Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [41]
The unlikely fantasy was fun to think about, but he had things to do. Charlie ditched the bulging bag behind a potted palm and headed for the three long flights of stairs to the roof. Puffing and panting, he opened the door and stepped out onto the flat black expanse, the cold air hitting him like a physical blow. A tour of the area led him to where the maintenance crew had left the vat of tar to cool. He waved his arms around to keep warm.
The fifty-gallon, silver liquid-propane tank was attached to a burner-like system beneath the tar vat, its heat slowly melting the chunks of black tar into a glossy, viscous liquid. Three spare tanks stood at the far end of the roof, well away from the open flame.
Causing a major explosion was definitely doable. Charlie’s brain fired into high gear and ticked through the possibilities.
That evening, back at home, Charlie dug through the air-conditioning plans stashed away in his basement. He found the HVAC blueprints for Timberwoods easily enough, and two hours later lifted his head from the papers, a euphoric smile on his doughy face. He’d solved every piece of the puzzle of how to do it, if not who exactly could be blamed for it—if there was someone else besides him. There could even be cash in advance in it for him, he mused, if he went further and figured out a way to mislead the cops. He pictured himself taking a reward and a smiling handshake from the mall CEO. But he’d blow the damn place up anyway.
As soon as he could the next morning, he again checked out the machinery and propane tanks on the roof. Everything would fit into his scheme.
He allowed himself a few idle moments to figure out the thought processes of the scapegoat bomber, pretending he was an FBI profiler.
He had to be as angry as Charlie—and as smart. That left out the dolts in maintenance. Charlie prided himself on secretly being the smartest, someone who considered all angles.
Given that, he had to factor in the possibility that his scheme to incriminate someone else might complicate the plan too much.
Keep it simple, he told himself.
Whatever. The blast would do that for him when it leveled the mall. He’d be out the door and safely away when it happened, close enough to watch and laugh. In his hiding place, he’d smear ash and dirt on his face and body, and stab at his skin to look like a bona fide, bleeding survivor and stagger back to help out.
And why not, he thought triumphantly. He could also collect a fat award for pain and suffering on top of everything else. He knew his imagination was running away with him, but his fantasies were exhilarating. The joke would be on that clown of a CEO, Dolph Richards, for not closing the mall.
Someone jostled him and, startled, Charlie quickly returned to the present. Mike Wollek from security was standing in front of him. “Roman, is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” Charlie answered flatly, pulling himself away from Mike’s rough hand. Why did people have to react to him in a big way just because he was big? Big voices, big hands, big slaps on the back.
“Christ, you look scared to death,” Mike exclaimed, not noticing that Charlie was shrinking from his touch. “Look, take it easy, fella. I guess you heard about the bomb threat, huh? It was a letter, same as before, but we’re trying to take precautions.”
Mike’s walkie-talkie beeped shrilly and he stepped away from Charlie to answer it.
Charlie stood on shaking legs, expecting the floor to come up and hit him in the face. He turned and walked in the direction of the door to the stairs leading down.
He had to hurry back to the Santa in Toyland display and all the happy, happy people, and come up with an excuse to cover his brief absence.
Over his shoulder