight.

  “Well, it’s your lucky day. It’s almost Tuesday, and that means I still need you. Now, you’re coming with me, and if you try anything—I mean anything—I‘ll shoot you faster than it takes a bug’s butt to go through his mind when he hits the windshield!”

  Pat nodded, eyes wide.

  Mark got out and pulled him around to the front of the car. Shoving him inside, he went around to the trunk and opened it up, pulling out three large zip ties from the supplies he picked up earlier. He got in the driver’s side, told Pat to put his hands together, and slipped the zip ties around his wrists, pulled until they were tight, then bound the two together with the third. He searched the kid for weapons but found only an iPod and a small bag of pot.

  Starting the car, he pulled out of the parking lot, holding the shotgun with his left hand on his lap aimed at the frightened Pat’s midsection. He knew he would kill him if he had to. This was now officially out of control, but Mark was determined to go through with it.

  * * *

  GEOFF SAT IN THE warm coffee shop typing on his laptop. It was already getting to be late in the afternoon. He turned to Kirk and gave the thumbs-up, signaling he was online and good to transmit. Kirk was on the phone with someone named Mooch, and from the sound of it, he had something over him.

  Kirk asked for the IP address of his laptop.

  Geoff wrote it on a napkin and handed him.

  Kirk read the numbers into the phone then whispered, “I hope this works. It’s always hard to revive a dead case.” He put the phone closer to his ear then pointed toward Geoff’s computer. “Okay. You should be getting something.”

  Geoff squinted at the screen. “Looks like a video feed from a satellite.” He saw a run-down building with a truck pulling in and parking behind it, just out of sight. “The picture is kind of choppy, like it’s in stills.”

  “It is, but it’s all we’ve got. Mooch, come on, give me something new,” Kirk grumbled into the phone. “I’ve already seen this stuff.”

  Geoff could hear the voice on the other end saying Kirk would like the next shot. His screen changed to a single photo of a different truck, maybe a retired armored transport vehicle of some kind that had been repainted. The vehicle was white, with the words Food Services stenciled on the side.

  Kirk leaned closer to the computer screen. “What’s this? The other truck?” Mooch must have zoomed the view, because in the next instant, they could make out the shape of the driver. It was fuzzy at first but cleared as Mooch worked on the other end. It looked like a woman with dark hair and sunglasses.

  “Can you get closer, Mooch?” The screen zoomed in once more. After the pixels settled, they could see plainly what the woman looked like.

  Kirk brightened. “Great job, Mooch. I’ll check you later.” He closed the phone and asked Geoff if he could save the image.

  “Sure, I have my printer docked, if you’d like me to print it.”

  “Yeah. That would be great.”

  Geoff hit the print button and waited until the photo came out. He handed it to Kirk. “So who’s the woman?”

  “This, my friend, is our hard evidence. She’s the only person I know of connected to this WJA group. Now we have a photo to prove I’m not crazy.”

  Geoff eyed Kirk’s scraggly beard and hair. Weston didn’t appear to have a clue how crazy he looked. He studied the picture. The woman appeared to be in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, and had long, jet-black hair. “She is beautiful, in a dangerous sort of way.”

  “Yeah, well, now we need to pay our friend Cassy Meyers a visit to see if she can find out who this woman is.” Kirk waved the waitress down for a refill in a to-go cup. “Let’s pack up and get going. I think we can get to CSI before it closes.”

  “Sure thing. But I’ve got one question for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Can we get a rental car? I’ll pay.”

  Kirk laughed. “Sure. No worries.”

  CHAPTER 13

  THE SUN CREPT UP over the trees of a small park on the corner of First and Holly. Mark sipped the coffee he’d purchased from a street vendor a block down. The air was sharp and cold but not bitter like last night. The wind had stopped, and now the sun was glinting off the snow with painful brightness.

  He turned to study his captive.

  Pat jerked, like he did every time his captor made a move. He hadn’t stopped shaking all night.

  “Calm down. It’ll be over soon, as long as you play along.” He gripped the kid’s arm and peered into his face. “You’re lucky I don’t just kill you now. Do you have any idea how many people you murdered in that blast?”

  Pat glared back, his eyes dark orbs of fury mixed with fear. “They told me it was just to scare the store owners. I didn’t know it would blow up the whole store.”

