by John Dixon
The girl’s eyes went wide. “No,” she said, backing up, afraid of the Taser in some way that she hadn’t feared the pistol. “Don’t—”
There was no time to repeat the warning. She was huffing flame, burning alive, whether she knew it or not. Webster fired the Taser—
And flew backward, knocked unconscious by a wave of heat and light and force.
He came to a moment later, coughing and confused, ears ringing, the bright flash of the explosion still lingering in his eyes. He sat up, felt the heat, and shied away, shielding his eyes.
Where the girl had stood, a massive column of flame pillared brightly skyward. The ground shook beneath Webster for several seconds until the flames weakened and fell away, revealing what looked like the aftermath of a rocket strike. The girl was gone. The place where she had stood was now a smoldering crater.
* * *
—
REACHING THE EDGE of the lawn, Scarlett struggled up the wall, tumbled over the edge, and hit the ground hard, jarring the wind from her lungs. Behind her, car alarms wailed, triggered by…whatever had happened back there.
She had to hurry, had to get out of here.
She crawled into the street. Too slow, she knew. Crawling was too slow. But what else could she do when she felt weak as a baby?
Get up, she told herself. Get up or you are going to be in such huge trouble.
She fought through the pain and weakness and forced herself to stand. She wanted to run, but painful spasms wracked her muscles, and she stumbled toward her motorcycle in a lurching hobble. Her ears rang, and her head pounded. Her spine was a column of fire, and her entire body sizzled head to toe as if she’d plugged her nervous system into a light socket.
She climbed onto the Yamaha, head swirling. Her bare feet—she’d somehow lost her sandals—felt weird on the pegs. Her shorts were charred and tattered. The new blouse was a tattered mess of smoking rags.
She finally glanced back in the direction from which she’d staggered. What she saw shocked her so much, she almost fell off the bike. Where she’d been standing, smoke poured from a gaping crater. In the weird, flickering light of the flames, she saw the smoldering battalion flag and the guest house windows broken open like screaming mouths.
You caused this…
Around the crater, dark shapes staggered to their feet. Thank God they’d survived.
What had happened back there? The bomb had exploded right in front of her, its light and heat and noise blasting outward, filling the room in a microsecond, hitting her like a hurricane gust, rushing past—but just as quickly, the explosion had collapsed, pulling back into her. All that bright fire and roaring force had whooshed into her body, filling her, and she’d staggered outside, dazed and desperate, struggling to hold in the tremendous ball of flame swelling inside her, like a human volcano about to erupt. She’d tried to warn the men, but they wouldn’t listen…
In the distance, sirens howled, drawing nearer, rousing her from her shocked state. With this new clarity, she realized that she could hear nearer sounds, too: doors opening, footsteps and voices, people coming from various directions.
Get out of here!
She mustered all the strength remaining in her, started the bike, and pulled away. The world pulsed in and out of focus with every heartbeat of the migraine hammering in her skull. She didn’t trust her twitching muscles or blurry vision, but with the sirens closing fast, she was out of options. She gritted her teeth, twisted the throttle, and sped away through the night.
A BLACK SUBURBAN WITH TINTED windows turned into the crowded driveway of the Ditko guest house and pulled up behind the bomb squad van.
Seconds later, a pug-faced policeman swaggered over and rapped officiously on the darkened driver’s-side window.
The window hummed down, revealing the driver, a short-haired black man with no expression on his face. His hands remained on the wheel, a heavy golden ring glowing on one finger.
“You can’t park here, sir,” the policeman said. “Emergency services only.”
“We are emergency services,” the driver said.
The passenger door opened, and out stepped a broad-shouldered man in a dark beret and Army dress blues resplendent with citations and badges. Beneath his silver eagle insignia, a nameplate read Rhoads. He glanced at the smoldering crater, shook his head, and gave an impressed whistle. Then he came around the vehicle and handed the policeman his credentials.
