Killerwatt (5 page)

Rhetta felt her stomach knot. “Why on earth would Al-Serafi
have a schematic for something like that?” She had no idea what she expected
Peter to say.

Peter’s thin shoulders raised and dropped. “I’m
sorry I wasn’t more help.”

“Actually, Peter, you’ve been a great help,”
Randolph said, glancing at Rhetta.

“Yes, Peter. Thanks so much,” Rhetta said.

Woody remained silent. He continued examining the
schematic.

“I’ve got to run.” Peter squinted at his wristwatch
and frowned. “I have an appointment with a graduate student in fifteen
minutes.”

Randolph thanked his friend, and the two men shook
hands. “I owe you lunch for this, Peter. I’ll call you soon and we’ll catch
up.”

After Peter left, no one spoke. Randolph finally
broke the silence.

“A transformer?” Randolph said, sidling back over to
the table. He peered at the drawings. “Woody, what do you make of that?”

Woody didn’t answer. Instead, he hurried to his
desk. He dropped into his chair while reaching for the computer mouse. The thin
LCD monitor sprang to life. Woody fingers flew across the keyboard with quick
efficient strokes.

Rhetta and Randolph exchanged glances as Woody
opened a web browser and logged into a search engine. Images blazed across the
screen. Woody, a self-taught computer junkie, raced from one site to another.
Stopping when a familiar-looking drawing appeared, he swiveled the monitor
around to display what he located.

Woody said simply, “Look at this.” He turned the
screen toward them. Filling the screen was a drawing eerily similar to the one
on the table.

The three of them stared at a schematic displayed on
the Cotton Belt Electrical Supply website with an accompanying photo of what
the schematic matched: a 1500 kV ultra-high voltage transformer.

The knot in Rhetta’s stomach tightened. Randolph
spoke first. “What the hell are we looking at?” He jerked his chin toward the
picture.

“These babies are the guts of a power substation.”
Woody turned back to the monitor. He typed a few more commands. A printer whirred
and an image sailed off it. Woody trotted to the printer and retrieved the
color picture. He carried it to the table, turning it carefully so that the
picture aligned with the drawing. “I’ll be damned,” was all he said.

“Al-Serafi had a schematic for a power substation
transformer?” Rhetta asked, glancing at the two men. “Why?”

“Why, indeed?” Randolph chimed in.

Now Al-Serafi is dead
.
I’d better not jump to
conclusions. I’m sure it’s coincidental
. Who was she kidding? She didn’t
believe in coincidences. Al-Serafi was dead. He had a schematic for a power
substation transformer in his car. Those were facts.

Woody gathered up the enlarged drawing they’d been
examining and folded it. He snatched the original that Rhetta had filched from
the car, along with the photo he’d just printed and took everything to the
large walk-in office safe.

Randolph followed him.

Woody spun the combination and spoke over his
shoulder. “Maybe you should call Doctor LaRose and tell him not to mention what
he saw here to anyone.” He set the drawings on a shelf in the safe and closed
the door.

“Good point,” Randolph said. “Since we don’t exactly
know what this is all about, it would be best if we kept it to ourselves.”

Randolph began tapping Peter’s number into his
BlackBerry. The line rang several times before an electronic voice announced
the mailbox.

“Peter said he had a meeting,” Rhetta said,
listening to Randolph leave a message.

“It’s about the drawing, Peter. Please call me right
away.” Randolph disconnected.

Turning to Rhetta, Randolph said, “I think now we’d
better talk to the FBI. I don’t care if they didn’t listen to Woody the last
time. They need to know about this.”

For once, Rhetta didn’t argue with him.

Rhetta scanned the phone book then punched the
keypad. She bounced her foot impatiently while the number rang several times.
The call went to a recording. “The Cape Girardeau, Missouri office of the
Federal Bureau of Investigation is closed until further notice. Please call the
St. Louis office at 1-555-FBI-1000. That would be 1-555-324-1000.”

Rhetta depressed the button to end the call. “The
Cape FBI office is closed. Budget cuts, I guess. They directed me to a St.
Louis number.” She dialed it.

After following several voice prompts, a woman asked
Rhetta how she could direct her call.

“I’d like to speak with Agent Cooper. He was
formerly in the Cape Girardeau office.” Rhetta coiled the curly phone cord as
she spoke. She remembered chastising Woody for doing the same thing. When she
noticed him glaring at her, she let go of the cord.

