“Johnnie is a chicken, bok, bok, bok, bok,” said Tommy Randall.
“Am not! You just throw that ball, and don’t let it get stuck in the fire, neither!” belted Johnnie.
A mother arranging loaves of bread yelled, “Now, you boys stop that throwing. Someone’s gonna get hurt.”
“Aw, let ’em be, Delores. They aren’t hurtin’ anyone,” said a man from beneath the brim of his worn John Deere baseball cap.
The town mayor, Harry Bonderman, was dressed in his best baby blue leisure suit, his wide smile illuminated in the firelight. He shed the baseball cap that had been perched on his head, revealing his bright, shiny baldness that he attempted to disguise under a bad comb-over. His temples were dented from the constant presence of the hat, which he now crunched in his hands. A grin painted a childlike expression on his face as he took the bullhorn. The sound of the piercing loudspeaker squawked, and everyone covered their ears, wincing.
“Folks, can I have your attention? Sorry about that, folks. Everyone gather round. We’re going to bless the food.”
“You boys git over here and quit that throwin’,” said the same father who had earlier told the boys to continue. “And take off them hats.”
About a quarter of a mile away, at the corner of Deer Lodge Avenue and Silver Bow Street, stood the Toole County Sheriff’s Department. Sheriff Doris Thompkins was the only person in the one-story tan building. The sheriff’s office looked small next to its large radio tower silhouetted against sparse, jagged clouds now disappearing into the darkening sky. For a town as small as Shelby, Sheriff Thompkins was pleased with the support she received from the county. She grinned to no one in particular, thinking back to earlier in the day when she’d given the deputies a tongue lashing about maintaining their town patrol shifts tonight, even during the annual feast. Then, not two hours later, she’d capitulated and sent them to the bonfire. They all wanted to be there. In fact, she wanted to be there. But, being the sheriff had its responsibilities, and someone needed to man the fort.
Stepping outside through the glass double doors of the front entrance, the crisp night air worked its way into her lungs. On the top step of the portico, she peered to the north, the glow of the flickering bonfire visible on the horizon. She thought for a moment about all the families that would be there and about her six young deputies who would surely give her grief tomorrow morning about first playing tough, then letting them go to the gathering at the last minute. In the distance, she could hear low, audible voices and laugher and the mayor’s voice on that old bullhorn of his. Although his words were not clear, she assumed he was saying a prayer before the big feast. Well, maybe my boys will bring me a plate, but perhaps that’s too much to ask. They are boys after all.
After a few moments of praying, the mayor’s voice quieted. Doris could almost hear a collective “Amen,” and all the voices went quiet. Then, out of the bleak silence, an enormous white-hot flash of light erupted, engulfing most of the night sky. Doris’s mouth dropped as her eyes squinted into the shattering pulse of light. Half a second later, the concussive blast slammed into her body, followed by an eruption of noise whose volume was so much louder than anything in her experience, it was almost beyond comprehension. The shockwave rocked her backwards, slamming her shoulder blades into the glass doors, which shattered behind her as the ground rattled underneath. Her drill-instructor-style hat flipped to the ground as all manner of debris and shrapnel rained down, pelting the building, slamming into the cement walkway, and crashing into the metallic roof of the building across the way. Doris’s pupils, still dilated from the bright flash, were shocked once more as a piece of sizzling metal sliced through the air with a whirring sound and tore the flesh from her cheekbone to her ear. The scar it would leave on her face would become symbolic of the one that later etched itself onto her soul. Doris collapsed at the base of the glass doors in a crumpled ball, then rolled down the three stairs, spilling onto the lush grass lawn, now strewn with raining debris.
The realization of what had happened was yet to be comprehended. The sheriff struggled to her feet, wobbling as she rose, her arms and hands held out to catch herself if she fell. She could hear nothing over the cacophonous ringing in her ears. She looked around with hazy eyes as confusion painted itself across a deepening look of horror. She first began walking, then running towards the scene. It didn’t occur to her to get in her patrol car; she simply ran towards the danger.
