Since only one is required to fly and land the chopper, I ask the copilot to take aerial photographs of the bomb site. As we approach the blast site, he directs the pilot to make a wide circle high above Leeds Road, then has him come closer, asks him to tilt, then make a tight circle.

After a few minutes, he turns to me and says, “We’re done.”

“Set her down, then,” I say.

The pilot puts the chopper on the center of Leeds Road, midway between ground zero and the police roadblock at Leeds and Route 53.

A young sheriff’s deputy races toward us. When he finally arrives he tries to speak, but can’t catch his breath. He puts his hands on his knees and pants like a dog.

“What’s up, deputy?”

He takes a few more seconds to recover, then says, “Who am I talking to?”

“Donovan Creed.”

“And you are?”

“I just told you. Donovan Creed.”

“You can’t be here, sir. This is Leeds Road. The bomb site’s less than half a mile south.” He points, in case I don’t know which direction is south. As if I didn’t survey the entire area before landing.

“Listen, son. We don’t have time for bullshit. We’ve wasted hours obtaining proper clearance.”

“No one told me about it.”

“Sort of sad, isn’t it? You do all the work but no one tells you anything? Get on the horn and tell them my name. Then tell me what I need to know. I saw two roadblocks, one on each end of the street.”

“Road, sir.”

“What?”

“We’re on Leeds Road, sir.”

I give him a look. “Are you fucking with me?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t fuck with me son. I only saw one person at the blast site. That can’t be right.”

“There’s just the one, sir. Everyone else is outside the roadblock, protecting the integrity of the scene.”

“Integrity of the scene? Where’d you hear that?”

“Agent Phillips. FBI.”

“FBI’s here?”

“No sir, just Agent Phillips. But they’re on the way. With a task force, a federal bomb squad, and all sorts of experts.”

“That’s us.”

“You’re the experts? From Washington?”

“That’s right. I expect the president would want me to thank you for your dedication to duty.”

“Wow!”

“Who’s the guy I saw from the air? The one all alone at the blast site?”

“Agent Tyson Phillips, sir. He’s FBI.”

“You say that with reverence in your voice.”

“Well, I mean, it’s the FBI!”

“No one shits their pants any quicker.”

“Sir?”

“I know for a fact the FBI doesn’t have a field office in Willow Pointe.”

“Willow Lake, sir.”

“Whatever.”

“Agent Phillips is from Little Rock. He was here, visiting his sister. He’s been fielding questions, videoing the blast site, and live-streaming it to the task force.”

“Live-streaming, huh?”

“Yes, sir. And preserving the scene till the task force arrives.”

“With any luck we’ll be gone before they get here.”

He frowns. “The FBI’s got full jurisdiction, sir. Agent Phillips has papers and everything.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“FBI outranks us on this one. We were bombed!”

“What’s this guy’s title?”

“Tyson Phillips? He’s an FBI attorney.”

“Shut up!”

“Sir?”

“Do you mean to stand there and tell me your dynamic Willow Pointe police force is sucking hind tit to an FBI attorney?”

“Willow Lake, sir. And yes, they said he’s in charge. I mean, he’s FBI, and all.”

“Did he show you his ankle holster?”

The deputy looks confused.