Peak Oil (34 page)

Missy nodded slowly and then shrugged. “Wouldn’t put it past the bastard.”

“So let’s get on the phones and tell them to do the manual shutdowns, immediately,” Lucy Beck said exasperated.

Frydman’s face appeared on the white screen in front of the mess tent. “Captain, I think you need to see this,” he said. A video appeared on the screen. They could see a burning refinery, and then the picture shook as two explosions followed in quick succession. “This is live footage from ENN. Apparently the GASOX refinery in Manhattan has exploded.”

“Oh, shit,” Pauline whispered. “Is everyone okay?”
 

“More than thirty reported deaths,” came Frydman’s clipped reply.

Alexa bounced up out of her chair. “We have to do something.” She pointed at the screen. “This isn’t going to stop.”

Ryan pulled his phone from his pocket and punched in a number. “I’m getting hold of the GASOX plant manager in New Jersey, we can find out if they’re being shut down as well,” he said. He switched the phone to speaker and then placed it down on the table.

It rang twice and an excited voice answered. “Ryan, thank God,” he shouted. “Did you initiate shutdown?” They heard excited voices yell in the background.

Ryan leaned toward the phone. “No, Malone, we think Fitch did.”

“Well, you have to stop it. Pressure is building in the silos, and we’re gonna blow if you don’t.”
 

Ryan closed his eyes and massaged his temples. “We can’t, we don’t have the cancellation codes.”

“What?”

“Get out of there, Malone.”
 

“There’s no time—” Malone shouted, and then they heard screams and an explosion. Ryan looked up with a frown as the phone beeped and switched to an engaged signal. “We need those codes,” he said helplessly.

Alexa paced the room. “Who else had copies?”

“The call center at Refatex,” Pauline whispered, her lower lip trembling.

Ryan shook his head. “I looked. Everything had been removed by Fitch and his gang.” His face lit up. “Patsy had a copy.”

“We went through her house, swept it three times. There was nothing,” Harvey reported.

Alexa nodded slowly. “That’s why she was murdered. Fitch wanted to remove everyone who had links to those codes.”

Missy shifted in her chair. “We met in Mo’s a couple of days ago.”

Alexa frowned questioningly.

“She wanted to come clean,” Missy said, shaking her head sadly. “She wanted me to take the codes, said she didn’t feel safe with them anymore.”

“Why didn’t you?” Alexa asked.

“I was scared,” Pauline sobbed. She dabbed the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “I think there’s something we could try.”

Everyone turned to face her in unison.

Alexa’s head jerked up. “Was Mary-Lou with you? Did she get to look at the codes?”

Pauline nodded slowly. “Yes, Patricia was afraid that she was going to draw pictures on them, the way she always does.”

Alexa bolted up from her chair. “Forrester, please fetch Mary-Lou, we need to talk to her urgently. Missy, go with him, hurry.”

Voelkner fidgeted with his hands, his forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know about this, Captain. It’s a long shot.”

Alexa looked up at her troop. “I know, but it’s the only shot we have.”

Mary-Lou’s hand glided across the page. She drew faint lines to represent the rows and columns of a spreadsheet, and then she started scribbling characters and numbers, as if she were filling out a crossword puzzle that she knew off by heart. Her tongue flicked over her lips as she worked, the page filling haphazardly with what seemed to be illegible doodles, and after a minute she pushed the page toward Alexa and looked up. “Done.”

Alexa’s eyes flitted over the page, and then she handed it to Ryan. He nodded slowly and looked up with a shrug. “It looks right.”

Missy grabbed it from his hand. “Well, try it then,” she said, exasperated.

He seemed unsure, shaking his head slowly. “What if it doesn’t work?”

Missy scanned a finger down the page and then started punching numbers into her phone. “What have we got to lose?” she said, lifting her eyes from the page as she dialed. “Let’s do Chicago first.” She punched a number and listened and then punched another one that she read off from the sheet of paper. She glanced up and smiled uncertainly and then nodded her head. “I think it’s working,” she shrieked and clapped her hands gleefully. Then she patted Mary-Lou’s head. “You’re a genius, my baby.”

