The Island of Dragons (Rockpools Book 4)

by Gregg Dunnett

  “And who is your guy?”

  “We don’t know. We assume he’s some wacko environmentalist nutjob, but he’s careful, so we don’t actually know.”

  “So why do you think it’s him?”

  “It’s a chemical plant. It’s an attack with no warning and no obvious motive. The bomb was in a backpack, and you said there were large pieces of silver metal found around the blast?”

  “Yeah, and some embedded in the guard.”

  “Stainless steel?”

  “Right. You have any idea what they are?”

  “We have a pretty good idea.”

  The lieutenant stopped suddenly.

  “And you wanna share that information, Special Agent?”

  “They’re pieces of pressure cooker,” West interrupted, knowing how her partner would answer this. The lieutenant turned to her.

  “What?”

  “A steel pressure cooker. This guy likes to pack his bomb materials inside them. It initially contains the explosion, which means when it finally goes, there’s more energy expended and more damage.”

  The lieutenant frowned.

  “You remember the Oklahoma bombing? Same deal. Probably where he got the idea from.”

  Lieutenant Smith considered Black’s interruption, still without moving.

  “He mean to kill with it?”

  West hesitated. “He hasn’t so far. He’s gone after low value buildings with minimal security, and always after hours, when there’s no workforce on the sites. He doesn’t even seem to want to cause too much damage, judging by where he’s put the bombs.”

  “Doesn’t make any difference though,” Black said. “If he meant to kill or didn’t. He set a bomb and blew a guy to pieces. That’s still murder.”

  Smith looked to Black, and then back to West. The action gave her an air of authority and both men waited for what she said next.

  “There’s footprints everywhere, do we have a record of what was here before you guys turned up?”

  “There were two guards on duty last night. Keith Waterhouse – he’s the guy who died – and a younger guy named Miguel Lopez. Lopez says that Waterhouse reported he was following a single track of footprints. He said they were small. But it kept snowing after that which covered them over. Plus then Lopez freaked out and ran around like a madman. We’ve got photos of the ground, but it was a mess.”

  “He said they were small?” West looked at Black, and her eyebrows raised.

  “But nothing we can get a cast from?”

  “Everything’s covered in snow.”

  “How about CCTV? Anything captured?”

  “We’ve got boys looking over it now, but the compound manager – that’s a woman named Claire Watson – she says the signs make a big thing of it, but they don’t really have much. Nothing here to protect.”

  They arrived at the dead security guard’s truck, the door still waiting open as if he might leap back in and continue his rounds. The police had made their own path through the snow, leaving the original tracks still visible, but their outlines were now softened by the covering of white, which had smoothed out any sharp edges. They could have been made by anyone – or anything. The prints connected the fence, where in the daylight a large hole was easily visible, and the largest building in the compound.

  “Tracks that way lead through the fence and to a depression where a vehicle was parked. Then tyre tracks go back to the main road. Everything covered by snow though. We can’t get anything useful.”

  “And the other way?”

  “Where the bomb went off. It’s kinda grim.”

  He turned, and led them that way, following the line of police footprints towards a large low building. The entrance porch was obviously damaged, parts of it hung down limply, and several windows were shattered. The snow around here looked odd, flattened and cleared in part, and trampled down in others. There were at least six people working, wearing the blue and white protective gear of forensic experts.

  “You wanna get any closer, you’ll have to suit up.”

  West watched for a while, taking in the scene, and trying to reconstruct in her mind how it must have happened. It wasn’t too different from the other bombing sites she’d visited, and the thought of what would follow, a fruitless search through the debris – recovering parts of the bomb, but finding they’d been built to a recipe freely available on the internet, and carefully, with no trace of identifying material anywhere – depressed her.

  “No, it’s alright. But I’d like to speak to the manager you mentioned. Claire something?”

  “Watson. Sure. She’s over by the control room.” He pointed towards another building, which had its lights on. “Go right on in, I’ll be over in a minute.”

