Tanks by Ted Mulcahey

About the Book

Whidbey Island’s peaceful, bucolic lifestyle is invaded by a deranged psychopath intent on poisoning a significant portion of the population.

The O’Malleys join Deputy Roger Wilkie, world-renowned microbiologist Dr. Andie Saunders, and friends from past episodes in a battle of wits with a dangerously clever adversary.

With unpredictable twists and turns, the challenge of apprehending the evildoer is thwarted by the storm of the century, further challenging the amateur sleuths as they match wits against the formidable villain.

It’s another tongue-in-cheek adventure featuring the retired designers and their faithful German Shepherd.

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Excerpt

He waited until the Duke Water treatment truck backed down the gravel road that served the concrete reservoir. It was five p.m. on April 20th on Whidbey Island, and he still had to wait three hours until it would be dark enough.

Concealment was not an issue here in the thick pine and fir forest, and his excitement trumped any boredom that might have crept in. With clear skies, the temperature fell quickly, even at this time of year; he was glad he’d worn his jacket.

After intermittently watching the tank for almost a month, he’d gotten used to the routine of the monitoring company. They came once a week, on Tuesdays, and always between four and five p.m. Sometimes she would be there for half an hour and sometimes only ten minutes. Today it took longer, so he had to wait behind the deadfall from one of the fierce winter storms.

At a shade under five-ten, his slight build and unremarkable features were excellent attributes for a man who preferred to remain overlooked. A closer inspection would reveal very dark eyes that were perhaps just a smidge too close together and a thin-lipped mouth with a perpetual cruel smirk leaking from the right corner. Wispy brownish hair of medium length was concealed by a generic ballcap absent of any logo.

As dusk turned to twilight, he made his way to the access ladder at the rear of the 35,000-gallon reservoir. He thought it comical that the drinking water for a hundred or more homes had little or no security, but hey, too bad for them, he figured.

With his Mini Maglite between his teeth, he climbed the rusty steel ladder twenty feet to the top, where the vent pipe and the access port were located. He would be here all night if he had to remove the rusted bolts from the cover; fortunately, the vent pipe was all he needed.

Keeping his gloves on, he removed his backpack, still securing the LED light with his teeth, and removed the tools he needed to complete his task: A saw, a PVC fitting and cement, his respirator, and three quarts of a unique blend he’d been working on.

He used the saw to cut off the three-inch “U” at the vent termination and stuffed it in his pack. Next, after taking the flashlight from his mouth and placing it on the concrete surface, he securely fastened his mask and dumped the contents of the quart bottles into the tank via the vent. After placing the empty bottles in his pack with the sawn-off fitting, he swabbed the vent pipe and fitting he’d brought with PVC cement and immediately twisted them together.

Standing back to admire his handiwork, he removed the mask. The risk of airborne transmission was remote, but the virulence of his creation made the additional precaution necessary. The vent stack was now several inches shorter, but no one would ever notice. Making sure nothing was left behind, he climbed back down and walked to East Harbor Road. Traffic was sparse; even so, he took care to avoid any cars. Several passed by during the time it took to get back to the truck, which he’d parked at a seldom-used trailhead, but he avoided them by stepping into the brush long before their headlights reached him.

Getting back inside his ten-year-old Toyota Tacoma pickup with the heater cranked up felt good. Now all he had to do was wait a few days. He was confident of his calculations, and soon, there would be illness in the small community on the east side of Holmes Harbor. He relaxed and listened to the reggae sounds of Bob Marley on the twenty-minute drive back to his home.

 

About the Author

Ted’s observations and stories are formed by his stint in the Army, his sales, marketing, and entrepreneurial activities, and his life growing up as one of nine siblings in a typical Irish Catholic family.

Starting in New England he managed to find his way to the Pacific Northwest where he has lived for over three decades. He now lives on an island in the middle of Puget Sound with his wife and trusted GSD, Emma.

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