The once enormous bonfire was reduced to shards of little glowing embers, the logs splintered across great distances. The once happy flames had been extinguished by the blast, which consumed all nearby oxygen. Debris was everywhere. Doris tripped over something and collapsed in a heap on the pavement. Glancing under her feet, it looked like the remnants of a car bumper. Under wobbling knees she rose with her left hand bleeding from the fresh scrape. The acrid smell of burnt hair layered the area like a fog, and Doris’s stomach soured. Stumbling forward, terrified of what she might find, Doris again began to run. The ringing in her ears was deafening.
She screamed out, “Boys, boys,” after her young deputies. Even if they had been able to respond, she wouldn’t know. What her ears would not reveal were the low, muffled cries coming from the few that had survived the enormous blast. In the coming minutes, the cries would silence, and nothing would move.
The landscape had transformed. No longer were buildings standing nearby. Everything had been leveled. Even the fence and lamp posts were nowhere to be found. It wasn’t possible to distinguish the once modest entrance to the camp. Doris gazed at the scattered debris—shattered wood, glowing embers, twisted metal, food items, car parts, and broken glass. There were other things strewn in the debris as well. These were the things Doris would never speak of. To her it looked as though human blood and pieces of flesh had fallen from the sky and covered the ground like raindrops.
She sank to her knees. Her weeping was that of someone whose soul had been irreparably torn. With hands on her lap, she raised her eyes to the sky and found the only normalcy in the hellish scene. Quietly shimmering above, in the same place they had been a few minutes earlier, were the stars and a silvery glow from the rising moon. Nothing in them decried the abomination that surrounded her. Doris would never be able to verbalize what she had seen that night. It was a burden she would carry with her to her grave.
26
After lunch with his dad, Cade’s mind went blurry. His head hurt, and he was racked with guilt. The weight of his dad’s cancer pushed on his chest like a three-hundred-pound barbell. On top of his dad’s health, this seventeenth floor crap was mind numbing. Rupert Johnston was taking his orders from William Macy, and Macy’s temper was combustible. Never a smile, never a nod hello, and then, out of nowhere, Macy would explode in anger. Whatever was driving him was driving him hard, and Cade couldn’t get out of the way.
Cade would watch the two men in meetings from behind glass walls. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but every meeting ended the same way—yelling. Johnston’s anger was visceral. It looked like he would burst a blood vessel in his forehead during the shouting matches. Then he would storm out and slam the door to his office. Tensions weren’t just high, they were out of control.
Cade no longer worked a normal schedule. His days were dragging later and later than the last. And tonight, he hadn’t left the office until eight thirty p.m. Down in the garage he climbed into his car a whipped man. It was close to nine when he got home, flopped down on the couch, and turned on the news.
“We’re going live now to Montana, the apparent scene of another bombing. We’re moments away . . . yes, we’re going live to the scene outside of the township of Shelby, Montana, to a news conference with Montana Attorney General John Farr.”
Silence folded over the scene and then was interrupted by the sound of camera shutters firing away.
“Folks, if you can settle down please, we can begin.” The Attorney General paused again. “I have the unfortunate responsibility t
o pass along the news that approximately ninety minutes ago, Montana joined the sad list of places to suffer what appears to be a terrorist attack. I’ve just toured the area behind me . . . the devastation . . . it’s hard to put into words.” Farr struggled but won the battle over his emotions.
“Here in the town of Shelby, this annual event represents the largest bonfire in the state of Montana. Most of Shelby’s town residents normally attend.”
A flurry of hurried reporters’ voices tried to speak over one another. The reporters began shouting. The tallest voice overshadowed the rest. “Do we know how many casualties?”
“The number of casualties is unknown at this time. We anticipate that over one hundred people would have been in attendance here.” The words rolled off his tongue like thunder.
“And how many wounded? What hospital were the wounded taken to?” continued the reporter.
