Shockwave

by Norm Applegate

  "William, just reading your note about the Kelly woman," Scully said.

  Robert B. Scully was in Washington, the J. Edgar Hoover Building, at his desk, when he saw the report from Agent Miller.

  "So what's going on down there?" he said.

  "Afternoon, Chief," Miller said. "The story is a little confusing. Maybe we'll piece it together when we get some more forensics, but I have a bad feeling about this one. One of our victims went missing from the hospital, the daughter of Benjamin Paul. The minister, the one running for President. Then we just got a note from the West coast. Her son has been missing for two days."

  Chapter 8

  Dwyer sat alone in the large cell. He was thinking about the bombing. Thinking about the woman. He felt like he stepped into somebody else's problem, not his. He was minding his own business, drinking a coffee, when bang. Saved a stranger and now a suspect not only in a bombing, but a woman's disappearance.

  He was in a clean jail in a clean city. He'd seen worse. He'd been in worse. Now he had two Federal Agents standing in front of him. One smart; seemed friendly, professional. The other had an attitude.

  "Never saw the woman before today," Dwyer said. "She was a good looking woman. I was watching her. I saw what was in play. This guy gets out of a van, nervous look about him. So I kept watching. Then he breaks for the other side of the street. Hides around the corner. It wasn't right. Kept looking toward the coffee shop. What would you do?"

  Miller just looked at him. His suspect was making sense. He should be poking holes in his alibi. But it was solid. He spoke with too much confidence, as if he was innocent.

  "What else," Miller said. As if he was hoping Dwyer would slip up.

  "Two guys in a black Mustang, late model, two door, were involved."

  "How do you know?" Miller asked.

  Dwyer looked at Miller.

  "You ever see a bomb go off?" Dwyer asked. "People don't calmly drive away. Most want to help. Some don't want to get involved; they kind of look away. These two guys were pissed. They watched me, sending a message. Watched the whole time they drove away. Went around the corner where the driver ran."

  "They were after someone, Agent Miller," Dwyer said. "Not a random bombing. They were making a statement, sending a message. I saw the look in their eyes. The bomb went off like planned. Now the woman is missing. It was her they were after."

  "What else," Miller said again.

  "They didn't get the woman in the bombing," Dwyer said. "They took her at the hospital right under your nose. They had Plan B, and were prepared to execute it immediately. What's that sound like? Professionals. Nobody noticed them in all the confusion. They could have been dressed as doctors, maybe cops, maybe Federal Agents."

  "So there's more than one?" Miller asked. "You're suggesting a team?"

  Dwyer nodded.

  "Minimum of five," Dwyer said. "That's what it would take. Right?"

  "How did you come up with that?" Hammons’ tone was sarcastic.

  "Count them," Dwyer said. "How did the van driver get out of there? No buses. Could be spotted if he was walking. Two guys picked him up, drove him away. That's three. The bomber, a driver, and passenger. They wouldn't go to the hospital either; too risky. Could be spotted; one of the victims could recognize him. So there had to be another team; minimum of two. That's what it would take to nab the woman and get her out of there."

  Miller studied Dwyer.

  "Maybe just three. The bomber and the two guys in the car. They drove to the hospital to finish the job," Miller suggested.

  "Not likely," Dwyer said. "The bomber was too nervous. He couldn't pull it off. I saw his eyes. A guy in his condition after blowing up a place, after seeing the massacre. He'd be riding an adrenaline high. He couldn't do it."

  Miller glanced at Agent Hammons.

  "So how do I fit in?" Dwyer asked. "I save the woman's life pushing her to the ground. Hang around waiting to go to the hospital. Wait there after she's taken. Makes no sense."

  Miller was thinking.

  "You know the woman's name?"

  "Why?" Miller asked.

  "Cause she's your lead. It was her they were after," Dwyer said.

  Federal Agents like Miller can sense the truth. They feel it in their gut. They watch all the expected facial giveaways. In his gut he knew Dwyer was telling the truth. But there was one question that was bothering him. He had to ask it. Had to hear what Dwyer would say.

