“No,” says Bree. “I want her out here. She needs to be a part of this. And we need to be sure.” She puts her phone away and sighs, then looks down the trail. “Let’s explore a little farther. Maybe Damon got hurt falling off the bike and went down the trail for help.”
“Why down, not up?” says Alex. “That wouldn’t make any sense.”
Bree shoots him a look. A little desperate. They’re both grasping at straws. What does it mean that they’ve found Damon’s bike abandoned halfway down the trail? Where did he go from here? Was he alone?
Alex nods toward the trail. “Let’s stick together this time.”
He leads the way past the abandoned bike, wanting answers but more nervous than ever about what they might find.
CHAPTER 32
Sampson
I’M BACK IN THE basement of DC Metro headquarters. Dennis Chan is at his usual station, slumped in his chair, exhausted. After leaving the bombing site, Anna Rizzo and I parted ways. I took Chan, and Rizzo went back to her lab to see what she could dig up with her forensics team.
I lean over Chan’s shoulder. “What’ve you got on this one?”
“Not as much,” he says, sitting up straighter. “I know that’s not what you want to hear.”
Chan taps a few keys and his monitors light up. We’re looking at surveillance footage from early this morning on Henry Bacon Drive. Not much traffic, just a few pedestrians and joggers.
“What time?” I ask.
“Six thirty-one a.m. Coming right up. See, here we go.”
We’re looking at a black Ford pickup with a blue tarpaulin overthe truck bed. The truck pulls over to the side, near a bunch of shuttered vendor booths and souvenir stands. The truck’s hazard lights start flashing.
Like an apparition, the driver steps out.
White painter overalls.
Gloves.
Face mask.
White baseball cap pulled down low.
He walks around the front of the truck heading toward the wall—and disappears.
Chan freezes the image and turns to me. “You ready?”
“Let it roll.”
Even though I know what’s coming, it still feels like a punch to the gut.
As soon as Chan restarts the video, a bright white-orange flash fills the screen. When it recedes, billowing smoke obscures everything.
When the smoke dissipates, the pickup truck is gone. Completely destroyed. Two cars parked nearby are shattered.
I stare at the screen, where there’s chaos: injured people stumbling around, a few people helping the victims using handkerchiefs or neckties as temporary bandages.
One man is moving. Dressed in jogging gear.
Leg gone below the knee.
He falls and thrashes on the ground as blood gushes out.
Chan turns in his chair. “John, whatever we’ve got here, it’s not some hermit like Ted Kaczynski. He’s bold and he’s not afraid to be out there in public, and he delivers the bomb right where he wants it. But why?”
