She finally gave up guessing. “I wonder what this is supposed to be?”
“Let me see it.” Woody pushed his own empty plate aside and stirred a second heaping teaspoon of sugar into his sweet tea. He swiped a napkin across his beard again.
“That’s already sweetened.” Rhetta jutted her chin toward his tea. Woody ignored her, and continued stirring. “Here, look at it. I give up. I can’t tell what it is.” Rhetta slid the wrinkled paper across the table for his inspection.
Woody drained half of his beverage then reached for the paper.
He took his time examining it, likewise turning the paper several different ways. He finally settled on a direction and bent over to scrutinize the seemingly meaningless lines and squiggles pictured there. Rhetta waited, scraping her fork around the bottom of her empty salad bowl.
“There’s something familiar about this.” Woody pointed to the paper. “But I’m not sure.”
“How do you mean, familiar? Have you seen this before?” She craned her neck to look at the paper again.
“Not this particular paper, no. But I remember something like this from the military.”
She looked up at him. “Military? Like what? What is it?”
Woody held up the document. “I think it’s a schematic.”
“What’s a schematic?” Rhetta grabbed the paper and turned it around for a better view.
Woody pulled a handful of napkins from the dispenser and resumed working on his beard. “A schematic is an electrical map, a blueprint for an electrical appliance or motor. Anything wired has a schematic, from a heating thermostat to a nuclear power plant. It identifies everything about the unit’s circuitry and wiring.”
“What was our good doctor doing with something like this?” She handed the document back to Woody.
Before Woody could answer, the server appeared with an icy pitcher of tea and refilled his glass. He waited until she’d refilled both their glasses before answering.
“Maybe it’s for something he wanted to get fixed.” Woody studied the paper again, and pointed to the lines and boxes on the diagram. “The writing is so small that I can’t make out any dimensions. I need a magnifying glass.”
“Okay, then let’s get out of here.” Rhetta picked up the sheet, refolded it carefully, and crammed it in her purse. Snatching the check, she left a tip and headed to the cashier near the front door.
Woody scooted his chair back and gulped the rest of his sweet tea.
Rhetta handed the cashier her credit card. “We’ll use our copier to enlarge it. Maybe when it’s bigger, you’ll be able to distinguish what it says.”
* * *
After enlarging different areas of the drawing by two hundred percent, as large as the copier could accommodate on a legal sized page and still have a decent image, Rhetta helped Woody tape several sections together, finally producing one larger, but fuzzier version of the original wrinkled sheet. They spread the photocopy out on the conference table.
They re-examined the schematic. “I can’t quite identify what all this represents, Woody said. “Some of the characters are numerals, but….” He stopped then, and looked at her. “I think this writing is in Arabic. I can’t read it, but I saw a lot of it while I was in Kuwait.”
“Arabic? I guess that makes sense. Al-Serafi was Arabic.” She squinted at the image, having left her glasses in her purse. “Do you know anybody who can read Arabic?”
“Sure don’t,” Woody said, glancing up.
Rhetta left the table and went to her desk where she rummaged through her purse in search of her iPhone. Not locating it quickly enough to satisfy her impatience, she dumped the entire contents on the desk. She snatched the packet of plastic gloves that also tumbled out and tossed them back into her purse before Woody could see them. She’d meant to put them in Cami’s console with her hidden emergency stash.
She plucked the phone from the pile and began tapping. “Randolph knows everybody. I bet he knows someone who can read Arabic.”
After several rings, her call went to his voice mail. She slid her thumb across the END bar without leaving a message. He’d see the number and return her call. She’d barely rejoined Woody at the table when her phone buzzed.
She greeted him before he could speak. “Hi, Sweets. Do you know anyone who can read Arabic?”
CHAPTER 6
Randolph sipped his drink. He smiled at how Rhetta always got right to the point, especially when she thought something was boiling over with importance.
“Possibly,” he said. “Why do you need someone who can read Arabic?”
