to the downed gunner. I banged through the door and with my Magnum leveled at the fallen guy in jeans went to my knees next to him.
He was still alive.
I looked at Forte, who had a couple of fingers on the neck of the guy I shot. He shook his head.
My guy was gurgling, blood oozing from between his lips. Trying to talk. Not having much luck. I bent close to his mouth. “What? Who are you?”
Sputtering, spraying droplets of blood, it sounded like, “Scab.”
Then he passed.
1936
The strains of music filled the Howard household on the 40-acre farm near Rosa Road. Mother played the piano, earning some additional money playing for dances on Saturday nights at the Dew Valley Club. Father fiddled while the kids had guitars, mandolins, harmonicas, accordions and drums to add to the musical thunder.
A big family with eight children, three boys, five girls. Hard working. Happy. Until September 26th.
Fifteen-year-old Jim and ten-year-old Bob were busy cutting and stacking wood. They had spent the summer turning timber into eight cords of wood that would heat their home during the cold weather. Lacking electricity in their house, canning and jarring produce from their family’s garden, large and abundant, was tremendously important. Literally hundreds of quarts of meat, fruit and vegetables would supplement their farm-grown cows, chickens, pigs and geese.
The boys, home alone and in the midst of cutting wood, smelled the smoke first. Bitter. Neighbors reported a fast-moving fire was heading toward their homestead. They should gather their things and get away.
Not far from the house, the fire pushed its head to the crowns of nearby trees; angry, devilish, overwhelming.
Hoping to save some of the canned food, the boys moved jars to the garden area, hoping that being in the open would save them. They helped setting backfires to no avail.
Trying to escape on Rosa Road, they ran into a wall of fire that had jumped the tarmac. Returning to Two Mile Road and down to Highway 101, they headed north, two of their three dogs in tow – the other lost to the fire.
Smoke so thick, the highway virtually disappeared. But the Howard boys eventually reached Bandon, leaving behind everything but two dogs and their father’s .22 rifle that remains in the family.
CHAPTER FIVE
FOUR HOURS, 41 MINUTES
Within minutes, Forte strung yellow crime scene tape he kept stashed in his cruiser’s trunk; ordered Billy – his second in command – to the Continuum Center to hold down the fort and cajoled the State Police into sending at least a couple of troopers to Bandon, arguing his own officers were busy trying to find at least three dozen bombs.
Turning to me, “Are you sure he said ‘scab’?”
“Hey, the guy was gurgling blood and his eyes were rolling to the back of his head. It sounded like scab.”
Forte shook his head. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Any identification?” Sal asked.
Forte shook his head. “Neither had a wallet or ID. We took their weapons. Hope to track ‘em down through the serial numbers. I’ll have Beth run ‘em.”
The Chief’s eyes were blood shot, his skin seemingly aging as I watched him.
“You think these two guys have something to do with the bombs?”
Forte shrugged. “Who the hell knows? My guess? Sure. They’re not locals for certain. I’d recognize ‘em, probably.”
Sal pulled away, ducked under the yellow tape and walked to the center of First Street where he pulled out his iPhone and began talking quietly to someone. I watched him nod, mutter, nod again and click the phone off.
When he returned, “What’s up big man?”
“Not sure. Will let you know when I know.”
“Calling in ground support from the CIA?”
“Never was, nor…”
“…would you ever be CIA.” I finished. To Forte, “Does the school or PD have a way of broadcasting text messages to locals? Time to evacuate the town, don’t you think?”
“I’ve been putting that off, hoping we could get a handle on this thing. The mayor and I had this conversation earlier. We figure it’ll only take a few hours to get people out. I’ve already got my guys ready to circle the wagons and go door to door if necessary. If the bombs are set to go off at 4:30, then 2 o’clock will work.”
Leaning against the fender of his cruiser, “I hate taking the troops off of bomb search, but by then it’ll be time to shift gears and assume there will be a fire and necessary to get people out of here quickly and calmly.”
Sal sighed, “It’s a small town, guys. Tell a few people and the word will spread virally. House to house. We’re not a big city. If everyone converged on 101 at the same time, it would be a 20 minute traffic jam.”
Forte tried a small smile. It didn’t work. “Like after the fireworks on the fourth of July.”
I nodded. True. The problem would be getting tourists to leave. They’ll want to go back to their motels and gather their stuff. But leaving everyone a couple hours would still be inside the window of safety.
“I’m going to take Sal back to his house so he can get that spiffy little Volt. We can split up that way and cover more ground.”
Sal concurred.
Forte gave a Bandon head scratch. “Meantime, I’ll leave this mess to Bill and the troopers. I’m going back to the office and coordinate what I can.”
“You okay here, Chief? Need Sal to stay and help out?”
“No, need both of you out looking for propane tanks. I’ll call if I get any word on the guns those two galoots were carrying.”
“Galoots? Now you’re quoting Mickey Spillane?”
“Stuff it, Drago.”
Forte climbed into his cruiser, blipped the siren to get the gawkers out of his way and headed back to the PD. Sal and I returned to the Crown Vic, settled in and I turned up First Street toward home.
“Seriously, what was the phone call all about?”
“Just as seriously, I’d rather not say until I know I can pull it off. Trust me on this?”
“Sure ‘nuf.”
We hit 101 just south of the Coquille Bridge.
“You have any other thoughts on why someone would want to burn Bandon to the ground?”
Sal shook his shaggy head. “None. If this were a diversion so someone could rob a bank, there are far
