The Drifter (23 page)

“Here,” he said, holding out the slightly greasy pins. Lewis took them.

Then, with a small cat’s paw on the bottom of the door, Peter slowly and carefully levered the hinge side of the door outward. The deadbolt stayed put, but when the hinge side was completely free, Peter just lifted the door away from the jamb.

Lewis stepped past him, the 10-gauge at the ready.

There was nobody in the room. It was another big chamber, maybe forty feet on a side, with the same spalling brick walls and timbered ceiling.

The floor had been swept, and a cheap folding banquet table and two plastic chairs were set up in the far corner.

Neatly stacked on four wooden pallets were large white bags in heavy-duty plastic.

Bag after bag after bag.

Lewis stepped closer and read the label.

“Fertilizer,” he said. Then looked at Peter. “Ammonium nitrate. Fifty-pound bags.”

Peter scanned a pallet. Breathe in, breathe out.

Counted the bags.

Did the math.

Looked back up at Lewis.

“Ten thousand pounds,” he said.

The white static screamed. Peter felt himself begin to shake in the cold, dark space.

Lewis’s air of detached amusement was gone. “How big was Oklahoma City? The federal building?”

“Five thousand pounds of fertilizer,” said Peter. “And two drums of racing fuel. But fuel oil does the job just fine. And those ten partial drums out there probably add up to four full ones.”

“Twice the size,” said Lewis. “Twice the size of Oklahoma City.” His eyebrows climbed his forehead. “That’s a big fucking bomb.”

Peter had learned about ANFO bombs in Iraq, named for their two major components, ammonium nitrate fertilizer and fuel oil. They were used by miners and farmers and guerilla fighters in asymmetric warfare. And domestic terrorists like Timothy McVeigh, who blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City in 1995.

Clearly, thought Peter, someone had big plans.

“What’s the target?” he said. “If you were going to blow something up, something big, what would it be?”

Lewis shook his head. “I can’t think of anything you’d blow up
for money. If you set this off at a bank, you’d vaporize the vault. Hell, the whole block.”

“Unless you were going to hold something ransom.”

“Like what?” said Lewis. “Lambeau Field? Threaten to blow up the stadium in Green Bay, you’d have every Packer fan in the state on your ass. And who the hell would pay?”

“This doesn’t feel rational,” said Peter. “Or at least not profit-driven, not how I can figure it. Timothy McVeigh didn’t make a nickel, he just wanted to make a point.”

“Lot of good it did him,” said Lewis. “Lethal injection. But what about all that cash you found? That don’t seem too ideological to me.”

“Me neither,” said Peter. “They didn’t need it to pay for materials, the shit’s already here. Unless the ideology is a diversion. Hiding some other motive. Like money.”

“Always comes back to money,” said Lewis. “Who we got on this thing that we know about? Who are the players?”

Something clicked. “Skinner,” Peter said. “That’s gotta be it. If you blow up the right thing, something happens in the markets.”

Lewis shook his head. “Shit. Whatever happened to armed robbery?”

But Peter was looking around. “Wait a minute,” he said. “There’s gotta be a starter charge. You can’t just light a match under this stuff.”

Lewis nodded. “You need dynamite or Tramex or something like that.”

Neither component would blow up by itself. You needed another material to create a starter blast, something to get the temperature up. Create the conditions for the big bang.

But Peter knew what they had planned to use. He looked at Lewis, and saw that Lewis knew, too.

Four beige rectangles, pliable as modeling clay, would do nicely.

Currently stashed in the secret panel under Peter’s truck.

“We need to get the cops here.”

Peter didn’t answer. He was walking through the rest of the room, looking at what had been left. The folding table and chairs were cheap and could have been bought at any home store. But there was nothing personal, no papers. Not even fast-food wrappers. These people were not amateurs. Their only mistake was losing the C-4, and that was probably because Jimmy had taken it from a locker at the veterans’ center.

At the back of the room, Peter saw an old cast-iron door set into the brick wall. It was heavy with rust, probably the same age as the building itself. There were rust flakes on the floor, too. The giant strap hinges shone with new oil, and tool marks on the door showed where someone had worked to get that door open.

Peter reviewed his mental map of the building. This wall was the end of this building.

But it wasn’t an outside wall.

He had another mental map. This one of the block and the buildings on it.

He was pretty sure he knew what was on the other side of that old cast-iron door.

“Peter.” Lewis didn’t raise his voice, but it carried an urgency that Peter hadn’t heard before. “We need to call the cops. You listening to me?”

