Authors: Sharon Woods Hopkins
Killerwatt (8 page)
Rhetta jolted awake when Randolph moved. She sat up,
confused. The sunlight streaming in through the nearby window bathed the room
in a warm golden glow. Then the memories of the previous dreadful night flooded
in.
When Randolph began stirring, Rhetta stood, walked a
few steps to get the kinks out. She stretched, yawned and twisted her neck to
release the knots that had congregated there. The awkward position that she had
managed to fall asleep in took its toll on her neck muscles.
“Hi, Babe.” His voice was weak. He reached for her.
“Hi, Sweets.” Rhetta scrambled to the chair and took
his outstretched hand. “Are you thirsty?”
He nodded.
Not finding any water, she pressed the button on the
bedside panel to summon help. Within minutes, a nurse’s aide materialized at
the doorway.
“I’ll check his chart to be sure he can have
liquids,” the young woman in a blue-and-white striped apron said after Rhetta
asked for water. The aide left and the heavy room door closed slowly.
“Sorry, Babe,” Randolph whispered.
“Hey, I’m just glad you’re going to be okay. The
Artmobile is probably totaled, but I’ve still got you.” She squeezed his hand.
“Idiot…tried passing on the bridge.” Randolph’s
voice was thick. He spoke slowly. “Damn fool.”
Rhetta stared at him. “What idiot?”
“SUV. Dark green. Followed me from town. Sideswiped
me.” Randolph closed his eyes and for a moment, Rhetta thought he’d fallen
asleep. He opened them a slit. “I don’t remember….” He didn’t finish.
“The highway patrol will want your statement,”
Rhetta said, her mind reeling. Did she dare ask him now about the Jim Beam
bottle?
“Yes.” Randolph sagged back against the pillows as
the aide returned with a small pitcher.
“Start with this,” the girl instructed, handing
Rhetta a brown plastic tumbler filled with ice chips. “He can’t drink water
just yet. Let’s give him some ice chips.”
After standing beside the bed and feeding Randolph
shaved ice, some of which he slurped and some of which dropped onto his chest,
Rhetta wiped him off with a towel and fluffed his pillow. When she was
satisfied that she’d made him somewhat more comfortable, she sat beside him on
the bed.
Deciding that Randolph appeared strong enough to
talk about what happened, she took a deep breath, and began. “Why did you have
a bottle of Jim Beam in the truck?”
After the ice, Randolph’s voice sounded stronger,
but he appeared confused. He frowned. “What?” He blinked several times, as though
trying to focus.
“Kenneth said that the highway patrol reported
finding an empty Jim Beam bottle in your truck.” Randolph stared at her. “And
that you were drunk.” She let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was
holding.
“I wasn’t drinking.” He sighed, closing his eyes.
“That’s what I told Kenneth, but he said your blood
level was point one zero.”
“Kenneth?’
“Kenneth Reed, Sweets. He operated on you.”
Randolph shook his head slowly. “Wasn’t drinking,”
he repeated.
The door opened, and a new day shift nurse appeared
with a tray of medication.
“No solid foods for awhile, Mr. McCarter,” announced
the matronly nurse bustling about his bed, setting the assortments of meds down
on the nearby tray. “You’ll have IVs for at least the rest of today.” She prepared
a syringe of medication and began injecting it through a port in the tube
snaking into his arm.
After snapping off the vinyl gloves and tossing them
into the biohazard container nearby, the nurse turned to Rhetta. “He’ll be out
for a while with this medication, Mrs. McCarter. Why don’t you slip home and
get some rest. He should be more alert this afternoon.”
“Yes, I just might do that.”
Rhetta kissed the top of Randolph’s head. “I love
you,” she whispered. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Love you,” Randolph mumbled, already succumbing to
the powerful painkiller.
*
* *
“Woody?
It’s Rhetta. Randolph was in a bad wreck last night. He’s in St. Mark’s
Hospital. He had surgery to relieve the pressure from a head injury, but he’s
stable now. I’m just now leaving the hospital. I’ll call you later.”
After leaving Woody the voice mail, she walked
slowly to her car. The interior was already warm and stuffy. She turned on the
ignition and laid her head back against the seat, allowing time for the air
conditioning to begin cooling. Although it was only 7:30 in the morning, it was
already nearly eighty degrees. The temperature was expected to climb into the
nineties she learned when she turned on the car radio. According to the
announcer, this was the hottest June on record.
She scrolled through her phone for Billy Dan’s
number. It rang several times until a recording clicked on. “If I’m not
answering, I’m fishing. Leave a message.”
“This is Rhetta McCarter. Randolph had a bad
accident after leaving Marble Hill yesterday, and—”
Before she could continue, Billy Dan picked up.
“Rhetta, what’s happened?”
She told him about Randolph’s truck going over the
Whitewater Bridge. “Billy Dan, did Randolph have anything to drink when you
guys were together?”
“Just lots of coffee, is all. We were at Merc’s.
After showing me that schematic, he left with it. He was headed straight home.”
