Daniel Wells jerked the old parachute off his Toyota Corolla. When he climbed into the car, he realized the silk chute hadn’t kept out much water. The mildew smell made him feel like fungus was growing in his sinuses. He had spent the morning cleaning things up around the shop. Trashing old containers he didn’t need anymore. Keeping track of old accounts payable to collect. He just had a feeling his life was about to change, and the media calling him had not stopped, so he thought it was best to send Alicia and the kids away for a little while.
He had plans that had to be set in motion. Big plans. It was really all he could think about anymore. Even while he sat in jail over the weekend, his mind worked out the details that would make him a success. He’d put on a show that everyone would remember. That’s what he lived for anymore-putting on the shows. Although he had been setting small fires and playing pranks since he was five, the real urge, the feeling that kept him sane, had kicked in during his senior year in high school. After filling a milk carton with black powder and then leaving it at the table the jocks took every day, whether someone was sitting at it or not, Wells used an old garage-door opener to detonate the device. The noise and smoke were enough to give him shudders of delight. The fact that two of the star football players suffered permanent black powder marks and scars on their faces only gave him a sweet reminder every time he passed them in the halls. And he had never told a soul. He learned that when you tell someone, you get caught.
Then a year later, the same trick at the Tri Delta house at the University of Florida. This time it had detonated prematurely and set a small fire, which the sprinkler system took care of. He read in the paper about a “prank” gone bad and the subsequent editorials about how someone could have been killed. That’s when it hit him. What if someone died during one of his shows? At first it concerned him, then it excited him. The thought never really left his head.
Too bad his attempt to set off a quarter-stick of dynamite under the visiting Florida State bench a year and a half later had gotten him thrown out of school. Old Bobby Bow-den would’ve shit in his pants if that baby had gone off. His story-that he came home to help his sick dad-still held up to this day. Unless he was talking to someone who was at the game that day.
Considering all the shows he had either put on or helped others put on during the years, it was amazing that the baggage handler on the cruise ship was the first person ever killed. At least that Wells knew of. He had built remote bomb devices for a couple of people and didn’t know what had happened those times. The local Nazis, the ones that called themselves the American Aryan Movement, had a pretty good plan to blow up a Metrorail People Mover bus. The problem was they didn’t want anyone in it when it happened. Wells had built them a nice, clock-operated, dynamite-based, flammable bomb, but the cheap bastards had stiffed him on the thousand-dollar payment. That was just plain uncool. He’d gotten them back, but still figured they owed him some cash. That was something he’d see to as soon as he had the time.
Now he had to get serious about his new idea. This one would get some attention, and he might even brag about it, but only after he was out of the area.
Bill Tasker and Derrick Sutter booked Anthony Mule into the Dade County jail after promising they would talk to the prosecutor about his assistance. Tasker was much more interested in verifying that information. As soon as he had the hairy surfer in the can, he had jumped in his Monte Carlo and raced back toward Naranja. Sutter had a previous commitment and was skeptical about the bomb-maker’s information. He had argued, probably correctly, that it could easily wait until tomorrow. After all, the crime had been committed almost two years ago. But Tasker couldn’t wait.
He still hadn’t decided what to do as he neared the house. Should he talk to Wells? Should he arrest him? Would he be cutting in on Camy Parks’ case? He decided that just making sure Wells was still at the house would satisfy him for now. Then he’d get ahold of Camy Parks and see where to go from there.
He turned onto Wells’ street and saw that there were still vehicles in the driveway. The step van was back toward the garage, and the station wagon was by the house. When Tasker turned onto the street that ran on the side to the rear of Wells’ lot, he saw a third car. One he had not noticed before. Behind the garage was an old Toyota Corolla with damage across the front roof section. It seemed familiar, too; then he remembered the photos in Camy’s file. He couldn’t tell if it was the same car, but it was one hell of a coincidence.
Three blocks away from the house, his hands shaking, Tasker pulled off the side of the road and picked up his Nextel. He hit the speed dial with Camy’s cell-phone number.
“Hello,” said Camy.
“Camy, it’s Bill.” Immediately he lost the connection. Or did she hang up? He tried again. This time there was no answer.
This was unlike any surveillance Tasker had ever been on. He was in a car-that was not unusual. In Miami, watching an office building-that was still normal. But watching another law enforcement office, waiting for a fellow cop to come out-that was new to him. He sat across Fifty-eighth Street, looking at Camy Parks’ issued Ford Crown Vic. Unlike at some of the federal agencies, the ATF agents tended to put in some long hours. Along with investigative responsibilities, they handled some regulatory duties with gun dealers. The agency was traditionally grossly understaffed. He wasn’t surprised she was still at the office near seven o’clock, but he had to see her. She hadn’t returned his calls and the secretary wasn’t taking messages from him anymore. Finally he saw her at the side door to the building, dressed in workout clothes. Even from this distance he could make out the muscles on her legs.
