by Robert Pobi
Lucas swiveled his head, taking in what had been a home a few hours earlier. “Did the neighbors have anything to add? Any strange guests or comings and goings?”
“Not a thing.”
Lucas nodded up at what used to be a house. “What happened?”
Her tone didn’t change when she went into the details. “The plans for the house are there,” she said, pointing at the tablet. “Hazel was blown through the roof; we found her across the street, under those trees.” She pivoted, swinging her arm like a weathervane. “She was mostly intact.” Then she clicked around another ninety degrees and pointed to the eastern edge of the property. “We found one of Donny’s feet hanging off the fence over there. We took the dogs out but didn’t come up with anything else—it looks like his foot is all that’s left, although we did find a molar in the driveway that might be his.”
Lucas examined the house plans on the tablet’s screen. They were digital blueprints with the county surveyor’s label in the bottom corner. He flipped through the two pages, memorizing the layout, then handed the tablet back.
Simcoe nodded at the unmistakable form of Calvin-Wade Curtis up near the chimney. “The forensics explosives team may give you something useful.”
Even from here, Lucas could see Curtis smiling. “Anything we should know?” he asked as they walked toward the crime-scene tape.
Yeah,” Simcoe said seriously. “Let us know if you find any more body parts.”
54
It was hard to imagine that the field had once framed a rural house, a shed, and a barn; it looked like a steampunk satellite had plummeted from the sky, scattering wood, brick, and glass when it detonated against the crust of the earth. Other than the chimney, very little had survived the explosion in any recognizable form, the notable exception being a kitchen chair that was sitting in the field a few hundred feet away, as if someone had placed it there for star-gazing. It was near the border where the scorched lawn met the tall grass. Every other element of what had once been a household had been reduced to its basic components, which meant splinters and broken glass.
The local rubberneckers were far down the road, held back by the local sheriff’s people. But there were no news crews on site. At least not yet. And everyone seemed to be behaving themselves. Only a few people held up cell phones, which were pretty much useless at this distance.
Curtis walked Lucas and Whitaker around the perimeter, outside the yellow line staked to the ground. He looked like he belonged out here in the country, and his southern accent was a little thicker, as if the terrain reset his translator. The nervous smile was on full display, which still weirded Lucas out.
Curtis’s men were scuttling around the debris, de facto crime-scene crabs culling what was left for useful morsels. “We found taggants on site that match our guy’s batch of C-4 that was manufactured by ENF.”
The remains of the house were still smoking, but the bureau men were nonetheless sifting through the charred chunks in search of anything that would help them figure out who, precisely, had done this. They had two white plastic tempos set up beside the driveway to protect the folding tables they were using to catalogue evidence. There were Tupperware bins spread around the property, and hundreds of small flags in bright yellow plastic for the photographers. In the old days, the photos would simply go into a folder, to be flipped through and analyzed with the medium of experience; today they were geotagged and fed into a program that generated a three-dimensional model of the environment so they could go back and walk the crime scene in virtual feet.
Curtis held up a polyethylene evidence bag with a twisted piece of metal inside. “Standard DIY trigger—you can find instructions for fifty variants on the web in half an hour—for ‘educational purposes,’ of course. I saw a lot of these in the Middle East. Which is why one of the state troopers was able to identify it—like me, he spent time over there disarming IEDs. He gave us a jump on the investigation, which was a nice little piece of luck.”
Lucas took the bag and examined what looked like a partially melted cabinet hinge. He did a little mental Photoshop to reconstruct the piece and said, “This is the same as the one we found in the unexploded device inside the building on Eighth the other night?” He shook the bag. “Cell phone trigger?”
Curtis nodded and grinned.
Lucas examined it for a few more seconds, focusing on the way one of the wires had been fastened, then cut—at a forty-five-degree angle. “Other than being easy to put together, can you tell us anything about it?”
Curtis’s smile changed. “Even though it’s the same C-4, it was made by a different builder than the one we found on Eighth, the one that killed Makepeace, and the one that took out Saarinen’s wife and housekeeper. I can’t be sure about the Hudson Street bombing, because we didn’t find any of the pieces—they were vaporized.”
Whitaker peered at it. “How do you know it’s a different builder?”
“This one was made by someone who was left-handed. The other ones were built by a right-handed individual.” He nodded at what took a lot of imagination to picture as a house. “We have samples of both victims’ handwriting from their driver’s licenses, and they were both right-handed. Other than that, it’s the same—made with components you can find in any hardware store.”
Lucas handed the piece back to Curtis and shifted his attention over to the pile of debris the bureau men were fine-tooth-combing with various devices, instruments, apps, and eyeballs. He wondered if they would find any more former occupants. Or parts of them. That was the beauty of being hit with a massive shock wave—it deposited parts of the victims all over the place, so first responders could play a game of Where’s Waldo? as if it had been designed by Jeffrey Dahmer. “What size of a charge?”
Curtis smiled like he was glad that Lucas asked that question. “A shitload. I’d say five pounds. Maybe more.”
