verify that the locking system worked. It did not budge at her tugging. She randomly pressed several buttons on the digital keypad and tried again. It did not react. Whoever had gotten in here earlier either had the combination to the lock, or had overridden the electronic device with technology. As far as she could tell, there were no signs of foul play or break-in at the gate or the surrounding fence. Other than those that led from where the various trucks had parked to the keypad, there were no footprints, either. At least, there were no human footprints. A single line of dog paw impressions trailed off through the snow into the woods.
Probably Penny. Daddy takes that dog everywhere.
She picked up her cell phone and called the TVEC dispatcher on duty to request the number combination for the keypad to open the locked substation gate.
A male voice answered. “TVEC Dispatch, this is Franklin. How can I help you?”
“This is Trooper Wyatt from AST. I’m at the Salt Jacket substation. Could you or someone there supply me with the code for gate?”
“Good evening, ma’am. What is your badge number, please?”
“Four three oh seven,” she responded.
“Thank you,” he replied, “and what is your full name?”
“Lonnie Wyatt.”
“And, finally, one more question.” The dispatcher paused for a moment. “Who was your eleventh-grade English teacher?”
“What?” She exclaimed incredulously
“I am sorry, ma’am, but I need to know this information.” Franklin’s voice was serious, but Lonnie was certain she could detect a hint of a grin in its sound.
“Your mother! Mrs. Eckert,” she blurted out.
“That would be correct, ma’am.” Franklin replied. “She’ll be delighted you remembered.”
“Franklin, you’re enjoying this. I can tell. Now, how about the number?”
“No problem. Six, six, eight, pound, seven.”
“Thank you,” she said sarcastically. “Tell your mom I said hi, and you can also tell her that my writing skills have improved considerably. Hers was the only class where I ever got a B.”
“I’ll let her know. Have a good evening. Out here.” He hung up the phone.
She pressed the disconnect button on her cell phone and punched the code into the keypad located at the side of the large sliding gate. The buttons of the keypad were stiff to the touch. The cold in the metal sucked heat out through her leather-gloved fingertip, leaving a mild stinging sensation. The lock clicked open as the last digit was pressed, and the gate automatically slid along the grooved channel of steel track that ran parallel to the main fence until it was fully open. She walked into the inner area of the substation, leaving her cruiser parked in front, still running, the doors locked.
With the flashlight in her hand, Trooper Wyatt scanned the open ground around the large steel structures that hummed with the awesome pulse of millions of volts of electricity surging through the thick rolls of copper coil and heavy electromagnets. In the diffused beam of her Maglite, she could just make out the tall, gray metal towers on which the power cables hung, feeding the substation, which converted some to lower voltage for local use, and boosted some along to further journeys to even more remote locations.
The snow had been scraped to the sides of the area in front of the small utility hut by a snowplow several days earlier leaving bare icy dirt and gravel that provided virtually no clues as to how many vehicles or people may have been there. At the steps to the hut, where there were two or three inches of snow the plow couldn’t reach, were several sets of footprints.
One of the sets definitely belonged to her father. They had the peculiar shape and pattern of the custom-made White’s Alaska Boots he had worn since she was a little girl. He had bought the boots for more than two hundred dollars back in the late seventies and had them rebuilt every two years for about a quarter of the price of buying
Probably Penny. Daddy takes that dog everywhere.
She picked up her cell phone and called the TVEC dispatcher on duty to request the number combination for the keypad to open the locked substation gate.
A male voice answered. “TVEC Dispatch, this is Franklin. How can I help you?”
“This is Trooper Wyatt from AST. I’m at the Salt Jacket substation. Could you or someone there supply me with the code for gate?”
“Good evening, ma’am. What is your badge number, please?”
“Four three oh seven,” she responded.
“Thank you,” he replied, “and what is your full name?”
“Lonnie Wyatt.”
“And, finally, one more question.” The dispatcher paused for a moment. “Who was your eleventh-grade English teacher?”
“What?” She exclaimed incredulously
“I am sorry, ma’am, but I need to know this information.” Franklin’s voice was serious, but Lonnie was certain she could detect a hint of a grin in its sound.
“Your mother! Mrs. Eckert,” she blurted out.
“That would be correct, ma’am.” Franklin replied. “She’ll be delighted you remembered.”
“Franklin, you’re enjoying this. I can tell. Now, how about the number?”
“No problem. Six, six, eight, pound, seven.”
“Thank you,” she said sarcastically. “Tell your mom I said hi, and you can also tell her that my writing skills have improved considerably. Hers was the only class where I ever got a B.”
“I’ll let her know. Have a good evening. Out here.” He hung up the phone.
She pressed the disconnect button on her cell phone and punched the code into the keypad located at the side of the large sliding gate. The buttons of the keypad were stiff to the touch. The cold in the metal sucked heat out through her leather-gloved fingertip, leaving a mild stinging sensation. The lock clicked open as the last digit was pressed, and the gate automatically slid along the grooved channel of steel track that ran parallel to the main fence until it was fully open. She walked into the inner area of the substation, leaving her cruiser parked in front, still running, the doors locked.
With the flashlight in her hand, Trooper Wyatt scanned the open ground around the large steel structures that hummed with the awesome pulse of millions of volts of electricity surging through the thick rolls of copper coil and heavy electromagnets. In the diffused beam of her Maglite, she could just make out the tall, gray metal towers on which the power cables hung, feeding the substation, which converted some to lower voltage for local use, and boosted some along to further journeys to even more remote locations.
The snow had been scraped to the sides of the area in front of the small utility hut by a snowplow several days earlier leaving bare icy dirt and gravel that provided virtually no clues as to how many vehicles or people may have been there. At the steps to the hut, where there were two or three inches of snow the plow couldn’t reach, were several sets of footprints.
One of the sets definitely belonged to her father. They had the peculiar shape and pattern of the custom-made White’s Alaska Boots he had worn since she was a little girl. He had bought the boots for more than two hundred dollars back in the late seventies and had them rebuilt every two years for about a quarter of the price of buying
Similar Books
