his beard, “And revenge for some perceived slight by Bandon to an individual or company or group doesn’t make sense. There’s a whole lot of planning that went into this. Just a crazy guy with some message from aliens? Could be, but this took more than one person.”
“So there’d have to be two guys in tin-foil hats.”
“And the two dead guys back at the Center didn’t look particularly goofy. Or friendly.”
“Notice the weapons they were carrying?”
“Yeah. The dark haired short guy was packing a semi-auto. Small, concealable.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shell casing. “And loaded with Stinger hypervelocity rounds.”
He handed it to me.
“Anyone who thinks a .22 isn’t deadly just needs to be on the receiving end of this little cutie.” I passed the casing back. Sal stuffed it into his pocket.
“Regular Thunderbolt .22 muzzle velocity is, what, 1250 or so feet per second. Stingers are 1600?”
“1650, actually. Enough to cause more than minimal damage at close range. Reason the mob guys like .22s.”
We were halfway across the Coquille River Bridge when Sal spun in his seat.
“Whoa! Go back, Nick!”
“Uh, I’m on the bridge, Sallie.”
“Go back. Go back!”
I thumped down the north side of the bridge, spun into the North Bank Road turn off and fish tailed onto the highway heading south.
“Over there!” Sal pointed to the abandoned mill off of the highway a few hundred yards and nestled against the riverbank. The building was a ramshackle affair with tin walls stained from years of neglect. The roof as wavy as the sea in a bad storm, holes and gaps opening much of the interior to the elements. The huge doors askew, either off their tracks or missing altogether.
Then I saw what Sal saw. Shooting across 101, cutting off a 30-foot fifth wheel being towed by an F350 Diesel Ford, and racing to the building, I slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop next to a brown Ranger pickup with one blue fender.
Sal and I slid out of the Crown Vic and ran to the Ranger. Empty. We approached the open doorway to the building and simultaneously pulled handguns. Better safe than sorry. Besides, we were carrying official, okey dokey Bandon PD badges.
The interior of the building was vast, dirty and smelled of creosote. The three-story high ceiling stained from years of water leaks and bat nests. Across the expanse, a portion was subdivided with a man-door entry. A lone window in the door, greasy from years of weather and work and what a Jewish friend called “smutz.”
Old equipment, long unused, was scattered in various corners and against walls. If flat tires were gold, the place would be worth a fortune. Forklifts with the name “Case” barely visible under the grime and rust, an old three-axle gasoline tanker truck, the hulk of a mid-70s Chevy Chevette.
Sal and I split up and followed the wall to the partitioned area, each taking up position on either side of the door. I looked at Sal and nodded.
Grasping the knob, slowly twisting it, I lifted the Taurus and slammed through the opening.
Another dirt-floor room, obviously not used in years. And on the floor, hog-tied, two teenagers back to back, bound together with rope, feet wrapped with plastic straps, arms cinched behind them, duct tape across their mouths.
Eyes wide and brimming with fear, they saw the guns and two very big guys enter the room. The girl began to whimper. The lanky boy growled what probably were obscenities, unintelligible through the tape.
I scanned the space. No one else around. Holstering the Magnum, I raised my hands.
“It’s okay. We’re with the Bandon Police.”
You could see the fear evaporate from both kids. She began to sob, wracking gasps shaking her body. The boy closed his eyes in relief and let out a long breath through his nose.
Sal began untying them, removing the duct tape.
“God are we glad you came.” The boy’s words came in a rush. “We’ve been here for hours. We thought they were gonna kill us.”
As Sal undid their restraints, I crouched beside the two.
“Are you Tim Dornan and Dorothy Flak?”
They nodded.
“Are you okay? Anything broken or badly bruised?”
Both shook their head.
“Good. Now settle down. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover here. First, is there anyone besides you two here?”
“No,” Dornan said. “They left some time ago.”
“They. Who are they?”
“Two guys. One really mean. The other one okay.”
Unwrapped, the two teenagers stood. Dornan grabbed my hand and began pumping it. I noticed that Dorothy had wrapped her arms around Sal and was squeezing as hard as she could.
I get a grimy handshake from a pimply adolescent boy who smells like a gym locker. Sal gets a high-pressure boob press from a cute 18-year-old girl.
What’s wrong with this picture?
Ordering the couple to stay put, Sal and I cleared the rest of the building to double check the absence of any potential threats.
In a large side room, however, we found a workbench and a series of circles in the dirt floor next to the door. The ground was mottled in footprints.
“Looks like this is the place they made the bombs,” I said.
Neither of us went much past the door threshold, hoping the patterns in the dirt would give us a clue about the bomb makers.
The circles were bunched together with a second set in a far corner. Between the table and the locations of the circles, a series of footprints that looked like at least three people.
Sal went first. “It would appear they stored the propane tanks over there,” pointing to the distant corner, “carried them to the workbench where they attached the dynamite and timers and put the end result over here near the door.”
On the bench, bits of insulation, the tidbits of casing that gets left behind when wire is stripped.
“Agreed.”
Walking around the walls so I wouldn’t disturb the footprints, I looked at the circles in the corner and began counting.
“Looks like 52, Sallie. That’s a dozen more than reported stolen.”
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, speed dialed Forte. He answered on the second ring.
“Chief, we got a problem.”
“What
