Killerwatt (6 page)

Randolph took a deep breath, and forced himself to
stay calm. He reached for his cup and sipped coffee that had now gone
flavorless. “What about the bigger cities? They don’t tie in with us rural
counties do they?”

“The cities like St. Louis and Kansas City and even
Springfield have their own generators and don’t use the same type of system we
use. However, they’re keyed into the same grid we are. If all our substations
go down, it would create an overload. Theoretically, they’d fail too. That
failure mechanism is built in to the grid system to prevent permanent damage.”

Neither spoke for a minute. Then Billy Dan added in
a low and serious tone. “If the Midwest grid went down, well.…” He didn’t
finish. He didn’t have to. The implications were clear to Randolph. 

Billy Dan had verbalized Randolph’s fear.

Randolph said, “What you’re saying here is if the
Midwest grid fails, then the entire country could suffer a major blackout?”

Billy Dan lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply. When
his lungs were filled, he expelled the smoke while he answered. He punctuated
every word with a puff of smoke. “If the tripping stations we installed to
block any catastrophic cascading failure should themselves fail, well if the Midwest
grid goes, yes, then it’s the entire country.” Billy Dan squinted around the
smoke, then sat back and folded his arms.

Randolph felt his stomach clench as though waiting
for a blow in a boxing match. The whiskey sours began battling with the coffee.
The result was an acid war sloshing around his gut. The more he learned from
Billy Dan, the worse he felt. Bile rose. He reached for his water glass, but it
was empty. He ordered himself to stay calm. “Exactly how many substations are
in our area?”

“There are hundreds throughout rural Missouri with
six major ones in our service area of Southeast Missouri—all keyed to the
Midwest grid.”

“Where are they? Are they in secret locations?”

Billy Dan chuckled. His voice was back to its normal
tone. “You’re kidding, right? You passed one on the way out here. The others
aren’t a secret either.”

Randolph remembered seeing a substation at Center
Junction, near the Interstate. Sitting barely a hundred feet off the road, it
looked so innocent, so unguarded. Although enclosed by chain link fencing, it
seemed so vulnerable to him now. A determined sixth-grader with wire cutters
would have no trouble snipping his way in.

Randolph stared at the notations and writing on the
drawing. In front of him was evidence that somebody who wrote in Arabic had
made a careful study of a transformer schematic, marking the vulnerable points
on it.

Moreover, Rhetta had to be the one to find it in a
dead Arab doctor’s car.

CHAPTER
9

“Tell me, Judge, where did you get this?” Although
Billy Dan spoke softly, his eyes were fixed solidly on Randolph.

Randolph had half-promised Billy Dan he’d tell him
where he got it, but now he really didn’t want to divulge his source.
Especially since the source was Rhetta.

“Let’s just say that someone found it, and that same
someone brought it to me.” He hoped he sounded profound and judge-like, so his
answer would satisfy Billy Dan.

It didn’t.

“Why would anybody have a schematic of one of our
power transformers? And why is there Arabic writing all over it?”

Those were, Randolph conceded, the big money
questions. He stalled, folding the photocopies and picture and returning them
to the manila envelope. He couldn’t answer Billy Dan.

“You must’ve thought it important enough to drive
over here to ask me about it,” Billy Dan persisted. He stubbed out the
cigarette that had an inch of ash dangling on the end of it. He stood and
withdrew a worn leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He slapped a
couple of bills on the table.

Randolph also stood, reached in a back pocket of his
jeans for his own wallet, and added to the funds.

“Let’s talk outside.” Randolph led the way.

Billy Dan followed silently. Once in the parking
lot, he propped himself against the front fender of Randolph’s Artmobile, stuck
a toothpick in his teeth, and waited.

“You need to keep this conversation between the two
of us.” Randolph tucked the manila envelope under his arm while he fished in
his pocket for the truck keys.

Billy Dan perked up.

Randolph unlocked his truck and opened the driver’s
door. He leaned against the door as he continued talking to Billy Dan. “The
original drawing was found in a vehicle belonging to a foreigner. Right now, I
can’t tell you whose car it was, nor the circumstances. What I will tell you,
though, is that you’ve convinced me I need to turn this information over to the
FBI.”

