Читать книгу The Face of Freedom - Benjamin Vance - Страница 19

The sickeningly strong impact swayed the big Balsam Fir, but couldn’t uproot it. The walker was more shaken, because he thought it was part of a horrible dream. He quickly realized it was his reality, picked up his pack and covered himself with the blanket he’d been wrapped in. He slowly moved under cover of adjacent trees so as to defeat infra-red sensors which would be looking at the carnage from Langley or where ever, via satellite. He didn’t have time to think of revenge. That would come later.

The reporter from the local newspaper arrived on the scene earlier than most, because she’d been in her bed within a mile of the blast. This wasn’t her first barbeque either. She covered the carnage of Iraq troops by American fighters as the troops tried to escape from Kuwait. She’d been in and out of Iraq’s green zone for two years and been offered a position in Afghanistan by Reuters. She said that she, “Had her fill of war and its bullshit”, and refused the job in Kabul. She sometimes wished she’d taken it though, especially tonight. Most things were black and white in war, and it was “us and them”. Things like kids in a cancer ward and explosions in the dead of night that killed innocent people were not her forte.

She couldn’t accept the randomness of death by trauma or disease. Sometimes she’d lay in bed at night while hot tears streaked her face and wonder why she hadn’t been killed in Iraq. She’d been in the thick of things and been raped by a stinking pig of an Iraqi policeman shortly after she arrived in country. She’d been too trusting; naïve. She couldn’t shake the feeling of helplessness and the justifiable rage she harbored against her government and her employer for letting it happen, and then for blowing it off when she reported it.

She arrived at the explosion site early, just after the fire and ambulance guys arrived. She knew there would be no need for the ambulance tonight; just a coroner’s van to pick up the parts. The house looked like it exploded from the inside out. She saw debris almost a quarter of a mile away on the road going in.Although the homes were separated by a thick growth of trees and were about fifty yards apart, the house across the road and adjacent homes had sustained severe damage as well. However, it was her sole and immediate consensus no one was dead in the adjoining homes, because everyone was standing in their yards gawking. The first responders found parts of what looked like at least two bodies in the home that exploded.

A couple of guys in DHS jackets arrived just after she did. She wondered what the hell they were doing there. She approached one of the men to introduce herself, while keeping an ear cocked for anything juicy.

“Hi. I’m Martha Matly. I represent the Coeur d’Alene Press. What are you guys doing at this site? What do you think happened? Do you have any comments?”

The officer said, “Hello Ms. Matly,” and did not offer his hand or his name. “We believe this was a secondary gas explosion and possibly a suicide and murder. We believe there was an FBI informant in there and he may have been off the reservation. We’re trying to piece together the situation with the fire fighters and local police now.”

“I don’t see any local police. I wonder why they’re not here yet. The local cops are usually pretty quick.”

“I was wondering about that too. My partner has talked to them telephonically and perhaps they had to call up some officers from their beds or they may have some other major issues at present. How else can I help you Ms. Matly?”

“Well, you can give me your name and your partner’s name if you want.”

“I don’t want,” was the reply.

Not to be put off, Martha tried his pride side. “Well, I was looking for some names so you guys can see your names in print tomorrow, or today really. You’ll make the evening news. Or maybe you’d be on TV, rather than in an old newspaper.”

He just said he had no comment and excused himself from her presence and pulled out his cell phone. She began to get an eerie feeling at the base of her spine. She walked into the road, almost to the other side of the street where neighbors were standing. She looked beyond the bend in the road and saw flashing red and blue lights on a patrol car. It was blocking the road.

She murmured, “What the hell”, and started toward the onlookers. She introduced herself and asked if anyone was hurt. No one seemed to be, but they had plenty of damage to their homes, and were justifiably worried. One gentleman asked if she’d gotten anything out of the …“FBI or whatever guys.” She said no, and suggested it was a natural gas explosion. The man said, “Bullshit, there’s no natural gas in this area. They won’t put it in. Maybe old Ike Larson had some propane in the basement that went off.” She didn’t think so.

She questioned the folks until a local police car arrived on the scene. The cop walked straight to the little gaggle of concerned onlookers and singled her out. He asked if she was Ms. Matly from the Press. She affirmed that she was, and the officer asked her to call her boss. She did as requested. Her boss, Joanna Pinks, told her to leave the area and come to her office immediately. She agreed to do so and was at the office in twenty minutes. By the time she arrived she had a thousand questions to ask Joanna Pinks.

Joanna had a strange look on her face when Martha walked in. Joanna asked, “What did you find out? I want to hear every single bit. Don’t spare anything. You were the only reporter in the area, and probably because you practically live there. The Department of Homeland Security or the FBI or something strange has put a damper on the place. The word I hear is that it was a natural gas explosion. What’s your take? The local FBI agent in charge told me to get you the hell out of there. Can you believe it?”

Martha said, “A bunch of bullshit I’d say. The folks across the road from the demolished home say there is no natural gas in the area. The place looks like a bomb hit it. There’s no fire at all. Usually, in a gas explosion there’s still a fire somewhere. Also, there was apparently an FBI agent, or some government agent in the house. Did you run a check on the address yet?”

“I don’t know which house it was, remember. I wasn’t there. I’ve already got the county tax search on line though. What was the address?”

Martha told her, they looked it up and found Ike’s name. They Googled and found he was a USMC veteran of Vietnam and Iraq. They wondered if he was young enough to make both wars; did the math and decided he was. He was highly decorated and had been a member of Defense Security Agency for a while.

They wondered who the other person had been. Was it a girlfriend, a buddy from the FBI? Probably not a wife, since she died about a year earlier, was in their obits and they’d been married forty years. They hashed it over while brainstorming possible causes for the explosion. Martha thought it was a bomb. They discussed the possibility the Marine was a terrorist, looked at each other, shook their heads and went on. They also thought maybe the other body or bodies were a relative or friends from the FBI, staying over, or just a working girl or another retired Marine ... .

Martha finally said, “The guy with the DHS windbreaker said there was possibly an FBI agent in there. That means there had to be some kind of agent in there. Why would an FBI agent be in there? You think Quantico? Ike Larson was probably at Quantico ... he was an ex-marine. The FBI trains there too. Did Ike Larson and his wife have any kids? You think we can find a file?”

“If not, we’ll die trying. We‘re gonna get to the bottom of this stinking fish.”

Meanwhile, the walker found his way to the seedier part of town. He found an all-night convenience store and purchased some bottled water and lip balm. He made sure to look directly at the security camera before he left. It was just starting to get light outside and he stopped in a small restaurant; just opened. He sat at a table with his back to the wall and ordered five scrambled eggs, four slices of whole-wheat toast with butter and preserves and ten strips of bacon. He could see no security camera in the restaurant.He drank three glasses of whole milk and enjoyed the conversation with the waitress who was in awe of his eating prowess. He simply had to put away some carbs for the fifty mile walk to Spokane. If he made it, he had a plane to catch.