As for shooting Samuelson, I’d
had
to do that. It was either him or us. But why had God allowed me to be in such a horrible position in the first place?
Oh, to be like my mother. Even in her simple-mindedness, she clung to God’s promises.
Help me be more like her, Lord.
My eyes scratched open. Time to move onward. I had work to do.
I raised my head and tried to focus on the computer screen. A desktop saver ball slow-bounced. My fingers felt like lead as I placed them on the keyboard.
At the Internet I searched for “Ashley Eddington” + Nathan. Multiple news stories about Nathan’s and Morton Leringer’s deaths came up. I clicked on the one for ABC local news. It told me what I needed to know. Leringer’s security company, StarrCom, was in Menlo Park, as the news had said. Ashley Eddington and her late husband, Nathan, were residents of San Carlos.
San Carlos
. I slumped in the chair. My home town, the one I’d just fled. No way could I go back there.
But why should I even try? This Rawly was a stuffed dog, for goodness’ sake. The name had to be nothing but coincidence.
I stared at the monitor, trying to focus. It took awhile for my mind to register the name of Leringer’s daughter—Cheryl Stein of Menlo Park, California.
Maybe she could help. On TV she’d appeared at least a little more reasonable than Ashley Eddington. If I could just talk to her, tell her everything her father said before he died . . .
But why should she listen, when she believed everything Wade had told her? And how could I get to her anyway?
I put my head in my hands and tried to
think
. To reason. There had to be a plan that would fix this. But my thoughts would not gel. They sloshed, then seeped away, pale liquid.
My body longed for sleep. If I didn’t get it, I would be good for nothing. I had to have the strength to watch out for Emily and take care of Mom.
In defeat I pushed back from the computer. Stumbled to Aunt Margie’s bed and fell upon it.
Tired as I was, it still took some time for sleep to draw its blanket over me.
As I sank into a fitful doze, I sent up silent prayers for my daughter. And for the man I may have killed.
F
or hours Stone had been on his cell phone. He’d checked up on all his major people in the western and RFC regions—targeted to be hit that evening. He’d spent extra time grilling his men in D.C. Did they have everything in place? Was every member beneath them accounted for and ready?
When the lights went out on these two areas, FreeNow members would hit the pavement, breaking store windows, whipping up people to join in the chaos. Truckloads of men were set to barrel down the streets, shouting violence. Goading scared citizens to arm themselves, make hasty decisions.
Tomorrow at the same time, Phase 2 would blacken the entire eastern portion of the U.S. And in Phase 3, Texas would go dark. Power in the whole country—gone.
Sure, some businesses and homes would have generators for a backup power supply. Particularly government and commercial buildings. But generators were built for temporary use, and the damage FreeNow’s virus did to the power grid’s computer systems would take much longer to fix. Before long the generators, too, would stop working.
Stone had first gotten the idea from watching the spreading havoc in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. Widespread tragedy led to fear. Fear led to chaos. Chaos led to violence. Violence would lead to government upheaval.
But even he couldn’t control the weather.
Then, through research, he began hearing dire warnings about the U.S. electrical grid. How it was suffering from aging infrastructures with little built-in security measures. One specialist even said a “sixty-dollar piece of software” could bypass current security. And the shutdown of a local electrical grid could cause a cascade effect that would blacken an entire region.
Now
that,
Stone could do. With the right recruits in the needed fields, FreeNow could create that “sixty-dollar piece of software.”
The best, smartest recruit of all had been Nathan Eddington. Skilled in security measures for power companies, he knew how to bypass them. But something happened to Eddington when he learned Stone planned to take the whole country dark. How could Eddington not have suspected that was the plan? FreeNow didn’t do anything halfway.
Stone looked out his dirty window. No matter about Eddington now. Stone’s other members remained ready to play their parts toward a new America. They were proud, brave men, willing to fight for what they believed in. But most of them didn’t know their worlds would be dark. The only people who knew of the plan to hit the electrical grid were Stone and his chosen few, which included the top man at each membership location. Too many people in the know meant too many potential talkers. Some idiot would have bragged to a neighbor.
