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And that was when she remembered the bomb.
Carole peered around the filing cabinet. It was still there, teetering on the edge of the table. It had the crude look of real bombs and murder weapons--not the slick, shiny gadgets you see in movies. Sloppy tape, badly stripped wires, dirty gasoline . . . Maybe it's a dud, she thought. In the daylight it didn't look so dangerous.
Another burst of music. It came from directly over her head. Accompanied by a shuffling of footsteps. A door closed. Creaks and groans as people moved around the old, dry wood floors. Plumes of dust fell from the joists.
The soaring voices were cut off in mid-passage. A moment later they started singing again.
Carole banged with her feet but the floor was concrete, the walls brick. She tried to scream but the sound was swallowed by the gag. The rehearsal continued, the solemn, vigorous music rattling through the basement.
After ten minutes Carole collapsed on the floor in exhaustion. Her eyes were drawn back to the bomb again. Now the light was better and she could see the timer clearly.
Carole squinted. The timer!
It wasn't a dud at all. The arrow was set for 6:15 a.m. The dial showed the time was now 5:30.
Squirming her way farther behind the filing cabinet, Carole began to kick the metal sides with her knee. But whatever faint noises the blows made immediately vanished in the booming, mournful rendition of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" filling the church basement from above.
IV
DOWN TO
THE BONE
This only is denied the Gods: the power to remake the past.
--ARISTOTLE
TWENTY-SEVEN
Sunday, 5:45 a.m., to Monday, 7:00 p.m.
He awoke to a scent. As he often did.
And--as on many mornings--he didn't at first open his eyes but just remained in his half-seated position, trying to figure out what the unfamiliar smell might be:
The gassy scent of dawn air? The dew on the oil-slick streets? Damp plaster? He tried to detect the scent of Amelia Sachs but could not.
His thoughts skipped over her and continued. What was it?
Cleanser? No.
A chemical from Cooper's impromptu lab?
No, he recognized all of those.
It was . . . Ah, yes . . . marking pen.
Now he could open his eyes and--after a glance at sleeping Sachs to make certain she hadn't deserted him--found himself gazing at the Monet poster on the wall. That's where the smell was coming from. The hot, humid air of this August morning had wilted the paper and brought the scent out.
knows CS proc.
possibly has record
knows FR prints
gun = .32 Colt
Ties vics w/ unusual knots
