it would—they wouldn’t have come if they didn’t think there was a reason to be out here, she knew. But thinking that on the floor of someone’s Connecticut Avenue apartment and thinking it on the ground in the middle of a live bombing range were two very different things.
“No,” Mick said. His honesty surprised her, but that was often the case with Mick. “Do I think it’ll end war for all time? Absolutely not. Do I think it’ll at least make them stop bombing one of the most beautiful spots in the American West? Maybe, at least for a little while. Maybe we’ll get enough publicity to make people pay attention to the Chocolates. Chances are if you went more than fifty miles in any direction you’d have a hard time finding anyone who had ever heard of this place. If we can capture some eyeballs, then the battle’s half done, right?”
“I suppose.”
“We want a world at peace,” Mick went on. “A world where the military doesn’t need bombs—better yet, a world where we don’t need a military. But that’s not going to happen any time soon, especially now. Especially with Bush and his friends firing up the war machine again. That just makes our job that much harder to do—but also, that much more vital. If we can get people to think about peace—to consider the idea that peace is a viable alternative—then we’ve done more than we could have hoped for.
“So I guess that’s the answer, Pen. Will this do what we want it to? Not a chance. But can it do things we haven’t even dared to consider? Absolutely it can. That’s why we’re here, why you and Larry and Dieter are risking having your heads blown off.”
“And you, now,” Penny pointed out.
Mick shrugged. “I guess so.”
She stopped and smiled. There had been a time when she might have given him a hug at that moment. But not anymore. Now it would just confuse him, make him hope for things that weren’t going to happen. She kept her hands, somewhat uncomfortably, at her sides. He wasn’t the man for her but that didn’t mean he wasn’t—disregarding his awkward social skills—a good man.
“Thanks, Mick,” she said, meaning it.
***
Ken knew that crime scene investigators could discover amazing things from careful examination of a scene where a crime had taken place or evidence had been abandoned. But he was no trained forensic technician, and the fire pit at the Slab was hardly pristine. It had burned the night before, as it did every night. It stank now, like old ash and burnt garbage and urine, as if the locals pissed on it at night to put it out. Likely they did, once they’d tucked away a few beers.
Oddly, the metallic taste remained in his mouth, and nothing that had happened the day before seemed to fit the previous pattern the magic had established. He’d never had it last more than a day, but it seemed to be hanging on. He wished it could do something about the smell of the ashes before him.
Carrie Provost stood nearby, watching him work. He sifted through the ash with a screened tray, much like panning for gold. Anything he found big enough not to fall through the screen went into one of a series of plastic evidence bags. So far mostly what he’d found were charred beer cans, melted lumps of plastic, nails and screws, and one pair of pliers. He’d also come across two unknown chunks of something that might have been bone fragments. Of course, they could have been from a steak as easily as from a person.
“You think you’re going to find a fingerprint or somethin’ in there, Kenneth?” Carrie asked. “Because most people, they won’t touch that with their hands. When it’s not hot it’s filthy, if you know what I mean. All that dirt and muck and ash. People put their hands in there, they leave fingerprints all right—on everything they touch for the rest of the day.”
“Then it ought to be pretty easy to find out who put that skull in, right, Carrie? I just follow the prints around the
“No,” Mick said. His honesty surprised her, but that was often the case with Mick. “Do I think it’ll end war for all time? Absolutely not. Do I think it’ll at least make them stop bombing one of the most beautiful spots in the American West? Maybe, at least for a little while. Maybe we’ll get enough publicity to make people pay attention to the Chocolates. Chances are if you went more than fifty miles in any direction you’d have a hard time finding anyone who had ever heard of this place. If we can capture some eyeballs, then the battle’s half done, right?”
“I suppose.”
“We want a world at peace,” Mick went on. “A world where the military doesn’t need bombs—better yet, a world where we don’t need a military. But that’s not going to happen any time soon, especially now. Especially with Bush and his friends firing up the war machine again. That just makes our job that much harder to do—but also, that much more vital. If we can get people to think about peace—to consider the idea that peace is a viable alternative—then we’ve done more than we could have hoped for.
“So I guess that’s the answer, Pen. Will this do what we want it to? Not a chance. But can it do things we haven’t even dared to consider? Absolutely it can. That’s why we’re here, why you and Larry and Dieter are risking having your heads blown off.”
“And you, now,” Penny pointed out.
Mick shrugged. “I guess so.”
She stopped and smiled. There had been a time when she might have given him a hug at that moment. But not anymore. Now it would just confuse him, make him hope for things that weren’t going to happen. She kept her hands, somewhat uncomfortably, at her sides. He wasn’t the man for her but that didn’t mean he wasn’t—disregarding his awkward social skills—a good man.
“Thanks, Mick,” she said, meaning it.
***
Ken knew that crime scene investigators could discover amazing things from careful examination of a scene where a crime had taken place or evidence had been abandoned. But he was no trained forensic technician, and the fire pit at the Slab was hardly pristine. It had burned the night before, as it did every night. It stank now, like old ash and burnt garbage and urine, as if the locals pissed on it at night to put it out. Likely they did, once they’d tucked away a few beers.
Oddly, the metallic taste remained in his mouth, and nothing that had happened the day before seemed to fit the previous pattern the magic had established. He’d never had it last more than a day, but it seemed to be hanging on. He wished it could do something about the smell of the ashes before him.
Carrie Provost stood nearby, watching him work. He sifted through the ash with a screened tray, much like panning for gold. Anything he found big enough not to fall through the screen went into one of a series of plastic evidence bags. So far mostly what he’d found were charred beer cans, melted lumps of plastic, nails and screws, and one pair of pliers. He’d also come across two unknown chunks of something that might have been bone fragments. Of course, they could have been from a steak as easily as from a person.
“You think you’re going to find a fingerprint or somethin’ in there, Kenneth?” Carrie asked. “Because most people, they won’t touch that with their hands. When it’s not hot it’s filthy, if you know what I mean. All that dirt and muck and ash. People put their hands in there, they leave fingerprints all right—on everything they touch for the rest of the day.”
“Then it ought to be pretty easy to find out who put that skull in, right, Carrie? I just follow the prints around the
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