Blown Away

by Deforest Day

  “You may have a point there, son. We best get this vehicle to a secure place, chain-of-evidence it, until somebody knows what they’re doing can take a look. Call Joe’s Tire and Muffler, get him out here with his rollback. And don’t say nothin’ to nobody about this. I’ll handle it from here.”

  First call would be to Homeland Security, in Washington. There was a Hot Line number on a laminated, wallet-sized card in his wallet.

  Next up, alert the Police Auxiliary and Fire Police, get every unemployed geezer in the township duly sworn and authorized, secure the scene at the old coal breaker before the Staties can swoop in and hog the show. But first off, post new room rates at the Tucker Inn.

  —o—

  The Escalade, the owner’s manual said, can ford twelve inches of water. What it didn’t say, but was nonetheless true, it could float for quite some time in twelve feet of water. Until it crashed into the center support of a railroad bridge.

  After Tedy clambered up front and kicked out the windshield, all four men were able to scramble up the steep stone bulwark before the foundering vehicle turned sideways, was caught by the swift current, and continued its down-river journey.

  Would it reach Scranton before sinking out of sight? George was the only one considering the question, or caring about the answer.

  They sat on the narrow ledge, backs against the rusty steel beams rising to support the trestle and tracks, thirty feet above. Their cells were soaked, no bars.

  George didn’t remember the river tasting this bad, back when they swam in it as kids. “So. What does your Sunny Sue have to say about our situation?”

  Harry had removed his bow tie, was wringing out the river. “I don’t know. The warden also read the book, thought it contained seditious thoughts and guidance, and pulled it from the library before I finished it.”

  —o—

  Sheriff Claxon led Mac inside the old Earl M. Swarthout Elementary School, down the hallway to the Shaleville Department of Public Safety, and removed the handcuffs.

  “Marge,” he said to the hefty woman wearing a headset mike, “find the Polaroid, and shoot front and side photos of this fella. Then confiscate his belt and shoelaces, and lock him in a cell. I got to make a call to Homeland Security.”

  Just one cell was vacant; the other three being filled with filing cabinets, the town's non-denominational, life-size Nativity scene, and the sheriff's reelection campaign material.

  Marge glowered at Mac. Duane said this monster tried to blow up her number-one historical rescue project.

  A decade ago, in an attempt to save the old breaker building from destruction, the place where both her father and grandfather had worked and died, Marge Defarge changed the name the same week Ronald Reagan passed on to the Mount Rushmore waiting room in the sky.

  A student of history, she recalled the naming frenzy following the assassinations of JFK and MLK, and The Lucky Strike Colliery quietly became the Ronald Reagan Memorial Anthracite Processor. The name change was entered, unnoticed, in the Shaleville Borough Council minutes of July, 2004.

  —o—

  Spider parked in front of Feed & Seed, a farm store appearing to sell more homeowner crap than farm supplies. Riding mowers and snow blowers flanked the entrance. Inside wasn't no better. Pink overalls, for Chrissake.

  “I need six bags of 34—o—0 ammonium nitrate,” he told the gum-popping girl at the checkout register.

  She stared at him. “I don't know what that is.” She pointed into the depths of the store. “The manager, Mr. Rennett, is back there, somewheres. I s'pose he can he'p you.”

  Spider found a scrawny, leather-faced old man stacking sacks of dog food in the pet department. The store logo and Jeb were embroidered on his denim shirt. “The kid up front says I can find Mr. Rennett back here.”

  You found him,” the man said, swapping a toothpick from left to right. “What can I do you for?”

  “I need three hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate. Non-coated. Prilled, if you have it.”

  I have it. But before we go any further, I need your A-N Registered User Number, and a photo ID.”

  “My what? It's fertilizer, for Chrissake.”

  “Yes it is. And that T-shirt you're wearing ain't like anything I ever seen a farmer wear.”

  Spider looked down at the cartoon outhouse, the words Bravo Company 57th Ordnance Disposal. “You got me there. I'm fixing to take out a few old apple trees for Ms. Poitrine.”

