Both men looked down the aisle. Coleman finally said, “How about a fire extinguisher?”
“Perfect.”
“They must sell them here someplace.”
A clerk who had been watching Civichek from the front of the store interrupted the two. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
Popolov said intensely, “Nothing is going on. That is, as far as you’re concerned. Go back and sit down.”
“I don’t like it.”
Coleman said harshly, “You don’t have to like it. Do as the man says.”
“Okay, okay,” said the young man, backing off.
Popolov located stacks of fertilizer in aisle two. At the same time, Coleman found the fire extinguishers in aisle seven.
Popolov read the contents carefully. The third stack of bags read: ACTIVE INGREDIENTS: Ammonium Nitrate. He dragged the heavy sack back toward the rear door.
Coleman stood in an aisle emptying the contents of four fire extinguishers onto the floor, piles of yellow powder at his feet.
Popolov located the paint supplies and took several cans of paint thinner toward the back door.
Coleman caught up to him with the empty fire extinguishers. Together they studied the nut on the top of the steel canister and just before Coleman went off in search of a wrench, Popolov said, “These will be heavy once they are filled. We’ll move into the hallway now. We’ll work there. We’ll need some picks to try and cut holes in the walls. If that fails we’ll need some sort of system to contain the force of the explosion—bags of cement, that kind of thing. We’ll also need an electric drill.”
“I’ll get a cordless,” Coleman said.
“Good.”
Popolov and Coleman moved their gear into the service hallway.
Coleman loosened the top nuts on each of the four fire extinguishers, enabling him to remove the nozzle hardware and leaving him with an empty steel canister.
“A few more things,” Popolov instructed. “We’ll need a threaded cap from plumbing supplies for each of the tanks. See what you can find.”
“What else?”
“Check the toy store across the way, the one that caters to specialty items. If they carry toy rockets, we’re in luck.”
“Estes rockets?”
“Black powder rockets.”
“That’s Estes rockets.”
“We need the igniters the rockets use and some fusing.”
“Okay.”
“And don’t go directly to the store. We don’t want him noticing you. Head over to the roller coaster first. Pretend to lend a hand. We are in a hurry, yes. But we can’t let him suspect anything.”
“I got ya.”
“Go ahead.” Popolov studied the empty red tanks. Each was big enough to make a good-sized explosion. He stood one of the tanks between his legs and then tore open a bag of fertilizer. A smile swept over his face.
***
Steuhl’s concentration was focused on the man he believed to be Jacobs. He said into the radio microphone, “Up the escalator to Level Two, and then again to Level Three. Go to the middle of the pavilion to the hallway with the phones and the bathrooms.” He set down the microphone. On the screen, the man, head hung, rode the escalator.
It felt good to wield so much power. Steuhl leaned back and sighed.
***
Jacobs climbed slowly up the narrow utility shaft, a vertical chimney containing a spaghetti of pipes and aluminum conduits. It was stiflingly hot inside. Toe holds in the cinder block, along with small steel bar hand grips, acted as a ladder. The going was slow and difficult, the darkness overwhelming. The shaft, like a narrow chimney, packed with water lines, air-conditioning ducts, sprinkler feeds, and power conduit, was claustrophobic.
He bumped into a darkened bulb and broke it. It seemed to fall forever before finally shattering several stories below. The long time it took to reach bottom gave him extra pause for thought.
Two minutes earlier he had passed the intersection with the utility tunnel to Level 2, which left him another forty or so feet to go. Somewhere above his head was the entrance to the rooftop utility shed, though he still saw no sign of it.
He had already made the decision to try for the roof. DeAngelo had confirmed that there was no opening above the doors to Spanner’s Drugs. That meant if he didn’t go via the roof, he would be forced to go through the doorway to Spanners, which would expose him to the cameras and the chance of being seen.
The roof attempt would mean climbing the actual pipes themselves for the last fifteen to twenty feet.
