Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [102]
“That’s not why you bought a prepaid cell.”
He grinned and patted the propane tank. “Smart girl. You’re right. I took this crummy phone apart and rigged it as a detonator.” He caressed the first key. “A is for Angela. In memory of you.”
The brief vision that she hadn’t understood came back to her. Hand over hand.
What did it mean?
His fingers tightened around the phone.
Compelled by an impulse she didn’t understand, she put her white, shaking hand over his.
That was it. So simple.
Startled, Charlie dropped the phone. Angela kicked it into the snow. She reached out again and took his empty hand. He held on. She had no idea why.
“I can’t let go,” he whispered.
Angela dropped to her knees and he did the same thing.
“What’s going on? What are you doing to me?” His face turned up to the winter sky.
“The lady said she was praying,” came a deep male voice. “Better join in.”
Out of nowhere, a solid punch came from above and connected with Charlie’s jaw. He fell backward, knocked unconscious by Eric Summers’s fist.
Angela scrambled to her feet. In less than a minute, the detective had Charlie tied up with cable cuffs, his face shoved halfway into the snow, still unconscious but groaning.
Summers unclipped a walkie-talkie and pushed a button. “Send backup,” he instructed. “Yeah, to the roof, southwest quadrant near the edge. The SOB is trussed up like a Christmas turkey; he’ll hold. Get to the guy at the bottom of the stairs first. He’s breathing, but just barely.” He looked at Angela. “You all right? Did I forget anything?”
She pointed to the assemblage of tubes and wires and the propane tank. “He was about to detonate it. With a cell phone. It’s in the snow.”
His eyes widened. “Jesus!” He grabbed her hand and ran toward the roof door with her in tow, still on the walkie-talkie. “Call in the bomb squad and hurry! Land on the roof and make it quick! Hell yes, evacuate the damn mall! Everybody out, as fast as you guys can do it without causing a stampede! I’m bringing the girl down now!”
He ran with her to the door, then looked back at Charlie, who’d rolled over.
Eric told himself to forget it. His baby was about to be born. Let Charlie Roman blow up with his bomb. If he came to and found the cell phone . . .
There were thousands of people in the mall who didn’t even know they were in mortal danger.
The detective shoved Angela through the door. “Go!” he shouted. He ran back to Charlie, who was pawing through the snow around him, groggy but determined. Eric grabbed the man’s hood, pulled him up, knocked him out again with a second punch, and dragged him to the roof door, running against Charlie’s deadweight.
Too bad he wasn’t actually dead. In fact, Eric would have been happy to send Charlie straight to hell, but not when the lives of several thousand innocent people were at stake. He’d done what he could. A court of law would determine the man’s ultimate fate. Eric yanked and pulled Charlie’s heavy body down the stairs behind him. In another few seconds, his angry groans were drowned out by the choppy roar of a helicopter landing on the Timberwoods roof.
Those guys knew what they were doing. They put their lives on the line every damn time. He wished them luck. They would need it.
It was over. The bomb was defused and Charlie Roman was behind bars, with no bail granted. He’d be there for a long, long time.
Angela had been told she was free to go home after several hours at precinct headquarters. Eric Summers had stayed with her through the police questioning and after that, until someone called to let him know his wife was in the early stages of labor. Considering the shock of the events at the mall, her doctor thought it best for her to go to the hospital for monitoring. Eric agreed.
The authorities formally released Angela after Heather Andrews, seconded by Harold Baumgarten and Felex Lassiter, extracted a promise to keep Angela’s name and role in the capture of Charlie Roman out of the media for now. The evidence, like the letters, would have to