by David Dun
"Maybe we should each take a few days off to figure this out. I'm checking into the Palmer Inn," Maria said.
"So formal."
"What's that mean?"
"It means for casual comfort, good home-cooked meals, you should stay at my place."
"You're sweet. But I think we need some separation between good and industry here."
"Listen, men and women have lived in the same house and fought for millennia."
Not surprisingly, she had no response for that.
Dan and Maria waited at the Wintoon County Sheriff's Office for Sheriff Robert McNiel to receive their complaint personally.
A big man with a round pleasant face, a large, droopy mustache, khaki trousers and western riding boots, the sheriff looked the part.
"I understand you want to report a theft."
"I do," Maria said. "Five hundred thousand in cash."
"What were you doing with that kind of money?"
"Accepting it for my clients."
''OK, let's start from the beginning. Aren't you the lawyer for the environmental movement?"
"One of them."
"You don't mind if we tape-record your statement."
"Not at all."
''Give me your full legal name." And so the sheriff began a litany of questions until finally Maria had told the entire story of the theft, commencing with her exit from the tavern. In lawyerly fashion she provided all the details except those she and Dan had agreed not to disclose.
When she finished, the sheriff began asking her follow-up questions.''So you were at the Amada compound because you thought you were chasing the money because of the electronic signal and the helicopter over the trees."
"That's right."
"And somebody is giving the environmental movement five hundred thousand in cash?" The sheriff looked pointedly at Dan.
"I didn't say that. I didn't say who was to receive the money. You asked me if I was a lawyer for the environmental movement, and I said I was,'' Maria replied. ''It was a legal transfer of money, but we are bound by the attorney-client privilege not to disclose the parties to the transfer."
''A crime was committed here. So we need to know the facts-"
"Sheriff, I think you'll find that in most of the precedent-setting attorney-client-privilege cases a crime had been committed," Dan cut in. "Respectfully, you don't need to know any more."
"I see, we're going to get this attorney-client-privilege mumbo jumbo all the way through this."
"There is a little of that," Maria said.
"Are you suggesting that Amada took the money?" the sheriff asked.
"We just don't know," Dan said. "But somebody took the money and tried to kill us when we followed."
"We could look into this a lot better if we knew more facts. Like the facts surrounding the money."
"We can't disclose more."
"You know it's pretty damn strange you two even being together in the same room."
"Well, that's just an anomaly that will take some getting used to."
"For all of us," Maria added.
''Will you keep us updated on your progress?'' Dan asked.
"Yes, we will."
When they rose to leave, the sheriff added, "As much as it pisses me off, I understand about the attorney-client privilege. What I don't understand is why your clients are more interested in their secrets than in bringing armed robbers to justice."
"Maybe there isn't a whole lot more to tell, and knowing it wouldn't help you that much," Dan suggested.
"It's our job to be the judge of that."
When they left the building Dan noticed a dark-haired man, probably in his early thirties, with a slicked-back pony-tail. He was slender but strong-looking except in the face, which although symmetrical and handsome seemed passive-as evidenced by a lack of character lines. Neither smiles nor frowns had molded his visage. Approaching Maria, he pointedly ignored Dan. When the man went to kiss her, Dan noticed a slight awkwardness between them and she offered him a cheek.
"Dan, I'd like you to meet Ross," Maria said.
"It's a pleasure," Dan said, trying to smile.
"I'll take you back to the hotel." Ross cut off all other conversation.
Maria hesitated.
"Don't worry about the clothes," Dan said. "You can bring them on your next visit."
"I'll mail them." Maria took Ross's arm.
As Dan watched them leave, the argument that seemed just beneath the surface was obviously taking place between them.
Corey's home had two workrooms, one off the garage, the other off her bedroom. Certain jobs were undertaken only in the room by the garage. When feasible, she liked to work in the room off her bedroom because it was conducive to middle-of-the-night naps during intense and lengthy projects.
On this occasion she was working in the more rugged of the two work spaces, the one by the garage. A functional set of double sinks was on one wall. To either side of the sinks stood a hardwood bench that continued around to the back wall. In the middle of the room was a simple but strong granite-topped worktable on which sat her telephone and, at the moment, her propped feet. The walls were adorned with wilderness photos that featured rock outcroppings and old-growth redwood. A single window afforded a view of the forest behind her house.
''We could make it worth your while if you could recover the film," the caller said.
"How in the hell could I do that if they've dropped it off at a photo shop?'' Corey twirled the phone cord around her finger and stared at the terrarium on the table in front of her. She listened to the now-familiar but unknown voice that never deviated from the calm, persuasive tones that had become all at once so irritating and attractive.
"You've always been resourceful in the past."
"I'm good at monkey-wrenching. My first theft didn't go so well. Stealing is a different trade."
Inside the terrarium a white laboratory mouse moved in some straw. The terrarium had been fitted with a flat plastic lid that she put briefly in place and then removed. With the lid, the glass enclosure was nearly airtight.
"This would be worth a lot of money to us."
