John Sandford - Shock Wave

“With any luck, it’ll keep the bomber laying low,” Virgil said.

“Speaking of which, you oughta lay low yourself,” Ahlquist said. “You’re the most obvious threat to him. You could wind up with a bomb in your boat.”

“I don’t think he’s that kind of a monster,” Virgil said. “Bombing a man’s boat.”

“I’m serious,” Ahlquist said. “I’d ask the people at the Holiday to move you to another room, one that opens to the inside, over the pool, where he’d be seen if he went to your door.”

Virgil said, “I’ll do that. I’ll be back at eight o’clock or so, to pick up the responses. If I can collate the list we get back tonight, and get the second letter out to however many people we have-Peck thinks a couple hundred would be good-we could start getting a list together tomorrow night.”

“Be interesting,” Ahlquist said. “What’re you doing for the rest of the day?”

“I got a couple of guys I want to talk to, and, uh… you got any fish in that lake?”

Virgil found Cameron Smith, president of the local trout-fishing club, at work at the Butternut Outdoor Patio Design Center. Smith was busy with a female customer when Virgil walked in, so he spent fifteen minutes chatting with a nice-looking blond bookkeeper who worked in the back office. When Virgil introduced himself, she called Smith, who was thirty feet away, on the other side of a door, on her cell phone. Smith said he’d be there as soon as he could get away.

“That’s a big order out there,” the woman said. Her name, according to a desk plaque, was Kiki Bjornsen. “She’s looking at spending over nine thousand on patioware and a spa.”

“Is that PyeMart gonna sell patio stuff?”

“Not like ours,” Bjornsen said. “I mean, they might sell some rickety old aluminum chairs, but they won’t be selling any Sunbrella products.”

“Good for you.”

“And I can tell you for sure that Cam didn’t blow anything up,” she said. “He just got back from Canada last night. He was up there with about six college friends. He was up there for a week.”

“Well, shoot, there goes my day,” Virgil said. “I was planning to drag him kicking and screaming down to the county jail.”

“That’d be something to see,” she said.

Smith was a chunky, sunburned man who said he’d just spent five days getting blown off Lake of the Woods, and Virgil told him that he’d been blown off Lake of the Woods himself, on several occasions.

“Fishing out of Kenora?” Smith asked.

“Yeah, most of the time. I really like that town,” Virgil said.

“Got the most vicious, impolite, asshole game wardens I ever met,” Smith said. “We were out five days, got stopped three times. Hell, we’re fishing on a conservation tag, not keeping anything, and they’re tearing our boats apart.”

“They do that,” Virgil said. “But the fishing is good.”

“And they got some good pizza,” Smith said. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Is there anybody in your trout club that might be setting off these bombs?”

“I been thinking about that ever since I heard about the bomb, the first one,” Smith said. “I call my wife every night to tell her I didn’t drown, and she told me about it, about that poor bastard getting blown to pieces. I mean, jeez, nobody deserves that… Anyway, no. I don’t think any of our guys would do that. We’ve got some rednecks, but you know, they’re all… fishermen. Fishermen don’t kill people.”

“Well, maybe muskie fishermen,” Virgil said.

“Okay, I’ll give you that,” Smith said. “But not us trout guys. Crappie guys might be bombers, but I don’t think walleye guys, or bass or bluegill guys. Bullhead guys… well, we don’t talk about bullhead guys. I don’t think they’d go violent, but they’re not quite right in the head, if you know what I mean.”

Virgil nodded: he tended to agree with Smith’s characterizations.

“You know Larry Butz,” Virgil said.

“Yeah, and he’s the one everybody would point at, because he’s got a loud mouth. But he’s really a good guy,” Smith said. “The paper this morning said that a group of kids were crossing the street just before Harvey’s limo blew up, and that’s the kind of thing that Larry would have thought of. About other people getting hurt. He’s got five kids, and there’s no way he’d ever take a chance like that. That he’d hurt a kid. I mean, I don’t think he’d hurt anybody.”

“I’m getting a lot of that,” Virgil said. “Nobody knows anybody who’d do something like this.”

“Well, do you know anybody who’d do it? A bomb guy, he’s gotta be a rare creature.”

“That was my opinion, before I got tangled up in this, but the ATF guy tells me they’re not as rare as you’d think,” Virgil said. Then, “Have you ever been fishing any of those lower pools and seen a guy around there in camo? Maybe with a camera or a pair of binoculars?”

Smith said, “Noooo… not exactly. I mean, if you mean sneaking around the PyeMart site. I mean, in the fall we get a couple of bow hunters back there.”

“I was thinking, sneaking around looking at PyeMart, specifically,” Virgil said.

“Haven’t seen anything like that, but then, I’m only back there once a week. Maybe not that often. Hardly ever see any cars parked up by the bridge, either. Those are usually guys that I know, and could vouch for.”

“The bridge?”

“Yeah, there’s a bridge upstream a half mile or so above the Walmart site, off County Road Y. There’s a parking area down beside the bridge.”

“Could you ask around, among your friends, about any unusual cars?”

“I can do that,” Smith said.

Virgil pushed himself out of his chair, gave Smith a business card, and said, “Just mostly wanted to check with you. Think about it. If anything occurs to you, give me a ring, or if somebody saw a strange car out there in the last month.”

Half an hour later, Virgil was backing his boat into Dance Lake. The lake had two basins, a shallow upper basin with lots of weed, and a deeper lower basin. After parking his rig, he took his boat north out of the landing, under a bridge and into the upper basin, picked out a weed bed on the flattest part of the lake, dropped his trolling motor. The depth finder said he was in four feet of water. He wasn’t expecting much, just a short afternoon of messing with small pike.

He got his fly rod going, throwing a Bigeye Baitfish, and zenned out, letting the problem of the bomber percolate through the back of his brain. Talking with Peck had been useful; he had some hope for the survey. The connection with the tech school should help winnow suspects.

Critical question: What should he do to keep pressure on the bomber? What would make him keep his head down? He was thinking about that when a small pike hit the Bigeye and, feeling the resistance of the line, tried to make a run into the weed bank. Virgil turned his head, got him running sideways, turned him toward the boat, played him, eventually brought him alongside-maybe twenty-three or twenty-four inches, he thought-grabbed the eye of the hook and shook it loose.

He’d gotten some pike slime on his hand and rinsed it off, then sat in the boat and let the sunshine sink into his shoulders; nothing like it. After a few minutes, he sighed, took the cell phone out of his pocket and called a reporter, Ruffe Ignace, at the Star Tribune.

“Ruffe? Virgil Flowers here.”

“Virgil-I heard you were up in Nutcup, trying to find that bomber.”

“Yeah, I am, still,” Virgil said. “Some of the media are spreading a rumor that I’d like to squelch.”

“A rumor? In the media? No, you gotta be joking,” Ignace said.

“As far as I know, there are no plans whatever to secretly deploy seventy-five to a hundred BCA infrared cameras around Butternut Falls, to monitor the coming and going of cars to sensitive sites,” Virgil said.