Franklin shook his head. I’m losing it. Now I’m talking to a bird! I should call Cynthia. Ask her what she thinks about Maples’ ultimatum. No hypnosis. Only prayer.
His eyes expanded as the jolt hit him. Like someone all through January stuck saying dates as though it were still last year — using is, when now it’s was.
Cyn’s gone!
He took a deep breath. Maybe Everon would call again, when the phone lines were working in the east half of the state.
He placed a call to the local pet store, to check up on the Pittsburgh aviary. Find out what kind of place it was. The store had nothing but praise.
The moment he put the phone down, it beeped. He lifted the receiver to his ear. “Somebody else, Marj? I was hoping in a few minutes I could head out. I thought —”
“Head out to where?” a friendly female voice asked. Victoria Hill stood in the doorway of his office.
Her dark hair looked a lot better not matted with blood, as in New York. Styled over her shoulders, maybe six inches longer than his own. She wore an open leather jacket over a black top. A tan skirt with a slight flair to just above the knee. Her right leg was long and slender. Her left knee was wrapped in a long white plastic brace. She had a crutch under her left arm.
“Have time to sign my cast?” she asked with an impish grin. She turned the brace this way and that, as if modeling a new fashion accessory. “Stylish, huh?”
The female laugh over the phone frozen to his ear was followed by a click. He smiled. Marj had set him up. He certainly didn’t mind, though he didn’t know exactly what to say.
“It’s so clean and white,” he nodded at the brace, “I’d hate to be first to make a mess of it. It’s nice to see you. What are you doing in Pennsylvania?”
Like an answer to my morning prayer? he added silently.
“I was in Cleveland. After I got my leg fixed up, I drove over.”
Cleveland to Erie — she’d left, what, two hours earlier? A bizarre thought passed through him. So then — if I didn’t pray this morning she wouldn’t have decided to come? Maybe gotten a flat tire, or just randomly turned around? Gotten in an accident and never arrived?
“You see,” she smiled, “there’s this guy who saved my life. Most of CNN is based in Atlanta, but the East Coast bureaus are crazy at the moment. When the network gave me a little time off to recuperate, and, since I was in the neighborhood,” she smiled, “I had nothing better to do than stop by and thank my own personal savior. Properly.”
She hobbled over to his desk. He was slanted back stiffly in his chair, but she leaned in and gave him a loud smooch on the right cheek. He felt his face heat up, then felt even more embarrassed realizing how red he must look.
Victoria watched the long jawline, the wide forehead, the long classic planes of his face — especially the long dark tied-back hair that reminded her so much of some priest of another century.
“So where are you off to?” she asked again.
“I’m driving down to Pittsburgh to take Harry to see an ornithologist who’s offered to take care of him.”
She exhibited only a minor limp as she moved over by the window. “Your owl. Big old cage.” With a finger between two thin golden wires she gently stroked Harry’s feathers. “He’s still shaking. What’s wrong with him?”
“I’m hoping the guy in Pittsburgh will know.”
“Look at that bit of blood by his beak, too. Poor Harry,” still stroking. “So how did you find this bird guy?”
“Actually, he called me — I guess there’s a news video of us getting off the helicopter at Teterboro.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen it,” she said. “It’s really something. So when are you coming back?”
“I’ll only be gone a few hours.”
She turned her head and grinned at him. “I’ve never been to Pittsburgh.”
“Hmmm,” Marjorie’s voice said suggestively from the doorway, watching both of them. The hint of a clever smile on her face.
“Yes, Marj?”
“I’ve shuffled all your appointments into Reverend Maples’ schedule. You’re clear to go.” She glanced at Victoria then back to him, still smiling, waiting to find out how this was going to turn out.
Franklin felt himself go red again. He gave Marjorie a small smile. “Thank you, Marj.”
She resisted. Then, “Humph,” turned and started back up the hall.
He turned to Victoria and smiled. “Uh — do you want to go? You could, uh, help me keep an eye on Harry.”
Harry Goes To Pittsburgh
“Wait! Who’s that tall dark-haired girl getting into the jeep with him?” The church people may have asked her to leave, but Sheila Koontz was going to hang around. She never gave up that easy on a good story, and she wanted the minister, dammit. And the other brother. To complete the set.
But the minister surprised her, leaving so soon.
She hurried her cameraman out of the van. “Maybe she’s a girlfriend or something. At least grab a shot of them leaving together! And they’ve got the owl! Alan! Come on!”
It was a beautiful chilly morning in Erie. They loaded Harry through the rear door placing the cage behind the back seat. The owl made a soft “Hup-hup-hup.” Franklin backed out of his space and she pulled her car into it.
His boxy vehicle was black, old and rugged. Nicely restored though, Victoria noticed. There was no manufacturer’s logo. “What is this?” she asked, closing the passenger door.
“A jeep.”
“Like a Chrysler?”
“That’s a Jeep with a capital J. This is a jeep, small j. A General Purpose vehicle — GP. Model 1941. A World War II jeep.”
“Mmm. How far are we going?” she asked, wondering if the boxy old thing would make it.
“Something just over a hundred miles each way. There’s an atlas stuffed in there —” he nodded between the seats.
