Gone Dark (A Grale Thriller Book 2)

by Kirk Russell

  Some of the paths I’ve looked at make me think someone took a pencil one morning and drew a line on a map, then said, “Clear me a space one hundred feet wide. Start here in Oregon and go to LA. Follow this line. If something is in your way cut it down or go over it. Do what you have to but get it done.”

  Hydroelectric dams were built and a way was needed to deliver the power to cities hundreds of miles away, so they cut pathways and put up high transmission lines that tracked through substations. Brown knew all about high-voltage paths. He’d called several times but was nonspecific in his messages, so we’d been slow getting to him.

  “We live on the outskirts of Tracy,” Brown said and pointed toward dry hills in the distance. “My wife quit her job when our son was born. If I got killed in a substation bombing, I don’t know how she would make it. So I watch everything and everyone.”

  He showed us surveillance camera video he’d spliced together. When it finished I asked him to replay it. He replayed the video six times for us with numerous starts and stops. Sometimes you can sense someone watching you from across or down the street. You can’t yet make their face out—you just know. In the same way, a driver casing a site can give off a vibe.

  Whoever was driving the Chevy Tahoe couldn’t know the employee inside monitoring surveillance cameras was hypervigilant. As we watched the spliced video a sixth time, Brown started talking about the 2013 Metcalf transmission station attack so authoritatively I had to ask, “Were you there that night?”

  “No, I’ve studied it. I’ve—”

  Jace touched his arm to quiet him. “Freeze, right there and see if you can enhance the license plate.”

  He enhanced the left rear bumper and part of the license plate. The bumper had a red decal on it that looked like something an employee might have for a company lot. I felt Jace watching me, then looked at her and nodded. Tehachapi, where the security guard was killed, and we had a surveillance camera record of a Chevy Tahoe on the access road twelve minutes after the shooting. That Tahoe had a faded, peeling decal and dents on the left rear panel.

  “Drake, run that video once more,” I said, then asked, “Why did you notice this vehicle?”

  “This one slowed way down when it went by.”

  The Tahoe held a steady fifteen to twenty miles an hour. The passenger window behind the driver was down two or three inches throughout the video, but even freezing and enhancing we didn’t see a lens or anything indicating they were shooting video.

  “What else have you got?” I asked.

  He had spliced together a record of hundreds of vehicles that had passed by, including two kids on bikes.

  “What’s up with the kids?” Jace asked.

  He responded by asking her, “What were kids doing way out here? ISIS uses kids as bombers and human shields.”

  “Got it,” Jace said.

  “Do you want a copy?”

  We got two copies of the videos he’d spliced, then thanked him and left. Overhead the wires hummed against a darkening blue sky. I walked to my car then turned when Jace called, “Hey, Grale!”

  She was standing outside her car with the driver’s door open to let the heat out. She waggled her phone at me as I walked back to her.

  “We’re cleared on Corti indefinitely, but Sacramento will handle any bombing. Anything we learn we brief the Sacramento domestic terrorism supervisor on. There’s more, but let’s head there and talk on the drive.”

  That night Jace and I ate at a brewery in midtown Sacramento and kicked back for a few hours. The next morning before dawn I drove north fast with a pair of evidence-recovery agents out of the Sacramento office tailing me all the way to a trailhead parking lot south of Mount Lassen.

  The sun was still high up on the mountain when we got there. It had yet to work its way down, and it was chilly near the 2007 white Land Cruiser parked in the far corner of the lot. The evidence-recovery pair would make a preliminary swipe for DNA, then wait for the tow truck to carry it to our Sacramento yard.

  It was probably needless paranoia, but I checked for any booby trap or bomb before they disabled the alarm and opened the driver’s door. They were meticulous as they collected fibers and swiped. When the agents gave me the go-ahead, I unfolded a cotton flag lying on the passenger seat that had no doubt been left for us.

  It had been folded in the triangular manner of an American flag. Its design was a green background with a map of the continental United States broken into three sections, as if three countries, one red, one white, one blue. The largest section was blue and included most of the American West. The red included all of the South and Texas on up through Kansas as well as up the Eastern Seaboard as high as, but not including, Virginia. The oblong mix of what was left of the lower forty-eight states was white.

  “They’re telling us who they are,” I said to the agent nearest me.

  “Can you draw that much from this?” he asked.

  “I’m speculating, but I’ll take it further. They’re claiming the country. We’re hunting homegrown terrorists for the infrastructure attacks. This is the flag of one group, or maybe they share it. Red, white, and blue pretty much sends a signal, don’t you think? See you guys back in Sacramento. I’d like to get this flag examined as early as possible.”

  During the ride back, numbers and chemistry on the Captain Jack bombs were texted to me. Close to a ton of explosives for the big one. Three-quarters of a ton for the other. Ammonium nitrate nitromethane bombs similar to, if not the same as, the McVeigh–Oklahoma City bombing that killed 168 people.

  Disabling the Captain Jack substation fit my “California as primary target” theory. If you add up all power usage in Alberta, British Columbia, and the western states, California consumes one-third of it. If you want a crippling blow to California’s economy and way of doing business, hit the major pathways.

