Explosive Dreams

by Hadena James

  The work was grueling. After two months, Nick still wasn’t used to the hot weather, the steaming asphalt or the long hours. Night work was better, but it wasn’t always feasible. Six months ago, Nick had been living in a nice house, with an air conditioned office job that allowed him to get manicures and pay for shopping trips. Then the company had “downsized.” Nick had been let go, his wife had spent all their money and then left him because he couldn’t afford her lifestyle anymore and now he was flat broke and working on a road construction crew.

  However, not all of it was bad. He hated the work, but he liked the guys he worked with. It had been tense at first, he was an engineer, not a grunt used to working with machinery and tools of a trade. But he had eventually transitioned and now he could hold his own with most of the guys. They enjoyed getting beers after work and harassing the new guys who would wash out in a week or less. Even he was getting good at figuring out who would and wouldn’t last.

  “We are going to go to Kirley’s tonight, do you want to go?” George, whom they all called Corky, asked as he started the air conditioning.

  “I can’t, my paycheck is going to be gone tomorrow,” Nick sighed. “Maybe next pay day, I’ll have a little left.”

  “Why don’t you come anyway? I’ll buy you a beer or two, then you can be my designated driver and drink sodas free all night after that. Tonight, you can take my truck home and in the morning, you can pick me up on the way to work.”

  “I don’t want to put you out like that Corky,” Nick smiled at his buddy.

  “It will be good,” Corky grinned back and headed towards Kirley’s.

  Kirley’s had started life as an Irish Pub. Sometime over the last decade, it had become a dive bar for men like Nick. Men who worked with their hands and drank hard and had stories about gold-digging ex-wives. It still retained all its Irish decor, but the ethnic interior didn’t mean anything anymore. The guy who ran it was black and definitely not of Irish decent. He came from a country with a lot more violence than Ireland had ever imagined and had the scars to prove it. His name was James and he had a shotgun with the name Little James hand carved into the barrel behind the bar for busting up fights. Of course, it was rare that James needed to do anything more than give you a dirty look to settle you down. James and Corky were good friends. They had grown up together in whatever country they were from. Both had come here looking for freedom and less violence. Corky had ended up working construction for the last twenty years and James had tended bar for the last seven. Nick didn’t know what James had done before tending bar at Kirley’s and he was positive he shouldn’t ask.

  Corky, Nick and a few others from the construction crew sat at their usual table. James didn’t need to take orders, he poured them beers from the tap and brought them to the table in frosted glasses. Nick took one, feeling guilty that Corky was going to buy him a beer or two for the evening. He dug in his pocket, but all he felt was change. He sipped very slowly on the beer and was only about half way through when James brought the second round.

  There was a system; every man took a turn buying a round. When it came time for Nick to buy a round, Corky slipped him the money under the table. Nick blushed, but offered it to James as he set the fourth round down on the beaten wood.

  After the eighth round, Nick pleaded that he had to go home. They all agreed that it was getting late and they all had to be up early. Corky and Nick staggered out to the truck.

  Just two blocks from Corky’s house, blue and red flashing lights turned on behind them. Nick pulled over to the side. The police officer gave him a sobriety test, which he failed and handcuffed Nick. Corky wasn’t any better to drive, but Corky called James and James came and got him.

  Corky went home. Nick went to jail.

  As he went through processing, Nick’s only thought was how his ex-wife would somehow use the arrest to remove his custody rights. He only got to see his kid once a month as it was. The chance of that being taken away reduced him to tears.

  Nick was put in the drunk tank to sleep most of it off. In the morning, a cop woke him up. His head was pounding from the hangover and he was positive he had lost his job. The cop took him outside. A van waited for him.

  “Where am I going?” He asked.

  “To county until you are either bailed out or until you go to court and are released,” the cop answered. “We’re just an overnight holding facility.”

  Nick got on the van. There were two other men already on board. He was escorted to a seat and chained to the floor. Nick wanted to cry again, but managed to hold back his tears. Maybe he could get ahold of his sister, she might bail him out. He’d call whenever he got where he was going.

  The ride took less than thirty minutes. The guys were led off the van one at a time and released into the custody of the county sheriff’s department. They stood outside a big, gated area.

  “When do I get a phone call?” Nick asked one of the uniformed officers.

  “As soon as you’re processed, you can make a call,” the officer told him.

  One of the men with Nick suddenly attacked the guard with the clipboard. He grabbed the pen and shoved it into the neck of the guard. Nick jumped on him. His months of smoothing out asphalt had bulked him up some. He wrapped handcuffed wrists around the prisoner, pulling him off the guard and onto the ground. The third guy just stood there looking panicked. A group of deputies poured from the building. Alarms began to go off.

  Electricity seized control of Nick’s body. His bladder relaxed, releasing warm liquid on his pants that cooled quickly. A few of the deputies tugged him off the prisoner that had attacked the guard.

  “I think he’s dead,” a guard said. Nick wasn’t sure who they were talking about. Maybe himself, he didn’t feel good. Death would probably be better than his current state. He was unemployed and in jail. He’d pissed himself and the electricity was still causing his nerves to twitch and jump. Only his brain seemed to be working.

