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“You’re kidding.”
“You want to get killed?”
“Do you?”
I followed Joe out of the restaurant onto the walkway that ran the length of the pier. We stood for a long moment at the railing and watched Sci-Tron’s two-story metal-frame structure crumple as the roof caved in.
The sight was devastating and almost impossible to believe, but it was real. Sci-Tron had been blown up.
Joe and I started running.
CHAPTER 2
JOE WAS IN the lead as we headed along the pier from the restaurant to the Embarcadero, the major thoroughfare that bordered the waterfront on the western side of San Francisco Bay.
When we reached the sidewalk, we turned right and ran another couple hundred yards, past the historic pier bulkhead, stopping short of the entrance to Pier 15. Flames leapt above the smoldering carcass of Sci-Tron.
On our left traffic was going berserk on the Embarcadero. The terrifying sight and sound of the disaster had slowed vehicles to a crawl, causing others to swerve into adjacent lanes, while screaming, freaked-out pedestrians fled from the pier and dashed into the road. Brakes squealed and horns blared like it was the biblical end of the world.
Explosions have a shattering impact on all your senses. The cracking and ripping sounds, the stink of explosives, the terror on human faces. I knew this from firsthand recent experience, and still I found it hard to comprehend how a calm and beautiful night had twisted inside out into mayhem and inexplicable destruction.
Joe pulled me from the walkway to the railing on the bay side and kept his arm around me as crowds stampeded away from the bomb site and past where we were standing.
As I watched the movement of the chaotic scene, I was struck by an anomaly. A man was standing motionless in the middle of the sidewalk like a boulder in the raging stream of terrified pedestrians.
I’m trained to take note of anomalies, and I noticed everything about him. He was white, brown-haired, midforties, average height and weight, and wearing jeans, a blue flannel shirt, and wire-framed glasses. A scar cut through his upper lip, drawing my eyes to his thin smile.
He was smiling.
Was he shell-shocked? Having escaped the blast, was he trying to understand what had happened? Was he transfixed by the explosion itself?
Whatever he was thinking or feeling, I was having a cop reaction. In the midst of everything imaginable going wrong, he stood out. I waded across the oncoming rush into his line of sight, flapped open my jacket to show him my badge and to get his attention. Joe was on the phone, but he ended his call and joined me.
We stood close to the man in blue, and speaking loudly, I said, “Sir. I’m with the SFPD. Did you see what happened here?”
His expression was one of pure, wide-eyed pleasure. He said, “Did I see it? I created this—this magnificent event. This is my work.”
This was his work? He was claiming credit? I glanced at Joe like, Did you hear that?
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Connor Grant. Citizen, genius, artist par excellence.”
I said, “I don’t understand, Mr. Grant. Are you saying that you bombed Sci-Tron?”
“Exactly.”
I was already on adrenaline overload and it took all my will not to shout, Are you batshit crazy? There were people in there.
Grant was manic, or drugged up, or something, because he kept on talking at high speed.
“Good job, don’t you think? Did you see the entire display? The mushroom cloud? Oh, my God. It was better than I had even hoped. I’m awarding myself an A-plus with extra points for the sundown sky. You want to know why, and I say, ‘Why ask why?’ Beauty doesn’t need a reason.”
Yes, it was a confession, but was it for real?
I asked Grant again if he had actually bombed the museum, and again, smiling like a child on Christmas morning, he confirmed emphatically that he had.
“You did this alone?”
