Powerlines Read online

  POWERLINES

  Kurt Newton

  POWERLINES

  © 2012 Kurt Newton

  Digital Edition

  Published by

  GALLOWS PRESS 2012

  Moosup, Ct. 06354

  Cover, Interior Design, and Typesetting

  © Tom Moran

  Editing

  Becca Cutkomp, Billie Moran, and Chris Hedges

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidences are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this work may be copied, printed, or stored without written permission of the publisher.

  www.gallowspress.com

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  EPILOGUE

  THE WISHNIK

  THE BRAINPAN CONCERTO

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  PROLOGUE

  October 17, 1985

  Winston Popple kept low to the ground. He was dressed in camouflage fatigues (bought at an army surplus store in hometown of Worcester, Massachusetts), and climbing boots. He wore a black knit ski cap on his head. His backpack contained maps and water, a day's supply of food, and a Nikon FG20 single lens reflex camera with a 600 mm super telephoto lens. The high-speed film inside the camera was ideal for low-light conditions, and the lighting in the Natchaug State Forest was uneven at best. He pinned his elbow against the bark of a hickory tree, and placed a pair of binoculars to his eyes.

  The amount of construction equipment crawling up and down the Backbone Ridge was unusual for the type of work being performed. Aside from the usual bulldozer and backhoe, and crane, there were drillers, haulers, and cement trucks by the dozen. The footings for the two power line stanchions that hoisted the lines up and over the ridge were already in place, the 80-foot tall supports, which resembled giant football goal posts, already cabled. The work was now concentrated on the very top of the ridge. What could they possibly be doing? thought Winston as he put his binoculars aside and lifted his camera to snap a few more photos.

  Winston worked for the Worcester Telegram and fancied himself the next Bob Woodward or Carl Bernstein. He grew watching the Watergate hearings on television, the seeds of governmental distrust planted firmly at the age of ten. He had been editor of his high school newspaper, exposing cafeteria waste. He had attended Northeastern, but his mistrust and paranoia got the better of him, so he quit school and ended up freelancing. When workers from the Midwest started pouring into Worcester and taking up residence in the local motels, he got curious.

  True, the Northeast Utilities' 86.5 mile Windham to Worcester power line project was the largest of its kind to hit the region. True, there just weren't enough local workers experienced with the kind of work involved. But there was security. Whoever heard of security for the construction of a public utilities project? And there were trucks, hundreds of them, like a line of ants, rolling in and out of the Natchaug State Forest.

  Something didn't fit.

  Something wasn't right.

  There was story here. Winston didn't know what it was, but it was big.

  He watched as a large crane hoisted a pallet of materials into the October air, then lowered it down to the ground...down further than where the cable should have stopped. Maybe it was just his vantage point, but the materials appeared to be going into the ground.

  He needed to get closer. He zipped up his gear and crept up the hillside.

  The sun was close to setting and a definite chill was in the air. He needed to make these last few photographs count.

  He couldn't bring himself up parallel with the construction. There were just too many security people posted around the perimeter, men wearing Ray Bans, dressed in flak jackets, rifles slung at their sides. They looked like hunters. Well-paid hunters. Winston got as close as he could. He heard a squirrel scrabbling overhead and looked up. He got an idea.

  It was a large white pine about six feet wide at the base. Lucky for him, the broken remnants of what were once lower branches were still strong enough to support his weight. He climbed as high as he could, keeping to the back of tree so as not to be seen. When he reached the top, his hands sticky with pine tar, his heart pounding from the exertion, he had a near perfect view of the ridge, and what he saw made his heart pound even faster.

  I knew it, he said to himself as a gentle wind cooled the sweat on his face. This was going to be his meal ticket. The Telegram would have to put him on their staff after this.

  With one arm wrapped around the tree's body, he reached into his backpack and retrieved the camera. He checked his camera's settings, and poked the nose of the lens out through the pine branches. When he zoomed in on the ridge there was a dark blur blocking his line of sight. He adjusted the focus and realized it was a man. One of the security people. The man's rifle was pointed directly at him.

  Winston didn't hear a gunshot. It was more like a soft crack in the air, like the snap of a green twig. A fraction of a second later, his camera exploded in his hands, sending glass into his eyes. His head snapped back and he felt himself falling.

  Lucky for Winston Popple he was dead before he hit the ground.

  1

  Ethan Morales stared out the window of the Route 44 Diner at the power lines that climbed up over the Ashford hills. The sounds of early morning conversations, the sizzle of bacon and sausages, and the clatter of breakfast plates surrounded him, but Ethan heard none of it. He was already in the wilderness, visualizing himself, as he had visualized on so many occasions, hiking beneath the 80-foot towers, like Ulysses passing through the legs of the Colossus of Rhodes, the high-tension cables humming in the bright blue sky overhead, his muscles and his determination pushing him onward.

  "Ethan...you didn't hear a word I said."