Most of Randolph Scott McCarter’s family suspected his mother had named her son after her favorite actor, screen cowboy Randolph Scott. No one could ever get her to admit it. The only person who ever dared abbreviating his name to Randy was his grandmother, whom he’d feared and revered. Rhetta always called him Sweets—unless he forgot to lower the toilet seat.
She told him about her trip to the impound yard, and her discovery in the owner’s manual. His stomach boiled like he’d swallowed bleach at hearing she removed the paper from the car. “You took it? That may be evidence. You need to call the authorities and give it to them.” He massaged his tightening stomach.
“What authorities? I told you about the time Woody called the FBI. They weren’t interested in hearing about Al-Serafi then. Why should I give this to them now?”
Randolph groaned. He knew better than to attempt to persuade her, especially when she took a stand, but he tried anyway. At least this argument wasn’t about politics. On one of their first dates, their talk had turned to politics. That discussion became their first and last political discussion. He was a staunch conservative while Rhetta was as strong a liberal. He had to admit he admired her courage in standing up for her beliefs while living in a tight-knit, politically conservative region.
“Perhaps you should call the FBI again.” Randolph waited for her to answer. She didn’t. He clicked his tongue in disapproval. Finally, he caved. “All right, you win. Doctor Peter LaRose at the university probably can. He’s my anthropology professor friend who’s made several trips to Saudi Arabia. I’ll call him, and then call you back.”
“Was he that really nice professor I met one afternoon when you first started the gallery?”
“Yep, that’s him. I’ll let you know what he says.”
After disconnecting, Randolph pondered what he should tell Peter, whom he’d known for several decades. They hadn’t seen each other in over a year. The last time he saw the eccentric professor, the already rail-thin Peter had lost even more weight; something Randolph couldn’t believe possible. The gaunt teacher had never married. He told Randolph he still lived in the same second floor walk-up apartment in the downtown area that he’d lived in for thirty years.
Randolph’s gut told him the scrap of paper that Rhetta had removed from the car was significant, even though he hadn’t seen it and didn’t know what it was. When Woody received the weird phone message from Doctor Al-Serafi, Rhetta was sure the doctor was a terrorist. He told her that she was overreacting. He couldn’t imagine what, if any connection this paper had to the phone message. The doctor did end up dead, though. That was more likely a coincidence. Still, he knew he’d never convince his wife of that.
When Rhetta called, he’d been in his studio painting. While still on the bench, Randolph planned on retiring and becoming a law scholar. Instead, his life had forged a new direction. Although he’d never taken any formal art training, he was a naturally skilled sketch artist. He’d loved drawing the characters that appeared before him in court. One day, on an impulse, he sat in on an outdoor painting class and became hooked on painting landscapes.
After retiring, he’d thrown himself into his art. His landscapes were selling briskly on the Internet. He and three fellow artists had organized Rivers West Creative Group, a local co-operative art gallery on Main Street in Old Town, on the banks of the Mississippi River.
He s
et his drink down, wiped his hands with a turpentine soaked rag, and picked up the phone book.
Peter answered on the third ring. Even though university classes had been out for several weeks, Randolph figured that Peter, like most of the professors, would still be working in his campus office. Not having Peter’s cell phone number, Randolph had called the office number listed in the phone book.
After initial pleasantries, Randolph dove in. “Rhetta has a document that she thinks is in Arabic. Could you translate it for her?”
Peter chuckled. “My written Arabic isn’t the greatest. But for you, I’ll be happy to take a stab.”
After agreeing to meet at Rhetta’s office in an hour, Randolph called his wife to give her the good news.
Rhetta cheered. “That’s why I love you, Sweets. You know everybody.” He heard her put her hand over the mouthpiece to shout to Woody, “Randolph found somebody.”