The policeman straightened a little. “With all due respect, Colonel, we have an active investigation under way here, and I haven’t received word of military involvement.”
“I am the word,” Rhoads said. His smile managed both warmth and warning. “A clarion call, you might say. Now, be a good man and fetch me Senator Ditko.”
Police officers have a sixth sense for danger, one that detects not only thugs and muggers but also more subtle threats, such as political pitfalls, that could prove as deadly as a bullet to one’s career. The pug-faced officer hesitated only a fraction of a second before trotting off.
Rhoads stood at parade rest and surveyed a familiar scene of aftermath and fresh destruction with an interested smile. Groups of people scouring fresh destruction, talking in hushed tones, each team’s windbreakers with a different three-letter acronym on the back.
A moment later, Senator Ditko came across the yard, hailing Rhoads. “That was fast, Oscar, even for you.”
“In light of recent events, they’ve assigned me a jet,” Rhoads said. The men shook hands. “Sure beats driving over the George Washington Bridge. How’s Margie holding up?”
Ditko nodded. “You know Margie. She’s tough. Thanks for coming.”
Rhoads nodded. “And Savannah? How’s she handling this?”
“She’s upset,” Ditko said. “Not exactly what she had planned for her graduation party.” Ditko glanced back toward the house. “I’m just so damned glad that they’re okay.”
Rhoads laid a hand on his shoulder. “Me, too, Wes. Me, too.” The men had worked together for a long time even as their lives had diverged, and Rhoads could see how badly the night’s events had rattled his old friend. “I’m sorry, Wes. This is a terrible thing, and I know you’re shaken up, but she’s okay. Truly. Now, why don’t you tell me what you know?”
Ditko nodded. “CSI found a detonated bomb in the guest house. A big one. Semtex.”
Rhoads glanced at the guest house then back to Ditko. A detonated bomb packed with Semtex—even a small one—should have leveled the house. “Looks like someone misplaced the crater. Second device?”
“No,” Ditko said. “Not exactly. Come inside.”
The bomb squad was finishing up and didn’t offer much resistance after seeing Rhoads’s credentials. He asked them to leave the kitchen and promised not to touch anything. Once they were gone, he crouched down next to the bomb and started poking at the debris.
Strange smells in there. Charred air. Ozone. Something sharp, like ammonia. And beneath it all, like the ghost of autumn, the faint aroma of apples.
The device carriage was blown wide open, just what you’d expect from that sort of explosion, but the kitchen had sustained almost no damage. A flash burn on the floor, shattered windows, a few gouges in the walls, but the shrapnel lay in a tight circle around the detonated bomb, as if it had all blasted away for a fraction of a second…and then just dropped.
“Something hinky happened here,” Rhoads said.
“Something very hinky,” Ditko agreed. “Like the bomb started to explode but stopped.”
“It exploded,” Rhoads said, “but then, somehow, it stopped exploding.”
“Security saw the flash, heard the noise, and came running,” Ditko said. “A girl staggered out of here and shouted for them to get away. Then boom…You probably noticed the crater.”
“Suicide vest?” Rhoads said.
“Underwear bomber?”
“You couldn’t fit enough ordnance in your pants to make a crater that size.”
Rhoads thought for a moment, then nodded. “So…a human torch, then?”
Ditko nodded. “That’s what they’re saying.”
“Where are your men? I’d like to ask them some questions.”
“They’re with the sketch artist now.”
Rhoads looked pensive for several seconds, then glanced in all directions. They were alone. “You think it’s him, his people?”
Ditko hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“But you called me.”
“I thought you should know.”
“Well, I appreciate it.”
The pug-faced officer interrupted, excusing himself and handing Ditko a sketch. “Artist just finished up.”
Rhoads looked over the senator’s shoulder to see the sketch artist’s rendering of a pretty girl with a halo of wild hair and scar tissue on her neck and chest and shoulders.
The cop asked, “Recognize her, Senator?”
“No,” Rhoads said, and took the sketch from Ditko’s hands, “he doesn’t.”