  “Uh huh. Where you been, last twenty years? Homeland Security says I can't sell it to anyone don't have the proper permits. You never heard of Timothy McVeigh? Took down the Murrah Building with a truckload of ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel.”

  “Yeah, yeah. That was amateur hour. I work for Mr. McClintock, rigging the old iron works. You may have heard, we're taking it down, Friday. And it will be a whole lot cleaner demolition than the Oklahoma disaster.”

  Spider gave a puzzled look at all the weird shit for sale. Cutesy mailboxes and straw hats with flowers on 'em. “Mr. Mac's wife, Honey Poitrine, asked me to do a bit of work at their farm, since I know how, and they don't. So I need the fertilizer, and an empty drum, you can spare one.”

  “McClintock. Bought the old Copeland place? His daughter comes in from time to time. Filters and such, for a D-7 Cat. He's puttin' in a pond, at the spring. Way that girl talks, sounds like she's the one doin' the work. You believe it? Modern women, I don't know.”

  “Tell me about it. My last C.O. was a woman, West Point grad. Didn't know shit about ordnance disposal, but she ran a tight ship. So, how can I get my hands on some A-N?”

  “Well, sir, now that I think on it, Mr. McClintock has a permit on file, applied for one when he bought the place, and planned to farm it. The daughter bought a couple bags, a few months back.” He headed for the back of the store. “So I guess I can sell you what you need. Put it on Mr. McClintock's account?”

  “Works for me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mac sat in his cell, idly fingered his wedding band as he thought about Honey. Why the hell had she reported the BMW stolen? She'd always been vain and self-centered, but never spiteful.

  Mags' kiss, coupled with his trophy wife comment to Spider, seemed to have been the catalyst. But a catalyst only acts on something that's ready to explode, and he didn’t have a clue what it was.

  Maybe it was menopause that had her acting odd. Women were as big a mystery as quantum theory. Her big Four-O was coming up; perhaps a second honeymoon as a birthday gift was in order. Since there hadn't been a first one.

  It would be a good opportunity to see if Mags could handle things for a week or two. Maybe it would be safer to make it a three day honeymoon.

  He stared at the ring. Once an ounce of gold, and bought as life insurance in Marrakech. Years later he paid a jeweler to transform it into a pair of wedding bands, less a romantic pronouncement than a practical use of assets.

  Practicality, he knew, was both his strength, and his weakness. Romance was not the sharpest tool in his arsenal. One of the reasons his first marriage failed.

  The day he met Honey and Mags he'd made a deal; play the role of wife and daughter during a cocktail party, and I'll buy one of your ladder contraptions.

  Mac chuckled at the memory. Mags, a twelve year old wheeler-dealer, had said make it two ladders. From that moment on she'd been the one closer to both his head and his heart.

  He lay on a thin mattress smelling of vomit and piss. The cell was probably the town drunk's second home. He tried to recall the first time he'd bedded Honey— or was it the other way around? Someone had made the first move, a subtle shift from business arrangement to lover. He remembered champagne played a part, after signing a contract to tear down some long-forgotten building. Except now he suspected it was Mags who maneuvered them into the sack. And the revelation triggered mixed emotions.

  —o—

  Spider parked his well-used truck on the cracked concrete loafing yard of the old dairy barn.
The stone foundation was all that remained of the structure. A farm tractor and a few three-point hitch attachments rested in its shadow. A freshly-slaughtered goat hung from the tractor's front bucket.

  He stood on his tailgate, mixing a bag of fertilizer with the diesel fuel he'd drained from the yellow dozer beside the pond. If, like the farm store guy said, it was the daughter who dug it, she done a good job. Water tumbled over huge boulders, splashed down a dozen feet, the spray a rainbow in the afternoon sun.

  All it needed was some cattails. There were some growing alongside the river, wouldn't take but a few minutes to dig a few, bring 'em back out here. An excuse to buzz around the honey hive again.

  He heard the crunch of tires on stone, saw Honey, returning from her trip to New York. Mighty fast trip; she was flyin' up the farm lane, a rooster tail of dust trailing her Lexus. No good is goin' to come of driving that way on the donut spare he bolted on an hour ago.

