‘It’s the cover page of a report prepared by a woman named Lucia Causey.’
He shook his head. He’d heard the name, but he couldn’t place it. ‘I’m not familiar with her.’
‘Lucia Causey is a Stanford epidemiologist,’ Altman explained. ‘She was the special master in the litigation against Mondamin. She wrote the scientific analysis that the judge used to dismiss the lawsuit.’
38
Lenny waited until dark to return home.
He hoped that Kirk’s temper had cooled. It was obvious after he spent two hours near the Indian monument, nursing his bruises, that his brother wasn’t coming back for him. He’d hitchhiked with a truck driver into Barron and spent most of the day playing video games at the pizza parlor on Main Street. His phone didn’t ring. Kirk didn’t try to call. That was ominous.
As night fell, he tried to bum a ride south, but no one was heading his way. He hiked in the rain. His jaw ached like shit; he was sure it was broken. He limped, too, with his right knee throbbing. The miles were slow and miserable. He stuck out his thumb when he saw headlights, but the drivers ignored him. He tried to stay under the shelter of the trees, but the rain found him anyway. After walking for an hour, he found himself shivering uncontrollably.
When he finally lurched down 120th toward the river, he found their house dark. Kirk wasn’t home. He was glad he didn’t have to face his brother yet. He unlocked the door and went inside, and made a beeline for the bathroom in the hallway. He ran a bath, making the water as hot as his fingers could stand. As he waited for the tub to fill, he peeled off his clothes and left them in a soggy pile on the tile floor. Before the water reached the top, he dipped one foot into the bath, then the other. His frigid skin felt scalded. He sank to his knees, and the blistering water stung his genitals. He didn’t care. He sank onto his back, wincing as the heat assaulted every cut and bruise.
His shivering subsided. He was warm again, burning and sweating. He closed his eyes. Under the water, he reached for his shaft and twiddled it until it grew hard, sprouting from the surface of the bath like a pink mushroom. He thought about Olivia as he masturbated. The mental image of her sitting on the edge of the tub as he jerked off sent him flying. He shot wriggling ropes of semen into the dirty water. Sticky strands stuck to his legs.
He was still breathing hard when the front door slammed like a cannon going off. Kirk was home. He heard his brother’s wild voice bellowing through the house, and his intestines convulsed in fear.
‘Leno, where the fuck are you?’
Lenny scrambled to his feet, white goo dripping from his deflated shaft. He clawed for a bath towel, but before he could wrap it around his body, Kirk kicked open the door so hard that the top hinge splintered and cracked. His brother filled the entire doorway. His long hair was loose. Beer smell burped from his mouth; he was wide-eyed drunk.
‘Kirk, listen—’ Lenny began, but his brother took two steps, grabbed him by the throat and hauled him out of the tub. Kirk took Lenny’s scrawny shoulders and threw him across the slippery floor. Lenny stumbled out of the bathroom, and his forehead cracked on the wall. He was hot and dizzy; he staggered forward, and his pizza and Mountain Dew evacuated his stomach, barely missing his brother.
Kirk took a fistful of Lenny’s hair. He dragged him, naked, into the living room, and drove him face-first into the carpet with a knee in the small of his back.
‘You useless fucking moron,’ Kirk hissed.
Lenny’s mouth was sour with vomit. He tried to talk. ‘I’m sorry, man.’
‘Sorry? Who gives a shit if you’re sorry?’
Kirk spun Lenny onto his back and leaned an elbow into his chest with a crushing pressure. Tears leaked from Lenny’s eyes.
‘Really, Kirk, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.’ He squirmed in pain. It felt like a knife driving between his ribs. ‘Johan snuck up on me, man. He kicked the shit out of me. There was nothing I could do. He made me tell him, man. I didn’t want to.’
‘Tell him what?’
‘About Olivia. About what we did to her.’
Kirk swatted Lenny’s head down like he was breaking a coconut. Lenny saw nothing but swirls of color. He thought he would throw up again.
