below. Undoubtedly the most arresting decorating touch was the six large, framed black-and-white photographs along three walls, all depicting naked men and women entwined with one another like they were auditioning for a remake of
Caligula
.
Scattered across the floor were half a dozen plastic DVD jewel cases. All open, all empty.
“I don’t think it’s a panic room,” I said.
FIFTEEN
BARRY Duckworth booted it back up to the drive-in site, where he met Michelle Watkins, the bomb expert the state police had sent in to assist.
“So what happened here?” he asked her as they stood amid the rubble. “The demolition guy screwed up, or are we looking at something else?”
Michelle Watkins said, “I’m saying that guy Marsden, the one who was hired to drop this sucker a week from now? He told you he hadn’t even started on this job? He’s not lying. This is not his work. At least, it’s not the work of any professional demolition expert.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a big difference between how a pro would bring down a structure like this and how it was actually done. This is amateur hour. From what I can tell, we’re looking at IEDs.”
“Improvised . . .”
“Yeah. Improvised explosive devices.”
“So more than one,” he said.
“Walk with me,” she said, then glanced down at his feet. “You got some proper shoes like I’m wearing?” She pointed to her own feet, which were protected with thick-soled steel-toed boots. “You go walking through this in those loafers and you’ll end up with half a dozen spikes through your feet.”
“In the car,” Duckworth said.
“Go get ’em.” She took out her phone. “I’ll check my messages.”
He was back in five minutes, the legs of his suit pants tucked into the tops of his boots.
“You still have to watch your step,” Michelle said, moving gingerly over the wreckage. Duckworth noticed this woman—all five and a half feet of her—seemed to be entirely muscle. “First thing we had to do, of course, was be sure there weren’t any other bombs planted in here that hadn’t gone off. Hate to be poking about, then
kaboom
, there goes your left tit.”
“Sure.”
“We sent in some sniffer dogs this morning, poked around with a camera, and as far as we can tell, there’s nothing else.”
“As far as you can tell.”
Michelle grinned. “Hey, nothing in life is a hundred percent. Except that, at some point, it will end. Oh, and that everything that tastes good is bad for you.”
“What’s your background?” Duckworth asked, stepping carefully over broken boards.
“I was a bomb disposal officer with the army. Iraq, Afghanistan. When my tours ended, and I’d had enough, I put my skills to work over here, got a job with the staties.”
“Like that movie,” Duckworth said. “What was it called?”
“The Hurt Locker.”
“That’s the one. Was it like that over there?”
“Meh,” she said, shrugging. “Movies. If it hasn’t got George Clooney in it, I don’t much care. Okay, so our Marsden friend would have rigged this thing to drop nice and neat, rigging charges there, there, and there.” She pointed. “But the guy who did this wasn’t quite so tidy. Not that he did a completely terrible job. He did bring the damn thing down, after all.”
“IEDs, you said.”
“Yeah, homemade bombs.”
“You’re saying the same kinds of explosives you encountered in Iraq are what was used here? Some folks, they started wondering if this was terrorism or something, and my first thought was, Promise Falls can’t be high on the list of targets for Islamic extremists.”
“I wouldn’t disagree with you there,” Michelle said. “IED is just a fancy acronym for a bomb you build yourself. Doesn’t mean it’s a bomb made by some Middle Eastern terrorist group, but then again, it doesn’t mean it’s not. But there’s plenty of places online where you can find out how to make one. Plenty of yahoos over here can figure
Caligula
.
Scattered across the floor were half a dozen plastic DVD jewel cases. All open, all empty.
“I don’t think it’s a panic room,” I said.
FIFTEEN
BARRY Duckworth booted it back up to the drive-in site, where he met Michelle Watkins, the bomb expert the state police had sent in to assist.
“So what happened here?” he asked her as they stood amid the rubble. “The demolition guy screwed up, or are we looking at something else?”
Michelle Watkins said, “I’m saying that guy Marsden, the one who was hired to drop this sucker a week from now? He told you he hadn’t even started on this job? He’s not lying. This is not his work. At least, it’s not the work of any professional demolition expert.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a big difference between how a pro would bring down a structure like this and how it was actually done. This is amateur hour. From what I can tell, we’re looking at IEDs.”
“Improvised . . .”
“Yeah. Improvised explosive devices.”
“So more than one,” he said.
“Walk with me,” she said, then glanced down at his feet. “You got some proper shoes like I’m wearing?” She pointed to her own feet, which were protected with thick-soled steel-toed boots. “You go walking through this in those loafers and you’ll end up with half a dozen spikes through your feet.”
“In the car,” Duckworth said.
“Go get ’em.” She took out her phone. “I’ll check my messages.”
He was back in five minutes, the legs of his suit pants tucked into the tops of his boots.
“You still have to watch your step,” Michelle said, moving gingerly over the wreckage. Duckworth noticed this woman—all five and a half feet of her—seemed to be entirely muscle. “First thing we had to do, of course, was be sure there weren’t any other bombs planted in here that hadn’t gone off. Hate to be poking about, then
kaboom
, there goes your left tit.”
“Sure.”
“We sent in some sniffer dogs this morning, poked around with a camera, and as far as we can tell, there’s nothing else.”
“As far as you can tell.”
Michelle grinned. “Hey, nothing in life is a hundred percent. Except that, at some point, it will end. Oh, and that everything that tastes good is bad for you.”
“What’s your background?” Duckworth asked, stepping carefully over broken boards.
“I was a bomb disposal officer with the army. Iraq, Afghanistan. When my tours ended, and I’d had enough, I put my skills to work over here, got a job with the staties.”
“Like that movie,” Duckworth said. “What was it called?”
“The Hurt Locker.”
“That’s the one. Was it like that over there?”
“Meh,” she said, shrugging. “Movies. If it hasn’t got George Clooney in it, I don’t much care. Okay, so our Marsden friend would have rigged this thing to drop nice and neat, rigging charges there, there, and there.” She pointed. “But the guy who did this wasn’t quite so tidy. Not that he did a completely terrible job. He did bring the damn thing down, after all.”
“IEDs, you said.”
“Yeah, homemade bombs.”
“You’re saying the same kinds of explosives you encountered in Iraq are what was used here? Some folks, they started wondering if this was terrorism or something, and my first thought was, Promise Falls can’t be high on the list of targets for Islamic extremists.”
“I wouldn’t disagree with you there,” Michelle said. “IED is just a fancy acronym for a bomb you build yourself. Doesn’t mean it’s a bomb made by some Middle Eastern terrorist group, but then again, it doesn’t mean it’s not. But there’s plenty of places online where you can find out how to make one. Plenty of yahoos over here can figure
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