11?”
“Nine, actually. I was so stunned that the ball was actually going over the fence, I just stood and watched.”
Sal laughed. “Coach had to push you toward first base or you’d still be standing there. But, hey, you were a big kid then.” Sal fisted my arm. “Still are.”
“Funny.”
“Quick stop for donuts?”
“Not yet, Sal. In a bit.”
We rumbled through the turnaround and back toward Highway 101 with the softball field and the surrounding scrub pines and thatch.
“Whoa, Nick.”
Braking, “See something?”
“Other side of the ball park.”
I pulled the Vic to the curb, the two of us jumped out.
“Over there,” pointing one of his ham hock fingers toward the woods behind right field.
I could see it now. A propane tank a few feet into the trees, visible only because the sun had climbed high enough to highlight the white paint of the tank against the dark brown of the trees and brush.
We approached it carefully. Like the one on Forte’s desk, this one had three sticks of dynamite and black wires running to a timer. I dropped to my stomach and stared at the LED screen. Same as the other. Set for 4:30 p.m.
Reaching for the wires, planning on performing the same yank-and-smirk Sal did at the police station, the gruff baritone froze me solid.
“NO! Don’t touch that! We’ll be dust in the wind.”
1936
The inferno’s plume of black and orange embers blocked the sun with a veil of eerie rampage. Acrid smoke carrying the stench of burnt fabric, scorched dirt, the bitter smell of oil-treated timbers with the occasional choke of the incinerated flesh of farm and domestic animals unable to escape the ravages of flames and heat. A runaway locomotive wasn’t as loud or palpable as the roar this blaze made. A hurricane carrying debris as small as indistinguishable pieces of metal, as bulky as blazing roof beams with the ear-splitting gushes of hot air speeding past, beyond the abilities of the county’s fastest horse or automobile.
The world appeared to be ending with little hope of a new one beginning.
CHAPTER THREE
SIX HOURS, THIRTY-NINE MINUTES
Sal fell to his knees, skin the color of parchment paper, face pointed to the sky, eyes closed.
“You damn near killed us, Nick.”
“Just gonna do what you did. Yank the black wires.”
Letting out a long sigh, “That’s my job, pal.” Pointing to the wires, “See that little round gizmo attached to the wire?”
Sure enough, a small, nickel-sized thing-a-ma-bob appeared to be spliced into one wire.
“What is it?”
“Capacitor. It holds a charge. Used in all kinds of electronics. If you had pulled the wires out of the timer first, like you were gonna do, it would have sent a blast of electricity to the dynamite cap and adios hermanos.”
Sal took a deep breath, pulled the two wires from the ignition cap on the top of the dynamite, crossed the bare ends of the wire. A sharp crackle of spark left the smell of ozone behind.
“Can you say ‘boom’?”
I grabbed my cell phone and speed dialed Forte. He answered on the first ring.
“What’s up, Nick?” Quick. Pointed. Punctuated with a tinge of stress.
“Don’t have any of your guys try to disarm the bomb. Sal and I found one that if he’d pulled the wires the wrong way, it would have gone off.”
“Good to know.” He clicked off.
Sal stripped the dynamite from the tank, inspecting each piece of duct tape to make sure there were no other surprises. I lifted the tank and we returned to the Vic.
It wasn’t until we both settled into the seats did the adrenalin kick in. Being that close to the Pearly Gates admittedly shook me.
Watching my hands tremble, “Thanks, Sallie.”
No response.
“You okay?”
A quick nod. Sal rarely gets excited – unless there are donuts involved – but his eyes were locked on some distant point through the windshield. He’s a rock when it comes to dangerous situations. My tendency is to dive in and begin swinging before engaging my brain. He makes an assessment, considers solutions then begins swinging.
My dumb stunt forced Sal to reverse his natural instincts and put the cart in front of the horse. He would have looked the bomb over first, developed a couple of alternatives and deactivated it with care.
“Sorry, Sal,” was all I could say.
Another nod. “Nick, if you ever attempt to do that again, I swear I’ll break all your fingers. My kids would not be happy with you.”
“You don’t have any kids.”
“They’ll still be unhappy with you.”
We continued cruising Bandon, marking possible bomb locations and forwarding them to Forte who, from his desk, directed his and the fire department personnel to those areas.
Turned on the Vic’s air conditioning – something I do maybe twice a year.
“Damn, it’s hot.”
“Global warming,” Sal chuckled.
“Don’t start.”
We traveled in silence for a few minutes, scanning the remaining potential areas for hiding the propane bombs.
“I want it to be 1982.”
“What?”
Wiggling in the driver’s seat, “I want the climate to be just like it was in 1982. That was a great year. Not much winter rain. Mid-70s in the summer. North wind down from a gale to a comfortable light breeze. 1982 was perfect.”
“And you bring this up, why?”
“We’ve had unusually high temperatures this year. Suppose there’s something to this man-made climate change thing.”
“Okay. Let’s say.”
“Well, if you can make global warming stop, as climate change people say, then you can make global warming start.”
“No one wants it to start.”
“I’m
