Drago #6: And the City Burned. Art Spinella
house, canning and jarring produce from their family’s garden, large and abundant, was tremendously important. Literally hundreds of quarts of meat, fruit and vegetables would supplement their farm-grown cows, chickens, pigs and geese.
The boys, home alone and in the midst of cutting wood, smelled the smoke first. Bitter. Neighbors reported a fast-moving fire was heading toward their homestead. They should gather their things and get away.
Not far from the house, the fire pushed its head to the crowns of nearby trees; angry, devilish, overwhelming.
Hoping to save some of the canned food, the boys moved jars to the garden area, hoping that being in the open would save them. They helped setting backfires to no avail.
Trying to escape on Rosa Road, they ran into a wall of fire that had jumped the tarmac. Returning to Two Mile Road and down to Highway 101, they headed north, two of their three dogs in tow – the other lost to the fire.
Smoke so thick, the highway virtually disappeared. But the Howard boys eventually reached Bandon, leaving behind everything but two dogs and their father’s .22 rifle that remains in the family.
CHAPTER FIVE
FOUR HOURS, 41 MINUTES
Within minutes, Forte strung yellow crime scene tape he kept stashed in his cruiser’s trunk; ordered Billy – his second in command – to the Continuum Center to hold down the fort and cajoled the State Police into sending at least a couple of troopers to Bandon, arguing his own officers were busy trying to find at least three dozen bombs.
Turning to me, “Are you sure he said ‘scab’?”
“Hey, the guy was gurgling blood and his eyes were rolling to the back of his head. It sounded like scab.”
Forte shook his head. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Any identification?” Sal asked.
Forte shook his head. “Neither had a wallet or ID. We took their weapons. Hope to track ‘em down through the serial numbers. I’ll have Beth run ‘em.”
The Chief’s eyes were blood shot, his skin seemingly aging as I watched him.
“You think these two guys have something to do with the bombs?”
Forte shrugged. “Who the hell knows? My guess? Sure. They’re not locals for certain. I’d recognize ‘em, probably.”
Sal pulled away, ducked under the yellow tape and walked to the center of First Street where he pulled out his iPhone and began talking quietly to someone. I watched him nod, mutter, nod again and click the phone off.
When he returned, “What’s up big man?”
“Not sure. Will let you know when I know.”
“Calling in ground support from the CIA?”
“Never was, nor…”
“…would you ever be CIA.” I finished. To Forte, “Does the school or PD have a way of broadcasting text messages to locals? Time to evacuate the town, don’t you think?”
“I’ve been putting that off, hoping we could get a handle on this thing. The mayor and I had this conversation earlier. We figure it’ll only take a few hours to get people out. I’ve already got my guys ready to circle the wagons and go door to door if necessary. If the bombs are set to go off at 4:30, then 2 o’clock will work.”
Leaning against the fender of his cruiser, “I hate taking the troops off of bomb search, but by then it’ll be time to shift gears and assume there will be a fire and necessary to get people out of here quickly and calmly.”
Sal sighed, “It’s a small town, guys. Tell a few people and the word will spread virally. House to house. We’re not a big city. If everyone converged on 101 at the same time, it would be a 20 minute traffic jam.”
Forte tried a small smile. It didn’t work. “Like after the fireworks on the fourth of July.”
I nodded. True. The problem would be getting tourists to leave. They’ll want to go back to their motels and gather their stuff. But leaving everyone a couple hours would still be inside the window of safety.
“I’m going to take Sal back to his house so he can get that spiffy little Volt. We can split up that way and cover more ground.”
Sal concurred.
Forte gave a Bandon head scratch. “Meantime, I’ll leave this mess to Bill and the troopers. I’m going back to the office and coordinate what I can.”
“You okay here, Chief? Need Sal to stay and help out?”
“No, need both of you out looking for propane tanks. I’ll call if I get any word on the guns those two galoots were carrying.”
“Galoots? Now you’re quoting Mickey Spillane?”
“Stuff it, Drago.”
Forte climbed into his cruiser, blipped the siren to get the gawkers out of his way and headed back to the PD. Sal and I returned to the Crown Vic, settled in and I turned up First Street toward home.
“Seriously, what was the phone call all about?”
“Just as seriously, I’d rather not say until I know I can pull it off. Trust me on this?”
“Sure ‘nuf.”
We hit 101 just south of the Coquille Bridge.
“You have any other thoughts on why someone would want to burn Bandon to the ground?”
Sal shook his shaggy head. “None. If this were a diversion so someone could rob a bank, there are far better towns to do it in. We don’t have the kind of money that would attract this kind of attention.”
Scratching his beard, “And revenge for some perceived slight by Bandon to an individual or company or group doesn’t make sense. There’s a whole lot of planning that went into this. Just a crazy guy with some message from aliens? Could be, but this took more than one person.”
“So there’d have to be two guys in tin-foil hats.”
“And the two dead guys back at the Center didn’t look particularly goofy. Or friendly.”
“Notice the weapons they were carrying?”
“Yeah. The dark haired short guy was packing a semi-auto. Small, concealable.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shell casing. “And loaded with Stinger hypervelocity rounds.”
He handed it to me.
“Anyone who thinks a .22 isn’t deadly just needs to be on the receiving end of this little cutie.” I passed the casing back. Sal stuffed it into his pocket.
“Regular Thunderbolt .22 muzzle velocity is, what, 1250 or so feet per second. Stingers are 1600?”
“1650, actually. Enough to cause more than minimal damage at close range. Reason the mob guys like .22s.”
We were halfway across the Coquille River Bridge when Sal spun in his seat.
“Whoa! Go back, Nick!”
“Uh, I’m on the bridge, Sallie.”
“Go back. Go back!”
I thumped down the north side of the bridge, spun into the North Bank Road turn off and fish tailed onto the highway heading south.
“Over there!” Sal pointed to the abandoned mill off of the highway a few hundred yards and nestled against the riverbank. The building was a ramshackle affair with tin walls stained from years of neglect. The roof as wavy as the sea in a bad storm, holes and gaps opening much of the interior to the elements. The huge doors askew, either off their tracks or missing altogether.
Then I saw what Sal saw. Shooting across 101, cutting off a 30-foot fifth wheel being towed by an F350 Diesel Ford,