Requiem

by Clare Francis

  But Dublensky didn’t know. He’d never belonged to the organization that he assumed Reedy was referring to, had never made a speech, nor torn anyone else’s apart.

  What did this show of brotherhood mean? When they had last spoken – it was back in March, shortly before he was fired from Allentown – it was to exchange bitter words over the Silveron affair. The memory of that conversation still had the power to shrink Dublensky’s heart.

  ‘What can I do for you, Don?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘John …’ Reedy lingered over his name, giving another chuckle. ‘I thought we could meet. It’s been a long time. How about dinner tonight? There’s a conference event I’ll be glad to skip. Can you make it? Say you can. It would be really great to see you.’

  Dublensky fought for a reply.

  ‘Would it be easier if I came down to you?’ said Reedy, cutting into the silence. ‘I could grab a hire car and get down by six thirty.’

  This willingness to travel seemed to cast Reedy’s invitation in a new light. Maybe the forced joviality hid a desire to make amends. Maybe he had come to apologize.

  Not entirely free of suspicion, Dublensky found himself asking: ‘Er, what is it you want to talk about exactly?’

  ‘Why, nothing, John. I just wanted – ’ Reedy paused suddenly, as if he had thought better of this approach, and murmured: ‘John, you know how it is, there are things you can never talk about over the phone. I mean, like it’d be real nice to see you, John.’

  ‘Is it Morton-Kreiger business?’

  ‘What?’ He sounded genuinely shocked. ‘Oh no, John, no. This isn’t business, this is entirely my idea!’

  Dublensky knew then that he would agree. His curiosity was too great, his suspicions too sharp to leave it alone.

  It was only after they had arranged to meet at a local inn and Dublensky was back at the table with a fresh cup of coffee, that it occurred to him that Reedy must have gone to a lot of trouble to track him down to this corner of New Jersey. In Allentown only two neighbours had known where he and Anne were moving to, and he certainly hadn’t told anyone at the chemical works. Had Reedy traced him through his employers then? And if so, were Dalton now fully informed of Dublensky’s background? Were they even now preparing to fire him? The thought filled him with new trepidation.

  But then it was probably foolish to imagine that the mandarins of MKI were not aware of the fact that he worked for Dalton. Now and again it had even occurred to him that, incredible though it seemed, MKI might actually have fixed up this job in order to keep an eye on him.

  Speculation, increasingly wild and torturous, filled Dublensky’s mind until the evening when, telling an uninterested Anne he had a business meeting, he went to meet Reedy.

  From the shadowy corner of the inn’s bar area, Reedy rose with a smile that sent his chins creasing into the folds of his neck.

  ‘John,’ he sighed, taking Dublensky’s hand and overlaying it with a fond pat. ‘John.’ He stood back and surveyed him like a parent eyeing a prodigal child. ‘Hey, but it’s good to see you.’

  By the time they had finished their drinks and moved through to the dining area, Reedy had asked him about life in the town, about Tad and his schooling, about Anne. He did not enquire after Dublensky’s work.

  His tone was avuncular, though Dublensky thought he could detect a trace of briskness, as if he was anxious to keep the conversation moving at some predetermined pace.

  Dublensky, needing to assert himself, if only modestly, made an abrupt interruption. ‘What’s happening at MKI?’ he asked.

  Reedy laughed at the question and tipped his fingers into space. ‘Oh, you know. Unchanging. The monolith rolls on. Although – ’ He shot Dublensky a slyly modest look. ‘For some reason they have seen fit to kick me up a step. As of next month I become Executive Vice President, Research.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Means getting my arse kicked more often.’ He assumed a long-suffering look that wasn’t designed to convince anyone.

  The food came and they paused to apply relish and sauces to their steaks. Reedy talked again, but more generally now, touching on everything from the national debt to bankruptcy among Iowa farmers. It was a screen of words, Dublensky realized, delivered both as a means of controlling the conversation and of giving himself time to prepare. But for what? There was something coming, of that Dublensky was certain. A formal non-aggression pact? An olive branch? A monetary deal?

  He said with unaccustomed boldness: ‘Was it about the Silveron affair you came, Don?’

