by Rick Homan
Dunkle stepped between her and the door. “Nobody leaves.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Ella, not sounding at all as if she were begging.
Dunkle grabbed his backpack off the table by the door, unzipped it, and pulled out a package the size of a briefcase, but thicker. Much of it was wrapped in duct tape, but here and there wires were visible and there was a timer. He pushed a button. I heard a beep and saw the numbers on the timer start moving, but I wasn’t close enough to read them.
Ella gasped and jumped back toward the kitchen sink, across from the door.
Not wanting to startle him, I forced myself to walk slowly backward, trying to get as far as I could from that thing.
He set the package on the worktable in the center of the room, all the while keeping an eye on Ella so she couldn’t run to the door. “In a couple minutes, the world will be free of two more inferior people . . .”
“How dare you?” demanded Ella.
“. . . and the work of a degenerate artist will be wiped out.” He looked toward the storage bays at the end of the room behind me as he said this.
Taking another step back, I bumped into one of the lighting stands in the painting area in front of the storage bays. I had switched on these floodlights when I was here with Abbie, and she had told me to turn them off because they were too bright. I looked down and saw the plugging strip with four plugs in it, just as it was last time.
Matt saw me looking at it and started to speak, but, before he could, I reached out with the toe of my shoe and hit the switch. The flood lights all came on, and Matt reacted just as Abbie had by turning half away and shading his eyes.
That left him with his back toward Ella. She grabbed a cast iron skillet off the hot plate, ran across the studio, and brought it down on the back of Matt’s head with an overhand smash.
Dunkle went down like a steer in a slaughterhouse.
Ella was already out the door when I sprinted past the worktable. I couldn’t help glancing at the timer. It said forty-seven seconds. I grabbed the package and took it with me. It was heavier than I thought it would be. Carrying it with both hands, I couldn’t raise it above my waist.
My stride was wobbly as I approached an open spot in the line of trees behind the building. My only hope of getting it to the bottom of the gully was to do a full 360 like an Olympic discus thrower.
I executed perfectly and had the satisfaction of seeing the package bounce just over the edge and hearing it roll to the bottom.
I hadn’t counted on the snow being a little icy. My feet went out from under me. I landed on my back and slid toward the edge, right on course to follow the package to the bottom of the gully. I reached out and got one hand around the trunk of a sapling, rolled onto my belly and got my other hand on it too. Getting no traction with my feet on the side of the gully, I couldn’t pull myself up.
Chapter 38
I didn’t know what was happening when I felt myself slide upward. Then I saw Ella had sat on the ground, put her feet against trees on either side of my sapling, and pulled me up by the collar of my coat. I wound up lying half on top of her.
We both rolled over onto hands and knees and crawled away from the edge before getting our feet under us.
As we jogged toward the cars, Ella yelled, “Why did you do that?”
“I couldn’t let him destroy all of Edgar’s work.”
“Are you crazy?”
“No, I’m an art historian.”
“You could have been killed.”
“It still had almost a minute to go.” I stopped and glanced back toward the gully. “It must have gotten disconnected. I don’t think it’s going to . . .”
WHUMP.
The shock from the explosion staggered me and left my ears ringing. As my hearing returned, I thought I heard rain, but then I saw pebbles, twigs and dirt coming down all around us. I ran for my car. When I got there, a rock the size of my fist bounced off the hood. By the time I crouched behind the rear bumper, it was all over.
Ella was right beside me, and she had her phone out. “There’s been an explosion at . . .”
I looked behind me and saw a motorcycle, unlike any I had ever seen, parked on the dirt alongside the gravel patch. Its wheels were smooth discs. The body was covered with an aerodynamic envelope of sheet metal.
“They’re on their way,” said Ella, as she put her phone in her pocket.
We both looked toward the door of the studio, which stood open.
“Did he already come out?” I asked.
We both looked all around us, terrified at the idea he might be lurking nearby.
“I guess I hit him pretty hard. I wonder if he’s . . .” Ella looked scared.
“Maybe we should look inside,” I said.
“No,” said Ella. “We’ll lock ourselves in my car. If we see him, I’ll drive away.”
Ella started the engine so we could have some heat. One of us watched the door in case Dunkle appeared while the other scanned the area around us to see if he was already out. Every few minutes we switched.
Before long we heard a siren on the highway. A sheriff’s car came up the gravel drive and stopped behind Ella’s car. The officer walked up to Ella’s window. “Did you call this in?”
“Yes.”
“Was the explosion inside the building?”
“No. Down in the gully.”
He looked toward the open door of the studio and asked, “Is there anyone inside?”
“Yes,” said Ella, “the man who made the bomb. I hit him over the head so we could escape. I think he’s still unconscious.”
“All right, we need to clear this area. Do you know whose car that is?” he asked, looking toward the building.
“It’s mine,” I said.
“Leave it there for now. I’m going to back my patrol car out onto the shoulder of the road. I want you to do the same, and keep your emergency flashers on. Can you do that?”
