The Grid (20 page)

- CHAPTER FORTY-SIX -

I could smell the destroyed power plant, a heavy mixture of burnt creosote and fried insulation.

A couple thousand yards to the east, a huge cloud of black smoke wafted upward, the remains of the boilers. To the west, maybe three hundred yards away, was the substation. Smoke trickled from several of the transformers closest to the lake house.

The terrorists had blown up the plant, another Sudamento property, and then disabled the substation—a two-pronged attack.

A bomb for the plant, shoot out the transformers at the substation.

The people responsible were getting bolder, certainly more dangerous. No telling how many had died in the explosion—five or ten at least.

I approached the rear of the lake house, threading my way through a small patch of brush.

The patio appeared empty.

I ran crouched over to the driveway. Stopped, took cover at the rear of the gray pickup.

In the bed of the truck were several empty fertilizer bags. In the right combination, fertilizer plus diesel fuel would yield an Oklahoma City–style bomb, one certainly big enough to take down a couple of boilers. The vehicle itself was unoccupied.

At the rear of the house was a sliding glass door that was open about two feet. Vertical blinds blocked the gap.

I moved as quickly and as quietly as possible across the patio. At the open door, I led with the muzzle of the subgun, pressing through the blinds.

The interior of the house was dark. No electricity.

I stepped inside and pressed my back against the wall by the door, letting my eyesight adjust to the gloom. Underneath the bulletproof vest and Windbreaker, sweat dripped down my torso.

I was in the back half of the structure, a large area that served as a combination kitchen and family room. Immediately in front of me were two couches and several easy chairs, all covered with sheets. To the right was an open area full of kitchen appliances from the 1960s.

The air smelled like mildew and stale sweat. The house was completely silent.

A hallway led toward the front, the direction of the lake.

I eased that way.

The hall ended in another living area. The far wall was glass, dirty and smudged, offering a clouded view of a large wooden deck built out over the shoreline of the lake. Beyond the deck the water shimmered.

The living room was empty. The deck was not.

Price Anderson sat in a chair by the railing. He was bound and gagged, facing the wrecked power plant, as if someone had wanted him to watch the destruction.

At the corner of the deck, farthest from the remains of the plant, were two people.

One was on his or her knees, facing the house, head bobbing back and forth over the crotch of a second person. The second individual had his back to me. His pants undone, hands holding the first person’s head.

On a glass-topped table by the two people were several items. A lever-action rifle and a submachine gun, an old MAC-10. And an electronic device that looked like what you’d use to fly a radio-controlled airplane. Or remotely set off one or more bombs.

There was an open sliding door in the middle of the glass wall.

I stepped onto the deck, keeping my subgun pointed toward the two people getting their freak on in the great outdoors. They were oblivious to my presence.

Price had been roughed up. Clothing torn, one eye swollen, a cheek bruised. He saw me but didn’t move or make a sound.

I aimed at the pair on the other side of the deck, shouted, “FREEZE! POLICE!”

The person on his knees was a man.

He squealed and jumped back, wiped his mouth. He was dark-skinned, in his twenties, wearing a white tunic and skullcap. Small, about as threatening as wet paint. He looked like an extra hired to play a terrorist on some cable TV show, a nonspeaking role.

His partner, however, was a different story.

He was tall and lanky and mad as a tiger getting a bath. He yanked his zipper up and turned to face me.

Cops see crazy all the time, the base level for about half the people on the streets. Crazy usually equaled dangerous, and this guy was Olympic-level looney.

His eyes glowed with anger, rattling in their sockets. His breathing was rapid and shallow. Crude prison tattoos adorned his forearms.

“You couldn’t wait until I was finished?” He didn’t appear concerned that a weapon was pointed his way.

He was a me-me-me guy, which wasn’t all that surprising. There was usually a lot of narcissism in prison, in addition to the crazy.

“Hands on top of your head.” I brought the MP-5 to my shoulder. “Both of you.”

“Do you know who I am?” Crazy Man said.

Another question, this one the hallmark of the sociopath.
I am so important. You must know me. You must bow to my wishes.

I said, “You’re the guy I’m getting ready to shoot if you don’t do what I tell you.”

He laughed.

The small man in the skullcap pointed at me and said, “Allah is great.”

Under the circumstances, the words would have been menacing, except for his lisp and Texas accent.

“Shut the hell up, Alfie.” Crazy Man shot a murderous look at his friend.

“Step away from the table,” I said. “Both of you.”

Neither person moved.

Crazy Man pointed toward the smoldering ruins of the plant. “Do you know how easy that was?”

Behind me, Price grunted.

“They don’t even guard it properly,” Crazy Man said. “It’s like they
wanted
me to blow it up.”

I took a step closer.

Two suspects who refused my commands. As soon as I tried to restrain one, the other would attack.

“You fuck with me, this is what happens.” Crazy Man’s face was flushed, fingers clenched. “It should have been mine. All mine.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

The table with the guns was maybe a foot away from his hand.

Price grunted again, louder.

I took another step closer, the subgun still pressed against my shoulder.

Crazy Man laughed. “You think you’re gonna take me in?”