“That’s all right. I don’t really care —” She settled back. “We’ll get there.”
At a light in the middle of town, Franklin watched three boys leaving the library, books under their arms. They slipped their way around the drug dealer he’d seen — was it only last night? They looked like what Franklin guessed kids would have called a nerdy bunch. As the boys crossed the street, one of them turned toward the jeep and waved shyly.
Franklin grinned. It was Charlie.
They drove up onto the I-79 ramp. The jeep was smoother than Victoria expected on the highway. Probably fantastic off road, she thought. She watched the leafless trees fly past, breathing in the clean feel of winter. Harry seemed a little less shaky in back as if enjoying the fresh air, a whistle filtering through the leaky top. Franklin cranked up the heater until it was nice and toasty, then backed it off a little.
She studied the minister’s face. It was a bit paler than she expected to go with such thick dark hair. His skin was beautiful, but like he hadn’t spent enough time in the sun lately. That long strong jaw. She liked it even more than when he first appeared over the roof edge of the New York subway car.
Miles later she noticed he hadn’t looked over at her once, his eyes seemed fixated on the road. She whispered softly, almost to no one in particular: “Four million dead, they’re saying now. Who do you think is setting off these bombs?”
“Four million,” he muttered. He felt her watching, waiting. His jaw clenched automatically. There was an emptiness, a hole in his gut. Victoria — He didn’t know if he could look at her, knowing what she might have cost him. Could I have saved Cynthia if I hadn’t rescued this woman and those other people first? Would Cyn and Steve still be alive if I hadn’t spent so much time getting into that damn subway car?
He glanced at her. His mind railed back: That has nothing to do with her! He let go a long breath. “That’s a really good question. Nobody seems to have much of an answer. What do you think?”
“I got a call through to Atlanta. There are all sorts of rumors floating around our news depar
tment. Whoever’s doing this has to have lots of money and resources. Nuclear bombs and their transportation have to be expensive. Only governments can produce them. So a lot of people are thinking one of the Arab countries like Iran. Possibly North Korea.”
He said nothing.
“One of my colleagues pointed out, for those countries to set off a bomb here would be suicidal. It’s called blowback. The potential for U.S. retaliation would be enormous. But nobody’s claiming responsibility and there’ve been no terrorist demands. The only definite thing I’ve heard is bomb shelter construction is picking up.”
He shook his head. “No, not what country or what group. What type of person could actually push the button? Who could actually kill so many people? People they don’t even know, like my sister.”
She thought for a minute, then said, “You mean like, what does the worst psychopath in the history of the world look like? Act like? Think like?”
“Exactly.”
Then Franklin recalled the last time such a weapon had been detonated was by a U.S. President.
“It would have to be someone with a tremendous hatred of America,” she said. “Someone who places a very, very low value on human life. Did you look through that People article?”
“I think I was put off by the cover.”
She chuffed a little air out her nose, nodding, “Have you seen the graphics that show how the bombs were probably delivered by water? Both ground zeros were right on the ocean. The New York bomb went off in the harbor. The Newport-Virginia Beach bomb destroyed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. It has to be either a submarine or a ship. I don’t know what else New York City and Virginia Beach have in common.”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah,” she sighed. “But I doubt Virginia Beach was the real target anyway. If it was Washington, if the second bomb was actually supposed to blow way up the Chesapeake River, both targets were major cities, not military installations. Washington means political, and New York, financial. Not military.”
“But what kind of person does that mean?” he asked. “If the targets aren’t military, then what? If the bombs weren’t detonated by a country, a political leader, it would have to be some kind of wild-eyed terrorist with a very bad case of revenge, wouldn’t it?”
“A terrorist with no demands? Yeah, I guess you’re right. A revenge killer,” she agreed. “Maybe a pure psychopath. Some kind of maniac.”
“I suppose there’s no way to know.”
They were quiet for many miles.
“So — uh, what have you been doing?” he asked.
“Besides healing, you mean?” She flexed her plastic enclosed knee a few degrees.
“Right. Besides healing.”
“Not a lot. A few hours after I accepted a new job with our New York bureau, the first bomb went off. I was supposed to go home to Chicago and pack up my apartment.”
She shook her head, “CNN’s main office in Atlanta said they can use me to produce down there.” Franklin glanced over. Her smile wasn’t happy. “You can imagine I’m not too keen on the East Coast right now. I suppose I’ll go back to Chicago. Stay closer to my parents. CNN’s Chicago bureau still has plenty for me to do. But — I don’t know why, I know it’s terrible, I’ve got some money saved up — but I don’t really feel like working.”
“You’ve been through a lot, but why not? You need to keep your mind focused on something.”
“Partly because so much of what we can broadcast is, I guess, kind of censored. It’s frustrating.”
“Censored?”
“Well, not censored exactly — classified, sort of. I heard a rumor that Wall’s speech two nights ago was actually broadcast from Colorado somewhere. But we’re told if we release certain things without prior approval, even if it’s conjecture, that, well, ‘You can just kiss your career goodbye!’ That’s what some FCC agent — if you can believe it — supposedly told one of my bosses.”
