Дэвид Балдаччи - Hell's Corner

Wilder finally calmed and nodded. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you. I mean that. I’m a patriot down to my bones. I’ve been NRA all my life. Hell, my daddy was a union man.”

Gross sat down across from him while Stone remained standing. Stone said, “Tell us about each of the people who work here.”

For the next twenty minutes, Wilder pulled out employment records and went over each worker with them.

“That’s it,” he said when he’d finished. “And there’s not one on that list that’s smart enough to do anything with no bomb. Hard enough to get them to hold the right end of a shovel. Although that may be because my español ’s not too good.”

Stone put his finger on one name on the list. “John Kravitz. He doesn’t sound Latino.”

“Well, he’s not, of course. But you’re barking up the wrong tree there. No pun intended,” he added hurriedly.

“Why?” asked Stone.

“He’s college educated.”

“I thought you intimated they were all stupid. And nothing against your line of work, but why is a college grad digging up trees?”

“We do more than that here. John’s degree’s in landscape design, horticulture, stuff like that. He’s a good arborist. Sees stuff no one else does. Why we hired him.”

“How long has he been with you?” asked Chapman.

“About seven months. Didn’t expect him to stay that long, but he seems content.”

“Has he been in to work this week?”

“Every day like clockwork.”

“Where is he now? Here?”

Wilder checked the clock on the wall. “He’ll be here in about thirty minutes. He only lives about five miles down the road in a little trailer park off the highway.”

“What else can you tell us about him?” asked Gross.

“He’s about thirty, thin, tall as you,” he said, pointing at Stone. “With brown hair and a goatee.”

“He get along with everybody?”

“Look, the other guys can barely put two words of English together and I’m not sure they’re even literate in their own language. Like I said, John is a college boy. He usually spends his lunch hour reading.”

“Know anything about his personal life? Political beliefs?” asked Gross.

“No. But I’m telling you John is no bomber.”

“Does he play basketball by any chance?” asked Gross.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question.”

“He told me he played in high school. We have a hoop out back. Boys play at lunchtime if they’re not out making a delivery.”

“Whose ball do you use?” asked Stone.

“Ball? We’ve got a couple around here. John I know has one.” Wilder looked flustered. “What’s a basketball got to do with a damn bomb?”

“We’re going to wait for John. When he gets here you have him come back to your office, okay?” said Gross.

“Do we really have to—”

“Okay?” Gross said firmly.

Wilder managed to whisper, “Okay.”

While they were waiting for John Kravitz to arrive, Stone and Chapman explored the grounds. A few Latino workers watched them warily from a distance, probably fearing they were from ICE. Stone didn’t pay much attention to them. But something did capture his interest. Over a building behind the office, there were some holes in the wood and the outline of what once had been bolted there. Stone pointed to it, but Chapman only looked quizzical.

“Basketball hoop,” said Stone. “Or where one used to be.”

“So someone took it down?”

“But didn’t fill in the holes or paint over it.”

When they went back inside and asked Wilder about it, he professed to know nothing about the missing hoop.

“I know it was up yesterday. Some of the guys were playing.”

Thirty minutes passed, and while a half dozen other people arrived for work, Kravitz was not among them.

“We’ll need his address now,” said Gross.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” said Wilder.

Stone pulled Gross to the side. “Chapman and I will pay him a visit while you stay here with Wilder.”

“You think he’s in on it?”

“I’m not sure what to think right now, so we have to assume he is.”

Wilder said, “I can call him at home, see if he’s okay. Tell him to come on in.”

“No,” said Stone. “No calls. Just sit tight with Agent Gross.”

Stone nodded at Gross and the FBI agent’s hand dipped to the butt of the gun in his belt holster, while Wilder, seeing this, started hyperventilating anew.

Gross said, “You want me to get some LEOs as backup for you?”

“Some local cops wouldn’t hurt,” said Stone. “Just tell them no sirens and to stay back until we signal them.”

Gross nodded. “Good luck.”

A minute later Stone and Chapman were in the Crown Vic on the way to the trailer park. Stone was driving. The sedan streaked down the highway. They passed a police cruiser going the same way. The cop driving was about to hit his lights at the speeding car when Stone slowed, dropped back and held his badge out the window. The cop in the passenger side slid down his window.

“You the LEOs they called in for us as backup?” Stone asked.

The cop nodded. “Possible suspect in the Lafayette Park bombing?”

Stone nodded. “Just follow our lead. Okay?”

“Yes sir,” said the obviously excited young deputy.

Stone rolled his window back up and hit the gas.

Chapman glanced over and saw the gun in a shoulder holster Stone was wearing.

“What are you carrying?” she asked.

“You wouldn’t recognize it.”

“Why not?”

“For starters, it’s older than you are.”

“I know most of the major makes. American and European, Chinese, Russian.”

“It’s not a major one.”

“I know some of the lesser-known models.”

“It wasn’t mass-produced.”

“Limited run?”

“You could say that.”

“How many were made?”

“One.”

When they got to the trailer park, Stone left the car by the side of the road and they made their way to Kravitz’s trailer on foot. The park had about twenty-five trailers mounted on permanent foundations and was bracketed by thick woods. The cops were ten paces back and on either side of the narrow gravel road that constituted the only ingress and egress.

“If he is the bomber he might have his trailer wired with a booby trap,” noted Chapman.

“That thought had occurred to me.”

“So are we going to just knock on his door, then?”

“We’ll play it by ear.”

Chapman looked put off. “Okay, pleased to see you have the plan all formulated.”

“In a situation like this plans usually are for shit. You react professionally to what comes at you. That’s the best plan of all.”

The trailer was set off by itself, a small patch of gravel in front. An ancient and battered Chevy pickup was parked in front, its metal corroding, its paint disintegrating. They checked to make sure the truck was empty and then took cover behind it.

Stone eyed the two cops and motioned with his hand where he wanted them to take up position. When they were in place he called out, “John Kravitz?”

There was no answer.

“John Kravitz? Federal agents. We need you to come out, hands in clear view. Right now.”

Nothing.

Chapman looked at Stone. The two cops stared at him too.

“What now?” she asked.

“We do it the hard way,” said Stone.

“Which is?”

Stone eyed the white tank attached to the front of the trailer. He took out his gun. “Kravitz, you have five seconds to come out or I’m going to put a round into your propane tank and blow you right to hell.”

“Are you mental?” hissed Chapman.