“There’s been another explosion, this time at Refaco in Milwaukee,” Frydman’s voice announced over the microphone.

Alexa crouched next to the young girl and then cupped her chin. “We need more numbers, my baby,” Alexa said urgently.

The young girl nodded and then started scribbling furiously. She pushed a sheet toward them every minute or so, not looking up as she worked.

“Where do I start?” Missy asked, glancing around uncertainly. “The biggest ones first?”

Neil shrugged. “Just work down the lists alphabetically.”

“You think?” Missy asked, pursing her lips. Then she nodded. “Okay, grab your phones.”

Missy briefly explained the sequence and how the numbers worked; then more than a dozen people started dialing and punching in the cancellation codes, grabbing Mary-Lou’s completed sheets as she pushed them forward. An hour later, Mary-Lou pushed another sheet of paper across the table and flexed her hand. “That’s the last one I can remember.”

“Sure there weren’t any more?” Neil asked, worried.

The girl shook her head. “Nope, last one.”

Alexa grabbed the final page and started punching the numbers into her phone. “Any more explosions, Colonel?” she asked, glancing up at the big screen.

There was a brief silence and then Frydman’s metallic voice answered, “Negative, Captain.”

Alexa continued punching in the numbers, and one by one the men and women gathered around the table put their sheets back down as they finalized the cancellation sequences.
 

Finally Alexa tossed her sheet onto the table and disconnected the call. She leaned back and smiled at Mary-Lou. “Somebody get that girl all the candy she can eat.”
 

Neil walked up to Mary-Lou, picked her up, and hugged her to his chest. “You’ll never know what you did today, Mary-Lou.” He placed her back on the ground and crouched in front of her. “You saved the lives of many, many people.”

Mary-Lou nodded her head and then asked, “Can I go play now?”

Neil chuckled. “Of course.”

She bolted out of the tent. A brief silence followed, and then everyone burst out into spontaneous applause.

Andy Fitch lifted his hat gingerly from his face. He had tried to catch some z’s, but the excitement ate at his stomach like a pair of jostling calves. And his damn nose hurt. His lawyer had phoned and told him that the sale had been successful. A cool $350 million had been transferred to his account, and he would receive a ten percent royalty on all future profits. He was set for life.

He had managed to destroy all the evidence. The heater pumps had been disassembled; there would be no proof that he was stockpiling the shale. His cash had been transferred to a bank account in Venezuela. His retirement was imminent and he couldn’t wait.

He lit a cigarillo, lay back in his bunker, and blew a smoke ring. It drifted lazily through the windless cell and then disintegrated as a key jangled in the doors. Sergeant Evelyn Thompson appeared holding a large tray. His lunch.

“About time,” he said, sitting up straight, being careful not to move too quickly. The damn migraines were the pits, and he had to move carefully as his entire body throbbed from the beating he had received.

The officer smiled apologetically. “Mo had a tough time sourcing Kobe beef, sir.” She unlocked the cell door and stacked the plates on a table. “It arrived an hour ago.”

Fitch flicked the cigar on the floor and ground it out with the heel of his boot. Evelyn pulled back a chair for him and he sat, cautiously lowering himself into the seat. She opened the napkin, flicked it, and put it on his lap.
 

He glanced up at her and then grabbed her arm. “I want to see my lawyer.”
 

Sergeant Thompson nodded as she poured a malt beer into a glass and placed it next to the plate. “You’ll see him soon enough, Mr. Fitch, don’t fret.”

Fitch squeezed her arm and pointed a finger at her. “I pay your salary, Evelyn. You better get me my damn lawyer.” He squinted as a jolt of pain surged through his neck. He would get that bitch back if it was the last thing he did.