He was closest to the guns, so I decided to shoot him first. I aimed at the middle of his chest, tightened my finger on the trigger.

Footsteps from behind me in the house, splitting my attention.

I looked away for a nanosecond as Whitney Holbrook appeared in the doorway, a subgun pressed to her shoulder. She screamed, “DON’T MOVE!”

Everything started to happen in slow motion.

I returned my attention to the two suspects.

The little guy in the skullcap had a revolver in his hand, a weapon that seemed to have appeared out of thin air.

Crazy Man grabbed for the MAC-10 on the table.

I brought the muzzle of my gun back to Crazy Man. Took up the rest of the slack in the trigger.

The guy in the skullcap fired, and what felt like a brick slammed into my stomach.

There was no sound associated with any of this. The only thing I could hear came from behind me, Price Anderson grunting frantically through his gag.

I staggered backward as spits of flame erupted between Whitney Holbrook and Crazy Man, both firing their subguns at each other.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, I managed to squeeze the trigger of my MP-5, firing a short burst toward the little man in the skullcap, not my original target.

Black holes blossomed in the man’s tunic as he yanked the trigger again, and another bullet slammed into my chest.

I staggered away from the house, hit the deck railing.

My chest felt like an elephant had been tap-dancing on my torso.

I fell to the wooden surface, landing on my side, facing the house and the chair where Price Anderson was tied. I was beneath the last rung of the railing, my back on the edge of the deck, the water about thirty feet below me.

Price cranked his head my way, eyes pleading.

I didn’t understand why. I wanted to ask, but my lungs weren’t working.

He looked down.

My eyes followed his, and I saw what was underneath his chair.

Two sticks of dynamite and an electronic device of some sort.

I reached an arm toward him, which was enough to upset my balance on the edge of the deck.

The fall to the water seemed to take an eternity.

I thought about my daughter and Piper. I wondered who the man with the crazy eyes was.

The water felt warm. I didn’t try to fight it when my head went under the surface.

From a long way off came the sound of an explosion.

Then everything went black.

- CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN -

On the largest of the TV screens, Sarah watches smoke billow toward the sky, black and oily.

She’s in the back room of Malcolm’s, sitting at the table with her attorney, Stodghill, and his fiancée, the woman dressed like a stripper.

About half the TVs are tuned to news channels, all of which are covering the explosion on the outskirts of San Saba. One of the network affiliates out of Waco has a chopper circling the blast area, and this is the feed most of the channels are running.

The bartender is staring at the TV. The bookies have quit talking on their cell phones, stopped scribbling notes, engrossed in the footage of destruction.

Before the news of the explosion interrupted everything, Sarah had told Stodghill her story—an abbreviated, sanitized version, because even a lawyer who advertises on a billboard across from the county jail has some ethics.

She explained that she might be a suspect in the killing of a deputy in a motel in Central Texas, as well as in the murders of two homeless people near downtown Dallas.

Stodghill took notes on a cocktail napkin, asking the occasional question, particularly about witnesses and physical evidence.

Sarah didn’t say anything about the gun she used or the throwaway phones. The phones had been smashed with a hammer and tossed into Turtle Creek, a few miles south of their current location. The Python, her grandfather’s weapon, Elias took.

She also told him about the only potential witness, the only reliable one anyway—the sheriff she encountered leaving the motel. Stodghill asked if she knew the officer’s name. She told him: Jonathan Cantrell. Stodghill put his pen down and stared at the tabletop, his brow knitted in thought. Before he could respond, the news about the attack on the power plant had appeared on one of the TVs, and everything changed.

Now they’ve switched from coffee back to beer.

Sarah and Stodghill watch the screen while Darcie taps on her cell and smacks her gum, seemingly oblivious to what’s happening.

“Damn terrorists.” Stodghill drains his glass.

Sarah tries to muster some feeling about the destruction of the power plant, a slice of concern or empathy for those affected. She gets nothing.

She does, however, feel a wellspring of anger building, wrath at what her brother has done and what her lover, Price, has failed to stop.

After a while all she feels is dirty, as tainted as the black smoke wafting heavenward.

The camera on the news copter shifts to a one-story house on the shore of the lake by the power plant. The home has a large wooden deck jutting out over the water. In the middle of the deck is a ragged hole like a huge fist had been punched through the wood.

In the driveway sits a pickup that looks like the one used by Elias and Alfie.

The realization hits Sarah like a turning page. Without being told, she knows her brother is dead.

An emptiness that is more than words can describe invades her mind, growing larger and larger.

Behind the pickup are several squad cars, vehicles that appear to belong to the local sheriff or police department. Behind the squad cars are two ambulances.

On the bottom of the screen, a ticker runs the latest updates.

T
WO
S
USPECTS IN
S
AN
S
ABA
T
ERRORIST
A
TTACK
C
ONFIRMED
D
EAD.
T
WO
L
AW-
E
NFORCEMENT
O
FFICERS
W
OUNDED.
T
HIRD
B
ODY
U
NIDENTIFIED.

Stodghill holds up the empty beer pitcher, catches the bartender’s eye.