  I was close to Sacramento when Julia called.

  “I need to know if something is true about the FBI,” she said.

  “I hope I have the answer.”

  “I know how I sound, but I’m freaking out a little. Maybe I should already know this, but if the FBI is suspicious of someone, can they go into that person’s friends’ computers and phones and everything else?”

  “What’s everything else?” I asked.

  “Let’s say phones and any computers.”

  “Depends.”

  “Does that mean it could happen?”

  “Yes.”

  She said, “Someone has been on my computer and in my phone.”

  “How do you know?”

  “There’s an app on my computer that warns if there’s an intruder. A dot flashes red on the screen. That’s happening.”

  “Can you send me a screenshot or photo?” I asked.

  “I’ll do it right now. But have you ever read someone’s e-mails even if you didn’t know if they’d done anything wrong?”

  “If it’s a terrorist investigation, the rules are different, but we’re pretty careful.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Julia said.

  “In bomb investigations, yes, I’ve looked at friends of a suspect without having direct evidence.”

  “So if you were prowling around and found something, you could go after them.”

  “More likely we’d be looking at an associate of someone who is already a suspect,” I said.

  “So someone might look at me over the bullets because I was Nick Knowles’ girlfriend?”

  “That could happen.”

  “If they found something about bullets in my text messages or e-mails, could they charge me? People send me stuff. Not stuff that I believe in but what some people I know send in blast e-mails.”

  “Agents might question you, but they recognize that a large group e-mail can be indiscriminate. It would be easier if I knew what it is we’re talking about,” I said.

  Instead of telling me, she asked me another question. “Could they hold or jail me, even if I didn’t know anything?”
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  “Are we talking about terrorism?”

  “I don’t really know,” Julia said. “I just know some people think what’s happening right now is pretty cool. Taking down the grid, I mean. They think it might be the catalyst that lets us remake things and get off grid. That, and after I moved here I got sent some weird e-mails and stuff on Snapchat and Twitter.”

  “Did you respond to any of it?” I asked.

  “I deleted them, but more came, and I noticed the e-mail addresses are sort of similar to some people I know but not the same. I saved two. I could forward them. They’re the most recent.”

  My laptop was on the passenger seat. I reached for it after pulling over. I wasn’t entirely sure I understood her. We kept talking as she found the two e-mails and sent them.

  “There’s also one other weird follow-up,” she said. “I shouldn’t have opened it, I guess. They’re talking like we’re friends, but I don’t know who it is. It’s like they know what’s going on in my life. They know I moved here, but I don’t recognize these e-mail addresses. People I know who are pretty smart say it could be the FBI. Could it?”

  “I don’t know the answer to that question. If someone thought you were affiliated with people trying to take the grid down, then sure, yes, it could happen you’re approached,” I said.

  “That’s like making up evidence.”

  “What is?”

  “Sending me these e-mails and tweets and stuff.”

  I could tell her there was public outrage at first over the violation of privacy or that those most easily frightened give up their rights willingly and first. They said things such as “the FBI can look in my computer anytime they want. I don’t have anything to hide.” They don’t see that they’re giving up anything. What’s the big deal, right? When it becomes habit to give up privacy it becomes normal. You can believe you’re not really giving up anything. My answer to that is fifteen years ago it would have surprised me law enforcement was on her computer. Not anymore. Little surprises me anymore. Think about that.

  My computer pinged twice, and Julia said, “Weird. One of these e-mails won’t forward to you. It’s the one that one of my roommates was copied on. It’s the one thanking me. I’ll just copy what’s in it and send that.”

  “Do that.”

  While she did that, I read the one she’d forwarded.

  Hey J, thanks for the box delivery. B’s will go to good things. Much change ahead. Stay strong! Ca

  Ca was Carla, Julia had said. The next was direct and oddly troubling.

  You rock! Nice delivery. Nice job!

  My computer pinged as the last came through. It read,

  Wish I could say more to thank you. Viva la . . .

  “It’s all bullshit, UG. Don’t believe any of it. I’m totally confused. Who would do this?”

  “No idea?”

  “None. But, duh, it’s somebody I know or somebody that knows somebody I know to have my e-mail. It doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like I’m being framed,” she said.

  It did feel that way.

  “I’m scared,” she said. “This is just too weird. It’s like phishing. This is somebody who wants something from me and they’re already in my computer. UG, no way this is the FBI, right?”

  29

  I gassed up at an Exxon in Sacramento and figured to call Jace from the car to let her know I’d pick her up at the Sacramento FBI Field Office in ten minutes. She beat me to it.

  She called first and said, “Hey, a San Francisco realtor is on her way to the field office here, she’s just minutes away. Her name is Francine Macomb, and this is about Corti.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “We don’t know it but she owns a string of vacation rentals up and down the state, including a cottage she rented along the American River to a guy she’s worried about. Let’s hear it in her words. I know you want to get going, but this won’t delay us that long.”

  Francine Macomb and I arrived at the same time. I got her through the lobby and into an interview room. Jace questioned Macomb as I scanned her website promo on the place she’d rented to the guy in question.

