Given my last experience on a rooftop, I had no great desire to return, but there was little else I could do. I slipped a bomb into my backpack and then went around to the side of the building. There was no easy way to the roof top, but the building did have corners that jutted out a half a brick from the side, making a convenient hand hold for someone to shimmy up if he were careful. I put my hands to the building and braced a foot against it, then another. I could feel the rough edges of the brick carving into my fingertips. I pulled myself upward, hugging the corner of the building with my knees and inching my hands higher.
After two minutes of this I happened to glance down and saw that I’d only gained about six feet off the ground. Frustrated, I let myself drop back down.
That didn’t work out so hot.
I put my hands on my hips, panting hard, and studied the building. There had to be a way up. After moving around to the back of the building, I found it. Someone had taken the poles to a volleyball net and leaned them up against the side of the building, near what I assumed was the athletic center. The netting has been wrapped around the poles, providing plenty of places to grab and hang on. I bent in a crouch then launched myself at the poles, catching the net in my fingers and finding purchase within its tangled threads. I pulled myself up and wrapped my legs around them. In this way, I shimmied up the length of the poles until I was at the top, and the top of the first floor lay only scant feet away. To get there, I’d have to leap from the pole and catch hold of the ledge.
I took several breaths, and then stretched out as far as I could, straining with my right hand and foot toward the edge of the roof. For a brief moment, I hung straddled between the top of the volleyball pole and the side of the building, with one hand on each one, my right foot braced against the brick wall. With a groan, I flung myself toward the wall. My hands caught the edge and I slammed into the brick face, the impact knocking air from my lungs. I kicked against the wall, struggling to find purchase on the surface. For a moment, I thought I was going to fall backward to the harsh pavement below. Then my foot caught and held, and I reached further, dragging myself over the lip of the rooftop.
I lay there panting a few moments, feeling the scratches on my arms and across my abdomen. I took a couple of deep breaths, and then forced myself up. I still had two more floors to scale, and I was on the wrong side of the building to gain entrance through the open window I’d found.
Fortunately, there was a fire escape ladder coming down from the top floor. In moments, I’d reached the top and scurried across to the side of the school with the window. I had to peer over the edge and study the wall beneath me to find the window. It lay two windows down. I moved above it and slipped a leg over the edge, then the other. My toes skidded along either side of the window as I lowered myself down. My fingers were slick with grime and sweat, barely clinging to the edge. One slip, and I’d plummet thirty six feet to my probable death.
My feet found the window ledge, and I was able to stand. I caught my breath and sank down, putting one foot in the room until I could grasp the bottom of the upper window with my right hand, then I pulled myself inside.
I peered briefly out the window to see if I’d been seen, but the parking lot remained empty and dark. I looked around the classroom. It appeared to be a math class, with calculations still waiting unsolved on the whiteboard at the front. I slipped by the desks and came to the door. It creaked when I opened it, and despite the fact that the building was empty, I still swung the door slowly, checking up and down the halls for any sign of someone there. Satisfied, I eased the door closed and hurried down the darkened hall, heading for the carmine glow of the exit sign by the stairs.
The stairwell took me down to the first level and dropped me off near the administrative wing. Once I reached the offices, I met a second obstacle. The office doors were locked. I bent forward and studied the door jamb a moment, and then pulled my penknife out. I wasn’t entirely sure this would work, but it was worth a shot. I pressed down and in, pushing against the back of the latch until, with a brief ‘snick,’ the door swung open.
I was inside the offices.
I moved around the counter, studying the layout of the wing. I wanted to cause panic and mayhem, without risking any real harm to the people that worked there. For a moment, I paced the hall, unsure where to plant the bomb.
Then I knew: the perfect spot. The point that would cause the maximum amount of confusion and fear. I opened the door to the servers, where the main network hub and phone lines came in, running to the rest of the building. Knock these out, and the school district would be left without any means of communicating to parents or first responders to let them know what had happened. I slipped the bomb between the phone line panel and the main circuit breakers for the building.
I didn’t know whether or not the explosion would knock out the fire alarms, but I hoped not. I wanted the alarm to go out, but that was all.
This task completed, I left through the front entrance of the school. It was time to go to the cops.
Chapter 12
I took my time surveying the city police station, simply for the fact that it was filled with men specifically on the lookout for me. The only advantages I had at this point was that they did not know about the truck I was driving, and they didn't know how close I'd come to them.
In retrospect, I suppose I ought to have known that the man who sold me the truck might have identified my picture, especially after the cops discovered the abandoned Camaro and began canvassing the neighborhood to see if anyone had seen me recently. Naturally, he'd have told them about the truck, and between the license plates from the car and the description of the truck, I'd have stood out like a sore thumb.
But these thoughts didn't occur to me until much later, and at the moment, they hadn't had a chance to find the Camaro, let alone identify it and locate the man who sold me the truck.
