Pure Dynamite (4 page)

The Bay Meadow Urgent Care Clinic in Durham, North Carolina, was one of the few smaller medical facilities open and operating. The widespread flooding had paralyzed the eastern half of the state, shutting down schools, shops, and most businesses.

As utility companies scrambled to get water systems and power plants back on line, the Red Cross shelters filled as fast as they opened. After three days, most basic resources like food, drinking water, and batteries were scarce as dodo birds.

Government officials urged everyone to stay home and off the roads, especially because more rain—and inevitably more flooding—were forecast.

Dr. Renata Curtis, who had just finished her third year of residency, was in charge of the facility's Disaster Response Program. She tackled the job enthusiastically, grateful to be in a position to help others—versus needing help herself.

While the clinic was running with only a skeleton crew, they were prepared to field excess traffic from the emergency room, which at times like this could expand tenfold because people couldn't get in to see their regular doctors for minor medical problems.

They were also prepared to handle requests for provisional refills of common prescriptions—insulin, blood
pressure medication, inhalers, and so on—that people couldn't get because local pharmacies were closed. Likewise, over-the-counter drugs—aspirin, decongestants, anti-diarrhea aids—were in high demand, too.

Renata's morning had started off hectic with the delivery of a baby in the backseat of a car in the clinic's parking lot. Afterwards, the mother and her new daughter were transported by ambulance to the hospital along with the father, who suffered a concussion after fainting and striking his head on the car door.

"First baby?" the paramedic had asked.

"Last baby," the mother responded.

In contrast, the late afternoon had been surprisingly quiet. Except, of course, for the regulars, the ones they saw weekly, such as the patient Renata dictated notes on; Caucasian male, age unknown. She had guessed by his prepubescent build that he was thirteen. Fourteen, tops.

He'd had a broken wrist, multiple contusions, two bruised eyes and a long, shallow laceration across his chest that was consistent with a knife slash. The boy claimed he fell off his bicycle.

Renata suspected his injuries had been received in a gang-related dispute. She had recognized the scar on his right wrist. A small circle of cigarette burns. Skin graffiti—body tags—marked local gang members. Colors were passe; tattoos expensive.

The Bay Meadow Urgent Care Clinic was located near one of Durham's roughest neighborhoods. Consequently, they saw an above average number of
regulars
with injuries linked to unlawful activities.

In conformity with the clinic's policy on crime victims and unaccompanied minors, Renata had called the police, but the young man slipped out before they arrived, a scenario she saw all too often.

"Soon," she muttered, "that's going to change."

Thanks to a study Renata had worked on over the past two years, the clinic had been awarded a landmark grant targeting health care issues for preteen gang members and their families. Treatment and follow-up would be coupled with preventive education aimed at disrupting the patterns of physical violence.

And she'd just been offered a key position in establishing the pilot program. To see her long hours—most of them volunteered—bear fruit was gratifying. She had accepted on the spot.

A voice from the hallway broke into her thoughts. "Mrs. Bolton, you need to give me the pepper spray."

Renata frowned. Mrs. Bolton was another of the clinic's regulars. But what on earth was she doing with pepper spray?

Besides being old enough to be Moses' great grandma, Mrs. Bolton was diabetic and half blind. She lived a block away and came into the clinic several times a week after misreading her blood sugar or forgetting to take her insulin. Or when she got lonely.

Renata stepped into the hall and found Mrs. Bolton arguing with their receptionist, Janet.

"It's mace, not pepper spray," Mrs. Bolton was saying. "And my nephew said I should bring the can up like so—"

Renata moved forward before the older woman's finger found the spray button. Gently but quickly, she took the canister.

"Why don't we let Janet hold this while I examine you?"

Mrs. Bolton looked dubious. "I'd feel safer if I could keep it in my pocket. Bad enough we got flooding, but now with those escaped prisoners on the loose ..."

Renata looked questioningly at Janet. "What escaped prisoners?"

"Is that what this is about?" Janet grinned and patted the old woman's hand.
"Pfft.
I just heard a blip on the news. They captured them. You don't have a thing to worry about, Mrs. Bolton."

Dusk had fallen on the City of Medicine, Durham, North Carolina. Home to several famous hospitals, nationally recognized medical teaching facilities, pharmaceutical conglomerates, and Research Triangle Park, the largest university-related research park in the world.

Or at least that was what the last radio commercial had claimed. But Adam wasn't in town to play tourist. He snapped the radio off.

He and Lyle had managed to outmaneuver the farmer after luring him closer by pretending to surrender. Adam had blindsided him before he could fire a shot.

In the end, the farmer had been more furious at Adam for throwing his shotgun in a nearby creek than for tying him up. That he could have been injured— or killed—didn't seem to faze the old fart.