As he pulled closer, he saw her shorts and sweaty T-shirt. The ATF could use her as a recruiting poster, as long as they didn’t include too many details about her personal life. He pulled his car directly behind her parked Crown Vic. She looked up as she came closer, taking a second to register who had blocked her in.
He stepped out of his Monte Carlo and met her at his hood. “You’re tough to track down.”
“I’m pretty sure our case is done. At least half of it.”
“I know you’re pissed but I gotta talk to you.”
“Billy, I’m not really mad. I did feel like you stabbed us in the back, but after reflecting on it, I suppose you had your reasons. I saw her, too. She is a hell of a reason.”
Tasker looked at her. “Who is a hell of a reason?”
“Wells’ wife. She could tempt anyone.”
“Please tell me that’s not what you think. I couldn’t live with grabbing the wrong guy. That’s it. I had no other motive.”
“But the FBI agent, Cobb, said he saw the handoff.”
“He saw the possum cage handed off. The missile was already in the truck.”
She looked like she was considering it, then said, “Why does it matter? I can’t work with you again anyway.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because my bosses think you’re unstable. The FBI bosses spent a few hours over here yesterday making sure everyone had the same opinion. You are not to be involved in another FBI or ATF case ever again.”
“That’s a lot of administrative effort spent on one guy. If they concentrated that energy on crime, I wouldn’t have to lock my door.”
She looked at him sharply. “Billy, the way our bosses feel about you now, you won’t ever have to shower again. No one will ever be close enough to smell you.”
That hurt Tasker. He wouldn’t admit it to her or anyone else, but it stung to have someone say they weren’t interested in working with him. He waited, then said, “I have something that might change your mind.”
“I doubt that. Billy, do you realize that the FBI wants to indict you for this? They’re convinced you did it to make them look bad.”
“That’s ridiculous. They do enough on their own. They don’t need others making them look bad.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He took a few steps back, leaned into his car and retrieved a small vial of the noxious liquid that the Homestead bomb-maker claimed was TATP.
Camy asked, “What’s that?”
“It may be the explosive used in your Krans-Festival cruise ship bombing.”
She smiled a little. “Jokes won’t win me over, either.”
“No joke. A guy we picked up made it. Says it’s TATP and he sold some to Daniel Wells a couple of years ago.”
Her light eyes took in the vial as Tasker held it up. “Our Daniel Wells? What’s he got to do with it?”
“He may have made that bomb.”
“Because he bought an explosive?”
“Other things, too. I need to check them out. But the explosives-maker, Anthony Mule, is certain it was our Wells that bought it from him.”
“Did he sell only to Wells?”
“No, he had a pretty long list.”
“So even if it tested positive, we can’t say that Wells did it. Could’ve been anyone on the list, or the guy who made it.”
“Wells has got a Toyota Corolla stashed behind his house and a matching set of red Samsonite luggage.”
She looked at him, obviously intrigued. “If all that is true, why aren’t you over there right now?”
“Because I’m not in it for glory. I want to do it right. He has no idea about the information we have. He’ll be there for a while. I intend to get an airtight search warrant and build the case right. That is, with your help. I don’t jump other people’s cases.”
She smiled. “You don’t help them, either.” She took the vial and held it up to the halogen streetlight. “You know what this means to me. I lived this case for nearly two years.”
“That’s why I came to you.”
She gave him a skeptical look.
He continued unfazed. “Test it. If it’s not a match, nothing happens. If it is, then we need to hit Daniel Wells quick and hard.”
She held the vial with no sign of giving it back to Tasker. Looking at it, she said, “As tempting as that sounds, Billy, I was told, just this afternoon, not to have any contact with you. I just can’t work with you right now. Especially not on Wells. I mean, you’re the one who let him out. The Bureau would have me skinned alive.”
“Since when does ATF worry about what the FBI thinks?”
“Since we moved to the Department of Justice and they work with us on everything.” She paused and looked at him. “I’m sorry, Billy, but I just need them more than I need you.”
Tasker nodded.
She kept the vial and said, “But I’ll drop this off at the lab right now. We’ll see what they say. If it checks out-I’ll thank you later for cracking my case.”
“I don’t care who stops him, as long as he’s stopped now.”
“I promise to run it up the chain and see what the bosses say.”
“Sounds fair.”
She turned and started back to the building. Tasker didn’t mind seeing her walk away.
Daniel Wells dried the tears in his daughter’s eyes. “It’s all right, Lettye. Daddy will come and get you in a few days. Don’t cry, sweetheart.” He looked in the backseat of his wife’s old Ford station wagon. His two boys were quiet, sitting side by side, waiting to leave. “You two be good, you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.