  Well hells bells, Nicky, now what are you going to do? His functioning brain asked him. He didn’t know. He hoped they didn’t search his house.

  Chapter Five

  The interrogation room that Adams had decided to use was the same size as a janitor’s closet. The walls were grey. The floors were grey. The ceiling was white drop tile. There were three cameras mounted in three different corners. It was like the Marion County Sheriff’s department had taken interior decorating tips from the US Marshals.

  They had given me a can of Coke and told me to hang tight while Adams got ready to talk to me. I wondered if he was doing his hair or something. This entire thing was preposterous. Luckily, I was full of righteous indignation about them searching my luggage. I wasn’t a common passenger on a commercial flight. I had been flying on a private jet owned by the US Marshals’ service for the sole use of the Serial Crimes Tracking Unit.

  Adams finally came in. He wore a freshly pressed suit and his breath smelled minty. I scowled at him.

  “Ok, so why do you have three Tasers in your luggage?”

  “Because carrying around five Tasers screams ‘crazy.’”

  “I thought that’s what four Tasers screamed,” Adams smirked.

  “No, four says ‘prepared,’ like the Boy Scouts. Five screams ‘crazy,’ like Homeland Security is out to get you.”

  “I guess the same goes for the knives?” Adams ignored my barb.

  “No, I carry that many knives because I can’t figure out how to pack a sword and I’ve never learned the art of the throwing star.”

  “Do you need a sword in your line of work as an US Marshal?”

  “Unlikely, but it would look cool if a serial killer pulled a knife on me.”

  “Would you use a sword on a serial killer that pulled out a knife on you?”

  “I’m not stupid, I’d shoot him, of course. However, pulling out the sword first would make him rethink his decision to attack me.”

  “Moving on,” Adams flipped a page on his clipboard. I didn’t k
now what the pages were, but I was convinced they were pointless. It was an intimidation tactic that failed. “You have six extra guns.”

  “I carry three guns; two in a shoulder holster, one in an ankle holster. I pack replacements for all the holstered firearms, a shotgun, a backup shotgun and a rifle. I don’t know why you think that’s weird.”

  “You have a suitcase that works as a small arsenal.”

  “You’ve never been followed home by a serial killer. Actually, the scariest thing that probably ever followed you home was a cat. I attract serial killers like catnip, I like to be prepared.”

  “Like a Boy Scout,” Adams sneered.

  “Yep and I’m a little paranoid.”

  “A little? I’d mark you up as batshit crazy.”

  “How do you know batshit is crazy? Have you given it a psychological evaluation?”

  “What?” Adams looked confused.

  “You deal with what; fifteen or twenty terrorists a year?” I asked.

  “Something like that, we are constantly monitoring...”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I cut him off. “I deal with fifteen or twenty serial killers in three months. A terrorist has never followed you home, intent on blowing up your house. Serial killers have broken into my house and attempted to kill me. So, until you’ve had that experience, you can’t really consider us in the same league.”

  “Terrorists are just...”

  “Blah, blah, blah,” I said to him. “Terrorists are bad and scary. They are losing the battle. If it weren’t for people like the Serial Crimes Tracking Unit and the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit, we wouldn’t need people like you, because we’d all be dead. VCU managed to catch a killer last month that had been killing for seventeen years. We know for sure that he killed seven hundred people. We suspect he’s killed three or four times that. SCTU’s last serial killer in Nevada had killed over a hundred. We haven’t even touched on the mass murderers. I will though if you want.”

  “Are you saying you’re more important than me?”

  “Is this personal? Are you on some sort of crusade to prove that Homeland Security is more important than the US Marshals? Or is it that a woman could be just as important in protecting this country from the inside as you? Is this really a witch hunt?”

  “What?” Adams shook his head again. “I’m confused.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I stood up. “If we’re done talking about my luggage, I’d like to talk about the case. Do we have anything?”

  “No,” Adams said.

  “Great,” I flopped back into the chair. “Stop watching and come here.”

  I was sure my team would get the message.

  “No, we’re not done yet. VCU is reporting bodies being left in your wake. There were three men stabbed in Anchorage, Alaska while you were there, another four in Vegas, and half a dozen others in towns you’ve had cases.”

  “I’m not a serial killer. I did stab someone in Anchorage though, unfortunately he was a serial killer who was skinning women. However, if you talk to the guards where I live, they’ll give you all my ‘scary mail’ including the dead prairie dog I got for my birthday.”

  “Do you get a lot of scary mail?” Adams asked.

  “Tons. I can’t believe how many serial killers have letter writing privileges. Scanned or not, they get pretty graphic sometimes. Mass murderers don’t mail me as much. However, I did hear about a handful of squirrels testing positive for Bubonic Plague, so that might be relevant too.”

  “Squirrels? Prairie dogs? Plague? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Plague happens, especially in the southwest. However, when Plague happens and someone sends me a dead prairie dog, it seems like the two might be connected. Add to it that someone has been killing people when I travel, that says serial killer to me. I haven’t yet slid off that cliff, but I’ll add a stun gun and a few more knives to my arsenal in case they get any funny ideas. Thanks for the heads up.”

