by G. M. Ford
I shut the engine off and turned to Kennedy.
"You ready?" She grimaced in reply.
"Stay outside until I get her unwrapped."
"Was all that tape really necessary?" she asked.
"You're about to find out."
I walked back to the camper, checking the street on the way around. Few lights showed in the windows. It was an old neighborhood. They turned in early. I unlocked the camper door. Caroline was lying on her side, with her knees drawn tightly up to her chest. She tried to mule-kick me, as I stepped up onto the camper. I caught her feet under my arm and kept walking forward until her legs pointed up toward the ceiling, her shoulders pinned to the floor. She stopped struggling.
"Okay, Caroline. Here's the drill. I'm going to take the tape off you here in a minute." I used my free hand to point back out through the door. "We're about two blocks from your grandfather's house."
Her eyes widened. More wild struggling and gurgling.
"It's a quiet neighborhood. It's late. You start waking people up and I'm going to march you down the street and turn you over to Frankie and the twins. That'll be the end of it. You got that?"
The struggling momentarily stopped.
"You got that?" I repeated. She nodded, banging her head on the floor I the process.
I unwound the tape from her ankles. She stayed put. Probably trying to lull me into a false sense of confidence. I yarded her over and unwound the tape from her wrists. She was up in a flash, tearing the tape down from her mouth, wearing it like a dull silver necklace.
"You work for my grandfather? I knew it. I knew it. You son of a bitch, Leo. You son of a bitch," she repeated over and over as she struggled vainly to find the overlapped end of the tape.
"Right now, I work for you." She wasn't buying.
Giving up on the tape, she came at me with both hands and feet. I ducked my head and body-blocked her into the front of the overhead sleeper, keeping my head down, allowing her to vent her spleen on my back.
I stepped back suddenly, putting the length of the camper between us.
"That's enough," I said.
She was breathing heavily, her hands involuntarily curling and uncurling as she looked for an escape route. I felt the camper lurch as Saasha Kennedy stepped up inside and sat down at the small table. I reached back and closed the door behind her.
"Who's this bitch?" Caroline sniffled.
"This is a friend of mine," I said. "Her name is Saasha Kennedy. She's here to see if maybe she can't help you out of this mess you're in."
"I don't need your fucking help. I wouldn't be in this fucking mess if it wasn't for you, you asshole."
"Caroline - " Kennedy began.
"Fuck you," she screamed. What followed was several minutes of unintelligible cursing, mostly nouns and adjectives, very few verbs. Among other things, the girl needed work on the artful use of profanity.
Eventually she ran out of gas and turned her back on us, resting her arms up on the sleeper, resting her head between them. I laid it out for her.
"Here's where it's at, Caroline. Your friends at Save the Earth are on their way to jail now. They're going to be doing some serious time. In a few minutes, that building you guys hang out in is going to be crawling with police. Whatever you've got down there is history. You've - "
Caroline turned quickly. "All my stuff is - "
"It's gone," I said. "It'll be in a police evidence locker by morning."
"So what?" she sneered. "I'll replace it. It's only - "
"You don't have any money," I said quickly. "Your access to funds has been cut off. I arranged it with your grandfather. You're broke. Your so-called friends are on their way to jail. What now, honey? Huh?"
Kennedy put a restraining hand on my elbow. I shut up.
It must have been the news about the money. I figured she'd probably never been broke before. Whatever it was, somewhere inside her, a dam slowly cam apart. At first, she seemed to be having trouble getting her breath. Gulping air, without ever exhaling. Followed by a long series of what sounded like hiccups. Then the tears, as she turned away again and began sobbing hysterically, her body wracked by spasms, she shoulders shaking almost uncontrollably as she poured and pounded her collected angst into the mattress. She seemed to cry forever. I became progressively more uncomfortable.
I've never been good around crying women. Most of the greatest, most expensive mistakes of my life have been made in response to crying women. Crying always gives me the uncontrollable urge to do something. Something, anything, no matter how stupid, not just stand around.
I started to move forward, but Kennedy held me back, silently shaking her head. She pointed toward the door.
"Me?" I mouthed silently. She nodded.
I stepped out, closing the door behind me. The frozen leaves crunched beneath my feet as I wandered down a couple of blocks. I stood on the frozen sidewalk in front of Tim Flood's house. Only the hall lights glowed weak and yellow through the crocheted curtains.
Part of me was tempted to ring the bell and turn Caroline over to whoever answered. My job was finished. I'd done what I'd been paid to do. I'd earned my bonus. Who in hell was I to be mucking about in somebody else's life? My own wasn't in such good shape that I could be considered an expert on life management. If my old man hadn't been smart enough to tie up all of his money, I'd probably have gotten myself into even worse trouble than Caroline was in now.
Something wouldn't let me. Probably the memory of the smell. Involuntarily, as I stood in front of the house, my circuits had conjured up the stifling heat and the decaying smell of Tim's solarium. Disgusted with myself, I wondered back down the street.
As I approached the camper from the rear, I could hear the murmurings of conversation from within. Separate voices.
