“Good old Marie. Right on schedule,” Pete said.
Marie? Here? Kyle craned his neck, looking for her.
“Whoosh!” Pete fanned himself with his hat. “Now comes the hard part.”
“Oh, wow!” Kyle exclaimed. “There’s the capitol! Is that where . . . ?” He turned to his father, afraid of the answer.
“No, there.” He pointed to a tall white building across the street.”
Kyle’s heart nearly stopped. A sign said it was the federal building. He’d toured a federal building in L.A. with his fifth-grade class. The FBI had offices there. Probably the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, too, where Verity’s dad worked. He could hardly breathe.
“Here goes,” his dad said as they approached the slope leading to the federal building’s underground parking. “Nice that Frank got this for us.” He plugged a card into the machine and a gate lifted. “Down the chute.”
“Damn,” his father exclaimed, moving slowly along the parking lanes in search of a space. “It’s full up!”
“Take your time, Ed. We got plenty of leeway,” Pete said.
The rumble of the van echoed in the vast underground space, and every time they drove over a speed bump, Kyle gripped his seat, expecting to die. He had to stop this, he thought, head swerving from side to side in search of help. They couldn’t just leave a bomb in this place and go! Hundreds of people must be in the building above!
His father leaned forward, peering into the dim light for a place to park, while Kyle grew more and more panicky. He didn’t see a single person, only cars!
“There! Perfect! That guy’s just pulling out!” Pete cried, pointing to the left.
“Too small!”
“It’s not! For Christ’s sake, Ed—go for it!”
This was his chance. Kyle watched with open mouth and pounding heart as the red convertible backed out of its space and nosed toward them. A man in his thirties sat at the wheel, nodding to loud music from a tape deck. Kyle didn’t know what he’d do until the car came parallel. Then, without thinking, he jammed his hand hard on the horn. A harsh blast of noise bounced off the walls of the cavernous structure and echoed back.
“Damn you!” his dad bellowed, tearing Kyle’s hand away and clenching it in a tight vise while Pete grabbed his other hand.
The convertible stopped alongside them and the driver looked up. Kyle’s father smiled through the closed window and mouthed, “Sorry . . .” The convertible moved on.
“Phew!” Pete exclaimed. “Close! This boy of yours needs a whipping!”
“Too many years living with his mother,” his dad said, letting out his breath. Sweat covered his upper lip and his cheek twitched as he worked the van forward and back until he had maneuvered it into the tight parking space.
“All right, we’re in. Now let’s get out of here,” his dad added. “You open your mouth or do anything crazy again, Kyle, and you’ll be real sorry!”
“Dad, don’t!” Kyle begged once more. “Please! A lot of people will die!”
“This is war! People die! Now march!”
Kyle strode swiftly between his father and Pete, their arms tightly linked with his—through the parking structure, up the ramp, and out to the street. Numb with horror, he searched frantically for a guard, a policeman—anyone he could call to, but in the heat of the afternoon the streets were empty.
Flushed with anger, Kyle’s father practically carried him the two blocks to the getaway car and pushed him into the backseat. He climbed in beside Kyle and locked the door.
Marie met Kyle’s eyes in the rearview mirror but said nothing.
“Take off,” his dad said, and Marie obeyed.
Tears slid down Kyle’s cheeks. If he’d figured right from what Colonel Armstrong had said, the van they’d just left would explode in a little over an hour. It would tear apart a government building and kill a whole lot of innocent people.
And he could do nothing.
19
“WE DID IT!” Kyle’s dad cried as they left the city. “My god, we did it! Now those bastards will take notice!” He shook a cigarette from his pack and lit it with a shaky hand.
“I almost had a heart attack when that red sports car pulled up beside us,” Pete announced. He elbowed Kyle. “Dumb—what you did! Why’d you do that?”
Kyle shrugged.
“What time’s the big bang?” Marie asked, grinning into the rearview mirror.
“Sixteen-thirty. That’s four-thirty to you, sweetheart, assuming the timer works,” his father said. “Phew! I feel high as a kite!”
