Search For Reason (State Of Reason Mystery, Book 2)

by Miles A. Maxwell

  He fished the gun from his pocket that had belonged to Fat Manny the Vegas mobster. He fired down into the parking lot. Snow flew.

  Silence.

  He glared at them all.

  “The next person who approaches these vehicles — man, women or child — gets a bullet.” He paused for that to sink in. He didn’t really mean it but it sounded good. A least not the children. “We’ll have the power on, when its on.

  “You never pay the slightest attention to whatever it is that keeps your lights on, your dishwashers running. You don’t know where your power is made, how it gets to your houses, and you don’t care. You probably think of a power plant as ‘That stinky place with the ugly mountain of black rocks outside.’

  “Until everything in your little world stops working.

  “Then it’s ‘Get the damn power fixed! Turn us back on!’

  “The Williams system has been extensively damaged by EMP from the New York and Virginia Beach Bombs. We’ll have a schedule posted at the front gate. Tomorrow — as to when you can expect power. Unless you work here, that’s as close as you come. You people are acting like fools and idiots — dangerous idiots. Now that’s it. I mean it. Get in your cars, and GET OUT!”

  He waited. Some of them grumbled. But they got in their cars. And they left. In three minutes the lot was nearly empty of vehicles. Hunt, Nan and Ortega pulled into three of the vacated spots close to the front door.

  Holmes jumped out. “There’s a new sheriff in town, E!”

  Everon’s mouth twitched. “Shut up, Holmes.”

  A short bulldog-necked man, fair hair cropped almost to his skull, who’d exited the control building as the crowd was dissipating was getting into a black Hummer. He stared at Everon for a moment.

  “One of your guys?” Everon asked.

  The Hummer backed up and roared out of the icy lot.

  Hunt frowned, shaking his head. “Never seen him before. Probably another angry customer.”

  “Holy —” Nan said. She was staring toward the rear of the property. “How are we fixed for diesel?”

  Behind Juniata’s red block control building was a chain-link fence that surrounded something like a child’s gigantic jungle gym — Williams’ main substation known as Nicola.

  Behind Nicola, Everon recognized a monstrous green and white Russian HALO, the largest helicopter ever built — the thing Nan was staring at. Tiny next to it was an MD-900 NOTAR, identical to Two-State Solar’s own repair helicopter in Nevada. He imagined how fast the huge HALO would suck down fuel.

  “Our tanks are a quarter full,” Hunt answered. “Two thousand gallons of Jet A.”

  “We won’t be able to fly very far on that,” Nan said.

  “We’re hoping to get a tanker truck in soon.”

  “Can the military help us out?” Everon asked.

  “They’re looking for fuel too, trying to maintain civil order.”

  “Number one — fuel,” Scrounge muttered, writing on a small hand pad.” Everon was already heading for the chain-link fence. Hunt hurried to keep up.

  “Strange name for a power complex,” Everon said. “Where’d it come from?”

  “My grandfather was a fan of Nicola Tesla.”

  “The Nicola part I guessed. I meant the control center. June-ee-AHta?”

  “HOO-nee-AHta, Everon. It means standing stone. It’s an old Seneca Indian name my grandfather liked.”

  As Everon got closer to the substation yard, he realized its huge antler-like insulators were skewed at unnatural angles, the substation’s copper bars were mangled. The transformer in the middle’s blown up! Caused by the first bomb Monday night?

  In the cold glow of temporary lighting, he counted eight workers swarming around — unbolting parts from the blackened wreck. Its oil tank was crushed and leaking on the ground. Ragged, charred radiator ribs were punched into Nicola’s fence. The transformer was a useless mess. Hunt’s people were being wasted.

  Now he understood.

  Hunt had been struggling to do the best he could. But Hunt hadn’t run a line crew himself in years — probably since the days it was his father’s company. His senior personnel killed in New York, he was trying anything to find people to put his system back together, looking for cash to make payroll — his bank accounts frozen until records were restored, and Williams wouldn’t be the only power company trying to locate equipment that could take a year to manufacture. Hunt was running frantic.

