“Us, too, after he sues,” the director of public works said. “Got four more just like this on Royce Road. Old plumbing that popped when the pressure boost kicked in.” He stuck his head out the door. “OK, guys, we’ll start in the rec room. Pray it’s dry.”
The evacuation crew hefted tools, hoses, and pumps, and headed down the stairs.
11:08 a.m.
“Are they insane?” Annie said.
“Yes,” Cross said. “But that’s beside the point. Make sure your people know.”
“Understood.”
She clicked to the tactical frequency. “Castle to all units. A minister will conduct a press conference shortly at the main gate. On orders of the Illinois Supreme Court, the minister will use a deactivated hand grenade as a prop. The bomb squad confirmed it’s inert. Repeat, inert. Do not shoot when you see it. The minister has permission to use this grenade as a prop. Acknowledge verbally, not with clicks.”
Everyone checked in, and Annie went back to her binoculars, swearing.
11:09 a.m.
“Not again!” the Guardsman groaned as last night’s catfish supper made its fourth encore. He raced for the Porta-Potty, M-4 flailing against his chest, praying he’d make it. He’d already ruined two good sets of cammies.
“Listen up, ladies!” a sergeant bellowed as he stormed from the command tent, not noticing Catfish running away. “Some crazy preacher’s holding a press conference at 11:45. Gonna wave around a deactivated grenade as a prop. One of those pineapple jobs from World War Two.”
The troops began muttering. Only an idiot waved a grenade willy-nilly. Too much possibility of being zapped by friendly fire.
“What can I tell ya?” the sergeant said, shrugging. “Man’s got a court order. So don’t shoot the sumbitch. Keep your fingers on yer peckers where they belong.”
They saluted with one hand and grabbed crotch with the other, laughing.
Marty checked the Caller ID as he stepped off the shuttle bus. Sheriff’s number. Winslow called him as promised. He didn’t blame her - he’d have done the same in her position. But he had different priorities. I tried to answer, honest, he said to the phone. But the reception’s so busy. All that thick concrete.
He walked inside.
11:10 a.m.
“So what do you do?” the Executioner asked the seventh witness.
“Operations manager at Southern Illinois Airport,” she said, bright red talons pinching the handle of the teacup. “My husband teaches physics at Carbondale High.”
“Are you friends as well as financial supporters?”
“Certainly,” she said. “We see Wayne and Kit all the time.” She tilted her head, let her bangs brush her eyebrows. “And how about you? What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m in the food business,” the Executioner said.
“Pastry chef?” she teased, smiling at the Danish in his hand.
“Cattleman,” he said. “I supply custom steaks and roasts to restaurants around the world.”
“Really?”
“Mm-hm,” he said. “I started at the bottom, on the cutting-room floor. Now I own the place. When chefs from New York to Paris need the perfect cut of Midwest beef for an important client, they call me.” He flashed a radiant smile. “The last inaugural showcased my work. The First Lady was very complimentary.”
“How interesting!” she said, moving closer. “Wayne throws parties for his friends all the time at the Mansion. How could I possibly have missed you?”
“My travel schedule allows little time for socializing,” the Executioner said. “I’m forced to keep in touch the old-fashioned way.”
“Contributions,” she said.
The Executioner winked. “I got involved with Wayne two years ago. I was deeply impressed that he was building this Justice Center with only private funds. So I wrote him a check for . . .”
He named the figure.
“No wonder you’re here today,” she said, curling a strand of hair around her finger.
“I’m sure there was no connection,” the Executioner said, “between my modest fund-raising efforts and Wayne asking me to read the death warrant at his kickoff execution.”
“Just like I’m here because I know how to spread salt on runways,” she said, holding his forearm a moment longer than strictly social. “Perhaps we should have lunch when this is over. Talk about politics.”
The Executioner smiled. “Nothing I enjoy more than a long discussion.”
11:11 a.m.
VapoRub felt like he’d been zapped with a cattle prod.
By the expressions of the pump operators, they did, too.