“Wait till we get to town, darlin’; you’re gonna get a whole lot higher. Stocked enough beer to drown an army!” She chuckled. “Hey, Kyle. Ready for some serious celebrating?”
Kyle smiled weakly and clenched his hands between his knees. Marie didn’t know about his failed sabotage attempt.
“Less than an hour and it’ll be history,” his father said, blowing out a big cloud of smoke, the tension around his lips eased. “Government’s gonna think twice ’fore they go after another Randy Weaver or David Koresh . . . or an . . . Earl Johnson!” He tapped Kyle’s knee. “Your friend Hiram can rest in peace now.”
“Yeah, sorry about what I did at the garage, Dad,” Kyle said, trying to sound sincere. “I don’t know what got into me. Scared, I guess.” He wasn’t sure if his dad believed him.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re in this with us now—all the way. Understand?”
Kyle squirmed and nodded. He glanced furtively at his watch. Forty-eight minutes left! He felt sick to his stomach. Help! he cried silently. Tell me what to do, god! Mom—Brian—anyone! Tell me what to do!
“Scooch down,” Marie warned as they neared town. His dad bent low and pressed a hand on Kyle’s head to hold him down until Marie said, “Coast’s clear.” When Kyle looked out he saw they’d come up the drive of a two-story Victorian house, just a block off the main street. Marie parked under a portico; Dad opened the car door and they slipped quickly into the house through a side door while Marie drove off.
Where were they? Puzzled, Kyle looked around the large kitchen. Whose house was this?
Pete threw his fishing hat on a counter as if he’d been here often. “Hello?” his dad called.
Sheriff Bray strode into the room and Kyle grabbed his dad’s shirt. Bray had been at the Johnson farm, with the ATF. Which side was he on?
“Welcome back, fellas. How’d it go?” Bray asked.
“Smooth as silk,” Kyle’s father said. “Who’s here?”
“Walker, Sullivan, and Baker; Corwin couldn’t make it. They’re in the den. Get yourselves a drink and join the party.”
Kyle followed his dad and Pete into a wood-paneled room with a leather sofa and chairs and shelves full of trophies. Cigarette butts overflowed from the ashtrays. Bowls of chips and nuts and empty beer cans littered a square table between the couch and chairs. Two of the men Sheriff Bray named had been at the Hoot Owl when Kyle had gone with his dad and Marie. The third man was the barber—Carl Baker!
How weird, Kyle thought, drawing back. These men all knew about the bomb due to go off in a little over a half hour and here they were standing around smoking, talking, drinking like old buddies gathered to watch Sunday football.
The barber raised his beer can high as they entered the room. “Hey, everybody! A toast! To Ed and Pete!”
“And my boy, Kyle!” His father put an arm around Kyle and beamed at the others.
“Hear, hear! And to a job well done!” the sheriff added.
“Not done yet! It’s not over till the fat lady sings, as they say,” his father joked. “Kyle, switch on the TV. Wouldn’t want to miss the fireworks!”
“So tell us how it went!” the sheriff urged, as the men gathered around Pete and his dad. Kyle turned on the TV and then perched on the edge of a chair, only half listening as he stared at the minute hand on the wall clock. Twenty-nine minutes to go!
“Who wants more beer?” the she
riff asked, crushing his can and going toward the kitchen.
Three hands went up, but the men’s attention stayed on Kyle’s father.
“Back in a minute.”
Kyle followed the sheriff to the kitchen. “Can I help?”
“Shoot! Went through that beer like there’s no tomorrow,” Sheriff Bray said, frowning at the contents of the refrigerator. “Do me a favor, son. Got another fridge down in the cellar, right next to the workbench. Full up with soda and beer. Bring up a couple six-packs, will you?”
“Sure thing!”
“Cellar door’s right there, next to the table.”
“Back in a jiffy,” Kyle said, so elated he almost choked on the words. This was his chance.
