“It’s over there, help yourself. Cups in the cabinet by the fridge, top shelf.”
He checked the grits and then opened the carton of eggs. “Overhard, light or scrambled, or hard-boiled?”
“Who does hard-boiled eggs anymore?”
“Me.”
“Scrambled.”
He swished the eggs in a bowl and glanced up at the small TV sitting on top of the fridge. He said, “Check it out.”
Julie pushed her damp hair back over her ears and glanced up as she sipped her coffee. She had changed clothes. It was still partially dark outside. But in the light of the kitchen she looked younger and scrawnier than she had last night.
At least she wasn’t holding the pepper spray anymore. Both hands were cupped around her coffee mug. Her face was scrubbed clean but Robie could see her red, swollen eyes. She’d been crying.
“You have any cigarettes?” she asked, glancing away from his scrutiny.
“You’re too young,” he replied.
“Too young for what? To die?”
“I get the irony, but I don’t have any cigarettes.”
“Did you used to smoke?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You just seemed the type.”
“What type is that?”
“The ‘do things my way’ type.”
The sound on the TV was turned down low, but the scene on the screen that came on was self-explanatory. The still smoking bus, burned to a shell of metal. All flammable objects had pretty much disappeared: seats, tires, bodies.
Both Robie and Julie stared at it.
The bus had had a full tank of gas, Robie knew, for the trip up to New York. It had burned like an inferno. No, it was an inferno. There would be thirty-plus blackened corpses in that ride. Or at least parts of them.
Their crematorium.
The medical examiner would have his hands full with this one.
“Can you turn up the sound?” Julie asked.
Robie grabbed the remote and inched up the volume.
The TV newscaster, a grim-looking man, stared into the camera and said, “The bus had just departed for New York City. The explosion happened at approximately one-thirty last night. There are no survivors. The FBI is not ruling out a terrorist attack, though it doesn’t seem clear at this point why the bus would have been targeted.”
“How do you think it happened?” Julie asked.
Robie glanced at her. “Let’s eat first.”
The next fifteen minutes were spent chewing, swallowing, and drinking.
“Good eggs,” Julie proclaimed. She pushed her plate back, refilled her coffee cup, and sat back down. She stared at his nearly empty plate and then up at him.
“Can we talk about it now?”
Robie crisscrossed his knife and fork over his plate and sat back.
“Guy who was after you might have set it off.”
“What, like a suicide bomber?”
“Maybe.”
“Wouldn’t you have seen a bomb on him?”
“Probably. Most bomb packs are pretty prominent. Dynamite sticks lined together, wiring, battery, switches, and the detonator. But I tied him up, so it would have been impossible for him to set anything off.”
“So it couldn’t have been him.”
“Not necessarily. You wouldn’t need a lot of juice to blow up a bus. It could have been concealed on him. Some C-4 or Semtex and the full tank of gas will take care of the rest. Some explosive vapor in the tank plus a steady supply of fuel for the fire. And it could have been set off remotely. In fact, if that’s what happened, a remote had to be used, since the guy was tied up. About half the suicide bombers in the Middle East never pull the trigger themselves. They’re just sent out with the bombs and their handlers detonate from a safe distance away.”
“I guess the handlers have the easy job, then.”
Robie thought back to his own handler, a safe distance away calling the shots—literally.
“I wouldn’t disagree with that.”
“So if the guy wasn’t the source of the explosion?”
“Then something else hit that bus.”
“Like what?”
“If you tell me what’s going on, I can maybe help you.”
“You’ve already helped me, and I appreciate that. But I’m not sure what else you can do, realistically.”
“Why were you going to New York?”
“Because it isn’t here. Why were you going?”
“It was convenient.”