‘You worthless fucking piece of shit, get the hell out of this house and don’t come back.’
‘Please, Kirk.’
‘Get out.’
His brother released him, and Lenny could breathe again, but each breath ached in his ribs. He pushed himself up on his elbows. Kirk stared at him as if he were a maggot in a bowl of rice. He’d seen Kirk furious before, but not like this. This was bad.
‘I’ll get some clothes,’ Lenny said.
‘Forget the clothes. Get out. Now.’
‘Hey, come on, man.’
Kirk’s eyes were black with rage. Lenny scampered to his feet, feeling the world spin. He knew better than to protest again. He ducked backward, colliding with the front door. It opened, and he spilled outside into the fierce rain. The water felt like ice. He clutched the railing and descended the porch steps to the mud.
Kirk was right. He’d fucked up. After everything Kirk had done for him, he’d let him down again.
Lenny didn’t know where to go. He was naked. He was cold. He was humiliated. He decided: The truck. He’d sleep in the truck. Kirk would pass out soon enough, and Lenny could go back to his own bed then. In the morning, his brother would forgive him. The storm would break. It always did.
He hauled himself inside the pick-up that was parked in front of the garage. He didn’t have the keys; he couldn’t turn on the engine. He found a musty blanket behind the seat, and he covered his bare skin with it, curling into a ball. He squeezed his eyes shut. His body was shivering again, and the wool turned his skin into a scratching post. He yearned for sleep, but his pain and misery kept him awake.
He heard the rain firing bullets at the roof of the pick-up.
He didn’t hear the footsteps outside the truck.
Kirk stripped to his boxers and flipped the channels on the television until he found a Wild hockey game. He couldn’t concentrate; he was still too pumped with rage. Part of him wanted to follow his baby brother outside and beat the little fucker until he was a lifeless pulp of blood and bones. Cut him up, just like Dad, and send the parts floating down the river.
He drank another bottle of beer in two swallows. His phone rang. The caller ID was blocked, and he muted the television and barked into the phone.
‘What?’
There was a long silence and then a cool, familiar voice.
‘It’s me.’
Kirk tried to unfog his brain. Shit. He didn’t want to be drunk when he was talking to the boss. He didn’t want to talk to him at all. Not now. He thought about hanging up, but you didn’t play games with Florian Steele.
‘Hey,’ he said, taking a breath. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’m hearing things I don’t like.’
‘Yeah? Like what?’
‘The police think they’re close to tracking down this man Aquarius.’
‘So what?’ Kirk asked.
‘Do you know who he is? Do you know what he’s doing?’
‘Me? I don’t have a clue, boss.’
Florian was silent. The dead air felt tense. ‘I’m hearing a name I’d hoped never to hear again,’ he said finally.
‘Oh, yeah? Who’s that?’
‘Vernon Clay.’
Kirk gripped the phone with a slippery hand and listened to the rain outside. ‘Who’s talking about him?’
‘Apparently Ashlynn was before she was killed.’
‘No way.’
‘I was wondering where she heard about him.’
‘Hell if I know, boss.’
‘Did you go out with her?’
‘Uh, yeah, we went out a few times. It was months ago.’ He added quickly, ‘I didn’t touch her.’
‘I told you to stay away from her.’
‘She came on to me, boss. I figured you knew.
’
‘She was trying to get information out of you, you idiot. What did you tell her?’
‘Tell her? Nothing. Nada.’
‘Did you tell her about Vernon Clay?’
‘Fuck, no. Are you kidding?’
Shit.
Kirk thought about his last evening with Ashlynn. He wanted a kiss. A squeeze. A fuck. Anything from that beautiful chick. They were drinking; he needed to get her wasted if he hoped to get anywhere near that amazing body. He figured out later that she kept pouring her beers on the ground when he went to piss. The more he drank, the more he bragged, hoping to impress her. When your daddy has a problem, you know who he calls? Kirk, baby. Me and him are tight.
She talked about how warm she was. She undid a couple of buttons on that churchy silk blouse of hers. He could see the swell of those perfect breasts. ‘Really?’ she asked, with her big eyes and that smoky voice. ‘What problems?’
