The Big Dig (22 page)

The dog strained at the
leash and I quickened my pace. My eyes had made what adjustment they could, but it was darker than I'd anticipated, true country dark rather than the city glow to which I'd grown accustomed. I could hear Walsh's—damn,
Wells's
—footsteps, faintly echoing my own. The dog padded silently. I could barely hear her panting breath. Underfoot, the brown leaves were limp and damp, a heavy winter mulch that sucked at the soles of my boots. The cold was thick and moist, a blanket that chilled rather than warmed. I risked a beam from my flash, shielding it, aiming it low.

The four buildings within the compound were spread out much as they'd been on the hastily sketched FBI map. There was a trailer set on concrete blocks, smaller than the construction site office, a large weathered barn where the mailman thought people slept, a narrow shed, possibly for equipment storage, and what looked like an outhouse, with a half-moon cutout on the door. Windows in shed, trailer, and barn were few and small. The last light, a candle burning on the sill of the trailer, had flickered and died before midnight, and no lights had been spotted since.

The silence was heavy and deep, creeping like fog out of the old pine forest. A murmur of wind brushed my neck. I thought about FBI watchers in the trees as the leash grew taut, and my spine prickled. We emerged from the woods fifty yards from the river at the same time a sliver of moon appeared from behind a bank of clouds. I flicked off the flashlight and hugged the ground, listening.

A man named Henry, Ryan Henry, a ringer for Rogers Walters, had sublet the campground eight months ago. He ran an animal shelter, the original lessee understood, a refuge for elderly pets who might otherwise be destroyed. Only other thing he knew, the man sent the rent on time. Eight months is a long time to maintain armed vigilance and I was hoping the troops had slacked off, trusting to the dogs that ran free within the fences, dogs that ought to be sleeping now, thanks to hamburger liberally dosed with sleeping pills. I tugged gently on the leash. I didn't want Tandy eating any of that meat.

She whimpered and urged me forward. She hesitated, sniffed the ground, pulled in the direction of the narrow shed. I checked out the rough path as far as my flash would illuminate. Trip wires were a staple of survivalist groups, the FBI advisor had warned. My turn to scoff; dogs and trip wires don't mix. Advisors, experts, agents—I'd had my fill. The kidnapping experts said it wasn't technically a kidnapping, since kidnapping is for money. They labeled it a hostage situation. The hostage negotiating team said it wasn't a classic hostage situation either. Both groups seemed to value deniability more highly than responsibility, and a hit-and-run rescue plan had been approved only because we were running out of time and options. There wasn't time for a standoff, and no one wanted to risk coming in with guns blazing, not with potential armed resistance. No one wanted an Eastern Waco, a new rallying cry, another April nineteenth to remember. One thing the experts agreed on: If the plan was to be successful, no one communicates, no one escapes.

Tandy pulled and I moved, running lightly behind her, Wells behind me.

The shed's only door was to the northeast, blocked from view by a huge pile of dirt. A rusty bulldozer sat five yards away, just as the truck driver had described. If I were holding prisoners in an old wooden shed with warped boards, I might kill them after their usefulness had come to an end, then knock the whole damned place down with the 'dozer and cover it with cheap dirt. Two birds, one stone. Get rid of telltale dirt from a secret tunnel, build a funeral mound.

If the shed door hadn't been blocked by the dirt pile and the 'dozer, the watchers in the trees would have spotted the huge silver padlock earlier, warned us. An iron chain looped twice around the doorjamb through a slotted latch. Wells swore under his breath while Tandy whimpered and put her nose to the door. I gave her the “quiet” sign, touched her tawny fur. Wells kneeled and removed his backpack and I did the same. I pointed the flash as he unzipped a pouch, sorted through lock picks.

“Hold it steady.”

“Wait. Let's check the chain.” I played the light over the looped metal. At first, I saw new galvanized links, but then the chain went dark and splotchy. It was a hybrid, with a section of old rusty links.

“Bolt cutter?”

Wells supplied the tool and the upper body strength. One of the old links snapped neatly in half. Tandy pawed the ground while I slowly unwound the broken chain. The door creaked when it opened. There was a muffled snort of surpise, maybe dismay, maybe fear. I couldn't see, but I could smell, and the place smelled like an outhouse. I made sure the door was closed before I turned on the flash.

The straw under my feet was matted and dank. Two bodies—women, prisoners—were lying on the unclean straw, their arms bound behind their backs, their legs roped as well. Tandy yanked so hard I almost lost the end of the leash. Wells put a warning hand on my shoulder. He had his flash out, too, and he played it slowly over the women. I knew he had to make sure they weren't rigged, wired, connected to explosives, but it was hard not to approach them immediately, loosen the tight bonds.

