Whitney said, “Shit.”
The three items were SIM card carriers. The term “SIM” was an acronym that stood for “subscriber identification module.”
If you changed the SIM card in your phone, you changed the number. And your identity.
“Price is dirty,” I said.
“We don’t know that for sure.” Whitney shook her head.
“Let’s just call him unclean then.”
Whitney sat on the chair by the desk, her shoulders drooping.
“Call McCarty Creek right now. See if he ever got there. In the morning, send a team to retrace his route. Maybe he had car trouble or something.”
She nodded, a glum look on her face.
“Then you and I will head to San Saba like we planned.”
No response.
“It’ll be all right,” I said. “There’s probably a logical answer for the SIM cards and the fact that we can’t reach him.”
“It won’t matter,” she said. “He looks bent, and I was sleeping with him.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.
She took a deep breath and smiled, the expression on her face obviously forced. “Breakfast in the morning?” She stood. “Before we make the drive?”
“Sure.” I nodded warily.
“Pick me up at seven. Don’t be late.” She left the room.
- CHAPTER FORTY-ONE -
The diner on the outskirts of town was full of customers at twenty past seven in the morning when Eric Faulkner, the CEO of Sudamento, walked in with his bodyguard trailing behind him.
Faulkner wore a denim work shirt and faded jeans, while his security guy had on a dark suit. The juxtaposition of the two made them appear to be working from completely different playbooks, not an uncommon occurrence for Faulkner, if I had to guess.
All the seats were taken, even at the counter.
Whitney and I were in a booth at the back, eating breakfast. Bacon and eggs, biscuits with sausage gravy, coffee.
Faulkner surveyed the room and then strode toward us. His bodyguard stayed by the front door.
He stopped at our table and gave us each the laser stare. He settled his gaze on Whitney and said, “What’s the status of the investigation?”
“Good morning.” I pointed to the insulated carafe by my plate. “You want some coffee?”
He cocked his head and looked at me, a puzzled expression on his face.
“You’re the sheriff, right?”
How quickly they forget. I wore civilian clothes, the badge out of sight on my belt.
“Yeah, that’s me. Sheriff Jon Cantrell.”
“The investigation is ongoing,” Whitney said. “We have several avenues to pursue.”
“What exactly does that mean?” he asked.
“It means we have some leads,” she said. “But we don’t know who’s responsible for the attacks yet.”
Faulkner’s skin was pale and drawn, and the dark circles under his eyes were especially harsh in the fluorescent lighting of the diner.
“Price Anderson,” I said. “What did he find out at McCarty Creek?”
The waitress came over before he could answer. “You want something to eat?”
“A glass of milk and two slices of dry toast,” he said.
The meal of a cancer patient or someone under a lot of stress.
He slid in next to Whitney, uninvited.
I said, “Please, join us.”
“Price never checked in from McCarty Creek.” Faulkner spoke with a lowered voice. “His phone’s off, too.”
Whitney and I looked at each other.
“When’s the last time you talked to him?” Whitney asked.
Faulkner didn’t reply. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, taking shallow breaths.
“You okay?” I said. “You’re not looking so good.”
The waitress brought a plate of toast and a glass of milk.
“What?” Eric Faulkner looked around like he’d just woken up from a nap.
Whitney said, “How much sleep did you get last night?”
Faulkner drank half the milk, rubbed his eyes. “Do you believe in karma? Either of you?”
I shrugged. The CEO of a Fortune 500 company did not strike me as the type of person to ponder the metaphysical side of existence.
“I’ve got an earnings call in a couple of hours.” He took a bite of toast. “They’re gonna want my head.”
“The attack wasn’t your fault,” Whitney said.
“It’s all about perspective.” He slapped the table. “Actions that appear innocent to one person take on a different meaning when you’re looking at them from across the room.”
Silence.
“Sudamento has a market cap of seventeen billion,” he said. “Do either of you understand the way the piranhas on Wall Street work?”
“Have you broken any laws?” Whitney asked. “Is there any reason for someone to want to hurt your company specifically?”
“The Chinese man who died,” he said. “Is that one of your avenues?”
Neither Whitney nor I responded.
“They can’t throw me out of my own company if it’s terrorism,” he said. “The CEO of American Airlines didn’t lose his job after 9/11, did he?”
The waitress brought a fresh carafe of coffee.
“Who has access to the lake house at McCarty Creek?” I said.
“How the hell would I know?” His voice was shrill. People at nearby tables glanced our way.
“Well, it is your company,” I said.
“I’ve got bigger things on my mind.” He pointed his index finger at me. “Our stock has gone down twenty-three percent in the last week alone.”
The waitress came back over, asked if there would be anything else. I shook my head, and she left a check.
“The vultures are already circling.” He rubbed his eyes. “Another attack would kill us.”
“Has Price Anderson ever disappeared before?” I asked.
Faulkner shook his head again.
No one spoke for a few seconds.
“Can you think of any reason Price would want to hurt Sudamento?” I asked.