The darkness would help his men. Hide them. Stone wished he could tell them all that.
They’d learn soon enough.
And in the blackness, it wouldn’t take long for outsiders to join in the violence. It would grow and grow until police were far outnumbered.
But he
had
to tie up this loose end of the video.
Stone had not yet heard from Tex. He knew the kid had flown to Santa Barbara to hunt down Hannah Shire’s daughter, Emily. Tex would not fail FreeNow.
He dialed Tex’s number. No answer after six rings. He smacked off the line and dialed again.
“Tex here.” The man was breathing hard.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m in pursuit.”
“On
foot
?”
“In my car now.” More huffing. “I’ve found her. Call you back?”
“Make it quick. And make it good news.”
Stone hung up.
H
ow long ’til the next stop?” Emily leaned toward the bus driver.
“Six blocks.”
Six blocks
. If they hit stoplights, Rutger would have time to run to his car and catch up with the bus.
“I need to get off now.”
“Can’t stop.”
“But I
have
to.”
“Lady, I can’t stop where there’s no bus stop.”
“That guy is chasing me. He could catch up.”
The driver shook his head. “Call the police.”
“I called 911,” the woman in the opposite seat said. “They said they were on their way.”
“Thanks.” Emily gave her and her son a grim smile. But it didn’t matter if she’d called. Some officer would show up back at the bus stop, see nothing, and leave.
She peered through her window back down the street. No sign of Rutger yet, but she couldn’t see very far. And she didn’t know what kind of car he was driving.
What if he
was
a real agent? And she’d been headed to the Los Angeles FBI office. What if others there were part of this?
Emily counted the blocks. One. Two. At the third, they stopped for a red light.
Come on, come on
. She sat on the edge of her seat, ready to move the minute the bus pulled over. How long had it been since she saw Rutger running? Two minutes? Three?
The light turned green. They rolled again. Block four. Five. Emily looked out her window. Nothing suspicious yet.
The bus began to slow. Emily gathered her energy and leapt up. Pain shot through her knee. She looked down to see it still oozing blood.
Terrific.
They stopped. The doors whooshed open. Emily jumped onto the sidewalk, hurting her knee even more. Her head swiveled to check the street. None of the drivers in the first few cars behind the bus were Rutger. Beyond that, who knew?
She stood in front of a gas station. Next to it, a strip mall. She limped toward the strip mall and veered into the first business—a small Mexican restaurant open for breakfast and lunch. Emily spotted the restroom sign and followed it toward the back, into the women’s bathroom. With shaky hands she pulled out her cell phone and dialed information for the L.A. FBI office. The automated service read off the number and connected her.
“FBI, Agent O’Malley.”
Emily’s head came up. “I . . . need to talk to Agent Rutger, please.”
“Rutger.”
“Do you have an Agent Rutger?”
“Not here. But there is an agent by that name in the San Francisco field office. Do—”
Emily punched off the call and stared at the phone. Of course Rutger was from the San Francisco office, near her mother’s home. He’d come down here after her.
Rutger was
real.
Now what was she supposed to do?
Could she trust the L.A. FBI office? How would she know?
She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
God, I really need Your help. I’m going crazy here.
Footsteps sounded outside the bathroom. She pushed off from the wall and listened.
The steps faded.
Emily stayed still for a moment longer. Then dialed her friend Dave’s private line at work.
Please, please answer
.
“Emily?” Dave’s voice came on the line, sounding worried.
“Hi. I’m in trouble.”
“Ronnie said an FBI agent was looking for you.”
“He’s trying to kill me. They already tried to kill my mom and grandmother.”
“What?”
“It’s the video. And now you have a copy. See why I didn’t want you to keep it?”
“Who wants to kill you?”
“The terrorists who are going to hit the grid tonight.”
“But this is FBI.”
“Some of them are part of it, Dave!”
Shocked silence.