Rhetta felt like an ice truck had just dumped its
whole load into her bloodstream. The schematic. She was more convinced now that
Randolph’s accident had to do with the schematic.
“Thanks, Billy Dan. I don’t know what happened, but
I do know Randolph wasn’t drinking.”
The line grew quiet. Rhetta heard an electronic beep
that she recognized as the recorder, which had kicked on before Billy Dan
picked up.
“I have to go, now, but thanks.” She didn’t want any
more of the conversation recorded.
“Please give the judge my best. I’ll come over
tomorrow and see him,” said Billy Dan.
“Thanks. And, Billy Dan? Please be careful.”
Rhetta tossed her phone on to the passenger seat and
shifted Cami into first gear. Instead of heading home, she made for the
interstate. She arrowed south on the interstate toward Sikeston, to the
Missouri Highway Patrol Troop E Service Center. She wanted to know exactly what
had been found in the Artmobile.
Rhetta exited the interstate at Miner on her way
into Sikeston. The traffic along East Malone was light. Within thirty minutes
of leaving the hospital, she stood in front of the reception cage at Troop E
Headquarters. The female duty officer sat enclosed by soundproof panels topped
with thick glass.
“I’d like to speak to someone about getting my
husband’s personal belongings. My husband is Judge Randolph McCarter. He was in
an accident last night at the Whitewater Bridge in Cape Girardeau County.”
Rhetta spoke through a small round opening in the glass panel, addressing the
officer seated at the desk. At least Rhetta presumed she was an officer. A drab
grey uniform was stretched taut around her middle.
The middle-aged officer, married, if you could
believe the wedding band on her left hand, advised her, “Wait over there,
please,” and pointed her chubby index finger to a row of wood chairs. Rhetta
found a seat.
After ten minutes of scanning months-old magazines
and the Missouri State Highway Patrol newsletters, a side door opened, and a
tall, trim officer with dark hair clipped close to his head strolled her way.
The officer, mid-thirties Rhetta estimated, politely
asked her name, introduced himself, then invited her to accompany him to his
office. His black-lettered, silver badge bore the inscription,
Sergeant F.
Phillips
. She followed Phillips past the cage containing the duty officer.
They walked in silence down a narrow hallway and into his cramped office.
Phillips motioned her to take a seat in one of two chairs
squeezed in front of his desk. When she sat, her knees thumped the front. She
winced.
Phillips squeezed in behind the desk and deposited
himself in the chair, then twisted around to face her. “I apologize for the
small space, Mrs. McCarter. The state is utilizing every spare inch of this
building. I’m told this used to be a closet.” He smiled ruefully as he waved
around his cramped quarters.
Behind him, plaques, awards, degrees, and various
items evidencing many professional accomplishments and service organization
participation covered the entire wall space above the chair.
“What can I do for you?” Phillips was all business.
“I’d like to pick up my husband’s personal items.”
Phillips shuffled through several file folders in an
upright metal rack and selected one. He opened it and scanned a list before
handing it to her. “Certainly. I’ll call the duty officer to bring them up.
However, we can’t release the liquor bottle. That’s evidence.”
Deciding not to discuss the Jim Beam bottle, at
least for now, she simply nodded. Randolph would have his time in court. Her
husband was in no position to investigate the liquor bottle. She’d have to do
it for him.
Phillips dialed a number. He requested Randolph’s
personal items be brought to the office.
“How is the judge doing? I knew Judge McCarter when
he was still on the bench.” He shook his head, almost sadly, Rhetta thought.
I don’t need your sympathy.
Randolph didn’t do anything wrong.
“He had surgery last night and is stable. His
prognosis is good.” She held her chin up and forced herself to look past the
officer. She couldn’t meet his gaze. Being tired and stressed was a recipe for
tears, and she was determined not to well up.
Further conversation ended with a knock on the
office door. Another young male officer entered carrying a large white envelope
secured with a string clasp. He placed the envelope on the desk.
Phillips unwound the string and opened the envelope.
He scanned his notes before handing it to Rhetta. Along with the envelope, he
handed her a lined sheet of paper
“Please sign this receipt that
you’ve received Judge McCarter’s personal items.”
Rhetta
peered inside the envelope. She reached in and fingered the contents—a pair of
work gloves, the truck’s registration and insurance papers, a notepad, several
pens, and a tube of lip balm.
Missing
was the manila envelope containing the schematic and the photo Woody had
printed of the substation transformer.
Rhetta
cleared her throat. “Is this all?”
“Yes,
ma’am. As I said, the liquor bottle was confiscated.”
“I’m
looking for a manila envelope with documents in it.”
“There
was nothing else in the vehicle, Mrs. McCarter. I checked the contents against
the list from the site that the sergeant included in the report.” He turned the
page so that she could read it.
She
scanned the list signed by Sergeant Quentin Meade. His list matched the
contents she held in her hands.
Clutching
the envelope and shaking inside, she thanked Phillips and left.
The
schematic was the key to Randolph’s accident. Someone stole it from the car,
she was sure of that.
