They were interrupted by a grumbling Hefner brother who shuffled to the table and snatched up his cap. “Ferget my danged head if it weren’t attached,” he said, cramming the cap low over his forehead. Hefner moseyed away and continued grousing all the way to the door.
Randolph sat forward again when Hefner left. “What happens if several transformers go down at the same time? For instance, all the substations in Southeast Missouri? ”
Billy Dan took a moment. “When a single substation goes down, the power is re-routed by computer within seconds. The customer barely notices a quick blink of power. If two or more substations go down at the same time, that would cause an overload on the next substation in the chain. That would in turn cause it to shut down, resulting in what’s called a cascading failure, or a blackout. In fact,” Billy Dan continued, his voice now barely above a whisper, “a chain reaction of shutdowns could cause not just Southeast Missouri, but the whole Midwest grid to shut down.”
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.
Rhett
a 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
Within twenty minutes, Rhetta was standing in front of the emergency room admissions counter at St. Mark’s Hospital, Cape’s only trauma hospital. The blue-haired senior volunteer in a pink-and-white striped apron held up an index finger in a signal to wait. She had a phone pressed to her ear. Rhetta scribbled Randolph’s name on the notepad lying on the counter and held it up in front of the aging candy striper.
The woman nodded and penned Room 4 under his name, then pointed. Rhetta raced down the hall, skidding to a stop in front of a pair of stainless steel doors labeled, “Trauma Room 4.” Following the instructions printed on a laminated sign across the doors, she punched the big red button on the wall. The doors opened silently toward her. She flew through and then stopped abruptly.
The smells of alcohol, Lysol, and vomit greeted her amid a sea of medical personnel. Some of the staff were holding clipboards, while others clad in green or blue scrubs or white smocks wore stethoscopes around their necks and rushed in and out of curtained areas.
“Excuse me,” she called to a slim black woman wearing a lab coat and carrying a tray of glass vials. “I’m looking for my husband, Randolph McCarter.”
The woman nodded, set her tray down, and studied a printout on the unmanned desk nearby.
“Right over there, ma’am.” She pointed to an area enclosed by white curtains. Rhetta thanked her and threaded her way to the cubicle.
The metal rings along the top of the white privacy curtain rattled as she s
lid it along the track. Rhetta gasped, raising her fist to her mouth to silence herself. Covered in a white sheet, Randolph lay motionless on a stainless steel gurney. Caked blood matted his dark hair and streaks of blood covered his face. His eyes were swollen shut, and she could barely discern his raspy breathing over the hum of machines. A young physician clad in green scrubs looked up. “Mrs. McCarter?”
She nodded.
“Please sit. I’ll be with you in a moment.” He waved a latex-clad hand smeared with blood toward a blue plastic chair, a few feet away.
“If it’s all right, I’ll just stand.” If she sat, she wouldn’t be able to see what was going on. The doctor nodded and returned to Randolph.
Plastic bags containing various liquids hung from a nearby metal pole. Tubes snaked from them into one of Randolph’s arms. On the other arm, a black blood pressure cuff strapped around his bicep began inflating, while an electronic box recorded the reading. Nearby, an LED monitor displayed three screens with lines that looked like a six-year-old’s sketch of the Rocky Mountains. The difference was these mountains kept moving. That they were moving, she reasoned, was a good thing.
When she spotted a short, stainless-steel rod protruding from Randolph’s head, she swallowed bile from her lurching stomach.
The doctor murmured to a nurse, then peeled off the latex gloves and flung them into a tall trashcan with a red biohazard diagram.
He offered her his hand. “Mrs. McCarter? I’m Doctor Sylvan.”
Accepting his hand, she asked, “How’s my husband?” Then when she had her hand back, she pointed to Randolph’s head. “What’s that rod sticking out of his head?”
“I’m afraid your husband suffered a serious head wound, but he’s stable. The rod is called a bolt, and that was inserted to keep the swelling down. He’s still unconscious. We did a C.A.T. scan, and should have the results any minute now. We’ll be able to tell from that if he’ll require surgery.”
She couldn’t find her voice. Head trauma? Bolt? Surgery? Her head began to spin. She edged toward a chair hoping to sit before she toppled.
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