  He lifted his legal pad to about waist height. Looked down like what he was reading wasn't that important.

  "So one last thing?" Miller asked. "Why'd you knock over the woman?"

  "I like women, she's a looker," Dwyer said. "You like women Agent Hammons?"

  "Screw yourself," Hammons said.

  Both agents were waiting for Dwyer to answer.

  "You know who she is?" Dwyer asked. "What she was doing there?"

  "Kelly Paul," Miller answered. "Don't know why she was there or how she is involved in this."

  "Ok," Dwyer smiled. "I save her life. Come to the hospital with her. Wait around for a bit, she goes missing, you guys show up and think I've got something to do with this.

  "Ever hear of Benjamin Paul?" Miller asked. "The Minister Benjamin Paul?"

  "Benjamin Paul?" Dwyer said. "Might have."

  "Lives in a small town in Texas. Religious guy. The woman you saved knows him; he's her father. They're close, I think. She works for his organization. Financial officer. She's some kind of a numbers girl, you know, a smart woman, manages a lot of money," Miller said.

  "They're using her to get to him," Dwyer answered.

  "Kidnapping," Hammons said. "But why a car bomb. That's a messy way to grab someone."

  They both looked at Dwyer.

  "They meant to kill her. The kidnapping was Plan B."

  "I suppose you're going to tell us you know why?" Hammons asked.

  Dwyer looked up at him. He could see the anger in his eyes.

  "Haven't a clue," Dwyer said.

  Hammons stared at Dwyer, the mean eyes, dark and getting meaner.

  "I guess you'd better track down the father. He's probably built up a lot of enemies over the years," Dwyer said. "But of course you've done that already."

  They glared at Dwyer for a beat and turned to leave.

  "Miller," Dwyer yelled.

  He stopped and turned around. An angry look. Not smiling.

  "When do I get out of here? And how about some food?"

  "You're being processed," Miller said. "You'll be out in an hour."

  They left the room. They had to track down the old man. They'd be polite and cautious because they had to be. They would send an agent to question him and kiss his ass. Afraid he would pull media on them; make them look like idiots for letting his daughter be abducted right in front of them. While Dwyer sat in jail, sore, shook up from the explosion, Miller would probably get Minister Paul on the phone, tell him he was personally handling the case, and assure him the FBI was on top of it. Somehow get around to the grandson; both were missing.

  Chapter 9

  The door opened and in stepped an agent, one Dwyer hadn't seen before. He'd fallen asleep; he was weary from what had happened just a few hours before. He'd heard the metallic sound of the steel door echo down the corridor and he opened his eyes. He sat up. His body was sore; the nap had helped. The agent motioned with his hand and Dwyer got up from the cot and walked into the hallway.

  "Guess your story checks out," he said. "I'll take you down and you can pick up your stuff."

  They walked down the hallway and through a locked door to the main room. Dwyer got his wallet, watch, some loose change, cell phone and his car keys. Then stepped toward the elevator. Nobody said a word to him. He could feel them staring at him. The door opened, he got in and when it opened again he was in the main lobby of the FBI building. He made it as far as the front door when he heard a voice behind him.

  "Dwyer."

  He recognized who it was. He turn
ed and faced him square on, Agent Miller. There was no reason to back down; he hadn't done anything.

  "Don't leave the state," he said. "We might have some more questions. Your cell phone still good?"

  "Am I under arrest?”

  "Of course not. You play good; we'll play good. Just let us know if you leave the state."

  "Think I'll get a coffee.” “Starbucks," Dwyer said and turned toward the exit. He could feel Agent Miller's eyes penetrating, burning into the back of his head as he opened the door.

  "We took the liberty of bringing your vehicle over here," Miller said. "It's in the parking lot, right side of the building."

  Outside he looked left then right. Saw the sign for parking. It was just a block away. He walked slowly letting the sun warm his face. The air was humid; his lungs sucked it in. It was the end of a long day. He must have been a sight. His clothes were a mess from the dust and wreckage from the explosion. The sidewalk was busy. Everyone that passed him stared.