“I hear you,” said Peter. “But calling the cops is no guarantee. And just getting rid of this stuff won’t get the guy who killed Jimmy. We might lose Dinah’s payday. And we’d probably lose yours, too.”

Lewis looked at him. “I’ve done my share of shit,” he said. “But
I can’t let this thing go for some payday. Not for your revenge, neither.”

“It’s not just that,” said Peter. “If we call the cops right now, we won’t know who put this together, or how. They’ll just start over. We need to get deeper into this.”

“That’s what the goddamn cops are for.”

“Lewis, it’s not even a bomb yet. Right now it’s just supplies and suspicion. It’ll take them hours just to mix it up and get it in the truck.”

“Or we get sidetracked and come back and it’s gone. You ever think of that?”

“What I think,” said Peter, “is that under that slick mercenary veneer is a guy who actually gives a shit.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lewis looked at his watch. “You got four hours. Then I’m calling the cops.”

“I have a better idea,” said Peter. “Is there a Radio Shack or something around here?”

P
eter left Lewis to keep an eye on the warehouse, with a pocketful of shotgun shells and the Glock in his belt.

Peter had rung the doorbell only once, but Mingus’s barking would wake the dead. Dinah wore thick flannel pajama bottoms and a UWM sweatshirt. Not what Peter had imagined when he pictured her sleeping.

Dinah glared at him with those glacier-blue eyes. “Peter, do you have any idea what time it is?”

Mingus poked his nose past her hip, tail wagging happily. Dinah shoved the dog back with her foot. Peter was glad to see the chrome .32 in her hand. She looked more comfortable with the weapon than he expected.

“I know it’s late, and I’m sorry,” said Peter. “Get your boys out of bed and pack a bag. One night, maybe two. Bring that gun. Five minutes. You’re getting out of this house.”

“I will not,” she said. With that regal bearing, her spine straight as an iron rod. “I have a double shift tomorrow. It’s a school night. Charlie has a math test.”

Of course Dinah would require an explanation.

Peter figured Mingus had woken the boys. He lowered his
voice so they wouldn’t hear. “You remember that suitcase I found under your porch?”

Dinah nodded.

“Well, there was more in that bag than money. There was also a decent amount of explosives.” Her eyebrows shot up. “And Lewis and I just found a stash of bomb-making supplies. Enough to make a very big boom.”

“You and Lewis?” She looked confused.

“He’s helping me. Dinah. Something ugly is going to happen soon and I need to get you and the boys out of here now.”

That finally got her attention. But she still didn’t want to believe him. “Why on earth would they come here?”

Peter didn’t want to tell her, but he saw no other way to get her moving in a hurry. So he said it.

“Someone threatened me. And mentioned you and the boys specifically. He was pretty convincing.”

Dinah closed her eyes. He saw her bend then, just for a moment. She looked smaller, softer. Her voice was quieter, too. “The man with the scars?”

Peter nodded. “He’s one of them. It’s their money, and their explosives. They were watching the house, they know where it is. They might be out there right now.”

She opened her eyes and forced her spine straight, the iron rod in place again. He knew she was strong. He saw then that her perfect posture was part of her strength, the armor she wore to survive the challenges of her life. Though that was nothing compared to what they faced now.

She stepped back to let him inside. Mingus wagged his tail so hard it gave him a whole-body wiggle as Peter closed and locked the new door he’d installed just the other day. He was glad he’d bought the reinforced steel.

She asked, “Was James involved in this?”

Peter let Mingus jump up on him, then rubbed behind his ears. The dog still smelled like strawberries.

“I think Jimmy took it from them,” said Peter. “He must have figured out what they were planning. They still need those explosives. They’re pretty sure either you or I still have them. I imagine they’d like their money back, too. So they have more than one reason to come here.”

“They can have the money. I don’t care about that.”

“Where did you put it?”

“It’s in the attic. Over behind the boxes, still in that paper bag.”

He figured it was as good a place as any. He didn’t have any better ideas. There wasn’t room for it in the hidden stash spot under his truck.

Dinah didn’t waste any more time. She walked to the bedrooms and got the boys up and moving with a few whispered words. Then shoved clothes and toiletries into a bag. Peter walked from window to window, looking out at the night. Just because he hadn’t seen anyone didn’t mean they weren’t there.

Charlie came out and filled a backpack with a half-gallon of milk, a box of cereal, and a few plastic containers of what Peter assumed were leftovers. Threw in a few granola bars and paper cups and some silverware. Smart kid. The Army traveling on its stomach.