Farr stared at his feet as though the answer might be written in shoe polish on his Florsheims.
Seated in the shadows of the bright camera lights, Sheriff Doris Thompkins struggled to her feet and put her hand on the Attorney General’s shoulder. Gauze bandages stained in dark dried blood clung to her face and hand. The Attorney General stepped aside with an expression that decried a mixture of reverence and relief. Sheriff Thompkins’ blank pallor gazed forward into the sea of reporters and bright lights. She made eye contact with nothing. The hand dangling at her side trembled. In a low voice devoid of emotion, she said, “There were no survivors.”
A hush fell over the group of reporters. None knew how to react. No one wanted to be the one to ask the next question.
After a moment, one reporter stood up with a sullen face and asked, “Are you sure it was a terrorist attack? Could the explosion have been caused by a gas main, or a grain silo, anything?”
Attorney General Farr put his arms around Doris’s shoulders and helped her back to her seat.
“Let me turn that question over to the FBI.”
“My name is Special Agent Stephen Bolz. I lead the task force investigating the spate of terrorist incidents that have occurred in this country over the past eleven months. Although this explosion is an early stage investigation, we’re treating it as a crime scene. Let me be perfectly clear. There is no other working explanation outside of a deliberate attack. The geographic area has no city services, no gas lines, no sewer lines; there are no grain silos, no factories, no fuel dumps. The sheer size of the blast zone indicates that this was no accident. Whatever caused this explosion was manmade and deliberate.”
There was a man standing behind Bolz wearing a distinctive blue FBI windbreaker. Cade leaned forward on the couch and squinted at the television. Cade looked harder at the man. “Holy crap,” he said, “that’s Kyle.”
Bolz continued, “We’ll bring you more information as we have it.” The press conference ended in abrupt silence.
Cade dialed Kyle without hesitation.
“Agent MacKerron,” answered Kyle.
“Cool Mac, dude! Holy crap, I just saw you on WBS News. Are you okay? I thought you were working bank robbery. What are you doing at a bombing in Montana?”
“Cade, I can’t talk about it right now. But yeah, I’ve been transferred. And, Cade, you’re not going to believe why.”
“Why? What do you mean? Kyle . . .”
“Can’t talk now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You’ll see me tomorrow? Kyle, what does that mean?” But the phone was dead. Confused and exhausted, he turned off the TV and shuffled into the double bed still covered by the comforter he’d had since tenth grade. As his head hit the pillow, sounds from a thumping bass guitar droned in the background. The neighbors were having another party. Well, it is Tuesday, after all. Why wait till Friday?
27
The next day at lunchtime, Cade was still tired. He needed to get out, at least for a short time. At the stroke of noon, he was out the front doors and onto Peachtree Street, walking towards the mall.
Across the street a man stood reading his paper, his reflection silhouetted against the black glass of the sprawling Atlanta Financial Center building. The man turned and walked in the same direction, parallel, but well behind Cade. In his left hand he keyed the small radio transmitter. “Secure channel,” he said in a low voice.
“Channel secure,” came the crisp reply.
“Subject heading north on foot.”
“Roger that, subject heading north. Keep your distance. Don’t make contact,” said the voice.
At the corner, Cade waited a moment as a MARTA bus cleared before crossing Peachtree Street.
“Copy that, no contact . . . hold one. New course, subject crossing Peachtree. Could be headed to Lenox Mall.” A car’s horn blared on the busy Buckhead thoroughfare.
“Roger that, assets are en route. ETA two minutes.”
“Copy, assets ETA two minutes.”
Cade walked through the main entrance of the mall and worked his way all the way to the back of the enormous facility and into the bustling food court. Descending the escalator, bright springtime light glowed through skylights down onto the marble floor below. A sea of people moved about as if woven into a tapestry of humanity, each disorganized thread with its own purpose. Restaurant tables spread across the wide indoor area as aromas competed, each trying to outdo the other. Cade walked past several restaurants where employees stood in front, holding plates of food, little toothpicks pointing straight to the day-lit ceiling.
