James Born - Shock Wave

When it was all over, he’d have to go deep underground. Get the kids and Alicia and head out to the Northwest maybe. When people saw what he’d done, he could pick and choose where he laid low. Every fanatical crackpot group would want to hide him and the family from the authorities. Where would he go? He had to think of the kids. He couldn’t go with the white supremacists. They had good accommodations, but he didn’t want the kids affected by all that negativity. Besides, most of those guys were pretty stupid. And the local group, the American Aryan Movement, still owed him a thousand bucks for building a bomb. That simple fact stuck in his head and pissed him off every time he thought about it. He wanted the kids around smarter people, folks who would set good examples.

Maybe the tax protestors? He didn’t really care about them much. He’d never paid much in taxes anyway, but it was something to consider. He’d find someone. Keeping Alicia in line would be the biggest problem. She’d been pretty good, but his uncle said she’d left last week, and even though she’d paged him, it sounded like from a bar when he called back, and she hadn’t seen the kids since she left. That worried Wells a little bit. He could always let her go. She didn’t know too much. Hell, even if she did, she didn’t know what any of it meant. But, man, could she shake it.

He picked up his mask and set it in place on his head, then used his striker to light the torch. He turned and started to weld the two metal surfaces again, melting the rod to form a perfect seam. The sparks kicked past him as he worked closer to the open door. He didn’t even notice the smoldering pine needles as he crawled into the van to work the seal closer to the other side. The small patch of ground popped into a low but spreading flame. Wells concentrated on his work, still marveling at how much he was accomplishing on his own.

About twenty minutes after starting back to work, Wells felt a tug on his boot. He jumped out of his skin, turning to see a fireman, in full protective uniform with his helmet under his arm, standing next to the van. Behind him, two more firemen hosed down a patch of blackened pine needles.

Wells shut off the torch, raised his clear visor and scooted out to talk to the fireman. He quickly stood between the fireman and the van in an effort to block the man’s view. He looked over his shoulder at the other men scurrying excitedly to ensure the fire hadn’t spread. Wells now realized how much smoke the needles had put into the air and wasn’t surprised someone had called the fire department. In a small way, this little scene of turmoil caused Wells to feel his special feeling of satisfaction.

The fireman said, “You didn’t even notice you almost burned down your trailer?”

“Don’t get mad, Officer,” said Wells evenly. “I’m sorry, I was working in a lot of smoke and didn’t see this. I accept responsibility.”

The tall fireman pulled out his notebook, still pissed off. “You scared the shit out of your neighbors.”

“I said I was sorry. Isn’t it your job to do things like this? If none of us made mistakes, we wouldn’t need the fire department, would we?”

That softened the man. “I need a little information.”

“Sure.” Wells shifted to hide his work.

“Name?”

“Westerly. Dave Westerly.”

“What’s your address way out here?”

“Don’t know. It’s on the trailer.” Wells looked at the other firefighters cleaning up their equipment. “What’s this for?”

“Just goes in our records, that’s all.”

Wells led the taller man toward the trailer as the fireman took a few more notes. He walked with the fireman as he circled the trailer and the Toyota making notes and checking for any remaining embers.

The fireman finally said, “Looks all clear here, Mr. Westerly. Use a little more care with that torch, will ya?”

“You bet, Officer,” said Wells, watching the man walk over to his waiting friends on the big truck. He turned to the van, wondering if the fireman would have wanted to know why he was welding a big gas tank inside the cabin of his van.

Bill Tasker left the welding supply store in Florida City and slowly started driving around the streets of the small town on Florida’s southern continental mass. He liked the community feel of the town and how it flowed into Homestead as he drove north on Krome Avenue. He didn’t have a real plan, other than to grab something to eat at his favorite Mexican restaurant in Cutler Ridge while he reviewed some reports. He was about to find one of the roads that cut east from Krome to US 1, when he saw a pillar of smoke rising from inside one of the rural neighborhoods. He could hear sirens and caught a glimpse of the fire engine turning down the street half a mile ahead in the direction of the fire. He never saw any actual flames.

About ninety minutes later, just as it was starting to get dark, after he had eaten his fill of refried beans and a fish taco, Tasker gathered his stack of reports concerning the profiles of bombers like Wells and headed north toward his house. Pretty much everyone agreed that bombers were almost always white males between twenty-five and forty. Wells certainly fit that broad guideline. Thinking of the failed engineer from Naranja, Tasker took an impulsive turn and headed west, then south, toward the neighborhood where the Wells house was located.

He drove past slowly, hoping he’d see something that might point him in the right direction. Some piece of info he’d missed the other times he’d been at the house. He could picture the heavenly Alicia Wells in her sheer tank top coming out to talk with him, and wondered where she and the kids were now. If he answered that question, he might be able to find Daniel Wells.

Sutter checked his watch, a nice Rolex knockoff that fooled most of the players in the city. It was past ten and he knew the second shift of dancers would be out soon. Even though he enjoyed the topless bars-what normal male wouldn’t like looking at good-looking naked girls trying to dance to every song ever written-he was at this particular place looking for someone. He’d heard country ballads, hard rock, pop, and now was watching the slightly heavy, stretch-marked Latina friend he’d made on his last visit, shaking it to Eminem. White rappers-what was the world coming to?

Last time he’d been here, he’d seen a girl who looked familiar. He couldn’t place her at the time, but he’d sure thought about her. A nice blond girl with blue eyes and a pretty face. The kind of girl you’d take to your mama, if your mama liked white girls. He couldn’t figure how he’d know someone all the way down here in South Miami, but he felt like she was familiar.

When the second set of dancers came out, he didn’t see her. He’d been quiet, sitting by himself away from the stage. He was dressed in a Joseph Abboud imitation that looked sharp on him for a quarter the price of a real Joseph Abboud, so no one would make him for a cop. He stood up and approached the doorman.

“Excuse me, my man.” He waited for the behemoth to turn and acknowledge him. Now he tapped him on the arm. “Hey, buddy, can you hear me?”

The giant uncrossed his arms, which looked like thighs, and slowly rotated his melon head in Sutter’s direction. “What?” was all that came from the bottom of the big man’s diaphragm.

Even with the pounding music, the man’s deep voice and direct delivery unnerved Sutter. He regrouped. “I was here a week ago and saw a girl. Blond girl with blue eyes. Real sweet. When does she usually work?”

The man just stared.

Sutter said, “You know, they say always be nice to the customers.”

The doorman said, “You know what I say?”

“Fee, fi, fo, fum?”