Harland listened to the tic tic tic of the Murano
’
s engine as it cooled. He watched the outside stairway that led to the second floor of the inn. He already knew she currently wasn
’
t in her room, but there, parked out front, was her rental car.
Harland
’
s attention shifted to a group of tourists casually walking the sidewalk in front of restaurants, bars and closed antique shops. His gaze settled on two couples; maybe they were friends, or even family
—
perhaps brothers and sisters? Their faces became blurred-out circles, like how TV shows sometimes hide people
’
s identities. Now, other people
’
s faces took their place. This had happened to him before. People he
’
d killed, or people he wanted to kill, or sometimes even his own face would appear on someone else
’
s body. He was well aware his mind was caught in a frenetic loop that was becoming more and more an issue. It was one thing to be crazy but oblivious to it; it was quite another thing to know
—
to slowly lose grip on your own mind, your sanity
—
and to be cognizant of it all. Unfortunately, it was getting increasingly worse. He wondered,
could grief really make a person go crazy
? He thought of his Veronica. No, not grief, but maybe hatred could. And oh how he hated him
…
Chandler needed to suffer, just as he had suffered. Harland felt his anger building, erupting from deep within him, and realized, as if watching from outside himself, that this particular psychotic episode
—
where negative emotions were feeding on one another, spiraling upward into a virtual tornado of hatred
—
he was about to lose it. Harland
’
s vision had turned red. Now, with a steady, determined effort, he reined in his oh so crazy mind.
Harland reached for the cellphone sitting on the passenger seat. A cheap burner phone, he was getting his money
’
s worth out of it. He was fairly certain Pippa
’
s phone number hadn
’
t changed. He placed the phone on his thigh and brought up his text-messaging app.
Pippa …
it’s Rob. I need to talk to you …
to see you. Back parking lot.
Harland pocketed the phone and climbed from the Nissan Murano. Just as the group of tourists had done, he walked along the row of shops and restaurants. He smiled at an elderly lady walking with a cane. He turned left on the sidewalk that led to the rear of the buildings, where there were overflow parking slots.
* * *
Giles was paying the bill when Pippa felt her phone vibrate with two quick bursts. She pulled it from her back pocket and read and then reread the message.
“We need to go. Now!” Pippa held up her phone to Giles and let him read the message for himself.
His eyes went from the phone to hers and he nodded. “We’ll split up.”
She felt adrenalin pumping into her bloodstream but knew she wouldn’t be at her best. Too much alcohol.
Damn!
Pippa made her way to the back of the restaurant where a narrow hallway led to men’s and women’s restrooms and an exit door beyond that. She stopped at the exit door and breathed in. Consciously, she slowed her heart rate and cleared her mind—a simple practice she had perfected over the years as an agent. But the thought of seeing Chandler again was too much for her mini-meditation exercise, and excitement eclipsed her every thought.
She pushed open the door and stepped into the night. When the text had come in, she noticed it was 10:45 p.m. It was not a large parking lot and not very well lit. Three light poles for an area as long as a football field. Her phone vibrated in her hand.
I see you. Go north. Back row of cars. Look for a yellow minivan.
Pippa was well aware it could be someone else. A ruse to get her alone—isolated. She texted back:
Not getting any closer until you show yourself. If you are who you say you are, prove it.
Pippa sent the message and saw that it had been delivered. Immediately, three dots appeared. He was texting her back. As she waited for the reply, she heard a sound off in the distance. A quick cough and then a rustling—like feet on pavement. Pippa ran. She shoved her phone into her back pocket, then pulled open her purse and retrieved her Glock 22. Right arm and hand stretched out holding her weapon, left one held out and cradling—supporting the Glock from beneath. She moved north down the center row of cars. She slowed her stride and fell into cautionary alertness, what years of training had taught her. She checked behind and all around—lowered, and widened her search. She’d passed the last of the three light poles thirty yards back and was coming to the end of the lot. Something yellow in the distance caught her attention.
