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Rush-hour traffic slowed them, but within sixty minutes, they were pulling onto the scales at the new AEP River terminal north of the city on the Missouri side.
The woman working the scales said, “She’s just fifteen hundred pounds?”
“She’s riding empty while we test our experimental solar refrigeration and heating system,” Cochran said. “How fast will it go downriver?”
“You’d be surprised. With the current up like it is, it’s two and a half days to Memphis, maybe less. Five days to New Orleans, maybe less. Double that coming upriver.”
“We’d like to be able to inspect the container at Memphis and then again at New Orleans.”
“Long as you’re there with the right papers, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Can you make us copies?” Cochran said. “I’m always losing stuff.”
“I can give you two.”
“Thanks. What do we owe you, then?” Cochran asked.
“Loading fee’s one fifty. You’ll pay the full freight at New Orleans.”
Cochran handed her cash. She gave him the receipt and lading documents, said, “Pull on ahead. You’ll see the dock on your right.”
“Gantry?” he asked.
“New gantries aren’t up yet. They’ll be using the boom crane.”
They drove to one of the freight docks on the bank of the river and pulled close to the Pandora, a container barge with a three-story white-and-blue wheelhouse at the rear. Cochran showed the crane operator and the barge captain the necessary documents. Cochran, Sunday, and Acadia watched as wide straps were run beneath the container and then hooked to the cable. The crane whirred. The container car rose, swung several times, and then was settled on the deck forward of the other fifty containers already stacked aboard.
“There was a lot of movement,” Acadia said worriedly.
“Everything inside is strapped down or bracketed in place,” Sunday reminded her before calling over to the captain, “We’ll see you in Memphis to make a
n inspection.”
Scotty Creel, a hearty man in his early fifties, nodded, said, “Just have that paperwork with you, and you’ll have no problems getting through the gates. We’ll be tied up there three, four hours Monday morning.”
Back in the Kenworth, Cochran drove them south toward St. Louis, said, “We got plenty of time before the flight. Let’s get something to eat. Ribs? Gotta be good here.”
Sunday turned up his nose.
Acadia said, “Marcus doesn’t do pork.”
“Oh, that’s right, sorry,” Cochran said. “Steak?”
“That’ll do,” Sunday said.
“And Cross?” Acadia asked.
Sunday glanced again at his watch.
He said, “Mr. Harrow needs time to finish his business. I’ll wait until just before our flight leaves to have my first chat with Dr. Alex.”
CHAPTER
18
I WOKE UP AROUND eight thirty that Friday evening, lying on the couch in my darkened office, my rain jacket over my shoulders, and my muddy shoes on the floor beside me. The headache that had tortured me the past six days had calmed somewhat.
Good nap. Maybe that’s all I needed, I thought, before I fully awoke into the living nightmare again.