The cop scowled but said nothing, those good instincts kicking in again.
Rhoads dismissed him, and they were alone once more. “You know her, don’t you?”
Ditko nodded. “You?”
“I do,” Rhoads admitted. “But she’s not one of theirs, right?”
“No,” Ditko said, looking troubled. “Not as far as I know. But why…?”
The door opened, and the policeman returned, looking sheepish. “Senator, we found this near the blast zone.” He crossed the room, handing Ditko a softball glove. “Looks like it has your daughter’s name in it.”
Ditko’s eyes went wide. He mumbled thanks. As the officer once again fled the room, Ditko studied the mitt with his mouth hanging open.
“What is it, Wes?” Rhoads asked.
“Evidence,” Ditko said. He clutched the baseball glove to his chest like a toddler hugging a security blanket. “Evidence that my daughter, despite making valedictorian, still can’t seem to put her things away properly.” He paused, obviously battling emotion. “It’s Savannah’s. I guess I reacted, seeing it. I just…it’s too easy to imagine how this could have gone wrong.”
Rhoads patted his back. “She’s okay, and I have every confidence that we’ll get to the bottom of this, Wes,” he said. “Every confidence.”
They talked for a time, then went back outside and shook hands and said their good-byes. Wesley Ditko watched the man who twenty-some years ago had been his most trustworthy lieutenant head toward the emergency services coffee klatch just beyond the cordoned-off area, where Rhoads no doubt would be asking some pointed questions. Ditko wondered if Rhoads even knew that he’d just echoed the exact same assurance—I have every confidence that we’ll get to the bottom of this, Wes. Every confidence—that he’d offered last spring when Ditko’s younger daughter had been kidnapped as she’d been walking home from softball practice.
He looked down at the glove about which he’d just lied.
It wasn’t Savannah’s name scrawled across the thumb. It was her sister’s. His eyes misted just to see her familiar handwriting and the signature heart she’d always used to complete the tail of the y.
The handwriting beneath her name was not hers, however. Blocky caps read, if found, call…and listed an unfamiliar number.
He had no idea what Scarlett Winter had to do with this but would happily skin her alive to find out. Unfortunately, Rhoads had jurisdiction. She was his. For now, at least for now.
Senator Ditko groaned his daughter’s name and departed the scene, heading off to find privacy to make the call. He would do anything to get her back.
“WELL, LOOK WHO DECIDED TO wake up and join the world,” Scarlett’s mother chimed.
“Hey,” Scarlett said, leaning in the doorway. The kitchen was spotless. No sign of the decomposing food or the wasted graduation cake. No sign of her father or brother, either. Bright sunshine flooded the room. All was well in the world, the kitchen proclaimed, and her mother’s chirpy greeting agreed. “Where’s Dan?”
“Oh, he had to head back to base,” Mom said, wiping down the counter. “So nice of him to surprise you like that, though, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” she said. If Mom was going to be nice enough to let her off the hook for last night’s debacle, Scarlett could make her happy by playing along.
She shuffled to the refrigerator. Her head wouldn’t stop pounding, and she was sore from head to toe, but most of all she was hungry and thirsty, so incredibly thirsty, thirstier than she’d ever been in her entire life.
“Sit down, honey,” her mother said. “Let me make you something nice.”
Scarlett grabbed a two-liter of cola from the fridge and chugged straight from the bottle. The cold bubbles felt great on her parched throat. She let her eyes close and drank and drank and drank.
“Oh, my goodness,” her mother said. “Did you just drink that whole thing?”
She nodded, wanting more, and released a tremendous belch that made both of them laugh.
Mom scolded her halfheartedly, then told her how proud she was. “You did it, Scarlett,” she said, crossing the room. “You graduated high school.” She threw her arms around Scarlett, cooing, then stepped back with a look of revulsion on her face. “You smell horrible.”
She faked a smile. “Gee, Mom…thanks.”
