by Mims, Lee
I stayed in the logging lab until lunchtime. Elton was in and out but remembered to bring me his daily reports. I put them in my pack to go over later. After I’d looked at dozens of chips of sandstone, shale, and boundstones, I was satisfied that we were very close to penetrating the reservoir rock. Hopefully, our targeted bright spot, located within the 1,400-foot thickness of the ancient carbonate reef, would prove to be dry natural gas. Grabbing my hard hat, I left the lab and went to the galley to find something to eat … and Captain Powell. In the short time I’d known him, I’d come to think of him as a creature of habit, at least as far as his meal times were concerned.
Confirming my belief, Powell was just entering the galley at one thirty and, as luck would have it, he was alone. I waved a greeting.
“Care to join me?” he asked.
Sometimes a plan just falls into place. As I set down my tuna salad and tea on the table, he said, “I hope Bud’s going to be able to keep Manteo One from suffering the same fate as the Destin Dome.”
“Ah.” I wasn’t surprised. “So you know the whole story of SunCo and the Destin Dome.”
In 1987 the Destin Dome was a proven trap for trillions of cubic feet of dry natural gas, but production there was still blocked by the state of Florida in much the same way as exploration of the Manteo Prospect had been held up by the state of North Carolina. Only in the last two years had the overall will of the country now coalesced to demand a robust energy plan after witnessing firsthand the damage done to the economy—not to mention national security—without one. With two years of frustrating experience behind him, Bud had emerged as a virtuoso at coalition-building to make the project a reality. It was a skill I’d failed to master myself when it came to the small quarry operation I’d hoped to launch.
“If history doesn’t teach us, what does?” Powell observed.
I gave him a confident look and said, “Still, you must not know Bud very well.”
Powell smiled. “Actually, as the rig super on the Magellan, I’ve gotten to know him pretty well over this last year. He did the coordinating for our team at TransWorld with the operators at Global and the state and federal people to get our permits. Everyone had to be on the same page regarding the drilling plan for Manteo One, the chemicals we planned to use in our drilling mud, our recycling process … and you’re right, I shouldn’t worry. Bud’s one very determined guy.”
Then he stopped eating, gave me a penetrating stare, and said, “I learned something else about him when you guys got stranded out here the night those heavy-duty thunderstorms rolled over us.”
My chest tightened a little. “What was that?”
“He’s very savvy at poker! He cleaned out me and Phil and a couple of tool pushers.” Powell laughed as he speared the last of his fried shrimp and popped it in his mouth.
“Right,” I said, relieved. “He told me you guys had gotten in a few hands.”
“You could say that,” he grinned. “But you could also say we didn’t break up until about six o’clock in the morning. I was a zombie the next day. Mostly we sat right there, him making money, us losing it. Except for bathroom breaks, we didn’t move.”
“Sounds like honor demands a rematch,” I said, finishing my salad. “But, I should get back to work. The boat’s scheduled to go back at two thirty and I’ll be on it.”
Once aboard the Responder, I settled back in one of the comfortable reclining passenger chairs in its relative quiet—quiet, that is, compared to a drillship—and prepared to make my long overdue call to Detective Pierce. I wondered if he’d spoken to Bud yet. Now that I knew Bud had a solid alibi, I felt marginally better and more at ease about talking to the cops. Why only marginally? Well, there was the matter of those bathroom breaks …
With two approaches to the bridge of the Magellan (an interior stairwell and exterior stairs with a landing off the bridge), it was still possible that Bud had walked out on the landing for a breath of fresh air after going to the bathroom. Even though the ROV area was cloaked in darkness, he would have been close enough to hear the scuffle. While I couldn’t remember if I’d screamed, there had to have been other distress noises. Say he arrived just as I fainted, with King Kong/Nuvuk Hunter overstimulated and unaware … Bud could have easily pushed him overboard.
