Blown Away

by Shane Gericke

  Junior nodded, knowing they wouldn’t. But it was nice to think so.

  CHAPTER 27

  Thursday, 1 A.M.

  Five hours till Emily’s birthday

  Benedetti rubbed Emily’s back as the task force filed out. Luerchen walked past without comment, then turned at the front door to stare. Annie glared from the back of the auditorium. Luerchen snickered, then waddled out to the front lobby.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Benedetti said. “It’s gonna be OK.” He offered his handkerchief. She took it, wiped her brimming eyes. “Go back to work, Commander,” she said, handing it back. “Remember what we agreed about staying professional.”

  “Forget our deal—”

  “No.” She pushed him away. “We have to catch him by sunup, and we won’t if your head’s not in the game.” She breathed deep, and the rest spilled without thinking. “I can’t look over my shoulder the rest of my life. It’ll interfere with my loving you.”

  “Loving,” Benedetti said. “Me.”

  “Yeah,” Emily said. “Isn’t that crazy?”

  Benedetti smiled. “No crazier than my loving you, too, Detective. Let’s get the bastard.” Then walked into the lobby without looking back.

  Emily just sat, watching the “clock” tick down, amazed how horrific and utterly joyous the same set of seconds could be.

  EMILY AND BRADY

  Thursday, 1:30 A.M.

  Four and a half hours till Emily’s birthday

  Kepp’s video resumed with a lonely stretch of highway. Two lanes ran on each side of a wide grass median. The setting sun poked fiery red fingers into purple cotton balls. Rain wands wove gently in the distance. Except for the concrete and implied presence of a camera, there was nothing but corn and sky. “Where are we?” Annie whispered. “What are we looking at?”

  Emily’s anxiety clicked like a Geiger counter.

  A speck appeared on the horizon. Far lane, headed for the camera, which was up high, as if it sat on a viaduct. A rock zipped across the image and struck the interstate, bouncing like a hailstone. A second rock skidded like a major-league curveball, clipping leaves from a roadside maple. Cops murmured. A dozen more rained down as the speck grew big enough for Emily to recognize a boxy, older Jeep Cherokee, high off the pavement like a leggy colt on all fours, speeding along just this side of reckless.

  “No!” she gasped, cracking her knees on the table as she bolted to her feet. “Turn back!”

  More rocks flew and the driver swerved. Inner lane, outer lane, median, back. The right tires lifted as the driver wrestled for control. The windshield shattered. The driver skidded into the median, swerved back. Skid, control, wobble, control, control.

  A rock center-punched the driver. The Jeep careened, then flipped, skidding along the pavement, orange sparks shooting out the back. Emily bit her lip so hard, she tasted blood. The Jeep grew in the unblinking lens till it slammed into the viaduct below. The camera lurched.

  “Jack,” Emily whispered. “Jack.”

  “Goddammit, Chief, that’s Emily’s husband!” Annie raged. “Turn that thing off!”

  “Can’t,” Cross answered. “We see it through, or Kepp starts killing children.”

  A deep orange fireball erupted as the gas tank exploded. The Kojak soundtrack merged into the thumping beat of “Disco Inferno.” Emily whimpered like a deer in a jaw trap. “Prom,” she mumbled.

  “What does that mean?” Annie asked.

  “Disco Inferno,” Emily replied. “It was the theme of my high-school prom—Disco Inferno. Kepp knew it. He knows everything.”

  The video froze on a photo of Safety Town. The music stopped, replaced by the harsh tick of the intermission clock. “I Spy,” Emily said, suddenly realizing the video clips were the last of her eight games. “The video represents I Spy.”

  “I know,” Benedetti said from the aisle. “I figured it out, too. I already sent CSIs to your house to find the cameras.”

  Two paramedics charged down the stairs. Benedetti turned to meet them. They stopped like they’d hit a tree, stared at the screen. The rest of the room followed.