Sarah says, “Darcie, why don’t you go powder your nose again.”

The young woman sighs loudly. “Are you like the boss of me or what?”

Stodghill points to the restrooms. “Go.”

The woman pouts but does as requested, sashaying across the room.

Stodghill says, “I assume what’s coming next is attorney-client privilege.”

“I need to ask you a question,” Sarah says. “A hypothetical.”

The lawyer nods.

“What if the gun used to shoot the deputy at that motel is found in possession of the people who blew up that power plant?”

He doesn’t reply. Instead he stares off in the distance, stroking his chin.

Sarah says, “That would get me off the hook, wouldn’t it?”

- CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT -

The smell of rubbing alcohol. An intercom blared in the distance.

The bed was warm, the covers snug.

I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to continue the dreamless sleep, adrift in the vast nothingness.

Then I heard the gurgle of an infant—a happy sound—and a soft shush from a familiar voice.

I opened my eyes.

Piper Westlake was sitting by the window, bouncing a baby on her lap.

Elizabeth, our daughter.

I blinked, tried to focus. My head hurt.

They both looked healthy.

Piper had cut her hair, short and spiky. She’d dyed it, too—brunet, no longer blond. She wore a pair of faded jeans, pointy-toed cowboy boots, and a Butthole Surfers concert T-shirt. She’d always been tall and lean, but she looked even more so now. Her arms were sinewy, her skin tan.

Elizabeth was wearing a peach-colored romper and tiny Chuck Taylor tennis shoes. Her arms were plump with baby fat.

“You’re alive,” Piper said.

I coughed, tried to clear my throat. “I hope so.” My voice was croaky.

“You gave us quite a scare.”

“How long have I been here?” I looked around. Saw a hospital room that looked vaguely familiar.

“Almost two days now. You nearly drowned.”

I sat up. My head spun. A bandage encircled my left bicep.

“You’ve got a concussion, a bullet graze to the arm, and some bruised ribs.”

“Are we in Waco?” I glanced around the room again.

Piper nodded. Elizabeth stuck her foot in her mouth.

“How’s the kiddo?” I asked.

“She’s good.” Piper’s voice was flat.

“How are you?”

“Sleep deprived. But other than that okay.” She paused. “You shouldn’t try to talk too much. Lie back down and take it easy.”

We were both silent for a moment as our daughter chewed on her shoe.

I said, “Can you see a Bed Bath and Beyond from the window?”

Piper craned her neck, looked outside. She nodded.

This was Kelsey’s room, the widow of my murdered deputy.

Karma had come full circle. Or something. I eased down, closed my eyes. When I opened them again, it was dusk outside and another woman was sitting where Piper had been.

She was dressed like a law-enforcement officer—a khaki shirt with a badge on the breast, a Colt semiautomatic pistol on her hip.

I blinked to bring her into focus. When I could see better, it was dark outside, and she was gone.

The door to the room opened and a nurse entered, carrying a tray of food. A doctor followed. The nurse took my vitals while the doc told me I was lucky to be alive. I picked at the meal, eating only about half. I drank several glasses of water.

Bits and pieces came back to me. The man with the dark hair and the crazy eyes. His companion, a small guy, dressed like an Islamabad street vendor.

The doctor told me I would make a full recovery but that I would need to rest for the next few days to allow my brain to heal.

I remembered the explosion at the power plant. Whitney arriving—

“What about the agent who was with me?” I asked the nurse. “Whitney Holbrook?”

“You need to rest,” the nurse said.

“Is she okay?”

The nurse and the doctor looked at each other. The doctor said, “She survived the attack. But she’s suffered a much worse concussion than you did.”

“How much worse?”

The doc sat on the foot of my bed. “Look, Agent Cantrell. I wish I could tell you more, but we’re pretty strict about the HIPAA laws around here.”

A wave of pain in my skull made my vision blurry.

They prepared to leave.

“Would you send Piper back in then?” I said. “She was just here.”

“Who?” the nurse asked.

“Piper Westlake.”

Blank stares from both of them.

“Midthirties, about five-eight. Wearing jeans and a, um—a concert T-shirt.” I paused. “She had a baby with her.”

The doc made a note on my chart. “No one’s been in your room, Agent Cantrell. The police have a guard outside your door.”

“There’re federal agents all over the hospital, too,” the nurse said. “Half the state’s on lockdown because of the terrorist attack.”

My head felt like someone was trying to dig their way out from behind my temple. I rubbed my forehead, willing away the throbbing.

The doctor peered at my face. “Let’s give you a little something for the pain.”

“I’m okay.”

The nurse had already injected a substance into my IV.

A moment later, everything became hazy and pleasant, a golden sheen on the surface of life.

“We’re going to wake you up in a few hours,” she said. “Make sure your head’s doing okay.”

I nodded and smiled. She was so nice. Painkillers were so awesome. The doctor was nice, too. He was nice and awesome.

They left. A moment later, the door opened, and the woman with the badge entered.

She stood by the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Awesome,” I said. “And sleepy. Who are you?”

“I’m a Texas Ranger,” she said. “My name is Moreno. You and me, we need to talk.”