  Lindsey Richmond sat across from him in the booth. Ethan turned his attention to her and the restaurant noises once again flooded in. The noise almost hurt his ears and he winced. "Sorry, babe, I was somewhere else. What did you say?"

  "Tell me why you're doing this...really."

  "Doing what?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Hiking those damned power lines."

  "Shhhh...keep it down."

  "Why?"

  Ethan reached over the booth's table and grabbed Lindsey's hands as if he were about to propose. He lowered his voice. "Let me put it this way, what I'm doing is not exactly encouraged by local law enforcement."

  "You mean you'll be trespassing?"

  "Shhhh... Not exactly trespassing. The lines cut right through the Natchaug State Forest. It's public property. I'm a taxpayer. I've got my rights. They just don't like people near the power lines, that's all. You know, terrorism and all."

  "You mean you could get arrested?" She pulled her hands away from hi
s and folded her arms across her chest. "You didn't tell me that."

  Ethan smiled. "C'mon, it's no biggie. No one will see me anyway. I've got my green rain parka to help me blend in. Everything will be cool."

  Lindsey stared at him, the same way she had stared at him when he first told her of his plan to hike the power lines. Fifty miles in three days, across some of the most isolated countryside in all of Connecticut. Sometimes she didn't know why she put up with his crazy dreams and his infectious smile. But there was something there she couldn't let go of, in spite of all the pressures to do just that.

  "If you get arrested my mom will have all the ammunition she needs. You know that, right?"

  "Nothing's going to happen."

  "Then why go? Why do this?"

  Ethan smiled again. "You know why. It's something I have to prove to myself. There's something about those lines, the way they march up over those hills and disappear from sight, that just.... It's like when I was a kid. We lived near a lake. My brother and I used to walk down to it in the summer and go swimming. The lake had this island. It was just a pile of rocks with a pole sticking out of it marked with a buoy, but it was way out there. It seemed like it was halfway across the lake. Too far to swim. But one of the lake houses nearby had a floating dock. If you could make it to that dock, the swim to the island didn't seem so far. James and I just had to do it. We had to swim to that island just so we could prove to ourselves that we could. So we did. We almost drowned when this motor boat came by, but we did it."

  Ethan fumbled with his napkin. He took a deep breath and looked at Lindsey. "I love you, babe, but I have to do this."

  Lindsey knew Ethan didn't talk much about his brother, James, but when he did it was with a kind of reverence that Lindsey felt uncomfortable questioning.

  "It must be a guy thing," she said.

  The waitress came by just then carrying two plates. "Two eggs, easy over?" Lindsey claimed it. The waitress turned to Ethan and stated the obvious. "The Super Slam Breakfast must be yours then." Ethan nodded. The waitress placed the plate in front of him. "More coffee?" They both declined. "Okay, enjoy."

  Both Ethan and Lindsey stared at his plate. On it sat two eggs, three pancakes, two slices of bacon, two sausages, a mound of home fries, and an English muffin, each half soaked with butter. Ethan stared at Lindsey. "I can do this," he said and smiled. Lindsey simply shook her head.

  A mile east of the Route 44 Diner the roadsides turned green. There were no homes in sight. Lindsey pulled her Range Rover SUV onto a gravel patch. On the left-hand side of the road, a sea of jungle-like vegetation stretched. To the right, a gradual hill climbed up into the trees. Years back, before the power lines were installed, the sea had been a valley. It took an entire summer to fill the valley in and bring it up to a level where the power lines could set its feet down. As it was, the angle of the wires was striking as they reached up from the valley, crossed over Route 44, and continued on up the hill.

  Lindsey stepped out the SUV and gazed at the power-carrying behemoths. To the south she saw the train of towers as it strode the Connecticut countryside, stepping over roads and cutting through the thick woods. She had never really stopped to look at them until today. She tried to see what Ethan saw. Instead of awe and fascination, all that was summoned on this humid summer morning was a chill that ran across her skin. She didn't know why but it felt like a ball of wire was uncoiling in her stomach, sending out frissons of fear.

  "Ethan —"

  "Yeah?" The SUV's rear hatch was up and Ethan had his backpack open.

  "I don't want you to go."

  "What?" He stopped double-checking the backpack's contents.

  "Don't go, please." Lindsey hugged him. She held onto him as if she would never let go. She was close to tears.

  "It's only three days. I'll be back before you know." He hugged her and gave her a soft, sensuous kiss. He pulled away and smiled. "Thank you for letting me do this."

  Lindsey stepped back as Ethan donned his green rain parka. He then swung the backpack straps over his shoulders. Lindsey made sure everything was zipped up and secure. Ethan checked his watch. His excitement was barely contained. "You know where to meet me, right?"

  Lindsey nodded.

  "Okay, I guess this is it." Ethan suddenly pulled out his cell phone and said, "Smile." He snapped a picture of Lindsey. He looked at it and grinned. "Beautiful."

  "You jerk."

  "Love you."

  "Love you, too."

