by Wil Mara
“Easy…” Emilio said, one hand up to forestall her panic. “Easy there.” From his back pocket he produced a vertically folded sheaf of papers, college ruled, with ragged edges where they’d been ripped from a spiral-bound notebook. Both sides of every page were covered in Sarah’s inflated but legible script.
Taking the papers, she smiled like a delighted child. “How did you—”
“They were sitting in your office by the fax machine when we left last night. I figured you’d want them, so I grabbed them on the way out.”
“What would I do without you?”
They came together in an unhurried kiss that went through several stages.
When they finally parted, Emilio said sheepishly, “Later on, do you think we could—”
Three things happened at once—STORM UPDATE reappeared on the TV screen, the iPhone lit up with another text message, and an email dropped into her inbox with a musical bing! Sarah noticed all of this and went for the phone first.
“Hold that thought,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Okay … they think they’re going to have to upgrade the storm from just a ‘gale’ to a ‘severe gale,’” she said, reading the text alert from the National Weather Service. “That means winds over seventy miles per hour. The next step after that is a hurricane. We haven’t had a storm like that here in more than a century. We could get a foot of rain. Shit.…”
She closed the laptop and iPad while Emilio wiped his mouth and cleared the plates.
“Let’s get going,” she said.
“Right behind you.”
3
“Marla Hollis?”
Corwin came forward with his hand extended and a smile that almost reached his ears. He looked exactly as he did in the few photos she’d been able to find online—handsome, preppyish, and with a fair retention of collegiate youthfulness despite the flecks of gray that had settled around the sides of his otherwise light brown hair. She hadn’t been able to determine his birthdate, but judged him to be in his early to midforties. He wore the standard Ivy League uniform of khaki pants, white button-down shirt, and navy blazer, the latter replete with gold buttons. There was a matching gold watch—a Rolex, and not a fake—on his right wrist, which suggested that he was left-handed. Everything about him spoke of money, privilege, and entitlement, which only served to fortify her already stout emotional defenses.
“Yes,” Marla said flatly. She accepted his hand, gave it a single proper shake, and let go.
“It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“You, too.”
“You haven’t been waiting long, have you?” He checked the Rolex. “We said nine thirty, right?”
“I’ve only been here a few minutes.”
“Robin has kept you company?” He glanced at the woman behind the circular desk, who looked young enough to be his daughter. She smiled back.
“As I said,” Marla told him, “I’ve only been here a few minutes.” It had been enough time to scrutinize every inch of the sunlit reception area. There were matted black-and-white photos of the plant’s original construction, in 1974; a large, brightly colored diagram of how nuclear energy was produced; and a chunk of uranium ore displayed inside a Lucite case.
A little plaque attached to the latter read, “Over 99 percent of the ore-grade uranium found in nature is of the isotope U-238, which has a half-life of more than four billion years. But don’t worry—it’s generally harmless in its unrefined state. The piece you see here was unearthed in one of our mines in Canada.”
Leather couches were arranged around a thick rug; a selection of trade publications littered the coffee and end tables. Marla thought of the space as the “Rah-Rah Room,” and as dangerously disarming as her host.
“Well,” he said, “I’m glad you weren’t left waiting too long. Let’s go back to my office so we can talk.”
He led her down a brief hallway lined with numerous awards and other citations, all hanging at eye level. Marla spotted several large potted plants that, she couldn’t help noticing, were artificial. Then they entered a surprisingly modest workspace: bare white walls, a few shelves, a battered filing cabinet, a basic L-desk with a computer and a few family photos, and piles of paper everywhere.
Corwin lifted one particularly large stack from the single guest chair and said, “Please, have a seat.” Cradling the papers in the crook of his arm, he searched for a place to set them down before finally deciding on a spot on the floor by the mini fridge. Wiping his hands together, he settled into the simple swivel chair behind his desk. The smile resurfaced.
“I apologize for the mess. It’s been hectic lately and I haven’t had the chance to get organized.”
“You’ve been very busy,” she said.
Her declaratory tone—a statement rather than a question—clearly puzzled Corwin. “Yes,” he replied with an affable chuckle, “yes I have. We’re trying to—”
“Dinner with Lawrence Navarro, one of the six members of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, at Barty’s Alehouse, which, perhaps most notably, is roughly at the geographic center point between here and Navarro’s office in D.C. Unless the food is the best in the world, I’m guessing the location was chosen because there was a good chance neither of you would be recognized there.
“Three days before that,” she went on, “Tamra Wilson, assistant secretary of our wonderful state of Pennsylvania and a close friend of the governor, dropped by your home at ten thirty P.M.—and in her own car at that—and stayed for more than three hours. And the previous week, you spent a full morning with four of the top executives at Pendleton Investments, following which a new revolving credit line was opened in the name of Corwin Energies, infused with more than twenty million dollars in cash.
“Even the dumbest person in the world could connect those dots, Mr. Corwin. So when do you begin building the new plant? And more to the point, when were you going to tell the public about it? Or is public concern for the manifold dangers of nuclear power still at the bottom of your priority list?”