  Reedy put down his fork. ‘The past is past, John,’ he said, affecting surprise. ‘That business – ’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘We all took the stance we thought was right at the time. Now, well …’ He gave a slight shrug and said magnanimously: ‘Let’s say there were faults on both sides.’ He returned to his plate, forking a lump of steak and lowering his head to push it into his mouth.

  ‘Faults?’

  ‘Mmm? Oh yeah, sure.’ He chewed as he spoke, making little effort to close his mouth. ‘Safety’s the watchword at the Aurora plant now. My Lord, the safety! You can’t move in that place for controls and regulations. We would never risk one worker, John, not one.’ He pointed his fork for emphasis. ‘But those early reports had us worried at one time, oh yes, I won’t pretend they didn’t.’ He used the we as if he had long been operating at senior executive level. ‘And of course we reacted appropriately. Now that the true facts have emerged we don’t regret that. Some people might say that we’d overreacted, but no risk however tiny is worth taking, not where people are concerned.’

  Dublensky was struggling to catch up. ‘The true facts?’ he echoed hesitantly.

  Reedy gave him a polite, mildly puzzled stare. ‘The people who reported sick – what was really wrong with them.’

  Dublensky looked blank and with a sudden exclamation Reedy slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘You didn’t know?’ he asked incredulously. ‘About the medical diagnoses?’

  Dublensky remembered Burt telling him about the Aurora workers who had got themselves rediagnosed in order to claim welfare, but chose not to say so. Instead he stared across the table, awaiting a fresh interpretation of the facts.

  Reedy, relishing his responsibilities, put down his fork and folded his serviette ceremoniously. ‘Okay,’ he said, holding up the fingers of both hands then folding down two, ‘there were eight workers who reported sick in the early days. Except two weren’t really sick – one had a nervous complaint from long before, the second was pregnant.’ He knocked off two fingers. ‘Of the six remaining, two had cancer – different forms – and the medics agree that chances are they both had the disease before they came into contact with Silveron. Which leaves four.’ He spread the remaining fingers wide, thrusting his wrist forward for emphasis. ‘Now these were the people we were really worried about – thanks in part to you, of course.’ He gave a small bow of acknowledgement.

  Dublensky’s mind plunged back to the old Reedy, the man who had been indifferent to the Aurora workers, and wondered at how things could change.

  ‘These four people were sick,’ Reedy went on, curling his fingers into a fist, ‘really sick. There was no doubt about that. But what we never realized – at least not for some time – was that they had not received the best diagnostic advice.’ He dropped his voice confidentially. ‘That physician Burt – well-meaning, of course – but he hadn’t run half the tests he should have run. It seems he made up his mind in advance that it was a problem of toxic exposure and closed his mind to everything else.’

  ‘But, but – ’ Dublensky agitated a hand in his anxiety to get the words out. ‘He ran all kinds of tests and they showed nothing.’

  ‘Ah!’ Reedy, smiling benignly, raised a correcting finger. ‘All sorts of tests, but not the right ones. When we finally got these people to a top diagnostician, well! Two had identifiable ailments. One was a rare liver disease, I believe. Another an auto-immune problem. I don’t k
now the details.’ He gestured his ignorance. ‘But I do know they would have gotten a lot more help if they’d come to MKI sooner.’

  ‘To MKI?’

  ‘Sure. We offered the diagnostician for free and were happy to do so.’

  Dublensky wondered who this diagnostician was that he could find so much that Burt had missed.

  ‘That still leaves two,’ Dublensky ventured.

  Reedy returned to his meal, spearing his fork into his french fries. ‘Two,’ he echoed contentedly. ‘That’s right. Well now, it’s early days, but it seems that one of these people was a malingerer and the other had some sort of mental illness. The diagnostician couldn’t be too specific on that – not his field, you understand – so he referred him to a psychiatrist. Sadly, this man refused to attend any sessions, diagnostic or otherwise.’ He shook his head uncomprehendingly and spread a hand. ‘What can you do when people don’t want to be helped?’

  All kinds of questions hovered on Dublensky’s lips. Like why all these illnesses shouldn’t have been brought on by the original exposure. Like why the first two victims – the ones with nervous illnesses and pregnancy – should be written off with a wave of the hand. And since when had pregnancy made a woman so ill she couldn’t function?

