Lonnie observed several sets of impressions left by truck tires that ran in and out of the fenced courtyard. The gate itself was closed, and she pulled on it to 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 new ones. He claimed those boots had become more a part of his feet than his own toenails.
Another set of prints had the distinctive markings of Corcoran military issue jump boots. Those, Lonnie thought, must be Officer Bannock’s. One set of prints belonged to a pair of large, military surplus white bunny boots commonly worn by many Alaskans this time of year. Another that looked like sneakers of some sort. Each of these pairs of prints went into the building and around the various structures of the substation, where the technicians had been trying to diagnose the outage.
Standing out from the assortment of shoe prints at the door were two matching sets of patterns that bore the company logo of Sorel Mukluks impressed in the snow. The edges were sharp and crisp, indicating the boots were fairly new, or at least seldom worn. As she ran her light along the ground at the side of the hut, the imprints of those two sets of boot prints continued on toward the left of the tiny building. Lonnie pulled out her digital camera and snapped a couple of quick pictures. The flash exploding in the night briefly put a dancing array of spots before her eyes.
After taking the pictures, she followed the footprints around the building to the large steel electrical structures behind the hut. The footprints stopped in the snow about five yards behind the hut. The snow was packed in front of a large, squat, cubicle transformer. The prints didn’t go any further, but followed the same way back out from the deep snow. The wearers of the Sorels had only been interested in the one piece of equipment that hummed in front of her now.
Her senses leaped to full alert. Lonnie froze in her tracks. She had the uncanny feeling that eyes were staring at her. Her hand slid to the pistol at her side. Her own eyes widened reflexively as they tried to take in all the available light, to find the source of her sudden wariness before it found her.
To her right, a flash of movement exploded from near the transformer box.
She whipped the 9mm Glock service automatic from the leather holster on her hip, and in one smooth motion, raised, aimed, and clicked off the safety. The Maglight’s beam illuminated figures moving fast across the substation grounds.
“Freeze!”
Two tall, thin snowshoe hares stopped in their tracks. White fur bristled all over their bodies, and their long ears poked straight up into the cold night air.
Lonnie felt heat flush over her face, and she was very happy that Bannock had not decided to accompany her to the substation. She shook her head at her own jittery behavior.
“Okay, Bugs Bunny and friend…carry on.”
The two hares watched her for a moment longer, then ducked under the fence and disappeared into the woods.
She ran the beam of the flashlight up the side of the structure where the footprints stopped. An area of frost had been disturbed on the steel casing inside, which buzzed a massive magnet wrapped in high-voltage copper coils. A twelve-by-twelve-inch square about five feet above the ground was discolored, slightly but noticeably in the beam of the Maglite. It looked like something hot had been pressed onto the metal, causing it to bake.
Toward the bottom of the transformer, the square edge of something metallic stuck up through the snow. She reached down and picked up a hollow metal box, about two inches thick and one square foot in size, with a sign plate on one side identifying the company that had manufactured the transformers. It fit the singed square spot on the side of the transformer. There were no screw holes or weld marks on either the box or the transformer. The panel seemed to have been attached by some sort of adhesive. The box Lonnie held in her hand was not discolored, as the transformer was.