Vernon Clay, baby. Big problem.
‘Swear to God, boss,’ Kirk went on. ‘I didn’t say a word.’
‘The police have linked Aquarius to Vernon Clay through a name on a hotel register,’ Florian told him. ‘They believe he’s back.’
‘He’s not.’
‘I’m having doubts.’
‘I told you four years ago the problem was solved.’
‘Yes, you did.’
Kirk was getting angry. ‘What, do you think I lied?’
‘I think for enough money, you’d tell me whatever I wanted to hear. Don’t forget, I know all about your other disgusting business, too.’
The vein in Kirk’s neck throbbed. ‘You don’t complain when it saves your neck.’
‘Vernon Clay,’ Florian repeated calmly.
‘What about him? I’m telling you, he’s not Aquarius. The police have it all wrong.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Kirk didn’t want to argue with the boss, but he was losing control. The frustrations of the day piled up on him. ‘What the fuck are you saying?’
‘I’m asking if Vernon Clay paid you to help him disappear.’
‘Hell, no!’
‘Where is he?’
‘You know where he is.’
‘Do I?’
‘You want proof?’ Kirk asked. ‘Is that what you’re saying? I’ll give you proof.’
‘I want to know whether Aquarius is Vernon Clay.’
‘He’s not. Look, give me two hours, and meet me in the usual place.’
‘Why?’
‘Because then you can ask Vernon yourself whether he’s been sending fucking notes to anybody.’
39
Chris sat in the deserted parking lot of the high school while the rain poured over his car. It was supposed to keep raining most of the night, swelling the rivers and ditches. Temperatures were sinking. He waited in the cold, with his engine and lights off, wondering whether George Valma would show up. The Mondamin scientist was fifteen minutes late. He thought about calling again, but as he opened his phone he saw blurry headlights glowing from the residential streets of Barron. A white sedan crawled along the border of the athletic fields and pulled into the lot beside Chris. The linebacker-sized scientist got out and climbed into the passenger seat of the Lexus.
‘I appreciate your coming,’ Chris said.
George shook rain out of his gray hair. ‘This was a mistake. If anyone sees me with you, I could lose my job. I shouldn’t have told you anything. I’ve got my kids to think about.’
‘I understand your situation.’
George fidgeted impatiently. ‘So what is it now? What do you want?’
‘Ashlynn found something,’ Chris said.
‘What?’
‘She told another girl that she had proof that Mondamin was connected to the cancer cluster in St. Croix.’
George shook his head. ‘She didn’t. That’s wrong.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because you can’t prove something like that. Cancer doesn’t work that way. You can have smokers live to ninety-five and athletes who drop at twenty-six. God doesn’t simply pick on the sinners.’
Chris thought about Hannah, who had made all the right choices in her life and was now in a fight to stay alive. You could blame God. You could blame bad luck. It didn’t change a thing. Cancer was a merciless enemy.
‘Okay, you’re right,’ Chris admitted, ‘but whatever she found, she was so horrified that she was willing to expose her own father.’
‘This involved Florian?’ George asked.
‘That’s what she said.’
‘I don’t know what it could be.’
‘I think you do, George. You think Vernon Clay poisoned the town of St. Croix, and Florian covered it up.’
The scientist shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Vernon Clay was mentally ill. Obsessive. Delusional. Schizophrenic. That’s the kind of man we’re talking about, George. Pretend you’re a mad scientist. If you got it in your head that you wanted to wreak havoc on a town, could you do it?’
The scientist nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, someone with Vernon’s knowledge of chemistry and access to hazardous pesticides could have done some bad things. He could have used any of a dozen different chemicals in quantities that would have been grotesquely dangerous. That doesn’t mean he did, and even if he did, it doesn’t mean that the contamination caused the cancers. Humans react in different ways to environmental toxins. It might have caused widespread illness. It might have had no effect at all.’