“Hold on, please,” answered the all-business female
voice. Rhetta found herself listening to an instrumental version of
Strangers
in the Night
. The tune finished. She’d just begun humming along to
I
Left My Heart in San Francisco,
when a different woman came on the line.
She was much less friendly. “Agent Cooper is not available. What is the nature
of your call?”

“We spoke to him about a month ago at the Cape
office. We’d like to deal with him, if at all possible. Tell him that Judge
Randolph McCarter is calling.” Rhetta glanced over to her husband. He jerked
his thumb upward, giving her a “thumbs up” approval. She hoped using her
husband’s title might persuade the clerk she wasn’t a nut case.

“Hold, please.”

Rhetta found herself on hold without any music this
time. After hearing a series of clicks and some tapping sounds, a third woman’s
voice came on.

“I must advise you that this call is being recorded.
Do you wish to continue?”

“Yes, that’s all right. May I please—”

“What is your name?” the woman said, interrupting
Rhetta.

“Rhetta McCarter, Judge McCarter’s wife. I need to
speak with Agent Coo—”

The woman began speaking before Rhetta could finish.
Rhetta was about to let her know what she thought of the FBI representative’s
phone manners, when she realized what the woman had just said.

“Agent Cooper is what?” She felt like a horse had
kicked her in the gut. “No, I don’t want to speak to anyone else. Thank you,”
Rhetta said. “I’m sorry.” She hung up.

Eyes wide, she turned to Woody and Randolph. “Agent
Cooper is dead. He was killed in a hit and run accident two weeks ago.” Rhetta
stared at the phone.
I need a cigarette.

“Why didn’t you ask to speak to someone else?”
Randolph pulled up a guest chair to sit next to his wife.

“I guess I should’ve, but I was so shocked at the
news that I just hung up.” Rhetta swiveled around to face Randolph.

“Cooper must’ve died right before Doctor Al-Serafi
wound up in the Diversion Channel,” Woody said. He began pacing and rubbing his
head.    

Randolph twisted toward Woody. “Hold on, Woody, what
are you thinking?”

Before Woody had a chance to answer, Rhetta blurted,
“Randolph, maybe the two deaths are connected.” Her stomach fireball had
exploded into a volcano. She fished in a desk drawer and came up with an
economy-sized bottle of chewable antacid tablets. She popped several into her
mouth.

“Sweetheart,” Randolph said, eyeing the bottle. “I
think we’re all jumping to conclusions.”

“I think Randolph’s right.” Woody rubbed his head.
“After all, how could the two deaths possibly be related?”

Woody’s head rubbing belied his protestations. Woody
was worried, too.

Rhetta attempted to keep everybody calm. “Maybe
we’re jumping to conclusions about all of this.”

Turning to her husband, Rhetta said, “What do you make
of that schematic? Why would that drawing be in Al-Serafi’s car?”

Randolph poured out two antacids tablets for
himself, popped them into his mouth, and began chewing. “I don’t know the
answer to that, but I have an idea. I’ll ask Billy Dan Kercheval about it. I’ll
see if he can identify the schematic.”

William Daniel Kercheval, Billy Dan to everyone who
knew him, was the newly retired General Manager of the maintenance division of
Inland Electric Co-operative. He’d been a longtime friend of Randolph’s. They’d
gone to high school together. Never remarrying after a divorce many years
earlier, Billy Dan had retired to a secluded wooded property west of Marble
Hill, about thirty miles from Cape Girardeau.

Randolph said, “If Billy Dan confirms this is something
unusual, we’ll call the FBI again. We may have something concrete on our
terrorist theory.”

Woody nodded slowly. Returning to the safe, he
withdrew both the enlarged copy and the web picture he’d printed, leaving the
original schematic tucked away. He folded the papers deftly into a manila
envelope, which he handed to Randolph. He returned to his desk and quickly
pulled up the Missouri State Highway Patrol crash website.

He quickly located the information. “The highway
patrol reported Al-Serafi’s death as an accident. That could be why the
document was still in the car. No one searched it.”

The office door opened and a young couple trundled
in. The man lugged a carrier holding a sleeping baby. Woody smoothed the front
of his shirt and strolled over to greet them.