For the moment, I’d parked in a darkened alley a block down from the police station, where I could eyeball the parking lot. The lot glowed coral beneath the street lights, turning the normally white police cars an odd shade of pink. Even from where I sat I could see the motion-activated cameras that scanned the entrance to the lot, where a yellow cross bar prevented access except by those who were supposed to enter.
A few yards down the front entrance to the police station beckoned. Like the parking lot, cameras guarded this as well, and thick impact glass in the windows and doors protected the building’s occupants from people planning just the same sort of action that I contemplated. The rest of the station was solid brick.
Of course the people inside were its most dangerous feature. To a man they were well-armed, highly trained, and on the lookout for me in particular.
In short, it was a fortress. I don’t suppose I’d ever had any real hope of penetrating its defenses.
I was about to start the truck and pull away from the alley, seeking an easier target when opportunity presented itself—literally right in front of me. A police cruiser pulled out of the lot, swung down the street in my direction, and then stopped across the street. He did a K-turn and came back, parking in front of the alley. I sat up straighter in my seat, my hands aching with nerves. Were they looking for me? Had they spotted me? If so, I was effectively boxed in. Any cops coming my way from the rear of the truck would soon have me surrounded, and it would all be over.
I reached for the .38, not really thinking about what I’d do if they drew down on me. Instead of approaching the truck, I watched as a lone officer slipped out of his cruiser and jogged across the street to the police station. Evidently, he’d forgotten something.
And I had an opportunity that was quickly slipping away.
I pulled the handle on the truck and slipped down the alley, backpack in hand. When I reached the corner, I glanced both ways, and then again across the street to see if the officer had come out yet. Still undetected, I crossed the sidewalk and dropped to the pavement beside the cruiser’s rear tire well. I lay
on my back and drew my bomb from the pack. I wriggled under the frame and set the bomb against the frame of the car. With a roll of duct tape, I wound a strap around the frame and the device. My hand brushed against the muffler and I drew it back fast, scorched on the hot metal. The acrid-sweet reek of exhaust puffed the ground beside me. As I looped the tape several times around the frame beside the gas tank, I heard footsteps across the street. I whipped my head around and saw the boots of the officer as he returned to his car. He stopped beside the rear of the vehicle. I froze in place, certain he’d spotted me. I could feel raw panic coursing through my limbs. My heart thudded against my chest, and all I could hear was the sound of my pulse pounding in my ears. I held my breath.
An eternity passed. Then I heard the sound of a lighter, and the aroma of burning tobacco leaf drifted down to me. I swallowed against the lump in my throat. He’d only forgotten his cigarettes.
His boot sole scraped against the ground, crushing gravel into the asphalt. I watched his steps move to the front of the vehicle, and the door opened. Abruptly, the entire car sagged on its suspension. The rear axle was less than an inch from my nose. The car shifted into gear and pulled forward. I closed my eyes and held my breath, certain I was about to get dragged along the road. Instead, the car left me behind on the road, exposed for the world to see.
I gazed at the departing car, breathing heavily. Abruptly, I rolled sideways over to my feet, and dashed out of sight.
Once back in my truck, I sat for a moment behind the wheel, trying to steady my breathing. I started the truck, slipped it into reverse, and backed the hell out of there. Only when I reached the far end of the alley did I turn on my lights. I dropped back on to the street and hit the accelerator, making several turns to put distance between myself and the police station.
As I drove off, I kept repeating the car’s number over and over again, committing it to memory.
***
My fourth and final target was located only a few blocks down from the police station, on the same side of the street as the courthouse. It was early morning by the time I returned, though the sun would not rise for a few more hours at least. I drove by the courthouse, staring silently at the blackened windows and roof where my fire had burned through the tiles and scorched the walls. From the news reports I’d heard over the radio, the fire had destroyed about half of the top floor, and water damage had taken out the rest.
The building wasn’t a total loss, but the city’s ability to try cases had been severely hampered.
Aside from the judge and the bailiff, who were both listed in critical condition at St. Elizabeth’s Medical Center, no one else had been injured in the incident. Three firemen and a cop had been treated for smoke inhalation and released, but for all that, the population remained unharmed.
As it should be. I had no beef with the city, just with the parasitic system that fed on it. All those frickin’ bureaucrats pushing their pencils and filling out their damn forms, neither knowing nor caring who they hurt in the process—just so long as they continued to justify their existence with their silly little rules.
Imagine. Rules about milk. As if mankind hadn’t been drinking it for thousands of years before Louis Pasteur invented his process. Truthfully, the rules were more about government intervention in our lives than about milk. It was this overriding philosophy that said other people had a right to tell us how to live, what to eat or drink, what cars we could drive or how we might build our homes. Protecting us from ourselves from cradle to grave, as if we were led by a class of ruling elites who knew what was best for us.
The whole thing incensed me.
I felt a fresh surge of irritation, and I let it be transformed into courage, driving me from the truck with my final bomb, heading toward the federal building. The structure rose before me, as imposing an edifice as the courthouse I’d maligned the other day with my fury, and as solidly defended as the police station that stymied me earlier.