‘If he did, though, the truth would have been devastating in a courtroom. That would have been the end of Mondamin.’
George shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘You’re the lawyer.’
‘Florian’s a lawyer, too. If he discovered that Vernon Clay was involved in widespread chemical contamination, he knew he would have been at risk of losing everything. Having it exposed would have been devastating.’
‘Exactly. So why would Florian bankroll an independent investigation when he got sued?’ George asked. ‘He wouldn’t do that. He would have fought like hell to make sure no one got near Vernon Clay’s land.’
‘Maybe he’d already cleaned it up. Maybe he knew there was nothing to find.’
‘You can’t ever be sure about things like that,’ the scientist insisted. ‘With the proper equipment, an expert would have found evidence of dumping, particularly if it was as extreme as what we’re talking about. You can’t hide from the kind of technology we have today. Florian knows that.’
Chris thought about Aquarius and the cover page of Lucia Causey’s special master report. ‘On the other hand, if an outside expert ran all the tests and found nothing, that would quash the rumors once and for all. No more litigation. No more questions from the environmental agencies.’
‘That’s exactly what happened,’ George told him.
‘So maybe the special master screwed up.’
‘Impossible. Lucia Causey is a top-flight epidemiologist. She had state-of-the-art equipment at her disposal. If there was something to find, she would have found it.’
‘What if Florian got to her?’ Chris asked. ‘What if he influenced her?’
‘You’re not talking about a hired gun,’ George protested. ‘You’re talking about a tenured university scientist.’
‘No offense, but plenty of scientists are willing to be hacks for any lawyer who pays them. That’s the reason the courts started coming up with ways to screen out junk science.’
‘I don’t believe a scientist like Lucia would sell her soul,’ George replied. ‘I hear what you’re saying about scientists whose conclusions are for sale to the highest bidder, but that’s not her. Her track record isn’t pro-defense or pro-plaintiff. She’s independent. If she had a reputation for being one-sided, the judge wouldn’t have picked her.’
‘Do you know Lucia well enough to call her?’ Chris asked.
‘To say what? “Dr. Causey, this is George Valma at Mondamin. I was just wondering, did you take a bribe
from our CEO and falsify the data in your report?” Do you think she’s simply going to admit it?’
‘No.’
‘Then what do you expect me to do? I couldn’t help Ashlynn, and I can’t help you.’
Chris stared at the scientist. ‘Wait a minute. Ashlynn? Did she want to know about Lucia Causey, too?’
George shrugged his beefy shoulders. ‘Yes, she wanted to talk to Lucia. She contacted the epidemiology department at the medical school, and they wouldn’t tell her a thing. Ashlynn asked if I would make the contact for her.’
Chris remembered the records he’d reviewed from the girl’s cell phone and realized he’d overlooked something important. Stanford. He’d thought she was pursuing college admissions, but the call meant something completely different now.
‘Did you make the call?’ he asked.
‘No. I told her what I told you.’
‘George, this is important. Do you have any contacts at Stanford?’
‘I have a college friend who’s a visiting professor there.’
Chris reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a phone. He handed it across the car. ‘Call him.’
‘Even if he transfers me to Lucia Causey, what am I supposed to say to her?’
‘Ask if Ashlynn contacted her. Ask her what she said.’
George waved off Chris’s phone and slipped his own phone from the pocket of his pants. He checked his contact list and dialed. Chris heard a voice pick up the call on the third ring.
‘Chester? It’s George Valma calling. Yes, long time, I know. Right, I’m in small-town Minnesota now. Not exactly Palo Alto.’
The two scientists made small talk. Chris grew impatient, but he waited without pushing George. Eventually, when his Stanford colleague asked what George wanted, the Mondamin scientist got to the point.
‘Listen, Chester, I’m trying to contact a researcher at the med school there. I was wondering if you could look up her direct line. Her name is Lucia Causey. I appreciate it.’ George waited, and while he did, he covered the phone. ‘If Lucia calls Florian about this, you know what’s going to happen to me.’
‘Blame me,’ Chris said.
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