"So what's on this film?"
"We don't know. But we're worried there might be a picture of the car."
"They were in her rental car. He didn't carry any camera that I saw."
Next to her chair was a five-gallon steel container with a top that had a four-way-locking mechanism. Four grab hooks fit under the lip of the can and each was attached to a snap-over metal finger that could be lifted and pushed to the center of the top of the can to hold the lid tight. When all four of the snaps were locked down, the lid was airtight and secure. On the outside of the can was a white paper label that went the full height of the can. It said sodium cyanide with skull and crossbones and the words toxic and poison written around the top and bottom of the can.
"Better to be safe than sorry. We noticed that first thing this morning Dan Young went off to a photo place and delivered some film. We don't think it was a coincidence."
''So you don't even know for sure that they took a picture of anything to do with the theft of their money. We might have pictures of some Little League game."
"True. But we can't take that chance."
"How much if I get you the negatives and the photos?"
"Twenty thousand."
On the corner of her table sat a bottle of sulfuric acid. She picked it up, removed the lid, and half-filled a tiny metal cup a little larger than a thimble.
"My, my, you are lustin' after those pictures. And why me? Why all that money?"
"We've got nobody else."
Next she undid each of the four snaps on the five-gallon drum and donned rubber gloves.
"Cut the crap. If I get caught, you can deny you know me, and I've got a built-in motive. I'm the crazy-ass enviro who already stole their money. The cops would think I was worried they had pictures of me or the car or my sidekick.''
"We don't think you'll get cau
ght."
"What if I don't believe you're telling me everything?"
"There's still the twenty thousand. Believe that."
"How do I know you'll pay?"
"You know we value the relationship."
The five-gallon can was lined with heavy plastic and inside it was a white powder. Using a small scooper that would hold about a quarter teaspoon, she scooped up the powder.
"I'll think about it."
"Just get us the film. We don't care what's on it. You'll get the twenty grand."
"Call me back in three hours."
Corey hung up, knowing they were holding out on her. But stealing those pictures would give her the chance to find out what was on them. That alone might make it worth it. She had to find out who owned the calm, somewhat detached voice on the phone. Maybe something in the pictures would give her a clue. They sure wanted them badly enough.
She set the scoop of powder on her desk and carefully closed the canister and shoved it in the corner. In a few minutes she would take it back to the outbuilding where she stored it. She was saving it for something big, but at the moment she wanted to reassure herself of its potency.
On the table was a small metal ball. It was comprised of two half spheres the bottom of which was solid and the top of which was filled with little holes. It was used to make tea.
She opened the window of her workroom and placed a large fan in it, turned it on, and created an air current flowing to the out-of-doors. Next she put food pellets in a feeder at one end of the terrarium. Immediately the mouse began eating. Placing the white powder in the solid portion of the ball, she set it at the end of the terrarium opposite the feeder. After opening the ball, she placed a small cupped piece of plastic over the white powder, then placed several drops of sulfuric acid on the plastic. Quickly she placed the plastic lid on the terrarium and stepped back to the doorway of the workroom. It took only seconds for the acid to eat through the plastic and hit the white powder.
Gases, like smoke from a Marlboro, drifted into the terrarium. Within seconds the mouse was stone dead. She stepped out, closed the door to the room, and stuffed a towel under the door. She would wait twenty-four hours for the room to clear of any residual gases.
She had gotten the stuff two years earlier at a metal-plating plant where one of her cousins worked. Although she had not been exactly certain what she was looking at when she first saw the five-gallon canisters, she had a fairly good idea. A few minutes' research at the library told her that by mixing the stuff with ordinary sulfuric acid she could create hydrogen cyanide.
Entering her den, she stopped to study a drawing on the wall. It was a set of plans to the courthouse given to her by a disgruntled, former maintenance man. He had been fired from his job because he had been working on the roof with some tar and caused an unfortunate accident. It seemed that there was a rectangular-shaped cavern in the roof about ten feet deep. On the wall of this chamber, there were louvers that allowed air to enter a mechanical room inside the building. It was the air intake for one of the air conditioners and heating units and it fed the courtrooms on the west side of the building.
Working down in this ventilator well, he was spreading hot tar and didn't think to close off the air intakes. People in the courtroom began instantly choking on the stink. One angry judge demanded somebody's job. Corey had sympathized with the man and said she would consider hiring him a lawyer if he would get drawings that depicted what had taken place. She never got the lawyer hired but did keep the drawings.
Corey looked out the window of her den. Through a break in the overcast, a shaft of sunlight beamed through the shadows. Looking down at her glass-topped desk, she saw that both the sun and the clouds were reflected there, in an interplay of gray and gold. She sat and closed her eyes.
The sea, the sun, the dolphins, appear, but this time the sound of waves crashing on rocks in a steady, rolling rhythm. She sits in her forest, alongside the rocks. Soon the rhythm becomes insistent, taking over her body. And she becomes the rhythm, relaxing, reveling in it. Like sex. Leaving her forest, she swims. Her hands pulling against the glass-smooth surface, the rhythmic sound of her breath, the bracing smell of salt in the air, the silken sensation of the water's passage under her outstretched arms.