  Black and West walked across and opened the door, to find a woman in her forties just putting down her cell phone.

  “Claire Watson? I’m Special Agent Jessica West, this is Special Agent Jason Black.”

  The woman nodded. She looked exhausted. “The police said you were coming. Said there’s been other attacks like this one.”

  “That’s only a possibility at this stage,” West cautioned. “May we ask you a few questions?”

  Watson nodded a second time, eyeing a low sofa in the reception area.

  “You look tired. Let’s take a seat. Early start for all of us.”

  Before she sat, Watson found a beaker of coffee, and emptied it into three cardboard cups. It tasted bitter, but the steam rising up and twisting around at least promised warmth.

  “What does this plant produce?” West began, opening out her notebook and clicking a pen into life.

  “Resins mostly. Thermoset resins.” She looked at them blankly. Black looked back even more so.

  “What does that mean exactly?” West prompted.

  “Fonchem makes resins for all sort of applications. Abrasives, adhesives, chemical intermediates, coatings – you name it.” She sipped her coffee. “We make some here, a lot more over on the mainland.”

  “Is it…” West paused and thought. “Is it particularly high value? Does it pose a risk to the environment? Any reason you can think why the bomber might have targeted here?”

  Watson also thought for a moment, but she came up blank.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s OK.” West glanced at Jason, it was the same story as at the other bombing sites.

  “There is the expansion though,” Watson went on, suddenly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The site. Fonchem, that’s who I work for, who owns this site. They want to expand. Pretty much double it in size. There are quite a lot of local people who are opposed to it.”

  “Anyone in particular? Have there been any threats?” Black asked at once, but Watson shook her head.

  At that moment the door swung open, and Lieutenant Smith walked in, stamping his boots on the mat and blowing his hands. He looked for the two agents, and beckoned them over.

  “Excuse me Ms Watson,” West said, as she got up.

  She saw how Smith was looking at her cup of coffee, which she still held in her hand, so she offered it to the policeman, and he took a large gulp.

  “Thanks. Your stainless steel pieces. You said he prepares carefully? You never find any forensic evidence on them? No DNA, no prints?”

  “That’s right.” Black had joined them now too. “He’s meticulous.”

  “Well he wasn’t this time. We got a print.”

  The two FBI agents swung to look at each other. This was completely unexpected. A breakthrough in a case that had needed one for months.

  “Can you run it?”

  “Already have. I got the results here on my iPad. We’re not so backward on the island as you Quantico guys might think.”

  West realized he’d been holding it in his hand the whole time, and now he clicked it on. “I got you a name too. Local man I’m sorry to say. Well, kid really. He’s only seventeen.”

  Before she heard it, West felt a weird
rush. Of foreboding. Like she already knew what name he was going to say. Though that was ridiculous. It couldn’t be.

  “Name of Wheatley. Billy Wheatley.”

  4

  Five Months Earlier

  “Come on Dad, we need to go!”

  I’ve already got my stuff in Dad’s truck, and I’ve checked twice around the house to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. It feels weird though, knowing that I won’t be coming back here for months. Dad’s sitting at the kitchen table, his broad back turned away from me. He decided now was a good time to fix the little outboard motor we found abandoned by the side of the road. He’s got all the pieces laid out in front of him. But really he’s just doing it because he doesn’t want me to go.

  “Come on, I can’t miss the ferry.”

  “I could give you a lift across if you do,” Dad says.

  “I’ve already bought a ticket.”

  Dad hesitates. “Alright.” He puts down whatever it is he’s holding, and wipes his hands on a rag. “Alright. You got all your stuff?”

  “In the truck.”

  “You got your computer? Your books?”

