The Grid

by Harry Hunsicker

  Back outside, I watched the kids chase the soccer ball past the stoop where we were sitting.

  Several called out a greeting to Connie. She waved and told them to be careful for cars.

  “Nice neighborhood,” I said. “Whitney grew up here?”

  “Yeah. This house.” She patted the steps. “Couldn’t get out of here fast enough, though.”

  The words had a hint of bitterness to them.

  I let the silence drag on for a while. Then: “I got the sense that she liked to travel, to see new places.”

  Connie stared at the children, lost in thought.

  I wondered again why I had come. The matter at hand could have been handled indirectly. I didn’t really know Whitney Holbrook that well, but I’d felt the need to connect with who she was and where she’d come from. We all seek closure in different ways, I suppose.

  She’d died alone in a hospital room, and the solitary nature of her passing made me sadder than her actual death for some reason.

  “There’s a man in Texas,” I said. “His name is Eric Faulkner.”

  Connie looked at me. “The head of that company? Sudamento?”

  “That’s him. Anyway, he’s going to send you some money in a few weeks.”

  “Why?”

  “He feels responsible for what happened to your daughter.”

  “Is he?”

  I didn’t answer. After a moment, I said, “Maybe. I don’t really know. Who’s to say?”

  “I don’t want charity.”

  I shrugged. “Then you can send it back. Or donate it to the local food bank.”

  Connie Holbrook opened another tallboy. Held one up for me. I relented this time. We sat quietly for a while, drinking, staring at nothing.

  “What happened to Whitney’s father?” I asked.

  “Birds of a feather, she and her old man.” Connie shook her head. “Both of them wanderers.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “He went to California to see his brother. Whitney, she was almost four.” Connie took a long swig of beer. “Bastard never came back.”

  In the house across the street, a porch light winked on.

  Connie stared down the block. “Whitney always wanted to get out of Boston. I never understood why.”

  Why do any of us want to leave home? To make our mark in the world? To see what we’re made of? I kept these thoughts to myself. This woman had just lost her daughter. She was experiencing a pain unlike any other.

  I wondered what Elizabeth was doing at this very moment.

  “You and my girl,” Connie said. “Were you two partners?”

  “We worked together for a few days. The power plant thing in Texas.”

  Silence.

  “Sudamento,” she said. “The man who’s sending me money for no reason.”

  I nodded. “That would be the power plant thing, yes.”

  “You the guy she was dating?”

  I shook my head.

  “She told me about her new boyfriend the last time we talked. Said he was a real nice fellow—a keeper, was how she put it—had a good job and everything.”

  Price Anderson. Quite possibly the only time he’d ever been described as “a keeper.”

  “The man she was talking about,” I said. “He died in the attack as well.”

  “So, was he a good guy?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I’m guessing not, because Whitney had a bad picker.” Connie drained her beer. “Kinda like her mother.”

  The light grew thin. Shadows lengthened on the street.

  “They’re gonna put a plaque up in Washington with her name on it,” Connie said. “They want me to come to the ceremony in the spring.”

  “She was a good agent,” I said. “They’re doing the right thing by her.”

  “The right thing.” Connie Holbrook snorted. “Except that she’s still dead.”

  The children began to drift away, headed home for supper.

  “Those pictures inside,” I said. “Is that Whitney’s brother?”

  Connie nodded, eyes cloudy. We didn’t speak for a while as darkness descended.

  “Sean, my oldest, Whit’s brother,” Connie said. “He was on the United flight, the one that crashed in the field in Pennsylvania on September eleventh.”

  I didn’t reply. There wasn’t much I could say that would ease this woman’s suffering.

  “Where you going from here?” Connie asked.

  “Mexico City,” I said. “To see my daughter.”

  - ACKNOWLEDGMENTS -

  Creating a novel is a collaborative affair. The raw material may have been mine, but the end result is a communal effort, thanks to a dedicated group of professionals who are as much responsible for what you hold in your hand as the author. To that end, I would like to thank the incredible team at Thomas & Mercer: Alison Dasho, Jacque Ben-Zekry, Gracie Doyle, Alan Turkus, Tiffany Pokorny, and Charlotte Herscher.

  Several people who wish to remain anonymous provided insight into the operations of the typical power plant as well as the workings of the electrical grid, the high-voltage spiderweb that reaches to every corner of the nation. I would like to express my deep appreciation to each of you for your expert advice and time. Any mistakes are entirely my fault.

  For their continued support of the Jon Cantrell Thrillers, I would like to thank Anne and Steve Stodghill—good friends, patrons of the arts, and aficionados of the printed word.

  For their help with the manuscript, I would like to offer my gratitude to Jan Blankenship, Victoria Calder, Paul Coggins, Peggy Fleming, Suzanne Frank, Alison Hunsicker, Fanchon Knott, Brooke Malouf, Clif Nixon, David Norman, Glenna Whitley, and Max Wright.

  Special thanks to Richard Abate for helping me traverse the waters leading to this book’s publication.

  And finally, last but never least, thanks to my wife, Alison, for being there through it all.

  - ABOUT THE AUTHOR -

  Photo © 2013 Nick McWhirter

  Harry Hunsicker, a fourth-generation native of Dallas, Texas, is the former executive vice president of the Mystery Writers of America. His debut novel, Still River, was nominated for a Shamus Award by the Private Eye Writers of America, and his short story “Iced” was nominated for a Thriller Award by the International Thriller Writers. Hunsicker lives in Dallas, where he works as a commercial real estate appraiser and occasionally speaks on creative writing. The Grid is his sixth novel.