I breathed through my mouth. They were filthy, one blonde, one dark haired, facedown on the straw. Dark-hair moved and tried to speak. Her voice was muffled by the bandana wrapped tightly around her face, but she managed a noise, a double syllable that could have been “Tandy.”

“Okay,” Wells murmured.

“Don't try to talk.” I started on the thick rope at Veejay's feet. My fingers fumbled the knots and I thought I might need the bolt cutter, but then something gave and the ropes loosened. I had to roll her to the side to get the knots at her wrists. She struggled to keep her face out of the straw. Finally my fingers released the tightly bound bandana.

“Tandy,” she whispered in a rusty voice. “Who—”

“Keep quiet. Dana sent me.”

“They'll kill me, kill us, kill everybody—”

“Shhh.”

While I was untying Veejay, Wells was doing the same with Krissi. I could hear him murmuring soft encouragement, see tears streaking her grimy face, blood caking one corner of her mouth. Her eyes were wild and staring. She looked nothing like the glossy photo on her mother's desk and I wondered whether she could be restored like a damaged photograph, whether she would ever be the same.

“Who are you?” I heard her whisper.

“FBI. Can you move your right arm?”

The door creaked at the same time I heard the bolt slide on a rifle. Rogers Walters's voice sounded along with an explosion of light, a beam that caught me square in the eyes, made me squint. “Drop the weapons.
Now
. Let me hear them hit the floor. Drop them or I shoot the little blondie on three. One, two—”

I pressed the tiny device at my waist, the move-in signal, the Mayday.
No one communicates, no one escapes
. At the same time I dropped my S&W at my feet. A nearby thunk told me Wells had done likewise.

“Now back away. Girls, down in the straw. Do as I say, dammit!” Veronica went to her knees first. She had to take Krissi's hand and tug to make her follow. Krissi's face was pitiful—bewildered, tearful, and stoic at the same time. With both prisoners wallowing around in the straw, I couldn't hear Tandy, couldn't see her in the shadows.

“And now you two.
Move!
Up against the wall.”

I caught Wells's eye and we tried to get some distance between us, but Walters ordered us to stay close. One of him, two of us. His rifle was a semiautomatic.

“FBI?” Walters said bitterly. “I hear you right?” He jerked the barrel for emphasis.

“Right,” Wells said.

“Then I assume you're not alone.”

“We're only here for Krissi. Why not let her go? How is she a danger to anyone?”

“How is she a danger? Hell, how was Randy Weaver's wife a danger? How was David Koresh a danger? A man of God, a scholar?”

“Did you know Mr. Koresh?” I could almost feel Wells willing Walters to go on, keep talking, tell us the whole story, long and detailed,
give us time
.

“No, but I know you. You're FBI and that means you're lying. If you're FBI, the whole damned place is surrounded. I saw one of the dogs down; that's what brought me out. I should have woken—never mind.”

“I won't lie to you,” I said. “The place is surrounded.” If he hadn't roused the others, they could be taken easily. If we could keep Walters talking, keep him from firing

“You!” he said. “He told me—I thought you were just a busybody PI.”

“I am.”

“Well, too bad. We don't take prisoners, not since Waco. We know you don't take prisoners either, not patriot prisoners, and we're all ready to die here.”

“You don't have to,” Wells said. “At least, send the children away. Are the kids yours?”

“Shut up,
boy
.”

Wells flinched at the word. And then I saw Veronica's arm move, heard her low command, and saw the streak that was Tandy arch through the air. For half a second, Walters stood frozen; he was ready to kill us, to let his children die, but he was unprepared or unwilling to shoot a dog.

Wells threw himself at Walters, grabbing him around the knees, bringing him toppling down like a felled tree. There was a deafening blast and one corner of my mind thought,
That will wake the others, dammit
. I scrabbled inside the top of my boot, came out with Horgan's borrowed automatic. Walters had raised himself to one knee. He was aiming at Kristal, prone on the straw, hands pressed to her ears. She was screaming, screaming, and I knew I couldn't get a shot off in time, wouldn't be able to stop the execution. I couldn't see Wells, didn't know if he'd been hit or where he'd been hit.

Veronica turned, looked, launched herself, not at Walters but at Krissi, over Krissi, shielding the younger girl with her body. At the same time I heard the report, saw blood blossom on her back.

I shot Walters, kept firing till he went down. There were noises everywhere, running, lights and flares. But no one came inside the shed, no one tried the door. Krissi clutched the dog and moaned; she half-crawled, half-wriggled out from under Veejay, who lay motionless. I ripped off my coat, my shirt, made a bandage and applied pressure to the woman's back, felt my shirt grow warm and wet.

It seemed like hours before help came, but I found out later that the whole operation, from the Mayday to the round-up, took a total of eight minutes.

