Stephen White - Warning Signs

Rivera said, "The woman in accounting?"

The young cop nodded. "And we don't think there's a secondary. We did a quick search along with the Rockies people."

"You don't think there's a secondary?"

She grinned just the slightest bit. "That's right. In case you haven't noticed, this is a very big building. Your people can go inside anytime. Detective said to remind you that we're handling the detonation investigation."

Rivera said, "I know. We're merely looking for a terrorist who's holding a cop hostage. I'll stay out of your way." They were interrupted by a young black woman who didn't seem to appreciate Rivera's tone. I couldn't hear what she told him but his reply was clear: "What did you say? Dear Jesus."

Sam asked, "What's going on?"

Rivera answered, "The bomb threat at East High School? They just found a device. He wasn't kidding."

Columbine images flooded my consciousness. Everyone's.

Sam was shaking his head slowly. "I'm picking up a siren. Rivera, you recognize it?"

Rivera took the phone from Sam and covered the microphone with his fingers. He closed his eyes as though he were appreciating some good jazz. "I'd say it's the fire department, but I'm not sure. I wonder how fast we can find out where they have trucks running with sirens right now. Shouldn't be that hard to do."

Sam narrowed his eyes and said, "Damn," under his breath. I followed him as he hustled outside onto the wide sidewalk in front of the stadium. He fixed his eyes to the left. A big pumper, lights flashing, siren blaring, was two blocks away, approaching down Blake from the east. He turned to me. "They're here, Alan. I can smell them. Ramp and Lucy. They're right around here."

The truck killed its siren and glided to a stop a hundred feet away. Rivera walked outside to join us. Bomb squad personnel were running past us and jumping into their vehicles to respond to the fresh threat at East High School.

Sam said, "The siren stopped, didn't it?"

Rivera nodded.

Sam pointed at the electric-green pumper. The dirty-yellow-suited firefighters clustered around it, tugging at equipment. Sam said, "That was the truck, Rivera. They're right around here. Damn."

Rivera gave Sam the phone. Immediately, he handed it to me, ordering, "Tell me if you hear anything important."

Sam stared at the streets while he huddled with Rivera. I shuffled close to the building to mute as much traffic noise as I could.

As I listened hard to the tiny speaker at my ear, there were moments when I was convinced that I could hear faint voices, other moments when I was sure that I was hearing nothing more than the desperate pulses of my hope. The whole time, I watched the traffic funneling down the viaduct from I-25 and the traffic being diverted from Blake Street up to Market and Larimer. Did I expect to see Lucy waving to me from the passenger seat of a passing car?

Not really.

But if she was waving, I wanted to be watching. That was the nature of my hope's persistence.

R amp slowed as a cop waved him away fromBlake Street, then he followed the detour up Twenty-second to Larimer, before turning back down Twentieth all the way to Wynkoop.

A little over ten years before, Wynkoop Street had been ground zero for the rejuvenation of Denver's old warehouse district into the trendy center now called LoDo. The very first renovations in the decrepit section of Denver that bordered the railroad tracks of the Santa Fe and the Union Pacific had been in the brick warehouses that faced Denver's 120-year-old Union Station. The arrival of Coors Field in the mid-1990s had cemented the reincarnation, and the new LoDo was crowded with vibrant businesses, overpriced lofts, and the kind of sidewalk bustle that the Chamber of Commerce coveted.

After turning left onto Wynkoop, Ramp passed one of the most recent renovations, the stately old Beatrice Foods Ice House, and turned into the drive that led to the front entrance of Union Station. The neoclassical railroad hub consisted of a huge stone building that was constructed between the two original 1881 wings after a 1914 fire. From her position on the floor of the truck, Lucy could clearly see the trio of huge arched windows that graced the lobby, and the garish neon "Travel by Train" sign high above the building's stone cornice.

She screamed " No !" into her gag.

Ramp turned up the radio in response to her protest, before pulling the truck to a stop on the far left side of the entrance drive. He reached down to the floor in front of his seat and lifted yet another transmitter. The device was bright yellow. "This one's from a model boat. Decent range," he said for Lucy's benefit. "Listen carefully, you might be able to hear it go off. Maybe not-the walls of this place are really thick. You should feel something in your bones, though. Try."

He lowered the volume on the radio. Lucy screamed again.

He looked askance at her. "You want to know who it is?" Ramp asked.

Lucy nodded vociferously.

"A photographer. She has her studio in there. She's the wife of the guy who was head of the parole board when the guy who killed my mom got out of prison."

Lucy's eyes softened and Ramp pressed straight ahead on a lever on the plastic console.

She heard a muted thud that felt like nothing more to her than an extra heartbeat.

Ramp raised an eyebrow as two huge double-hung windows burst outward on the upper floor of the train station and said, "That's it. The cake is baked. All that's left now is the frosting."

I heard some musicin my ear. Not clearly enough that I could recognize the artist or the song, but clearly enough to know that the phone call was still alive. I ran over to Sam and Rivera. "I hear music."

Sam said, "That's it? Just music?"

"Yeah. Maybe some voices in the background. I'm not sure."

He turned back to Rivera.

"And I heard a little pop. A little boom."

"An explosion?" Rivera asked.

I said, "I don't know."

"Give me that thing," he said.

I did. Rivera turned his back, pressed the phone against one ear, and stuck an index finger into the other one.

Two bomb squad members came flying out the front door of the Rockies' offices. "Another explosion. This one's at Union Station," one of them said as he passed by. He directed the words at Rivera's back.

Sam said, "What did he say?"

"He said there was just an explosion at Union Station."

Sam grabbed my arm. "Shit. How far away is that?"

"Maybe three blocks."

He released my arm and tapped Rivera on the shoulder. Rivera lowered the phone and took the finger out of his ear. "I don't hear shit," he reported.

Sam pointed at the activity at the curb. "A bomb just went off at Union Station."

The Denver cop shook his head. In disbelief? Disgust? I couldn't tell. He said, "Union Station? Not East High School? Are you sure?"

"That's what they said."

"How bad is it?"

Sam shrugged. His face was the color of the winter sky.

Rivera pointed to a brown sedan at the curb. "That's mine. Let's go."

R amp exited thedrive in front of Union Station and pulled the truck across Wynkoop and then straight down Seventeenth past the Oxford Hotel into Denver's downtown business district. After a few blocks, the wail of sirens began to echo in the canyons between the blunt faces of Denver's skyscrapers. Seventeenth was a one-way street leading away from Union Station, and Ramp's truck was unimpeded by approaching emergency vehicles as it headed toward Broadway.

While he waited for a light to change, he lifted his windbreaker and threw it behind the seat of the truck. He fumbled for some coins on the console. "I'll need some quarters for the parking meter. Don't want to draw any attention prematurely this morning."