A jolt of adrenaline ran through my system. You didn’t get many chances like this, the opportunity to investigate a crime scene as it unfolded. She took several deep breaths.
“We’ll back each other up.” I spoke in a soothing tone. “It’ll be fine. I’ve been in this situation before.”
She nodded. Put the SUV into drive.
The color was starting to return to her face.
“You should know I’ve never shot my gun anywhere but the range.” She stepped on the accelerator. The SUV headed toward the heart of the plant.
“Keep your finger off the trigger,” I said. “Until you’re ready to fi—”
We were about five hundred yards away when the boilers exploded, all twelve stories.
A supernova of light filled the sky, followed by what sounded like the inside of a sonic boom.
- CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR -
Dust swirled. My ears rang.
I blinked, regained my vision.
Clouds of black smoke in the distance.
From high above us, the heavens opened up and the debris from the towers rained down. An onslaught of metal and pipes and wires, thumping the ground, pinging the metal of our SUV.
I looked to either side.
The Suburban had run off the road. We were in a shallow ditch a few dozen yards past the guardhouse.
Next to me, Whitney was slumped over the steering wheel, not moving. She hadn’t been wearing her seat belt.
“Whitney?”
No answer.
I grabbed her shoulder, eased her back. She had a nasty bruise on her forehead but was breathing, her airway unobstructed.
I placed a finger on her neck, felt the pulse. It was strong and rapid.
“W-what happened?” Her voice was hoarse.
“There was an explosion,” I said. “You remember where we are?”
It was even money as to whether she had a concussion or not.
Either way, no ambulance would be on its way for a long time. There were no hospitals in San Saba, and we were too far away from population centers for any type of rapid response.
“The power plant.” She opened her eyes. “It’s gone.”
“Let’s switch places,” I said. “I’ll drive.”
She touched her head and nodded. As gently as possible, I pulled her into my lap. Then I slid over to her spot behind the wheel.
Once she was in the passenger seat, she opened the console and pulled out a large device that looked like a cellular phone from the 1980s.
“S-satellite phone.” She dialed a number. “I have to c-call this in.”
She had enough manual dexterity to dial—a good sign—but her speech slurred.
I engaged the four-wheel drive and jammed on the gas.
All four tires spun. Dirt spewed everywhere.
After a couple of seconds, we shot out of the ditch and headed across open ground, moving at a right angle to where the towers used to be.
The terrain was flat but bumpy, covered in low brush that scraped the sides of the Suburban as we went.
Whitney told whoever was on the other end of the sat phone what had happened. She managed to rattle off a bunch of code words and acronyms, government-speak for a terrorist attack, all hands on deck. Her voice was strong, but she sounded tipsy.
She glanced at me, phone still against her ear. “Where are we going?”
In the distance, the power plant lake shimmered like a sea of diamonds.
“The blast scene,” Whitney said, looking behind us. “We need to see about survivors.”
I kept driving.
“Please, Jon.” She touched my arm. “We have to help with the wounded.”
“There aren’t going to be any survivors from a blast like that.” I maneuvered around a stock tank. “Anybody who’s still alive needs to be found first, which means bulldozers and search dogs.”
She didn’t say anything. Just stared at me with wide eyes, like she was trying to process the words.
“Then they’ll need to be transported to the nearest trauma center, which is, oh, maybe two hundred miles away.”
She looked at the phone.
“We’re going to the lake house,” I said.
She stared at me blankly. One eyelid drooped.
“They’re still here, Whitney.”
“How do you know?” she said.
“Because people who do things like this usually stick around to watch.”
She didn’t reply. Instead she put the phone on the floor and buckled her seat belt.
I pressed down on the accelerator. The Suburban bumped and jumped across the uneven ground. I drove through a stand of mesquite trees, and about ninety seconds later, the SUV burst through a barbwire fence at the rear of the lake house.
The home was low and squat, like someone had mashed a two-story house into a single floor. Beige brick siding, a large back patio next to the attached garage.
Whitney gasped.
Parked in the driveway by the garage: a gray Chevy pickup. The same type of vehicle the farmer by Black Valley had mentioned seeing.
I stopped by an old live oak about fifty yards from the house.
Whitney grabbed her pistol.
“No.” I shook my head. “You stay here.”
“I can handle myself.”
“You’ve got a concussion.” I opened my door. “Your attic’s a little dusty. Call the cavalry on the sat phone. Tell them we’ve spotted the suspect’s vehicle.”
She looked at the gun in her hand. Her mouth was open.
I pulled the weapon from her fingers, put it on the dash. “Then lie down and be still.”
She touched the bruise on her forehead, which had grown into a nice-sized goose egg.
I got out. Jogged to the rear of the Suburban.
There, I found a locker with four MP-5 submachine guns and a couple dozen clips full of ammunition. Hanging from a rod across the rear were eight or ten pieces of clothing. Half were bulletproof vests, the rest blue Windbreakers marked FEDERAL AGENT on the back.