Whitney gave me a deadpan stare.
“He’s worked for me for five years now, ever since he came back from Iraq.” Faulkner rubbed his chin. “He’s a good employee. Loyal, honest. I’d trust him with my life.”
The bodyguard walked to our table, a cell phone in hand. He leaned down, whispered into his boss’s ear.
Faulkner looked at Whitney. “I have to go. One of our biggest investors wants to talk before the earnings call.”
He left.
“Bastard.” Whitney pointed to the check. “He didn’t even pay his share of the tab.”
- CHAPTER FORTY-TWO -
Sarah wakes at dawn in the master bedroom of her high-rise apartment. Before she gets out of bed, she turns on the tablet computer and searches for any fresh stories about the murdered deputy, the serial killer Cleo Fain, or the two dead hobos.
Nothing new has appeared overnight.
She slides from underneath the covers, pads to the window, and opens the curtains.
The apartment is on the northern edge of the central business district, and her bedroom looks to the south. The center of Dallas is a forest of glass and concrete, a pleasing shade of yellow in the early-morning light.
A sense of calm settles over Sarah. Everything is under control. She’s going to skate through this crisis.
Price will stop Elias.
The deputy’s murder investigation will stall. Progress already appears to have slowed. She covered her tracks well, so the odds of anyone putting her together with the dead man in the motel room are getting slimmer every day. Except for the good-looking sheriff in
the parking lot, no one who counts saw her.
And as for Cleo Fain, well, who’s going to believe a serial killer anyway?
Sarah calls the nanny and checks on Dylan. Her daughter is still asleep but doing well after the surgery. Rosa doesn’t even ask when Sarah will be visiting today, a minor victory.
Next, Sarah puts on workout clothes—a pair of yoga pants, sports bra, Nike trainers—and takes the elevator to the gym on the third floor. There, she runs on the treadmill while watching the morning news shows on the tiny TV monitor mounted over the control panel.
The exercise soothes her. The higher her heart rate, the more peaceful she feels.
After forty-five minutes, she returns to her apartment on the thirtieth floor. Sweaty but content, she pads toward her unit, key in hand.
The door to each dwelling is recessed from the hallway, small alcoves that give the illusion of privacy and make the building seem less like a hotel.
Sarah is about ten feet from her unit when from across the hall a woman steps out of the shadows, fumbling with a cell phone.
She is Latino, in her midforties. Stout, almost six feet tall.
“Hello.” Sarah smiles politely.
The woman is wearing a pair of Wrangler jeans and a starched khaki shirt. On the breast pocket of the shirt is a gold badge, five stars inside a circle.
“Hi, how are you doing?” The woman moves into the middle of the hall.
Sarah approaches her door, keeping an eye on the interloper.
The woman is wearing a tooled leather belt with a matching holster on her right hip. The holster contains a stainless-steel semiautomatic pistol with mother-of-pearl grips.
“Is that your apartment?” The woman puts her cell phone away.
Sarah doesn’t reply. Her skin grows cold.
“My name is Sergeant Moreno. I’m a Texas Ranger.”
Sarah forces another smile.
“I’m looking for Debbie Wilson,” the Ranger says.
This is the name Sarah used to rent the apartment. Her college roommate, freshman year, who died in a car wreck right after graduation.
“Are you Debbie?” Ranger Moreno asks.
Sarah shakes her head.
“Who are you then?” The woman’s tone is amicable despite the intrusive nature of the question.
“I’m, uh, a friend of hers.”
“What’s your name . . . friend?”
“S-Sarah.”
Moreno points to the door of the apartment. “Is Debbie at home, Sarah?”
Sarah doesn’t reply. The sense of control has blown away like a tornado just hit town. Why is this Texas Ranger here, asking about the name she used to lease the apartment?
“Somebody who called herself Debbie Wilson bought a Buick LaCrosse last week,” Ranger Moreno says. “The address she used was this apartment.”
Sarah can actually feel the blood rush from her face. She imagines how white her skin must look. The LaCrosse was the car the sheriff had seen her get into at the motel. She’d left the vehicle at the abandoned Whataburger next door to where she’d boosted the old Monte Carlo.
She’d planned to report the LaCrosse stolen but had forgotten. Too many distractions.
“Debbie’s not here right now.” Sarah’s voice sounds small, hoarse.
“When will she be back?” Ranger Moreno moves closer.
“I’m not sure.” Sarah steps toward the door. “She didn’t say.”
“You live here with Debbie, huh? You two are roommates?”
Sarah slides her key into the dead bolt. Her hand shakes. “Uh, no. I’m just visiting.”
“From where, Sarah?” Moreno leans against the side of the alcove, watching Sarah fumble with the lock. “Where’s home for you?”
The door opens.
“I’m sorry you missed Debbie.” Sarah steps inside, turns to face the Texas Ranger. “I’ll tell her you stopped by.”
