With the hundreds of car accident victims she’d seen at the hospital, she could see clearly the trauma of the accident, to her and to Miles. They had their seat belts on, but Miles was only eight. The seat belts wouldn’t do enough.
It would break his neck.
And the man with the scars was behind them somewhere with his triggering device.
So the truck would explode anyway, with them both still in it.
But at least the blast would be in an open area, with only a few big residential buildings around them. Hopefully, most of the people would still be at work.
Thinking all this with her foot pressing harder on the gas and the bridge getting closer and closer.
Then they were at the river and Miles was crying, “Mommy, I’m scared.” And the curb and guardrail were so high. She couldn’t make her arms turn the wheel, she just couldn’t. For a brief moment she saw the river shimmering below them, stretching toward the business district.
Then the bridge was past and the road ran uphill again.
As if on its own, the truck slowed for the light.
“Go right here,” said the man with the spooky eyes. His gun still pressed into her son’s side. “We’re going downtown.”
She turned right down the narrow corridor between the tall new condominiums where the tanneries had once stood, seeing the river in tantalizing steel-gray glimpses between the buildings, bounded now by concrete banks on both sides. Sometimes she drove to work this way, liking the vitality of it, the big buildings and storefronts, the way the city was always making itself new again.
Then she caught her first glimpse of the tall white tower at the edge of downtown, the tallest building in the state. She knew their destination.
And how many people would die.
She thought of the road ahead. There were four more bridges before they came to the left for the tall, white bank building. All had been repaired or rebuilt in recent years, but one bridge had a block-long approach and open space to one side. She thought she could get up some speed and put the truck through the fence, over the bank, and into the water. She pressed the gas down.
“It’s okay, Miles, honey,” she said. “Everything’s going to be okay. I love you very much.”
She pushed the truck down the hill and around the curve where the road changed to four lanes, picking up as much speed as she could handle. Four blocks ahead was the Cherry Street Bridge. She was going almost fifty. The traffic was thin on this Veterans Day afternoon.
It wouldn’t snow for another month at least, she thought.
She had always loved the first snow.
The bridge came into view. She could see her path. She took her hand off the gearshift and put it across her son’s body, as much to simply touch his small, vulnerable body as anything like a hope that she might protect him from what came next.
“Go straight, slow down,” said the man with the spooky eyes. “Slow down and go straight or I shoot the boy!” He jabbed the gun hard into Miles’s side and the boy cried out in pain.
Her foot moved instinctively to the brake.
But before she could press down, a tan SUV with a big tubular bumper came up fast on her left, pulled even, then swerved hard right into the Mitsubishi’s left front tire. Right at her feet.
She couldn’t see the driver, but she recognized the Yukon.
There was a crunch and something gave way, something important. The steering wheel jerked and spun in her hand. She began to fight it automatically but forced herself to let go of the wheel, pivot her foot to the gas, and stomp down.
By the time the truck began to tilt, she was turned in her seat with her strong right arm pressing her son’s chest hard into the back of his seat, and her left hand on the barrel of the spooky man’s pistol.
54
Peter
In the cargo box, the plastic drums shifted in their webbing as the truck lurched hard to one side. Peter dug his toes into the lines of rugged conduit to hold himself, the white static powering his muscles to lock himself in place while he hacked the plastic cover off the central control box. It came off in sharp chunks, but it came off. Inside was the cell-phone-turned-detonator and the twelve-volt battery tucked under the neat bundles of colored wires that led to the blasting caps and the C-4. It was almost beautiful in its elegance.
It was possible that Boomer had built in a false circuit to kill anyone trying to disable the bomb, but Peter didn’t have time to even contemplate that. He had to take this apart now or die in the attempt. He could clearly envision the scarred man with his phone in his hand. Beginning to make the call that would complete the circuit and set off the bomb.
He traced the wires with his finger, thinking that the battery was the key to everything. Without the battery, the blasting caps would not explode. Without the blasting caps, the C-4 wouldn’t go, or the rest of it.