  “We’ve had a lot of money offered,” Hunt said. “To get certain of our long-term customers re-energized first . . . ”

  But what if cash won’t buy breakfast or gasoline? Everon thought. What if cash only buys a promise — to deliver stuff nobody’s able to make?

  Everon pictured the Williams system in his head —

  Nicola Substation was central to the Williams system. They needed it functional. But other parts of the system had to be fixed too. If any one failed, nobody got power. Four of the men were wasting their time. They had to be reassigned. They weren’t going to like it.

  “You might as well stop all that,” he called up to them.

  “What are you talking about?” scowled a man built like an overweight wrestler. His face was dominated by a beautifully groomed handlebar mustache. A name tag sewn to his tan mechanic’s jumpsuit read: WOODIE.

  “No use tearing it down,” Everon said. “There isn’t time.”

  Resentment burned in the man’s eyes. He must have seen Hunt bring the team in. He had to know who Everon was.

  But Woodie wasn’t going to give up his authority easily. There was no time for finesse.

  “If you want to help, start unbolting the feet there from the concrete.”

  “Mr. Williams!” Woodie began.

  Hunt held up a hand. “Please work with Everon on this, Woodie. He’s taking Sid’s position.”

  Everon turned to Right. “Take over here, will you?”

  “Okay, E.” But the hound-dog eyes reproached, Yeah, this is going to work out real well.

  But Woodie wasn’t done. “Who the hell do you think —”

  His words were drowned out by the engine on a mammoth crane, driven from the Equipment Building by Holmes. Ortega began unbolting Nicola’s safety fence along one side.

  Everon’s kinky-haired purchasing agent ran over and handed Everon three yellow sheets of paper. “Here’s your inventory list,” he yelled. “And here’s that authorization we discussed, Mr. Williams.”

  Everon could see the document was already typed up on WILLIAMS letterhead. Hunt grimaced but signed where Scrounge indicated.

  Scrounge snatched it, then flipped back the top sheet on his inventory list, showed it to Everon. “Only one of these big transformers left after this one, E. They’re going to be impossible to get.”

  Everon yelled back, “Even for you?”

  “Well —” Scrounge smiled.

  He ran, slipping and skidding, to a Williams fuel truck. Seconds later he spun snow and blasted out the front gate.

  A tall young man in a T-shirt came rapidly out the doors from the Juniata Control building. Wrapping his arms around himself, he headed straight for Hunt.

  “Ewing Dacker,” Hunt introduced. “One of our computer technicians,”

  Dark red tattooed wires curved down the guy’s forearms. The back of each hand terminated in a tattooed plug. Like his whole body’s an extension cord, Everon realized.

  “That new programmer stopped by the control room, Mr. Williams,” Ewing said.

  “What programmer?”

  “The short guy with the heavy neck. He was going through our backup disks on a laptop he brought with him. He is one of our people, isn’t he?”

  “There was a guy like that in a black Hummer —” Hunt began.

  A pale green sedan bulleted in the gate. Everon recognized the large dark green stars on its front doors. Hadn’t he seen that car only yesterday afternoon? Up at Teterboro Airport?

  “General Anders, our militar
y liaison,” Hunt said. “I asked him to get us some flight passes.” The car screeched to a stop in the parking lot. “The general was a bit irritated when you left Teterboro in my jet without military authorization.”

  “Shit, Hunt. We were lucky to live through that turbulence just getting out of there!”

  “I know. Us too.”

  The bald-headed general strode over, long heavy tan overcoat flapping, chest thrust out between stiff arms. Two soldiers rushed after him. Everything said aggression. A captain and a sergeant, Everon made out as they came closer.

  The first thing they did was pull pistols. And point them directly at Everon’s head.

  The Risk To Franklin

  With a curt nod to Hunt, Anders turned to Everon. “You’re under arrest,” tone crisp and authoritative. Everon had a very good idea Anders being here had nothing to do with shooting a bullet into a parking lot.