Ella nodded.
We sat in the car, along the road, in front of the cruiser, and nothing happened for a while, other than the officer talking into his microphone. Another cruiser arrived with lights flashing and stopped behind the first one, and the officer driving it got out and talked to the first officer.
“Do we really need to be here?” I asked.
Ella shrugged. “He told me to park here.”
“I could just walk up the driveway, get in my car, and drive away. I wonder if they’d stop me.”
Ella stared hard at me. “I wonder if that guy left one of his packages in your car.”
I held my breath for a moment. “Thanks for mentioning that. I hadn’t thought of it.”
There was nothing to do but wait.
Another cruiser arrived and parked on the side of the road ahead of us, beyond the driveway. The driver got out, walked to Ella’s window, and said, “Good afternoon, ma’am. Sheriff Michael Olson. Did you call this in?”
Ella said yes.
After taking down our names, addresses, phone numbers, and places of employment, Olson asked, “Did one of you say there’s someone still inside the building?”
Ella nodded.
“He was there when we left,” I said. “I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting out here. I suppose he could have walked out in the meantime, though he didn’t come down this driveway.”
Olson nodded. “Do either of you know who he is?”
Ella looked as if she was about to be sick.
“His name is Matthew Dunkle,” I said. “He’s a professor of mathematics at Fuchs College, where I teach.”
Olson made a note. “Do you know him well?”
“He’s on the committee that advises me. I’m the director of the art gallery on campus.”
“Did you and he come here together this afternoon?”
“No. I came here to get some paperwork. I was surprised when he showed up. That must be his motorcycle parked along the driveway.”
After a few more notes, Olson turn
ed to Ella. “And why did you come here this afternoon?”
“This was my brother’s studio, my late brother. He was murdered one week ago. I’m the executor of his estate. Nicole and I have been working together to preserve his legacy. I thought I could help her find the contract she was looking for, and I wanted to talk with her about some other things.”
Olson turned back to me. “You said you were surprised when Professor Dunkle showed up. Did he say why he was here?”
“He started talking like a neo-Nazi. He said I am a member of an inferior race and a lot of other things. He hinted that he murdered Edgar Yount, and he tried to kill both of us.”
Olson paused before jotting further notes. “Does either of you know what caused the explosion?” he asked.
“After Ella arrived, he pulled this thing out of his backpack that looked like a bomb. I knew we had to get out of there, so I distracted him, and Ella hit him on the head with a frying pan and we ran out.”
At this Olson frowned and checked his notes on a previous page. “Where did the explosions take place?”
“In the gully behind the building.”
“But you said the bomb was inside when you left”
“As I was running toward the door, I saw the timer had almost a minute left on it, so I grabbed it, ran outside, and threw it in the gully.”
Olson stared at me as if expecting a further explanation.
“I can see now that was dangerous,” I said, “but at the time I didn’t think about it. I just grabbed it and ran.
After a quick review of his notes, Olson said, “That’s all for now. I’ll need you to wait in your car.”
“Officer, can’t we find out if he is still in the building?” I asked.
“We’ll let you know as soon as we find out.”
“Are we going to be here much longer?” asked Ella.
“I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”
Ella rolled up her window and boosted the heat.
I tipped my seat back and said, “I could really use a latte with two sugars right now.”
“Don’t get me started,” said Ella. “A hot cocoa with whipped cream.”
Eventually more cruisers arrived—I lost count—along with a truck that looked like a small moving van but heavier. It said “Bomb Squad” on the side. Olson talked to the driver of the truck before it went in.
After a while, Ella said, “I thought it would help to know who killed Edgar, but it doesn’t. Or maybe it hasn’t hit me yet.”
“I really miss Edgar,” I replied, “but I know you miss him more.”
Yet another sheriff’s patrol car arrived. The driver was half a head taller than Olson, and there was something familiar in his posture. It was Sheriff Adams.
Olson seemed to be explaining something as he pointed up the driveway toward the studio and then pointed toward the car where we sat. Adams nodded and walked toward us. Ella had the drivers’ side window down by the time he arrived.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Sheriff Mason Adams, Edwards County Sheriff’s Department.”
“Good afternoon, Sheriff. My name is Ella Yount.”
Upon hearing her name, Adams took a second to put two and two together. “I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
“Thank you.”
“Good afternoon, Dr. Noonan.”
“Sheriff.”
He glanced back toward the studio. “I heard the call about the explosion and recognized the location as the artist’s studio. The call also said there were two women on the scene but didn’t give any information about possible injuries or fatalities.” He looked at me. “I’m glad to see you’re alright.” He glanced at Ella and said, “I’m glad to see you’re both alright.”
“We did have a close call,” I said.
Adams looked at the studio and then at me. “That’s what Sheriff Olson said.” He seemed sad.
“Did you come by just to check on us?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I was in the area.” He stood up straight and arched his back. “Alright then, drive safely.” He walked back to his patrol car, got in, and drove away.