“Five pounds?” Whitaker asked, not even trying to hide her shock. “You could take out an aircraft carrier with five pounds.”
Curtis gave them his smile again. “Two aircraft carriers, if you knew where to place the charges.”
One of Curtis’s men whistled and they all looked over. He was pointing into the rubble, near a single spindle of wood rising from the charred timbers. “Stairs to the basement are clear!” he yelled.
Curtis excused himself and stepped under the tape to see what he was needed for. More smiles, maybe.
Lucas headed away from the tape, into the field. They had what they needed to figure this all out—there was more than enough data. But he wasn’t seeing it. At least not in any meaningful capacity. He needed some distance from his thoughts, at least metaphorically. So a trip out into the field seemed like the right thing to do. If for nothing else, to get away from people who smiled around the dead.
“Are you looking for anything special?” Whitaker asked. “Because the blown-up house is over there.” She raised her arm and pointed in the direction Curtis had gone.
“I’m just trying to get a little distance on this.”
“I thought Calvin-Wade’s smiling might be bothering you.”
“It’s not a habit I’m fond of.”
Lucas watched where he stepped. The forensics people had already swept the field and Lucas wasn’t concerned about stumbling over a lost body part—the grass fire had wiped out all the hiding places—he was concentrating on the uneven footing.
He headed out into the field, toward the kitchen chair sitting in stark contrast to its surroundings.
Whitaker said, “Nice talking to you, too. I’ll wait here.”
Lucas took his time as he walked in the black grass. All manner of household items were strewn about, from kitchen utensils to books to at least three separate computer keyboards—all bent, broken, charred, or barely recognizable. The house was on ten acres, most of it fields that bordered forest on two sides—a mix of coniferous and deciduous. Burned leaves were laced in with the incinerated grass and a light wind gave them a voice
that was a little above a whisper. Lucas listened to the sounds of the field as he turned it all over in his head.
Cellular biology before switching to technology and communications.
Some kind of computer gig working for the local agricultural board, converting data to text for their financial reports.
Did some computer work for people. Ran an ad on craigslist.
Didn’t drink.
Had friends over on the weekend.
Lucas reached the chair. It was pointing away from the house, but perfectly level in the burnt grass, its legs blackened but the seat somehow untouched by the fire or explosion. He picked it up by the backrest and swung it around to face the house. One of the legs got caught in the scorched grass and he had to lift it up a little higher to make the rotation. He set it back down, then levered into the seat.
Over at the house, Curtis climbed out of the basement on a collapsible ladder. He pulled off his gloves and headed the long way around the debris toward Whitaker, who went to meet him. He was grinning like he had sucked down a quart of nitrous oxide. What’s with that guy? Lucas wondered.
Lucas watched them speak for a few moments, Whitaker asking questions and Curtis smiling too much while he answered. He really needed to work on that. At least when he was on site.
Lucas went through Donny Rich’s background again as Curtis and Whitaker talked.
Cellular biology before he switched to technology and communications.
Some kind of computer gig working for the local agricultural board, converting data to text for their financial reports.
Did some computer work for people. Ran an ad on craigslist.
Didn’t drink.
Had friends over on the weekend.
Lucas didn’t will it to occur—it just happened.
Time stopped.
The second hand froze.
The world ceased spinning.
And the unthinkable, the unnatural, and the impossible happened as the gears of the universe meshed with the transmission of his mind and it all started up. In reverse.
The clock.
And the earth.
And time itself.
All rewound.
The winds crawled back over the field, picking up leaves, carrying them toward the trees. Birds at the edge of the field flew in reverse. Fire erupted at the edge of the burnt grass; it crawled under his chair and pulled back toward the driveway, unscorching the yard as it went. The debris—the splintered timbers and shingles and bricks and glass—lifted off the ground and wove back toward a center. Hazel Rich’s naked body soared out of the ditch, through the trees, flying into her nightgown as she cleared the branches, arcing through the sky, through the roof, and back into her bed. Donny’s foot unhung itself from the barbed wire at the edge of the property and punched through the cloud of fire to disappear into the explosion that then collapsed into itself, like a star imploding.
And the house was there.
And the barn was there.
And the jeep was there.
And they were both still alive.
And the tall grass in the field was moving with the wind and it smelled like fall.
Then Lucas blinked.
And he was once again sitting in a chair in the middle of a scorched field that smelled of fresh flames.
By himself.
Whitaker and Curtis were at the end of their talk and she was waving Lucas back. He stood up and the movement pushed one of the pieces floating around in his head into place. And with the first step, another one slid home. By the time he was back at the tape, a few more had clicked into position, and he knew what they were going to say.