Peter didn’t think they would need much food. He had a feeling things were going to happen pretty fast after this.

He stood at the open door, scanning the street, when Dinah came out with a duffel slung over her shoulder, holding a sleepy-eyed Miles by the hand. Her face was set. Charlie shrugged into the backpack with the food and picked up his baseball bat.

“Leave that behind,” said Dinah.

“I’m the man of the house,” said Charlie. “I’m taking the bat.”

Dinah opened her mouth to respond, but Peter said, “Charlie’s right. Bring the bat.” He already had the Sig Sauer in his hand.

They went down the walk to Peter’s truck. He said, “Charlie, we don’t have much room in the front. I need you to get in the back with Mingus, just for a few minutes. It’s going to be pretty dark. You okay with that?”

Charlie paused for only a moment. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Mingus won’t be so scared with me there.”

Twelve years old. Jesus Christ.

Peter saw Dinah wipe her eyes as she climbed into the passenger seat after little Miles.

This whole thing was fucked.

—

The first minutes, they drove in silence. But when Dinah realized where they were going, she said, “No.”

Peter said, “It’s not my first choice, either. But where else do you suggest? Your grandmother’s house?”

She let her breath out in a thin, bitter stream.

“Dinah,” he said. “I need to tell you something. The Marine Corps home-repair program. It’s not real. I made it up.”

She looked at him. “I know,” she said. “I called the VA yesterday. We’ll have a conversation about it. But not right now.” She pointed her chin at Miles, half asleep on the seat between them.

“I let Jimmy down. I should have visited. I was trying to help.”

Dinah nodded. “You did help,” she said. “It’s not your fault that it’s come to this. So thank you.”

He pulled the truck up in front of Lewis’s building and got out. Nino and Ray were waiting outside, standing like sentinels in the cold.

Dinah closed her eyes again at the sight of them, just for a
moment. Then opened her eyes, popped the latch on her door, and got out. Peter knew she didn’t want to be there, but she had no choice and she knew it. So she kept going.

Peter nodded at Nino and Ray. They nodded back. He didn’t know what arrangement Lewis had made with them, and he didn’t care. Lewis said they’d stick and that was good enough. Dinah scooped Miles up onto her hip, where he put his arms around her neck and his face into her shoulder. He must have weighed eighty pounds, like a sack of ready-mix concrete. She carried him like he weighed nothing at all.

She looked right at Peter, her blue eyes shining clear in the dim glow of the streetlight. “We’ll talk when it’s over,” she said. Then walked toward the building without a backward glance. Peter went to let out Charlie and the dog.

As he was locking up again, his phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket. It was the number he’d last seen in spidery handwriting on three business cards. He pushed the button. “Hello.”

“Peter, sorry to call so late.” Lipsky’s voice was so clear he might have been standing right there, talking quietly into Peter’s ear. “But I figured you’d still be up. I wanted to tell you that replacement glass for your truck window came in today. Are we still meeting at the Riverside Veterans’ Center in the morning?”

“I’m looking forward to it,” said Peter.

“Me, too,” said Lipsky. “See you about eleven. I’ll buy lunch.”

“Hey, thanks for this,” said Peter. “I really appreciate it.”

“Just an old soldier, trying to help,” said Lipsky. “See you tomorrow.”

The phone dead in his hand, Peter turned to Lewis’s building. But everyone had already gone inside.

He didn’t figure Dinah needed any help managing Nino and Ray.

So he put the truck in gear. Picked up his phone again and punched in Detective Zolot’s number.

“Who the fuck is this?”

The man even woke up angry.

“You said you wanted in,” said Peter. “I’m getting close. And there’s a new wrinkle.”

The Man in the Black Canvas Chore Coat

From the dark interior of a rusting brown Mazda, Midden set the night-vision gear on the passenger seat and watched the old green Chevy pickup rumble away. It had been a simple thing to follow the Marine from the woman’s house.

He could see why the Marine was causing so much trouble. It was a risk, what they had planned. Even from a distance, he could tell the man was the real thing.

The others were asking a lot. Involving the woman and the kids. This wasn’t what Midden had signed up for.

He told himself that he was committed. He was reliable.

One last time.

Then out of it for good.

He reached into the footwell and took hold of the M4 assault rifle. Laid a chamois cloth in his lap and began to field-strip the weapon in the dark as he had done so many times before.

The series of familiar movements was like an old friend in a world where he had none.

All his other friends were
dead.