Donald Harstad - Known Dead

I was placing Nola in the interview area, which had two thick windows, when the sunlight suddenly came streaming through the window. We both looked up, just in time to see her attorney, brightly lit, walking across the reflecting wet surface of the asphalt parking lot.

‘‘It’s true, Nola,’’ I said. ‘‘They can walk on water.’’

She laughed for the first time since I’d known her. Pleasant-sounding.

I locked her and her attorney in the interview room, and went to Dispatch, where I could watch them on closed-circuit TV. No sound, and the camera far enough away to prevent lip reading. We knew the rules. But a good enough picture to enable me to see if she tore his head off.

I signed the release forms for the marshals, and they left. ‘‘Take good care of her,’’ said the taller of the two. ‘‘She’ll have you in People’s Court if you don’t.’’

Much to my surprise, twenty minutes had gone by and Nola and her mouthpiece were still talking. No blows or anything. My stomach was churning, as neither Volont nor Nichols had showed, and they were the ones in communication with the ‘‘hidden assets.’’ Every noise, I looked. Every creak in the old building. I hate that too.

At about 1045, Nola and her attorney finished up, and I placed her in a holding cell. She seemed pretty content.

Sally arrived, and I told her that Nola would be going to court at 1130 or so and that she’d be going along as matron. I hated to say that.

At 1105, Volont arrived. Just after he pulled up, Nichols came into the lot. Volont was in the suit of the day, whereas Nichols was in blue jeans and a light blue golf shirt. They ignored each other, passing through the door about a minute apart, Volont in the lead.

As soon as they got inside, they headed for my office. I joined them.

Nichols wasn’t so much excited as simply running in high gear.

‘‘We’ve got two suspects in the City Campground,’’ he said. ‘‘Silver aluminum trailer, came in last night. Put up a dish antenna they said was a new type of TV satellite dish, but my guys in the park say it’s a military radio of some kind.’’

‘‘Okay,’’ I said. I wanted to ask just how they knew that, but I didn’t.

‘‘The media are already set up at the courthouse,’’ he continued, ‘‘and we think they’ve already been scouting there. One male, one female, thirties-we’ll have photos shortly-were asking questions in the media group. A little weird, like if there was a back door.’’

‘‘Hell,’’ I said, ‘‘you can see the back door through the front door. They’re both glass and they’re at opposite ends of the hall.. .’’

‘‘They were asking about upstairs,’’ he said. ‘‘Where the courtroom is.’’

I knew where the courtroom was, thank you very much. But he was wound up, and it was okay.

‘‘Security’s pretty impressive down there,’’ he said. ‘‘Lots of it and obvious as hell. Troopers and deputies everywhere you look.’’

‘‘Are we overdoing it?’’ I asked.

‘‘No,’’ said Volont, speaking for the first time. ‘‘I’ve just come from there. It’s a deterrent, just like we want it to be. The contrast between there and here is marked, and that’s what we want.’’

‘‘So,’’ I said, ‘‘we think they’ll do it today?’’

‘‘A high probability,’’ said Volont.

The transfer of Nola to the courthouse went without a hitch. She was safely in the building at 1121.

The hearing began at 1130. I wasn’t there, but those who were said that Nola kept referring to jurisdictions. In fact, at one point she refused to participate because the U.S. flag by the bench had fringe on it. She claimed that it was an Admiralty flag, and that she was not under the jurisdiction of an Admiralty Court. Right.

I was up at the jail, waiting for Nola’s return. That’s when I expected the shit to hit the fan. I was out on the front steps, avoiding Volont, who had taken over my office for his phone calls, and was sort of looking out of the corner of my eye, to see if I could locate somebody from the special team. I was armed with a cold can of pop in my hand. Now that the sun was out, the little valley where Maitland nestled was developing little patches of fog, especially along the Sparrow River, which runs through the center of the town. It was beautiful. Hot, uncomfortable, but beautiful. I looked at my watch. 1157. The hearing would have been recessed by now, I thought, unless the judge thought he could get it over with in the next thirty minutes. Personally, I’d feel a lot better if we could get Nola back in the jail, no matter what Gabriel had planned. The place was like a fort. I understood that the military sort of made a living of taking forts, but I’d still feel better.

As in so many midwestern towns, the fire sirens went off precisely at noon. You live in tornado country, you like to know they work.

The siren was just winding down then I heard a metallic clang and a booming sound at the same time. Quite some distance away, but with the buildings and the valley, you couldn’t tell where the sound had come from. I listened carefully on my portable but there was no traffic at all. I took another drink of my pop, and the fire sirens started up again. Kept on cycling, up and down, about ten seconds per cycle. Fire.

I turned and started into the building.

‘‘Twenty-five, Maitland!’’ came over the radio. Dispatch calling the local officer.

‘‘Go ahead!’’ He was excited. Always was when there was a fire.

‘‘Small explosion at Farm and Field, possible anhydrous ammonia leaks from damaged tanks!’’

Damn. They were at the lower end of town, almost on the edge, but the light breeze would carry the caustic gas. It tended to sink, but there were probably ten to fifteen homes within a couple of hundred yards of the place. Evacuation… that meant traffic control. It wasn’t like we didn’t have a bunch of cops about, but which ones to release…?

The second explosion was closer, and as I turned in the doorway I could see a fountain of red brick dust rising in the air. The school, or a brick house damned near it.

The third explosion was only a second or two behind, from the opposite end of town, by the highway… an enormous gout of orange flame, surrounded by a thick, oily cloud of smoke. Fuel storage tanks. There were three of them out there, one gasoline, one diesel fuel oil, and one propane gas. It looked like the gasoline had gone.

The fourth explosion was more of a prolonged crackling sound, very loud. I looked toward the courthouse. All the trees along the street, the side opposite the courthouse, were coming down. Most looked like they were falling into the street, completely blocking access to or from the jail. I had seen det cord used before, to fell trees. That’s what this was.

I turned back into the parking lot, got my AR-15 out of the trunk, put it on my front seat, and drove as fast as I could toward the courthouse. Ineffective little red dash light and ineffective little siren under the hood going for all they were worth.

I didn’t say a word on the radio, but there was sure a whole lot of traffic. In my car I was picking up eight channels, and they were all clamoring for attention. I could imagine the 911 board lighting up.

It occurred to me that Gabriel hadn’t had to risk taking out the command center. All he had to do was make it so busy it was ineffective. Worked.

I got about half a block from the courthouse, in time to see about six trooper cars leaving, lights and sirens going, heading toward explosion scenes. They would be able to get to most of them without having to fight the trees in the road on Hill Street, which led to the jail.

There were stunned people coming out of their houses, gazing in wonder at the vegetation in their yards and the street. The press was pouring out of the courthouse, feasting, and dying for more.