For some reason any event with fire footage usually made the lead story on the TV news. The photo that had run in the newspaper, unfortunately, was one showing her lying flat on her face with the burning trash in the background. Since the incident, she’d received thanks from Charlie and his family, but she’d also received four calls from the news people about the bomb. It would take a while before things died down. Now, alone in her bedroom, Ella sat at the small table that held her desktop computer and waited. She’d have to return to the police station soon, but the only way her contact, “Coyote,” ever surfaced was through her Internet provider. The bitterly cold January winds swept down the hillside behind her mother’s home, rattling dust and sand against the window. It was said that Wind carried news, but Wind had met its equal in this age of computers. Coyote’s information so far had been as good as gold, though all she really knew about him was that he was probably an undercover cop—federal, most likely.