  The garage was full. All the parking spots were taken. It was kind of dark. He could see people close to him. To his left a group of three men leaning against a car. Looked like detectives. Two guys on the other side were getting into a vehicle. Not cops, probably had their car impounded; just picking it up. The two men were scruffy, dressed in denim, needed a shave, and looked hung over.

  He walked to his rental car. He studied it as he approached. It was parked under a light. It looked clean. The Feds had gone over it. He knew they would. It's what they do. They probably put it up on jacks. Looked underneath. Wiped it down and analyzed what they found. They usually do this when looking for chemicals, like bomb building materials.

  He got in and pulled out onto traffic and drove east, heading away from the downtown. Turned left onto I-75 and began accelerating along the highway. The road was no better than the parking lot, full of tourists switching lanes. The next exit was west to Dale Mabry, the airport, St. Pete and Clearwater. To the right; I-275 north. Dwyer went north. Didn't feel like the beach. Didn't feel like relaxing on the sand with a drink. Probably end up in one of those beach bars drinking a foo foo drink with an umbrella and slice of pineapple floating in the glass. Maybe end up drunk and arrested again for something he didn't do. Instead he was doing what he told the agent. Going to Starbucks. The Starbucks that didn't exist anymore.

  He eased off the interstate. The traffic was lighter and at four-thirty in the evening it was just before rush hour. It took about twenty minutes to reach the University area where the Starbucks used to be. Dwyer spent the time thinking about the woman. How scared she must be. The rough day she had. What it would be like to know her.

  He drove up to the front entrance. Yellow tape squared the area off and two police cruisers blocked the driveway. A large black truck with its back door open allowed Dwyer to glance at the forensics team doing what they do.

  Dwyer parked the Camry in the parking lot of the mall two blocks away from the Starbucks. He got out and walked to the sidewalk, same side as the coffee shop, same side where the van stopped. The street was busy with people wanting to see what a bomb does, wanting to see a death scene. Like an accident on the highway, we can't help it, have to look. Run the events in our head, slow motion. We play it like we were there. Like we were the one involved. We think through what we would do. How we would survive, how we would feel if it was our bones breaking in a wreck.

  He was doing something he was trained to do. He was walking through the ambush. Taking in everything around him. It was what he did on patrol. Gulf War, walking the streets. Looking high, low, and anything unusual. The good ones spot it right away. That's why they live because they're observant. He slowed his breathing. Pulse rate steady. Blood pressure dropped. Scanned his eyes as he walked. Looking straight ahead. Used his peripheral. Didn't want to make it obvious he was canvassing the area. He got closer and could smell it, feel it in his eyes. They watered a bit. The place was still smoldering. Little pockets of glowing embers under the rubble. Nobody noticed him; other people were looking, standing in small groups wondering why.

  The why didn't bother him as much as the who. He stopped asking “why?” in the war. None of it made sense, it never does. People killing people is as much about someone's ideology as it is about someone's power. Small, large, doesn't matter it's still someone thinking they have it right. They know the answers and the answers are their way.

  Dwyer wanted to know who. A bomb had gone off, killing civilians and the woman; the pretty woman he saved was missing. It made him angry. Who was screwing with his life? Who had the right to do that? On top of that, the questions going through his head were keeping him from going his merry way. A guy steps out of a van and minutes later blows a whole street apart. Who does that?

  The van was a prop, probably stolen. They knew it would be traceable, even blown to bits. There is always something left over. Some piece the authorities can trace to an assembly line. To a make, a year. Then they have a model, a color. How many of that model and color sold in a state, in a region, in a town. Then they get a list and start working it. Takes them a few weeks but one by one they narrow it down. From dealership to dealership. Then they nail it. They find the van was stolen; reported. They look for witnesses, videotape, and clues. Dwyer stood with a small group watching forensics digging through stuff. He saw a police dog working, sniffing, and running around. He looked at the spot where the van was. The blackened metal remains of something drivable a few hours ago sat melted into the asphalt. He remembered the driver, plain clothes, nervous guy, amateur, not experienced. But the car bomb was effective, professional. Planned by someone who had done this before.