  She tooted the horn, parked by the new entrance to the old farmhouse. Made a mental note to once again have words with Mac about replacing the gravel with blacktop.

  What does he care? He doesn't have to walk on it in heels. Which she did, picking her way to the remains of the old barn, and Spider. Who told her he was about ready to dig some holes under the trees, touch off a batch of ANFO. “You want to watch?” He had read her wrong if she said no.

  “Of course I want to watch. It will give me a preview of the big blast, on Friday. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Go start up your John Deere. Then take off the brush mower, and hook up the post hole digger. We'll load this drum of blasting agent, initiators and caps, in the front bucket, and ride up the hill in style.”

  She gave the goat carcass a glance—skinned, the head still on—and shuddered. “You're kidding, right? Let me go change my clothes, and I'll help you string some grandmother's clothesline.”

  She didn't want Mags to know she knew about the box full of cash, so she returned the bank key to the obscene little box. If her plans changed she could grab it later. Or find Mac's key, across the hall. Her heart skipped a jealous beat as she pictured one or the other slipping through a door.

  Honey owned nothing appropriate for manual labor, or bonding with a Blast Master, and she decided to borrow her daughter's. Only fair, since Mags swiped her scarf.

  Mac's snide comment at the bank—when Mags starts rubbing elbows with the politicians she'll know what she's talking about— rekindled her anger.

  He made it plain he saw Mags taking over the reins. He even used the gol-dang word! If the pair of them were plotting to cut her out, they were in for a rude awakening.

  Sorry-ass Beau went from NFL prospect to used car salesman quicker'n you can say Big Mistake. She wasn't about to wait for this second marriage go down that road. It was time to jump off the merry-go-round. And take the brass ring with her.

  Honey picked through her daughter's wardrobe, decided the button-fly 501's, and the Red Wing steel toes would work, even if the shoes were a size too large, and the jeans a size too small.

  She shed her bra, tied the tails of a denim shirt beneath her breasts. It was a look she remembered, shooting an infomercial for a rejuvenating cream in the Mojave. Where she learned how to sit on a horse.

  Spider made swift work of swapping the mower for the post hole digger. Honey remarked upon it, flattery being a basic wile in every gal's toolbox. “Well, hell, I grew up on a farm. In Kansas. Not like yours; it was pool table flat; corn from the back door to the horizon. For excitement we watched it grow. I couldn't get away quick enough.”

  He had second thoughts as he worked; maybe it was dumb, bragging he could have the whole orchard blown up by the time she returned from her trip. If Mr. McClintock had his naked savage saving the trees, he'd be pissed to find them scattered across the landscape.

  Honey looked like one of those corn-fed farm girls, all bustin' out of her work shirt, so he decided to do one tree, give Honey a tingle. And then either get lucky, or get back to work at the job site. He loaded the ANFO in the tractor bucket. “You ready to head up the hill for some excitement?”

  Spider felt her out as she watched him work. “Being as you're the president of the company, I guess you watched hundreds of buildings come down.” He poured ANFO down the last of the three holes around the tree, shoved an initiator arm-deep. “But that's always from a good ways off, right?” He connected the blasting caps, then took her hand as they made their way back down the step hillside.

  “We're gonna touch this one off from a good bit closer, so we'd best hunker down behind the bulldozer.” He winked. “It's gonna rain firewood.” That's when he'd make his move. Blame it on the explosion, it don't work.

  Spider handed her a blasting machine the size of an old cell phone. The black, anodized aluminum case even had a short aerial sticking out the top. “This is a Rothenbuhler 1678 RFD. Remote Firing Device. It's an initiator, our primary firing mechanism.” He pointed to the tree. “It sends a signal that detonates the explosive charge.”

  He saw she was clueless. He was about to explain the remote receiver only responds to digitally encoded signals from the Rothenbuhler, but realized it was above her level of comprehension. He said, “In the movies, the terrorists use a cell phone. In real life, cell phones can get wrong number calls. Not something you want, when you are holding a brick of C-4 in your hand.”

