Without a word between them, Sam and the tech automatically split up and moved along opposite sides of the nave. The site would be more thoroughly searched later; this time around, their focus was only on locating any second bombs. The death of Marty Pickett still weighed heavily on Sams conscience, and he wasnt about to let any other officers enter this building until he had cleared it.
Moving in parallel, the two men paced the nave, their eyes alert for anything resembling an explosive device. All the debris made it a slow search. As they moved forward, the damage visibly worsened, and the odor of exploded dynamite grew stronger. Getting closer, he thought. The bomb was planted somewhere around here.
In front of the altar, at a spot where the first row of pews would have stood, they found the crater. It was about three feet across and shallow; the blast had ripped through the carpet and pad, but had barely chipped the concrete slab below. A shallow crater was characteristic of a low-velocity blast again, compatible with dynamite.
They would take a closer look at it later. They continued their search. They finished with the nave and progressed to the hallways, the dressing rooms, the restrooms. No bombs. They went into the annex and surveyed the church offices, the meeting rooms, the Sunday school classroom. No bombs. They exited through a rear door and searched the entire outside wall. No bombs.
Satisfied at last, Sam returned to the police line, where Gillis was waiting. There he took off the body armor. Buildings clean, Sam said. We got the searchers assembled?
Gillis gestured to the six men waiting near the bomb carrier truck. There were two patrolmen and four crime lab techs, each one clutching empty evidence bags. Theyre just waiting for the word.
Lets get the photographer in there first, then send the team in. The craters up front, around the first row of pews on the right.
Dynamite?
Sam nodded. If I can trust my nose. He turned and eyed the crowd of gawkers. Im going to talk to the witnesses. Wheres the minister?
They just took him off to the ER. Chest pains. All that stress.
Sam gave an exasperated sigh. Did anyone talk to him?
Patrolman did. We have his statement.
Okay, said Sam. I guess that leaves me with the bride.
Shes still waiting in the patrol car. Her names Nina Cormier.
Cormier. Gotcha. Sam ducked under the yellow police line and worked his way through the gathering of onlookers. Scanning the official vehicles, he spotted a silhouette in the front passenger seat of one of the cars. The woman didnt move as he approached; she was staring straight ahead like some wedding store mannequin. He leaned forward and tapped on the window.
The woman turned. Wide dark eyes stared at him through the glass. Despite the smudged mascara, the softly rounded feminine face was undeniably pretty. Sam motioned to her to roll down the window. She complied.
Miss Cormier? Im Detective Sam Navarro, Portland police.
I want to go home, she said. Ive talked to so many cops already. Please, cant I just go home?
First I have to ask you a few questions.
A few?
All right, he admitted. Its more like a lot of questions.
She gave a sigh. Only then did he see the weariness in her face. If I answer all your questions, Detective, she said, will you let me go home?
I promise.
Do you keep your promises?
He nodded soberly. Always.
She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap.
Right, she muttered. Men and their promises.
Excuse me?
Oh, never mind.
He circled around the car, opened the door, and slid in behind the wheel. The woman next to him said nothing; she just sat there in resigned silence. She seemed almost swallowed up by those frothy layers of white satin. Her hairdo was coming undone and silky strands of black hair hung loose about her shoulders. Not at all the happy picture of a bride, he thought. She seemed stunned, and very much alone.
Where the hell was the groom?
Stifling an instinctive rush of sympathy, he reached for his notebook and flipped it open to a blank page. Can I have your full name and address?
The answer came out in a bare whisper. Nina Margaret Cormier, 318 Ocean View Drive.
He wrote it down. Then he looked at her. She was still staring straight down at her lap. Not at him. Okay, Miss Cormier, he said. Why dont you tell me exactly what happened?
SHE WANTED TO GO HOME. She had been sitting in this patrol car for an hour and a half now, had talked to three different cops, had answered all their questions. Her wedding was a shambles, shed barely escaped with her life, and those people out there on the street kept staring at her as though she were some sort of sideshow freak.
And this man, this cop with all the warmth of a codfish, expected her to go through it again?
Miss Cormier, he sighed. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can leave. What, exactly, happened?
It blew up, she said. Can I go home?
What do you mean by blew up?
There was a loud boom. Lots of smoke and broken windows. Id say it was your typical exploding building.