Shock Wave

smashed into the wall, and went to his butt. O’Hara pushed past Virgil and said, “That’s what happens when you resist.” Jenkins was right behind her, and said, “Good punch.”
    Wyatt wailed, “He was on top of me, he had me by the throat, he was choking—”
    At that moment, Haden, who’d rolled up on one leg, as though he were just coming to his feet, suddenly fired off the floor, like a runner coming out of the blocks. He was headed toward the patio door....
    Which was closed.
    He hit the glass headfirst, full tilt, went through in an explosion of splintered crystal, crashed into the lawn furniture, and went down again.
    Virgil and Jenkins and O’Hara were on top of him before he could recover again. O’Hara put the cuffs on.
    Ahlquist had come through the front door in time to see the sprint.
    Haden looked up at him, his face a mass of blood, and said, “I think . . . I think I’m really hurt.”
    Ahlquist bent down, looked at him for a moment, then said, “Tough titty.”

28
    O ’HARA AND FIVE OTHER COPS, in three sheriff’s cars, lights all flashing and sirens screaming, drove Haden through town to the hospital, leaving no doubt in the mind of anyone who heard them, or saw them, that the bomber had been caught.
    At the hospital the docs propped up Haden’s nose and sewed shut a few cuts from when he’d gone through the glass door, and then O’Hara and the escort cops drove him with sirens screaming and lights flashing through town to the jail, and locked him up.
    When all that was done—it took three hours—Virgil and Ahlquist, O’Hara, Barlow, Theodore Wills, the county attorney, Good Thunder, Pye, and Chapman took part in an hour-long press conference jammed with TV, newspaper, and online reporters, and the one public radio reporter with his recorder and microphone. Ahlquist wore a silky pale blue suit from Nordstrom and served as master of ceremonies, giving broad credit to Virgil, Barlow, and O’Hara for cracking the case.
    When they were all done, Ahlquist took the stage back from Wills, who was the final speaker, to shout, “We’re all headed down to Bunson’s, folks. You’re all invited.”
    They all trekked down to Bunson’s and Pye stood on a table to announce that it was all on PyeMart, and got half-and-half boos and cheers, and one fat guy who shouted he’d never drink Pye’s beer. The fat guy was wrestled out of sight by the Aussie scuba diver, whose name Virgil couldn’t remember.
    He did remember the name of the short-haired scuba blonde with the snake tattoo down her neck—Gretchen—and he said, “Hey, Gretchen: How’d you find us?”
    “Retrief can smell free beer from miles away,” she said. “I was going to call you up. I’d like to hear about your muskie research project. . . .”
    They talked about that for a while, and Virgil found her to be intelligent, well informed, and stacked. She touched his chest: “Slobberbone—I haven’t seen one of their shirts since UNT. They’re one of my favorite bands.”
    George Peck showed up, and patted Virgil on the back and said, “Told you.”
    Virgil said, “George, I’m gonna have somebody contact you about this whole market research thing. We need to write something about it for the FBI or somebody.”
    “I would be flattered,” Peck said. Peck was wearing a gray banker’s chalk-striped suit, a blue shirt, and a bright yellow necktie. He was on his third Rusty Nail and muttered, “I don’t think Pye saw the sign outside of town.”
    “What sign?”
    “The one that says, ‘Butternut Falls—a Little Drinking Town with a Nasty Fishing Habit.’ This free booze thing will cost him a fortune. I’m soaking up as much as I can, before he calls it off.”
    Somebody put Willie Nelson’s Stardust album on the Bunson’s sound system, and people started dancing on the lakeside patio to “Georgia on My Mind.”
    Virgil danced with Gretchen, the snake girl, and then O’Hara, and then took Good Thunder and Chapman around the floor, scuffling along in his cowboy boots, thinking only rarely of Lee Coakley.
     
     
    BARLOW STUCK STRICTLY TO BEER, and was mostly sober when he got Virgil in a corner and asked, “You think we got him? You know, enough for a trial?”
    Virgil nodded. “There’s enough circumstantial evidence, backing up our recording. If they got the tapes thrown out for some reason, we’d have a problem, but everything was on the up-and-up, so I don’t see how they can do that.”
    “I