Authors: Harry Hunsicker
- CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE -
The administration building. Black Valley Generating Station.
I watched Price Anderson and his associate, the ex–Special Forces operative, flank out like they were Secret Service agents. Their eyes scanned the people in the hallway, hands on their weapons.
Whitney and I were outside the conference room about thirty feet away.
The agents and Sudamento employees around us stopped what they were doing and turned their attention toward the door leading to the outside.
Behind Price came a man in his forties.
He was small, maybe five-six or seven, a wiry hundred forty pounds. He was clad in a pair of faded Wrangler jeans and a short-sleeve plaid shirt that looked like it came from the closeout section of Target.
The Sudamento people in the hallway stopped talking.
The new arrival was wearing a hard hat and heavy work boots. He took off his hat and tucked it under his arm.
His eyes swept the hallway before settling on Whitney Holbrook standing next to me.
He strode toward us, and the people in the hallway moved out of his way, staring after him like he was a celebrity. Price Anderson and his sidekick trailed after him, guns at the ready.
“Agent Holbrook.” He held out his hand. “Nice to see you again.”
His voice was newscaster smooth. Low and controlled, brimming with energy.
Whitney shook his hand and then introduced us. “This is Jon Cantrell, the sheriff of Peterson County.”
“Eric Faulkner.” The man in the plaid shirt shook my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
He looked me in the eyes as our hands grasped. His gaze never wavered, holding mine for a couple of seconds longer than was necessary or polite.
“Sheriff Cantrell and I were just discussing the earlier attack,” Whitney said.
“Earlier attack?” Eric Faulkner asked.
“McCarty Creek,” I said.
In the background, I could see Price Anderson’s eyes narrow. Eric Faulkner didn’t reply.
“What happened yesterday,” Whitney said. “There seems to be some similarities between the two.”
Faulkner stared at her for a long moment. Then he turned his head slightly and snapped his fingers. “Price.”
“Yes, sir.” Price Anderson jumped forward, the barrel of his M-4 dragging along the drywall.
“McCarty Creek,” Faulkner said. “What’s the status?”
“Looks like an accident,” Price said. “A fluke.”
“Explain.” Faulkner fixed an unwavering gaze on his underling.
“There’s a shooting range nearby,” Price said. “Our ballistics investigation indicates the bullet that damaged the transformer came from there.”
High-powered rifle rounds could do strange things, ricocheting off a sliver of rock and traveling miles in the opposite direction. But Chester, the manager of McCarty Creek, had told me there was no rifle range in the vicinity. He’d been certain the shot came from the vacation home that was part of the facility.
I said, “What about the lake house on the proper—”
“The MO’s completely different.” Price cut me off. “There was no disruption of the telco lines at McCarty Creek.”
“And you’re sure about the rifle range?” Faulkner said. “We know for a hundred percent the bullet came from there? That the range was even open at the time the incident occurred?”
Price hesitated for an instant, then nodded.
“Double-check.” Eric Faulkner pointed to the door.
“Now?” Price said. “That’s two hours away.”
No one spoke. Eric gave his underling the laser stare again.
“I could send some people,” Whitney said.
“Nonsense.” Eric Faulkner shook his head. “My chief of security has assured both of us that the McCarty Creek incident is—oh, what shall we call it—an anomaly. He should verify his claim.”
Price Anderson’s lips were pressed together into a thin line. His fingers flexed, nostrils flaring with each breath.
A long moment passed.
Price took several deep breaths. “Sir, with the threats and all, I think it would be better if I stayed on-site with you.”
“I’ll be fine.” Eric Faulkner looked at me and then at Whitney Holbrook. “I’m surrounded by law-enforcement officers.”
“As you wish, sir.” Price Anderson stared at me for a few moments and then left.
After he was gone, I said, “Threats?”
Faulkner shrugged. “Sudamento has a market cap in excess of the GNP of half the countries in Africa. Threats go with the territory.”
The manager for Black Valley appeared from the conference room. He looked at his watch and then at Eric Faulkner.
“I need to address the troops.” Faulkner started toward the conference room.
“We’re going to want to talk to you some more,” I said. “Sooner, rather than later.”
He stopped and looked at me like I was an animal in a zoo—a curiosity, Jo-Jo the Talking Bear, or a chimpanzee who smokes cigarettes.
I’d seen the look before on the faces of men destined for an eight-by-ten cell on death row. People who spend their entire lives without ever grasping the basic human concept of empathy.
- CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX -
Sarah sits at the desk, cell phone in hand.
The surface is scarred and stained.
Each blemish dredges up a separate memory. A pen jabbed in anger, a spilled cup of coffee, initials chiseled into the wood with the knife her grandfather had given her. Mundane little slices of life.
On the far wall is a faded poster of Bon Jovi, circa his big-hair era, the late 1980s. The poster hangs over a Sony Trinitron TV that probably weighs three hundred pounds.
Sarah’s high school years.
Her mother is dead. Her father is in LA, following a path to enlightenment that included transcendental meditation, organic cocaine, and a dancer named Troy from Madonna’s 1990 Blond Ambition tour.