Detective Pierce’s phone rang several times, then went to voicemail. “Detective Pierce, Cleo Cooper returning your call,” I said crisply, then clicked off. I settled deeper in the recliner, planning to use the quite ride back to go over Elton’s daily report. But Captain Eddie opened the cabin door, spotted me, and came over.
“Have a seat,” I said, putting away my report.
“Thanks,” he said, standing above me, “but I only have a sec. I turned the com over to the first mate. Don’t want to push my luck, but I did want to ask you about the well. How’s it going? We’re going to beat SunCo to the punch, aren’t we?”
It’s funny how there seems to be a collective conscious that connects all parties involved in a wildcat well, no matter how removed they are from the actual drilling. When the fat lady is about to sing, everyone knows it and the excitement and tension levels ratchet up.
“I don’t know about SunCo, but our well’s coming along nicely. Minus any hiccups, we should be getting some show very soon.” He gave me a thumbs up and went back to the bridge.
Maybe Captain Eddie was just starting to get into the spirit, but I’d been feeling the excitement all along. To think I was involved with the first well drilled on what promised to be a new frontier of energy for America! This was what it must have been like in the Gulf in the early days. Well, the tools used today were well advanced of those back then, and we were starting in over 2,000 feet of water, whereas back in the late thirties and early forties in the Gulf, they started in shallow water. Actually the first wells were drilled right on land in the town of Golden Meadow, Louisiana. The story goes that there was so much oil right under the ground that local residents were confronted with an excess seeping out of the ground, ruining the hems of women’s dresses. Imagine!
I hadn’t really slept so, after a bit of daydreaming about a wildcat strike, I nodded off for the rest of the return trip. Back at the port, colorful boats full of vacationers wove in an out among the support vessels. Jet skiers were clearly ecstatic about having SunCo’s 200-footers around because of the enormous wakes they created. With engines whining, they swarmed behind the ships like pilot fish follow sharks, jumping the wakes in the most creative ways. Sometimes they were successful and sometimes they weren’t, getting dunked in the waterway in the latter case. Thank goodness for kill switches.
I heard a throaty rumble beside me and knew it would be one of those go-fast boats, the kind often painted in garish colors and sporting bikini-clad babes on the bow. I turned to watch it go by. I was right about the garish colors; however, the only babe on the boat was behind the wheel.
It was Viktor Kozlov.
FOURTEEN
Viktor waved from the open cockpit of a 42-foot Fountain, definitely an eye-catcher. So was Viktor, with his dark brown curls, flashing smile, and ripped body. I was just reminding myself of his tender age and managing to drag my eyes from the twin clefts on either side of his flat belly when I noticed he was signaling something. He’d point inshore, then back and forth between us. Meet me at the port?
I was still trying to decipher his meaning when he gave me another merry wave and pushed the throttle forward. Engines bellowed. The boat leaped forward, practically becoming airborne, and Viktor was gone, spewing a 50-foot rooster tail behind him.
Ten minutes later, with me still at the bow rail, the Iron Responder bumped gently into her slip. Only a blind man could have missed the Fountain tied up at the commercial marina next door. I slipped back through the cabin, gathered my things, and hopped off. Viktor was waiting for me on the dock.
“I told you I had a special place for u
s to be alone,” he said, pointing at the Fountain, bursting with pride.
“Whose is that?” I asked. Such a big-boy toy wasn’t something a doctoral candidate, even one attending Duke, would likely be able to afford.
“It belongs to Davy, my old boss. He came up here to buy it so he could tour the factory and meet the designers and engineers. The factory is in a little town not far from here called Washington. In a few days, he and the twins are going to take the boat back to Louisiana. They have a lot to do in preparation, and so until they leave, I’m free to use it.”
So that’s why Duchamp was in town the other day. “That was nice of them. But back up just a sec here. Did you tell them about us?”
“Never! I’d never do that. Remember, I told you that you can trust me with your privacy. That’s why this boat is so perfect for us …”
“Oh yeah, it just fades right into the scenery. No one would ever notice it.”
