He found her sitting at her desk, staring across the room at a window where the blind had not been lowered. There was nothing to see but the empty glass, the vague reflection of the room on the pane.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“Something bothering you?”
She tilted her head back and laughed, not a mirthful sound. “Now, why would you think that? Someone shoots Marsha but they probably meant to shoot you. My client Edward Jacoby is brutally murdered. And you’ve stopped sleeping. What’s to worry about?”
He walked to her desk, sat in the client’s chair. “Anything else?”
“That covers it pretty well, I’d say.”
“Tell me about Ben Jacoby.”
She’d been asleep when he came home, or had seemed to be. He’d been thinking about Jacoby a lot and wanted to talk to her about him, but he hadn’t wanted to disturb her rest.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Jo, I’m sleep deprived, not blind.”
“Ben was a long time ago.”
“Not from the way he looks at you.”
She sat back. Her eyes went toward the window again, as if seeking some focus that was not her husband’s face. “I knew him before I met you.”
“So I gathered. Knew him well, I’d say. Better than just law school acquaintances.”
She took a breath. “We had a relationship for several months.”
“What happened?”
“He left. Married someone else.”
He leaned forward. His body was tired and it was hard to sit up straight. “Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
“He was in the past.”
“You told me about others.”
“I don’t know, Cork.”
“So tell me now.”
She shook her head. “You’re angry.”
“No, I’m tired.”
“Either way, it’s not a good time to talk about this.”
“I’d rather we did.”
“He was twenty years ago. He’ll be gone tomorrow.”
“Were you happy to see him again?”
“I was surprised.”
“You must have loved him a lot to be so afraid to talk about him,” Cork went on.
He thought she was going to put him off again. Instead, her blue eyes settled on his face and she said, “I loved him very much. And he hurt me very badly.”
Cork mulled that over. “Did you marry me on the rebound?”
“Has it ever felt like that?”
“No.”
“When you became my life, I put Ben Jacoby away, far away.”
“And now he’s back.”
“Not because I wanted him.” She stood up, intending to take Cork into her reassuring arms, but her attention was drawn to something behind him, something that put fear in her eyes. “Someone’s at the window.”
He turned in his chair. The pane at his back still showed only the reflection of the office. Beyond that, only night.
“He’s gone,” Jo said.
“Wait here.”
Cork ran from the room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. He flipped the dead bolt, flung open the door and the screen, then plunged into the dark outside. He charged along the side of the house toward the backyard and stopped at the corner. Except for the oblong of light that fell from Jo’s window onto the grass, there appeared to be nothing to see. He stood listening intently, peering at the hidden recesses of the yard. Nothing moved or made a sound.
He heard a sudden rustle behind him in the lilac bushes that edged the driveway, and he pivoted and crouched, thinking what an easy target he was in his boxers and barefoot. He tensed as if he could feel the night scope on him, and he imagined the chambered round, the finger squeezing. The bushes shivered again; he forced himself to be still, to wait. It was dark and his eyes were useless. He cocked his head, trying to catch the slightest sound, the slide of a rifle bolt or the shallow intake of the steadying breath before firing.
A small rocket launched itself from the lilacs. It stayed low to the ground, and Cork stumbled back, startled. The shape made a sudden right-angle turn and scrambled down the driveway. Cork leaped to where he could see the drive all the way down to the street. As the shape passed into the light of the street lamp, it was clearly defined: the O’Loughlins’ cat, Rochester. Cork’s legs went weak, and he leaned against the Bronco, which he’d left parked in the driveway.
Jo stepped out the kitchen door. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. You didn’t happen to get a good look at who it was in the window?”
“No. He was there and then he wasn’t.”
“He? You’re sure it was a he?”
She thought a moment. “No.”
He took her arm. “Let’s get back inside.”
He threw the dead bolt on the kitchen door and checked the lock on the front door. He made sure the blinds over all the windows were down and the curtains drawn. Upstairs, he took his .38 from the lockbox in his bedroom closet.
“Are you going to sleep with that?” Jo asked.
“Yes, but downstairs, on the sofa.”
She eyed the gun with concern. “Do you think that’s necessary?”
“I don’t know what’s necessary, and I don’t want to take chances.”
“All right,” she said. “Want company?”
“I’ll be fine.”
He put on sweatpants and slippers, took his pillow and a blanket, and stretched out on the sofa in the living room. He put the revolver under his pillow, then lay for a long time listening and thinking.
He’d believed he was safe in town, but maybe he was wrong. And if he was wrong, it meant that his home wasn’t safe. Not for him, not for his family. He would have to do something about that. Whatever it was, he’d figure it out in the morning.
* * *
His father stood at the top of a hill, facing the setting sun, his back toward Cork. Cork tried to call out, but his jaw was paralyzed and nothing escaped his mouth but a low, helpless groan. His father began to walk away, disappearing down the other side of the hill, as if the ground were swallowing him. Cork fought desperately to follow, clawing at a slope that lay in deep shadow. He came at last to a place where pine needles had been laid as bedding in a jumble of black rocks that were embedded with gold nuggets glittering in the sun. Then he realized they weren’t nuggets but brass shell casings. He started to run down the other side of the hill, but shots were already being fired and he saw his father tumble. And then it was not his father on the ground but Marsha Dross with her eyes wide open in terror, her lips rapidly moving, whispering words that were like the soft slipping of feet over a rug. In the next instant he was awake, hearing someone come down the stairs in his house.