Sarah and her brother had been left in the care of their grandfather at the farm in Bowie County, attending the local high school. Outsiders, once again, in their preppy Dallas clothes, at odds with the locals whose idea of high living was dipping snuff, dual-axle pickups, and Saturday nights at the Whataburger.
The desk sits in front of a bay window in her old room. The window overlooks a circular driveway and the long gravel road leading to the highway.
The front yard is filled with magnolias and crepe myrtles, while live oaks grow along the gravel road.
A helicopter sits on a concrete landing pad in the field to one side of the gravel road. The chopper is part of her husband’s fleet. Sarah uses the craft from time to time to make the trek to the farm.
Nothing has changed since her last visit six months before.
Even though no one lives there, people still come and clean the house, mow the lawn, tend the pool. The money comes from one of Elias’s trust funds. Why he cares so much, Sarah can’t imagine.
Her brother and her grandfather never got along. The old man saw too much of his own son in Elias. The substance abuse and the narcissism, an inability to focus on a single task. His same-sex attraction, an abhorrent condition to people of her grandfather’s generation.
Sarah misses the old man. His absence is like a physical ache. He would know what to do in her current circumstances.
She glances again at today’s edition of the
Dallas Morning News
, the article about Cleo Fain, the serial killer found on the side of the road with a dead girl in her van.
Cleo had been attacked by persons unknown, suffering a severe concussion. But she is alive, recovering in a Dallas hospital. Cleo, the dyke who changed the tire on the stolen Monte Carlo, knows what Sarah looks like. Everything is a link back to the dead deputy in that motel room.
Sarah pushes the worry from her mind. She opens the e-mail program on her phone, begins another message to her daughter.
Dear Dylan:
I am so sorry I couldn’t be there when you got out of surgery. The doctors told me that everything went well & you were very brave. Fortunately, Rosa is there to take care of you & make sure you have everything you need.
I was not at the hospital because I had to take care of some family issues with your uncle Elias. When you are older, you will understand how the problems of others often intrude on your own life.
Your uncle & I used to get into trouble when we were children, & I suppose not too much has changed. I wish you could have known him before he went away, back when he still had a glimmer of kindness in him.
When your leg is healed, I am going to take you to our place in Bowie County, your great-grandfather’s home. I think you might like it here. There are horses to ride & fields to play in. And a river full of fish!
The farm is where I met your father, nearly fifteen years ago. He was a young businessman at the time, just starting out. In some ways not unlike your great-grandfather, in other ways completely different.
He came to see Papa, looking for money. People often did that, Papa being a shrewd investor with a good eye for business deals & such. You see, that’s how Daddy got his start in business, how we got the big house on Strait Lane—the money from Papa made all that possible.
Sarah puts the phone down.
In the part of the yard cupped by the circular drive is a sitting area—several lawn chairs and a picnic table.
It was there that she’d seen for the first time the man who would become her husband. She’d been sitting at this very desk.
He’d been wearing a suit—his only one, she later found out—and leaning close to the old man, making his pitch.
A handsome man, even from a distance. Sarah could sense something different about him, a fire deep inside, a desire to succeed. Perhaps the biggest indicator of his future success was the fact that he had actually been able to get a meeting with her grandfather, then in his eighties and frail, his body wearing out while his mind remained sharp.
Then Elias had arrived, barreling down the gravel road in that stupid Lexus convertible he loved so.
The memory of her brother’s anger washes over her like a tsunami.
He’d been furious at their grandfather for the meeting, furious that the old man was considering investing with the young firebrand who would become Sarah’s husband. Elias had ideas, too—business opportunities that required start-up capital. The trust funds generated a nice monthly income but couldn’t be broken, the massive sums unable to be accessed.
But Papa wouldn’t invest with his own grandson, and Elias had chosen a different path, a road that eventually led to a manslaughter charge and five years in prison.
Sarah stands and goes to the bed, where the gun is.
She’d reluctantly given the Python to Elias when he dropped her off at the house earlier that day. He felt attached to the weapon as much as she did, one of Papa’s “special toys,” as the old man used to say. She’d thought about stalling, telling him she couldn’t find the gun, but that would only cause more trouble. Once Elias had gotten something in his mind, he didn’t give up.
In its place, she’d found a Ruger .38 Special in the back of the old man’s gun closet.
Sarah needs a gun, so she’s going to take the Ruger with her. She loaded the weapon with the same type of ammunition as she’d used in the Python, target rounds. Low recoil. Deadly, but easy to control.
She looks around her childhood room once more.
How did her life go so wrong?
- CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN -
Black Valley Generating Station. In the conference room of the administration offices, Eric Faulkner received a standing ovation when he walked in. He appeared to bask in the adoration, beaming and waving to the people around the expansive table. Elvis was in the building.
Whitney Holbrook and I took up position in the rear, our backs to the wall, and watched the show.
There were maybe sixty people squeezed into the room.
Faulkner started by addressing the terrorism rumors.
Next to me, Whitney tensed.
Faulkner told the crowd that a man who appeared to be a Chinese national had been captured at the scene.