“I told Peter I’d meet him at your office. I’ve been working in the studio. I’ll clean up and come over.” After he disconnected, Randolph headed upstairs to shower. He could imagine her high-fiving Woody. Peeling off his painting shirt and jeans, he emptied the rest of the whiskey sour down the toilet. Before showering, he brushed his teeth vigorously and gargled. He counted on the medicinal tasting mouthwash to cover up the two drinks he’d had since lunch.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Randolph slipped a T-shirt over his damp, silver-streaked black hair, pulled on a clean pair of faded jeans, and slipped into canvas deck shoes. Glancing at the full-length mirror, he reflexively sucked in his stomach. Although still trim, the six-foot tall Randolph knew he should be exercising to keep fit, but always procrastinated. He was grateful for the great genes he’d inherited from a family of thin people.
The good genes, however, didn’t extend to eyesight. He had to remember to grab his reading glasses. He found he needed his cheaters more and more to read or paint with each passing year. He tucked them into his shirt pocket and went off to find his keys.
After searching the bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom, Randolph finally located the keys to his pickup truck where they were supposed to be—on a hook by the back door. With the keys jiggling in his hand, he jogged to the three-car detached garage that Rhetta christened the Garage Mahal, because it was built and finished out as nicely as the house.
The 1999 Ford F-100 pickup fired right up. Normally, it stayed hooked to an enclosed utility trailer filled with his paintings. The truck had needed gas when they came home from the last art show. He’d unhooked the truck from the trailer as a reminder to fill the tank the next time he went to town.
Thankfully, none of the three cats was asleep under the truck. Rhetta’s cats were supposed to be barn cats, inhabit the Garage Mahal, and catch mice. “Barn cats, indeed,” Randolph said, shaking his head. Of course, since Rhetta regularly fed them canned cat food on the deck, he needn’t have worried about them being anywhere near the truck.
He smiled and waved at Mrs. Koblyk, their senior citizen neighbor, as he pulled out of his driveway and turned on to the gravel road. Mrs. Koblyk and her husband, a retired railroad engineer, watched all their comings and goings, and were the epitome of nosy neighbors. However, Mrs. Koblyk often redeemed herself by bringing him home-baked Hungarian poppy seed bread.
Life was idyllic for Randolph McCarter these days. He was thankful for the blessed change from the chaos his life had become when he found himself widowed ten years ago. His wife, a dedicated oncologist, died in a plane crash coming home from an overseas conference. They had no children. Anger and loneliness carried him directly to a whiskey bottle.
Arrowing down their lane and on to the gravel county road, he wondered how differently his life would have turned out had he not met Rhetta. Judge Rosswell Carew, a fellow bachelor and drinking buddy, introduced them at a Humane Society fundraising dinner auction six years ago. Rhetta, a sworn single, promptly informed Randolph she wasn’t interested in marrying anyone. That suited Randolph just fine. Rhetta and Randolph struck a major chord together, marrying two years later.
Randolph’s wedding gift to her was his promise to quit drinking. Her gift to him in return was a promise to quit smoking.
Although he did quit bingeing and meeting friends for drink fests, he hadn’t quite managed to stop drinking completely. He didn’t always tell Rhetta when he had a drink or two, although he suspected she always knew. Privately, he feared being lulled into his former pattern of excessive drink.
Alcohol had nearly killed Carew last year. After a night of heavy drinking, he fell asleep at the wheel. Fortunately, Carew had had sense enough to fasten his seat belt. That saved him from flying headlong into the windshield when he missed a curve and plowed into an oak tree.
* * *
Randolph edged the pickup into a slot outside Rhetta’s office a half hour later. Rhetta had christened his truck The Artmobile. She had a nickname for everything.
He spotted Peter LaRose bent over the conference table alongside Rhetta and Woody. They were all absorbed in studying several sheets of paper and hadn’t noticed him entering. Randolph ambled over to join them.
“We’ve introduced ourselves,” Rhetta said after brushing her lips against her husband’s cheek. She gestured toward the angular professor who was still examining a document.
“Thanks for meeting us on such short notice,” Randolph said, shaking hands with Peter.