Viktor thought a moment chewing on his bottom lip. “I see your point, and I will fix this problem immediately. But, for now, mya morkovka,” he said, pulling me close. “Hop in. Let me take you home by water. The crowds outside the port get rougher as the evening approaches.”
Mya morkovka? “Thank you,” I said, stepping politely from his embrace. “That’s very kind of you, but my Jeep is parked down the street. I don’t want to leave it. Like you said, things could get nastier with the protestors once it’s dark.” Hitching my pack a little higher on my shoulder, I started to leave, but he was so crestfallen, I couldn’t just walk off.
I said, “Seriously, Viktor, thank you for your concern. You’re very sweet.” I started to give him a little peck on the check, then remembered the last time I tried that and refrained.
I made it back to the house without incident. I was looking forward to a little downtime with Tulip and Henri—at least, I hoped Henri was home. She owned her own photography business and though it wasn’t limited to brides, they made up the bulk of her client base. She’d told me earlier she had an upcoming photo shoot and needed to scout out some interesting locations.
I wished Will were there too. My heart squeezed at the thought of him, wondering what was bothering him and if he’d talked to Bud about it. I was headed for the back porch when I heard Tulip bark from the sea wall where she was patrolling for wharf fiddlers.
Apparently she’d cornered one because she hesitated, looking back and forth between me and the small, black spider-like crab. Love conquers all and I won out over the crunchy crustacean and she bounded across the yard. Whimpering, she leaned into my legs and stuck her head between my knees. I gave her sides a vigorous rub and noticed something odd about her collar.
Upon further inspection, I realized something was taped to it. I easily broke the paper, revealing a note inside a plastic sandwich baggie. I unfolded it. Scrawled in red crayon were the words YOUR DOG WON’T LIKE GAS EITHER. Mid-page was a childish drawing of a dog in a big barrel—presumably filled with gasoline—a lighted match pointed at it. At the bottom of the page, the word KABOOM! with shock waves darting from it.
My mouth went dry. Where was Henri?
I ran into the house, calling her name.
“Yo!” She bounded into the room.
Relief rushed over me, but you wouldn’t have known it. “What’s Tulip doing outside unattended?” I snapped.
“I just put her out a minute ago. What’s wrong? You look like you just ran into Freddy Krueger.”
“What does ‘just put her out’ mean? I’m serious. How long?”
“Minutes, I don’t know, maybe five or less …”
Dropping the note on the table, I said, “Read it—but don’t touch it!”
As quickly as my two feet would carry me, I was back in the Jeep retrieving my Beretta .380, a baby nine, still in its nylon field holster. Buckling it on, I ran to the seawall and scanned up and down its length. It was low tide, but no one was hiding down there and no footprints were evident in the muddy sand, either.
A thick hedgerow of ancient azaleas served as a divider between my yard and my neighbor’s. The inevitable grapevine and greenbriers grew thickly among them, making a tangle that could easily hide an intruder. Bending to see under them, I traveled their length, looking for someone crouched there. I found no one, so I moved to the back of the house.
When I reached the front yard, I found another calling card of sorts: a clear 40-ounce beer bottle, half filled with kerosene, if my sense of smell served me right, and finished off with wick made from a scrap of T-shirt. This Molotov cocktail sat unlit right in the middle of the porch. Henri had been watching me from the windows. Now she opened the door and looked at it. “God, Mom, what are you going to do?”
“Well, for starters, I’m calling the cops. Next, you’re packing up and moving to Dad’s. Now.”
“But what about you? Are you crazy? You can’t stay here by yourself with some maniac running around leaving bombs!”
“And you’re taking Tulip with you,” I said, ignoring her. “Now hurry!”
“But—”
“No buts, Henri. Besides, I won’t be here. I’ll go stay on the drillship until we finish Manteo One. You can tell Dad that so he won’t worry.” I closed and locked the front door behind us and started for the kitchen, pulling out my phone and dialing Detective Pierce. Henri gave me one last pleading look just as he answered. I gave her my sternest scowl and pointed up the stairs, then relayed my recent troubles to him.