Sergeant Thompson nodded. “I’m doing all I can, Mr. Fitch. These Interpol guys are making it difficult. Everything needs to be channeled through this guy called Laiveaux.”

He snorted. “Well, you better get on top of it.” He cut a piece of the marbled meat and popped it in his mouth. “And I need my laptop,” he said as he chewed carefully. His jaw still hurt, but at least he could eat.

“I have it outside,” she said, filling the tray with his empty plates. “Enjoy your meal, Mr. Fitch.” She closed the cell door and left.

Fitch snorted, took a slug of the beer, and then scrunched his nose. It tasted bitter.

He examined the glass and noticed specks of white powder on the rim. He wiped it off with his index finger and then rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. “What the hell?”

He felt dizzy, tried to stand up, and tripped over the table, pulling the cloth with him as he tried to regain his balance. The plate crashed to the floor, and Anderson Fitch fell flat on his face.

Fitch groaned as he opened his eyes. His head was throbbing, and a strong smell of ammonia filled his nostrils; it made his eyes water even though he could hardly breathe through his busted nose. He sat up and instantly knew where he was: the ocelot pen.
 

He crouched, shifted to all fours, and then scrambled uncomfortably through the passageway to the feeding area. The smell was more bearable here. Bella and Bradshire were sitting in a corner, their chests expanding and contracting rapidly as they panted. It was hot in here.

He limped toward them, trying to shake the grogginess from his head, and then stuck out his hand. “Come to papa, my babies.”

Bella glowered up at him, and her ears flattened against her head. He stumbled back with a surprised shriek as she growled and jumped at him, sinking her teeth into his bottom lip and scratching his chest with her hind legs. He ripped her off him, tasting blood in his mouth as she gouged deep scratches into his lower lip, and then aimed a kick at her, sending her sprawling to the side of the room.
 

Bradshire pounced on his leg, gnawing and scratching and hissing as he ripped Fitch’s pants to shreds. Fitch managed to pull Bradshire off by the scruff of his neck, but before he was able to toss the cat toward the tunnel, the cat bit into the soft skins between Fitch’s thumb and forefinger. Both cats hissed at him and stood with their hair straight up, tails flicking from side to side.
 

“Bitch,” he screamed, wiping the blood from his mouth. Bella glared at him for a second, a white foam visible on her mouth. The cats swatted at each other, but then they turned their attention back to Fitch.
 

Fitch held his injured hand to his chest. “Oh, shit,” he said, examining his wounded hand.

He glanced around the room. A gun had been placed on a table next to the door. He picked it up and aimed a shot at the animals, the booming noise reverberating through the room. The cats hissed and then turned around reluctantly and skulked through the low tunnel, looking back once before they disappeared. Or went to regroup, who knew.

Fitch glanced up as a CCTV camera whirred and clicked above him.

“I’d save my ammunition if I were you, Fitch,” Alexa Guerra’s irritating voice announced over a speaker.

“Screw you,” Fitch yelled and aimed the gun at the lock on the door. Three shots exploded into the reinforced, fireproof steel doors, ricocheting off the walls. It was useless.

Neil Allen chuckled. “Now, now, Anderson. You only have four bullets left. It would be best to save them for the rabid cats.”

Fitch stood bent over, trying to control his breathing, his heart beating in his chest like a jackhammer. He was starting to panic. “Is this your idea of some sick joke, Allen?”

Neil Allen laughed. “You should have taken your pets to have their shots.”

“You can’t take wild animals to the vet,
asshole
,” Fitch shouted, wiping his lip as spittle and blood dripped to the floor.

“Well, then you shouldn’t keep them as pets,
asshole
,” Neil barked back.
 

Fitch swallowed, his throat dry. “What’s the plan, Allen? You going to leave me down here?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll starve to death.”

The
gorger
bitch chuckled. “I’ve heard that cat food is quite nutritious, and you have more than enough water.”

Fitch glanced up at the camera. “That’s murder, you know. It wouldn’t look too good on your unblemished Interpol records.”