show us her ass. Even Callie would admit that.
I lower her from my shoulder so she can stand comfortably, and sidestep her attempt to kick my shin. She takes a deep breath, preparing to scream, but just before the sound comes, I say, “If you’re about to scream, pull your pants back up so the others won’t see you naked.”
It takes her a second to realize her pants are still around her knees. She pulls them up. Then—without so much as a thank you for protecting her modesty—she screams bloody murder. Callie grabs her throat and gives it a pinch.
The screaming stops.
As people come pouring into the tent, Callie whispers something into Abbey’s ear. I frown at Joe for letting the deputies and others get past him, but he’s just a kid. A bomb-builder, not an assassin. If they knew he was a bomb-builder they’d fear him. But you know what they say about “if.” —If your aunt had wings and a nut sack she’d be your uncle, in heaven.
“What the hell’s going on here?” the deputy yells.
Abbey tries to speak, but her voice won’t cooperate. Finally she squeaks, “Everything’s fine. I just had a flashback to when Darryl got shot.”
I ask, “Who else had grease marks on their butts?”
A woman and a young man raise their hands.
“You’re Millie Reston?”
She nods.
I look at the kid. “Who are you ?”
“Ellwood Fillmore. My parents own Fillmore’s Grocery.”
“Abbey washed the evidence off her backside,” I say. “What about you guys?”
“I did too,” Millie says. “No one told us it was evidence.”
I look at Ellwood. “And you?”
“Hey, if it ain’t Saturday, I don’t bathe.”
“Well, hey, Ellwood,” I say, pointing at his pants. “Since it ain’t Saturday, shuck ’em.”
“What? Right here? In front of everyone?”
“No. Just me and the blonde. Everyone else out. Now!”
When they leave, Ellwood asks what right we have to make him strip. Callie takes care of it by telling him he’s a hero. Says his ass could save the country from terrorism. He reluctantly removes his pants, and sure enough, the letters BWC are written on his ass. Callie and I take pictures with our cell phones. Then mine rings, and Larry the dwarf tells me a woman named Emma Wilson checked into the airport hotel in Memphis just after 3:00 a.m. She’s in Room 232, and so is her phone.
“Our driver will be there in ten minutes,” Larry says.
I hang up and tell Callie and Joe we need to hustle back to the chopper.
“We’re going to Memphis?” Callie says.
“We are.”
“I had plans for this afternoon.”
“What time?”
“Two o’clock, give or take.”
“You might need to postpone.”
“I’d rather not.”
I know better than to ask Callie about her plans. We’re determined not to have that type of relationship. So I say, “I’ll have the chopper drop me off in Memphis, then you and Joe can take it back to New York City.”
“I’d like to get back to Vegas,” Joe says.
“Fine. You can catch a commercial flight out of Memphis.”
He says, “You want to hear my take on the explosion?”
“Of course.”
The crop duster was equipped with a conventional explosive. Probably a canister that fit in the cargo bay. They rigged a trap door, pressed a button, dropped the payload. Then used a scatter charge to detonate it.”
“Sheriff said it was a dust bomb.”
“The canister was filled with powdered aluminum.”
“Why?”
“The first explosion created a mushroom cloud of aluminum powder. Then the grease guy fired a thermobaric warhead from the ground into the cloud.”
“To enhance the explosion?”
“Right.”
Callie says, “Why not just drop a bigger bomb from the crop duster?”
Joe says, “They probably just had the one crop duster, and needed the two-step process to do enough damage.”
“But they didn’t kill anyone.”
“Only because they didn’t want to.”
“So it’s not a terrorist attack,” Callie says.
“I think it was,” I say.
I lower her from my shoulder so she can stand comfortably, and sidestep her attempt to kick my shin. She takes a deep breath, preparing to scream, but just before the sound comes, I say, “If you’re about to scream, pull your pants back up so the others won’t see you naked.”
It takes her a second to realize her pants are still around her knees. She pulls them up. Then—without so much as a thank you for protecting her modesty—she screams bloody murder. Callie grabs her throat and gives it a pinch.
The screaming stops.
As people come pouring into the tent, Callie whispers something into Abbey’s ear. I frown at Joe for letting the deputies and others get past him, but he’s just a kid. A bomb-builder, not an assassin. If they knew he was a bomb-builder they’d fear him. But you know what they say about “if.” —If your aunt had wings and a nut sack she’d be your uncle, in heaven.
“What the hell’s going on here?” the deputy yells.
Abbey tries to speak, but her voice won’t cooperate. Finally she squeaks, “Everything’s fine. I just had a flashback to when Darryl got shot.”
I ask, “Who else had grease marks on their butts?”
A woman and a young man raise their hands.
“You’re Millie Reston?”
She nods.
I look at the kid. “Who are you ?”
“Ellwood Fillmore. My parents own Fillmore’s Grocery.”
“Abbey washed the evidence off her backside,” I say. “What about you guys?”
“I did too,” Millie says. “No one told us it was evidence.”
I look at Ellwood. “And you?”
“Hey, if it ain’t Saturday, I don’t bathe.”
“Well, hey, Ellwood,” I say, pointing at his pants. “Since it ain’t Saturday, shuck ’em.”
“What? Right here? In front of everyone?”
“No. Just me and the blonde. Everyone else out. Now!”
When they leave, Ellwood asks what right we have to make him strip. Callie takes care of it by telling him he’s a hero. Says his ass could save the country from terrorism. He reluctantly removes his pants, and sure enough, the letters BWC are written on his ass. Callie and I take pictures with our cell phones. Then mine rings, and Larry the dwarf tells me a woman named Emma Wilson checked into the airport hotel in Memphis just after 3:00 a.m. She’s in Room 232, and so is her phone.
“Our driver will be there in ten minutes,” Larry says.
I hang up and tell Callie and Joe we need to hustle back to the chopper.
“We’re going to Memphis?” Callie says.
“We are.”
“I had plans for this afternoon.”
“What time?”
“Two o’clock, give or take.”
“You might need to postpone.”
“I’d rather not.”
I know better than to ask Callie about her plans. We’re determined not to have that type of relationship. So I say, “I’ll have the chopper drop me off in Memphis, then you and Joe can take it back to New York City.”
“I’d like to get back to Vegas,” Joe says.
“Fine. You can catch a commercial flight out of Memphis.”
He says, “You want to hear my take on the explosion?”
“Of course.”
The crop duster was equipped with a conventional explosive. Probably a canister that fit in the cargo bay. They rigged a trap door, pressed a button, dropped the payload. Then used a scatter charge to detonate it.”
“Sheriff said it was a dust bomb.”
“The canister was filled with powdered aluminum.”
“Why?”
“The first explosion created a mushroom cloud of aluminum powder. Then the grease guy fired a thermobaric warhead from the ground into the cloud.”
“To enhance the explosion?”
“Right.”
Callie says, “Why not just drop a bigger bomb from the crop duster?”
Joe says, “They probably just had the one crop duster, and needed the two-step process to do enough damage.”
“But they didn’t kill anyone.”
“Only because they didn’t want to.”
“So it’s not a terrorist attack,” Callie says.
“I think it was,” I say.
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