Sliding in behind the wheel and pulling the door
shut, Randolph fired up the truck. While the Artmobile idled, he turned on the
air and punched the window down button. Before Billy Dan could ask more
questions, Randolph said, “Don’t talk to anyone about this.” Randolph wasn’t
sure why he cautioned Billy Dan, except that he felt urgently that the
schematic was significant, that bad things were connected to that schematic. He
and Rhetta didn’t need to be mixed up in this. Nor did they need to involve
Billy Dan. Randolph resolved to contact the FBI himself. That way, he and
Rhetta, and everyone who’d seen the schematic, would be out of this.

Billy Dan patted the door. “I’m hearin’ ya. Be
careful, Judge.” Then he sauntered over to his own ride, a ten-year-old two
tone brown Ford Ranger with a dented right front fender. Randolph wondered when
the dent had happened and when Billy Dan would get the fender fixed. He knew
how particular his friend was about keeping up his equipment and vehicles.
Randolph watched him ease out of the parking lot, turn right on Highway 34, and
head toward his home several miles west of town.

After securing his shoulder and seat belt, and
determined to call the FBI as soon as he got home, Randolph slid his own ride
into gear and turned left out of Merc’s parking lot. At the end of the block,
he stopped for the traffic light. A dark green SUV with deep tinted windows glided
out from under the tall sycamores lining the back of the parking lot. Randolph
eyed it when it pulled in behind him.
Tourists.

CHAPTER
10

Once the signal changed, Randolph punched the
accelerator. By the time he reached the edge of town, he was up to fifty-five,
the speed limit. He stole a quick look at his watch. Rhetta would probably
already be home.
I should’ve called her. She’ll wonder where I am.

Recalling everything that had happened since Woody
got the strange voicemail, he tried sorting it into a pattern.
What the hell
was going on? Could there actually be a terrorist plot here in East Nowhere,
Missouri?
If he read body language correctly, his friend Billy Dan
Kercheval thought so.

Billy Dan hadn’t told him where the other area
substations were located. Randolph reached for his cell phone, but realized he
didn’t have Billy Dan’s cell number. Instead, he selected the top name on his
Blackberry’s “favorites” list. Ordinarily, he didn’t talk on his cell phone while
driving. This occasion, he felt, was definitely out of the ordinary.

Rhetta was home and answered on the second ring.

After Randolph filled Rhetta in about his meeting
with Billy Dan, he said, “I forgot to ask him where the other substations are.
The only one I know about is the one at Center Junction.”

“Let me Google it to see if I can find the
locations.” A minute later, he heard keys clattering on her keyboard.

“That information won’t be on the Internet. I called
so you could look up Billy Dan’s number. I need to call him. Inland Electric
wouldn’t put that information—”

“Here we go.” Rhetta interrupted him. “I found the
Inland Electric web site. There are six substations listed in the service
area.” She began rattling off their locations. “Besides the one on Highway 34
at Center Junction, in Cape County, there’s also one on County Road 637. In
Bollinger County, there’s one out near Glen Allen.” She rattled off the rest of
the locations. “There’s another one two miles south of Marble Hill, one near Flatt
Junction in Scott County, and, finally, one in Perry County on, let’s see. . .
that one’s on County Road 1458.”

Randolph remembered Billy Dan telling him the sites
weren’t secret. He wasn’t kidding. They were posted on the Internet for the
whole world to see. The dread forming in his mind plunged to his stomach,
making it churn and burn.

He asked Rhetta, “Can you print out that list?”

“Sure. Are we going to go and check them out?” He
could tell by the excited pitch of her voice that she anticipated an adventure.

“Let’s talk about it when I get home. I’m leaving
Marble Hill now. I’ll be home soon.” He topped Gravel Hill, then headed down
into the river bottoms where he’d soon have no service. “I’ll lose you in a few
seconds.” He wasn’t sure she’d heard him. Two words replaced the customary five
staggered bars: NO SERVICE.

