Mad Powers (Tapped In) by Mark Wayne McGinnis Read Free Book Online

or anyone for that matter. Best to give it a few more hours . Maybe learn what he could from that nurse. Even in that brief moment he ’ d seen them together, it was obvious they had something between them. Where the hell was she? Harland looked out the window. It was nighttime. How long had he been out? In the distance he saw a highway. Red taillights of evening commuters moved in a procession, eventually disappearing into the city. His mind wandered to where it always wandered: that last night with Veronica. Chandler was turning. His gun raised and then the gunshots. But what had stayed with him the longest was the smell. The GSR, or gunshot residue. A mixture of burnt and unburnt particles from the explosive primer, the actual propellant, as well as the various components from the bullet, the cartridge case and even the firearm used. In this case, a Beretta 92.
    Harland noticed her reflection in the window as she entered his room. Always so fucking happy.
    “ How you feeling, Mr. Shinn? ” Jill asked, taking his bedpan into the bathroom. He ’ d used the alias Peter Shinn when they ’ d filled out the basics on his chart. They ’ d come back several times for more information, but he ’ d been able to put that off.
    “ It ’ s good to see you ’ re sitting up. Back amongst the living. ”
    “ I ’ m feeling a little better. ”
    “ Well, give yourself a few more days. One bite is enough to kill you. Two? I ’ m surprised you ’ re alive. You ’ ve got quite the constitution … Strong like bull, ” she said jokingly, in a Russian accent.
    Harland simply smiled and shrugged. He watched her move around his bed and check his I.V. Pretty little thing , he thought, feeling movement between his legs. His face flushed. Irritated at himself, his weakness, he cleared his mind of stray thoughts.

Chapter 8
     
     
    Cornerstone Mission was a large, one-story, corrugated steel-sided building in the industrial section of town. As I approached, I could see a group of men huddled up and waiting at the entrance. Whittier had mentioned something about it being open only in the evenings.
    I sat down in the shade, with my back against the building. As usual, my eyes were drawn to the high-power lines overhead. I needed to tap in, and I had no idea where I’d be able to do so.
    My head was throbbing; the headaches were back in full force. I let my eyes track the cables, from down the street to directly above my head. These power cables were connected to a utility pole at the back of the building. They carried high-voltage power, anywhere from 2,400 to 35,000 volts of electricity, and I could see they were connected to a large transformer, which, in turn, split off to a smaller feeder cable that swayed down to the roof of the mission. I’d come to know that higher voltages were what I needed—I also knew that most small businesses and homes were fed stepped-down power of only 220 volts. Maybe I had been an electrician.
    A middle-aged Hispanic man, in a plaid shirt and dirty jeans, sat down next to me. He put a small backpack down and started rifling through it. He eventually came up with a couple of granola bars. He offered me one.
    “Thanks,” I said, surprised by the offering.
    He smiled and pointed to himself. “Me llamo Marco—¿habla usted español?”
    I nodded, “Buenas tardes … Sí, me llamo Rob.” I didn’t know I could speak Spanish, and apparently I was fairly fluent. “¿Habla usted inglés?”
    “Sólo un poco, sí,” he said with a smile. We ate in silence for a while until I tested his English.
    “You’ve stayed here before?”
    “Yes, three days now. I leave for San Joaquin Valley in several days. My wife and child wait for me.” He gathered up his pack and stood up. “It will be a while before the mission opens.” He smiled, gestured toward the park across the street and headed off in that direction.
    I didn’t like the idea of just sitting around here for another hour or more. I got to my