“Agnes Dalton-Evers with Tri-County Realty told us
to see a man named Woody about getting pre-qualified for a home loan.” The
thin, blue jean clad father glanced from Randolph to Woody. His short, round
wife nodded, her blond curls bouncing. It was easy to see that she had yet to
shed the baby fat she’d accumulated while pregnant. Woody smiled, introduced
himself, and escorted the young family to his desk.

Rhetta left them to business and accompanied
Randolph to his truck. She leaned into the driver’s window after he’d tucked
himself behind the wheel.

“Maybe this,” Randolph said, holding up the
envelope, “isn’t anything to worry about, but I’ll go and see Billy Dan first
thing tomorrow.” He laid the envelope on the seat next to him.

Rhetta touched her husband’s cheek. “Billy Dan can
probably clear a lot of this up. I have a bad feeling about that schematic, but
maybe it’s just that—a bad feeling.”

Randolph stretched up out of the truck window to
kiss her, then turned the ignition key. The Artmobile roared to life.

Rhetta climbed into her car and sat, staring at the
console. Her craving always intensified under pressure.

CHAPTER
8

While maneuvering through the late afternoon traffic
leading westward out of Cape, Randolph considered the envelope beside him. By
the time he reached the edge of town, instead of turning south toward home, he
continued straight to Marble Hill. Feeling an inexplicable sense of urgency, he
didn’t want to wait before talking to Billy Dan. Randolph assured himself that
meeting Billy Dan would dispel any wrong ideas that the three of them had
formed.

Randolph was perpetually skeptical, never one to
jump to conclusions. Knowing that Al-Serafi possessed a schematic for a
substation generator and had died in an unusual accident made the revelation
about Agent Cooper’s death more significant. Randolph, like Rhetta, wasn’t a
big believer in coincidences. Nevertheless, all of that didn’t necessarily add
up to a terrorist plot, either. What would be the point? How would it happen?

A glance at his watch reinforced his hope of finding
Billy Dan hanging out at his new office, Merc’s Diner, enjoying a late
afternoon cup of java. Since his retirement, Billy Dan told Randolph that he
followed a daily routine, always making his way to Merc’s in the afternoon in
order to catch up on the gossip and drink coffee.

Randolph pulled up in front of Merc’s, a converted
Tastee-Freez built alongside Crooked Creek in the 70s. Initially constructed as
a small walk-up ice cream stand, Merc, short for Mercury, Leadbetter bought the
business fifteen years earlier and added on a large dining room and full
kitchen. He re-opened as a full service restaurant. Being situated practically
on the creek bank, the cedar sided building had suffered through a few floods.
Each time high water had invaded his building, Merc rebuilt and his loyal
customers always returned.

Randolph found a large sycamore and parked under it,
hoping the shade would keep his truck cool. Once inside Merc’s, he headed
straight for the smoking section in the back where he guessed he’d find Billy
Dan. Glancing around, he spotted two old geezers dressed alike in faded green
overalls, one sitting on either side of Billy Dan. The three occupied an
oversized round table, discussing, drinking coffee, and polluting the air with
an abundance of cigarette smoke.

“Judge McCarter, are you lost?” Billy Dan waved and
called out upon spotting Randolph. Randolph waved back and headed their way.

“May I join you?” He nodded at the two old gents and
waved the smoke aside. Randolph wondered why Merc didn’t install a better
exhaust fan.

Billy Dan motioned to an unoccupied seat. The old
timers downed the last of their coffee, stubbed out their cigarettes, slapped a
couple of bills on the table, and stood. One of the men stuffed a half-smoked
cigarette into his overall pocket.

“We gotta git goin’,” the first geezer said, nodding
to Randolph and jamming a faded ball cap on his head. He mumbled, “Good to see
ya, Judge.”

“There’s catfish waitin’ fer us at Taylor’s pond,”
the second one chimed in. He grinned, revealing several missing teeth.

Randolph was well acquainted with the two. He’d
thrown both of them in jail for poaching. He appreciated that they weren’t keen
on sharing a table with him.

“I didn’t mean to run off your cohorts.” Randolph
jerked his thumb toward the departing figures. “One of ’em left a cap here,” he
added, picking up a well-oiled, saggy John Deere cap and setting it to the
side. He pulled out a chair and joined Billy Dan, sliding aside the used coffee
cups.

