Nathan Carver stood barefoot in his kitchen, staring at the blinking "12:00" on the microwave. It blinked steadily, asking to be reset. He took a sip of his coffee. It was too hot. It burned his tongue. He winced but continued drinking.
The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the soft patter of rain against the window. A folded newspaper sat on the counter, its edges curled and unread. He wore a black t-shirt, threadbare and faded, and gym shorts he would not wear outside. On the table, his service pistol lay disassembled on a blue towel, each part arranged with careful precision. Cleaning it had not been a planned activity; he simply needed something to occupy his hands.
A digital clock by the front door read 12:50 p.m.
His phone buzzed. The vibration was insistent; a department override signal. It indicated a priority call. He allowed it to buzz twice, then answered.
"Carver."
"Yeah, sorry. I know it's your day off. We've got a situation at the First City Transportation Training Center. Possible explosion. Structural damage. Public building. One suspect in custody. Captain asked for you."
Nathan rubbed his jaw, a day's growth of brown hair, scraping along his fingers. He glanced toward the bathroom, where the door to the bathroom was still open. A towel still hung on the doorknob from a finished shower. He probably did not have time for a shave.
"Any fatalities?"
"None. It's just chaos. Civilian staff evacuated. Fire and uniforms are already on scene. You're closest."
He exhaled. "Give me ten."
He ended the call. The pistol lay half-assembled. He completed its reassembly, holstered it, and prepared himself. There was no hesitation, only efficient movement.
In the bedroom, he dressed quickly. Jeans. Holster. Badge. The shirt smelled of the last shift. He did not care. He grabbed his boots, pulled them on without lacing them, and opened the top drawer. He pulled out his brother's watch.
He left the apartment, leaving the lights off and the coffee forgotten. The microwave continued to blink. The rain remained steady.
He shut the door with more force than was necessary. The hallway smelled faintly of mildew. His boots echoed down the stairs. Someone upstairs was arguing. A dog barked.
He should have been halfway through a bad action movie. Instead, he was driving to a potential bombing, merely because someone remembered his name.
Rain misted his face. He zipped his jacket halfway and headed for his truck. It was old, blue, and rusted. It was still his brother's. It always would be.
The truck door creaked. The engine coughed before it turned over. He sat for a moment, his hands on the wheel, watching the wipers scrape across the windshield.
"Happy goddamn Saturday," he murmured.
The drive was short, only fourteen minutes. However, the day already felt long. Someone had damaged a city building. There was no clear motive. No casualties had been reported, yet. One suspect was in custody. He was probably uncooperative. Perhaps worse. He tapped the face of his brother's watch. Let's see what kind of mess this is, David.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The city blurred by in wet gray and red. Upon arriving at the Training Center, he saw that emergency vehicles filled the parking lot. Yellow tape stretched across walkways. Ambulances idled. A Traffic officer attempted to redirect him, then noticed his badge. Nathan parked and climbed down out of the truck.
"Detective Carver?" A young officer approached. He was clean-cut with rain on his patrol jacket. "Lieutenant Krantz," the man introduced himself. "Glad you came. Sorry to call you in."
Nathan nodded. "What've we got?"
Krantz pulled out a notepad as they walked. "Reports started just before 12:40. Loud noise. Possible explosion. Alarms. Smoke. Staff evacuated. Sprinklers triggered. Fire got here first. Cleared the building. Damage doesn't match any known explosive."
"No accelerants?"
"Nothing so far. No gas smell. Some fire signs. Heat-scorched concrete. Debris. Big stone chunks. Like from a collapsed building. But this building's fine. Structurally."
Nathan scratched the back of his hand. "Collapsed stone from where?"
Krantz grimaced. "That's the thing. From nowhere. Fire Chief says it looks weird, some of it medieval. Blackened like it was blasted, but no source. No blast center. The damage doesn't align with anything she's seen."
They passed two more officers. One nodded them through. Inside, the floor and the carpet that covered it was soaked. Lights flickered. A maintenance crew waited with vacuums. Forensics had not yet cleared the scene.
"Security footage?" Nathan asked, stepping around a caution cone.