  Ethan hopped the guide rail and stepped into the underbrush. Lindsey watched him until he was halfway up the hill, his camouflaged backpack and his green parka blending into the surrounding undergrowth. At one point, he turned and waved her on. She got into her SUV and drove off.

  As the power lines grew smaller in the rearview mirror, the ball of wire in her stomach recoiled. The fear she had felt was now diffused throughout her body and all she felt was numb.

  2

  An alarm buzzed through the confines of Facility #9. Dr. Harrison Pike awoke in his bunker-like bedroom. He sat on the edge of his bed and reached for his wire-rimmed glasses. He slipped them on and checked the clock. It was 7:00 a.m. He stood, sliding his toes into the slippers at his feet, and headed for the door. The slippers made him look feminine, but it was better than walking barefoot on the cold concrete floor. Not that he would be made fun of anyway. There was no one else at the facility. For nearly two years now, Dr. Pike had lived alone.

  The soft click of the motion-sensor triggered the lights to come on in the Control Room. One wall carried an array of small video monitors. The black and white screens displayed static pictures of the surrounding woodland, stone outcroppings, and the feet of high-tension towers. On another wall were three larger video monitors. The first was labeled Pit #1, the second Pit #2, and the third Pit #3. There was movement in Pit #3. He picked up a handheld recorder and spoke aloud.

  "The fourth day of July, the year two-thousand and eight. Pit number three. Subject: North American cougar. After more than seventy-two hours, there is still no apparent disruption in brainwave activity. Increased dosage to 0.5 Hz, 15 mV. Time: Oh-seven hundred hours, eighteen minutes."

  He flicked switches and manipulated the dials beneath the monitor. There were identical dials and switches beneath each of the other two monitors. A faint vibration resonated through the floor. He then turned and switched on a pot of coffee. Its watery dribble masked the hum. He needed to use the bathroom. After he washed up, he dressed. He didn't need to dress. He could have stayed in his boxers and slippers all day every day, but he maintained the artifice of formality. After all, this was his job. It was a solitary job but it was important work. Someday his name would be known throughout the scientific community. Someday his research would save mankind from itself.

  He reached up into one of the many overhead storage cabinets and retrieved a canister of breakfast cereal. His one and only cereal bowl sat on the stainless steel counter below. Beside it lay his one and only spoon. Alongside both sat a large steel dog's dish. Each spotless, washed and wiped clean after their use the day before. He filled the cereal bowl and returned the canister to the cabinet. He was about to pour milk over the cereal when he heard scratching at the rear door. He set the milk carton onto the counter and walked over to the door. He grabbed a small devise that looked like a TV remote off the center table. He entered a sequence of numbers into the keypad on the wall and the door's lock disengaged. The door swung inward and a large dog stepped out of the dark into the room.

  "Good morning, Wolf."

  The dog wasn't a dog at all but a North American timber wolf. It circled the room, its nose sweeping from side to side. Dr. Pike studied the animal. It performed the same routine every morning, sniffing for new smells, looking for changes in the room's physical environment. When it was satisfied with its inspection, it came back to Dr. Pike and sat at his feet.

  "Good boy. Ready for breakfast?"

  Wolf looked up at him. Its long tooth
some snout and penetrating gaze unnerving as the day it had fallen into one of the pits. But behind that gaze was a beast reformed. The special collar that encircled its neck emitted an inaudible frequency. A stream of alpha waves, synchronized with the animal's brain centers, worked to suppress its instinctual aggressions. It had taken nearly a year of trial and error but Dr. Pike had succeeded in fine-tuning the animal's behavior to a point where it was now more of a companion than a test subject. He kept the collar's remote control close at hand, however, in case the collar should fail or become damaged. He placed the remote back onto the center table and opened the refrigerator.

  He took out a paper-wrapped package, the size and heft of a grinder, and placed it in the microwave. As the microwave hummed, Wolf sat close by. Wolf watched the microwave door intently, listening to the hum like the call of the wild. When the electronic beep sounded, Dr. Pike removed the package and dumped its contents into the dog's dish on the counter. The smell of warm meat wafted up into his nostrils.

  "Stay."

  Dr. Pike carried the dish to the corner of the room and sat it on the floor near the door where Wolf had entered. The animal watched him now as intently as it had watched the microwave. Dr. Pike stood and stepped back.

  "Come."

  Wolf rushed up to eat the juicy breakfast of raw pork loin.

  Dr. Pike went about his morning business. He finished preparing his cereal, making a mental note to add milk to the supply list. As he ate, he sat and observed the cougar as it paced the confines of the capture pit. The cougar traced the enclosure over and over, trampling the dried pine boughs and hawthorn leaves that now littered the floor. It leapt up onto the walls now and then to test their height. An hour passed before it lay down, exhausted. Dr. Pike continued to watch the cougar intently, adjusting the sub-frequency audio emitters embedded in the pit walls. The doctor's eyes filled with a childlike fascination as he waited for the animal's behavior to change.

  3