Adam and Lyle had sped off, driving due north. If the farmer had indeed called the sheriff's department, they wouldn't have much of a head start.

They had to backtrack twice. Driving was treacherous, as many secondary roads remained under water, forcing them onto the main routes, where cops were concentrated. And if that wasn't bad enough they had problems getting a clear cell phone signal. They got through briefly once, but the signal dropped before Lyle's brother, Nevin, gave them instructions.

Uncertain of which direction they were to head to meet Lyle's family, and wary of traveling in broad daylight, Adam pulled into a state campground. Though most of the park was high and dry, it was closed because of the flooding.

After hiding the car in the woods, he broke into one of the bathhouses. They showered and changed clothes, which made Adam feel almost human.

When Lyle finally reached Nevin, he was given directions to a commercial storage lot in Durham. They had headed south and were now less than fifty miles from where they'd escaped, which the cops probably wouldn't expect.

A light rain started as Adam pulled up to the after- hours gate at the storage lot. He and Lyle had watched the place for nearly an hour, keeping an eye open for anything or anyone out of place.

They couldn't wait any longer. The radio had just broadcast a news alert of their escape that included a report of the nondescript Taurus. No license plate number was given. With what seemed like every third car on the road being a Taurus, it wasn't much for law enforcement to go on, but it was more than Adam was comfortable with.

It was also safe to assume their mug shots had been flashed on the evening news. Not that many people would be watching. Over half the area remained without electricity.

A cheap neon
closed
sign flickered in the window of the lot's office, proof that the place had power. Adam punched in the four-digit security code Lyle rattled off. The electric gate took forever to open, shuddering and stalling twice before slowly heaving sideways an inch at a time.

The storage lot had five long buildings crowded on it with each building holding thirty or so units. Adam passed the first building. They were looking for 18C.

"God, we're almost home free," Lyle said. "I don't know what I want more. A piece of ass or a decent meal. I know I want a beer with either one. What about you?"

Adam snorted at the irony. Lyle wasn't even old enough to buy alcohol. "I'll settle for a safe place to sleep."

"Then what? You haven't said what you're doing beyond this."

"That's right."

"I know you wanted out of prison before they got something else on you. Something big," Lyle continued. "I couldn't figure it out until I saw that high-tech radio jammer. That had to be military. Stolen?"

"Borrowed." Adam slowed the car. "What's your point, kid?"

Lyle tried to act nonchalant and failed . "A guy with that kind of access could make a lot of money—provided he hooked up with the right buyer."

"Who says I'm not?"

"Nobody. But you did say your old partner is hesitant."

"For now. He knows the cops will put two and two together and come looking for him when they investigate our escape."

"See? That's exactly what I mean. Being a fugitive can put a crimp in things; might scare off your customers, too."

"Temporarily, maybe. Long term it won't matter."

"But what about short term, man? I know several buyers who'd pay top dollar for hardware like that jammer."

"You? Or your daddy?" Adam didn't hide his skepti
cism. "If half of what you told me about your family is true, I doubt they need another supplier."

"More than half of it's true," Lyle defended. "And for the record, I was asking for myself. I've been thinking about striking out on my own."

Adam glanced sideways. "Back up a minute. Which half of what you've told me isn't true?"

"Not much."

"Define much."

"Well, fuck-a-duck. I was going to tell you later." Lyle shifted in his seat. "My old man didn't want me breaking out. Can you believe that? He's been in prison before. He knows what it's like."

Lyle's admission shocked Adam. Family was religion to the McEdwins. In fact, the theme of Lyle's life was
blood is thicker.
His incessant chatter about family, loyalty, and ties binding father to son, brother to brother, drove Adam nuts. That and all his talk about his brothers' blood oath to not be captured alive.

"Are you saying your father wanted you to stay in the pen?"

"Not exactly. He just wanted me to wait before making a move. But I knew you were my only chance to get out. Those guards would have killed me."

Several things struck Adam. Lyle
had
been in contact with his father somehow. At least enough to communicate his intent to escape. Which meant the McEdwins had a better, more secret system of communication than he'd been led to believe.

It also meant Lyle was expert at playing dumb when it came to his family. Adam hadn't suspected a thing. So what else was the kid hiding?

"Did he say why he wanted you to wait?"

"He's, uh, busy," Lyle hedged.

Too busy for his son? Adam wondered. Or too busy planning his next big event? Maybe family—or just Lyle—wasn't as important as Willy's other priorities. Or maybe there was more truth to the rumors of dissension in the McEdwin family than Lyle would admit.

"Truth is, I've only talked with Nevin," Lyle continued. "But he's probably contacted Pa by now."

"Probably? I thought your family was this close?" Adam held up crossed fingers.

"They are, most days. And we'll be fine with Nevin. He's got as many connections as my Pa does. Maybe more."