James Born - Shock Wave

“Anything worth taking?”

“Your guys grabbed two empty containers. May be some residue.”

Tasker thanked the Metro cops and headed back to his car, where his supervisor and Sutter were talking.

His boss said, “Billy, you done a good job. I don’t want you beating yourself up over this thing. Take a day or two. Make it a long weekend. Monday we’ll kick it hard and find this mope. These hicks don’t go far from where they know. He’ll turn up. I just don’t want you getting so worn-out you get in trouble.”

Tasker looked at him and said, “Again.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

His supervisor stood tall and looked right at him. This was a guy who didn’t say that much, so when he did, people usually listened. “You can have a chip on your shoulder if you want, but I never figured you for that type. I’m tellin’ you there’s more to life than this shit. This is a job, not a crusade.”

Tasker nodded. “You’re right, boss. Donna asked me if I could come up and spend the night with the kids while she went away for a couple of days. That way they don’t miss school on Friday. Maybe I’ll do it.”

“Where’s she going? Some kind of teachers’ conference?”

Tasker slumped slightly. “Nope, she’s going away with her boyfriend.”

“And you’ll watch the kids?” Tasker could see this veteran of three marriages wouldn’t do something like that.

“It’s not for her, it’s to see the kids.”

“You’re a better fucking man than me. That shit makes this shit look good.”

Tasker wasn’t sure what he was looking forward to less: waiting to chase Daniel Wells or seeing Donna leave with the defense attorney.

By noon, Daniel Wells had heard that cops had been inside his house. Now everything he had feared had been confirmed. Everything had changed. Was he wanted? He knew the cops at least wanted to talk to him, but was there an actual warrant? He knew who to call to find out. Wells didn’t think that relationship had changed too much. This wasn’t news to everyone in law enforcement.

His mind wandered as he darted down East Palm Drive near the Homestead Racetrack. His little Toyota’s engine whined as he headed west, away from Turkey Point. He had a good stash site near the power plant. Before the security checkpoint, there were two worn-out limestone roads that cut south to the canals that fed the nuclear cooling towers of the power plant. Years before, while he was working with those two crazy Jordanians out this way, he’d found a metal foot-locker still in good shape. One day, months after the Jordanians had gone to jail, while the boys were with him, he’d let them dig a hole around the box to keep them occupied while he went fishing. They were little then, maybe four and six. Before he knew it, the tiny hellions had managed to sink the box even with the ground. Over time he’d added a liner and some weatherproofing, and now he had a secure, watertight secret hiding place that only he and the kids knew about. The boys had probably forgotten by now, but he still used it. He’d just stored his remaining TATP and some quarter- and half-sticks of homemade dynamite the gentleman in Florida City had sold him a few years back. There was no shit left at his house for anyone to find.

He didn’t know exactly what the charge was for the bombing. He thought they might try to stick a murder charge in there. He realized someone had died because of the bomb he’d made and planted. The problem was that the wrong person had died. If someone was going to get killed on that ship, a lone baggage handler didn’t do much to add to the terror.

Wells shrugged. You live and you learn. He was just glad he was using his engineering classes. Maybe things would have been different if he’d graduated, but maybe not. He’d still have his urge. He’d still need to scratch that itch to see people’s lives thrown into disorder. At least living in Naranja, fixing people’s little engineering problems allowed him to keep a low profile. Maybe he’d survived a little longer because of it. He kept daydreaming as the long, empty road slowly showed signs of civilization, or at least the city of Homestead.

As the racetrack came into view, Wells saw a police car parked on the corner of the track property next to the road. Too late, he realized the uniformed Homestead police officer had a radar gun in his hand. Wells dropped his eyes to the speedometer of the old Corolla. Eighty-one-shit! The cop noted his speed, too. The cruiser was onto the road and behind Wells before he’d driven a few hundred yards.

There was nothing in the car except the Ruger Mark II.22 automatic pistol he kept hidden beneath his seat. Strapped in a leather holster, the gun was a quick bend-and-snatch away from his hand. If all he got was a speeding ticket, no problem, but if he had a warrant connected with the search of his house, he might have to use the gun to gain a little time. He had no desire to shoot a policeman. Where was the thrill in that? But he couldn’t let the plan that would make him a legend go down the tubes because he was doing eighty-one in a fifty-five zone. No way.

The blue lights flashed on in Daniel Wells’ rearview mirror. The big white car with a blue stripe pulled in tight behind him. Wells knew he’d never outrun him in this Toyota. He slowed and pulled onto the shoulder of the road almost even with the press box for the track. No cars in either direction. Perfect.

He waited as the short cop slowly stepped out of his car, adjusted his gun belt and slowly strolled up to the Toyota, showing off his stride and official status.

Wells cranked down the window as far as it would go, leaving about three inches of glass still up. “Howdy, officer, looks like you got me goin’ a little quick.”

The cop didn’t acknowledge him. “License and registration.”

Wells looked over his shoulder at the cop with his hands on his gun belt. A small metal tag had the name DRISCOLL on it. Wells calculated the odds of reaching the pistol and getting off aimed shots at the cop’s head before he reacted. He couldn’t go for the body because the cop obviously had on a bulletproof vest. Besides, he had a little beef on him, mostly muscle, and the.22 might not penetrate.

The cop repeated, “License and registration.”

Wells used all his nerve to stay calm and to retrieve his driver’s license from his wallet and grab his messy paperwork from the car glove compartment. He handed them over and noticed a tremor in his grip. The cop was probably used to people being nervous when they were stopped.

The cop stood next to the window as he studied the paperwork and filled out a ticket in a metal ticket case. He was extremely efficient. He stepped back and spoke into the radio mike on his shoulder. Wells didn’t hear what he said, but didn’t want to hear the reply. He flexed his hands as the cop stepped back to the window.

The cop said, “Mr. Wells, this is a simple citation for speeding. Please sign the bottom. It is not an admission of guilt, just an acknowledgment of the citation.” It sounded like a script the way he said it. He had a funny northern accent.

Wells signed and handed it back to the cop. He still hadn’t heard a response from the cop’s call into the dispatcher. He couldn’t risk it. His hand seemed to have a mind of its own as it slowly crept toward the gun in the holster under his seat. “No problem, officer,” Wells said, leaning forward. As he was about to dart the extra five inches to grip the gun, the cop’s radio came to life.

A female voice, showing little stress, said: “All units near turnpike exit one and US 1-two troopers are in pursuit of a signal-ten, southbound, headed into Homestead.”

Wells didn’t hear the rest because the cop tossed the ticket on his lap and raced back to his car without another thought of Daniel Wells.