"It's being pulled now. Assistant Manager, suspect's boss, is helping. He's reviewing it in their Dispatch. I saw a few frames. You got one guy. Civilian clothes. He comes flying out of a side door from Shuttle. Door was fine this morning. Now it looks blown out. But, again, no actual explosives."
Nathan's boots splashed on the carpet. "Suspect?"
"Ethan Kai. Mid-thirties. Works Dispatch. No arrest record, but ex-military. He didn't have a weapon on him, and he didn't resist. We found him just sitting in the hall. Almost like he was waiting for a ride."
"What'd he say?"
"Nothing. The fucker didn't let out a peep, pardon my French. But he looked shook up. He didn't ask for a lawyer. Not even a damned phone call. Captain wants him to sit overnight. He says it'll give you time to make it pretty for the court."
That stirred something in Nathan. It was an old, unwelcome sensation.
They reached the ruined door. Its frame was blackened and warped. Concrete chunks lay scattered. Strange stones, as if from a castle, were intermingled with the debris. The air smelled of ozone and water. A technician brushed ash from a circular scorch mark.
Krantz folded his arms. "I've seen vandalism. And a few bomb scenes. This doesn't vibe with either."
Nathan scanned the debris, the scorch pattern, the cracks. "No, it doesn't, does it?"
He stood in the hall, jotting notes. His pen scratched against damp paper. Forensics personnel moved behind him. Krantz returned, nodding toward a break room.
"He's in there. A guy named Pettinger. He works with Kai. He seems really eager to talk."
Nathan nodded. He closed his notebook and stepped into the room.
Steve Pettinger sat at the table, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup he had no intention of drinking. His shirt clung to his bulk, its collar stretched, his gut spilling over his belt. He appeared to be a man in the midst of a panic attack, yet he feigned control.
He looked up as Nathan entered, his eyes flashing with rehearsed self-importance. "You're the detective, right? About time. I've been holding this whole place together since it went down."
Nathan sat across from him. "Tell me what happened."
Pettinger leaned back as if he were being interviewed for a promotion. "Well, it all started during my routine rounds. I take safety very seriously, you understand. Someone has to. Most of these people? No discipline. I make it a point to walk the floor, check on things."
Nathan waited.
"I was in the Dispatch Center. And I hear this sound. Not just a bang. Something bigger. Like metal tearing or cats shrieking. Hard to describe. But I knew something was wrong. I've got instincts for this sort of thing."
He leaned in. "So, I move fast. Come out of the Dispatch Center, and there he is. Ethan. Just sitting there. Like a damn statue. Nothing in his hands. No phone. Not even calling for help. Just staring. Useless."
"You said tearing. Was there any fire?"
"No open flame. But I know the smell. Melted wiring, scorched components. I've logged enough hours in facilities to know the difference between water damage and heat."
"Go on."
"I told him to move. I told him to get out. He didn't. I had to make a judgment call. So, I took some initiative. Alerted the rest of the floor, got the ball rolling. Frankly, if I hadn't been there, the whole place might have gone up."
Nathan watched him closely. Pettinger filled the silence.
"The guy's strange. He keeps to himself. And he reads all the time. Gotta be something wrong with that. And he always looking around like he's studying people. It makes others uncomfortable. I've said that before, off the record. Gut feeling. He fits the profile."
"What profile? You ever report him?"
"I'm talkin' vets, man! They carry baggage and they think they're better than us. I should have reported him, but no, I didn't. I'm a nice guy. But you know they type.""
Nathan's tone became flat. "What type is that?"
Pettinger blinked. "You know. The bookworms. I don't waste my time with that crap. Give me a beer and some good old-fashioned football any day before you see me grabbing some stupid book. It's worse if those weirdos have military training. All those words go up in their heads, probably makes them snap under pressure. And you saw the blast, right? That was a bomb. You can tell me."
Nathan stood. "Thanks for your time."
Pettinger appeared startled. "That's it? You don't need a statement or anything official? I'm kind of the key witness here."
"We'll be in touch." Nathan stepped out back into the hallway. Krantz waited.
"Well?"
"The man's an idiot. He's full of it, but I don't think he's lying. Not exactly."
"What does that mean?" Krantz asked.
Nathan looked back at the blackened door where several of the techs were still working.
"I don't know."
Then a voice spoke.
"Wait! Don't open that yet!