Shock Wave by John Sandford Page B

me.”
    Virgil said, “The bomb was probably triggered when the limo went over a bump or something. Something that jarred the car. About a minute before it went off, the driver went past a bunch of elementary school kids on a field trip. If it had gone off next to them, you’d be missing a few kids.”
    Stanton leaned forward and said, “That’s why I wouldn’t be a bomber. If I was going to kill Pye, I’d figure out a way to shoot the sonofabitch. But a bomb . . . this bomb in Michigan, killed that gal, the secretary. Why would you take a chance of doing that? Then our first bomb, he killed the construction super. That won’t stop the store—they’ll just get another supervisor. I mean, what the guy is doing is nuts.”
    â€œBut shooting him with a gun wouldn’t be?”
    â€œBe a hell of a lot less nuts,” Stanton said. “Wouldn’t it?”
    â€œI wouldn’t make that kind of judgment,” Virgil said.
    â€œYou would if you were a real shitkicker, and not some phoniedup city cowboy in crocodile boots and a Rolling Stones tongue shirt.”
    â€œListen—”
    â€œCome on, admit it,” Stanton said. “You got a guy like Pye, wrecking a town, and you might not like him getting shot, but it’s a hell of a lot less nuts than taking a chance of blowing up some schoolkids. Isn’t it?”
    â€œWell . . .”
    â€œC’mon, say it,” Stanton said.
    â€œAll right. It’s less nuts,” Virgil said. “I still don’t hardly approve of it.”
    â€œNeither do I,” Stanton said. “That’s one reason I didn’t do it. Shoot him, I mean.”
    Stanton said he’d thought about the bomber, but the more he thought, the more bewildered he became. “I know guys around town who could do it, but they wouldn’t. I mean, they’ve got the skills. Hell, I could probably do it. Me and my friends, we sit around talking about it—we’re asking each other, who’s nuts enough? We really don’t know anybody like that.”
    With that, Virgil left.
    As he was going out the door, the prairie flower said, “If you see that cocksucker Pye, tell him I hope he roasts in hell.”
    â€œI’ll try to remember,” Virgil said.
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    OUT IN THE SUNSHINE, Virgil looked at his watch. Time was passing, and he wasn’t getting anywhere. And, he thought, the bomber was probably already at work on another bomb. He took a call from Ahlquist. “The TV’s already here, taking pictures of the limo and the blown-up pipes, interviewing everybody in sight. They’re asking if you’re gonna make a statement for the BCA?”
    â€œNo, no, apologize if anybody asks for me. Tell them that I’m tracking down leads, or something,” Virgil said. “But I’ll sneak in the back and watch.”
    â€œAre you? Tracking down leads?”
    â€œNot so much. I just finished talking to Ernie Stanton. I’m gonna go find this Don Banning guy, that runs the clothing store, and then Beth Robertson over at the Book Nook.”
    â€œI think Don is too much of a sissy to pull this off. Beth isn’t a sissy, but she’s not crazy, and I really can’t see her crawling around under a car, with a bomb. Or breaking into a quarry shed and stealing explosive. She’s too . . . ladylike.”
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    AHLQUIST WAS RIGHT ABOUT BANNING, Virgil decided: he was a basic clothing salesman, deferential, eager to please. Soft and slender, he seemed unlike a man who’d have enough executive grit to travel to Michigan with a bomb, and then crack a skyscraper to plant it. Like Stanton, he confessed that he would not be unhappy to see Pye drop dead.
    â€œBut you know, I’m not really all that angry with Mr. Pye himself. He’s just doing what he does. I’m more angry with the city council, who let him come in here and set up a store in an