Two helicopters took off from the clearing, big and black enough to furnish a thousand New World Order nightmares: First, the medical flight, airlifting Veronica and the other wounded; then the FBI chopper. I was strapped into the second bird, disoriented by the view through the Plexiglas floor, deafened by the roar of the rotor blades. Wells sat on my right. He'd been struck with the rifle butt, stunned not shot. I realized my teeth were chattering, pressed my lips together before the enamel chipped.

Kristal Horgan, on my left, rested her forehead against the smooth body of the bird. Someone had given her a clean jumpsuit that hung off her slender frame. She gazed out the window with a thousand-yard stare.

No one escapes, no one communicates
. The FBI had cut phone lines, jammed wireless frequencies, silenced the local press so efficiently it was no wonder they were feared and hated. Despite Walters's defiant words, they had taken prisoners north of Derry, four of them, at least, alive. Two, Erica and Harold, I recognized from Charles River Dog Care. Two were combat-fatigue-wearing strangers, both male, with shaven heads. Rogers Walters was dead.

One of the combat-clad strangers sat across from me, handcuffed and manacled, guarded by a square-cut Fed. His slight build and callused hands had drawn immediate attention. So far he had refused to discuss the particulars of the tunnel, but I imagined pressure would be brought to bear.

I felt Walsh's—Wells's—touch. He shot me a questioning glance and I nodded to say I was tracking, I was okay.

“Where do we put down?” I yelled.

“Not Logan. Take too long to get into position.”

“Why the hurry?” If
no one escapes, no one communicates
had worked, there should be time.

“Ops says there could be a fail-safe code. Something like if you don't hear from us every two hours, blow it. Wham.”

“What does he say?” I indicated the handcuffed man.

“He says no. But whose side is he on?” Wells shrugged. “Another thing. Heywood wasn't at the camp, and we haven't got a line on him. Address on his employment stuff is a phony, bad phone number, too. He could be down in the tunnel, and if he doesn't hear from Walters—”

Wham.

“What about Heywood's KA's?” KA's are known associates. Prison buddies, cellmates, in particular.

“What are you looking for, Carlotta?
Who?
”

I shook my head and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. Soon, I'd have to sleep. For a moment I imagined myself inside the other chopper, watching colored lights pulsing across screens hooked to the still figure of a dark-haired girl. Veronica had been alive, barely, when they'd taken off.

“When can I call my client?” I asked without opening my eyes.

“I don't know.”

I'd given up my cell in exchange for a Kevlar vest. It hadn't been my choice and the cell hadn't been returned. The FBI didn't trust me, and it's true, I'd have called Dana, told her to meet Veejay at Mass General. It's not like I would have phoned
Hard Copy
to sell some scoop about a bomb under Faneuil Hall, to tell the world that depending on the time, depending on what the Feds learned from the captured “patriots,” there were two alternative plans to deal with it.

The favorite: Flood the tunnel, force the bastards out while neutralizing the bombs. Much of the tunnel was thought to consist of ancient watertight sewage pipes. City engineers and Dig engineers, water and sewer employees, were confident they could quickly pump in enough water to neutralize explosives and drown anyone who refused to surrender. If I'd read the signs right, correctly interpreted the rat business from the start, I thought bleakly, it would be over by now. Where had the Horgan site rats come from if not the reopened sewer tunnel?

The fallback plan, to take the tunnel by storm, dropping agents into manholes, pouring them into the mouth of the tunnel via the locked storage shed, was favored by few. The fallback plan would cost lives. The tunnel was undoubtedly booby-trapped. One older agent, visibly shaken, had paled and left the room during a discussion that ranged from sharpened sticks to trip wires to land mines, and someone murmured that the man had been a tunnel rat in Vietnam.

“
He told me,
” Rogers Walters had said. “
He told me
—I thought you were just a busybody PI.” I opened my eyes as the helicopter swerved, shut them as my stomach lurched in reaction.
Who told him?
Who had warned him about me? The night watchman? What if neither Heywood nor Walters was the lead player? Walters ran the dog care company as a blind. Heywood came in as a night watchman late in the game. Was there a “patriot” on the Dig, someone who'd recognized the Horgan site as an extraordinary opportunity? Horgan wouldn't have kidnapped his own child, subjected her to the kind of conditions she'd survived in the camp. I considered Happy Eddie Conklin.

“Landing! Coming in.” The intercom voice opened my eyes. Possibly I'd slept. Beside me, Krissi lifted her head and tried a smile that trembled, flickered, and went out like a broken bulb. I watched the ground tilt.

The helipad, atop a financial-district skyscraper, was thick with men in suits. They converged with guys in coveralls and vests, a cross between an honor guard and a posse. Walkie-talkies were standard issue and so were forty-caliber automatics. Agents urged Kristal into one elevator, hustled the handcuffed terrorist into another. He—I overheard the barked commands—would be whisked directly to a waiting van in the basement garage, shuttled to command headquarters at the JFK Building.