Billy Dan shook his head. “You know the Hefner
brothers. They have no use for politicians, preachers, or lawyers.”

“Especially judges, right?”

Billy Dan grinned. “They still don’t see eye to eye
with the Conservation Commission.” He signaled for a waitress to come to the
table. “I haven’t seen you in a good while, Judge. I hear you’re a successful
artist these days. I enjoyed that piece about you in the paper.”

Randolph shook his head and smiled. The newspaper
had done a feature article about his art career and had called it
Trading
the Bench for a Brush.
The glowing praise for his art had embarrassed him.

Billy Dan stubbed out his cigarette and waved his
empty cup at a nearby waitress. “Kathy, honey, can you bring the coffee pot?
And bring a clean cup for Judge McCarter.”

The slim brunette wearing a nametag on her left
breast that said
Krista
arrived with a steaming stainless steel pitcher
of coffee and a heavy ceramic mug. She set both on the table and whisked away
the used cups. She swiped the top of the table with a damp cloth that reeked of
bleach.

“Need cream and sugar?” she asked, now wiping more
vigorously. She turned her large brown eyes to Randolph.

“Yes, thanks.” Randolph smiled at her, holding his
cup up out of the way. She retrieved a miniature stainless-steel pitcher of
cream from a nearby table.

“Help yourself to the coffee.” She beamed a megawatt
smile back at Randolph while turning her back on Billy Dan. She trotted away to
her other customers.

“Her name is Krista.” Randolph stirred fresh country
cream into his coffee while enjoying the view as she sashayed away.

“I know. I call her Kathy just to irritate her.”
Billy Dan grinned and poured himself more coffee.

“One of these days she may pour hot coffee all over
you, just to irritate you back.”

Billy Dan chuckled.

Turning to Randolph, he asked, “What brings you all
the way to Marble Hill?” He sipped the piping hot coffee carefully before
setting his cup down.

“I have something I want to show you.” Randolph
pushed his own cup aside. He emptied the contents of the manila envelope on to
the table. He slid the enlarged copy of the schematic across to Billy Dan but
left the photo Woody printed of the transformer face down.

Billy Dan scrutinized the enlarged copy for several
minutes, turning it first one way, and then another. “Where did this come
from?”

“Before I tell you about that, can you first tell me
what we’re looking at?” Randolph reached for his cup and blew across the hot
beverage before sipping carefully.

“Sure. It’s a schematic.” Billy Dan squinted at the
drawing. From his shirt pocket, he removed a pair of wobbly, wire-frame reading
glasses with a broken earpiece. He attempted to balance them on the bridge of
his nose. Holding the glasses in place with one hand, Billy Dan lowered his
head to scrutinize the drawing.

Randolph turned over the photo that Woody had
printed and aligned it next to the illustration Billy Dan was examining. “I
already know that much. I also know that it’s a schematic of a transformer.
What I need to know is what kind of transformer?”

Billy Dan used his free hand to reach into another
shirt pocket for his cigarettes. He tapped the box and a fresh one slid out. He
fished into the same pocket that had held the glasses and produced a lighter.
With the cigarette securely lit, he inhaled deeply. When he exhaled, he
whistled softly and let out a long stream of blue smoke.

Placing the cigarette in the ashtray, Billy Dan
drummed his leathery fingers on the table. Then he angled forward. “This is the
type of transformer that we use in all of our power substations.”

Randolph noted that Billy Dan used the possessive
“we,” apparently still associating himself with his longtime employer.

Billy Dan turned the drawing around toward Randolph.
“What does this mean?” He pointed to the strange symbols. “What’s this writing
all over it?”

“I think that writing is in Arabic, and I’m not sure
what it means.”

Billy Dan picked up the drawing and fiddled with his
glasses to study the paper again.

“See these areas with Xs on them?” Billy Dan said,
holding up the photocopy. He pointed with his right index finger. “These are
strategic oil points. Why are those marked?”

Randolph had previously noticed dark marks on all
the areas that Billy Dan pointed out. “That’s part of the mystery. Tell me,
what do you think those marks signify?”