Was that a minivan?
She slowed and listened, before moving in closer. She felt two quick vibrations in her pocket. An incoming text. Pippa moved in between two cars. Another quick look around and she pulled her phone from her pocket. But it wasn’t Chandler this time, it was from Giles’ phone.
Got him! North end of the lot - Hew yah!
Pippa pocketed her phone and cautiously continued down the last row of parked cars. Definitely a minivan, and it was definitely yellow. With two cars in front of her, she was coming up on the right side of the van. There was no one there. Then a sound came from the van’s other side. Pippa brought her weapon up higher. One step and then another, she slowly moved around the front of the vehicle. Outstretched legs came into view. One leg moved. Pippa spun and surveyed the terrain around her. No one was there. She continued moving until the figure on the ground was in full view. He coughed and blood sputtered from his mouth onto his light green shirt.
Pippa ran to Giles’ side. His throat had been cut. A gaping trench stretched evenly from one ear to the other. His eyes were locked on hers—pleading—desperately wanting to be saved. She felt his hand grip her wrist. Only then was she aware that blood was all around her—she was kneeling in it. As blood spilled from his open wound, his eyes lost focus. A final sputter and his breathing ceased. Giles was dead. Her mind raced.
I’m going to kill you, Chandler … So help me God.
It was then that she was aware that someone was standing right behind her.
Chapter 21
I must have slept for several hours. The cockroach on the floor was gone, and Harland was gone from the perch above. I sat up slowly and felt dizzy. My head was pounding and the telltale signs of withdrawal had increased
. I really need to tap in
. I crawled to where the bottled waters lay next to the open pizza box. I drank two bottles straight away. My roach friend was feasting on the pizza and he’d brought along a friend. I flicked them away and proceeded to eat one piece and then another. Even cold, they tasted good.
I needed to do something. Come up with a plan while Harland was still away. I surveyed my surroundings. The basement looked to be about sixty feet wide by one hundred and fifty feet long. Walls were gray slump stone about the same color as the concrete floor. Black and rusted pipes entered the space from above, as well as from the sides and from below. The two boilers, each twelve feet high, cast long dark shadows in front of me.
On what I guessed was the south wall there was a wooden bench—what must have been the hotel maintenance guy’s fixit area. Several tools were lying about, as well as a small toolbox. I’d be surprised if Harland hadn’t already checked it for sharp objects that could be used as a weapon. At the far end of the bench was a twenty-year-old coffee maker, which was still plugged into an electrical outlet.
On the other side of the basement were all the wall-mounted, ancient-looking electrical panels. But what captured most of my attention was big and rusted, with patches of pea-green paint. It was the hotel’s electrical backup generator—about the size of a large industrial-sized washing machine.
With the exception of the one hundred and ten volts powering the single light bulb overhead, my options were limited for tapping in. What I needed was high-voltage—220 volts would be good. Looking at the obviously inoperable generator, with parts of it disconnected and wires hanging free, I wondered if it could be repaired.
My father, Bill Chandler, was an electrician of sorts—as well as a plumber and a carpenter. He was the guy you’d go to who’d fix or build virtually anything. In the small town of Moulton, Texas, population around 900, trust and reputation trumped everything, including those who had acquired appropriate tradesman licenses. I smiled as memories flooded back into my mind—memories that just yesterday I had no recollection of. I wondered if my parents were still alive, still living in the Midwest on the same small four-acre farm I grew up on? It was a simple life, and I realized right then how much I missed them both.
As a teenager, I was my father’s helper. Sometimes paid, usually not. After school there was always something needing to be done: be it building a barn, pulling out wires or old conduit, rewiring a neighbor’s furnace, or the starter motor on Mom’s old Ford Taurus. I learned how things worked—I learned how to repair things when replacement parts were no longer available or the cost of a new part was out of reach financially.
