We drove down every street in that fucking division and didn't see anything. We tested its sewer system and didn't even find a trace.
“Explain that to me, goddammit,” I shouted at Bart. “Upstream of the houses, no chlorine. Downstream, there's chlorine. We check the place where the houses dump their shit into the stream, and there's no chlorine there either. So where the fuck does it come from?”
Bart just looked out the windshield and tapped his steering wheel to the beat of the radio. He was tired.
“Let's see what else is on Cochituate Avenue,” I said. He shifted into gear without a word. We drove one more mile and arrived at TechDale.
I'd seen these things before. They looked just like suburban housing developments, with the same irritating maze of curved streets, but instead of houses, they had big boxy industrial buildings, and instead of lawns, parking lots. We coasted to a stop and read the logos on the buildings, and about half of them all said the same thing: Biotronics.
“Well, I'll be dipped in shit,” Bart said.
“I've already tried that,” I mumbled, watching the horizon think about letting the sun come up.
Instead of cruising around this well-scrubbed development at four in the morning in our battered black van with an environmental group's Zodiac strapped to its roof, we pulled in at a gas station-cafe on Route 9, just a couple of blocks away. We topped off the van and filled up the Zodiac's tanks with 50:1 mix, all on the GEE gold card. We went in for more coffee. What the fuck, we scarfed down tremendous breakfasts and punched some tunes on the jukebox. We struck up a warm relationship with our waitress, Marlene. We asked her about the industrial park and she started rattling off the names of the occupants.
“...and then there's Biotronics. But we don't see much of them.”
“Why? What's different about Biotronics?”
“Safety regs. They have to take a shower when they go in every morning, scrub with disinfectant, and again when they go out. So it's kind of a hassle for them to come over here for lunch.”
“You want to go in there, before it gets light?” Bart said when Marlene had disappeared. My respect for the man continued to grow; he was ready for just about anything.
“You'd make a great terrorist,” I said, “or criminal.”
“Look who's talking.”
“No. If we got caught, we wouldn't have any toxic evidence to back us up. Shit! I can't believe this. I was all ready to phone up all my media contacts. It's the same thing as with the PCBs in the lobsters. I have hard evidence, I start tracking it down and it slips through my fingers. Like picking up a handful of sludge: squeeze too hard and you loose it.”
“That must be nice. Phone up all the newspapers and start a crusade.”
“Credibility, my man. Carefully and slowly accumulated through years of being almost right. If I say anything now, I'll have none at all.”
I considered hanging out here and waiting for Dolmacher to drive by, but it was too much wait for too little gratification. I wanted to see the look on his face when he saw our van sitting outside his Grail factory like the Grim Reaper's chariot. But I had nothing to back up the threat. It was time to get up and beat the rush hour and coast home.
Zodiac
23
WHICH IS WHAT WE DID. There was a nice blue heap of shattered safety glass out in front, where Bart had busted into Roscommon's car. Tess's car wasn't there, which was good. She was steering clear from trouble, our house.
I had a little trepidation about finding a bomb or something in there, but it was paranoia. We'd beefed up all the doors and windows, making the place hard to break into. Anyone could have broken in, of course, but they'd have to cause some obvious damage in the doing and there wasn't any of that. So we went in and filled a couple Heftys. The answering machine was blinking. We stood around it with our Heftys, breathing and listening, doing lip-synch impressions of the voices on the tape.
“S.T., this is Tess. What the fuck is going on? Please call me at Sal's. The numbers in the back of the phone book.”
Beeep.
“Uh ... this is Roscommon. I hate these machines. Don't go into the basement. It's, uh, dangerous now - got some exposed electrical cables and there's water on the floor. So I nailed the door shut. Don't try busting in there, you hear me? Or else you're out of there. You're fucking out on your ass.”
Beeep.
“This is Domino's. Is Bart there? He ordered some pizza and we're calling to double-check the order.”
Beeep.
“It's Debbie. It's about 1:00 A.M. Look, I borrowed the Omni and took it to a party, and then I drove it home and someone ripped it off. I can't believe this is happening. I heard something outside, looked out the window, there was a big guy out there - in a suit - and there was a big black car waiting next to him, and this guy just got into the car with keys and started it up and drove away. They already had keys made.”
Beeep.
“Your house has a huge fucking bomb in the basement. Get out, now.”
Beeep.
“Hi, this is Dolmacher...” but I missed the rest because Bart was throwing a chair through a window.
About ten seconds later my train set got scattered all over Brighton and points downward. We were lying down in Boston's largest backyard, behind a heap of Roscommon's concrete trash. A few pieces of his stupid vinyl siding fluttered down on our backs, but that was it.
I got an A in chemistry and I could tell it wasn't a gas explosion. It was high explosives. Planted there the night before. Which meant it had been done with Roscommon's help. But why would he help? Because they were big. Big enough to make him an offer he couldn't refuse - a Basco-sized organization - and because he wanted to get rid of this house anyway.
BRIGHTON BOMB FACTORY EXPLODES, KILLING 2
FBI SAYS TAYLOR WAS ACTUALLY A TERRORIST
“DIRECT-ACTION” CAMPAIGNS A COVER FOR
VIOLENCE?
Bart rolled over on his back. “Intense,” he said.