  There was no point in thinking why this happened in the first place. Things happen by chance and that's all it was, chance. There was no point in wondering what would have happened if he was sitting closer to the road. What the pain would feel like if he had his feet blown off. There was no point in that. He came back to the scene, back for a reason. He knew what it was. Kelly Paul.

  Chapter 10

  Kelly Paul was tied up in the back of a van. It was a white Chevy Express. In good shape but old, maybe eight or nine years. Her mouth was pinched tight with grey duct tape pulling her skin into an awkward look. Hands cuffed behind her back, ankles tied, her eyes bulging, she stared at the men who took her. They were sitting in the front seat talking, looking forward. She was staring at the back of their heads. They looked relaxed not tense.

  Kelly scanned around the cargo space. There was a tarp rolled up beside her and a couple of cardboard boxes across from her at the side doors. Her back was propped up against the metal body. She bounced hard off the side every few seconds. She could tell they were driving fast, driving on the highway. The whole thing had happened in an instant. She'd been wheeled from the main triage area through a corridor of the hospital when it went down. She had been in the hospital for what seemed like seconds when she saw two men approaching her. She glanced up, saw their faces, their expressions and an alarm went off. Not the kind of alarm that triggers a chain reaction. Just a voice loud enough in your head that you take notice. You begin saying things, cautious things about not making eye contact, looking down, ignoring them. She looked away. They didn't look at her. They walked past, like they had a purpose, going somewhere important. The two guys were white, hefty, kind of large. Average height, short buzz cuts; almost bald. Muscular, big arms, thick necks, mean faces. They both wore jeans and black t-shirts. One had a denim vest.

  The orderly wheeling her turned right into a hallway. It was empty. She heard a noise. The wheelchair stopped. More noise, ugly noise. Someone choking, breathing hard through their nose. She looked back. The two men were hammering the orderly to the ground. Kicking him, punching his face, his head, his teeth. He hit the floor, made a heavy thud. A boot to his stomach ruptured his gut. Then another. He curled up. Black boots, construction, military style smashed his face. One of the men was stomping on his head. Then there was blood. Another kick somewhere
above the neck. She saw his head snap. More blood. He stopped making noise. He stopped moving. He lay still, silenced.

  "Help!" she called.

  Kelly Paul knew it was the wrong thing to do. But she yelled anyway. Her parents had told her to yell loud if she was ever in trouble. “Loud enough to wake the dead,” her father had said.

  She had been protected most of her life. Good schools, private schools. College was the same, good grades, study hard and graduate. Then after that, working for her father. She settled into the routine for a few years. But in her twenties she rebelled. She was a looker, and knew it. But never played to it. She did what she was told, a good daughter. But then it happened. She met someone, a bad boy. She knew her father would disapprove. But that was the point; be her own person, make her own decisions. It was a bad one. The marriage didn't work out. She divorced two years later but was left with treasure, a son, Jimmy.

  She found herself looking at a fist and that moment when you know it's too late. That moment when you know there is nothing you can do. Her nose flattened under the first blow. But it was the second impact of hard knuckles to the jaw that knocked her out. She didn't see it, barely felt it. But it was like being hit by a train. She was out cold for a long time. Long enough to be wheeled down the corridor to a side entrance. One of the guys carried her out to the truck. The other guy opened the side door and laid her down. They cuffed her, tied her up and once she was secured behind the closed doors of the vehicle, the younger guy sampled the trophy with his hands.

  The truck hit a bump and she switched her attention to the front window. It was light out. She could see the driver's face. His mouth was tight. He wasn't talking, he was listening; the passenger was doing all the talking.

  They had been traveling for thirty-five minutes. Most of it highway. Going north Kelly thought. She was still looking at the passenger when he turned around. He saw her looking at him. She didn't look away. His eyes scanned the tape, the cuffs. He was making sure she was his.