Shock Wave

unpredictable.
     
     
    NO. HE’D STARTED out to intimidate PyeMart, to slow them down, and also to lay a trail of bombs that had a seeming purpose. He was not stupid, so the trail was a crooked one, but it would eventually lead the authorities, by the nose, to one certain conclusion. And that still seemed the best way to go.
    He’d never had a full set plan for his campaign; a set plan could crack. He’d known from the start that he had to remain flexible, and improvise from time to time. This was one of those times.
    If the city council was actually found to be corrupt, if a city councilman could be terrorized into confessing, or if the cops could be pressured into looking at them seriously, then the whole PyeMart deal would go down like the Titanic .
    That was a compelling thought.
    But PyeMart’s deal couldn’t go down too soon, or too late. Like Baby Bear’s porridge, it had to be just right.

    HE CONSIDERED THE THOUGHT, and drunk as he was, it was a slippery thing to hang onto. The problem was, the local cops couldn’t be counted on to cooperate with the city council. Basically, they couldn’t find their own balls with both hands and a radar unit. A serious investigation was unlikely.
    The ideal thing would be to bring in the state cops, or the FBI. The ATF was in town, but the ATF wouldn’t be much interested in doing a political corruption investigation.
    Stray thought: somebody had been distributing a bumper sticker in town—he’d seen three or four of them—that said: “Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms . . . What’s not to like?”
    Anyhoo . . .
    Whoa, really drunk now. He struggled to stay on track.
    The state cops were in town; state cop , that is. One guy, and all he apparently was thinking about was finding the bomber.
     
     
    WHAT YOU REALLY NEEDED, the bomber thought, was a whole bunch of cops, pulling the whole town apart. If that happened, they’d eventually get around to the city council.
     
     
    THE BOMBER SAT on his deck, drunk and plotting, and at some point well into his last martini, too drunk to even consider getting up and making more, an out-of-the-box plan began to form.
    Take brass balls, but he had brass balls. No question about that. Not anymore.
    He needed to think about it sober; couldn’t do it tonight, anyway. There was too much action right now, too many people with an eye out. Paranoia was a good thing, in the bombing business. So tonight he’d sleep it off, and tomorrow, he’d make the bomb. Make the bomb, and plant it tomorrow night.
    Bring in a whole swarm of cops.
    Guaranteed.
    Or was that just the alcohol talking?
    Billions and billions of stars shone down at him, twinkling their asses off, but they didn’t say shit.
    The bomber fell asleep in his deck chair, and slept the sleep of the innocent.

11
    V IRGIL DROPPED CHAPMAN at her motel and called Davenport to report on the trip out to Michigan. He was sitting in the truck, talking to Davenport, when he saw George Peck, the traditionalist fly fisherman, walking along the street, looking into store windows.
    “I just saw a clue,” Virgil said. “I gotta go.”
    He hung up and waited until Peck got even with him, then rolled down the passenger-side window and yelled, “Hey, George.”
    Peck turned, a frown on his face, saw Virgil in the truck, and walked over. “You shouted?”
    “Yeah. I need to talk to you. Come on, get in.”
    Peck paused for a moment, as if thinking about it, then nodded and popped the door and climbed in. He pulled the door shut, tilted his head up, sniffed, and said, “This truck smells like McDonald’s french fries.”
    “It should—french fries are about eighty-five percent of my diet when I’m traveling,” Virgil said. “Listen, I’ve talked to a few guys about your whole market research idea. They don’t like it. I kinda do—but then, I might not be as smart as they are. There’s talk of lynch mobs.”
    “I doubt you’d get a lynch mob,” Peck said.
    “That’s not real reassuring—if you only doubt that I’d get one.”
    “Not my problem,” Peck said. “But, consensus-seeking research seems to work with problems like yours. Of course, they’re usually asking about stock market moves, or some such. There’s usually no lynching involved. Or bombs.”
    Virgil said, “What if instead of putting up a website, I got twenty very knowledgeable people . . .”
    Peck was shaking his head. “That might not be enough. You need lots and lots of people. You could ask