“Sample, sir? Sample?”
Cade put up his hand. But as he came to the last restaurant on the right, he slowed. The line was long, as usual. His favorite place boasted sizzling teriyaki chicken that when cooked, steamed as though angry at the piping hot skillet they sat on. The staff struggled to keep pace with demand. Another mountain of fresh marinated chicken was brought out from the back and dumped unceremoniously on the scorching surface. Patrons moved down the line, their plates steaming with fresh white rice, grilled vegetables, and dark, rich teriyaki chicken. Cade already knew he would eat here and started to walk past a pretty Asian sample-giver when she stepped into his path, blocking his way.
“Sample, sir?” she said, holding a skewered piece of dripping chicken.
“Oh, no thank you,” said Cade.
“Have a sample. Meet Cool Mac in the employee stairwell, directly behind you. Don’t ask questions. Meet Cool Mac in the employee stairwell directly behind you.” She pushed the toothpick into his hand and turned towards another customer.
Cade stared. Cool Mac? What the hell?
“Sample, ma’am? Yes, ma’am, teriyaki chicken, just $6.99. Sir, a sample for you? Teriyaki chicken.” The sample-giver backed up, paying Cade no more attention. “Sample, sir, teriyaki chicken . . .” Cade glanced across the rows of tables behind him and saw the stairwell door. Cool Mac is here? Kyle?
Cade walked towards the stairwell door but felt stupid, like he was being watched and this was all just a prank. It felt like something out of the movies. Still, no one outside of Kyle’s closest friends ever used the nickname Cool Mac. He pushed open the door into the echoing stairwell. The door closed behind him with a heavy metallic thud, the sounds of the busy food court muffled behind him. A janitor whose gray uniform was stained with yellow mustard trotted down the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Cool Mac, top floor. On the right is a door marked ‘Employees Only.’” The man turned his back to the door and pushed it open. Cade’s confused eyes followed him as he disappeared into the food court.
Cade’s feet shuffled their way up the steps as echoes reverberated off beige cinder block walls. The casual-soled shoes thudded against the steel steps. He was nervous but really a little bit more bewildered than anything. On the third flight of stairs, Cade stared at a set of doors marked “Employees Only.”
Now what? thought Cade. I suppose there’s a secret knock? He started to put his hand on the knob but then withdrew it. It was as though he thought the handle might be red-hot.
To his surprise, the door handle turned, and he pushed it open.
28
“Hey, man,” said a jubilant Kyle MacKerron.
“Cool Mac!” Cade laughed. “What the hell are you doing to me, man? You’ve gone all 007 on me.”
There were three other people in the room seated at a heavy steel table. Each stood up as Cade entered—two men and one very attractive female. Cade’s eyes stopped on her. He tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help it. Otherwise it looked like a business suit convention in the small, cement room.
“Hey, sorry, man. It couldn’t be avoided,” said Kyle. “Don’t worry; we’re going to explain everything. This is Special Agent Stephen Bolz out of our San Diego office. He’s in charge of . . . ah, well, he’s in charge of what we’re going to explain to you. This is Special Agent David Stark, the agent in charge of the FBI’s Atlanta field office.”
Cade shook hands with the men. “And this is Special Agent Jana Baker. Agent Baker is working with us on this case. Come over here. Let’s sit down for a minute.”
“We don’t have much time,” said Jana, sitting on the edge of the table. “We don’t want him to be gone too long.”
“Much time?” said Cade. “What, am I going to be late to pick up my date for the prom or something? Kyle, what’s going on? What is all this? What are you doing in Atlanta?”
Kyle looked at Cade then back over to Agent Bolz with a question in his eye. Bolz nodded, signaling his approval.
“Have a seat,” said Kyle. “Cade, we’re here because of you.”
The Fourteenth Protocol_A Thriller Page 12