Corwin had been moving an overstuffed binder from one side of his desk to the other when Marla launched this diatribe, and he stopped with it in midair as he listened, his smile gradually dwindling away.
He set the binder down on the blotter and chuckled again, this time without a trace of humor.
“Okay, well, you do get right to the point, no doubt about that. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. And I suppose there’s no sense in asking you where you got your information.”
“None.”
Corwin smoothed down the hair at the back of his head, then leaned forward and held both hands up, palms facing his guest.
“Look, I don’t want this to turn into a schoolyard scuffle, okay? I invited you here in part because you’ve been requesting an interview for so long, and in part because I was hoping you’d be fair to me and let me give my side of the story. I’ve got a pretty clear idea of where you stand on the issue of nuclear power, but I am also under the impression that you’re an objective and open-minded journalist. If I didn’t think that, I wouldn’t have granted the request at all. And I’m basing that opinion, by the way, on many other articles you’ve written.”
Marla was surprised that Corwin had taken the time to dig into her past work. “I’ve only written about one side of the issue,” she said, “because that’s all I’ve had to work with. Nevertheless, the information I’ve given to the public so far has been based on very thorough research. The facts are the facts.”
“Well, okay. I’m not going to try to pull you off the things you’ve written. I’m also not going to sit here and say nuclear power doesn’t have its problems. I’m well aware of the dangers; I can’t afford not to be. That’s the truth, regardless of what you may think of me—and what I know you think of my father.”
In a measured tone that she found difficult to conjure, Marla said, “Your father is one of the most ruthless men in the energy business. And that’s not merely
my opinion. The list of people who have gone on record stating similar sentiments is so long it could—”
The hands came up again. “I don’t want to get into a discussion about my father, please. Since his stroke two years ago, I’m the one who’s been making the decisions concerning the management of this plant, as well as all his other business interests.”
Marla tilted her head slightly and grinned. “You’re telling me your father has nothing to do with the day-to-day operations of Corwin Energies? That’s what you’re going to ask people to believe?”
“Marla, my dad can’t even drink a glass of water on his own. He’s got nurses around the clock. He can barely communicate.”
“From what I understand, Leo Corwin can still speak and still write.” She delighted in the renewed look of astonishment that crossed his face upon hearing yet another privileged revelation. “I have the feeling a man like Leo Corwin doesn’t relinquish command very easily.”
Corwin shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you’re wrong on that point. I’m in charge.”
“Well, I guess I’m going to have to take your word for it, as I don’t know enough about what goes on here during the course of an ordinary day to say otherwise. Between the nondisclosure agreements you require your employees to sign and your steadfast refusal to address the media, you and your father have done an admirable job of creating an impenetrable fortress where information is concerned.”
“Our employees sign nondisclosure agreements due to security concerns. If some terrorist cell gets the details of a nuclear plant in this country, I assure you it’s not going to be a Corwin plant. And as for our radio-silence policy toward the media, I’m hoping to change that.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t imagine your dad being too happy about that.”
“As I said, Marla, I’m the one at the controls now.”
She nodded and dropped her gaze, purposely creating the illusion of confusion and vulnerability. She didn’t miss his repeated use of her first name; a subtle attempt to defrost her through familiarity. People had tried to manipulate her thousands of times in her career, and the only aspect of Corwin’s attempt that disappointed her was the fact that he obviously thought she wouldn’t notice. I can play along.
“Then I guess the buck really does stop here,” she said, “and I’m talking to the right person.”
“You are. And I promise you, you’ll have a very different attitude toward nuclear power by the end of the day.”
“Well, we’ll see. Would you mind if I used this?” She reached into her bag and took out a small digital recorder. Corwin paled at the sight of it. She might as well have produced a tarantula.
“I’d prefer if you didn’t,” he said gently. “Really, I’m sorry. But, no … I would really rather not.”
“No?”
“No.”
She shrugged. “Okay, your choice. Remember, the main advantage when a journalist records a conversation is that it greatly reduces the chance of mistakes. Misquotes and so forth.”
“I know. I’ll take that chance.”
“All right.” She set the recorder down on the edge of the desk, next to a row of thick directories that were sandwiched between a pair of cooling-tower bookends. “I’ll leave it right here in plain view,” she said. “And as you can see, it’s not turned on.”
Corwin nodded. “Thank you.” He rose, his smile returning again. “And in appreciation, I’d like to do something for you—how about I give you a tour of the plant while we do the interview?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. I just have to ask that you don’t take any pictures.”
“I didn’t even bring my camera.”
“Good, then let’s go.”
Marla let Corwin take the lead in the hall. As he passed her, she reached into her pants pocket and activated the digital recorder she’d put there before she even got out of her car. The device’s wireless microphone was disguised as a pendant; she wore it around her neck on a thin gold chain. The tiny recorder, bought from a dealer in Hong Kong, had cost her a fortune, but she believed it had already paid for itself many times over. I have him exactly where I want him, she thought excitedly.