I found a vest and a Windbreaker in my size and put both on, ignoring the heat. Then I loaded one of the subguns with a thirty-round magazine and stuck a spare clip in my back pocket.
Whitney appeared next to me, wobbly.
I put a hand on her elbow, led her back to the passenger side, got her seated.
“Stay here,” I said. “Wait for the troops.”
She stared at me, a blank expression on her face.
“Please.” I touched her hand. “This is where you’ll be safe.”
She nodded once, and I jogged toward the lake house as the remains of the power plant burned behind me.
- CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE -
Sarah parks her Mercedes in the handicap space in front of a restaurant in Preston Center, one of the city’s swankier North Dallas neighborhoods.
It’s a little before noon, and there are a lot of empty spaces, but Sarah’s give-a-shit meter is broken, so she picks the closest spot.
Malcolm’s is a white-tablecloth kind of place named after the owner, a Louisiana expat who died the year before when the gas tank of his Escalade “malfunctioned” and exploded.
A black awning covers the front door of the restaurant, sheltering the red carpet that leads to the curb. A jewelry store and a plastic surgeon’s office are on either side.
Several hours before, Sarah had told the Texas Ranger that she doesn’t own any guns and finally managed to shut the door of the apartment. She’d showered and then picked out her clothes with care, a black linen sundress and a strand of pearls her husband gave her for their fifth anniversary. Her Hermès purse, the Ruger stuffed inside, is on her shoulder. On her other shoulder is a small duffel bag made from vinyl, the kind you might take to the gym.
Two typ
es of people frequent Malcolm’s. Men in the real estate business, Rolex-wearing deal junkies. And gamblers. Sarah has an appointment with one of the latter, an attorney named Stodghill.
The inside of the restaurant is decorated with oil paintings of nude women reclining on chaise lounges and English gentlemen on horseback hunting foxes.
This early, only about half the tables are occupied. Ninety percent of the patrons are males, a hundred percent of whom are drinking.
Sarah approaches the hostess station, where the maître d’ is standing.
“I need to go to the back room,” Sarah says.
The maître d’ makes a big show of consulting his reservations book.
“You know who I am,” Sarah says. “Quit acting like you don’t.”
The man snaps his finger, and a waiter in a tuxedo instantly appears. The waiter escorts Sarah to a heavy wooden door on the other side of the dining room.
The waiter opens the door with a flourish, and Sarah steps into a separate room that doesn’t resemble a white-tablecloth restaurant so much as it does a sports bar.
Ten flat-screen TVs on the far wall, each tuned to a different sporting event. Tables are all arranged so that the seats face the televisions. There’s a bar on one wall with a bartender and two heavyset guys in tracksuits scribbling notes on clipboards, talking on cell phones. The tracksuit guys aren’t taking drink orders; they’re handling bets.
All the tables are empty except for the one in the middle, the best spot in the house.
Two people are sitting there. Stodghill, a man in his forties wearing a starched white button-down shirt, pressed Levi jeans, and black lizard-skin boots. Next to him is a girl in her early twenties dressed like a stripper—skintight red minidress and matching platform shoes.
Stodghill is eating raw oysters and drinking beer, watching a soccer game.
Sarah sits down uninvited on the right side of the attorney. The girl is on his left.
Stodghill looks over at the new arrival, one eyebrow raised.
Sarah is no stranger to lawyers. She’s dealt with dozens of them, the big firms in the skyscrapers downtown, people in $5,000 suits who handle her trust funds.
Those people all play by the rules, which is not something she needs at the moment.
Stodghill is a defense attorney who maintained a small office between a dry cleaner and a discount cigarette store. His last big case ended with his client, a crooked city councilman, going free after a mistrial. One of the jurors, an elderly Baptist deacon with no criminal record, was discovered to have ten pounds of marijuana in the trunk of his Toyota Camry.
“I thought we’d be meeting alone,” Sarah says.
“This is Darcie,” Stodghill says. “She’s my fiancée.”
Sarah leans across the table. “Hey, Darcie. You’ve got blow on your face.”
The girl, who up close appears to be in her late teens, has some white powder on her nostrils and upper lip. She instantly covers her nose with one hand.
Stodghill shakes his head.
“Where’d you two meet?” Sarah says. “A hooker rodeo?”
Stodghill speaks to the girl. “Go clean yourself up.”
Darcie gets to her feet and wobbles on her platform shoes toward the restrooms.
“Is she even old enough to drive?” Sarah asks.
“Her Oklahoma ID says she’s eighteen.” Stodghill drains his beer. “You want to keep busting my ass about my private life, or tell me why you had to see me so fast?”
Sarah puts the duffel bag on the table. “There’s three hundred thousand in there. Half of it is to pay for my fee. The rest is a retainer for a new client you’re about to start representing.”
Stodghill stares at the bag for a moment before he places it under his seat.
“Dallas is getting a little hot for me.” Sarah stares at the wall of TVs, trying to figure out where to begin.
“How hot are we talking about? You about to be arrested?”