This wasn’t the first time they’d gone to relatives for an extended time. He’d packed them off to his uncle’s twice, Aunt Sara’s house three times and his cousin in Tennessee for a whole summer. This time he had Alicia driving them to his uncle Tom in Plant City on the west coast of Florida. No matter what he got involved in, he always made sure the kids were safe. They shouldn’t have to pay for his problems. His uncle had taken them when he was afraid those Arabs might come back on him. His cousin in Tennessee when he was afraid someone might link him to the damn cruise ship. Now he was just generally worried. That state cop, Tasker, was sharp. Twice as sharp as the other cops he’d dealt with. He just thought it’d be best if the kids weren’t around while he finished up some business and tried to satisfy his own needs.
He raised his voice, calling over his shoulder, “Alicia, you coming?” That woman would be the death of him. He’d said that about several other women, too, and it was never true. With one of them, the reverse was true. It was really an accident that she had opened the bottle in his workshop, but the fumes had killed her just as sure as if he’d shot her in the head, which was what he had been thinking of when fate had stepped in. He’d found the biggest problem was just getting rid of the body. She was a stout girl, and it had taken all his strength just to load her in the van. Luckily he’d been doing some welding for MidStream Septic Tanks and just planted her under the foundation for a new tank. They’d never been legally married and she had no family. By then the kids were used to running off women, so no one ever asked where she’d gone. He didn’t think the kids even remembered her name.
He heard his wife trotting up behind him.
She wrapped her arms around him. “Sorry, honey. Had some last-minute things to pack.”
“You stay with them, okay?”
Her pouty lips turned lower. “Can’t I take a little break? Your uncle won’t mind. He loves seeing them.”
“Why do you need a break?”
“C’mon, Daniel, I’ve treated them like my own for near two years now. Just want a little time away.”
“Done good, too. They even call you mama and everything. Never did that with Melanie. Hell, Lettye didn’t even know her real mama. She ran off when Lettye was only a few months old.” He knew it had more to do with him than the kids.
“I won’t run off. Just wanna get away a little.”
Wells looked at her. Good-looking women were a pain in the ass. He wished he could be satisfied with an ugly girl. Just like he wished he could be satisfied with a little excitement instead of spectacular shows. If wishes were baby back ribs, he’d weigh five hundred pounds.
Alicia squeezed him and laid a long, deep kiss on him until his mind melted. He could only wave as the car pulled away, carrying his own little agents of anarchy off to safety. At least for a while.
Camy Parks stretched her legs and arms like she was Supergirl. A naked Supergirl with massage oil on her back. She felt her body let go as she willed the tension out of her toes and fingers. Hands worked her trapezius muscles and then her neck. She couldn’t control her sigh.
She kept explaining her day. “Then I took the little bottle from Billy Tasker and turned it into the lab. But it looks like it’s not going to make a hell of a lot of difference, at least for me. The SAC told me point-blank to my face that he doesn’t care if Wells blows up the Queen Mary 2 right in front of me-I can’t touch the guy. The Justice lawyers expect a major media-grabbing lawsuit filed by Wells any day, and they say this will look like a vendetta.”
“So Tasker gets to run with your case? After all that?”
“Yeah, if our lab makes a match.”
She sighed. Enough. She enjoyed massages, but wasn’t keen on talking about work after hours. She barely wanted to talk cases at the office gym. Too bad only other ATF agents worked out there. Work was all she seemed to have in common with any of them. Her dad had worked for Jack Daniel’s for years and she never once heard him mention the office or other Jack Daniel’s employees the whole time she was growing up. When he was home, it was to be with her and her five brothers. It was a good lesson to learn.
She rolled over, allowing her back rub to move to the front. She loved the light oil splashed over her breasts, pleased that they were real and everyone noticed. She said, “You got to hand it to Billy, though. He certainly kept at it.”
“Yeah,” came the reply. “Some people don’t know when to quit.”
Wells slowly padded back up the slight slope to the front door after he watched his family drive away. Often he’d lock himself in the shop and catch up on work when the kids were gone. Or, better, work on his own special projects. That was his one fear: one of the kids might be hurt inadvertently by something he did or was working on. He didn’t think they would just wander into the garage and find something. He’d trained them too well. He thought about what might happen if a timer went bad or some of that unstable shit just decided to blow. That was why he had fire alarms and smoke detectors all over the garage and house.
He wandered through the quiet house. It unnerved him. He needed noise and confusion. The only order he liked was in the shop. That gave him his baseline for the rest of his life. There was nothing more orderly than the little detached garage where he affected other people’s lives. And it was getting to be more and more people every time.
The phone’s single ring cut through the silence, making him jump.
“Hello,” he said, half-expecting it to be Alicia saying she couldn’t go with the kids.
“Daniel, you okay?”
He recognized the voice.
“No thanks to you. Were you just gonna let me rot in jail?”
“Don’t you worry, I had it well in hand.”
“Hope so. That Tasker fella is smart. I don’t want him figuring anything out.”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
Daniel Wells listened, glad he’d already sent the kids away.