Jenny shuffled across the carpet to where Cork lay on the sofa.
“Daddy?”
“Morning, sweetheart.”
She seemed surprised to find him there. “What happened?”
“Trouble sleeping.”
“Again?”
He ignored her remark, saw that she was dressed in jeans, a green sweatshirt, a billed cap, and her hiking boots, and he remembered. “All set for your canoe outing?”
“Yeah. Thanks for letting me borrow the Bronco.”
“Got the keys?”
“Right here.” She held out her hand to show him.
“Have a good time.”
“We will.”
“When should we expect you home?”
“After dinner. We’re going to eat at the Sawmill when we come off the lake.”
“Got money?”
“Plenty.”
She kissed his cheek, went into the kitchen, and a moment later he heard the door open and close.
Morning sunlight fired the curtain. He looked at the grandfather clock in the hallway. Seven-ten. He thought about getting up, but was so tired that he could barely move. Every muscle of his body ached. His head felt thick and
fuzzy. But the dream he’d been having when Jenny woke him was still vivid.
Although he hadn’t had a cigarette in a couple of years, he wanted one now.
He heard the kitchen door open and Jenny came back in.
“Dad?”
“What is it, Jen?”
“I can’t get the car started. It won’t even turn over. I think the battery’s dead.”
“More likely a loose cable. Let’s take a look.” He slowly rolled off the sofa.
Outside, the morning was bright and crisp. The day had a peaceful feel. Cork loved this kind of morning, the light in the sky gold and promising, the smell in the air sharp with evergreen.
The night hadn’t been cold enough for frost, but there was a thick layer of dew on the Bronco’s windshield. “Give me the keys,” Cork said.
He got into the vehicle and turned the ignition. Nothing happened. He popped the hood latch and got out.
“Hop in,” he told his daughter. “When I tell you to, try to start it.”
Jenny slipped behind the wheel. Cork walked around to the front of the Bronco and lifted the hood. What he saw froze him.
“Jenny,” he said.
“Try it now?” she called.
“No,” he ordered harshly. “Don’t turn the key. Just get out of the car.”
“What?”
“Just get out, sweetheart,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.
Jenny did as she was told, then joined her father and saw what he saw.
“Oh, Jesus. What do we do, Dad?” She whispered, as if afraid that speaking too loudly might be dangerous.
“We’re going inside,” he told her. “I’m going to call the Department and then we’re going to wake everyone up and get them out of here.”
22
THE BOMB SQUAD from the Duluth Police Department advised that everyone within fifteen hundred feet of the O’Connor house be evacuated. Standard procedure. The Tamarack County Sheriff’s Department barricaded the streets, and two yellow pumpers from the Aurora Volunteer Fire Department stood ready. The bomb squad indicated they would be there in ninety minutes. In the meantime, all there was to do was keep the crowd back and wait.
The deputies reported that most folks who evacuated had been cooperative. Cork himself encountered only one instance of outright hostility, this from Gunther Doktor, an old widower who’d lived on Gooseberry Lane forever. Doktor had turned his good ear toward Cork, an ear that sprouted hair like corn tassel, and said, “You O’Connors. Always been trouble.” Still, he’d abandoned his house as requested, muttering as he shuffled to the end of the block.
Most other neighbors made it a point to tell Cork they were outraged by this personal attack, and if there was anything they could do to help, then just, by God, let them know. The Women’s Guild from St. Agnes Catholic Church somehow got word of the situation and had very quickly set up tables outside the secured perimeter to offer coffee and juice, doughnuts, and banana bread to those for whom breakfast was now a long way off.
Jo and Stevie stood with the O’Loughlins in the street under the shade of an oak with russet leaves. Jenny and Annie mingled with the crowd and Cork wasn’t always able to see them. He would have preferred to keep his whole family in sight, but he had his hands full.
He stood beside a cruiser parked beyond the barricades at the west end of the block, and he talked with Cy Borkmann, Ed Larson, and Simon Rutledge.
Borkmann said, “Duluth bomb squad radioed their twenty. They just passed the casino. Maybe five minutes now.”
Rutledge had been in such a hurry that he hadn’t combed his hair, and he’d put his sweater on inside out. “Jo told me the guy wore a ski mask, that she couldn’t see anything that might ID him.”
“That’s right.”
“And you saw no one when you went outside to check?”
“Like I told you, Simon, only the cat. Rochester’s smart, but I don’t think he planted that dynamite.”
Rutledge was the only one who smiled. “We’ll want your Bronco for a while, so we can go over it carefully for evidence.”
“If it’s still in one piece when this is over, you’re welcome to it.”