  A mushroom cloud was erupting from the photo of Safety Town. Flames shot from every window and door. Crudely drawn stick figures, each in navy blue with a shiny badge on its “chest,” hopped like fleas on a griddle, then dissolved in a blinding fireball. Emily blanched, realizing what was about to happen. “Get down everybody!” she screamed, throwing her arms over her face. “It’s gonna—”

  Blue-white lightning turned the dark auditorium Saharan. A millisecond later the blast wave hit, breaking windows, toppling the lectern, knocking cops over chairs. Emily scrambled to her feet. Annie pulled her down. Lobby cops shouted over the Klaxons braying throughout the station, “Safety Town! It’s exploding! The kids are still in there!”

  “Lunatic!” Emily screamed at the screen. “You already did Timebomb!” She scrambled outside with the rest of the task force to see the miniature city dissolve in sheets of fire, schoolkids run for their lives. “Evacuate her, Annie!” Cross bellowed. “There may be more bombs—”

  A high-pitched squeal choked off the command. They whirled on a wide-bodied sheriff’s deputy staggering up the driveway, burning like acetylene. “Medic!” Annie screamed. A firefighter aimed his hose, and the deputy fell sideways. A crisp ear popped off.

  Bodies smoked everywhere. One teetered faceup on the fence, legs and arms missing. Beneath it lay two lumps, big curled around little, smoke tendrils hissing from all four eye sockets. A police dog protecting his human handler to the death. Emily burst into tears at the raw horror.

  “We got most of them out!” Cross shouted in her ear, arm tight across her shoulders. “As soon as Kepp made his threat, I ordered Safety Town cleared! Six at a time so he wouldn’t notice if he was watching. Three-quarters were safely evacuated when the bomb—”

  “Ken!” It was the BATFE director, emerging pink and hairless from a billow of smoke. “One of the chaperones said the blast came from the top of the covered bridge. Kepp chose a spot the sniffer dogs couldn’t reach. Say the word and I’ll bring in Delta Force to neutralize this goblin.” Her expression made clear “neutralize” did not mean “arrest.”

  A throbbing noise made everyone look up. “Here come the locusts,” Cross muttered as news helicopters filled the horizon. SWATs surrounded Emily, training gun barrels up and out. Fire hoses shot thick arches of water onto the inferno, creating obscene rainbows in the floodlights. Cross marched away, barking orders. Emily held her breath as the miniature police station inside Safety Town collapsed.

  “How are you bearing up?” Marwood said, slipping inside the protective circle.

  “Fine,” Emily said in a low voice. No more tears. She was going to kill Brady Kepp and had to stay alive long enough to do it. “Take me to my house. I want to see how he did it.”

  Marwood looked at Annie, who flagged a cruiser. Marwood hopped in the passenger side, Emily in back with Flea and Annie. Nobody spoke over the screaming siren. Six minutes later they spotted Marty Benedetti in the driveway, phones jammed against both ears. A news chopper was landing at the end of Jackson to disgorge reporters. Annie popped her air horn, and Benedetti signaled the barricade crew to let Emily and her companions pass.

  “Fiber-optic cameras with wireless transmitters,” Benedetti said when they reached him. He held out a clear bag of electronic parts. “Kepp hid them well. I couldn’t spot one till a CSI pointed it out.”

  “How many did he plant?” Emily asked.

  “Dozens.” He tossed her the bag. “Psycho turned your house into a TV studio.”

  Emily examined the camera, shocked at how much it looked like an ordinary nail. The shiny head was the lens, the long shank the transmitter. They were hidden in plain sight in ceilings, floors, and millwork. She offered the bag to Marwood.

  “I’m familiar,” he said, waving it off. “CEOs use them to spy on employees. With this particular model, the master recorder is w
ithin five hundred yards.”

  “We found it,” Benedetti said. “Tucked in a tree crotch on the Riverwalk. It allowed Kepp to download the images without breaking into the house each time.”

  Emily watched firefighters drag ladders across her lawn. Shelby barked when one veered too close to the ankle-twisting hole of a rotted-away fence post. The firefighter rubbed Shelby’s neck in gratitude. “How many children died, Marty?” she asked.

  “Lemme find out.” He called Cross, listened, disconnected. “Only two, thank God. But a dozen have third-degree burns. They’re only gonna wish they died.”