Shivering now, I strolled around some more, once again wondering about the heating bills in this august old neighborhood. Fifty minutes passed as I wandered frozen about the darkened streets.
The camper door opened. Kennedy got out. She closed the door.
"Take us back to my car," she said. "Caroline's going to spend the night with me."
"What then?"
"We'll see."
"You sure?"
"You didn't leave her many other options."
"You better keep both eyes on her. She's - "
"A very mixed-up, very disconnected kid," she finished for me. "I'll make some calls in the morning."
"She'll probably be gone by morning."
"Where's she going to go, Waterman? She's not even wearing a jacket."
I started for the camper. She stopped me.
"You just drive. Right now, she doesn't need any more of your ham-handed moralizing."
Before I could argue, Kennedy climbed back inside with Caroline and locked the door.
Chapter 26
The Lord divides up the good stuff and parcels it out. Charles Hayden's secretary was pretty, but she wasn't quick.
"Mr. Hayden's in conference at the moment. If you'd like to wait - "
I kept right on walking. She'd told me all I needed to know.
"Just a minute, sir. You can't - Sir. Sir."
She was still trying to disconnect herself from her headset when I hit the door. she must have meant conference call.
Hayden had the phone to his ear and was facing away from the door, his feet on the windowsill, gazing comfortably out over the city. He swiveled his chair angrily, his face still registering bemused tolerance when it fell into his lap.
"How's the Toxic Avenger this morning?" I asked.
The secretary was babbling apologies behind me.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Hayden. I told this gentleman" - her inflection suggested this last word might not be altogether accurate - "that you were - "
"It's all right, Nancy."
He spoke into the receiver. "I'll have to call you back." He hung up.
"Never mind, Nancy," he said to the girl.
She stood dumbfounded. He sh
ooed her off, waving the backs of his hands at her. I could feel her gaze on the back of my neck as she reluctantly sidestepped out of the room. He watched her go.
"What are you doing here? We had a deal. If you think - "
"I lied." Now it was Hayden's turn to be dumbfounded. I helped out. "Quite a splash in the media the other day. Nice suit. Understated, but elegant. Looked good on the tube. I especially liked the part about the months of dogged investigative work paying off for your agency. A nice touch. You could move up a few floors with this one, Charlie."
I pulled the nearest chair over to the side of the desk and sat in close, grinning at him. "Daniel sends his regards."
"What do you want?"
"Nothing. I just wanted to meet a genuine American hero, that's all."
"I don't have any money. Wendy bled me dry. If you want money - "
"I don't want your money." I waited for him to ask me what it was I did want. He was either unwilling or unable to oblige.
"I want some information." I gestured expansively out over his desk. "I'm willing to bet that what I want to know is somewhere here in your tidy little desk. You know what they say about tidy desks, don't you?"
"What do you want?"
"You're starting to repeat yourself, Charlie. Keep that up and you'll have me thinking that you're not glad to see me."
He sat and stared at me. I decided to give him a break.
"How's the investigation progressing?" I asked.
"Slowly."
"Any leads?"
"It's only been a couple of days."
"In an investigation, three days is an eternity. Come on, Hayden. By now, even a government employee must have come up with something."
A wave of color moved up his face. He rose to the bait.
"Take a look at this." He slid a piece of paper across the desk.
It was a bank statement. Everett branch, First Interstate. Howard Short. Present balance, one hundred eighty-one thousand and change.
"The tribe was paying him forty-two thou," he said.
"Frugal fella."
"That's what we thought," Hayden said smugly. "We're checking back on him now."
"What about a list of possible PCB recyclers?"
"Do you have any idea how many users of PCBs there are? It could - "
"Not users. Recyclers, remember. I was there. Too much for users. Has to be a recycler. Let me see a list of local recyclers."
He started to protest, had a spasm of lucidity, and reached up into his in-basket. He dropped a blue-and-white computer printout onto the desk in front of me and glared at me over laced fingers as I worked my way down the columns of company names and addresses.
The list was statewide, nearly a hundred entries. Ecology was big business. I moved back to the first few listings. The third one down read Rainier Recycling, 400 Second Avenue, Seattle, Washington.
"What's this?" I asked, turning the printout so he could read under my finger.
"Rainier Recycling. They do mostly plastic for - "
"It's downtown on Second Avenue. Yuppies. Suit City. The only thing they're recycling in that neighborhood is cappuccino. What's the deal?"
"That's just the office address."
"Where's the recycling facility?"
"That's in the Inspection Guide."
"Where's the Inspection Guide?"
He exhaled noisily again, turned, liberated a beige hard-bound book from a bookcase beneath the window, and plopped it down in front of me.
Grabbing the printout and the Inspection Guide, I stood up.
"Thanks," I said. "Keep up the good work." I started for the door.
"Hey," he whined. "I need those."
"Fill out a requisition form, " I said over my shoulder.
I gave Nancy my most dazzling smile as I strode past her desk. Her lovely jawline was spoiled by knots the size of gold balls. I kept smiling.