He stopped and rested. If he lost his grip here, he would free-fall fifty feet or more. Just like the lightbulb.
The shaft was eerie in silence. His breathing was short and rapid. His heart pumped strongly.
He wondered what it would be like if Steuhl’s timer went off now, what it would be like to be buried alone, perhaps alive, amid the plastic and metal of a hundred pipes. The thought drove him on. He climbed another twenty feet and paused to rest. In the darkness he could not read his watch. But he knew his situation. He was quickly running out of time.
The decision to climb to the roof was a final one. Whether or not it was the correct one remained to be seen.
***
Civichek had been quickly tended to. A group of medical volunteers helped move him to the EMT medical station, where he could be more properly cared for. He had broken a leg, a few ribs, perhaps a hip, and was suffering internal injuries. But he was still alive.
Marty Rappaport checked the connection himself. The roller coaster’s chain had been looped around a strut on the escalator and then bolted to itself. There was no way to tell if the chain would be strong enough to support the escalator; there was only one way to find out.
He signaled the roller coaster’s operator, who moved the clutch handle forward slowly. Slack pulled out of the chain. An unrequested hush filled the enormous pavilion.
“Clear away,” DeAngelo told those people standing by.
The medic tending to Shole disconnected the second volunteer blood donor, and the two moved away from their gray-skinned patient. Workers moved in, set the hydraulic jacks in place, and prepared to try and lift the fallen escalator. The cement pedestal supporting much of the weight made a puffing sound, and the escalator slipped noticeably.
“Hurry up!” ordered DeAngelo.
“All clear,” Rappaport announced.
Volunteers formed a human fence to keep the pushing crowd at bay.
“All clear?” Rappaport checked a final time.
Behind him the video cameras of three local television stations recorded the event as they had since the first explosions.
The initial fear that had swept through the crowd had waned. A group spirit, inspired by the singing and the efforts at the roller coaster, had overtaken the hostages.
Laura Haff’s circle of children, which had grown to over two hundred, staffed by mothers and volunteers, reminded adults of the need for optimism. The children, nearly oblivious to the situation, played pat-a-cake, sang, and drew pictures on the cement floor with crayons supplied by the Art Shop.
***
Coleman, who had waited near the roller coaster on Popolov’s orders, ducked into the Hobby Shop and quickly located the Estes rocket section, procuring two rocket igniters and a length of fuse. He stepped out onto the main concourse as Rappaport’s hand dropped.
The children stopped singing and looked.
***
The huge chain tightened and pulled. Volunteers pumped the hydraulic jacks furiously. A group of three volunteers, led by the EMT, prepared to pull Sam from the wreckage.
The metal superstructure of the roller coaster cried out with pops and whines. Additional binding lugs began to work free of the cement. Looking overhead, DeAngelo noticed the falling dust and knew the problem. He hurried over to Rappaport. “We’re losing the binding lugs. The whole damn thing could come down if they go.”
Rappaport encouraged the workers—�
��We’re not stopping now”—and motioned for the volunteers to push the crowd back farther.
“We’re losing it!” shouted one of the workers.
The escalator tipped and began a slow roll toward Sam Shole. Rappaport immediately signaled for more clutch. The escalator’s roll was checked.
“He’ll have to hold it while we reset,” announced the lead worker. The group busied themselves with relocating several of the hydraulic jacks.
“Come on, you bastard,” Rappaport whispered below his breath. He raised his voice. “More clutch!” The chain popped across the I beam. Ping! DeAngelo knew that sound: a rivet had blown; the I beam was coming loose. “No time. Go for it.”
The workers jacked the edge of the escalator up again, but as they did, it began to roll once more.
Rappaport shouted, “More clutch.” To the workers he shouted, “Jack that son of a bitch!”
The escalator lifted. Another rivet snapped from an I beam. It whirred like a bullet into a nearby mirror and shattered it. Knives of broken glass fell to the cement pad of the roller coaster, missing the spectators. The air smelled bitter from the overtaxed electrical motor.
