“What files?”
“I’ll show you inside.”
“Where’s the burn site, the testing ground?”
“At a farm five miles away. Owner is Jason Zucker, and he’s been in the hospital for a long time. Lives alone. Zucker is friends with the Shanks, so it makes sense that the Shanks would have used his backyard for testing while he was away.”
“And nobody goes there?”
“It’s in the middle of the woods. The FBI’s command post is there. They think that’s where the Shanks built the IED but they haven’t found any bomb-making equipment yet.” The Rabbi picked up the pace as they approached the farmhouse. “The Shanks took their laptops. We know they had them because there are boosters in two of the rooms. They left nothing behind. They’re not coming back.”
“But they’re not suicide bombers.”
“No, I don’t think so. They must have a getaway plan.”
“They’re going to make Evan do it, aren’t they?” Chris felt his chest tighten. “They’re going to make Evan drive that dually. They’re going to kill that kid.”
“You’re assuming he’s not in on it.”
“He’s not in on it.”
“Even with the IRS indictment?”
“Even so, I just don’t see it going that far. I just don’t see him or Courtney going that far.”
“Evidently they are.”
“You don’t know if Courtney or Evan’s with them.”
“I got a good guess.” The Rabbi hurried along. “Another possibility is that Courtney and Evan went off together. Killed her husband and took off. Let the brothers bomb their hearts out, but the kid runs off with the teacher.”
“The brothers wouldn’t let them get away. They couldn’t take that risk.”
“You think they’d turn on their sister?”
“You tell me. I never had a sister.”
“Instead of life in prison? Yes. And the youngest always gets picked on, especially a girl. I drove my sister nuts.”
They reached the front door, and Chris followed the Rabbi into the crumbling farmhouse, which had thick stone walls, low ceilings, and small rooms that were typical of homes built during the colonial era, but the décor was hardly historic. The walls had been paneled and decorated with deer heads in baseball caps, and worn mismatched furniture and a fake leather recliner sat around an old television on a metal cart. Beanbag ashtrays overflowed with cigarettes, and the air smelled like stale smoke.
“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Chris said, then his gaze fell on a grouping of family photos that hung at crooked angles. He spotted Courtney’s pretty face, a bright-eyed young girl with missing teeth in her school picture, then a First Communion picture, and group pictures with her two older brothers, who had none of her good looks, though they shared her dark hair and dark brown eyes. Both brothers had broad smiles, which became flatter over the years.
The Rabbi pointed. “That’s David, age thirty-eight, on the left and Jimmy, forty-five, on the right. We circulated a better one, but that gives you an idea.”
“Got it.” Chris took out his phone and snapped a photo, just in case.
“Come this way.” The Rabbi led him from the living room and down the hall, past two crummy bedrooms to a back room, which appeared to be a spare bedroom. On the bed were piles of paper, correspondence in accordion files, and scattered court pleadings with blue backers.
“What’s this?”
“More bad news.” The Rabbi gestured to the papers. “The Shank family has had a dispute for the past five years with the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, the Pennsylvania Department of Environmental Protection, the EPA, and Frazer Gas, which has leases to frack the neighboring farms. The problem is that three of the neighboring farms leased their land to Frazer Gas for fracking. Under Pennsylvania law, if three contiguous farms lease to frackers, the gas company can drill underneath your parcel, whether you leased or not. They drill horizontally.”
“Really.” Chris walked over to the papers, picked up the first packet, and started thumbing through the letter on top, to Frazer Gas, which read:
… You have ruined our home and our business. We used to sell top-quality horse and alfalfa hay, but then it was only good for mushroom hay and now even the mushroom farmers won’t buy it. We can’t sell it to anyone. You ruined our family business. We built a reputation as the best hay dealer on the quality of our hay and now that has gone down the tubes. We could not even give it away, not once they found out where it came from and we are not willing to lie to people to take their money like you will …
“Pennsylvania’s law allows it, and the fact is, you can own the surface rights of your property, but not the mineral rights. Lobbyists and politicians strike again.”