  Everon smiled, “My team will need flight passes, unimpeded access to roads and —”

  At a bunched-lip nod from Anders, the soldiers grabbed Everon’s arms, twisted them behind his back. The captain snapped on a pair of handcuffs.

  The guys in the yard lights had stopped to watch — a big smirk on Woodie’s face. Despite her bulk, Enya was already flying out the Control Center’s front door. Right, Ortega, Holmes, Turban, Rani, Metalhead — running from the transformer yard.

  Everon shook his head, barked a short: “No!”

  “You’re under arrest,” Anders repeated.

  “I heard you the first time,” Everon shot back.

  “Where’s that dark-haired gentleman who was with you at Teterboro?” Anders shouted.

  “He didn’t feel like coming with us,” Everon smiled. “What do you want with him?”

  Anders glared, clearly unhappy not to find Franklin here too.

  “I can think of three reasons you might not want to do this,” Hunt said.

  Anders’ arms crossed his chest.

  “First,” Hunt began, “did you know Everon and his brother used a dilapidated old helicopter to rescue half a dozen people from a collapsed subway car in New York City — including Walter van Patter?”

  Something flashed in Anders’ eyes. “The dark-haired man is your brother?” he demanded.

  Everon had a pretty good idea what they wanted Franklin for. Probably that radioactive dirt he’d stupidly scooped off a military helicopter. What was he thinking?

  “Second,” Hunt said, “did you know that at risk to their own lives, using that same old helicopter, they freed thousands of people trying to escape the G.W. Bridge? Many who probably would have been crushed to death had Everon and his brother not interfered. I can tell you one of them was Bonnie Fisk — of Fiskmart.”

  Anders uncrossed his arms. “No . . . I didn’t.”

  “Third, Everon’s brought me what looks to be a very effective team. I’m extremely short-staffed at the moment. We need him to run this team, that is, if you want to see power delivered to any homes and businesses around here anytime soon. One of my customers is the Colt munitions plant down the road. I believe the Army purchases their bullets.”

  Anders stood there fuming. Finally he said, “Mr. Williams, the President has declared martial law in certain affected areas. All civilian personnel are under complete military control and authority. My authority.”

  Anders eyeballed Turban’s lavender headwrap, and Right’s sad hound-dog expression. The grotesquely mottled skin of Rani’s right cheek, Enya’s overweight physique, and the shiny hard hat worn by Metalhead, who appeared completely tuned out, head nodding vaguely to the distorted guitar screaming in her earbuds.

  He shook his head. “This collection of — bozos . . . better get the job done. If —”

  “We’ve got to get our kicks somehow,” Everon shot back, smiling innocently.

  “If I had my way — leaving Teterboro without proper clearance — you and your brother would be locked up,” Anders huffed.

  “Unfortunately,” his voice dropped, “due to the, ah, situation, I’ve been ordered to cooperate with civilian repair personnel — wherever possible. So that’s what I’m going to do.” Jaw muscles clamping down, Anders nodded to the sergeant. “Let him go.”

  A momentary hesitation, then the man produced a key and released Everon’s cuffs. Everon massaged his shoulders, rotated his elbows in circles.

  “But — let — me — tell — you — one — THING!” the general’s face leaning into Everon’s. “You will obey the orders of all military personnel.”

  “We’ll be using helicopters,” Everon said back calmly.

  Anders took a deep breath. “What type? You’ll have to furnish call letters.”

  “One Boeing NOTAR MD-900, and that big Russian HALO back there for starters,” Everon head-pointed.

  Hunt handed over a business card. Something was written on the back. “The tail numbers.”

  Anders nodded. “My aide, Captain Stetten here, will bring over some temporary passes. Mr. Williams, they’ll be used at your discretion. You’ll be responsible.”

  “Better than average military efficiency,” Everon quipped.

  Anders’ jaw bulged. He nodded to Hunt. “Mr. Williams.”

  Before Anders could turn, Everon said, “Instead of going around annoying everybody, getting in the way, wouldn’t it be a better use of your time to figure out who’s setting off these bombs?”