“Come on,” Rappaport encouraged. “It’s moving. Come on!” He closed his eyes and whispered, “Dear God, move that son of a bitch!”
The escalator jerked and lifted.
“Now!” one of the workers hollered.
The EMT and his three volunteers dragged Shole out from under the twisted pile of metal and cement.
“Stand clear,” Rappaport shouted, anticipating the chain of events to follow.
Several remaining overtaxed binding lugs pulled free from the weak cement. An I beam broke loose, dangled, and then fell into the guts of the roller coaster. The sudden slack in the chain allowed the escalator to roll forward. It smashed to the ground where Sam Shole had been lying.
The crowd cheered, jumped to their feet, and applauded.
DeAngelo wrapped a hairy arm around Rappaport and gave him a squeeze.
Laura, hands folded in prayer, collapsed to her knees.
***
Detective Doug Shleit was wondering just how one goes about behaving like another person. He moved along with his eyes to the ground, careful to keep his face from the cameras.
He moved as fast as he could. The briefcase was heavy.
As he reached the far end of the concourse, there lay Haverill, dead as dead, a bullet in the back. The image haunted him. Would Steuhl kill all his errand boys?
It explained the shots heard earlier. The hole in the man’s back indicated a surprise attack. Somehow the briefcase had fallen over the railing—that much was obvious by the dent in the side.
He checked his watch. In a little less than thirty minutes the timer would level the new pavilion. Time was working against them all. The less time, the more chance that Steuhl would simply allow the timer to run out—if that had not been his intention all along.
Shleit reached the top of the escalator and tried to catch his breath. The thought that Steuhl could be around the next corner waiting to put a bullet through him was overwhelming. He tried his best to concentrate, but his paranoia won out. The image of Haverill’s dead body—bullets in the back—hung with him. His career had been a hodgepodge of bouts of independence. He had always been a loner, yet he had always gotten the job done. How strange that all the years with a badge had led him to this point—an errand boy with a briefcase, pretending to be a rent-a-cop, four thousand lives in the balance. He had begun with the noble cause of public service; and this act, right now, represented what that stood for. Thousands of lives depended on his ability to perform his job. And a performance is what it was.
***
Earl Coleman continued his pickaxing of the wall. He had dug out one hole large enough to get a section of the fire extinguisher cylinder inside. His second attempt was proceeding much more slowly. “How much time, Mr. P? I ain’t getting nowhere.”
“A few more minutes on the tanks. Another ten to sandbag the charges. We’re behind schedule. You better give that up and go round up some volunteers to help with the sandbagging.”
Coleman set down the heavy pickax. “Good idea,” he said.
“We’ll place three charges at the bottom to create the biggest force. The hole you made up above should initiate fracture lines and cause this section of the wall to collapse downward,” Popolov mumbled.
Coleman didn’t understand, but he wasn’t going to argue. He believed in Mr. P. “Be right back.” He headed off at a run toward the back door to the hardware store.
For Popolov, assembling the four small bombs with only one hand was not easy. It was times like these that he could actually feel his right hand, would start to use it, and then would discover its absence. After all these years, his mind still played tricks on him.
22
“Walker?” The preppie-looking reporter pushed his way through the teaming crowd and reached Roy Walker. Police barricades held the crowd three blocks away from the mall’s parking lots. From where Walker stood, the new pavilion was in full view down an empty street. “Move aside, Eyewitness News, move aside,” shouted a cameraman’s gaffer, leading the way behind the reporter.
“We’ve got some down time,” explained the television reporter. He was jacked up by all the excitement. His voice was loud and grating. “We have a live feed to most of New England. It’s all being taped by the network for inclusion in the evening news. This mess kind of took the wind out of your sails. My producer edited the hell out of you last night. I thought I’d give you another chance. What do you say?”
