CHAPTER 46
Ten seconds, then twenty passed, with no more shots. Rhetta dared raising her head. The substation lights were still on. Woody must’ve stopped them. But where was he?
Rhetta stood and strained her eyes to see into the darkness. She still couldn’t find Woody. She crouched low and moved to the east side of the substation. She stared into the glare of the sodium vapor lights mounted on poles at the corners of the chain-link fence that surrounded the substation. The lights pointed toward the front of the substation and bathed the area in an eerie orange glow. Ducking under the light beams allowed her to glimpse the area behind the substation. No lights shone back there. Rhetta stopped, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark, praying she’d catch sight of Woody.
The silence was as deep as the night was dark. Not a tree frog belched or whippoorwill called.
A loud crackle of underbrush startled her. She ducked low when she spotted a man in black clothing, inching his way toward the rear of the substation, toward an SUV. She couldn’t make out much detail from his dark form. He carried something bulky. Was it Woody? Then the shadowy form passed under the lights. It wasn’t a single man carrying something. There were two, and they were carrying something between them. The terrorists. Her pulse raced. Her head began to sweat. Where the hell was Woody?
Frozen in place, praying they wouldn’t hear her breathing, she breathed shallowly, afraid that each inhalation would give her away. Since the substation lights were still ablaze, they hadn’t succeeded in taking the substation down—yet. Was Woody all right? And where were these two going?
A low moan startled her. It came from the brush. She froze. She peered in the direction the sound came from. The dark yielded nothing. She squinted and gradually was able to discern a shape. The shape she fixed on became Woody. He lay on his back, his rifle by his side.
She scrabbled over to him and whispered, “Woody, are you hurt?” Her heart slammed against her ribs.
Praying the two men hadn’t heard her, she scanned the area where the terrorists had just stood. The SUV was still there but the men had disappeared.
“My ankle. I think I broke it when I fell,” Woody whispered and pointed to his right leg.
His foot was turned completely backward. She gulped. Woody had to be in serious pain. “Did you shoot them?”
“I got two of them. They’re down.” He tried to adjust his position.
Two men down? Then how many were there? She’d just counted two walking.
“Are you sure? I just saw two men, Woody. They weren’t down.”
“Two men started shooting at me and I returned fire. The two I shot are definitely down. Not dead, but down.” He pointed. “They were on the west side, over there, when I came up on them.
She felt woozy. She needed to help Woody to stand. There were two more bad guys to catch. “Can you walk if I get you up?”
“No, leave me here. You have to stop the others. Take my rifle.” He propped himself up and thrust the Browning at her.
She grabbed it and examined it, weighing its feel in her arms.
“Stay low. They don’t know you’re here,” Woody said. “You can surprise them. I don’t have many rounds left, only the four in the chamber. I used up a lot of ammo, wanted them to think there was more than just one of me. If you have to shoot, make every shot count.” Woody lay back. He moaned softly. “Don’t forget about the recoil,” he added.
At first, the weapon felt awkward in her hands. She’d shot plenty of targets with her personal .38 and was a good shot. Mostly what she shot was a cottonmouth snake or two that bothered her while she fished. She’d never shot a rifle before.
Nor had she ever been hunting. This, her first hunt, was a manhunt. As she inched away, leaving Woody in the brush, she tried to remember all the safety warnings she’d heard about carrying loaded guns. Like not pointing them at any of your own body parts.
CHAPTER 47
The two men she’d spotted earlier were no longer at the rear of the substation. Rhetta feared they must already be inside the chain link fencing. Probably well on their way to disabling the transformer or destroying it, like they’d done to the other substations.
She sucked in a deep breath to free her mind from the fear worming into her brain. Ignoring the little voice that kept telling her to get the hell out of there, she regrouped mentally. The time had come, and she and Woody were the only ones left to stop the attack. Now that Woody was down, it was up to her.
Nearing the front of the substation, she ducked under the orange beam of light and surveyed the fence. It was intact. No sign of the terrorists.
