Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle by Pauline Jones (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

“He was in debt past his eyeballs, until last month. He suddenly paid the worst of his debts off with money from an overseas account. The FBI is still trying to trace where it came from. If we’d got on to him sooner—” He shrugged.

“The bum. He cries poverty to Rosemary all the time.” Though he had offered a cash payment for the Mercedes, I remembered, and smiled. “Kel. He was at the convention, when the round-headed man came after me. It was him. The lousy, bast—ahem.”

“I did wonder how Howard found out you were there. Couldn’t find the link between him and Willis for that one.” He leaned towards me. “The pieces are starting to fit together, particularly…”

He stopped, then held up the sheet. “Remember I told you these were schematics for embassies?”

I nodded.

“Well, they’re more than that. They’re printouts from a pretty sophisticated computer modeling program.”

“Really? To do what?”

“To analyze the structure of certain buildings for weaknesses. The military uses something similar to study the impact of missiles and artillery shelling on different types of buildings. The idea being to find the best place to aim your device to bring it all down.”

I didn’t like what I was hearing. “Are you telling me that someone—” Not someone. Dag. “—has been analyzing the Israeli and Egyptian embassies so he can shoot missiles at them?”

“That’s what it looks like. If you can identify the handwriting on this sheet, well, I might have enough to pull him in for questioning.”

“But this, you’re saying this could link him to those terrorists you were talking about? The ones buying the weapons?”

“If what I suspect is true, they haven’t just been selling weapons to them. They’ve been helping the terrorists choose targets and set them up for an attack.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would they betray their country—” Money. With Dag it was always about money. Except Willis. He said it wasn’t the money. “Willis doesn’t think he’s betraying his country, Kel.”

“It’s the shell game. What if each component of the plot has their own agenda? And something, perhaps their final objective, has dovetailed together? We’ve got Kenyon hard up for cash. We got some crooked guardsman with weapons to sell. We’ve got some people with a political agenda they want to hurry up. And we’ve got some terrorists who want to cause chaos in this country. I’ve put together a scenario, where all these elements could work together. If the last piece fits.”

He didn’t say what that piece was.

“Have you seen Kenyon hanging around the park where your rally is being held?”

I shook my head. “Just Flynn has been around. But I suppose Dag could be at one of the other sites.”

“Other sites?”

“Yeah, there’s going to be three simultaneous rallies tonight. Fox News is going to broadcast from ours when Greenwood does his big number.”

“Three rallies? Will there be three guns?”

I nodded. “Does it matter?”

“Three. I didn’t think…” He stared straight ahead for a long moment, his gears turning, then he spread the sheet out for me to look at. “Here’s the notations. Do you recognize the handwriting?”

I reluctantly bent over the sheet. I wasn’t eager to finger my nieces’ and nephew’s father conspiring against the government of the United States. But when I saw it, I could feel the blood drain from my face.

“Bel? What’s wrong? Isn’t it Kenyon’s?”

“It’s a Kenyon. But not Dag’s.” I looked at Kel in shock. “It’s Muir Kenyon’s handwriting.”

“Muir? That’s the other son. Are you sure? How come you recognize his handwriting?”

I smiled weakly, my gaze sliding away from his. “We sometimes…sort of…date.”

Kel looked resigned. “Of course you do.”

A distraction seemed in order. “I wonder if this is the computer program he’s been trying to show me all week?”

24

Despite my deficiencies as a sleuth, I was bright enough to be worried after my lunch with Kel. I didn’t have the resources of the CIA at my disposal or all the clues laid end to end for me to follow. I did know enough to be profoundly uneasy when Kel’s suits gave me a ride, through a night already cold and dark, to the park with the pig. It didn’t help my unease that the suits’ preppie look had been traded in for ominous form-fitting black jumpsuits, bullet-proof vests, and stocking caps. They lacked only the blacking on their faces to be a mini rally invasion force. In honor of the mood, the radio provided the right background by wailing Bad Moon Rising.

As we pulled up next to the park, the area marked out for the rally was a brilliant, larger-than-life, splash of light in the otherwise dark park. Spot lights were positioned at the base of the trees festooned with yellow ribbons. The cold breeze sliding through bare branches made the big bows dance and weave like drunken sailors.

My non-suits melted into frenzy’s shadow. I wished I could go with them. Since I couldn’t, I donned the military sun glasses Flynn insisted we wear with our gear, and found I was glad for them. The contrast of light and dark was as extreme as political ideology and about as painful. Inside the magic circle, the guys moved around the equipment in their desert camouflage, their breath condensing into cloudy puffs around their heads as they exchanged quips.

I stopped at the edge of light overcome by the sensation that something momentous was about to happen. My nerve endings felt charged, my senses super alert as I studied the patriotic scene.

Like ants drawn to the hive, people flowed into the stands from all directions. Some faces I recognized. Reverend Hilliard seated next to Mrs. Macpherson, pale despite the cold nipping cheeks and nose. Illness had taken the curve out of her robust cheeks, but she clutched a tiny American flag in her fist. My family wasn’t here. My mother claimed a desire to hear the State of the Union address kept her away. Right. She just didn’t want to see