He took a quick look, caught the frown on her face.
“Another producer I’ve worked with for years just quit. She was disgusted by it all before Bomb Night — you probably heard that’s what they’re calling the first one Monday, even though there’ve been two bombs now, on two nights — but it’s gotten worse. So much of what we get is from government sources. If something is said the wrong way, if you anger somebody, they just stop talking to you. Cut you off. No more information. And then that reporter is just out. Washed up. Excommunicated!”
Franklin muttered, “In the days of Leviticus and Deuteronomy, excommunication equaled death. You were cut off from the tribe.”
She looked at him. “Excommunication — does your church do that?”
Lips pressed together, he smiled, “Not exactly.”
The Trouble With Thomas
“Didn’t you say there were only four of the Williams people over here?” Holmes asked.
As they flew in over Thomas, Everon could count the team — five of them — swarming around the first transformer.
Nobody from Everon’s crew was supposed to be here. “I guess Right sent over one more.”
One of the white Williams Suburbans was parked in the gravel entry area below. Gib and Turban had a Suburban at Mercer. Scrounge had one too. No, he took the fuel truck. Everon was getting too tired to remember.
Inside the fence, everybody looked busy except one man who was leaning on an elbow up against the middle transformer. His back was to the front gate. Whoever he was, he was a big guy, wearing a tan jumpsuit.
The man turned. Exposing a wide handlebar mustache.
Woodie.
Everon keyed his mic. “Hey, Right! What’s this guy Woodie doing over here at Thomas?”
A moment’s hesitation. “He’s there? I don’t know, E. I thought the guy was just giving me a break. Maybe he got tired of trying to tell me how to do things and me not listening to him. I thought he just wandered off. Stupid of me not to check.”
Even Right was getting tired. “Okay. Don’t worry about it.” Telling Right not to worry was like telling snow not to be cold. Everon, Holmes and Ewing dropped down into the open field alongside the substation.
As they hurried through the outer fence, Everon could see how it happened. Woodie. Just like at Nicola! I should have left Ortega here. But then who would I have put on the lines? There just weren’t enough people Everon could trust to go around.
Someone had removed the huge radiators on the transformer they were supposed to be putting back into service. Everon was willing to bet all the temperature sensors hadn’t been replaced yet either. Woodie! And the purification unit was hooked up to the wrong transformer!
Transformer Number Two’s outside looked a lot worse — scorched and blackened. But Nick had run the analysis. Transformer One’s oil had come out like burned goo. Not much was wrong inside Number Two.
Woodie!
Everon and Ewing took a look inside the control shed. Someone had disconnected Lama’s new communications circuit — and the laptop. One of their hand-held radios sat on the shelf. It was turned off.
The thick-bodied Williams woman peeked inside. She glanced guiltily at Lama’s gear. “Woodie told me to do it.”
Ewing got to work on the laptop.
Everon stepped back outside. “Did you retest the oil before you had them move the purifier, Woodie?” Everon called out.
Arms crossed over his chest, Woodie glared back.
Everon began giving orders to correct the situation.
Woodie walked over. Got right in Everon’s face. “You may think you have authority everywhere on our system, Mr. Student. But here, I’m in charge. These guys work for me.”
Where the other crew people looked frazzled, worn-out, Woodie’s hair was perfectly combed, styled almost. The wide mustache was waxed like a museum piece. The guy was like a dark counterpoint to Right. Everything Right would do well and carefully to perfection, Woodie would find a way to screw up or slow down.
The path to Enya’s life.
Holmes, watching, could have told Woodie: You don’t block Everon’s critical path.
And then Woodie did something he really shouldn’t have done. He jabbed a finger into the middle of Everon’s chest.
Everon didn’t even flinch. Instead he smiled. A bland smile that went all the way up around eyes that were flat and hard.
Holmes recognized the look and swallowed. He wanted to warn this stupid posturing bully. To tell him he was about to go to a place he didn’t really want to go. He knew Everon’s facial reaction indicated a point hard up against a very particular sort of limit. A limit he could tell Everon had actually raised in deference to Hunt Williams — far beyond what it usually was. And Woodie was already way, way over.
But Woodie wasn’t looking at Everon’s eyes. He was thinking about his own self-importance.
“Did you hear me?” Woodie screamed, finger poking into Everon’s chest. Poke. Poke.
Everon’s closed teeth were exposed now, the muscles hard and tight in his cheeks, around his chin, breath coming fast and shallow. A casual glance might have suggested joy. Maybe even happiness.
Holmes knew otherwise. Holmes knew it for what it was. The look of the feral beast. Ready to strike. The look on Everon’s face moments before he shot the Vegas mob clown with his own gun.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Holmes cautioned.
“What? This?” Woodie jabbed Everon harder. Poke. Poke —
Like a blur, Everon’s fist shot out. Blinding. Hard. Perfectly placed, shoulder and waist and hips and feet behind it. Hooking into the right side of Woodie’s skull.
Devastating.
The big man wobbled. Forward, back to the right. His eyes rolled up.
And in slow motion he fell like a tree over backwards.
Search For Reason (State Of Reason Mystery, Book 2) Page 28