He turned on the light to the cellar, closed the door behind him, and ran down the steps. The big room was cooler than upstairs and smelled of apples and mildew. He stood still for only a moment, hearing the mumble of voices from above, surveying the pipes and support beams, the boxes and workbench, tools and old bikes. Then he turned his attention to the windows. How could he get out? And what should he do if he did?
Heart racing, hands sweating, he crossed the room in three strides and hoisted himself onto a table below the storm door. There, he crouched and fumbled in the dim light for the hook and eye latch. The rusty hook wouldn’t budge. He tried again, holding his breath as he tried to force the hook through the eye. And again, until he felt the warm trickle of blood from his raw finger. He heard footsteps above. Was someone coming? Oh, god, please, no! Almost dizzy with fear, Kyle wrapped his T-shirt around his sore finger and jammed it against the hook until finally it gave way. With a whimper of relief, he shoved his hands against the sloping storm door until it swung upward.
Daylight! Freedom!
For an instant he stood beside the house unsure of which way to turn. How long would it be before they missed him?
Bending low he loped across the backyard, scaled the fence, and took off.
Where could he go? Who could he reach to help? Not Marie; that was for sure. Not the police, either. Then who?
Verity! Maybe her father was home! She lived in the house next to the library, but which side? Right or left? He raced the two blocks to the library and ran up the walkway to the closer of the two homes.
Looking behind him anxiously, he banged on the door. “Hurry, hurry!” he groaned, hearing piano music inside. It seemed to take forever before the door opened and he saw Verity.
“Hello!” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Quick, let me in! I have to talk to your father!”
“He’s not here.” She opened the door wider. “Come in.”
He followed her into a small entryway, asking, “Does he work at the federal building in Lansing?”
“Yes, why?”
“Oh, god!” He nibbled his thumbnail. “What should I do? I’ve got to reach him!”
“He’s not at work; I just tried. What’s wrong?” She swung around, exasperated at the noise from the piano and screamed, “Charley! Stop that!”
“Can I use your phone?” Kyle glanced at his watch; his legs nearly buckled. Twenty-two minutes to go! He had to do something, call someone, but who? Nine-one-one? No. They’d contact Sheriff Bray.
“It’s in here, come on!” Verity seemed to understand his urgency and led him quickly through the dining room to the kitchen. He could see the street through the window. “Here, go ahead.” She handed the phone to Kyle.
It’s after four, Michigan time, he thought. In California it would be after one. Brian might not even be there.
He pulled the card with the phone number for Brian’s precinct from his jeans pocket and dialed fast. The phone rang once and then not again and then he heard a recording: “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up and try again.” A precious minute lost. Charlene came into the room, smiled at him, and switched on the TV. Kyle turned away and nervously punched the buttons again.
“Hollenbeck station,” a man announced. “May I help you?”
“Officer Brian Dougherty, please. This is an emergency!”
“Just a minute. I’ll connect you.”
He tapped his foot on the floor, trying to figure what to do if Brian wasn’t there. He couldn’t call the local police, not if Sheriff Bray was involved. Then who?
The call was transferred and he repeated his request, eyes fixed on his watch, heart racing. Verity stood nearby, eyes connecting with his, curious.
“Officer Dougherty’s not due in until four,” a woman’s voice said. “Would you like to leave a message?”
No good; it would be too late. A knob of tears grew in his throat. “Turn off the TV!” he wanted to scream, because the voices made it hard to think. But it wasn’t his home.
“Wait! Just a minute!” the woman said. “I think he’s just coming in. Yeah! Dougherty, phone for you! Pick up on three!”
“Brian, listen!” Kyle said, the words spilling out in a breathless rush. “My father . . .” He swallowed the hard lump that threatened to close his throat. “My father’s militia has planted a bomb in a black van. I don’t know the license.”
“Where, Kyle?”
“In Lansing. The underground parking lot of the federal building!” A sob broke out and Verity pushed a fist against her mouth.
“You safe?”
