Shock Wave

were ditching all of his Pelex, the blasting caps, the rest of the pipe, and so on, and if he did a complete and efficient cleanup of his workshop, then even if Virgil managed to identify him, a conviction would be tough: no physical evidence, plus another bomber candidate to point at.
    Second, Erikson might have been killed because he knew something.
    Which one?

    VIRGIL STOOD OUTSIDE THE GARAGE and watched the cops and the ATF people working. The ATF tech with bomb disposal experience had moved the pipe, from a distance, and nothing blew.
    “How’d he do that?” Virgil asked.
    “We’ve got all kinds of high-tech equipment with us, we just haven’t had to bring it out yet.”
    “Like what? A robot?”
    “A long string,” Barlow said. “He dropped it over the end of the pipe, then we all cleared out, and he pulled it over. So then we knew it wasn’t booby-trapped, and when we got a close look at it, we saw that it’d been packed with Pelex, but he hadn’t put in the blasting cap yet. We may be lucky: if it’s got a good fingerprint, or a little DNA in the Pelex . . .”
    “Isn’t that a little weird, that he’d pack it without a blasting cap?” Virgil asked. “Wouldn’t you have to take the Pelex back out before you put the blasting cap in?”
    “No, not necessarily . . . I mean, we don’t know if that’s all the Pelex he was planning to put in there,” Barlow said.
    “Still seems weird to me,” Virgil said.
    “We don’t know his working style yet, so we don’t know if it’s weird,” Barlow said. He sounded, Virgil thought, like a guy who really wanted Erikson to be the Man.
    Virgil stood and looked at the garage for a long time, and another thought occurred: if Erikson was not the bomber, then the bomber knew how to get into his garage, in the night, and where the workbench was.
    Virgil went to Ahlquist, who was talking to another one of the neighbors. “I want to talk to Erikson’s wife as soon as we find her,” Virgil said. “Give me a call?”
    Ahlquist nodded. “She’s on the way, but she’ll be another hour yet.”
     
     
    AS VIRGIL WAS WALKING BACK to his truck, Pye showed up, with Marie Chapman. Virgil walked them across the police tape, and Pye asked, “Is this the guy? The bomber?”
    “The ATF is leaning that way, and they could be right,” Virgil said. “I have some doubts.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like he couldn’t have put the bomb in the Pinnacle. He would have needed an accomplice to plant it. I don’t like the idea of two killers, linking up over that big of a space.”
    Pye peered at the garage, grunted, and said, “You know what? Neither do I. I’m not kissing your ass at this point.”
    Chapman wrote it all down, then said, “Mike Sullivan got out of the hospital. He’s back at the AmericInn, but I think he’s headed home to Wichita tomorrow morning, if you need to talk to him again.”
    Virgil shook his head. “I can’t think of anything more. You guys gonna give up on the store?”
    “Absolutely not,” Pye said. “We’ve already replaced him, and we’ve got another guy coming up to take Kingsley’s spot. Volunteers. I’m paying them triple time, forty hours a week. By the time the store’s up, they’ll have an extra year’s pay in their pockets.”
    Barlow came over. “Mr. Pye. You want to take a look? This may be the guy. . . .”

    VIRGIL LEFT THE SCENE, headed back to the county courthouse. He was halfway back when he saw the AmericInn, and that tripped off a thought about Sullivan, and that tripped off an entirely new thought, about the security cameras at the construction trailer.
    He swerved into the AmericInn parking lot, parked, identified himself to the desk clerk, got Sullivan’s room number. Sullivan’s wife answered the door and said, “Virgil. We heard something happened.”
    “Another bomb.”
    She shivered and said, “I’m glad we’re leaving. Was the man . . . ?”
    “He was killed,” Virgil said. “I need to talk to Mike, just for a second.”
     
     
    SHE STEPPED BACK and let him in. Sullivan was lying on the bed, half asleep. When his wife called him, he dragged open his eyelids, saw Virgil, and asked, “Everybody okay?”
    “No.” Virgil told the story again, then asked his question: “That recorder for the security camera at the trailer—how big was it?”
    Sullivan held his hands eighteen inches apart. “I dunno . . . about like this. It looked like a stereo receiver, or a DVD player, I