  Emily shivered, knowing exactly what he meant. When she was seven, she defiantly planted her hand on the new electric Hotpoint when Mama turned to wipe a skillet. Partly because the ring glowed a pretty cherry red, but mostly because Mama said not to. Emily screamed as her palm charred. “I told you a million times not to touch hot stoves! Why didn’t you listen?” Mama wailed as Daddy sped to the emergency room. Emily learned the hard way that third-degree burns were healed by scrubbing the crusting scabs with a bristle brush, bringing even the most stoic patient to howling weepiness.

  “Commander!” a CSI hollered from the second floor. “I’m done mapping the master bathroom. Wanna see before I dig ’em out?”

  They took the stairs two at a time.

  The CSI stood on an aluminum stepladder, floured in Sheetrock debris. The floor below was dented from dropped tools. Emily looked at the delicate china sink where she’d piled her cut-off hair. It was cracked and filthy. “This makes thirty,” the CSI was saying, tugging the camera from its spot over the toilet. “He got the volume discount.”

  She followed Marty into the master bedroom, looked out the south window. CSIs swarmed the hill like carpenter ants, dismantling her woodpile, running metal detectors along her foundation, peering under the back porch. Jack was so proud of this wedding present, so excited to explain the significance of each peg in every plank. I’m glad you’ll never see this, she told him silently.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant,” she heard Marty say. “Chief Cross will call himself soon as he gets the chance.” He shut the cell phone. “Chicago Police,” he explained. “They searched your old family bungalow at Ken’s request. Guess who left a note in the fridge saying hello?”

  “Is he living there?” Emily asked, knowing full well Kepp wouldn’t make it that easy.

  “Uh-uh. It’s furnished but uninhabited. Chicago’s tracing the electronic fund transfers that cover taxes and maintenance, but those’ll link to a false bank account.”

  “It’s a trophy, isn’t it?” Emily said, scowling. “My house.”

  “Serial killers love their keepsakes,” Benedetti agreed, answering his ringing phone. “Hey! That’s great! Let me know!” He signed off, buzzing with new energy. “Branch is awake and blinking. Doc Winslow thinks he’s trying to say something. Ken’s going over to find out.”

  “Maybe the paralysis is ending!” Emily said, clapping her hands.

  “Could be random nerve patterns,” Marwood warned as he joined them. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  Benedetti paced. “Neither of you get the point. Branch knows something about Kepp. Something important. He’s sure to have seen the news”—he pointed to the circling choppers—“and wouldn’t bother Ken in the middle of this shitstorm unless it was vital.”

  Emily breathed shallowly. “Maybe Branch knows…” She groaned, unable to finish.

  “You don’t look so good,” Benedetti said, taking her arm. “Did you get hurt in Safety Town?”

  “No,” Emily mumbled, laying her head on Marty’s chest. “I’m so tired, I can barely stand.”

  “You can sleep on the way to the safe house.” He tapped his watch. “It’s nearly daybreak. Kepp undoubtedly has something planned for your moment of birth. The farther away you are, the safer you’ll be when it happens.”

  Emily was too exhausted to argue. “Let me grab a few things,” she said as Annie issued instructions to the protective team.

  “Take five minutes,” Benedetti said. “If I see you in ten, I’ll arrest you for real.” He jogged downstairs to answer a shout.

  Emily trailed on leaden legs, glancing through the octagon window to the front yard. Shelby was prancing near the mailbox that had started this disaster, wagging his tail at admiring emergency workers. “I’m glad you’re happy, big fella,” she mumbled. “I’ll never be again.”

  Marwood passed her on the stairs, walked outside. A minute later he poked his head back in. “Annie says I’m driving,” he announced.

  “Why?” Emily said.

  He pointing to the fire engines blocking in the SWAT vehicles. “Those aren’t going anywhere. And my car’s a rental. Kepp won’t know to look for it.”

  She turned to stare at Marty’s thick back—Be careful. Be safe. I love you—then dragged herself to the rented Lincoln Town Car, every bruise pulsing. Annie handed her a Kevlar helmet and lap blanket to augment her bulletproof vest, helped her belt in. Flea crawled into the backseat with a submachine gun and satchel of ammunition. Annie joined him with her scoped Remington, radioed dispatch they’d drive north on Illinois 59, the prearranged code for “heading southwest to the safe house.” Marwood crawled the Town Car past the rubbernecks thronging Jackson Avenue, picked up speed on Washington Street. “I don’t see any chase cars,” he said as Naperville faded in the rearview. “We’re not making this drive by ourselves, are we?”