When she woke, she felt suddenly angry, as though she had been in a fight. Sitting back in the oak chair, the straightness of it feeling good against her twisted back, she focused her anger and sorted out her plan. Photographs. The pharmacy on Fourteenth in Palmer would receive a visit.
Getting the film was almost effortless: No one really expected someone to break into the film section of the pharmacy. It was only the narcotics they kept locked up in a safe inside a heavy metal cage. A simple electrical fire that she had ignited in just under five minutes would further confuse the issue. She realized she was getting good at this stuff and mostly because she was calm and just thought her way through it.
On her way home she decided to stop at the courthouse. The irony did not escape her. Much of the epic struggle between mainline environmental groups and the timber industry over the redwoods took place at the county courthouse in Palmer. Often these court battles were attended by twenty or so environmental activists and one industry lawyer.
On occasion, however, the troops for both sides turned out in mass. It was this eventuality that Corey had in mind.
She entered the building by the front door and headed for a narrow staircase next to the main elevators. Running up the concrete stairs for five flights felt like exercise in a mausoleum. The stairwell was encased in rectangular concrete and painted light cocoa in a column that rose to the fifth floor.
On the fifth floor were various, smaller county offices, like the office of the public guardian, and a small section of the county assessors group. There the main stairwell ended at the door to the fifth-floor main hallway. Doubling back from that door, there was a narrow hallway leading to another door. This door had a small 8" x 8" window and opened onto more stairs that went up to the roof.
The stairway to the roof was not a fire exit and was kept locked at all times, but the window in the door could be easily broken with a heavy metal object. There was no alarm.
When she opened the door to the fifth-floor hallway, she observed only one man in the hall, dressed in a suit, looking lost and with a leather satchel under his arm. Entering the main fifth-floor hall, she walked north and then westerly to the equipment rooms that bordered the west wall. Everything appeared as the roofer had described. But she wasn't taking any chances.
Returning to the door to the roof, she slammed the small window with a flying kick. It was well-placed and easily broke out the window. She reached through and opened the door, then went up on the roof. It took only seconds to find the sunken rectangular hole that was the air intake for the west-side courtrooms.
Her confidence was building. She would take a chance that nothing major had changed in the three years since her informant had worked here.
On her way back through the door to the roof, she encountered a man in overalls carrying a tool box.
"Were you up on the roof?" he asked.
"Just for a smoke. I'm sorry, the window was broken out and I just went on up." She favored him with a rare smile. "I hope I didn't do anything wrong."
11
These emergency meetings in the outback of northern California were becoming altogether too frequent. Only Herschel White lived in this godforsaken corner of California all year round, the land of fog, drizzle, and redwoods. Kenji's inner circle sat around the conference table while he led the meeting.
''We think we're close to making the stuff virtually inert," said Herschel.
"What does virtually mean? Will it be a hazardous material?"
"Piss is a hazardous material, but it's easy to dispose of."
"Don't give me gibberish. This substance makes bats crazy and will kill people."
"True enough."
"So give me a straight answer. Can w
e make the effluent safe enough to satisfy the government when we go public with this process?"
"With all due respect, that's partly a political question. If they find out what happened out here, it could be real tough. Maybe impossible. There'll be public outrage." Herschel gave an inappropriate chuckle. "Probably a major motion picture."
"But if they don't find out. And if we find a way to make it harmless-"
"Then you and the company will be heroes. Environmentally and otherwise."
"You're sure your person got all the pictures?" Kenji looked into the calm blue eyes of Hans Groiter.
"She got the pictures at the photo shop."
"So what are you saying?"
"We'll have to listen. See if they have a duplicate set. I doubt it. But it's possible."
"How long till they discover the eavesdropping?"
"No way to know. They haven't talked about the possibility yet."
"Take the mike out of the bushes," Kenji said. "It's too easy to find."
"We've done that. We have the phone bug and the spike mike under the couch."
Kenji nodded, and turned to Herschel White. "When am I going to have a solution? When can I announce the process?"
''We're going as fast as we can. We can't tell the brightest guys about the spill or the problems with the effluent. It's touchy. It's-"
Kenji held up his hand as if weary of the explanations.
Herschel continued anyway. "I think within two months we should have it."
"We may not have that long with this pair of lawyers all stirred up."
''If they still have copies of those pictures they have some tangential evidence of our discovery and indirectly of our little problem," the lawyer said. ''And proof of what we're really doing if they're smart enough to figure it out."
"They aren't going to unravel anything," Groiter said. ''It's an obscure leap from what they've got to understanding our situation. And besides, they probably don't have any pictures anyway."
"A little thread, if nurtured and pulled, can make a fatal hole in a pair of trousers,'' Kenji said. "These people, these lawyers, can be determined and therefore deadly. Life can turn into a typhoon when we depart from the ways of tranquillity. These two need to learn that."