Chris picked up the second packet, looking at the date, 2010. It was scientific testing of some type, attached to a letter.
Dear Sir,
We demand that Frazer Gas, the PADEP, and the EPA cease and desist their drilling! They have destroyed our property and made us sick, especially my elderly father! We demand justice and we have proof! You can see by this report that the air is contaminated and killing us and our horses and dogs!!!!
Chris flipped to the report, skimming down the list of chemicals:
BTEX (benzene, toluene, ethylbenzene’, m-xylene, p-xylene, o-xylene); carbon tetrachloride, chloromethane, methylene chloride, tetrachloroethylene; trichlorofluoromethane …
The Rabbi continued, “The Shanks claim that as soon as the fracking started, their farm went to hell. The air turned bad, the water turned bad, and Frazer Gas and the state government ignored them. The state eventually conceded on the water quality when it caught fire.”
“The water burns? Is it methane?” Chris turned to the next letter, also to Frazer Gas:
… You give us water buffaloes but that’s barely enough for us to drink but we don’t have drinkable water for the horses and they all got so sick after you started drilling they were bleeding out their noses, losing weight, and refusing their grain until they died of starvation!!! My hunting dog died the same way …
“Evidently. The same thing happened in Dimock, if you heard about that. So the Shanks and their neighbors complained and complained, and the state finally sent in some water buffaloes.”
“Water buffaloes?”
“It’s not an animal, it’s a big tank of potable water. The water buffalo was for the family, not for the animals, and the Shanks had horses. They had no choice but to give the horses the water from the well, and over time, the horses got sick and died, except for one.”
Chris felt for the Shank family and understood their grievance. Whatever the cause, it would’ve been disastrous to lose their farm and animals. He kept reading the letter.
… You sold my neighbors a bill of goods. You made our lives a living hell and now our houses are worth nothing. Nobody will buy them and we can’t even move away. Your landsmen told them they would be getting royalties from the drill leases and that was a TOTAL LIE. They have yet to see a dime. You would say anything to get what you want, and that is a TOTAL CRIMINAL FRAUD that you perpetrated on …
“They have forty-five acres, you’ll see it out back. It’s all open until you get to the well pads drilling the neighboring farms. It’s not a pretty sight.”
Chris looked out the window of the bedroom, but all he could see was darkness, and above it, the moon beginning to thin to transparency. Monday morning was on its way. He returned his attention to the letter:
… You were aided and abetted by the government! You know who to pay off and you have your lobbyists lining the pockets and kissing the asses of the politicians in Harrisburg and Washington. That is not LEGAL AND IT IS NOT JUSTICE. You don’t care if you ruin family farms like ours. The Shanks have been in Pennsylvania since day one! Do you even know that William Penn named our beautiful Commonwealth Pennsylvania because that means Penn’s Wood? He wanted it to be full of trees, not drilling pads …
 
; “Then about two years ago, the father, Morris Shank, develops nosebleeds, nausea, headaches, heart trouble. The Shanks start a letter-writing campaign, file suits, make all the noise they can. They get stonewalled by the state and federal government, Frazer Gas countersues them, and six months ago, Morris Shank dies of a heart attack.”
“Oh boy.” Chris eyed the papers, dismayed. “And they blame the gas company, the state, and the feds.”
“Exactly.” The Rabbi gestured at the papers again. “So what you’re looking at is antigovernment animus. Motivation. The Shank boys get angry. David starts drinking too much, and believe it or not, they blame that on fracking too. And they don’t have a bad argument. The locals tell me that alcoholism and crime increases in fracking areas. Also traffic accidents, because of the heavy machinery using roads not meant to carry the loads and noise.”
“Really.”
“I’m not making a judgment, I’m telling you what they’re telling me. The locals say people who leased their land aren’t happy and haven’t seen a dime in royalties, but it’s too late. And it’s not our focus. The target is.”