  But he did not put these questions. He said neutrally: ‘I had no idea.’

  Reedy, taking this as a positive response, beamed. ‘Nothing to worry about, see. A scare.’ He threw a last nugget of meat into his mouth and chewed it lazily. Catching sight of Dublensky’s plate, he made a sound of dismay. ‘You’ve not eaten!’

  Obediently, Dublensky picked up his fork, only to prod at the food without interest.

  Reedy finished his meal and, leaning forward, surveyed Dublensky with paternalistic satisfaction. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, you know, John,’ he said. ‘You did what you thought was right. You followed your principles, and everyone respects you for that.’

  Dublensky, stung by the condescension of the remark, was galvanized to ask: ‘Is that what you came to tell me?’

  Smiling, Reedy made a weaving motion with his hand. ‘I came because I wanted to, John. It’s been a long time and – well, I was grieved by what occurred. I wanted to check things out, make sure you were okay.’

  Dublensky couldn’t think of anything to say.

  ‘You’re happy at Dalton?’ Reedy enquired.

  Dublensky shrugged. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, it’s a company that’s going places, that’s for sure. They’re up there with the high fliers, in line for some major contracts. And you’ll get to fly right up there with them.’ He drooped an eyelid into a half wink: one winner greeting another.

  ‘It wasn’t easy to find work,’ Dublensky said flatly.

  ‘But you’re okay now,’ he declared assertively. ‘You’re okay now!’

  The waitress removed Dublensky’s uneaten steak and took their orders for coffee and dessert.

  As she left, Reedy leant across and said in a low sympathetic tone: ‘Look here … There is something else, John. I’ve been debating whether to bring it up and I still don’t know whether I should. But, hell – you’re a good man, John. I’d hate to see you get the blame for something you didn’t do. And as a friend – I hope a friend? – I couldn’t let it pass without telling you. Otherwise I’d never forgive myself. You know?’

  Dublensky thought: Here it is at last. ‘You’re making me nervous,’ he said truthfully. ‘What is it I’m supposed to have done?’

  Reedy made a show of bracing himself, his face creased with regret. ‘Please treat this in the greatest confidence,’ he whispered, hunching over the table. ‘But it seems …’ He drew a breath. ‘It seems that one of the environmental groups has gotten hold of some information, information that is meant to show inconsistencies in the Silveron trial data.’

  Dublensky’s heart bumped. His eyes fixed on Reedy’s with ghastly fascination.

  Reedy rocked back in his seat. ‘Now we know this stuff is fake, we know it’s been fabricated. Nothing but cheap disinformation. But the point is, this sort of subversive crap can be damaging – which of course is the intention.’

  Dublensky pulled his features into the semblance of interest.

  ‘Now none of this would affect you, John, except – ’ He gave a great sigh of disbelief. ‘Someone’s trying to link your name to all this. Now don’t ask me why. It seems incredible. But that’s the way it is.’

  Dublensky uttered a thin sound half-way to a question.

  ‘They’re saying you’re the source, John. They’re saying that you provided the information. More than that, they’re saying you’re about to go public on it – to get up and make a noise about all this.’ He raised his shoulders and spread his hands in a further show of bafflement. ‘Crazy.’

  Dublensky hastily pulled his spectacles down his nose and pressed his fingertips into the corners of his eyes in the way he did when he needed time.

  What made them imagine he would suddenly choose to talk now, after all these months? Then it came to him. It was his call to EarthForce the other day. It was his conversation with Paul Erlinger. Somehow MKI had got to hear about it, just as they had got to hear about his call to Erlinger back in March and instigated the burglary. They knew about it, and had interpreted that unhappy promise of his, that vague pledge to help, as a firm intention to act.

  It had to be. What else could it be? Jesus. He knew he shouldn’t have made that call.

  Dublensky felt Reedy’s eyes on him, gauging his reaction. Pushing his spectacles back up his nose, he said: ‘The, er … the information, it’s fake, you say?’