  Romantic 1930’s river cottage. Two bedrooms, a cozy kitchen, a wood burning fireplace, garage, gravel driveway, and mature oaks. Perfect for a second honeymoon!

  “I’ve been a realtor a long time. It’s hard to be too careful. I like to know who I’m renting to. He had a nice smile and a Portland basketball team cap that I kept asking him to take off so I could get a screenshot.” She leaned forward and said quietly, “I didn’t want him to know I wanted a screenshot.”

  “Trail Blazers,” Jace said. “Did he take off the cap?”

  “No, but he was cute about it. He said if he took it off, the Warriors would beat the Trail Blazers again in the playoffs.”

  She started to go on about her rental business, but Jace brought her back to the renter, an Eric Wright.

  “He did a crazy thing,” Francine said. “He was supposed to meet me at the house to give me a check. As I got there he called me and said he wasn’t going to make our meeting due to work, but he’d hidden an envelope with the rent in cash.” She paused and looked from Jace to me and back to Jace. “Who does that?”

  “Did he say why he wanted to rent your place?” I asked.

  “The river. He wanted to be along the river. Years ago, before I owned it, there was a dock, but that was back in the days when the river would flood. It got swept away.”

  “What else did you talk about with him?” I asked and wanted to move this along.

  “I mentioned restaurants and somehow we got on pork. He loves pork burgers. He said he grew up with the best in the world. He has a southern accent, not strong, but there.”

  “If you had to pick a state, which state?”

  “North Carolina, Virginia, Kentucky, but I would guess he hasn’t lived there in a while.”

  Corti was born in Kentucky, but the family moved early. I nodded and said, “We have some photos for you to look at.”

  Francine failed several times to identify Corti, yet remained confident and returned to her original question.

  “Who rents a house and doesn’t use it?” she asked. “He’s barely been there. The neighbors say lights are on at night but no more than half the week.”

  “We’ll check him out,” Jace said. “And we very much appreciate you coming forward.”

  “I’m sorry I identified the wrong man, but I’ve never done this before.”

  “Don’t feel bad in any way,” Jace said. “Thank you for reaching out, and let me know of anything you hear about in San Francisco.”

  We walked out with Francine and as we left her she called out, “I didn’t pick him out of the photos you showed me, but I’m telling you there’s something wrong about him. If you go by the house, you have my permission to go anywhere you want on the property.”

  I turned and said, “Thank you,” and then we were gone.

  “You rushed that,” Jace said. “She’s probably imagining things, but she came in to try to help us. It’s not as though where we’re headed now is more important.”

  For now, I left that alone. We drove north on 70 for an hour, exited onto Cottonwood Road, went west, crossed a creek, and there was the Table Mountain substation like a fort in the distance. To the south through pastureland, the line of the towers stretched as far as I could see. The sides of the substation were protected by concrete walls painted a pale brown. Near the gate were six National Guard members. We said hello to the Guard, toured briefly, then met with the manager who’d been on duty last September when the vehicles showed up. He showed us video he’d taken.

  We watched it twice, then got in his Jeep and drove the perimeter of the substation with him as he talked us through it. He pointed at a line of electrical towers in pasture across the road.

  “It was the strangest damn thing,” he said. “Across the street and on this side they cut the cattle fencing. Across the road they drove the van up under
that big tower right there. Over here it was an SUV driving no more than five miles an hour around the substation perimeter.”

  “Scouting the substation,” I said.

  “That’s definitely what went through my head, and I reported it to Sacramento FBI.”

  “And we’ve read the file. We wanted to see the substation and talk to you.”

  “Cattle got out,” he said. “It took a while to get anyone out here, and they were gone.”

  “Was that worth the trip?” Jace asked as we drove away. “We’re running around everywhere. You’ve been driving all day. We could have called this guy from the office and heard the same stories.”

  “I wanted to see the substation and hear his version.”

  “Exactly. You wanted, but if you ask me it’s a waste of time, and you rushed Francine Macomb in and out after she went out of her way to come talk to us. How many hours did you drive this morning to get that flag? There’s only so much time in a day. Running around doesn’t solve investigations.”

  “Let’s get lunch and talk,” I said. “There’s a Thai place called Nori in Oroville. I’ll buy.”

  I go dark and get quiet. When that happens it’s like riding with a stone statue. Jace gets combative and petulant. That’s how we roll when things aren’t going well. Lunch always helps.

  The unspoken rule is that if you’re the cause of the friction, you buy lunch. Which is tricky if you both think you’re in the right, but this is where Jace and I click and why we work well together as investigators. We’re both willing to accept the possibility we’re wrong. We’re both strong willed, but neither of us is dogmatic, so I’m owning it today. And I like Nori’s noodle soup.

  I looked at Jace. She stared back at me still not giving an inch, and wiping her mouth with a paper napkin then eating more. When she looked up again, she said, “This is good food.”

  “It is.”

  “You think they were as bold as they were because they were playing at being terrorists,” she said.

  “That is what I’m thinking and why I needed to see the place. They were still growing into the idea of attacking the grid is what I think now. They hid their faces and took off the license plates, but at any moment a county deputy or CHP could have come along and stopped them due to the cattle in the road. Then what happens?”