Those were the sort of things that Marge dealt with day to day. The occasional problem with kids breaking into and messing around in the abandoned factories, the occasional domestic dispute, the occasional kitty stuck up a tree. That was it. Police work in Harcourt.
Suited her. She was far too old to be dealing with real crime. She carried a firearm on her hip, but in five years as sheriff here she’d yet to unpop the leather flap of her holster in the course of doing her job.
Which was just fine.
The morning’s breakfast round had ended up as it always did at the diner where she’d got into the habit of picking up a take-out coffee and doughnut for Jerry and a green tea for herself. The Williams girl, Kaydee-Lee, usually served her and kept her there talking about everything and nothing for five minutes longer than it took to serve up the order.
That poor young girl’s so lonely.
Marge wondered why on earth she stayed in Harcourt. This place was a town with a past, not a future: a glorified departure lounge for an ageing population that seemed to shrink by a couple of dozen every harsh winter.
This morning, though, Kaydee-Lee had had some company. A disarmingly pleasant young man with an interesting accent and charmingly old-fashioned manners. For some reason Marge thought he was Canadian until she got back in the car and placed his accent. Irish. The pair of them seemed to be getting on like old buddies. Thick as thieves.
That girl needed someone in her lonely life. And the young man seemed to be a nice enough find.
Good for you, girl.
Marge sipped her tea and returned to her routine of grazing through news websites and the state police intranet pages. The world really seemed to have gone quite mad in the wake of that terror attack in New York. The President was busy banging a drum for the whole world to go to war with Iraq for some reason. Even though there was evidence surfacing that the terrorists had mostly come from Saudi Arabia.
Go figure.
And what about those guys in Afghanistan? What were they called? Tally-something? Jerry kept calling them the Telly — Tallies. Like those children’s characters on TV. Weren’t they more likely involved in attacking the Twin Towers than this Saddam Hussein fellow over in Iraq?
Marge shook her head. Americans were quite rightly angry. Tens of thousands of New Yorkers were grieving for loved ones right now, but now was surely not the best of times to be making big decisions like who to go to war with.
The boys want a war. She sighed again. And they’ll get their war sure enough.
She clicked to close the MSNBC news page and then pulled up the state police bulletin page. It featured the usual day-to-day bumph, plus the now obligatory daily notices on the current terror threat level. Today it was, as it was yesterday and the day before: RED — SEVERE. Beside the colour-coded alert was a reminder for all law-enforcement personnel to be vigilant for ‘suspicious activities and persons’.
Marge was always alert for suspicious activities and persons. It was — well duh, excu-u-use me — her job anyway! She found the notice vaguely patronizing. It would be like telling young Kaydee-Lee to make a special effort not to pour scalding coffee over the head of the next customer she served.
Grating her teeth, she dutifully scanned the rest of the page then hit the link to the FBI’s ViCAP site. The Bureau were featuring front and centre a rogues’ gallery of Most Wanteds. Two dozen mugshots, a fair number of them dark-skinned and sporting dark Santa Claus beards large enough to lose a small dog in.
‘Nope,’ she muttered, ‘not seen any of you types skulking around here in Harcourt… nor you… nor you, Mr Osama bin Laden, nor you, Mr Manuel Caraccus.’ She clicked on the link for the second page of the gallery.
‘Nor…’ And stopped mid-mutter. She was looking at a face she’d seen just ten minutes ago.
Jerry heard her suck in her breath. He looked up from the paperwork on his desk. ‘Given yourself another paper cut, Marge?’ He noticed her wide eyes, her glasses reflecting the pale glow of the computer screen, the styrofoam cup held midway between the desk and her mouth, which now hung open, not making a sound — a rare event in itself.
‘You OK over there, Marge?’
Chapter 47
7 October 2001, Green Acres Elementary School, Harcourt, Ohio
‘Looks like you’re going to have to dig through some walls by the look of this.’ Maddy clicked on the screen and zoomed in on a portion of the blueprint.
Rashim nodded. ‘It appears as if they left space between these walls for cabling to run from the generator room up to the lights on the top. And over here.’ He pointed on the screen. ‘Cabling that leads out to an external distribution node.’
‘Uh-huh. I guess they planned to have the generator as a part of the viaduct from the very beginning. Fascinating.’
Rashim reached for the mouse. Fingers touched. And recoiled. An awkward half a second.
‘All yours,’ Maddy said a little too quickly.
He dragged the pixellated image of the blueprint across the screen. ‘Hmm, it would be a lot easier knocking through to the generator room itself. Only two walls between our archway and that big steam engine in there.’
‘But would you really want to do that? Bust right in there? There’s probably “steam engine” engineers or whatever you call them in there. Coal-shovellers and stuff. We’ve got to be ultra-discreet about this.’
‘Indeed. Yes… so maybe then, we’ll have to tap the cabling somewhere along this conduit. It’s a lot more work.’ He leaned forward. ‘And I imagine a bit of a squeeze, shuffling along inside that space between the walls.’ He squinted and muttered a curse in Farsi. ‘I wish this image was at a higher resolution.’
‘Best I could get.’ She shrugged. ‘In fact, it was the only blueprint image I could find.’ She’d spent a good part of yesterday back at the Internet cafe in the retail park. She’d found an architectural website with an archive of Victorian-era building projects. The Holborn Viaduct was hardly the grandest of London projects, but historically notable because of its incorporation of the city’s first electric generator.
‘It looks fiddly… but it is discreet, Rashim, and that’s the important thing. If we’re going to start leeching on their power, we’ve got to make it so that, if they work out the generator’s not delivering the power it’s designed to deliver, it’s got to be almost impossible for them to figure out where the power is leaking away to. The only way they’ll figure out what’s going on is if they decide to track the course of the cables. Thing is, if we tap the output cautiously — little and often — it’ll never be enough of a drain for them to consider stopping the engine and overhauling everything to figure it out.’
‘Hopefully.’
She made a face. ‘Hopefully.’
‘Hey! You all right there, Sal?’
She looked up. Liam was crossing the cracked and weed-speckled playground. He casually kicked his way through a pile of dead leaves, this year’s fall from the maple trees lined up beside what was once the school bus drop-off point. The leaves rustled and skittered across the tarmac, caught by a fresh breeze.
Early October, it was getting cold now. The clouds above were promising snow, not rain. Sal shivered inside her parka, puffing a cloud of vapour out in front of her. Liam joined her on the swing. Sat on the plastic strap-seat next to her. The rusting frame creaked as they both swung gently, idly.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Jay-zus!’ He rubbed his hands together vigorously. ‘It’s cold out here! You should come in.’
‘I’m in all the time. I came out to get some fresh air.’
‘Aye…’tis a bit smelly inside, so it is.’
Both Bob and Becks were eating the same convenience meals as them. However, their body chemistry preferred high-protein, low-fat foods. And preferably blended to a baby mush. But tins of refried beans in New Orleans sauce, Uncle YangYang Kettle Noodles and pop tarts had to suffice as their source of nutrition. It just meant they farted constantly. Particularly Bob. He was like some flea-bitten, wiry old mongrel dog letting them off one after the other without any sense of embarrassment. Seemingly without a care in the world.