Buildings Most Unstable
Author's note: This is a revision of my original book, Buildings Most Unstable.
Renewed HopeBack at my apartment on my laptop, I did some research. I did that all night. I thought I was on to something. It was only when I just couldn’t keep my eyes open at all that I went to bed, but I did so with a renewed hope.
The next morning I was up again early, back at my research. All morning and into the afternoon I sat either in my armchair or by the window, or somewhere, studying the screen. Occasionally I’d take a short break to make a sandwich or some coffee, or just rest my eyes. But I couldn’t stop for very long; I had something, I knew it, and would not let those people die just because I had gotten hungry, or my eyes had wearied!
I had been studying deep into the roots of a certain site for a good while; it was the Saturday Evening Post’s website. Suddenly, I saw something. Maybe this was it!
See, that central building and ultimate target in the suggested pattern was the Saturday Evening Post, and I saw something that might have sparked bitter feelings toward its owner. In 1992, the business’s owner had cheated someone by the name of James Cleveland of a good bit of money. I scrolled down a little, and followed links to a number of social network histories. I saw that since that scandal, there had been several bitter statements and comments by this James Cleveland, directed toward the Saturday Evening Post and its owner. I went back to The Post’s website, and found Mr. Cleveland’s name in the “Rate Us” section: he had rated the business at 0 out of 5 stars. Also, I discovered that he had publicly denounced it and its owner, speaking out in conferences and such. He had actually made the news twice.
I stood up slowly and grinned, hardly believing I’d really finally found it. I made sure, though, and looked back over the pages. But, everything sure did look right. Working quickly now, I shut my laptop and put on my conceal-carry holster for my Ruger LCR. I grabbed my coat and, once outside, headed for the police station.
It was an amazing, cool, refreshing autumn day. I stuffed my hands into my coat pockets, and my scarf blew up as I ran toward the street to catch a taxi. Hurrying even as I was, I immensely enjoyed being outside. I grinned. I received a few strange glances, but grinned all the more, and got into the taxi.
Once at the station, I told as much as I could to Inspector Burrow with the time we had. There was only an hour before the bomb would be planted.