The Cold Moon

pellets of glass.
    12:14:44.
    Hale found himself leaning forward, his weight on the balls of his feet. There was always the possibility that something would go wrong—that securitywould make a last-minute sweep for explosives or that somebody had seen him on the video camera entering the building then leaving suspiciously after a short period of time.
    12:14:52.
    Still, the risk of failure made the victory against boredom that much sweeter. His eyes were riveted on the alleyway behind the HUD building.
    12:14:55.
    12:14:56.
    12:14:57.
    12:14:58.
    12:14:59.
    12:15:00—
    Silently a huge fist of flame and debris shot out of the conference room window. A half second later came the stunning sound of the explosion itself.
    Voices around him. “Oh, my God. What—?”
    Screams.
    “Look, there! What’s that?”
    “God, no!”
    “Call nine-one-one! Somebody . . .”
    Pedestrians were clustering on the sidewalk, staring.
    “A bomb? An airplane?”
    Concern on his face, Hale shook his head, lingering for a moment to savor the success. The explosion seemed bigger than he’d anticipated; the fatalities would be greater than Charlotte and Bud had hoped. It was hard to see how anybody could have survived.
    He turned slowly and continued up the street, where he descended once more into the subway station and took the next train uptown. He emerged at the station and headed toward the Allertons’ hotel, where he’d pick up the rest of his payment.
    Charles Hale was satisfied. He’d staved off boredom and had earned some good money.
    Most important, though, was the breathtaking elegance of what he’d done. He’d created a plan that had worked perfectly—like clockwork, he thought, enjoying the self-conscious simile.

Chapter 39
    “Oh, thank you,” Charlotte whispered, speaking both to Jesus and to the man who’d made their mission a success.
    She was sitting forward, staring at the TV. The special news report about the evacuation of the Metropolitan Museum and the halting of public transportation in the area had been replaced by a different story—the bombing at the HUD building. Charlotte squeezed her husband’s hand. Bud leaned over and kissed her. He smiled like a young boy.
    The news anchorwoman was grim—despite her restrained pleasure at being on duty when such a big story broke—as she gave what details there were: A bomb had gone off within the Housing and Urban Development building in lower Manhattan, where a number of senior government and military officials had been attending a ceremony. An undersecretary of state and the head of the Joint Chiefs were present. The cameras showed smoke pouring from the windows of a conference room. The important detail—the casualty count—had not come in yet, though at least fifty people were in the room where the bomb detonated.
    A talking head popped up on the screen; his complete lack of knowledge of the event didn’t stop him from drawing the conclusion that this was the job of fundamentalist Islamic terrorists.
    They’d soon know differently.
    “Look, honey, we did it!” Charlotte called to her daughter, who had remained in the bedroom, lost in a book. (That satanic Harry Potter. Charlottehad thrown out two of them. Where on earth had the girl gotten another copy?)
    The girl gave an exasperated sigh and returned to the book.
    Charlotte was momentarily furious. She wanted to storm into the bedroom and slap the girl’s face as hard as she could. They’d just won a spectacular victory and the girl was showing nothing but disrespect. Bud had asked several times if he could take a hickory stick to the girl’s bare butt. Charlotte had demurred but she was now wondering if maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.
    Still, her anger faded when she thought of their victory today. She stood up. “We better leave.” She shut the TV off and continued packing a suitcase. Bud walked into the bedroom to do the same. They were going to drive to Philadelphia, where they’d get a plane back to St. Louis—Duncan had told them to avoid the New York airports afterward. They’d then return to the backwoods of Missouri and go underground again—waiting for the next opportunity to further their cause.
    Gerald Duncan would be here soon. He’d collect the rest of his money and leave town too. She wondered if she could convert him to their cause. She’d spoken to him about the idea but he wasn’t interested, though he said he’d be more than happy to help them out again if