for ten plastic display tubes that the manufacturers supplied for nothing. He spoke with one of those smooth, kinda' oily voices. Probably a New York lawyer who never had a gun in his hand. Damn fools.
The rain hammered down, forming pools in the mud as disgruntled crews of construction workers sat in cars waiting for a break in the weather so they could sign in; four hours meant a day's pay, but without signing in there was nothing.
Scofield approached the door of a prefabricated shack, stepping on a plank sinking into the mud in front of the rain-splashed window. Inside he could see the foreman sitting behind a table talking into a telephone.
Ten yards to the left was a concrete bunker, a heavy padlock on the steel door, the red-lettered sign stenciled across is explicit.
DANGER AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY SWAMPSCOTT DEV. CORP.
Bray rapped first on the window, distracting the man on the phone inside the shack, then stepped off the plank and opened the door.
"Yeah, what is it?" yelled the foreman.
"I'll wait till you're finished," said Scofield, closing the door. A sign on the table gave the man's name. A. Patelli.
"That could be a while, pal! I got a thief on the phone. A fucking thief who says his fucking pansy drivers can't roll because it's wet out! " "Don't make it too long, please." Bray removed his ID case. He flipped it open. "You are Mr. Patelli, aren't you?" The foreman stared at the identification card. "Yeah." He turned back to the phone. "I'll call you back, thiefl" He got out of the chair. "You government?" "Yes." "What the hell's the matter now?" "Something we don't think you're aware of, Mr. Patelli. My unit's working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation-" "The FBIT' "That's right. You've had several shipments of explosive materials delivered to the site here." "Locked up tight and accounted for," interrupted the foreman. "Every fucking stick." "We don't think so. That's why I'm here." "What?" "There was a bombing two days ago in New York, maybe you read about it.
A bank in Wall Street. Oxidation raised several numbers on the serial imprint that blew with the detonating cap; we think it may be traced to one of your shipments." "That's fuckin'-a-nuts!" "Why don't we checkT' The explosives inside the concrete bunker were not sticks, they were solid blocks roughly five inches long, three high and two thick, packaged in cartons of twenty-,four.
"Prepare a statement of consignment, please," said Scofield, studying the surface of a brick. "We were right. These are the ones." "A statement?" to "I'm taking a carton for evidenciary analysis.
"What?" "Look, Mr. Patelli, your ass may be in a very tight sling. You signed for these shipments and I don't think you counted. I'd advise you to cooperate fully. Any indication of resistance could be misinterpreted; after all, it's your responsibility. Frankly, I don't think you're involved, but I'm only the field investigator. On the other hand, my word counts." "I'll sign any fucking thing you want. What do I wTiteT'
At a hardware store, Bray bought ten dry-cell batteries, ten five-quart plastic containers, a roll of bell wire and a can of black spray paint.
He asked for a very large box to carry everything in through the rain.
He sat in the back seat of his rented car, placed the last of the clocks into its plastic container, pressing the explosive brick down beside the battery. He listened for the steady tick of the mechanism; it was there.
Then he snapped the edges of the cover in place and sealed it with tape.
It was forty-two minutes past noon, the alarms set in sequence, the grooves in the gears locked by the teeth of the pinions, the sequence to begin in precisely eleven hours and twenty-six minutes.
As he had done with the previous nine, he sprayed the container with black paint. A great deal of it soiled the rear seat cushion; he would leave a hundred-dollar bill in the crease.
He inserted the coin in the pay phone; he was in West Roxbury, two minutes from the border of Brookline. He dialed, waited for the line to be answered, and roared into the mouthpiece.
"SanitationT' "Yes, six. What can we do for you?" "Appleton Drive! Brookline! The sewees backed up! It's all over my gohdahm front lawn." "Where is that, sir?" "I just told you. Appleton Drive and Beachnut Terrace. It's terriblel" "We'll dispatch a truck right away, sir." "Please, hurryl"
The Sanitation Department van made its way haltingly up Beachnut