Two hours and three cups of coffee later I had it narrowed down to four possibles. Four chemical recyclers who had offices within a ten-block radius of Bobby Warren's collection of parking stubs and a recycling facility in Tacoma. Baker Commodities, American Recycling, and Mobius Reclamation in Tacoma and Northwest Handlers in Fife all fit the bill.
Four was better than a hundred, but it was still too many. From what I remembered of the geography of that area, the possibles were widely scattered. I needed to narrow it down. As much as the thought pained me, I needed to talk to Caroline Nobel.
I left the gloom of the coffee shop and squinted my way over to a phone booth. I called Kennedy. Her voice was husky.
"How's the girl?" I asked.
"She's sleeping. We talked most of the night."
"I need to have a few words with her."
"That wouldn't be a good idea."
"Why not? It's important."
"She has enough unresolved issues in her life right now without you adding any more. I'll have to insist - "
"I think I can resolve at least anything for quite a while.
"The death of this young man has been quite a trauma for her."
"I figured he was just so much grist for the mill," I said.
"Perhaps you should just take my word for it," she said coldly. "I've already shared more with you than I should have."
"So, how about it?"
"Do you really think you can bring this matter to a successful resolution for her? Give her some sense of closure on the matter? She doesn't need any more trauma."
"I do."
She reluctantly recited the address.
I would have bet it wasn't possible. I would have been wrong. Caroline Nobel looked terrible. Beneath each blue eye hung an ash-colored bag. Several scrapes ran down her right cheek, probably from when she'd jumped through the hedge. Her other cheek was creased with blanket marks. In a voluminous flannel nightgown, she looked young and vulnerable.
She was sitting in a white wingback chair, curled up on her own feet. Kennedy sat protectively on the arm of the chair.
"You know who killed Bobby?" Caroline asked distractedly.
"I'm close. I need your help."
When I didn't get a response, I continued.
"I need to know exactly where you lost the truck you were following."
"I told you. Right at the railroad tracks."
"What was the cross street?"
"I don't know. That was the first time I'd ever been down there."
Dead end. I was busy calculating the risks involved in carrying out a B&E on four separate chemical companies when Caroline said the magic words.
"I could show you," she said in a small voice.
If Saasha Kennedy had shaken her head any more violently, she'd have ended up in a neck brace. Caroline gazed beseechingly up at her.
"Please. I need to. If it wasn't for me Bobby would - "
They went at it, low-key tooth and nail, until Kennedy finally relented. Caroline may have been beaten, but her spirit wasn't broken yet. It was a good sign.
Kennedy found her some clothes and then returned to the living room while the girl got dressed. She was angry.
"You better take care of her, Waterman."
"I will."
"She just shows you the street and then you bring her back here. I mean it. Two hours from right now, I call the police."
"Scout's honor." I held up two fingers.
"Stuff ‘em," she replied.
Caroline appeared wearing an oversize pair of jeans and a green cowl-neck sweater. "I'm ready," she said. Kennedy forced a smile. I hustled Caroline out the door.
It was a quiet ride. She never said a word until we passed through Federal Way. Then suddenly, as if we'd been conversing all along, she said. "Bobby was very special to me." I stared straight ahead. Whatever the response was supposed to be was lost on me.
"I know what you think of me. You're probably right, but that doesn't mean I didn't love Bobby. He was special."
"I think you're a hell of a kid," I said.
"You
think I'm a pain in the ass."
"That too."
"See."
"Hey, kid. Nobody except maybe Mother Teresa is all good or all bad, and I've got my doubts about her. You're got your finer points. You just need to get a little more mileage out of them."
"What points?"
I thought about it as we wheeled down the hill and into Fife.
"You know, one of the guys that works for me, his name is George Paris, he thought that little trick we pulled on you last night would never work. You know why?"
"Why?"
"Because he said that people didn't give enough of a shit about one another anymore to come running to the rescue at a time like that. He said the average person would just refuse to get involved, that they would just keep on walking. And you know what?"
"What?"
"He was right. Most people don't give a shit," I said. "But you did."
"Maybe I'm just stupid."
"No," I said. "You just care."
"You're telling me that caring is what got me into this mess I'm in."
"No. Being disconnected got you into this mess. That's a word Ms. Kennedy used the other night. It's a good word for you. I've been thinking about it. You're not connected to anything."
"I don't understand."
"Let me put it this way. You've seen some of the people who work for me, right? Who could be more disconnected than them? Society wants no part of them. Half of them live outdoors. Their families, if they've got families, gave up on them years ago. What have they got?"
No answer.
"They've got each other," I said. "It sounds corny, but it's true. Even if it's only whiskey, at least they share with each other. They look out for each other. They know who's in detox, who's in the hospital, who's in jail. They keep track of each other. They're connected."
Mercifully, my lecture was interrupted.
"This is the exit," she said. Same exit I'd taken with Trask.
I moved over in the right-hand lane and eased the camper around the arc to the traffic light. The usual collection of freeway exit gas stations, minimarts, and truck stops lit the intersection as far as the eye could see to the left and right.