Some youths behind Walker mugged for the camera, thinking it was running.
Walker nodded, his mood heavy.
“Clear back, would you please,” requested the reporter of the kids, motioning with his hand. He hand-combed his hair once, faced the camera, looked back at Walker, and said, “Okay, here we go.” He nodded to the camera and counted backward from five. He paused and introduced himself to the camera, motioning to Walker. “With me is Roy Walker, lawyer and activist for the rights of minorities in the Hillsdale area. Mr. Walker, what do you think of this tragedy?”
“I came to Yankee Green this morning with hundreds of concerned citizens in protest of this city’s refusal to deal with its poor minority. At that time, it seemed appropriate to single out the plush, extravagant Yankee Green, which in some ways was itself responsible for the displacement of many minority families and the loss of skilled-labor jobs in the immediate Hillsdale area. Our efforts to correct the situation will continue, certainly. But I think I speak for everyone who joined me this morning when I say our hearts and our prayers are with each and every hostage inside the mall at this time. Our needs are secondary to the more immediate need to free those hostages.
“There will no doubt be blame placed for what has happened here today. We seem to be a society often too eager to blame, too afraid to accept that blame ourselves. As I understand it, the man inside that pavilion responsible for all this is a man who feels Yankee Green cheated him. If I’ve got the story correct—and God knows you people have been broadcasting it for the last several hours,” he said to the reporter with disdain in his voice, “John Steuhl used the American legal system to seek restitution for his grievances and lost. That, I think, is the important lesson here. We—all of us—have agreed by virtue of our citizenship to live by a certain legal code. Right or wrong, good or bad, fair or unfair, it is the adopted code of our country. Taking hostages is no solution to anything. Learning to work within the agreed parameters of constitutionality is the way to find a solution for our grievances.”
Walker bit his lower lip and then said, “My fellow protesters and I came to the Green this morning to try and draw attention to a problem. In that we meant no harm. But upon reflection, in an abstract extreme, we intended to take this mall hostage. I can see now that we took the wrong approach. We had no permit for public protest. Instead, we stayed on private property, intending to put
the management of the mall in the difficult and unpopular position of having to demand our arrests. We manipulated the situation to meet our own needs. I see now that this was wrong of us, and I apologize.
“I invite the viewing audience to join me now in a prayer for the quick resolution of this horrible situation, a prayer of thanks to the public servants who did such a fine job of securing the area, and a special prayer of hope for all those innocent people inside.” Walker hung his head and folded his hands together.
The reporter handled the prayer awkwardly.
***
Jacobs pulled himself up the warm pipes with difficulty. Reaching the intersection with the floor of the rooftop utility shed, he held on tightly and began to remove insulation that had been stuffed around the pipes. With the insulation gone, there was just enough space to squeeze through.
The huge motors in the utility shed ran noisily. He located a light switch. The room was thirty by thirty. Pipes and conduit snaked along every inch of the walls and roof. Narrow aisles left small amounts of room for repairmen to service the equipment.
He edged his way past three warm steel-housed units that hummed loudly.
He knew the camera positions well. On opposing corners of each shed, cameras scanned the rooftop in overlapping patterns.
The windowless shed held only a single door facing west. He knew a camera was mounted immediately outside the door to the right, under the eave of the corrugated metal roof. It covered the west side of the rooftop in each pass.
Jacobs had to guess the timing of the swing of the camera so that he could open the door when the camera was facing fully north. He pulled himself atop a piece of machinery, up into the corner of the room, and pressed his ear against the thin, hot metal wall of the building. He could barely hear the pivot motor carrying the camera back and forth. He stuffed a finger in his other ear. The motor was too faint.
He approached the door, turned the doorknob slowly, and eased the door open just enough to peer through the crack. The camera pivoted back toward him. He pulled the door shut gently and waited a full twenty seconds. How could twenty seconds seem so long?
Hidden Charges Page 35