“Yeah.” He gulped air and tried again. “It’s got a timer. Should go off in . . .” He checked his watch. “In eighteen minutes! Brian! What should I do? Can you do anything? Can you stop it?” The futility of this call suddenly hit him. What could Brian do from two thousand miles away?
“I don’t know, but I’ll try. Soon as I hang up, dial nine-one-one. I’ll call the FBI. Got that?”
“But I can’t call nine-one-one! The sheriff’s in on this. They’ll contact him!”
“Call anyway! I’ll follow up. And hurry!” Brian hung up.
“Please, Verity, turn down the TV!” Kyle begged, desperate now. He glanced out the window as he punched the buttons for 911. A car cruised slowly by. “Verity!” he cried. “Whose car is that?”
She rushed to the window from the TV. “I don’t know. Looks like—yes—the sheriff.”
“Oh!” A scared pulse raced down his arms and legs.
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” a voice answered.
In a frantic tumble of words, he repeated what he’d told Brian.
“What is your name, please?”
He had the terrible feeling that the 911 operator didn’t believe him, that he thought him just a kid making a prank call.
“My name doesn’t matter!” he screamed. If he gave his name his dad would get caught! “Believe me, please! The bomb’s going off in fifteen minutes! You’ve got to find it! Or . . . or . . .” He couldn’t finish because his throat was so tight.
“How do you know?” the man persisted.
“Because I was with the people who left it!”
The cruising car returned, slowed, and parked in front of the house. His father and Sheriff Bray leaped out and ran to the front door.
“Listen! Do something!” he commanded, sounding just like his father. “The van’s a rental! I don’t know the license, but . . . but . . .” He suddenly remembered an important detail. “It’s from Jerry’s Rent-a-Car . . .”
“What is your name, please?” the 911 operator demanded.
If they wouldn’t do anything without a name, he had to give it. “Klinger, Kyle Klinger!” he said, hating himself for the betrayal. “My father’s the one who put the bomb there!”
“We’ll look into it.”
There was a loud hammering at the front door. Charley ran out of the room calling, “I’ll get it!”
“No!” Verity screamed, running to stop her.
With a groan of relief, he hung up just as he heard Verity say, “I’m sorry, Mr. Klinger. Kyle’s not here.”
“Sure he is!” Charley contradicted. “He’s in the kitchen.”
“
Charley!” Verity cried. “I’m sorry, sir. He was here, but you just missed him.”
“We’ll just have a look!” Sheriff Bray said.
Kyle scanned the room for somewhere to hide, and his eyes rested briefly on the television screen. His pulse leaped. An agitated newsman, wearing earphones, was speaking. Kyle turned up the sound . . . government employees in the Lansing Federal Building are being evacuated because of a bomb threat, which came in just moments ago. It is believed the threat is real.” The newsman paused, pressed his earphone tighter, listened, and then said, “We go now to Alison Sayers, who was on assignment at the federal building when the threat came in.”
“That’s right, John!” the pretty reporter said. Kyle recognized the street where the TV camera crew had set up, a block from the federal building. “As you can see, terrified employees are pouring out of the building where more than three hundred people work. Can they all get out before the bomb goes off?” Sirens sounded in the distance.
“Have they found the device, Alison?” the man at the TV news studio asked.
“We’re not sure, John. A bomb squad has just gone into the underground parking structure. They’re looking for a mystery van, supposedly loaded with explosives. But we don’t know if they’ve found it or if . . .”
Sheriff Bray and his father burst into the kitchen, followed by Verity and her sister.
“What are you up to?” his father barked. “What have you done?”
“Look!” Kyle’s eyes welled with tears as he pointed to the TV. People were running away from the federal building, looking back over their shoulders.
“Oh . . . oh my god!” the anchorwoman cried, throwing her hand over her mouth. The screen suddenly filled with a huge explosion. The federal building heaved upward then, almost in slow motion, cascaded down in a torrent of concrete, glass, and debris.
Verity screamed.
“Hot-diggety-dog!” Sheriff Bray said. “The kid didn’t stop it. Come on. Let’s get out of here. They’ll be looking for you.”
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