The bomb detail arrived in a Duluth Police van with a trailer in tow. On the trailer was a large, heavy-looking metal canister. An unmarked car followed. Two men stepped from the van and another came from the car. The man who’d driven the van said, “Sheriff O’Connor?”
“Here.”
“Sergeant Dave Gorman.” Tall, tanned, early thirties, buzz cut, good shape.
They shook hands. He introduced his colleagues, Sergeant Rich Klish and Sergeant Greg Searson.
“Where is it?” Gorman asked.
“Down the street. Two-sixteen Gooseberry Lane. The Bronco in the drive with the hood up.”
Gorman nodded. “So what did you see?”
“A white PVC pipe, three inches in diameter, maybe fifteen inches in length, capped at both ends.”
“A timing device? Clock, watch?”
“I didn’t see one.”
“Where was the explosive placed?”
“On the engine block, near the battery.”
“Wires?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see where they connected?”
“To the battery.”
“The battery?” Gorman glanced at the men who’d come with him. “You’re sure?”
“With alligator clips.”
“Was there a clothespin glued to the pipe?”
“Yes.”
“Did you notice any fishing line?”
“Fishing line? I don’t recall.”
Gorman puzzled over that. Cork felt that he was letting the bomb technician down. He should have checked more thoroughly, but he’d been worried about getting his family and his neighbors out of harm’s way.
“Okay. You’re sure about the clothespin?”
“Yes.”
Gorman went to the van, came back with a pair of binoculars. He looked for a minute toward Cork’s house.
“The Bronco, huh?”
“Yeah.”
He looked some more. “You like it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m thinking of getting one. I just wondered if it’s been a good vehicle for you.”
“Good enough that I’d hate to see it end up in little pieces.”
“Well, we’ll see what we can do about keeping that from happening.” He turned to his companions. “Let’s take the van in, Greg. Rich,” he said to the man who’d driven the unmarked car, “you stay with the sheriff, keep him apprised.”
Gorman and Searson got back into the van. Cork’s people moved the barricade aside and let them pass. They drove to the end of the block and stopped a good five hundred feet short of Cork’s house.
“They’re parked in the cold zone, a safe distance from the explosive,” Sergeant Klish said. He was much shorter than Gorman, and older. He had a square face that seemed oddly unconcerned about the danger his colleagues might be facing.
“You go out on a lot of these calls?” Ed Larson asked.
“Sometimes two or three a day. Not usually this far north, though. A Bronco, you said, Sheriff?”
“That’s right.”
Klish nodded. “Probably too high for the camera on the robot. I’m guessing Dave’ll suit up and go in for a look-see.”
They watched as Gorman laboriously donned a heavily padded green suit with a high collar and large helmet. Slowly, he began to walk toward the Bronco down the street.
“Looks like he’s taking it pretty careful,” Cy Borkmann said.
“He’s wearing eighty pounds of Kevlar plates,” Klish replied. “He doesn’t have any choice but to go slow.”
Gorman reached Cork’s drive and approached the Bronco. He stood for a while peering under the hood.
“He seemed interested in fishing line,” Cork said. “What was that about?”
“You said wires were connected directly to the battery
?”
“Yes.”
“Every explosive needs a power source. In this case, that’s the battery. With power already supplied, the only thing that’s needed to detonate is to complete the electrical circuit. That’s where the clothespin comes in. On this type of device, the electrical contacts are often thumbtacks pushed into the legs of the clothespin. What keeps them from connecting and completing the circuit is a thin piece of plastic or maybe cardboard that’s been slipped between. The question is, how does the plastic or cardboard get removed so the tacks can make contact, complete the circuit, and detonate the explosive? The answer: fishing line. Secure one end of the line to the cardboard, the other to the hood. When the car doesn’t start, the victim lifts the hood to see what the problem is, the fishing line gets pulled up, the cardboard gets yanked out, the thumbtacks connect, the circuit is completed, and . . . boom.” He gave Cork a wistful look. “You’re a very lucky man, Sheriff. All I can think is that the fishing line broke.”
Cork nearly staggered under the thought of what almost happened, thinking less about himself than the fact that Jenny had been with him.
“What’s in the pipe?” Larson asked.
“Could be anything,” Klish said. “Black powder, dynamite, even C-4, I suppose. They’ll check that out next.” He shook his head. “You know, the hell of all this is that it’s a very destructive device, but simple to make. Instructions for it and bombs a lot more sophisticated are all over the Internet. Go figure.”
Gorman backed away from the Bronco and, when he was a safe distance, turned and walked to the van. He returned to the Bronco with what Klish described as a portable X-ray machine. Fifteen minutes later, with Gorman at the van, Searson began assembling a tall stand with what looked like a rifle barrel on the end.
“They’re going to shoot,” Klish said.
“My Bronco?”
“Relax, Sheriff. They’ll probably shoot just the battery, or one of the cables, to remove the power source. Then they’ll probably shoot the device to break it open so they can take a look inside. What Greg’s constructing is called a PAN disrupter. It’s basically a remote gun. It has a laser beam for aiming, a barrel that’ll fire anything from shot to a slug to plain water.”
The William Kent Krueger Collection 2 Page 48