Crouching again, holding the rifle across her arms, she rounded the corner and stiffened. Two men in black pants and hooded sweatshirts were hunkered over, busying themselves at the fence. Their bolt cutters had succeeded in freeing a man-sized hole in the chain link. One man began easing himself through. Rhetta stood and took aim.
“Hold it right there, assholes!” she screamed. Instantly, one man inside sprinted off along the fence. The other turned and fired at her, the bullet zinging close enough to her that she yelped. She raised the weapon, tried to aim, then fired. Missed. She fired again. Missed again. “Crap,” she yelled and fired once more. This time the man dropped. Pain ripped through her shoulder. Woody had warned her about the recoil. The vibrating pain shot down her arm and back up to her neck, like the devil was tuning her arm with a hot wire.
Where’s the other one? He’d run, but where was he?
Then she spotted him. He had stepped away from the fence and was taking aim at her. Her heart thudded. Without dropping the rifle, she threw herself to the ground, her recoil-bruised shoulder absorbing the brunt of her fall.
“Oww, dammit,” she cried, rolling on to her back. Something whizzed past her head and slammed into a nearby tree. Bark flew and she heard another pfft. Then another. He was shooting at her with a silenced weapon.
Rhetta swung the rifle up and fired. She missed. The dark figure quit shooting. Maybe she knocked the gun out of his hand. A miracle. Then she saw him sprinting for the rear of the substation. Rhetta fired again. There was only a click. Empty. Damn.
Using the rifle to hoist herself up, she struck out gimping painfully, determined to stop him from reaching his ride. Her foot glanced off the automatic weapon he’d thrown down. She snatched it up, pointed it at him, and fired. Empty. Of course it was. He’d tossed it. No miracles.
In spite of limping, she closed in on him. She still had Woody’s rifle. She formed a quick plan—threaten to shoot him if he didn’t surrender. Before she could shout at him to put his hands up, he stretched out his arm and pointed a device toward his ride. The SUV motor turned over. Remote start. Damn. He snatched the door open and turned toward her. In frustration she screamed, “Stop, you son of a bitch!” He didn’t.
The man’s hoodie had slipped back, baring his head. Illuminated briefly by the SUV’s interior light, the clear image of his swarthy face, thin mustache, and black hair seared into her brain.
Placing two fingers at his temple, he paused long enough to salute her before jumping behind the wheel. He barreled straight at her. Pivoting on her injured foot, she managed to hop sideways with barely a millimeter between the wheels and her feet.
Rhetta threw the rifle at the side of the dark green SUV as it passed within inches of her feet. The weapon bounced off the car and clattered to the ground. She limped over and retrieved it.
“Crap, crap, crap,” she groused as she hobbled to check the man she’d shot. She stopped at the gaping hole in the fence and peered at her fallen quarry. He hadn’t moved. Maybe she’d killed him. Then she heard him moan. He made no attempt to rise, but stayed on the ground, on his side, moaning. Changing direction, she made her way back to Woody, who had not changed positions since she left him earlier.
“I let one get away, Woody. I’m a terrible shot.” She set the rifle down. “You said to conserve my rounds, and it took me three to g
et one guy. I clearly missed the last one. Damn. Damn. Damn.” With each “damn” she pummeled her thighs with clenched fists.
Although the summer night air was sultry, Rhetta’s teeth began to chatter. She dropped to her knees alongside Woody. In spite of his pain, Woody tried to grin. “Hey, you got one at least, and you’re all right. And the substation is still running.” He held up his hand in a high five. “We stopped them. No more cascading power failure.” Rhetta took a second before she met his palm with her own. Woody lay back. “Now, how we gonna get out of here?”
A high-pitched rising and falling wail pierced the dark silence.
“The police. Thank God,” Rhetta came out of her chilled daze and stood. “I’ll go meet them. They’ll call an ambulance.” With her ankle throbbing mightily, she shuffled down the driveway to the road. Her shoulder still vibrated from the recoil.
