Finally, he said, “We’re clear. No one is here. But I’m leaving the light off. If someone is in the vicinity, I don’t want them to see the red glow.”
“I smell gunpowder,” she said. “And something metallic, and epoxy or something equally stinky.”
“You’ve got a good nose. There are several containers of black powder on the workbench. Looks like they were tossed aside after they were emptied. There are metallic shavings farther down on the bench—my guess is detritus from drilling a hole for a fuse.”
“For a fuse?”
“Probably a pipe bomb. Jeb has a large supply of pipes and caps along with his stockpile of black powder.”
“Is it legal? Black powder, I mean?”
“Sure. It’s perfectly legal to own a black powder pistol. It’s harder to buy black powder in quantity, but if he’s been stockpiling for years, he could have acquired quite a lot. It’s shelf stable, highly explosive, and versatile compared to just stockpiling ammunition.”
“Jeb had a bomb-making factory here? Do you think he…was a terrorist?”
“I think he was a hoarder who wanted to defend his property. You said he served in ’Nam. He would know all about improvised munitions. It would be comfortable for him, but also not dangerous to own the pieces when they aren’t assembled. He had supplies at the ready. The lightbulbs are part of the stockpile. File off the top and fill the bulb with black powder. Screw it in a socket, and when someone flips the switch, boom.”
This was a bizarre conversation to be having in the dark, but it also crushed any desire she might have had to try a light switch anytime soon. “Thank goodness the power is out, then.”
She could hear his approach as he moved across the room, finally stopping before her. His touch on her arm was a comfort as she remained sightless. He would guide her through this darkness, as he’d been doing all night.
“The lightbulbs—on the bench—you think someone was making bombs with those tonight?”
“Yes. I think the filament broke a few times—either while the top was being filed off or when soldering wires to the base.”
“Soldering iron. I missed that smell. Or maybe I thought it was singed electronics.”
“Could be both. A motor could have burned out.”
“Why is soldering necessary? And how could he do it without electricity?”
“He made a soldering iron with the car battery, jumper cables, and the carbon rod from a regular household battery. As far as why he needed to solder, the power has been cut from this entire area, so screwing a hundred-watt-bulb bomb into a socket is useless. But if you solder wires to the base, and those wires are connected to a power source, it will ignite the filament and blow the black powder just the same. Making it a portable bomb. Like I said, black powder is versatile.”
She leaned her forehead against his chest, coming into contact with his stiff tactical vest and something hard and metal. The handcuffs? “It wasn’t Jeb who made bombs here tonight.”
“No. It wasn’t. All we can do is hope whoever it was is an ally.”
She raised her head, searching the dark for his features and seeing nothing at all, but she knew he could see hers through the NVGs. “George Shaw. He also served in Vietnam. He did his year, and my understanding is it was a rough one. He’d know how to make improvised weapons just like Jeb. And given their friendship, George knew exactly what Jeb had stored in his carriage house. He probably even had his own key.”