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The Search, Chapter 3
By WILLIAM COBBS Josh was really angry. He knew the voice on the phone was that of his buddy Bill Benton. How could he suspect him, Josh, of a crime? As he ruminated, seething, the phone rang again. It was Glenn Hightower, the security director at the power plant. "Well, Josh, you can relax after that going-over the law gave you about finding Randy's body. We have evidence now that he was dragged to the spot where you found him, after being bludgeoned, and then the knife was stuck in him, but he was dragged there from the door of the spent-fuel vault. It's now a federal thing, and they are turning loose a bunch of their own investigators on it. "Get some rest, fella," Hightower said. "You've earned it." Heartened by the support and appalled by the news, Josh dialed Bill Benton, and when he picked up, gave him a brief version of the bad news at the plant. There was a short silence, then a flood of apology from his friend. "Never mind, buddy," Josh said. "You and I have a lifetime together to argue and fight. And Liz will be on my side!" He hung up the phone and, rubbing his aching forehead, tried to go back to sleep. Josh's mind raced as thoughts about the goings-on at the plant tumbled over one another. Then he thought of Liz and the many loose ends he had to tie up before he could make that long-awaited trip to New York to see her. But that could wait. It was after midnight and he was too weary to think straight. Besides, Josh thought, he had plenty of time to arrange a flight. The trip wouldn't be until Thanksgiving and today was, what was the date again? He glanced at the calendar on the wall. Oh, yeah. It's only Sept. 11. Josh woke at 6 a.m., then remembered that his shift at the Sheriff's Office didn't start until noon. He decided he could stay in bed a little longer and still have time to get ready for work, then rolled over and fell back into a deep sleep. He reawakened at 8:15 a.m. and this time he dragged himself out of bed. He put on a pot of coffee, stuck two waffles in the toaster, and sat down at the television to eat and catch up on the morning news. Suddenly, the color drained from the anchorwoman's face. "This just in," she said, her voice quavering. "A bomb or explosion has hit the north tower of the World Trade Center. Several floors are on fire and rescuers are being called to the scene." Josh froze. Hadn't Liz said something the other day about going to the trade center today to get some pictures? He watched the horror unfold on his TV screen -- the second plane crashing into the World Trade Center, the Pentagon attack, the plane crash in Pennsylvania, the collapse of the towers. Josh tried again and again to phone Liz's apartment but could not get through. He phoned the Sheriff's Office but was told the shift commanders and the sheriff were too busy to talk to him. They were meeting with the nuclear plant's security officials, coordinating their plan to safeguard against possible terrorist attacks. That was someone else's worry, he decided, shaking his head. For now, his only concern was Liz. He had to find Bill Benton. Maybe like other brothers and sisters, Bill and Liz had some secret way to reach each other in case of an emergency. Josh flashed his badge at the plant security guard and started to drive ahead, but the gate remained closed. The guard, a co-worker he'd known for years, was demanding more identification. His eyes were wide and he acted as if he'd seen a ghost. "I guess we're all a bit jumpy today," Josh told the guard as he showed him his sheriff's deputy badge and was finally allowed onto the locked-down plant. He parked his car and asked if anyone had seen Bill Benton. Finally, he found Bill on the waterfront behind the power plant, the tranquil setting with manatees gliding through the water contrasting with the tension that gripped the plant. Bill turned and looked sheepish when he saw Josh. "I'm sorry," he started to say, but Josh waved him quiet. "Do you know what's going on in New York, Washington and even somewhere in Pennsylvania?" Josh asked. "Just what I've seen on TV and what the security bosses are saying here," Bill answered. "Have you heard from Liz? Is she all right?" "That's what's worrying me," Josh said. "I can't get through on the telephone." "Go in the plant security office," Bill suggested. "Use the red phone. It's a direct line to the security company's New York office. Ask them to patch you through to Liz's number." Josh followed Bill's suggestion and he got the security director on the phone. Despite the turmoil all around him, he agreed to try to put Josh through to Liz's number. A hysterical girl answered. "No, she is not here! And she's not at work at the hospital. I've already checked there," Liz's roommate, Sarah Kennedy, said frantically. "She left a note saying she was going to the Trade Center this morning to take photos for you from the observation deck. The security guard at the hospital said she checked out before 8 a.m., heading downtown," Sarah wailed. "Oh, Josh! Oh, my God!" But Josh had dropped the phone and was sitting stunned, his hands wrapped around his eyes, as if to shut out a scene. The phone squawked, and he put it back in its cradle. Josh walked from the building and made his way slowly to where Bill was keeping his vigil, an automatic rifle held across his chest, his eyes scanning the serene and beautiful gulf. "We've got trouble," Josh said. "Liz went to the World Trade Center this morning for pictures. Her roommate hasn't heard from her and she's not at work at the hospital." Bill reeled a step backward at the news. He mumbled, "There must be some survivors. We can't lose hope." "No," Josh agreed. "But how are we going to find her?" ABOUT TODAY'S AUTHORWILLIAM WALTON COBBS II was born in rural Virginia in 1925, attended Roanoke College, Columbia University, the Pasteur Institute and the Sorbonne. His studies were medicine, linguistics and geopolitics. A veteran of World War II, he was a bodyguard for Gen. Dwight D. Einenhower in that conflict. He has a long hisory of editing and writing. His most recent published book is Aristide the Cat Who Studied Picasso. He and his wife founded and administered the Academy for the Gifted, a private school in St. Petersburg. They retired and have lived in Citrus or neighboring Sumter counties since 1986, going to Virginia in the late spring and summer, where they have a bookstore. For 10 yars, he has written a newspaper column called The Piney Woods Philosopher and has published a book of selections from the columns.
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