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nice quiet death at age eightyeight, with the family gathered around, not so much.
    He’d have to read Job again, he thought; not that Job seemed to have many answers.
    Then he got up, peed, dropped on the bed, and was gone.

4
    T HE BOMBER SAT in his basement—it had to be a basement—looking at the stack of bombs. He’d already packed the Pelex, which had a rather nice tang about it: like aftershave for seriously macho dudes. He’d packed in the last of the blasting caps, which looked a bit like fat, metallic ballpoint pen refills, and he’d already wired up all the batteries except the last one, because he was afraid of that one: afraid he’d blow himself up.
    He’d given himself two missions this night: the first would be to take out the water and sewer pipe the city was planning to run out to the PyeMart, as well as the heavy equipment that’d be used to lay the pipe.
    The second one . . .
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    FOR THE SECOND ATTACK, he needed a bomb that would blow with motion—and since he didn’t have access to sophisticated detonators, he’d made do with an old mercury switch. To use it, he’d have to do the final wiring on-site, in awkward conditions, wearing gloves, with a flashlight in his mouth. Possible, but tricky.
    The trickiness gave him a little buzz. If anything went wrong, of course, he’d never know it, with his face a foot from the bomb. When they identified him, wouldn’t they be surprised? Wouldn’t they wonder?
    Made him smile to think about it.
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    THE BOMBER WAS SLENDER and tough and smart. He worked out daily, ninety minutes at a time. He had a sense of humor, he often looked in a mirror and thought, Pretty damn good.
    But pretty damn good wasn’t enough. Time was passing; he wasn’t old, but age would come, and then what? Twenty years on Social Security? There were very limited opportunities ahead, and he had to seize the ones that presented themselves.
    And there was the competitive aspect to the challenge: Could he beat the cops and the federal government? He knew they’d all come piling in when the bombs started going off.
    He shook off the intrusive thought, and picked up the latest bomb, and turned it in his hands. Very, very simple; and deadly as a land mine.
    Not particularly delicate, though. He’d read that he could mold the Pelex into a ball and whack it with a golf club, with no effect. The blasting caps were a little more sensitive, but no more so than ordinary shotgun primers, which tens of thousands of people had sitting around in their houses—there were whole racks of them at sporting goods stores.
    No, the pieces were essentially inert, until they got put together. Then, watch out.
    He’d taken hours to make each of the first few bombs, until he got some traction. He’d done his research on the Internet, and figured out his materials. He’d cracked the supply shed at Segen Sand & Gravel in the middle of the night and removed the cases of Pelex and the boxes of blasting caps. He’d been sweating blood when he did that, his first real crime, creeping around the countryside in camo and a mask. After all the planning and preparation, and after an aborted approach when a couple kids parked in the quarry entrance to neck, the break-in had been routine. The explosives shed had been secured with nothing more than a big padlock.
    He’d found the bomb pipe under a cabin at a lakeside resort, where it had been dumped years before, when the owner put in plastic pipe. He got that at night, too, and had taken it down to the college for the cut. That had taken a little gall, but he hadn’t committed himself to anything at that point, and when the cutting went off without a hitch, he was good. If he’d been caught, he would have said he was making fence posts, and then started over....
    His first bombs were small. He didn’t need a big bang to know that they worked. When he finished