  “Got no choice,” Annie said. “Most of my guys are demolitions experts, so they’re searching the campus for more booby traps. The rest are at the safe house doing pre-check. That leaves me and Flea.” She patted her rifle. “And Baby makes three. Don’t worry, Doc. We’ll keep your powder dry till we get to the lodge.” Flea slapped Marwood’s back and began the SWAT swivel—look right, left, front, back, repeat.

  Emily fell asleep.

  “Sniffer dogs swept her place three times,” she heard Annie say when she blinked awake. “No explosives, but Ken’s not taking chances. He boarded up her windows and doors and evacuated the neighborhood. Jackson Avenue’s deserted now except for the cruiser in Emily’s driveway.”

  “How’d the school shutdown go?” Marwood asked.

  “No problems. That was a good suggestion you made, shutting down the system in case the bastard wired a school.”

  “Well, if he’s got more kids in mind, what better place to find them….” Marwood fell silent, then asked, “You have enough troops to handle everything on your plate, Annie?”

  “Shit, Doc, the Chinese Army isn’t big enough for a plate like this. But we’ll make do.” She heard Emily yawn and rubbed her shoulders from behind. “Hiya, sleepy. I was just telling Ellis about Marty’s latest e-mail.” She recapped their conversation. “The safe house is ready for our arrival. It’s raining hard there, but the main road’s passable. We’ll get through.”

  Emily hugged herself. “I hope the guys have a fire going. I’m freezing—”

  “Behind us,” Marwood warned.

  Annie and Flea whirled. “What? That green SUV?” she demanded. “It wasn’t there ten seconds ago.” She glanced at Flea, who confirmed with a head shake.

  “It just pulled out of that gravel road,” Marwood said, gripping the wheel. “I saw one the same color on Jackson Avenue. What should I do?”

  “Drive steady and straight, exactly like you’re doing,” Annie ordered, pulling a satellite radio from a thigh pack. “No heroics unless combat driving was an elective at that shrink school of yours. Pull over at the next crossroad, and we’ll let him pass.” Flea switched his submachine gun’s fire selector to AUTO. Emily pulled her Glock, unbelted herself, turned toward the back. Marwood withdrew a small black pistol from his jacket. “Hey, Doc,” Emily kidded. “Only three Wyatt Earps per vehicle.”

  He pulled the trigger, plunging a small finned dart into Emily’s exposed tricep.

  “Matter of fact, Annie,” she heard Marwood say as he whipped around to sink t
wo darts each into her and Flea’s unarmored butts. They flopped sideways, unconscious. “I’m an expert at combat driving. I learned it in the Green Berets.”

  Emily lunged for Marwood’s throat but didn’t move an inch. Every muscle in her body was paralyzed. All she could do was breathe and blink. “Yooooou,” she gargled as she melted into her seat, steel bands tightening on her chest.

  Marwood smiled till his eyes disappeared. “That’s right, Princess,” he said. “It’s time to play our final game.” He whipped the Town Car into a hard U-turn, darted her again. Emily’s eyes leaked rain, and the world faded to black.

  EMILY AND BRADY

  October 1990

  Desert Shield, south of Baghdad, Iraq

  Brady Kepp staked the feral dog to the desert floor, belly-up and spread-eagled, and turned to stare at the captured Iraqi missile commander. The Iraqi stared back. For two hours he’d refused to answer the American infidel’s demands for the map coordinates of his Scud missile battery.

  “All I want is the location,” Kepp said in the Iraqi’s native dialect as he secured the dog’s last paw. “Say it and I’ll release you unharmed.”

  The Iraqi remained silent.

  “Oh, well,” Kepp said. “I guess you’re just too tough for me.” He waved at his companions, dressed like their leader in the loose robes of desert nomads. “Hey, fellas, lunch?” They waved, spreading the coals they’d fired thirty minutes ago. Kepp pulled a knife and slid the tip into the dog’s upper chest. It howled, eyes bulging.