“I’m not sure what you have here,” Peter said without preamble. He motioned to a paper spread out on the table. “This is definitely written in Arabic.” He furrowed his brow. A strand of thinning grey sandy hair fell across his wide forehead. “I translated the best I could. It appears that the writing is identifying different components in the drawing. As I said, my written Arabic isn’t that great.”
Randolph glanced down at the document. He couldn’t decipher it. He pointed to the sheet. “What’s your best guess?”
Peter scratched his chin, taking a moment to answer. “Looks like it could be some kind of schematic. Maybe a transformer of some kind. It’s pretty large, bigger than what’s in the short wave radios I work on in my spare time.”
CHAPTER 7
Rhetta felt her stomach knot. “Why on earth would Al-Serafi have a schematic for something like that?” She had no idea what she expected Peter to say.
Peter’s thin shoulders raised and dropped. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.”
“Actually, Peter, you’ve been a great help,” Randolph said, glancing at Rhetta.
“Yes, Peter. Thanks so much,” Rhetta said.
Woody remained silent. He continued examining the schematic.
“I’ve got to run.” Peter squinted at his wristwatch and frowned. “I have an appointment with a graduate student in fifteen minutes.”
Randolph thanked his friend, and the two men shook hands. “I owe you lunch for this, Peter. I’ll call you soon and we’ll catch up.”
After Peter left, no one spoke. Randolph finally broke the silence.
“A transformer?” Randolph said, sidling back over to the table. He peered at the drawings. “Woody, what do you make of that?”
Woody didn’t answer. Instead, he hurried to his desk. He dropped into his chair while reaching for the computer mouse. The thin LCD monitor sprang to life. Woody fingers flew across the keyboard with quick efficient strokes.
Rhetta and Randolph exchanged glances as Woody opened a web browser and logged into a search engine. Images blazed across the screen. Woody, a self-taught computer junkie, raced from one site to another. Stopping when a familiar-looking drawing appeared, he swiveled the monitor around to display what he located.
Woody said simply, “Look at this.” He turned the screen toward them. Filling the screen was a drawing eerily similar to the one on the table.
The three of them stared at a schematic displayed on the Cotton Belt Electrical Supply website with an accompanying photo of what the schematic matched: a 1500 kV ultra-high vo
ltage transformer.
The knot in Rhetta’s stomach tightened. Randolph spoke first. “What the hell are we looking at?” He jerked his chin toward the picture.
“These babies are the guts of a power substation.” Woody turned back to the monitor. He typed a few more commands. A printer whirred and an image sailed off it. Woody trotted to the printer and retrieved the color picture. He carried it to the table, turning it carefully so that the picture aligned with the drawing. “I’ll be damned,” was all he said.
“Al-Serafi had a schematic for a power substation transformer?” Rhetta asked, glancing at the two men. “Why?”
“Why, indeed?” Randolph chimed in.
Now Al-Serafi is dead. I’d better not jump to conclusions. I’m sure it’s coincidental. Who was she kidding? She didn’t believe in coincidences. Al-Serafi was dead. He had a schematic for a power substation transformer in his car. Those were facts.
Woody gathered up the enlarged drawing they’d been examining and folded it. He snatched the original that Rhetta had filched from the car, along with the photo he’d just printed and took everything to the large walk-in office safe.
Randolph followed him.
Woody spun the combination and spoke over his shoulder. “Maybe you should call Doctor LaRose and tell him not to mention what he saw here to anyone.” He set the drawings on a shelf in the safe and closed the door.
“Good point,” Randolph said. “Since we don’t exactly know what this is all about, it would be best if we kept it to ourselves.”
Randolph began tapping Peter’s number into his BlackBerry. The line rang several times before an electronic voice announced the mailbox.
“Peter said he had a meeting,” Rhetta said, listening to Randolph leave a message.
“It’s about the drawing, Peter. Please call me right away.” Randolph disconnected.
Turning to Rhetta, Randolph said, “I think now we’d better talk to the FBI. I don’t care if they didn’t listen to Woody the last time. They need to know about this.”
For once, Rhetta didn’t argue with him.
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