  Anders’ chest swelled like he’d just swallowed something unpleasant. Hunt grimaced and held his breath. Anders’ jaw made a popping sound as he forced himself to turn away.

  Everon shrugged. The guy’s an ass.

  “Give me a minute, Everon.” Hunt hurried after the general.

  Everon’s crew got back to work. Woodie stroked his mustache, eyes glaring, mouth bunched in disappointment. A minute later, Anders drove off.

  “Is Anders going to get in our way?” Everon asked as the older executive returned.

  “Not if I can help it,” Hunt said. “It might be better if you tried not deliberately provoking him though.”

  Everon shrugged. “Think I could use your satphone? To call my brother?”

  Hunt nodded and handed over the phone as they moved into the helicopter yard, saying, “Am I ever glad you’re here!”

  Everon dialed a number. “I wish I could say that makes more than one of us.”

  Torture As Motivation

  The ringing brought Franklin out of a deep and troubled sleep. “Hello?”

  “Bro!”

  “Everon,” he said sleepily, “how is it over there?”

  “It’s a mess. We’ll get it together. Look, I’m calling to let you know the military is looking for you. That jerk-off General Anders, from Teterboro? He was just here. I get the feeling they want to know what you did with that radiation sample you took.”

  “I haven’t seen anybody like that around here.”

  “Just keep an eye out, okay?”

  “I will.”

  And Everon was gone. Sometimes with his Bros, his quickness of decision, it felt like Everon was his younger brother — not nine years older with Cyn halfway in between. Except now there was no one in between.

  Franklin fell back into a worried slumber. Across an arid desert he drifted.

  He reached a mass of people gathered on a hill. On top stood three tall wood crucifixes.

  As he came closer, the crowd vanished. The two thieves nailed to either side disappeared. Only the man on the middle cross remained.

  Though he couldn’t see his face, he knew the man was Jesus.

  Closer still, he realized — it isn’t Christ. It wasn’t even a man. It was a woman. She wore a white shirt, a dark tie and — a light gray business suit?

  The face cleared.

  It was his sister, Cyn, writhing helplessly in pain.

  Sweat poured down her cheeks. Gold spikes glinted in the hot bright sun pinning her hands against the roughly cut wood. Her expensive pumps were nailed to the cro
ss’s center shaft.

  At his sister’s feet, a heavyset man in dark maroon church robes lifted a long scroll of parchment. A wide purple sash hung around his neck. The bearded face cleared too. It was Ralph Maples!

  From upturned fishy lips, Ralph called out a number, a date and a sum of money. At each call his sister cried back in agony. As the numbers grew into the tens of thousands, Cynthia’s screams rose, each shriek piercing Franklin’s body like a spike itself.

  Franklin gasped, sucking in a desperate breath. He was awake! He sat upright, sweating, shivering, naked in the darkness.

  Not knowing what any of it meant.

  The Second Imam Is Prepared

  My guards . . . If I can just . . . reach the house . . . He could see its dusty side street up ahead. He felt the outstretched hands behind him, sensed their touch on the back of his robes.

  Shi’a Imam Abu Shakir pushed himself: Who are they?

  The night’s full moon illuminated his every running step. The warm Iraqi sand ground between his toes, splashed his ankles. He dared not look, he could hear their breathing. He ignored the pain, his long legs pushed faster.

  He’d ignored advice to be careful — the talk of an Imam gone missing in Saudi Arabia! Perilous times! The bomb!

  Shakir’s ragged breath came in gasps now. The long cut of his white robes held him back. I should not have traveled outside alone tonight.

  He felt a hand grasp at the cloth of his right shoulder. A burst of speed accelerated him beyond its grip. He could feel their breath — out — in! Should I fight?

  He ran on.

  One of his sandals caught the sand unevenly. He slowed a tiny bit to regain his balance.

  It was too much.

  Strong hands gripped his robe. Turn and fight! A sudden twist toward his attackers, short curved blade in his hand.