Now she
was positive that someone deliberately forced Randolph off the bridge.
*
* *
A
half hour later, with Cami’s aftermarket sunroof open to the bright sunshine
and hot summer air, she raced northbound to Cape. Rhetta could almost forget
the reason for her trip and bask in the satisfaction she enjoyed whenever she
drove fast. A quick glance down to the white envelope wedged near her console
pulled her back to reality. She felt a terrible headache coming on, like the
kind she got when she ate ice cream too fast. Who had tried to force Randolph
off the road?
She swerved into the right lane at the first Cape
exit and arrowed straight to the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi and to the
county impound lot.
Eddie sauntered out to greet her the minute she
rumbled to a stop in front of the office.
“Rhetta, I’m sorry about Randolph’s accident. Is he
going to be okay?” She didn’t ask Eddie how he knew about the wreck. Obviously,
he would’ve been the one to get the truck and haul it in.
“He had surgery last night. The doctors say he’s
going to be fine.” She scoped out the lot. “Where’s his truck? It’s here, isn’t
it?”
“Yeah, it’s here. I got called out early this
morning to pick it up. Are you sure you want to see it?” He removed his ball
cap and wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve before returning the cap to his
head.
“I have to see it.” Rhetta turned off the ignition
and scrambled out of the car.
“Follow me.” Eddie made for the back of the lot.
She trotted to keep up. When they stopped at the
trailer holding the crushed remains of Randolph’s beloved Artmobile, the
twisted wreckage spoke for itself. The truck was totaled.
She took a deep breath and walked around the
trailer. Unlike the last time she poked around a vehicle in this same lot, this
time she didn’t try to open any doors. She just stood staring at the driver’s
side front fender at a long gash that continued to the driver’s door. Al-Serafi’s
car bore one just like it.
“Eddie, do you see this?” She called him over.
“Looks like the truck grazed something.” He rubbed
his palm along the damage. When he removed his hand, dark green paint particles
stuck to his fingers.
“Don’t let anyone take this truck, Eddie,” Rhetta
said, gazing around the lot. “Please cordon this off with tape, and don’t let
anyone even touch it.”
“Okay, but you know the insurance adjuster will need
to see it. What’s going on?” Eddie also panned the lot.
“Do you remember Hakim Al-Serafi’s car? I’m pretty
sure it had the same kind of gash.” She pointed to the Artmobile’s fender. “I
found it odd when I saw it on Al-Serafi’s car, because there was no damage to
his car when he was in our office a few weeks ago. I wouldn’t have thought much
about it until now I see a similar one on the Artmobile.” Rhetta gripped
Eddie’s arm. “You know how Randolph is about his truck. There wasn’t a mark on
it before the accident.”
Gazing around, she continued, “Is Al-Serafi’s car
still here?” She wanted to see that car again, compare the scratches, and make
sure she wasn’t imagining any of this.
“It’s already gone. They came and picked it up
yesterday and towed it away.” Eddie removed a handkerchief from his pocket and
wiped his brow.
“Who, our insurance company?”
“I guess. The guy who showed up had all the forms
signed by Mrs. Al-Serafi. Art let them take the car.” Art was a university
student in his early twenties who helped Eddie occasionally. “There was no
reason to keep it here. The insurance companies do that all the time on cars
that are totaled.”
“Do insurance companies usually come get the
vehicles so quickly?” Rhetta fixed her gaze on the now empty flatbed trailer
that had held Al-Serafi’s car.
“Sometimes.” Eddie shrugged. “We never thought
anything about it. Should we have?”
Not wanting to say more, since she herself wasn’t
sure what she thought, she said, “No. I guess I’m just upset.”
After thanking him, Rhetta headed for her car while
Eddie returned to his office. She rested against Cami’s front fender and
sighed. Then she opened the door and slid into the still-cool interior. She
reached across to the console, and after a quick search, pulled out a single
latex glove along with her secret stash—a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
Stepping out of her car, she tugged on a latex glove, then lit the cigarette. Holding
it between her gloved thumb and forefinger, she took two long, satisfying
drags. She inhaled deeply, allowing the smoke to fill her lungs. Her head got
light from the nicotine rush. She stepped on the cigarette and ground it out
with her heel, then kicked dirt over the half-smoked butt, folded the glove,
and buried her stash under a notebook, a novel, and some pens.
She hated deceiving Randolph. At times like this
when she was under so much stress, she had to have a nicotine fix even though
she promised her husband she’d stopped smoking a long time ago. She wasn’t
proud of herself for fibbing. Okay, lying. Wearing a latex glove prevented
anyone, especially Randolph, from smelling the traces of smoke on her hands.
Nobody knew of her secret smoking. Not even Woody.
She turned the key and while the motor rumbled,
Rhetta tried to piece together everything that happened. She wasn’t imagining.
She clearly remembered what the gash on Al-Serafi’s car looked like: it was
identical to the one on the Artmobile.
Al-Serafi’s and Randolph’s accidents were definitely
connected.