I took my time, leisurely strolling around the grounds, surveying the building for weaknesses. I didn’t expect I’d find any, but it wouldn’t hurt to look just the same.
The question, as always, was where to plant the explosive device for maximum effect. While I couldn’t get it into the building itself, I could still make an impact—strike a blow for freedom and all that. Most importantly, I could distract the authorities from my real objective—rescuing my children.
I settled on sneaking into the parking garage by climbing over the side of the ramp. I didn’t know how many vehicles would be parked here over night, but if I could take one out, it’d make an impact for sure.
On the second floor, I found a U.S. Marshall’s car locked up tight in a designated parking space. It was as good a target as any. I slipped around to the side of the vehicle and, like with the cop’s cruiser earlier, fastened my device to the frame beside the gas tank. This done, I scurried on out of there.
I fired up the truck and hurried out of town, heading for the open country where I could park the truck in some obscure place and camp out for a few hours. It was now early morning, and the sun was just beginning to brighten the eastern sky. I’d worked the whole night through and desperately needed to catch up on some sleep before embarking on my final solution. I felt wired by the excitement, and anxious to see my children again, to get them away from the clutches of the government. Even so, I left the city with a feeling of accomplishment.
All of my bombs were now in place except one. It sat on the seat beside me, looking utterly benign. I patted the top of it. This bomb was special. I was reserving it for my final surprise—the one that would guarantee that government wouldn’t come looking for us.
After all, no one searches for a dead man.
Chapter 13
I parked the truck somewhere south of the city, on a gentle slope of the mountains surrounding the town where I could look out over the sprawling buildings and skyscrapers that made up the tiny city. Of all the cities in New York, Ontica was the tenth largest, with some sixty-two thousand people inhabiting its limits. It was positively dwarfed by New York City, at more than eight million, but even the next largest four—Buffalo, Rochester, Yonkers, and Syracuse—still made it look small. Those municipalities nearest to it in size were themselves located nearby larger areas. Troy and Schenectady sharing population and amenities with Albany, and even Niagara Falls claiming some kinship with Buffalo. The result was that Ontica seemed diminished, as if it couldn’t quite measure up. It didn’t help that the mountains surrounding it caused its proud buildings to disappear behind the folds in the earth. Quite simply, it was possible to be within scant miles of downtown, and yet feel as if you were lost in the middle of nowhere.
I climbed into the back of the truck, shuttered the windows and locked the door, and then curled up under my sleeping bag for some well-deserved shut eye.
It felt like only minutes had passed when I was awakened by someone banging on the rear door of the camper. I sat up, annoyed to be so rudely interrupted. Then I came fully awake as it dawned on me that the cops might be pounding on my door. I gasped in fear and grabbed the .38, pointing it straight at the door.
A moment later, I heard the pounding again.
“Come on now, open up. I know you’re in there.”
The voice coming from the back of my truck didn’t sound like a cop. I slipped out of the sleeping bag and swung my legs over the bed. The man swore and pounded again.
I made a decision. “J-just a minute.”
Under his breath, I heard him mutter the words, “Knew it. Damn meth heads.”
I stepped to the door and peeled back the curtain. On the other side, I beheld a grizzled farmer in blue jeans and flannel, with wispy strands of hair atop his nearly bald head and a mouth that was drawn into a permanent frown. He wore a determined, belligerent expression.
“What do you want?” I said through the window.
“I want you to get the hell off my land!”
“Your land.”
<
br /> “That’s right.”
“I didn’t see no posted signs.”
“That don’t make it not mine. This whole side of the road is private property. You can take your drugs elsewhere, or I’m calling the cops.”
“I ain’t doing drugs.”
“Don’t hand me your crap.”
“No, no.” I opened the door so he could see. “It’s true. No drugs. I’m just passing through. That’s all.”
He poked his head in, glancing from side to side, but his frown didn’t lessen. “Well you can go on and pass through somewhere else. This ain’t no camp site.”
“No sir. I just needed a place to rest a bit. That’s all. I’ll get off your land.”
“I’ll thank you to do it quick.”
“The other side of the road, is that yours, too?”
“That’s private property, too, but it ain’t mine. Belongs to my neighbor. Bill Graff. You can ask him, but I doubt he’ll give his okay. His place is posted.”
“Right.” That was why I’d parked this side of the road, though I didn’t tell him that. I slipped on my shirt and shoes, stuffed the .38 into my belt, and climbed out of the truck.
The farmer frowned when he saw me. “You look familiar. You live around here?"
“Nope.”
“Where’re you from?”
“Rochester,” I lied.
“Huh.”
This conversation wasn’t going anywhere good. I hurried to the cab of the truck, setting the gun down beside me on the seat. As I closed the door, I found the farmer staring hard at my face. I could almost see the wheels turning as he processed, his memory spinning to churn out some kind of recognition.
I grimaced, started the pick up, and shifted into gear, hoping to put distance between myself and his scrutiny before he made the connection. Maybe he’d give up the attempt and forget about me. I spun gravel and hurtled down the road.
Spilled Milk, no. 1 Page 7