But even with all that experience, I’d never repaired an electrical generator this old, or one this size.
How hard can it be?
They basically all do the same thing, don’t they? They convert mechanical energy into electrical energy. The mechanical aspect of this thing was a four-stroke diesel engine.
I mustered enough energy to stand and shuffle over to the generator. I paused---dizzy, and feeling nauseous, I wondered how long before I was incapable of performing even the most rudimentary functions?
Kneeling down, I wiped grime off a small metal information tag. It was an Onan Electrical Plant generator. It listed the various technical specs. Made back in 1957, this thing was a brute at 15 kilowatts and 110/220 AC volts. That made sense, considering it would have to power the entire hotel when city power went out. Something, I imagine, that was far more common fifty years or so ago. I opened the fuel cap and looked inside the tank—it was empty. That would definitely be a problem. The other problem would be the batteries used to start the engine. There were two six-volt batteries strapped to the side that were nothing more than corroded remnants of what they once were. These were two fairly big problems but I could address them later. The most important thing right now was determining if the generator was seized up—rusted stuck. I looked around for a crowbar or something long and solid.
I wandered the cellar looking for anything that could work. I kicked at the debris on the floor, moved the folding wooden table, checked out the workbench, and noticed something else. There, sitting next to the coffeemaker, was an old twelve-volt car battery charger. I may not have batteries, but I had twelve volts of DC power. That is, if the charger still worked. I plugged it into the outlet and nothing happened. It made sense. The power to the building had been off for many years. Harland must have hijacked power from somewhere for the hanging light bulb, via an extension cord plugged into, maybe, the building next door.
Back to the folding wooden table. It too must have been fifty years old. What was left of the wood was turning to dust from my slightest touch. I grabbed up one of the table’s metal supporting struts. This would work fine.
Back at the generator, I wedged one end of the metal strut, the smaller thinner end, into a slot behind the main drive pulley. I gave my makeshift-fulcrum a push and the pulley assembly, along with the main drive shaft, moved freely. Progress! But I was also aware that time was not on my side. I needed to find a way to tap in before Harland returned. I needed to have an advantage or my prospects for the future looked dim. It was then that I heard him coming.
I took a seat against the far wall and waited. Something was different. Murmurs and other noises were coming from the ceiling opening above the perch. Multiple footsteps were getting closer. I heard Harland’s voice and then a woman’s. There was something familiar about her voice.
Pippa stepped down to the wooden perch from the opening above. Harland, gun in hand, followed. “Back away from the opening,” he said, looking down from above. Harland had a difficult time holding on to the gun, while easing himself down onto the perch, without the use of his other, bandaged, hand.
But all my attention was on Pippa. She still had not noticed me sitting below. Her hair was tied back and she was wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Jeans covered from the knees down with what looked like blood. My heart was racing and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. How would she react to seeing me? Would she understand why I hadn’t contacted her? That I couldn’t contact her? Would she still feel the same about me?
Harland was pointing his gun at Pippa. “Slide the ladder over the edge and use it to climb down.”
Pippa didn’t move for several seconds, then said, “What do you hope to accomplish keeping me hostage? What does that buy you?”
“It buys me plenty keeping you both around just a bit longer. Don’t worry about it—all will become clear shortly. Now do as I said.”
Pippa’s brow furrowed; she didn’t understand what he meant by
both.
She turned and looked down into the cellar—her eyes eventually found me sitting against the wall. Our eyes met but she said nothing, her face expressionless.
The moment, any connection, was gone when Harland fired a round into the ceiling above. Pippa crouched and I was on my feet.
“Move it!” Harland barked.
Pippa slid the long extension ladder over the edge of the perch and let its weight carry the end down to the floor. I moved to the ladder and held it as she turned backwards and climbed down. She stepped onto the floor and immediately took several steps backwards, away from me.
Harland pulled the ladder back up and slid it away from the edge. He stood and smiled down at us. “Do I detect a chill in the air?”