Tracking Shot by Colin Campbell (best book reader .TXT) 📕

Larry nodded. “Just me and F.K. left for some parade footage.”

“Have the staff gone away or are they still at the motel?”

“They haven’t got time to go away.”

McNulty stretched his back and flexed his shoulders. The pain wasn’t as bad now but it was still there. He’d have to get the nurse to strap him up with extra padding and more painkillers because this was going to get physical. “Call a production meeting. Props, stunts and special effects.” He glanced out the window at the sunny morning. “And the location manager.”

Larry took his phone out and scrolled through the contact numbers. “What you got in mind?”

McNulty continued stretching to get his flexibility back. “We’re going to get an anti-Kryptonite gizmo.”

Larry thought about all the dead people over the last week. “You can’t bring Spock back.”

“No. I’m going to make sure Mickey Mouse doesn’t kill him in the first place.”

The heads of department sat quietly in front of the location manager’s wall map after McNulty explained what he wanted to do. Doug Smith traced a finger along the parade route, balancing logistics against time and coming up with nothing they could do to minimize the danger apart from cancelling the parade altogether. Jerry Solomon looked at the roads surrounding Banks Square from a stunt driver’s perspective. A lot depended on how fast they could find the carnival float and its whereabouts on the route. Props and special effects had different problems. Nathan Reisman and Max Wong considered them in silence.

Solomon spoke first. “Do we know how they’re going to detonate?”

McNulty stood beside the map. “No. I’m guessing by timer or remote.” He looked at the man who was going to have to drive the float. “Depends if they need line of sight. Timer is specific but a remote gives them flexibility in case of delays.”

Solomon looked at the map. “Do you know when?”

McNulty pointed at Waltham Common on the map. “The big money giveaway is at the end of the parade. But that means the floats will have all gone past. Armored truck will be in place well before then and they’ll want to blow the float at the opposite side of the parade route.” He shrugged. “Depends where Mickey Mouse is in the order.”

The location manager checked his watch, then stepped away from the map. “I’ll get the runner to start checking now. Marshalling area is just off Main Street. Floats will already be in their designated order. Setting off in…” He checked his watch again then puffed his cheeks out. “Fifteen minutes.”

Solomon pointed out Waltham High School on the map. “There’s a safe zone behind the fireworks display. Local ordnance. Got to be an area clear of the public. Best place to ditch the float in case it goes off.”

McNulty looked at the stunt driver. “Can you get it there in time?”

Solomon smiled. “I could jump the river on two wheels with a big enough ramp.”

McNulty kept it serious. “Can you get it to the safe zone before they blow Mickey?”

Solomon got serious, too. “If it’s a timer…”

He shrugged. “…depends on the time. Most likely remote control though. So if you can keep their finger off the button.”

McNulty nodded. “We’ll keep them occupied.”

The room fell quiet again. Everyone knew what keeping them occupied entailed. The location manager stepped outside to find a production runner. Larry stood against the door. Reisman and Wong thought about props and bullet hits. Real ones, not squibs and fake blood. Keeping the gunmen busy meant putting real people, not stuntmen, in danger. If it went wrong this was going to get bloody. Really quick and really bad.

McNulty glanced at Larry. “You got the VFW number?”

Larry pushed off from the door. “You sure about this? They’re on the parade but, really?” He shook his head.

“They’re old soldiers. Not combat troops.”

McNulty looked at his producer. “Have you heard the saying; old soldiers never die, they just fade away?”

Larry stonewalled him. “So?”

McNulty returned the stare. “Well trust me, fading away isn’t how they want to go.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Banks Square wasn’t a square at all; it was a geographical area in Waltham where most of the banks were situated. Pretty much Main Street, where McNulty had made his false inquiries, and several streets either side of it. The parade route was an elongated rectangle running along School Street and Columbus Avenue heading west and then back along Main Street to the presentation stand at Waltham City Hall, which was set in the manicured grounds of Waltham Common. The marshalling area was beside the common on Central Street, which might have been central once but had edged to the right as Waltham expanded over the years.

The clapboard houses on School Street were festooned with bunting and Stars and Stripes. The Chateau Restaurant had food tables outside. Main Street was the business district and as such was lined with red brick and stone buildings, and even more flags. Preparations had been going on for days. Today was the culmination of everyone’s efforts, and it was a glorious sunny day.

Cotton candy and hotdog smells drifted across the route. The distant sound of a marching band signalled the approaching parade. A buzz went around the crowd and heads turned toward the music. Families had been camped out since dawn to claim the best viewing spots. Mothers and children and grandparents and husbands lined the route. Fat people sat in folding chairs that were molded to their bodies. Balloons were handed out by supporters of the various candidates in the election campaign. Plastic flags on little white sticks, lapel pins and bumper stickers, were given away by eager followers. Small children in sickly sweet uniforms gave out sweets to even younger children in the crowd. A bright yellow biplane flew the length of Main Street, trailing a banner that nobody could read.

A school marching band led the parade, their pale blue uniforms and peaked caps standing out in the sharp morning sunshine.