  “I missed something,” Adams shook his head.

  It was a sign of defeat. I was used to seeing it. Law enforcement that didn’t see the world through my blood-covered glasses never understood it. Explaining it to them was like trying to explain how black holes worked. Eventually, they all just gave up.

  Gabriel picked Adams’ moment of defeat to come into the room. It felt much smaller with Gabriel in it. Gabriel wasn’t stout like Lucas, but he was tall with lanky legs and broad shoulders. He handed me a folder.

  It might as well have been empty. The bomb had ruined the cooler. There was no forensics on the minute amounts they could find. It was common and unexceptional.

  The materials in the bomb were a little more interesting. The proper household chemicals mixed in the right proportions and set up in such a way that it would release at a later time was nearly brilliant. It was possible the bomber was getting as much as four hours between creation and detonation.

  The glass was from a canning jar; same for the lid piece that was found. Nothing special there. The chemicals would have heated the jar until the pressure made the top explode. This would have caused a much larger secondary explosion as the chemicals boiled out of the jar and into the chemicals in the cooler. In my opinion, it would have worked better if the jar was lying down. However, since only a few fragments of glass and part of the lid had been found, we didn’t know how the bomber had put the jar into the cooler.

  None of the survivors could single out a man with a cooler, despite the fact that coolers were allowed inside the grandstand. Everyone there probably had a cooler or two. It would have seemed odder if someone had been able to pick out a particular person.

  A Winchester Model 70 had been used to pick off the fair queen. Another dead end, the file informed me that it was one of the most common hunting rifles in the US. Essentially I could walk into any sporting store in Missouri and buy one. The state did not require license or registration to buy or own a rifle.

  The truck didn’t have any fingerprints on it. There were smudgy blobs in places that showed up through dirt that the lab considered to be prints from gloves, jeans, and other clothing items. A single brown hair had been found in the bed of the truck, but it was stuck under the lid of a bottle. DNA testing showed that the bottle belonged to the owner of the truck, who was deceased.

  I closed the file. Adams and Gabriel were talking fast, in hushed tones. This meant the conversation wasn’t going well. I knew Gabriel pretty well. He didn’t scream and yell when he was mad, he growled and talked in a soft voice that required you to move closer. When he used that voice on me, I kept waiting for him to rip my throat out with his teeth. So far, so good in the throat ripping department.

  My mind decided to dwell on the dead prairie dog and the infected squirrels. They had found a group of infected squirrels living in Redwood National Forest just two days ago. It was very plausible that a squirrel could get infected and infect other squirrels. However, Redwood National Forest wasn’t exactly a desert environment. If the squirrels had been found in Los Angeles or Las Vegas, my memory wouldn’t have tucked away the information. But they had been found in a lush, leafy, moist environment where forest fires happened and that just wasn’t a Plague friendly environment.

  How one went about infecting squirrels was a problem. I couldn’t picture someone trapping squirrels, injecting them with Bubonic Plague and then releasing them back into the wild to possibly infect humans. It seemed like infection, let alone, epidemic, was unlikely. The fleas would be attracted to mammals other than humans. Plus, squirrels were not exactly great Plague hosts. They could be infected and carry it, but they also tended to become symptomatic and die.

  I dismissed it as a one-off chance and hoped California’s Fish and Wildlife got on the problem along with the Centers for Disease Control. The last thing California needed was Plague, they had other things to worry about, like earthquakes.

  Chapter Six

  The problem with my job is that occasionally we just sit around waiting for someone
to point out what bad guy we are supposed to be chasing. In this case, it had been five days. Our bomber was due to hit again today or tomorrow. He’d bombed a fair every weekend for several weeks and it was Friday morning.

  Technically, it was just barely Friday morning. The alarm clock read out said it was 12:04 a.m. I had been playing Clash of Clans for six hours straight. Aggressively attacking forts smaller and less protected than my own was a good way to build up gold and elixir in the game. It and Farm Heroes had been my primary source of entertainment for the week. I had read several books and Lucas had told me to stop for a while. So, I had turned to gaming.

  I shut down my phone and went to bed. My fort from Clash of Clans was in my mind. My brain was intent on reorganizing it in such a way that it had the perfect defensive set-up. So far, I had tinkered with several different arrangements but hadn’t come up with something that was pretty much invincible.

  Going to bed, my mood was bleak. The video game frustration was a mirror of my frustration with the case. Sitting on my hands was definitely not my strong point. However, we didn’t have a single lead. We had lots of victims, both dead and alive, but the labs were coming back with minimal results. The bomb was made out ingredients that anyone could get. The coolers could be bought anywhere.

  The only lead was the fact that the bomber was very good at finding the lynchpin that brought down the entire fair. However, that could mean engineer, designer, maker, carnival ride operator or a host of other occupations. It was a slim lead that had been exhausted the first day.

  It wasn’t just me getting irritated either. We were spending less and less time together as a unit. Lucas and Xavier were no longer sharing a room after an argument over an ice cream cone. Michael and Gabriel had their own rooms after Gabriel had tossed Michael’s cell phone in the toilet and flushed it because it wouldn’t stop beeping. It appeared Michael had a very active social life.