Two enormous screaming fire trucks followed by a volunteer firefighter driving a pickup with a cab crowned in flashing lights caromed by without slowing down. Rhetta waved her good arm to the parade of trucks and cars behind the emergency vehicles. No one noticed her. Every one of them was heading to the same place, to the flames shooting a hundred feet in the air from a stack of round hay bales about a quarter of a mile away.
Oh, crap! Cami.
CHAPTER 48
No one noticed Rhetta as she shuffled to the edge of the onlookers, mesmerized by the fire gobbling the farmer’s entire reserve of winter hay. And her beautiful car.
Two more fire trucks screamed past, slowing just enough to make the sharp turn into the burning field.
“Well, ain’t this somethin’,” muttered a Lookey Lou as he pulled off a beat up ball cap and ran his gnarled hand through what was left of his thinning white hair. “Guess Ralph’ll hafta buy hay fer his cattle after this.” He spit a long stream of tobacco. Two men and a woman turned to locate the origin of the foul torrent. In unison, they stepped sideways, giving the old man a wide berth.
“Surely he has insurance,” answered a middle-aged woman clad in gray sweat pants and a black T-shirt. The woman stepped over the nasty wad to stand upwind of the projectile spitter.
“Seems someone parked a car by them bales and caught it all afire,” said Lou. “Wonder who the damn fool was that done that?”
That would be me. Rhetta shifted trying to find a comfortable position. In addition to her ankle pain and her throbbing shoulder, her oversized sneakers were rubbing blisters on her feet.
She wasn’t about to let these good folks know the damn fool was inches away. Do they still lynch people out in the country? They might if they knew she’d just burned up Ralph’s hay.
Another siren powered down as a Scott County Sheriff’s patrol car eased past the onlookers. It parked crossways, blocking the road, effectively stopping any advance the crowd might make toward the flames. Two deputies leapt out of the car and began dispersing the crowd.
“All right everyone, time to go home,” the taller of the two uniforms said as he wove through the crowd, waving his hands as though shooing away pesky dogs.
“The show’s over, folks,” the rotund second deputy chimed in. He hooked his thumbs into his belt and marched forward.
“Naw, it’s a long way from over,” said Lou and contorted his mouth to launch again. The crowd parted.
The wad landed a few feet from the sweatpants-clad woman, who protested loudly and stepped to the other side of the crowd, out of harm’s way.
After several minutes of prodding by the officers, the crowd began thinning. Groups of two and three ambled down the road, probably toward their respective homes.
“You suppose them hooligans from up Scott City set the fire?” The old man didn’t ask anyone in particular. He looked around as though expecting someone to chime in. No one apparently knew which hooligans in particular the old guy was referring to. The question hung unanswered.
Rhetta remained transfixed, staring at the burned out hulk that was once her beloved Camaro. The adrenaline sustaining her at the substation had drained away. Fatigue and sorrow closed in.
“Ma’am?” asked the rotund lawman who walked up to her. Most of the crowd, including Lookey Lou had melted away. “Ma’am?” he repeated. “You need to leave now. It’s all over.”
The deputy had exaggerated a bit in saying it was all over. Did he think she couldn’t see the flames still licking the sky? Rhetta shook her head, mostly to clear away the images of her burning car. And to revive. “I, uh, don’t have a ride, Deputy. Besides, I need to report we shot three people.”
Scott County’s version of a chubby Barney Fife snapped to attention. “You shot three people?” His eyes grew wide. “Where?”
She pointed to the substation. He snatched her wrist, said, “Come with me,” and began tugging her toward the taller officer.
“This woman says she shot three people,” said the panting officer as he skidded to a stop in front of his fellow deputy.
“That so?” The stick-thin deputy parked both hands on his narrow hips and tilted his head. He took a hard gander at Rhetta.
She could only imagine what he saw.
A disheveled crazy woman.
“Who are you, and who did you shoot?” The tall skinny officer nodded to his partner, who fumbled at a button on his shirt pocket. Finally succeeding in freeing the pocket flap, the stocky deputy withdrew a small spiral notebook from it.
“My name is Rhetta McCarter, and I only shot one. Back there,” she said and pointed behind her. “At the substation.”