Ella gestured with one hand toward the window where Adams had stood and with the other hand toward me. “What just happened?” she asked.
“I guess he just came by to see if we’re okay.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. What else?”
Ella looked me in the eye and said, “He was looking at you like you were dessert on a plate.”
“What? You’re crazy.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m the crazy one.”
“No, it’s not like that. Sheriff Adams called me after Jessica Fabrizio was killed, and we’ve been working together ever since. Actually, we worked together before, last year, when a student was murdered. So, it’s a professional relationship.”
“Just keep telling yourself that,” said Ella, “Maybe you’ll start to believe it.”
Sheriff Olson walked back to talk to us again. “The bomb squad has cleared the scene and we’ve been able to confirm what you told us. At some point we will need you to make a formal statement, but we won’t need you here anymore today. I have your information. We’ll be in touch.”
“Is he still inside?” asked Ella.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you arrest him?”
The officer hesitated before saying, “The suspect is deceased.”
I could see Ella was starting to panic and trying to form words. I grabbed her arm and spoke before she could. “Officer, about the way he died . . .”
“He appears to have hanged himself.”
Chapter 39
Saturday evening I got a call from a reporter for a local newspaper wanting an interview about what happened at the studio. I wasn’t sure I could trust myself to be coherent, let alone accurate, but I recognized her name and knew her to be a good writer on local issues.
After calling the paper and double-checking that I really was talking to that reporter and not to someone using her name, I called her back and confirmed that I had been at the studio working with the deceased artist’s sister and executor, that my colleague Matthew Dunkle had shown up and threatened to kill us, and that we disabled him, removed the bomb, and called emergency services.
Beyond that I refused to comment or speculate about why Dunkle may have hanged himself. I was afraid I would sound like a madwoman because the story itself was crazy, and because I was too tired to make sense of it.
At some point on Sunday morning I texted Abbie: “Dinner. My place.” She texted back: “6:30.” Sunday afternoon I went to Steadman’s and bought the ingredients for Mulligan stew. When Dad bestowed the recipe upon me, he explained there really was no such thing as a recipe for Mulligan stew, but this was the way his mother made it. From what I knew of my Irish heritage, this made perfect sense. In honor of the occasion, I also picked up a six-pack of Weidemann’s beer. It wasn’t Guinness or Harp, but, as Dad always said, “We’re not particular, darlin’.”
That evening, Abbie and I both enjoyed the stew and the soda bread I made to go with it. I found myself wondering why I didn’t make it more often.
When we had eaten, and I had filled Abbie in on recent events, I opened a second beer for each of us, and we moved from the café table to the beach chairs by the front window.
Abbie took a long swallow and collected her thoughts before speaking. “So, I put you in touch with Patrick Gillespie, I go home for the weekend, and, when I come back, you’ve had two clandestine meetings with the anti-neo-Nazi underground, you nearly got yourself and Edgar’s sister blown up, and Matt Dunkle hanged himself. Did all that really happen in the last few days?”
“I also had hostile confrontations with colleagues during meetings of my department and the Gallery Advisory Committee.”
Abbie shook her head. “For crying out loud, Noonan, you are a force to be reckoned with.”
“Funny you should say that. The whole time I felt like a leaf being blown b
y the wind.”
“It must have been surreal when Dunkle came out with all that racist language.”
“Yes, it was. You don’t think someone who walks around seeming perfectly rational can believe that stuff. And he had this idea that some kind of revolution started in 1995 as a reaction to the O. J. Simpson trial and the Million Man March.”
Abbie frowned. “What was he talking about?”
“He said it started with ‘heroes’ and mentioned that guy who blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City, McVeigh. He mentioned someone else, but I didn’t catch the name. It sounded Polish.”
“Kaczynski?”
“Yeah. That was it.”
“Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber.”
“I’ve heard of him. What was his thing?”
“He mailed bombs to people and got the New York Times to publish a manifesto which turned out to be the conspiracy theory of a madman. As I recall, he was also a mathematician.”
“He said he was taking the place of these earlier revolutionaries.”
Abbie shook her head in disbelief and took another sip of beer. “There’s something else I want to ask you about. You said he hung himself.”
“That’s what the officer told me.”
“Let me see if I have this right. You distracted him with the floodlights, Ella knocked him out, you removed the bomb and threw it in the gully. Then, while you and Ella were waiting outside for the police to come and the bomb squad to show up, supposedly he woke up and decided to hang himself?”
“Apparently. We were watching the door almost the whole time. I don’t see how someone else could have gone in there and done it.”
“Was he that ashamed of getting beat by a couple of girls?”
“Pat says it’s part of the profile. All the paramilitary stuff surrounding these movements isn’t really about fighting a war. It’s about dying for the cause.”
“Pat?”
“Pat Gillespie. I talked to him this afternoon.”
“Oh. Now it’s ‘Pat?’” Abbie gave me her best smirk.
“Yeah. What are we supposed to do? Go around calling each other ‘Doctor?’”
“No. I’m glad to see you two are hitting it off.”