  He pointed to the ten buttons. “Top pair turn it on and off. The four on the left, numbered, and marked ARM and SAFE, connect to four separate remotes. Here we're just using one, so press number one. There y'go. Now press the ARM button.” He looked into her eyes, said, “Now all you have to do is press the FIRE button. Yelling 'Fire in the Hole!' is optional.”

  She wet her lips. “Right now?” Decided that's when she'll make her move. Raining firewood. In the movies the girl always grabs the guy whenever there's a loud noise. But she absolutely will not scream. That's for ingenues.

  “Whenever you're ready, Honey. I'm just the Rigger. Today you're the Blast Master.” She closed her eyes and pushed the button.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sheriff Claxon settled behind his desk, swiveled his chair so he could watch both the hallway door, and his prisoner. The first one they've had since the itching powder incident.

  He called Homeland Security, told the fella manning the phones a highly-trained expert said there's hard evidence we have Cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine in Shaleville.

  The sheriff carefully gave the fella the impression someone other than himself made the determination, less'n down the road it turned out be be another false alarm. Ebola, anthrax, and the ISIS assault on Lake Michigan were still sore spots at HomSec.

  “Cyclowhat?”

  “Cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine.” It's a word he'd practiced, and now could rattle off like he knew what it was. May come in handy, when the TV people show up. As they most certainly will, once he made a few more phone calls. Carpe diem, seize the day. This time next year he could be running for state senator.

  “Who's this again?” the fella asked.

  “Sheriff Claxon, head of the Shaleville Pennsylvania Department of Public Safety.”

  “Yessir. And some expert says you have this cyclowhatever. You want to tell me what it is, and why I need to know about it?”

  “Damn, sonny, it's some kinda explosive substance, more powerful than TNT, and the expert is Bugle Boy, a highly-trained bomb sniffer.”

  “Bugle Boy? That sounds like a dog's name.”

  “He is a dog. Ain't you never passed through an airport? Had them sniff your luggage?”

  “Wait a sec. Bugle Boy. Isn't he the dog with over a million views on YouTube?”

  “Let me speak to your supervisor.”

  The sheriff experienced his seminal Ah-Ha moment. McClintock was the leader of some home-grown white man’s group. Could be a connection to Irish terrorists. Or Scotchland; the fella who bombed Oklahoma City was also a Mac, a Mick, along those ethnical lines.
And the targets this time are something to chill the hearts of Patriotic Americans. Not the Super Bowl or Mall of America. That's just dead bodies; tragic, but soon passing from memory.

  No, it's more likely sacred shrines, like Historical Monuments. The Statue of Liberty, the Lincoln Memorial. Or right here, where McClintock was apprehended. Caught in the act. The old Lucky Strike breaker. The place Marge calls the Ronald Reagan Memorial Anthracite Processor. Maybe it's time for all of us to start calling it that.

  This McClintock most likely got ahold of a list off some damn website, one that has the newest ones up top, and not being a Schuylkill County native, don’t know the coal breaker ain’t exactly on a par with the Liberty Bell.

  Best get someone out there to secure it, in case the rest of McClintock's sleeper cell wakes up. Deputize those two retired coal miners and town nuisances, Day Late and Dollar Short, to guard the derelict pile of rubbish. It was where they’d started their careers, sixty some years ago, as breaker boys. Not no way a terrorist could sneak Cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine past Day and Dollar.

  “Yes, I'm still holding. Tell your super to call me back. There's a whole list of emergency orders I need to put in place. Oh. Hello. Yessir. This is Sheriff Claxon, and I have a terrorist in custody. Caught him red-handed at the Reagan Memorial, with a car load of Cyclotrimethylenetrinitramine.” He hoped the word struck fear in the hearts of those who have no idea what it is.

  “You want us to waterboard him, or you plan to send a specialist to do it? Uh huh. Alrighty, then, we'll hold him for your people. But you best get on it. You remember the hair-on-fire fella, prior to 9/11? They shoved him aside, and the next thing you know, we're quagmired in a trillion-dollar clusterfuck.