the phone fall by his side.
“Shit,” he said. No gas. No heat. And he’d risked exposure. Again. What he really needed was something to help him stay focused; some kind of motivational tool. Maybe one of those calendars like they have in factories. Only instead of saying: “Fifty-nine days since last on-the-job accident,” his would have to say something like, “Three days since last accidental use of supernatural Satanic powers to blow shit up.”
* * *
FBI Agent Bob Robertson was put in charge of the investigation of the explosion of the Washington Gas headquarters. His mandate, broadly speaking, was to answer two questions: First, just what in God’s name happened? (It was a poorly-worded mandate.) Second, how was it that, with the entire headquarters exploding in a giant fireball, all but one of the Washington Gas employees escaped completely unharmed?
Robertson hadn’t a clue. And the forensics guys had been no help at all, concluding only that it looked like there had been an “explosion of some type.”
As for the one Washington Gas employee who had been affected, it wasn’t clear how exactly her condition related to the incident, or if it was even related at all. Her name was Shirley Strickland, and really she was perfectly fine, except for the fact that she seemed to be completely incapable of saying anything other than, “I’m sorry, but if you want to place a service order, you have to call three days in advance.” Robertson had no clue about that either.
He did have one lead, at least – space heaters – for whatever that was worth.
A lot of people in and around Washington, D.C. heat their homes using oil, so the destruction of Washington Gas’ headquarters didn’t cause the kind of panic that might have occurred had the entire D.C. Metroplex suddenly found itself without heating oil in a cool November. Still, there are enough folks there who do rely on natural gas for heat, especially downtown in the apartments and condominiums occupied by the zillions of interns and young professionals. Pretty much all them went out that day and bought space heaters.
Most of the stores in town ran out of space heaters within hours of the explosion. One store, however, sold its entire supply – it had nine on hand – in just thirty minutes. And every single one of the space heaters, it turns out, was purchased by the same person – an individual using a credit card registered in the name of Mr. B. L. Tod, which was the same name the guy in the white Lamborghini had used in signing up for his parking space.
The street address associated with the credit card had been a fake. Fortunately, one of the agents had thought to check the address on the Internet, so the FBI was spared the embarrassment of sending an assault squad to the National Cathedral.
Now, Robertson was back at the office, taking care of some paperwork that had been piling up while he’d been out failing to solve the Washington Gas fiasco. His team was still investigating, but he wasn’t particularly hopeful.
“Bob? Bob! I think I’ve found him!” One of his younger agents stood, leaning halfway over her desk as she continued clicking her mouse. After a few more clicks, she grabbed a couple of sheets of paper off the printer, and headed over to Robertson’s desk.
“Danvers, right?” he said, looking over the pages she’d handed him. Robertson knew Danvers’ name perfectly well, and her perfectly-shaped bottom even better. He studied the page. It looked like – well, he couldn’t tell what it was. He handed it back. “What is this?”
“It’s from an Internet forum,” she said. “Someone has been posting using the handle Bacon, Lettuce, and Death. And apparently he’s a big Star Wars fan.” She nodded and smiled as she said this, apparently thinking that it explained everything.
“Bacon, lettuce, and what?”
“Bacon, Lettuce, and Death,”
“Shit,” he said. No gas. No heat. And he’d risked exposure. Again. What he really needed was something to help him stay focused; some kind of motivational tool. Maybe one of those calendars like they have in factories. Only instead of saying: “Fifty-nine days since last on-the-job accident,” his would have to say something like, “Three days since last accidental use of supernatural Satanic powers to blow shit up.”
* * *
FBI Agent Bob Robertson was put in charge of the investigation of the explosion of the Washington Gas headquarters. His mandate, broadly speaking, was to answer two questions: First, just what in God’s name happened? (It was a poorly-worded mandate.) Second, how was it that, with the entire headquarters exploding in a giant fireball, all but one of the Washington Gas employees escaped completely unharmed?
Robertson hadn’t a clue. And the forensics guys had been no help at all, concluding only that it looked like there had been an “explosion of some type.”
As for the one Washington Gas employee who had been affected, it wasn’t clear how exactly her condition related to the incident, or if it was even related at all. Her name was Shirley Strickland, and really she was perfectly fine, except for the fact that she seemed to be completely incapable of saying anything other than, “I’m sorry, but if you want to place a service order, you have to call three days in advance.” Robertson had no clue about that either.
He did have one lead, at least – space heaters – for whatever that was worth.
A lot of people in and around Washington, D.C. heat their homes using oil, so the destruction of Washington Gas’ headquarters didn’t cause the kind of panic that might have occurred had the entire D.C. Metroplex suddenly found itself without heating oil in a cool November. Still, there are enough folks there who do rely on natural gas for heat, especially downtown in the apartments and condominiums occupied by the zillions of interns and young professionals. Pretty much all them went out that day and bought space heaters.
Most of the stores in town ran out of space heaters within hours of the explosion. One store, however, sold its entire supply – it had nine on hand – in just thirty minutes. And every single one of the space heaters, it turns out, was purchased by the same person – an individual using a credit card registered in the name of Mr. B. L. Tod, which was the same name the guy in the white Lamborghini had used in signing up for his parking space.
The street address associated with the credit card had been a fake. Fortunately, one of the agents had thought to check the address on the Internet, so the FBI was spared the embarrassment of sending an assault squad to the National Cathedral.
Now, Robertson was back at the office, taking care of some paperwork that had been piling up while he’d been out failing to solve the Washington Gas fiasco. His team was still investigating, but he wasn’t particularly hopeful.
“Bob? Bob! I think I’ve found him!” One of his younger agents stood, leaning halfway over her desk as she continued clicking her mouse. After a few more clicks, she grabbed a couple of sheets of paper off the printer, and headed over to Robertson’s desk.
“Danvers, right?” he said, looking over the pages she’d handed him. Robertson knew Danvers’ name perfectly well, and her perfectly-shaped bottom even better. He studied the page. It looked like – well, he couldn’t tell what it was. He handed it back. “What is this?”
“It’s from an Internet forum,” she said. “Someone has been posting using the handle Bacon, Lettuce, and Death. And apparently he’s a big Star Wars fan.” She nodded and smiled as she said this, apparently thinking that it explained everything.
“Bacon, lettuce, and what?”
“Bacon, Lettuce, and Death,”
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