Lucas decided to hit them preemptively just to see how it sounded out loud. “Donny had a workbench in the basement? Bomb-making equipment? The extra supplies magnified the explosion, which is why the damage was as extensive as it was. But he didn’t blow himself up; he wasn’t in the basement when the explosion occurred. There was another device. Probably under the kitchen counter, which was facing the driveway. The shock wave blew in the side of the jeep and sent that chair out into the field. It also launched Hazel Rich through the roof—she was in bed, and her room was on the other side of the house. But Donny’s room was right above the kitchen, and he got the worst of it. Which is why you only found that foot over there, past the chair.”
Whitaker examined him with that look she had when she was trying to figure out what to say. Sometimes Erin had that exact expression.
Curtis simply stared, his grin put away for the moment. “We didn’t get that far with our models but, um … yeah.”
Lucas turned to the road and headed back to the Lincoln.
“Where are you going?” Whitaker asked.
“Back to the city.”
“But we just got here.”
“And now we’re leaving.”
She came after him, and on the uneven ground it didn’t take long for her to catch up. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”
“There’s going to be more.”
“More what?”
“More of everything.”
55
Forest Hills, Queens
It was a quiet tree-lined street that looked like it had been plucked from the pages of a postwar American novel about a father who taught his son how to be a decent man through their common love of baseball.
Rebecca Woolsey was taking her twin daughters for a stroll on what she knew would be one of the last nice days of the year. Fall had been generous, but it couldn’t stay in a giving mood forever. The weather app on her phone was promising rain later in the day, so she was playing a little game of Beat the Clock with Olivia and Aurora. They were bundled up in matching pink down jackets and tucked comfortably into the new pram that her girlfriends had chipped in to get her as a baby shower gift. It was the deluxe model, equipped with a smart system that sent a text to her phone when one of the girls needed her diaper changed. There was an onboard health monitor that displayed both girls’ vitals and it had a built-in GPS so Rebecca could clock her daily mileage. The carriage had a Bluetooth stereo and built-in temperature control to keep the twins comfy and happy.
She passed under a big maple, its leaves every shade of orange and red imaginable. She pointed up, cooing softly to the girls, and they smiled up at Mommy.
Rebecca sang, “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.” And clapped her hands.
The girls smiled and waved their hands up at Mommy.
“If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.”
She clapped again, and on the second beat there was a big explosion somewhere behind her.
She jumped. And spun. Down the block, wood and shingles and glass were raining down from the sky. Half of a house was gone, and the part that was left was on fire. Car alarms were going off. Smoke billowed into the air.
A man walked out of the house, stumbling slowly as if he didn’t know the place was on fire. But so was he.
He walked to the middle of the road. Fell to his knees. Then flopped face first into the asphalt.
Rebecca started to scream.
Brooklyn
Juan Delgado had just started his shift and was on his first delivery of the night—a jumbo with half pepperoni and mushroom, half pineapple and anchovies, along with an order of buffalo wings, Cheesy Bread, two-bite brownies, and a big bottle of Mountain Dew.
If you looked at the order without knowing the client’s history, it would be easy to think that a couple on the verge of divorce over irreconcilable differences had called it in. But Delgado had delivered to the man in 4E many times—the guy smoked a lot of dope, which helped explain his todo loco order—he always ordered weirdo combinations. Delgado thought that the foundation of his diet was some kind of a dare.
Delgado stepped into the elevator and pressed four. He was careful not to tilt the pizza—the guy was a good tipper, and every now and then Delgado stayed for a joint and a slice. The dude’s name was Enrique Cristobel, and he
was a UPS driver—he was always in one of those ugly brown uniforms that the company still hadn’t thought to update with something a little cooler, like Nikes and a tracksuit. Maybe a hoodie with some gold lettering. But the dude was sick, and they kinda shared a heritage—both of their grandmothers were from Oaxaca—so it felt more like a friendly visit than work. The joints didn’t hurt, either.
The elevator pinged open and Delgado turned right.
As usual, there was music playing inside. It was some heavy metal bullshit and Delgado decided that he wouldn’t stay; he was more a hip hop kind of guy.
He knocked loudly, and someone inside turned down the volume and footsteps headed for the door. But they stopped as Delgado heard a cell phone ringing somewhere off in the apartment. The footsteps receded and he heard Cristobel answer.
“Yeah?”
Pause.
“Yeah, I’m at home. Right now. Yes. Why—”
And that was when the explosion tore out the corner unit of 4E, killing the occupant, one Enrique Cristobel, along with the man delivering his dinner, one Juan Delgado.
Hoboken, New Jersey
It was rush hour, and traffic on Washington was slower than usual due to the lights on 12th Street being down. They had a cop directing traffic, but he was doing a crummy job and everyone was honking. And swearing. And wishing they were somewhere else.
And in all the tension, no one saw the third floor of the five-floor building blow out.
But they heard it.
All the drivers looked up from their phones just in time to see the bricks come raining down. Several vehicles lost windshields. A pickup truck was taken out by a section of fire escape that had been launched into the sky. And some guy on a bike got a brick in the teeth.
But no one had been paying attention enough to actually see the moment of the explosion. Although everyone who was in a two-block radius at the time would later claim that they had.
Castleton Corners, Staten Island