“Right, the question is, what’s the target? The Shanks want justice, and I don’t think they got it. The federal courthouse in Philly is the logical target.”
“That’s the consensus. JTTF sent everybody that way after you called me. It’s only 160 miles away. Three hours by car. Remember, it’s the Byrne Courthouse on the south side, twenty-six floors, and on the north, the Green Federal Building, ten floors—1.7 million square feet, all told.”
“How many people work there?” Chris shuddered to think of the loss of life.
“In the courthouse about a thousand, including appellate and district judges, magistrates, clerks, and staff, but it’s higher with jurors and visitors.” The Rabbi looked grim, his lined forehead buckling and his mouth a flat line. Grayish stubble marked his chin. “The Green Federal Building holds regional offices of the FBI, IRS, DEA, Secret Service, U.S. Marshal Service, Federal Probation Services, and other federal offices. It has about the same number of employees but more members of the public. We think we’re talking, all told with foot traffic, thirty-five hundred people. And that doesn’t count the businesses nearby.”
“Oh man. The FBI and the IRS are relevant to Evan.” Chris regretted his words as soon as they left his lips. “But I think they’re setting him up, framing him.”
“Maybe,” the Rabbi said, averting his eyes, and Chris knew he wasn’t on board.
“Does the target change, given the fact that we’re onto them?”
“Unsure. In terms of targets, if they change their plans, we’re close to the New York state border, and Harrisburg, the state capital, is three hours away. There’s an endless number of soft targets—train stations, bus stations, bridges, and tunnels. It could be anything, if they change tacks.”
“You get no bang for your buck in Harrisburg.” Chris set the file back down. “If you want to get attention for a cause and kill a lot of people, you go to Philly or New York.”
“Luckily, there’s no major bridge between here and Philly. There’s a few tunnels through the mountains, but they aren’t much. I’m guessing they’re going into Philly, and most of the federal buildings are around our office in Old City and—” The Rabbi fell abruptly silent as a cadre of FBI agents lumbered down the hallway and into one of the other bedrooms. “Let’s go back outside and talk.”
“When can I go?” Chris wanted to get back in the air, heading to the courthouse.
“We have to wait for authorization from JTTF. They’ll call Alek and he’ll call me.”
“Are you serious?” Chris couldn’t control his impatience. “I have to ask permission to work my own case?”
“Go along to get along, Curt.”
“Man!” Chris sighed inwardly. He followed the Rabbi down the hall, nodding to the FBI agents, a group of JTTF types, and two men in suits. The Rabbi opened the front door, but they both saw at the same moment that their staging area was full of uniformed locals helping themselves to coffee and doughnuts.
“Follow me.” The Rabbi gestured to the right, and Chris fell into step with him. They walked toward the rusted cars in front of the abandoned pasture, with the red barn behind. Chris took a deep lungful of air, but it didn’t smell like country air, but vaguely acrid and foggy. The Rabbi leaned against an ancient blue Taurus, fishing in his breast pocket and pulling out his cigar and lighter. “You’re not asking where Alek is.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. He’s with the cool kids.”
“Yes. Taking credit for your investigation. All the machers are up here, and he’s angling for a promotion to JTTF. He only used us as a stepping-stone.”
“I feel so cheap.”
The Rabbi chuckled. “The party line is that he was behind you every step of the way.”
“Fine with me. Let’s get him promoted out. The next Alek can’t be worse than this Alek.”
“Ever hear of the Billy Goat’s Gruff?”
Chris shrugged it off. “Were you able to get an agent to the Larkins?”
“Yes, is that your crush? Heather Larkin?”
“Yes.” Chris had forgotten that he’d told the Rabbi about her.
“I sent Marie over. She’s a great agent, nicer than you.”
“Thanks,” Chris said, grateful. He flashed on Heather’s pained expression when she’d learned his true identity. “I’m not sure Heather’s going to be speaking to me after this.”