  I sigh. “Of course I’ve got my books.” I don’t even mention my computer, I’m not going to forget that. “And I’ve left instructions for what to do about the campaign. I’ve left the printer loaded and ready, so I can email through new posters as I make them and they’ll print automatically. If you could just take them and put them up, everywhere you can…”

  “Yeah, I know.” Dad replies, turning to look at me now. This is my current project. There’s a stupid chemical company, up in the north of the island, that wants to expand, but if it does so it will destroy a sheltered bay which is a crucial nursery for seahorses. I’m trying to raise awareness so that it doesn’t get allowed.

  “You won’t forget will you?”

  He doesn’t answer for a second, but then shakes his head. “I won’t forget.”

  For a second I feel really odd. I felt it earlier too, when I was upstairs and still in my room. Knowing it was the last time I’d see it in months. I glance at Dad and can see he’s feeling it too.

  “Shit Billy. I just can’t believe you’re going to college. Already. It just doesn’t seem…” He glances back and his eyes are welling up a bit. He shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem five minutes ago that you were running around here, this wild little kid. Now you’re leaving home.”

  I don’t answer for a moment. I can’t quite believe it myself. I’ve been looking forward to this for such a long time, and now it is finally here. “I’m not going far,” I say in the end.

  He looks up and gives me a smile. “It’s a boat ride away.”

  “Every where’s a boat ride away. From an island.”

  He doesn’t answer this, so I go on. “And you have got a boat.” Dad’s work these days is taking tourists out to view whales and dolphins. I used to help him too, though he’s learned how to find them pretty good now on his own, so he doesn’t need me anymore, which has been useful as it’s freed me up for my projects. The campaign, and other ones, you know what I’m like.

  Dad’s face breaks into a weak smile. Then he starts patting his pockets, like he’s looking for his keys. In response I hold them up.

  “Here.” I toss them over and he catches them with both hands. But he thinks for a second then tosses them back.

  “You drive Billy.”

  I’m surprised by this. It took me a while to learn to drive, and I did accidentally bump into a few things – there was a wall by the supermarket, a tree in a parking lot at Littlelea, and also a post when I was reversing, but it was so low no-one could have seen it. But anyway, Dad’s not been too keen on me using his truck since, so there’s quite a lot of meaning in this gesture.

  And maybe for that reason, as I go outside, it gets me thinking about when I was younger, like a little kid. Back then I used to love riding in the back of Dad’s pick up, on the flat bed I mean. With my head up in the breeze, and feeling the wind make my cheeks wobble. It wasn’t this truck of course, he had an old Ford then, and this one’s a Toyota. It’s funny how some things change, and some stay the same. Now I get in the driver’s side and wait until Dad climbs in next to me.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Just keep your eyes on the road.”

  I start the engine and put it into drive.

  “You are gonna be alright, aren’t you?” Dad says after a while. I’d been paying attention, so it surprised me. We’re just crossing over the river that divides the Littlelea end of the beach from the main part, where the tourist town of Silverlea sits. Then I have to turn right onto the main road that links up to Newlea. We need to make a stop there.

  “Course I’ll be all right. Dad, all over the country about a million kids are going to college. Why would I be any different?”

  “Yeah, but they’re all a year older than you.”

  For a moment I’m silenced by Dad’s argument. I worked really hard this last year so I could skip a year of school. It didn’t seem worth hanging about here studying stuff I already knew, not when I know what I want to do with my life. Might as well get on with it.

  “Boston University has the best undergraduate Marine Biology course in the country. It’s you I’m more worried about. Leaving you here on your own.”

  “Don’t be.” Dad smiles. “I’ve got Milla.” That’s Dad’s latest girlfriend. He discovered this dating app about a year ago, and went through about fifty girlfriends in a month, but this one seems to have stuck. She’s cool though, I like her.

  We drive on for a bit, and I can sense Dad watching what speed I’m driving.

  “If you actually want to get there, Bill, you might want to put your foot down a little.”

  I mostly ignore this, but accelerate a bit.

