Through the thin wooden slats of the shed wall, I watched the frosted glass window of the annex basement. The light down there was yellow, sickly and pale.
A shadow moved across the glass. The silhouette paused. I could see the reflection of a small green LED pulsing on the outer wall of the vault door as the numbers were punched in.
One.
Two.
Three.
The green LED turned solid, blindingly bright through the frosted pane.
"Now!" Ramos barked over the wire. "Pull it now!"
I threw my entire weight against the yellow iron handle, hauling it downward with both hands.
The breaker gave a deafening, metallic CLACK that shook the entire conduit box. A shower of blue sparks erupted from the bottom junction housing, lighting the interior of the shed with a brief, blinding flash of ozone and burnt insulation.
Inside the annex, every light in the rear wing died instantly.
A high-pitched emergency siren began to wail from the roof—not the long, smooth siren of a tornado warning, but the sharp, broken stutter of an uninterrupted power failure alarm.
Through the window, I saw the basement door burst open. Sheriff Wayne Miller stumbled out into the hallway, illuminated only by the red battery-powered exit signs, a heavy steel lockbox gripped in his left hand and his sidearm drawn in his right.
"What happened to the power?" his voice roared through the open air vents, booming into the night. "Miller! Get in here! The panel tripped!"
He didn't get an answer from Keith.
From the cedar hedge along the fairgrounds fence, three pairs of high-intensity xenon spotlights ignited all at once, turning the gravel alley into an arena of raw, blinding white.
"State Police! Drop the weapon! Drop the box!"
Six tactical officers in full black body armor rounded the corner of the brick annex, carbines up, their boots beating a thunderous cadence against the gravel. Behind them, Sarah Ramos stepped into the light, holding a federal search warrant high above her head in one hand, her badge glinting gold against her dark windbreaker.
Sheriff Wayne Miller stood frozen on the concrete loading dock, the red emergency beacon spinning behind his head, his gun hanging down toward the floor. He looked at the white state vehicles blocking the road. He looked at the tactical line closing the circle around his loading bay.
And then, his gaze drifted across the gravel, past the state troopers and the idling Tahoe, straight to where my old blue Ford sat ticking by the shed door.
He saw me standing there in the doorway, my hands resting quiet in my pockets, my work jacket covered in grease, watching him from the dark.
The steel lockbox slipped from his fingers and hit the concrete with a heavy, hollow clang.
CHAPTER 4: The Ledger Under The Slab