“Och.” The Rabbi waved him off. “You save the day, you get the girl. That’s how it works.”
Chris smiled, for the first time in a long time. “I didn’t save the day yet.”
“Added incentive.” The Rabbi blew out a cone of smoke. “Was there ever any other? Every rock star in history says he did it to get girls.”
“But they don’t get shot at.”
“There’s that.”
Chris looked around the pasture, noticing the bright lights in the distance and hearing the mechanical thrumming of drilling machinery, an unnatural sound. “Do they drill at night, too?
“I assume so.”
“The Shanks were hay farmers.” Chris eyed the abandoned equipment behind one of the old cars on cinder blocks. “That’s nice equipment over there. A haybine, hay tedder, and that rusty thing with the round tines is a hayrake. That fluffs the hay into windrows.”
The Rabbi turned, looking. “I always forget you’re a country boy.”
“I’m a country boy, I’m a city boy, I’m a whatever-you-want boy. I wonder why they didn’t sell the equipment.” Chris heard the distinctive sound of a horse nickering. “Somebody’s unhappy.”
“The horse? The FBI guys said he’s crazy. They said he was going in circles. I told them, maybe he’s hungry.”
“When horses are hungry, they kick the stall door.” Chris heard the horse nicker again. “That’s strange. He’s bothered. Something is bothering him.”
“Probably the activity.”
“No, he’d have gotten used to it by now.” Chris found himself edging backwards to listen harder. “Let’s go look into that.”
“The FBI already did.”
“Like I said,” Chris said, heading for the barn.
Chapter Fifty-two
Chris heard the nickering of the horse as they approached the barn door, which stood open. “What’s in the other outbuildings?”
“Equipment and junk. The FBI searched it pretty thoroughly.”
They walked down the aisle between the empty stalls. The barn had eight stalls, four on either side, and cobwebs festooned the rafters like a Halloween ghost barn. The stalls were empty except for the one at the end, on the right. The manure odor was strong, so the stall hadn’t been picked recently.
“That’s funny,” Chris said, thinking aloud.
“What?” the Rabbi asked, puffing on his cigar.
“If you have one horse, the normal thing to do would be to put him in the first stall. That
way you don’t have to walk to the end to turn him out.” Chris gestured to the feed room, directly across in the first stall, the conventional layout. “And that’s where you get the grain from. Why would you put the horse so far from the grain?”
“I don’t know. Darryl and Darryl aren’t Einstein?”
Chris approached the stall, and the horse stood tall, his ears facing stiffly forward at the intruders. “Ho, boy,” he said, sing-song.
“You speak the language.”
“You could too. Horses are easy to understand. They’re flight animals, not fight animals. They’re worried by new things, especially if they don’t have a herd or buddy. You can get them a goat or a pony to keep them company.”
“Horses have pets?”
“They don’t like to be alone.” Chris heard himself talking, realizing that maybe he was a fight animal. Maybe he didn’t need a herd or a buddy. Maybe he truly was untouchable.
“There he goes.” The Rabbi gestured with his cigar, as the horse circled the stall.
Chris looked at the straw, which had been so churned up that it had scattered to the edges of the stall, breaking up the manure. The hayrack was empty, and so was the feed bucket affixed to the side of the stall. The water bucket was empty, as well. “He needs hay and water. But something’s up. He’s bothered. Frightened.”
“Is it the cigar?”
“I don’t think so. The Shanks smoke, I smelled it inside.” Chris turned on the barn lights, flickering fluorescents that needed to be replaced. The horse was an old brown draft, sweaty with nervousness. “He seems afraid in his own stall, which makes no sense. Their stall is the one place that horses are never afraid.”
“Who knew?”
“Stand aside a sec, okay?” Chris lifted the nylon halter from its hook and opened the stall door, stepped inside, slipped the halter over the horse’s head, and fastened the buckle. He led the horse out, and he quieted almost as soon as he stood in the aisle.
“That worked.”