Whitney let out a long breath.
Faulkner continued: The man had a Koran in his possession but had died before he could be interrogated. Preliminary tests indicated he had gunshot residue on his fingers, meaning he was one of the shooters.
Whitney shook her head, breathing shallowly. She was clearly angry, and it was easy to understand why.
The fact that a suspect had been captured was a secret, not to mention the person’s supposed nationality. The information was available only on a need-to-know basis and then only to law enforcement. Faulkner had just given out a significant slice of intel to a bunch of civilians.
Whitney looked at me. “How did that happen? I didn’t even know about the gunshot residue yet.”
“He probably talked to a senator,” I said. “And the senator rattled some chains at Homeland. That’s how leaks like this usually happen.”
Whitney swore. Not loud but not soft either.
Several nearby Sudamento employees looked at us, disapproving expressions on their faces.
“What the hell is he doing?” she whispered.
“I dunno.” I shook my head. “Maybe he’s trying to shore up the stock price somehow.”
“I don’t care.” Whitney’s voice was low and angry. “He’s fucking up the investigation.”
“From his perspective, it’s not about the investigation,” I said. “It’s about the money.”
Faulkner continued his speech, asking everyone to keep working hard. He thanked them for their help getting the plant back up and running, as well as assisting in the investigation. He employed a curious mix of analogies—sports metaphors, religious exhortations, comparing Sudamento to a family.
Near the end of his remarks, he spoke directly to the agents present. His choice of words made himself and the company the center of the universe—“thank you for helping with our investigation”—as if the officers present were there at his request.
Either he was trying to assert control over the situation, not an unlikely scenario, or he was just an egotistical prick. Also a distinct possibility given the level of his achievements.
He concluded his remarks by telling everyone that a dozen RVs and tour buses were being brought in for rest breaks, as was barbecue for dinner.
The crowd cheered.
Whitney left the room, a grimace on her face.
I watched Faulkner shake hands and slap backs for a few minutes and then departed, finding Whitney outside. She was standing beneath the overhang by the back door.
“That didn’t take long.” She held up her phone so the screen was visible.
A news aggregator site. The headline read, BREAKING:
C
HINESE
T
ERRORISTS
S
OUGHT IN
T
EXAS
P
OWER
O
UTAGE.
It was late afternoon, and the air felt like syrup. Thunderclouds gathered in the distance, purple and angry.
I said, “It was bound to get out in the next day or two anyway.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
I shrugged. She was right. The feds could keep a secret for a long time if they wanted to.
“Now we’re going to have to deal with the media.” She swore again.
I decided to change the subject. “What’s the chatter been like?”
“Chatter” was an all-encompassing term for enemy communications. The level and intensity of chatter was often more indicative of what was coming than the content of the messages. Immediately before September 11, 2001, there had been a huge increase in cell traffic between various jihadist groups. Now entire departments at the CIA and the NSA did nothing but study chatter.
“That’s the weird part,” she said. “Nothing unusual.”
“So it’s the lone-wolf scenario.”
She nodded.
“And whoever it is, they only attack Sudamento properties.”
After a moment, she nodded again.
“And I’m betting the attackers have a thing for properties with lake houses attached.” I briefly explained my hunch. I ended by telling her that it appeared the only people who ever used the recreational facilities were part of the management team.
“Interesting theory.” She stared into the distance. “That makes sense. Hide in plain sight, wait for the right moment.”
I didn’t mention how the attacks could be an inside job, especially since there didn’t appear to be any signs of a break-in at the lake house. Sometimes it’s better to let people arrive at a conclusion on their own timing.
The side door of a large van in the parking lot opened, and an obese young man in sweatpants emerged. He squinted like he hadn’t seen the sunshine in weeks and then waddled toward us.
“You should investigate the company,” I said. “And the CEO, Faulkner. Just to be safe.”
“What am I looking for?”
“If we knew that, then you wouldn’t have to investigate.”
The obese man got closer.
“What about you?” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“I talked to the manager earlier,” I said. “Other than a couple of plants in far West Texas, there’s only one other Sudamento facility that has a lake house.”
“Where?”
“San Saba. There’s also a pretty big substation adjacent to the property, a nice target. I’ll head there tomorrow. Right now, I’m going back to the office to check on the murder investigation.”
The obese young man stopped in front of us. He was sweating profusely, breathing heavily. He pulled my cell phone from his pocket and handed it to Whitney.
“You’re the one who wanted the trace, right?”
Whitney took the phone. “What did you find?”
“The texts came from a burner using an anonymous redirect service.”
Whitney handed me the cell.
“Whoever sent the messages knew their stuff,” he said. “They set up a reroute in a different part of the same network.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means I don’t know who sent the messages or where they were when they pushed Send.” He wiped sweat from his upper lip. “Specifically.”
“How about generally?” I said.
“Somewhere near Austin,” he said. “That’s the best I can do.”
That meant Piper was close by, as was our daughter. She wasn’t on the other side of the globe, as I would have suspected.
“Does that help?” the man said.
“I have no idea.” I stuck the phone in my pocket and headed toward my SUV.