EDITING: Politics and Poison

Chapter Eighteen: Smoke Screen

Frank acted fast. He'd never seen a grenade up close; not like me. I'd encountered every kind of weapon, during my training. I had been told what to do in situations such as this. I knew that I had to evacuate the area. But, in a tent in the middle of a field, I had no visibility.

Were there many people outside? I had no clue. Nor did I know when the grenade would go off. Most, I knew, were controlled remotely. They weren't like bombs, which had timers. All someone had to do was push a button, and then Frank and I would be history.

He lunged, crashing down on me from nowhere, and rolling me from the grenade. His strong body was all around me, arms on either side of my shoulders, hands planted squarely on the tent floor.

"Frank..." I gasped.

And the world exploded.

A hissing noise filled the room, and smoke billowed from the canister, clouding my vision.

Instinctively, I closed my eyes, preparing myself for death.

And then it hit me.

My eyes flew open, and Franks face was two inches from mine. His eyes were scrunched closed, and through the plumes of smoke, I could see his arms shaking; from fear or exertion, I did not know.

"Frank..." I said again, rolled out from under him. My body was trembling, as I crawled on all fours, coughing from the smoke, as I tried to find the canister. "Frank, it's not a grenade. It can't be. I think... it must be a smoke grenade. Harmless, unless you have asthma."

"I don't." His voice was behind me, and I could hear rustling of fabric, as he crawled in my path.

He cleared his throat. "Isn't there any difference between smoke grenades and real ones? I mean, they must look drastically different, for a start."

My fingers found the cold metal canister, the size and shape of a spray can. I drew it close to my face, squinting, trying to see it, through the dissipating smoke. "They look pretty similar; I mean, the FBI use them on raids, and we want people to take us seriously. But they usually have 'smoke grenade' written clearly on the front."

 Frank knelt beside me. I could smell his sweat, and feel his warmth.

"Ahah," I breathed.

"Ahah?" he asked, and I could just discern his face. turned toward mine.

I handed him the canister by the top nozzle. "The writing's been filed off. And it looks like the grenade has been painted over. Feel that? It's a label. Someone's painted over it."

"To scare us," Frank murmured.

"They did a good job," I responded.

He handed the canister back to me. It was wrapped in a napkin. I admired his thinking. By protecting the surfaces, he wouldn't disturb any possible fingerprints the police might detect.

"And so have we. Someone's getting nervous. So we must be on to something-"

He was cut off by a panicked cry, "Frank? Nancy? Are you okay? Hello?"

Joe materialized in the smokey doorway, looking stricken.

Frank waved. "Over here Joe, we're okay. It was just a smoke grenade!"

Joe helped me to my feet, and the three of us began opening the tent windows, to allow the smoke to escape more quickly. He explained that he'd seen a man in a dark, hooded sweatshirt, fleeing the convention grounds. But he'd been too fast, got away in a dark van. When Joe had walked back to the main area to ask us what was going on, he'd only seen smoke, and thought the worst.

Outside on the grass, Frank showed his brother the grenade.

Joe whistled, "why is it that whenever I leave you two alone, something cool happens?" He looked between us, indignant. "I mean, it was all boring when I left. And I thought you were both going to have some romance time. And then someone throws a grenade at you? You guys are never going to hook up. Not when you let things like this go down!"

Frank stood. "We don't exactly 'let things like this go down.' It was actually really fucking scary." He dragged a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit up.

I'd lost him again. He was intense and distracted.

Joe held up his palms in surrender. "Sorry man; but I worry about you both. I'm glad you're okay."

"Joe," I interjected. "Can you describe this man? The one who was fleeing the scene?"

Joe scratched his head and eyed me hopelessly. "Not really. As I said, dark top, with a hood, oh and white pants. I just thought it was weird that he was running. And his van had a logo on the side, across the doors. Like a delivery vehicle or something. All I've got, I'm afraid."

Hannah came up, panting. She'd been running. Her hair was escaping its knot, and tendrils framed her lovely, reddened face. She was rubbing gloved hands together. Upon seeing us, she pulled us all into a stifling hug. "You're okay, you're okay," she whimpered. Letting us go, she continued, "I saw the smoke and..."

"Hey, it's okay." I squeezed her hand and explained what had happened.

"Do you know anyone who has a dark van?" Joe asked, and described what he'd seen.

Hannah sat heavily on a bench, and kneaded her temples fiercely. "Let me see... I don't really know what the convention patrons drive, but at this hour? Oh, I know..." she trailed off, then murmured, "Norman owns a van. It's for Matre'd; you know, for markets and stuff, when produce is sold. The keys hang inside the food tent. We all have access to them, just in case we need to get more supplies."

Frank frowned. "How many people are working the convention kitchen?" he inquired.

Hannah sighed. "Oh goodness, Franklin. forty at least."

"That's not including the other workers who could just walk into the food tent," I added.

"Or the public," Joe chipped in.

I  shook my head. "Wait, you're certain the person who was running away, was a male?"

Joe hesitate, then nodded. "Fairly certain."

"'Fairly certain' won't stand up in court-" Frank protested.

I silenced him by saying, "let's go with this for the moment."

Joe's blue eyes widened, as he caught my drift. "Right. So Hannah, who wears white pants around here? It sounds like a uniform, doesn't it? Like something a chef would wear?"

"Or a bus-boy," she admitted.

Frank pressed, "how many men were working today?"

"Seven, eight. I don't know."

"Hannah, we need the information now," he insisted. "Can you get it for us?"

She chewed on her lip, and then nodded. "Follow me," she mumbled.

We did, walking briskly with her, to the front booth. The three of us stood outside the guard booth, and Frank lit another cigarette.

"Can you please stop that?" I asked, suddenly irritable and cold.

As he began to respond, I heard the abrupt roar of an engine as a heavy vehicle accelerated nearby.

Whirling, I saw a large, grey van speeding toward us. And it wasn't going to stop. I perceived a set face, framed by a dark hood, and obscured by large sunglasses, and then, the grille was all I could see.