Time kicked into fast-forward. Wells squeezed my arm. “Stay with the girl. Her parents should be arriving in the lobby.” The brisk, order-giving atmosphere seemed to have rubbed off on him.

“They could have been watching the house—” I protested.

“If they were, we grabbed them.” The FBI was
we
now, I was
other
. He rejoined a group of agents. Hands slapped his back and he shook someone's outstretched hand.

“I'm coming with you,” I said. “I know the tunnel entrance, the—”

“So do I. Stay with Kristal.
Stay with her.
”

I hadn't negotiated beyond New Hampshire and the woman I'd been hired to rescue, the woman who, with luck, would be in an operating room by now. Wells disappeared into the crowded elevator to the right, and I stepped into the elevator on the left, with Kristal, to avoid getting abandoned on the roof. The doors slid shut and machinery whirred.

Machinery.
The FBI machine had taken charge.

The doors slid open onto Gerry and Liz Horgan, still as statues, flanked by agents, and Kristal fell into their arms. You say that,
fell into their arms
, but she really did it, taking her mother with her to the floor, where they hugged and sobbed, until Mr. Horgan joined them, kneeling, one arm around his wife, the other holding his daughter so tightly I worried about her ribs.

“Sir.” The agent who spoke needed an inch more jaw to be a classic.

Horgan ignored him, pressing his face into Krissi's filthy hair.

“Sir, an ambulance is waiting to take your daughter to New England Medical Center.”

“But I want to go home,” the girl wailed. She'd been talking, talking, about Veronica, and her missing dog, and taking a bath,
please,
a bath.

“That woman stole her?” Liz Horgan said. “The dog woman?”

And saved her life
. I wondered whether Krissi realized what Veronica had done.

“Sir, your wife will accompany your daughter to the hospital. You're with us.”

“I need to stay with Krissi!” he insisted.

“Sir, we brought her back. That was our part of the deal, and now we need your cooperation.” I didn't envy Horgan. I'd heard the agents talking. Every item he'd ordered, every person he'd hired, every shift he'd made in the schedule or the plans would be mined for information about the terrorists and their tunnel.

“Hey,” I called to the agent who was busy peeling father from daughter. “Let me ask him something. Gerry! Mr. Horgan—”

“What? Oh—Carla—Miss—” He seemed dazed.

“A symbol,” I said. “Wavy yellow lines over a blue moon, a tiny red star in the corner. Did you ever see a man or a woman with a tattoo like that, wearing that symbol on a bracelet or a necklace?” More than ever, it seemed to me, that symbol might have gotten Fournier killed. If he'd found his “good luck charm” on-site, thought it might be linked to some sort of illegal activity … He'd tried blackmail with Liz Horgan, maybe he tried it with someone else.

“No. No, I don't remember anything like that.”

“C'mon,” the agent said impatiently. “We're out of here. Let's go.”

“Take care of my daughter, my wife—”

“We got 'em,” the agent said. “They're okay. Let's go.”

“Please.” The boss tore his eyes away from his daughter and stared at me, eyes pleading.

I nodded. I'd stick.

“Thank you,” he mumbled.

They bustled him off, surrounded by agents. Liz Horgan and I were left with the girl and several agents of junior rank, one an older man whose main duty seemed to be the ineffectual patting of shoulders.

Not until we were in the ambulance on our way to the hospital, with Kristal lying blank-faced on a gurney, blankets drawn to her chin, did Liz Horgan approach. I thought she might echo her husband's thanks, but she seemed distracted. She pushed her hair off her forehead and said, “Can I tell you something, privately?”

I nodded, thinking either she would or she wouldn't. She looked like the coin was still in the air, waiting to drop, heads or tails.

“I love my husband,” she said.

If that was the private communiqué, it was safe with me, I thought.

“I wouldn't want him to know. I wouldn't want him to know where the FBI learned it. I wouldn't want the police to know. They talk. No one can know. You'd have to give me your word.”

“Depends on what you're getting at.”

She bit her lip. “You asked Gerry about—about a symbol, a—a tattoo.”

I snapped to attention then. Inside, so it didn't show. “I did. Yes.”

“Is it important?”

“Yes.” I thought about adding life and death, but let it go. I didn't want to discourage her.

“I know someone, a man, with a tattoo like that.”

“Who?”

“I wouldn't want my husband to know. The tattoo is not someplace where, um, a casual acquaintance would happen to see it.”

Low on the small of his back. That's where Roz's tat man had placed them on the men.

“Who?” I repeated.

The ambulance took a sharp corner and she staggered slightly. “Harv O'Day.”

Harv O'Day, the site supervisor, keeper of the time cards. Wiry and small, a born tunneler.