Moreno glides across the floor to the entryway, her feet on the threshold. “May I come in, Sarah? I need to ask you some more questions.”
“I have an appointment in just a little while. I need to get ready.”
“This won’t take long.”
“Sorry, I have to go.” Sarah starts to shut the door.
Moreno sticks her hand out, stops the door from closing. “What’s your last name, Sarah?”
Sarah doesn’t reply. She tries to shut the door again, but the Ranger’s push is too strong.
“I need your full name for my report,” Moreno says.
“Anderson. Sarah Anderson.”
She’s imagined something like this happening many times, scenarios where she has to outwit the police. In her fantasies, she always has a ready answer for any question because she is SarahSmiles.
The reality is so different. The fear has lowered her IQ, made everything fuzzy, hard to process. Price’s surname is the first thing that pops into her mind.
“Thanks.” Moreno smiles. “One more question.”
Sarah realizes her mistake—what she used as her first name, part of the profile ID for the website where she met the deputy. Her stomach ties itself in knots.
“You okay?” Moreno asks. “You’re looking a little queasy all of a sudden.”
“Low blood sugar,” Sarah says. “Shoulda had something to eat before I worked out.”
The Ranger stares at her for a moment and then says, “Do you by any chance own a Colt Python?”
- CHAPTER FORTY-THREE -
From the passenger seat of Whitney Holbrook’s Suburban, I watched the countryside blow by.
San Saba was 120 miles west, on the northern plateaus of the Texas Hill Country.
The terrain was mostly flat, with the occasional rocky outcropping. Sun-browned grass covered the pastures, dotted with post oaks and stunted groves of cedar elms. Several low mesas shimmered in the distance, wavy from the heat.
As soon as we left the diner, Whitney Holbrook had turned on the red and blue flashers in the grille of the SUV. She kept the speedometer pegged at a hundred, even on the narrow two-lane highways, and we hit the San Saba town limits eighty minutes after watching Eric Faulkner leave the diner.
The Suburban’s GPS routed us down Main Street past the town square.
The central business district was full of old stone buildings, some occupied by lawyers’ offices and antique shops, others vacant.
The Sudamento plant was on the west side of the county, about three miles past the town. According to the grid map, a substation was located about a half mile beyond the plant. Six different generating facilities fed their electricity into that substation, nearly 7,200 megawatts, or enough juice for 3.6 million homes.
The entrance to the facility lay at the end of a gravel road. The earth on either side of the road had been carved into shallow canyons thousands of yards long, the result of the strip-mining operation that provided coal for the boilers.
The gate was open, but Whitney stopped at the guardhouse anyway, a one-room wooden structure with large windows on all four sides.
No one appeared to be in the guardhouse.
She tapped the horn.
No response.
She glanced at me, a worried expression on her face.
“Wait here.” I opened the door, got out.
The air was hot and still. In the distance, a buzzard glided over a pasture.
I walked around the front of the Suburban.
The entrance to the guardhouse was ajar, cold air spilling out.
I pulled my Glock from its holster, eased toward the opening, stepped inside.
The smell hit me first, then the noise.
A whiff of copper followed by the buzz of flies.
Two bodies lay on the floor, shoved under the front counter to keep them as out of sight as possible.
They were wearing Sudamento security uniforms. Each had massive trauma to the chest area, such as might be caused by a large-caliber rifle.
I scanned the rest of the shack. Yanked open the bathroom door, saw it was empty.
When I turned around, Whitney was standing in the doorway, gun in hand.
“Call it in,” I said.
She didn’t move, just stared at the bodies.
“Go.” I pointed to the Suburban.
In the distance, a whoomph sound.
We both craned our necks, looking in every direction for the source of the noise.
A few seconds later, the lights in the guardhouse flickered and then went out.
“Shit.” Whitney dashed to the Suburban.
I followed her, jumped into the passenger side, fastened my seat belt.
The map we’d looked at the day before showed the lake house on the far western edge of the site, about halfway between the boilers and the substation.
Whitney grabbed her phone, called what sounded like one of her colleagues, asking for an airlift of agents to the San Saba plant.
I dialed 911. A sleepy-sounding woman answered.
I told her my name, identified myself as a federal agent, and said there was an attack underway at the power plant outside of town. I told her to contact the sheriff ASAP and implement whatever protocols they had in place for a terrorist event.
Another explosion sounded. This one was softer, farther away.
Before the 911 operator could answer, the line went dead.
Whitney and I looked at each other. She said, “Did your phone just die?”
“They blew the communication lines,” I said. “Just like McCarty Creek.”
In the distance, the exhaust towers of the plant continued to bellow steam, everything appearing to be normal.
I pointed to the west. “The lake house is that way. Take the road to the boilers and then turn right.”
“We should wait for backup.”
“There’s no backup coming, Whitney, not for a long time anyway.”
Her face was pale, teeth chattering. “W-w-what should we do? I-I’ve never worked without b-backup before.”
“We’re gonna find the bad guys,” I said. “That’s our job.”
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