capsules had been enough. Besides, he had seen them firsthand when he spent two days inside Everett’s little compound, that concrete barricade that looked more like a prison than the utopia Everett professed it to be.
He’d also discovered that Everett had enough explosives to blow a nice-size hole in the Appalachian Mountains. The crazy thing was, Everett didn’t have the explosives for some terrorist attack. Just like the stockpile at that cabin in the woods—no complex, intricate conspiracy takeover. No, not at all. Instead, it was all for protection, all to protect his fucking fortress if anyone dared try to come in and take away his flock. It would be sort of a cross between Jim Jones’s purple Kool-Aid and Timothy McVeigh’s fertilizer bomb. What a mess the feebies would have to clean up. And boy, would they have some explaining to do. Probably make Waco look like a cakewalk.
That’s if the FBI even made it past all of Everett’s booby traps. The asshole had the entire woods filled with Viet Cong-like surprises. Ben couldn’t help wondering if his making shingle-nail pipe bombs and chemical-burn grass rags were a few of the reasons the guy had gotten kicked out of the military. Oh, but for good measure, the thoughtful reverend had posted what he probably believed to be disclaimer signs outside the area. Signs that said stuff like Survivors Will Be Prosecuted and Step Beyond This Point Only at Your Own Risk.
It was when Ben had seen the signs that he’d made the decision to gain entrance as a pathetic lost soul rather than as a renegade journalist sneaking through the woods. Weeks before he began his pathetic lost soul’s charade, he had muddied himself up like the Three Hills tribe of Mozambique had shown him, covering every inch of his body with a paste mixture, surprised that he could still remember its basic recipe. Even Everett’s ex-World Wrestling Federation bodyguards hadn’t seen him sliding through the tall grass and blending in with the tree bark. He had learned a lot that visit. The main thing had been that no one could sneak in—or out, for that matter—without getting his fucking head or leg blown off.
Ben checked his wristwatch. He had plenty of time. From what he had overheard at the District rally Saturday night, Everett’s boys wouldn’t be ready yet for a few hours. He decided to call down to room service. Maybe even check out the whirlpool bath. He’d enjoy himself, reward himself for a short time, then get back to work.
CHAPTER 42
John F. Kennedy Federal Building
Boston, Massachusetts
Gwen Patterson watched Agent Tully wrestle their suitcases out of the taxi cab’s trunk while the driver stood beside him. He was directing Tully, just as he had when he picked them up at the airport in Boston, pointing with a gnarled right hand, his excuse for not lifting the cases himself. Tully didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he simply asked for a receipt while he dug in his trench coat’s pockets, pulling out a wad and separating dollar bills from other crumpled receipts and a couple of McDonald’s napkins.
Gwen waited, her patience wearing thin. She wanted to snap open her handbag and pay the fare herself. It would be quicker. It was bad enough she was wasting two days, volunteering her services to the bureau and to Kyle Cunningham. Why was it that her colleagues wrote books and garnered interviews with Matt Laurer and Katie Couric? She wrote a book and what did she get? An interview with an adolescent killer.
She reached for her overnight case, but Tully snatched it away.
“No, I’ve got it,” he insisted, tucking it under his arm while he wrapped the strap of her laptop computer’s case around his other shoulder and grabbed his duffel bag.
Rather than argue with him, she led the way up the steps, letting him pass her at the last stretch so he could shuffle the bags and still open the heavy door. She wondered if he was overcompensating after Maggie had pointed out that perhaps the two of them couldn’t do this trip without being at each other’s throats the entire time. Whatever his reason for all the chivalry, Tully had been nothing but polite since they boarded their flight for Boston.
Maggie had assured Gwen time and again that Tully was one of the good guys, a smart, decent agent who wanted to do the right thing. Maggie always added that he was simply a little green, having spent much of