Sarah shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Stodghill signals the waiter. He orders a pot of coffee. When the waiter leaves, he says, “Start at the beginning.”
- CHAPTER FORTY-SIX -
I could smell the destroyed power plant, a heavy mixture of burnt creosote and fried insulation.
A couple thousand yards to the east, a huge cloud of black smoke wafted upward, the remains of the boilers. To the west, maybe three hundred yards away, was the substation. Smoke trickled from several of the transformers closest to the lake house.
The terrorists had blown up the plant, another Sudamento property, and then disabled the substation—a two-pronged attack.
A bomb for the plant, shoot out the transformers at the substation.
The people responsible were getting bolder, certainly more dangerous. No telling how many had died in the explosion—five or ten at least.
I approached the rear of the lake house, threading my way through a small patch of brush.
The patio appeared empty.
I ran crouched over to the driveway. Stopped, took cover at the rear of the gray pickup.
In the bed of the truck were several empty fertilizer bags. In the right combination, fertilizer plus diesel fuel would yield an Oklahoma City–style bomb, one certainly big enough to take down a couple of boilers. The vehicle itself was unoccupied.
At the rear of the house was a sliding glass door that was open about two feet. Vertical blinds blocked the gap.
I moved as quickly and as quietly as possible across the patio. At the open door, I led with the muzzle of the subgun, pressing through the blinds.
The interior of the house was dark. No electricity.
I stepped inside and pressed my back against the wall by the door, letting my eyesight adjust to the gloom. Underneath the bulletproof vest and Windbreaker, sweat dripped down my torso.
I was in the back half of the structure, a large area that served as a combination kitchen and family room. Immediately in front of me were two couches and several easy chairs, all covered with sheets. To the right was an open area full of kitchen appliances from the 1960s.
The air smelled like mildew and stale sweat. The house was completely silent.
A hallway led toward the front, the direction of the lake.
I eased that way.
The hall ended in another living area. The far wall was glass, dirty and smudged, offering a clouded view of a large wooden deck built out over the shoreline of the lake. Beyond the deck the water shimmered.
The living room was empty. The deck was not.
Price Anderson sat in a chair by the railing. He was bound and gagged, facing the wrecked power plant, as if someone had wanted him to watch the destruction.
At the corner of the deck, farthest from the remains of the plant, were two people.
One was on his or her knees, facing the house, head bobbing back and forth over the crotch of a second person. The second individual had his back to me. His pants undone, hands holding the first person’s head.
On a glass-topped table by the two people were several items. A lever-action rifle and a submachine gun, an old MAC-10. And an electronic device that looked like what you’d use to fly a radio-controlled airplane. Or remotely set off one or more bombs.
There was an open sliding door in the middle of the glass wall.
I stepped onto the deck, keeping my subgun pointed toward the two people getting their freak on in the great outdoors. They were oblivious to my presence.
Price had been roughed up. Clothing torn, one eye swollen, a cheek bruised. He saw me but didn’t move or make a sound.
I aimed at the pair on the other side of the deck, shouted, “FREEZE! POLICE!”
The person on his knees was a man.
He squealed and jumped back, wiped his mouth. He was dark-skinned, in his
twenties, wearing a white tunic and skullcap. Small, about as threatening as wet paint. He looked like an extra hired to play a terrorist on some cable TV show, a nonspeaking role.
His partner, however, was a different story.
He was tall and lanky and mad as a tiger getting a bath. He yanked his zipper up and turned to face me.
Cops see crazy all the time, the base level for about half the people on the streets. Crazy usually equaled dangerous, and this guy was Olympic-level looney.
His eyes glowed with anger, rattling in their sockets. His breathing was rapid and shallow. Crude prison tattoos adorned his forearms.
“You couldn’t wait until I was finished?” He didn’t appear concerned that a weapon was pointed his way.
He was a me-me-me guy, which wasn’t all that surprising. There was usually a lot of narcissism in prison, in addition to the crazy.
“Hands on top of your head.” I brought the MP-5 to my shoulder. “Both of you.”
“Do you know who I am?” Crazy Man said.
Another question, this one the hallmark of the sociopath. I am so important. You must know me. You must bow to my wishes.
I said, “You’re the guy I’m getting ready to shoot if you don’t do what I tell you.”
He laughed.
The small man in the skullcap pointed at me and said, “Allah is great.”
Under the circumstances, the words would have been menacing, except for his lisp and Texas accent.
“Shut the hell up, Alfie.” Crazy Man shot a murderous look at his friend.
“Step away from the table,” I said. “Both of you.”
Neither person moved.
Crazy Man pointed toward the smoldering ruins of the plant. “Do you know how easy that was?”
Behind me, Price grunted.
“They don’t even guard it properly,” Crazy Man said. “It’s like they wanted me to blow it up.”
I took a step closer.
Two suspects who refused my commands. As soon as I tried to restrain one, the other would attack.
“You fuck with me, this is what happens.” Crazy Man’s face was flushed, fingers clenched. “It should have been mine. All mine.”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
The Grid Page 19