He glanced in his rear-view mirror as he approached
the Whitewater River Bridge. The eighty-year-old structure had low stacked rock
railings along each side of the road leading up to the actual bridge. It was
identical to several hundred others built across the country during the Great
Depression as part of the WPA, or Works Progress Administration, during the
late thirties. During the 1980s, the state had added metal guardrails on either
end of the narrow approach lanes; however, the single lane across the bridge
had no shoulder. Two vehicles could scarcely clear each other if they met.
Everyone crossed slowly and in single file.

The SUV that Randolph noticed earlier suddenly
veered out from behind him and pulled alongside. Randolph instinctively lifted
his foot from the accelerator.

The fool picks now to pass.
Randolph cursed under his breath
and glanced sideways at the vehicle. He saw nothing through the dark tinted
windows. Instead of speeding up to pass, the SUV maintained the same speed as
Randolph, careening along parallel to his truck. They reached the bridge
together. Randolph slid his foot to the brake pedal and pressed down hard. When
he did, the SUV veered into him, sideswiping his front fender. The sudden
impact caused Randolph’s head to bounce against his door window. His shoulder
harness snapped to attention, preventing a second head banging. The SUV veered
and collided with him again, much harder this time.

“Damn!” Randolph cursed. He lost control. He crashed
through the metal guardrail and the truck went airborne. The road vanished from
under him as he sailed outward, the truck arcing gracefully before plunging to
the creek bed thirty feet below. When the pickup crashed nose down, his head
slammed into the steering wheel, the airbag exploded in his face, and pinwheels
of light collided in his brain. Everything went black.

*
* *

Above
him, the SUV crossed the bridge, and pulled over. A figure in black stepped
out. After checking the traffic in both directions, he scrambled down the creek
bank to the truck below.

CHAPTER
11

Rhetta stared at her phone. No answer, again. She’d
already left two voice mails.

It’s been nearly two hours since
Randolph was at the Whitewater Bottoms. He should’ve picked up service within a
few minutes. It’s not like him not to call right back
.
Where is he? He should’ve
been home over an hour ago.

Rhetta set her phone on the island countertop and
strode across the kitchen to the back deck. When she slid open the door, she
was greeted with plaintive yowling. She closed the door, headed to the pantry,
and retrieved two cans of cat food. She popped open the lids and returned to
the porch. Using her elbow, she slid the door open again. Three cats—two
calicos and one tiger—pranced in anticipation.

“OK, babies, here’s your supper.” The cats threaded
their silky bodies between her feet as she weaved through them to locate their
food pan.

As she began spooning out the fishy mixture, the
house phone shrilled. She dropped the cans on to the outside table then skidded
across the kitchen floor, snatching the portable phone on the third ring. The
caller ID read BLOCKED.

“Mrs. McCarter?”

She nearly hung up without speaking.
Probably a
damn sales call. I’ll find out who this is and report him to the attorney
general’s office.
She’d enrolled their home number in the national Do Not
Call program.

“This is Sergeant Quentin Meade of the Missouri
State Highway Patrol,” said a deep masculine voice.

Her stomach lurched. She felt lightheaded. “Yes,
this is Rhetta McCarter.” She slid slowly to the floor. Her heart began to
thud.

“Your husband had an accident at the Whitewater
Bridge, and has been taken to St. Mark’s Hospital. He’s in the emergency room.”
Meade’s manner was professional and dispassionate, his voice calm.

Rhetta’s heart pounded harder. “Is he, is he, uh….is
he all right?” She gripped the phone with both hands, dreading the answer.

“The doctors are with him now, ma’am.” The officer
paused. “Do you have someone who can drive you to the hospital?”

Rhetta stood and sucked in a mouthful of air. “I’m
all right, Officer. I’m on my way.”

“Yes, ma’am. Mrs. McCarter?”

“Yes?”

“Please drive carefully.”

She blinked back a tear and clicked the off button.
She gathered her purse, keys, and cell and raced for the garage. Realizing she
still had the house phone in her hand, she pitched it to the counter on her way
out.

Five minutes later, Cami was churning up gravel.
Rhetta shifted into third. The Camaro spun out and bounced from the driveway on
to the county road. By the time she reached fourth gear, she was on the highway
and roaring towards Cape.

Oh God, please, don’t let him be
dead.

CHAPTER
12