  We come to the outskirts of Newlea, and I turn off the main road and over towards my old high school. Just before I get there I turn right and pull up in a little cul-de-sac. Normally I’d honk the horn, or use my cell phone, but I want to get out. I feel restless. Dad follows me, and together we go up the path towards Amber’s house. In the window of the front room I’m pleased to see my latest poster. Save our Sea-Dragons. I said before they were seahorses, and they are really, but there’s one species that’s unique to Lornea Island, and the local people here call them Sea-Dragons.

  “She’s just getting ready.” It’s Amber’s mom who opens the door, and when she sees Dad she gives him a look, like neither of them can be trusted to speak because they’re both too emotional.

  “Hello Mrs Atherton,” I say, and she gives me the same weak smile Dad did earlier.

  “Is that Billy?” I hear Amber’s voice shouting down from up the stairs. “I’m just coming, can you load my stuff?” In the hallway there are two giant suitcases as well as an enormous backpack. I don’t know why she needs so much stuff.

  “I’ll get them,” Dad says, but I give him a hand, and so does Amber’s mom. Together we wheel and heft the bags down towards the Toyota and heave them in, then stand there looking at them, like we’re admiring what a great job we’ve done, or just marveling at the size of it all. But really it’s like before, when no one wants to say anything because we’re all a bit sad at what’s happening. The moment is only broken when Amber’s sister comes running out the house.

  “Hey Billy!” she says to me, and her voice is so bright and alive I feel it for a second, what Dad and Amber’s Mom are sensing, that this is the end of an era, that none of us are ever going to see each other again, although of course we are.

  “Hey Gracie,” I reply. She’s eight now but she’s still holding her toy rabbit. She doesn’t like letting go of it after what happened last year.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go away Billy,” Gracie says. And at the same time, Amber appears at the top of the stairs with yet another suitcase.

  “I know,” I reply. “But I’m coming back. And if you come visit I can take you to the aquarium. I know
the manager there.” Gracie doesn’t really look too excited by this, and I’m glad that Amber comes downstairs at this point.

  “Hi,” she says breathlessly. “You ready? Don’t want to miss the boat.”

  I mean to answer, but suddenly I don’t think I can, so I look around her hallway for a second instead, not making eye contact with anyone. I can’t believe I’m not going to see this place for such a long time. I can’t believe I’m actually going. But Amber doesn’t seem to be feeling anything.

  “Come on!” she says, and leads the way outside.

  Amber isn’t going to college with me, she’s already been, though not to a real university like Boston. She already did a design course, here on Lornea Island, but the problem is there aren’t that many jobs here for designers, so she had to get one in Boston. But by chance her job starts at the same time that the fall semester begins, and she won’t be too far away from where I’m studying. That’s why we’re traveling together now. And by the way, I should probably admit it was Amber who did the design on the poster. Though I did do the words. It just shows we’re a good team.

  “How are you going to move all that to your new apartment?” I ask, as she drags the third suitcase down to the pick-up. “It’s massive.”

  “Well Billy, they have these new inventions in the city called cabs.” She tips her head onto one side and looks at me. “Didn’t you know?”

  There’s a bit of an awkward moment when we actually have to say goodbye to Amber’s Mom. She hugs Amber, and then comes and hugs me as well, but I don’t mind, because Amber’s mom is OK really. She gives Dad a hug too. Then I get back in the truck and Amber jumps in behind me. Dad tries to protest and tell her to sit in the passenger seat, but she’s already in, and leaning forward between the two front seats.

  “Don’t hit the gatepost this time Billy,” she says, as Dad gets in.

  “I won’t,” I reply, and give it a wider berth to make sure I don’t.

  It’s normally only about twenty minutes from Lornea Island’s capital, Newlea, which is more or less right in the middle, to the main port of Goldhaven, which is about three quarters of the way up on the west side. But even though it’s nearly September, the island is still busy with tourists, so I try to drive as fast as I can, but we keep getting stuck behind people who are obviously looking at the views as they go.