Billy Dan shook his head. He reached for his
cigarette and inhaled, then stubbed it out. The partially extinguished butt
gave off an acrid smell. “The only significance to me is that those areas are
lubricating points. If a power transformer developed a leak or a problem of any
kind at any one of these points, then that transformer could go dry and
possibly burn up.” Billy Dan set the copy down then tucked the glasses back
into his shirt pocket. He picked up his coffee and sipped.

“What happens when a transformer burns up?” Randolph
asked.

“We replace it.”

“Can’t it be fixed?”

Billy Dan’s cigarette continued to send a spiral of
smoke into the air above them. He shook his head. “We’d have to replace it.
Once a transformer burns out, that’s all she wrote.”

“But you have backup transformers in case one
fails?” Randolph bent over the drawing. The men were inches apart. He wondered
if Billy Dan noticed him sweating. “Then all you’d have to do is hook up a new
one, right?”

Billy Dan glanced around. He lowered his voice. “No,
we don’t have backups. We’d have to bring one up from Arkansas.”

Randolph blinked. “How long would that take?” He
stared into Billy Dan’s gray eyes.

“Three days.” Billy Dan held up one finger. “One day
to drive down and get it.” A second finger joined the first. “Another to
install it,” he continued. A third finger formed the complete salute. “A third
day, or part of a day, to get the power switched over.”

Billy Dan picked up his foul-smelling cigarette and
firmly ground out the remains. “Ordinarily, we switch one substation to another
to pick up the load and never have any down time if a transformer does go out.
It happens automatically.”

“You don’t keep any spares on hand?”

Billy Dan chuckled. “Spares? Heck no. They cost a
fortune. Besides, we don’t ever have problems with transformers actually
failing. We inspect them regularly. With routine maintenance, they last a
helluva long time. In fact, we haven’t had to replace one in over six years.”
Billy Dan reached into his shirt pocket in search of his pack of cigarettes. He
slid one out, and held it, unlit. “That one only needed replacing because
lightning hit the chain link fence around the substation and arced across the
transformer, causing a fire in the ‘B’ assembly.” He pointed to the schematic.
“Here.” The spot he identified also had an
X
over it. “In fact, we
usually get our replacements from Paragould. It’s not far, so shipping is
reasonable. Even at that, they only keep one or two on hand at any given time.”

“How many manufacturers are there?”

Billy Dan rubbed the back of his neck. “Only
two—one’s in Paragould, and the other’s all the way out in Albuquerque.

“Does the one in Albuquerque keep more on hand?”
Randolph removed his stare from the unlit cigarette, to peer at Billy Dan. He’d
never realized until then how much his friend smoked.

“No, neither place warehouses or stocks these
transformers. They build them when we order them.” Billy Dan reached for his
lighter, fired up the cigarette, leaned back, and took a long drag. “There
isn’t much call for these transformers, even nationwide. Even if every electric
company who uses these would replace them, you’re still only talking a few
thousand.” He blew a long column of smoke toward the ceiling. “Both of those
factories focus on building whole house and portable gas generators ’cause
that’s where the bulk of their business comes from. They only build these
transformers as a service to the electric companies.”

Randolph took a long drink from the glass of water
that Krista had brought him. His mouth had gone very dry. Everything Billy Dan
said reinforced the dread settling in his gut. He swallowed more water, forcing
the acid back down.

“If several transformers went down at one time, how
long would it take to get replacements to the substations?” Randolph watched
Billy Dan scrutinize the sheet.

They both stared at the drawing while Billy Dan,
running his hands through his short silver hair, shook his head, obviously
trying to calculate. “Longer than a month, probably more like six weeks.”

They were interrupted by a grumbling Hefner brother
who shuffled to the table and snatched up his cap. “Ferget my danged head if it
weren’t attached,” he said, cramming the cap low over his forehead. Hefner
moseyed away and continued grousing all the way to the door.

Randolph sat forward again when Hefner left. “What
happens if several transformers go down at the same time? For instance, all the
substations in Southeast Missouri? ”

Billy Dan took a moment. “When a single substation
goes down, the power is re-routed by computer within seconds. The customer
barely notices a quick blink of power. If two or more substations go down at
the same time, that would cause an overload on the next substation in the
chain. That would in turn cause it to shut down, resulting in what’s called a
cascading failure, or a blackout. In fact,” Billy Dan continued, his voice now
barely above a whisper, “a chain reaction of shutdowns could cause not just
Southeast Missouri, but the whole Midwest grid to shut down.”