  ‘Oh yeah. The figures were obviously fabricated – ’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Reedy drew his lips into a narrow line and regarded Dublensky with an air of forbearance beginning to wear thin. A forced note came into his voice. ‘Now, John, really … We know. We just know.’

  ‘But how?’ Dublensky interjected quietly. ‘How?’

  ‘How! For lots of reasons I’m not at liberty to divulge. For – ’ He broke off and gave a harsh impatient sigh. ‘Godammit, John, there’s nothing wrong with Silveron!’

  Dublensky realized then: Nothing has changed, nothing ever would. His anger stirred, a small spot of heat burned on his face. ‘What exactly are these fake figures meant to show?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Reedy shrugged impatiently.

  ‘Remember that conversation we had on the phone, Don? When I said I wasn’t happy with the Silveron toxicology trials?’

  Reedy was silent, his face a mask of disapproval.

  ‘I wasn’t happy because it looked like they’d been fixed up by TroChem. I told you about it, Don, but you wouldn’t listen. I’d like to know why you wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Come on, John,’ Reedy exploded. ‘You were irate, you were upset. No one would have taken you seriously under those circumstances!’

  Dublensky considered this for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he nodded gravely, ‘okay. But suppose I asked you to take me seriously now?’

  Reedy hesitated then laughed awkwardly. ‘I’d listen, of course I’d listen. I’m listening now, aren’t I?’

  ‘Okay. I’m telling you now. The toxicology results were fixed up, Don.’

  ‘Come on! Where’s your proof, John? Give me some evidence.’

  ‘It was stolen from me.’

  ‘What?’ He gave an unnatural laugh then examined Dublensky’s face. ‘You look at me like it was my fault or something. Oh, come on, John. You’re trying to tell me these rumours are true? That you’re going to go public on this thing and make one helluva fool of yourself? Jesus, what are you thinking of?’ He reached over to tap Dublensky’s elbow, as if to suggest that the whole thing could still be written off as a joke.

  ‘You’re not believing me again, Don.’ Dublensky slid his coffee aside. His courage was developing a life all its own. ‘Silveron’s on the British market, Don. Did you know that? There are people there who’ve g
otten sick after one-time exposure. Who’ve developed symptoms like the Aurora workers. Some of them are kids – ’

  ‘John. Unsubstantiated conjecture! Pressure-group propaganda!’

  Dublensky’s accumulated frustration rose into his throat like a wedge. ‘These people are sick,’ he repeated with difficulty, ‘and you’re telling me it’s nothing to do with you?’

  Reedy waved a hand. ‘John, John – ’ he wheedled. ‘Come on – tell me you’re going to give up this crazy idea!’

  ‘I …’

  ‘John. Not only are you totally wrong about all this, but you’re failing to appreciate what you’re taking on.’

  The heat was suddenly very great. ‘What am I taking on exactly, Don?’

  Reedy gestured exasperation. ‘For Christ’s sake, John. MKI will eat you alive if you don’t approach this reasonably.’

  In that instant Dublensky felt himself lifted across some divide and deposited effortlessly on the other side.

  ‘Eat me alive?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t think I do.’

  ‘Be reasonable, John.’

  ‘And how should I do that?’

  ‘Well – talk the darned thing through, I guess. Sit round a table in a civilized way. Meet us in a spirit of co-operation – ’

  ‘Agree to a deal, you mean.’

  ‘Aw, come on – ’

  ‘Agree to keep quiet.’

  ‘We must be able to talk this through.’

  ‘Am I set to lose my job? Is that it?’

  ‘John. Come on.’ He gave a false laugh.

  The heat burned so hot in Dublensky that he could hardly keep still. He hovered on the edge of the precipice, the chasm clearly visible below, and, feeling no qualms at all, stepped out into the void. ‘No deals,’ he said.

  Reedy sat back in his seat, his mouth puckered with cold displeasure. ‘John … What’s all this about? What’s it about? Just tell me.’

  Framing his reply, Dublensky saw the irony of the situation. ‘Until you came today I wasn’t planning to do anything, Don. Not for sure anyway. But now … I guess I don’t feel too good about your attitude. In fact’ – Dublensky exulted in his own boldness – ‘it makes me sick.’