Emily’s throat was closing. Any minute now she was going to totally lose it. “I need to get out of town. Now. Can you help?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Fresno.”
“Fresno?”
“I can’t stay anywhere near here. And I sure can’t go home. Ronnie gave that guy my address.”
“I don’t—”
“She also told him what kind of car I drive, so guess what—he slashed all my tires.” Tears bit her eyes.
Dave made a sound in his throat. “You call the police?”
“Yes. I mean—no. It’s a long story. I need to get to Fresno.”
“What’s there?”
“A place to stay. Can you come get me now? I’m hiding, and that guy’s looking for me. I had to hop a bus, and my pants are torn, and my knee’s bleeding. And I really. Have. To get.
Out
of here!”
The last words exploded from her. She leaned against the wall, gasping air.
“Okay, okay. Tell me where you are.”
She managed to tell him. “Dave, you wouldn’t happen to have a black wig lying around, would you?”
SPECIAL HOUSE SELECT COMMITTEE INVESTIGATION INTO FREENOW TERRORIST ACTIVITY OF FEBRUARY 25, 2013
SEPTEMBER 16, 2013
TRANSCRIPT
Representative ELKIN MORSE (Chairman, Homeland Security Committee): We come now to the fourth homicide, correct?
Sergeant CHARLES WADE (Sheriff’s Department Coastside): Yes. About ten o’clock on the morning of February 25, a policeman discovered a body in a vehicle at the rest stop off Freeway 280, south of Highway 92. Slumped in the front seat was a man who looked to be in his thirties. He’d been shot four times. In his pocket was an FBI badge and a tag with his picture and signature, reading “Samuelson.” In the passenger seat was a laptop computer and small backup drive. Subsequent investigation of both items found them to belong to Hannah Shire.
MORSE: And how did this information tie into your current investigation?
WADE: A body discovered on an I-280 rest stop would normally fall under the jurisdiction of California Highway Patrol. But when it was discovered the victim had items from Mrs. Shire’s house, we became part of the investigation. Further, this victim looked very much like one of the forensic sketches we’d done the previous evening with Hannah Shire. And she had told us one of the supposed FBI agents who’d shown up at her house had the name of Samuelson. I contacted the FBI to find out about this apparent agent. There was an agent Ted Samuelson at the Sacramento field office, but he was very much alive. It became clear this victim had been impersonating an agent, using the real agent’s name.
Months later we would verify that the blood drops in the Shire residence matched the blood of this latest victim. But at the time we could only surmise this man had been in the Shire home and taken the items. This now left
four
dead men connected to Hannah Shire.
MORSE: What about the real identity of this victim?
WADE: His driver’s license read Arthur Rozland, age 34, of San Bruno, California. He was divorced, a father of two. No criminal record.
MORSE: Yet you couldn’t possibly believe this man was as innocent as the other three victims. He’d posed as an FBI agent and stolen two items from the Shire residence. And he looked like one of the two men who’d threatened Hannah Shire the previous afternoon.
WADE. He could have been one of those men—assuming Mrs. Shire’s story was true.
MORSE: Did you not make the connection between the video Hannah Shire gave you and the theft of her computer and backup drive?
WADE: She’d copied the video onto her own computer, but we told her to erase it. Talk about connections—at that point I had
four
homicides, and every one of the victims was connected to Mrs. Shire. Who had fled. And was refusing to turn herself in, despite public pleas that she do so.
MORSE: This man broke into her house and stole her computer!
WADE: As I told you before, there was no sign of forced entry. We surmised he’d been in her house, and maybe she’d shot him. But she could have let him in, and then some kind of argument ensued. Hannah Shire knew about the surveillance, and even which car our deputy was in. Maybe she told Rozland to come to her back door. Maybe she told him to shoot the deputy first.
MORSE: Did it not occur to you that this FBI poseur shot Deputy Williams on his own? And then expertly jimmied a lock to break into the Shire house?
WADE: That was a possibility. But without a tip from Hannah Shire, how could this man have known about the surveillance?