Shock Wave

jumped in my truck and hauled ass out to the soaring center. One minute later, we had Erikson, and one minute after that, Wyatt.”
    “What about Wyatt’s motive? All that money?” Barlow asked.
    “Great motive, the best motive of all,” Virgil said. “And hard to see. But, once we had Wyatt’s name, we’d go scouting around, and we’d find the motive. Just a matter of time. See, the thing is, we were supposed to see that Erikson was a setup. Because that would take us to Wyatt, and nobody would believe that there were two setups.”
    “So who is it?” Ahlquist asked again.
    Virgil held up his finger again. “So we’ve got means and motive. A paraglider, and land that would be worth a fortune, if PyeMart went away. Wyatt was known to be something of an asshole and something of an adrenaline junkie, somebody who could fly a glider onto the Pinnacle. I bought it. I did. But then, we searched his house, and we searched the old farmhouse out at the farm, and we found nothing at all. Nothing.
    “So we send John Haden to Wyatt, with a tip that we were looking at him, hoping he’d move. We followed him around the clock, and the day after John tipped him off, Wyatt goes out to the old farmhouse, and . . . boom .
    “I can tell you several things about that boom,” Virgil continued. “First, the bomber had no idea that Jim and I had been inside the farmhouse. Second, Wyatt went in there empty-handed. Third, the bomb was in the basement—Jim says it was, anyway.”
    “It was,” Barlow said. “Easy to read, if you know what you’re looking for.”
    “I believe you,” Virgil said. “And Wyatt had no time to get to the basement. O’Hara knows it, and I know it. He wasn’t in there more than two or three seconds, tops, when the place blew. And there were no basement steps. Getting down in that hole would have been tricky. Also, when we went in the house, I lay down on that floor and looked down the basement, and there were all kinds of spiderwebs down there. Nobody had been in the basement for a long time.
    “What I think is, the bomber went down there, rigged his bomb, and then set some kind of trap that blew when you stepped on a board, or hit a trigger string, or something. There’s an item here: Wyatt’s head was found right in the backyard, under a piece of the roof. So, it went almost straight up. He was standing on top of the bomb when it blew.”
    Barlow nodded: “I’m buying that. I should have seen it.”
    “So who is it?” Ahlquist asked.
    “John Haden,” O’Hara blurted.
    Ahlquist said, “Haden?”
    Virgil nodded. “Yeah. John Haden.”
     
     
    “HOW’D HE GET in the Pinnacle?” Barlow asked.
    “He didn’t,” Virgil said. “He went to a FedEx in Grand Rapids and sent the bomb to Pye’s personal secretary. He sent it First Overnight, which means, delivery before eight-thirty A.M. And he sent it from Grand Rapids, which means there’d be no mistake.” Virgil turned to Barlow. “Remember that birthday pie splattered all over the place?”
    Barlow said, “I do.”
    “I suspect what happened is that Haden sent Pye’s secretary a birthday gift, maybe even wrapped in birthday paper, with a note from somebody like a board member. The note would have said something like: Stick this in the credenza, out of sight, so we can get it when the time comes. It’s a surprise. Be sure you don’t tell Willard.
    “She did that,” Virgil said. “She would even have told us about it, except that she was killed.”
    “How’d he know about the credenza, if he’d never been in there?” Ahlquist asked.
    “How do you know about anything anymore?” Virgil asked. “The Internet. There’s a corporate report from last year, showing Pye and the board of directors gathered around the table in the boardroom, and the credenza is right there.”
    “You’ve got a couple long stretches in there,” Good Thunder said. “It’s not evidence—it’s speculation. Can’t really go to trial with speculation.”
    “It was speculation, but not anymore,” Virgil said. “We got the receipt from FedEx. He brought the package in Tuesday night, to the FedEx store in Grand Rapids, with early guaranteed delivery to Angela Brown. We have exact measurements—it was a little bigger than a standard shoe box—and we have the weight, about eight pounds. A hefty little thing. Probably felt valuable, to Brown.”
    “You figured this out just on the basis of the birthday cake?” Barlow asked.
    Virgil