* * *
As Corwin opened the door that led into the plant, he was thinking precisely the same thing about her.
4
“That one has a coat hanger, and that one has a coat hanger.…”
Sarah was mumbling to herself in the passenger seat of their two-year-old Honda sedan. They could’ve afforded something a little better and once discussed leasing a BMW or a Saab, but Sarah felt it was important that an elected town official not appear too grandiose. She was willing to take the hit on luxury rather than risk even a whiff of impropriety. Not while we’ve got people living on welfare on River Road, she had said, and Emilio agreed. His family had never needed government assistance to pay their bills, but she knew they had come close more than a few times.
They were cruising along the southwest stretch of that very road now, one side hugging the twists and turns of Silver Lake’s main estuary, the other segmented by a run of low-income properties. Most of the houses followed the same simple blueprint—a small box with an A-frame roof and a bay window next to the front door. Built half a century earlier to accommodate the influx of young soldiers returning from World War II who were looking to get started on the budding American dream, the homes had been regarded as modest metaphors of hopefulness.
Now they represented a slice of society that lived on the very edge of the economic cliff, where one minor misfortune—a car accident, a burst appendix—would all but assure ruination. Sarah disliked being in this area, not because she harbored the squirming revulsion that others felt toward those who were financially disadvantaged, but because she couldn’t stomach the idea of anyone in her town struggling to survive.
“That one doesn’t have a hanger,” she went on, making a checkmark in her notebook, “but that house has been unoccupied since Greta passed away.”
The idea of putting hangers on the knobs or handles of the front doors to indicate that all the residents of a home had evacuated was her idea. In such a situation, she reasoned, the signal had to be as simple and as easy as possible. It was voted unanimously into the town’s emergency guidelines and had further been adopted by most of the surrounding communities.
“No hanger there, either,” Emilio said, nodding toward a Cape Cod creeping with moss and mold. “Then again, why would there be?”
“Tell me about it,” Sarah replied bitterly. That particular property had been abandoned by the owners after they’d been hit by two floods in one year. The second time, the water had risen almost above the street signs. When it receded, the family in the Cape Cod posted a note on the door—WE’VE HAD ENOUGH—and disappeared. Two weeks later, the governor announced that twelve lots in Silver Lake would be declared uninhabitable and purchased by the state, relieving those residents of their diminishing mortgages. The resulting gap in the town’s tax base, however, would have to be filled by pooling the burden among everyone else.
They reached the end of River Road and started back in the other direction on the next street over. Several sweeps later, on Masterson Avenue, Emilio spotted another hanger-free door, this one belonging to a handsome colonial with a swinging bench on the front porch and several statues within the carefully tended landscaping.
“Another big surprise,” Sarah said sarcastically when he pointed it out. She flipped a few pages in her notebook. “And hey, look at this. We’ve given them four warnings about the storm and received no response. Great.” She took out her iPhone and thumbed through Contacts until she found the one she wanted.
“Keith? It’s Sarah. We’re over here in Atlantis, and there’s no hanger on the Delacourts’ door.… Yeah, I know … naturally. One of the squad cars is nearby, isn’t i—two blocks over? Okay, good. Could you please send that one to see if the Dela-twerps are hom
e? Okay, thank you.”
Driving out of the development, they headed south down Kramer Turnpike. About a mile on, directly across from the playgrounds, basketball court, and picnicking area in Orchard Park, a cherry picker, surrounded by traffic cones and with its hazards flashing, was parked next to a towering red oak. As Emilio pulled to the opposite curb, the woman in the bucket high in the tree shut off her chain saw.
“How’s it coming, Kell?” Sarah shouted up to her, leaning out the window. Kelley Howard had been the first woman ever hired to Silver Lake’s road crew and was now a ten-year veteran.
“All right!” she yelled back. The air was thick, damp, and tinged with the acrid scent of fresh sawdust. “I’ve got one more branch on this one, then I’m going to drop that cherry tree on Hanover! It’s been dead about two years now, so the roots are fully rotted! If we leave it, the storm will blow it into the power lines!”
Sarah knew exactly which tree she meant—the one in front of Allyson Parker’s house. She and Allyson had been close in elementary school and had stayed in touch after the Parkers moved to Fort Worth. Back when they played hopscotch on the sidewalk next to it, that tree had been little more than a stick with some leaves up top. The thought of it coming down now brought a touch of melancholy.
“How long have you been out here?” Sarah asked.
“Since about five!”
She looked at the man driving the rig—Donnie Barrett, dressed in a plaid work shirt and jeans and wearing a yellow hardhat—then back at Kelley. “You both need to go home and get some rest!”
“We will!”
“You shouldn’t be operating a chain saw if you’re tired!”
Kelley smiled. “Okay, Mom!”
“I’m serious!”
“Just the one more after this, and then it’s home to bed! The rain will put me right out!”
“Okay, please be careful!”