  “That, I don’t believe.” Mark stabbed his finger at Pat’s disfigured face. “You knew it was a bomb! For all I know, you built it.” Pat inched toward the door. “They tried to kill me too, dude. They’re the ones who had the remote. I just activated the bomb.”

  “Well, now it’s your turn to pay them back for using you.” Mark took a breath and sat back. “You help me, and I’ll let you live. You try to run or do something stupid, and I’ll take you out. You got it?”

  Pat nodded and glanced at the car’s digital clock.

  Mark thought about what Pat said about the remote detonator. The people who hired him had to have been close enough to see the explosion. Someone had paid this numbskull to set the bomb and activate it but intended to get rid of him at the same time, the primary source of evidence against them.

  He punched the radio button. “Gas prices are on the rise again, bringing the price at the pump to an all-time high. With the dollar weakening against the Euro, analysts don’t expect it to go down any time soon—”

  “Man, what a bunch of junk,” Pat muttered. “They could pull all the oil we’d ever need from Alaska or Texas and drop the prices. But no. We’ve got to get it from overseas.” He rambled on about the government and how they were forcing the prices up, how it was a big conspiracy.

  “Shut up,” Mark growled. He glared at the kid, trying to see if he had any brains. It was beyond him how he could kill hundreds of people and go on as if it didn’t matter. He could have gone to the police and turned himself in or at least tried to implicate those who hired him.

  Mark stared out the window. He was planning to have Pat sit on a bench under a tall oak tree, and then he was going to stroll through the park to see if he could spot anyone or anything out of the ordinary. It was a long shot, but at the moment, it was the only shot he had.

  He reached into the backseat, pulled out Pat’s backpack and rifled through it.

  Pat stiffened. “Hey—” One look from Mark made him turn away in silence.

  Finding a wallet, Mark pulled out a driver’s license, several credit cards that would be useful in tracking the jerk, in case he decided to make a run for it.

  He turned to Pat, cards in hand.“Okay, here’s the deal. I’m keeping your license and credit cards. If you run, I’ll report you to the police and give them your ID. I’ve seen a video of you setting the bomb. If you run, you’d better pray the cops find you before I do.”

  “I won’t run, dude! Besides, I wouldn’t mind giving those people a little piece of my mind. They tried to kill me...” He ran his fingers over the deep scars that covered his face. “Not like I can hide with this face.”

  “You lived, kid. My family didn’t.” He motioned toward the park. “It’s almost nine. You go sit on the bench. I’m going to keep an eye on you from that bench over there.” He pointed to a bench that sat about on
e hundred yards from the one Pat would be sitting on. “How long do you usually have to wait?”

  “About ten minutes. Then I just leave, and they call about an hour later.”

  “You’d better be right. If we don’t get a call, then you’ll find out what it feels like to die.” He opened the car door and went around to Pat’s side and cut the zip ties from his hands.

  Rubbing his wrists, Pat started across the street. He looked around, then brushed snow off the bench and sat on it.

  Mark walked around the park on the sidewalk, taking the long way to the other bench. The old oak trees and trimmed shrubs made a beautiful picture with the fresh blanket of snow covering the ground, but he wasn’t in the mood to enjoy the scenery. He stopped at a coin-operated news rack, dropped in a couple coins, opened it and pulled out a newspaper, all the while keeping an eye on Pat, who hadn’t moved.

  After he reached his designated bench, he brushed away the snow with the newspaper, shook it off and sat down. He glanced at his watch—two minutes to nine—and began to flip through the newspaper. He pretended to read and also watched a young woman walk her dog.

  Peering over the top of the paper, he could see Pat huddled on the bench, his arms tight against his ribs. Across from him, a four-story apartment building looked down on the park. The windows had small balconies with wrought-iron rails. Mark inspected each window, searching for movement.

  When he got to the third floor, he saw a man open a sliding door and step out to light a cigarette. He blew out a ring of smoke and appeared to scan the park. When his head turned toward the bench where Pat sat, he visibly stiffened and hurried back inside.

  Mark’s heart began to pound. The man returned to the balcony, but this time he had a phone to his ear. Mark looked at Pat to see if he was on the phone, too.

  He wasn’t.

  The guy had to be talking with someone else. Pat just sat there hunched over, shivering with his coat collar pulled up around his neck. The window closed, and the stranger disappeared. Another five minutes went by. Nothing more happened.