“I thought you said you shot three people,” the round deputy said. Rhetta thought he sounded disappointed that there might only be a single casualty.
“No, sir, I said, we shot three people. I only shot one. Woody shot the other two, after they shot at him. He shot them in self-defense, and to save the substation. Please call an ambulance. My friend is hurt.”
The two officers glanced at each other. The tall one slapped his shoulder, activating his radio. “This is Carson. I need back up here at the fire. Code 28.”
Rhetta presumed Code 28 meant, “Crazy person standing in front of us.”
“Dammit, Carson, you’re supposed to give ’em your badge number, not your name.” The deputy shook his head.
Rhetta thought how lucky she was to be dealing with Deputy Dawg and Barney Fife.
“I need to see some ID,” Carson asked her, ignoring his partner’s comment.
Rhetta shook her head. The last time she saw her driver’s license it was in the hands of an officer at the traffic stop where she’d driven off. Her purse containing the rest of her identification lay incinerated inside her car.
Choosing not to mention the traffic stop, she said, “I did have ID.” She pointed to Cami. “It burned up in that car.”
“That was your car?”
She nodded. The shifting wind blew smoldering spirals toward them. The smoke stung her eyes, and the acrid smell of the death of her car seared her nostrils. Using the back of her hand, she wiped her damp cheek.
Carson tilted his head and spoke to his shoulder again. “Carson. I mean Badge 257. I have a suspect in custody for the arson at Ralph Fornfelt’s.”
Staring at her, he continued, “Mrs. McCarter, you’ll have to come with us. You’re under arrest for arson.” He whipped out a well-worn laminated page the size of a playing card and chanted the Miranda rights.
CHAPTER 49
Rhetta stared at her wrists secured snugly in the handcuffs.
After reading her rights and only stumbling over a few of the words, Carson had directed her to hold her hands out in front of her. Fumbling at first, he eventually managed to get the handcuffs untangled and snapped them on her wrists. He led her to the patrol car and invited her to sit in the caged-in back seat. With her securely locked inside the car, both deputies left.
She’d begged them to call an ambulance for Woody. Surely, they would’ve done that? Although from the cops’ expressions, she figured they though
t she’d escaped from Crazyville. She couldn’t tell how much they believed her. When she started telling them her theory about what had happened to the other power substations, their eyes glazed over.
Carson had called for backup. She remembered that much. Yet Rhetta hadn’t seen any other patrol cars arrive. Maybe they went directly to the substation. If Carson had any sense, he’d have directed them there to get Woody and check the three bodies.
One by one, the fire trucks and volunteers left, yet the two deputies still had not returned.
Where had the cops gone? They’d been away at least twenty minutes.
Holding her hands up, Rhetta inspected the heavy steel handcuffs circling her small wrists. Could she get them off? Probably not. Twisting around to locate Carson, whom she’d decided was Deputy Dawg, while his sidekick was Barney Fife, she spotted them galloping toward the car. Definitely moving faster than when they’d left.
Carson leapt behind the wheel and fired up the grey Dodge patrol car as his chubby buddy piled into the passenger seat and slammed the door. Spinning the car around, Carson turned on the siren and burned rubber speeding to the substation.
“Holy moley, lady, you weren’t lyin’,” said Barney Fife, wheezing. “There’s three guys been shot plus a guy down with a broken leg over at the substation.” It took less than a minute for them to slide over the small hill and scream into the substation’s driveway.
An orange and white ambulance pulled out as they entered. Thank God. They must be taking Woody to the hospital.
Rhetta counted at least six vehicles wedged into the short substation driveway. Most were police cars, and one van emblazoned with SCOTT COUNTY AMBULANCE. Once again, Dawg and Fife scrambled out of their patrol car leaving her in back and disappeared into the crowd of law officers.
As she peered into the clutch of cops looking for her captors, one tall highway patrol officer left the others to stride over to her prison on wheels. The two sheriff’s deputies scurried to catch up.
Rhetta sighed with relief when she recognized Sergeant Quentin Meade.
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