Her mother waved a hand in front of her face. “I’m serious, Scarlett Marie. Phew! You smell like someone set fire to a pile of sweaty gym socks. What did you get into last night?”
You’d need to waterboard that out of me, Mom, she thought, but she just shrugged and said, “Not much.”
Her mother stepped closer, frowning. “Is your hair singed?” She touched the side of Scarlett’s head. “Sweetie, how did you burn your hair?”
“Oh, that?” She forced a chuckle. “Bonfire party in West Chester last night. Guess I got too close.”
“Well, I don’t like that one bit,” her mother said, fussing with her hair. “I hate to say it—I know how you are about cutting your hair—but you’re going to need a haircut to fix this.” She stepped back again, wincing. “Oh, the stench.”
Scarlett roared another soda burp.
Mom grimaced and made a shooing motion with her dish towel. “You’re a monster.”
Despite her pounding head, Scarlett had to laugh. Few things in life are funnier than grossing out your mom.
Cooking eggs and sausage, Mom said, “Well, I sure am glad that you aren’t hanging around with that Ditko girl anymore.”
Scarlett feigned ignorance and listened as her mom described the explosion. “It’s all over the news,” she said, scraping eggs onto Scarlett’s plate. “Praise God no one was killed.”
“Thanks,” she said, and started shaking hot sauce onto her eggs. “What caused the explosion?”
The iron skillet clattered in the sink, and the faucet gushed to life. “Gas main explosion,” her mother said. “Can you believe it?”
Actually, no, she thought, and let her shoulders relax.
The doorbell rang.
“I got it,” Scarlett said, hopping up.
Two soldiers stood outside, smiling. One white, one black, the white guy in dress blues with a whole bunch of colorful ribbons on his chest, the black guy looking very fit in a black jumpsuit with a Spartan helmet and sword logo.
“Hey,” Scarlett said. She tensed at the sight of them—thinking, Recruiters?—but then she noticed the white guy’s insignia and relaxed. Wooing third-rate prospects was below a colonel’s pay grade. She hollered over her shoulder, “Dad, someone here to see you.”
/> “Actually,” the colonel said, “we’re here to see you, Scarlett. My name is Colonel Oscar Rhoads.” He stuck out his hand.
Scarlett shook it but hung back. “What for?”
“Let’s say I wanted to see what the daughter of a hero looked like,” Rhoads said.
Hero? Dad? Yeah, right…
“If you’ll invite us inside,” Rhoads said, “we can talk all about it.”
Then her father’s voice spoke up in the hall behind him. “Major Rhoads?”
“Well, it’s Colonel Rhoads now, but yes,” Rhoads said, beaming.
“Sorry, sir,” Scarlett’s father said, and saluted. “I hadn’t heard.”
“At ease, soldier,” Rhoads said, and strode forward to gather Scarlett’s father into an embrace. “How the heck are you, Charlie?”
Charlie? Scarlett watched in disbelief, confused by her father’s huge smile, the man suddenly looking less like one of those stone heads on Easter Island and more like a living, breathing human capable of admiration and friendship and maybe even humor.
The other soldier stepped forward, smiling warmly. “Hey, Scarlett. I’m Captain Fuller.”
In the kitchen, Scarlett’s mom gave Rhoads a big hug. “Sit down to lunch with us.”
Scarlett expected a jab from her father—we have plenty of leftovers—but no, her father beamed as he insisted, “Yes, please, come and eat with us.”
After some polite hemming and hawing, the men agreed.
“Don’t set a place for me, Mom,” Scarlett said. She gave the soldiers a wave. “Hey—nice meeting you guys.”
“I was hoping you’d join us, Scarlett,” Rhoads said.
Scarlett put a hand to her stomach. “Sorry, just ate. I’m stuffed.”
“Do an old friend of your father’s a favor and sit with us, anyway,” Rhoads said.
“Thanks, but—”
“Scarlett,” her father said, drilling her with death eyes. “Help your mother set the table, please. And set a place for yourself.”