“Don’t touch anything! We’ll be right over,” he said.
I jogged out to my Jeep and deposited the Beretta back in the console just as Henri came out with her overnight bag and Tulip.
“I’ve decided to go to my house in Raleigh,” she said. “I postponed my photo shoot. The girl is okay with it … for now, but you know how these brides can be. I hope this gets straightened out before too long or we’ll have something more dangerous than a bomb-toting activist to worry about; we’ll have a bridezilla!” She opened the door to her Chevy Tahoe so Tulip could get in. Tulip looked at me.
“Go on,” I said. “It’s all right.”
“I need to check on a few things at my place anyway,” she said. “I’ll go by your house too, make sure everything’s copacetic there, maybe have lunch with some of the girls. Then I’ll go to Dad’s.” Tears welled up in her eyes.
I gave her a hug. “Don’t worry. All this craziness will be over as soon as the well comes in and the world doesn’t come to a fiery, polluted end, but gets better instead. You’ll see. Go on now, scoot!”
She pulled out of the driveway about two minutes before my favorite detectives pulled in, followed by two Morehead City patrol cars, a CSI van, and a SWAT team. In less than fifteen minutes, the SWAT team—all eight of them in full body armor, carrying assault weapons, and wearing helmets with blast shields pulled down over their faces—had swarmed over the house and yard, reloaded into their armored van, and left. I stood nearly motionless that entire time, not wanting to disrupt the bizarre goings-on at my temporary home.
After collecting the note and the Molotov cocktail and dusting for prints, the CSI team left too. Apparently domestic terrorism didn’t fall within the scope of Pierce’s and Myers’s talents, so they stood to the side while I went over the details of what I’d found with the police officers. After about an hour, they gave me their assurances that they would put extra patrols on my house and left to canvass the neighborhood. Meanwhile, the wiry Pierce and not-so-wiry Myers had taken their now-usual seats at my kitchen table.
“My goodness, Ms. Cooper,” Pierce said. “When you come to town, things certainly get lively.”
“Are you suggesting I somehow caused this crap?” I said, incredulously, then added, “And a SWAT team? Don’t you think that was a little over the top?”
“Not at all,” Pierce said. “Puts the fear of God in the bad guys. Trust me, they were somewhe
re watching to see your reaction. That’s partly why they did it.”
“And,” Myers jumped in, “it worked out real smooth, timing-wise. Morehead City SWAT was running drills, in case things get out of hand with the protestors at the port, so it was good practice for them. By the way, where’s your daughter?”
“I sent her away for a few days. She took my dog with her.”
“Smart move,” Myers said.
“It’d be even smarter if you went too,” Pierce added.
“I’ll be fine. I’m not letting a bunch of domestic terrorists and political activists run me off.”
Pierce cocked an eye at Myers, then said, “Let’s move on to another topic, shall we? The murder of the ROV pilot seems a little less volatile.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Finding a bomb on your front porch might make you touchy too. By the way, I did return your call.”
“I wanted to know if you’d learned when Mr. Cooper might be returning to the country. Do you know?”
“He’s back. Is that all you wanted?”
“Yes, unless you’d be interested in knowing that we are very near to actually making a death ruling in the case of the ROV pilot and that we’re still going with accidental death. Well … probably.”
Now there was a surprise. Like a picador teasing a dangerous bull, I asked, “What about the fact that his skull was crushed?” I couldn’t help it. I wanted to know.
“Impressions made of the back of his skull match perfectly with an impression taken of the railing on the ROV platform. And there were trace amounts of blood on the railing and on the platform itself that match the vic’s.”
“Why does that make it an accident?”
“He said probably,” Myers stated.
“Yes. Like women, homicide detectives are free to change their minds whenever they feel like it,” Pierce said.
That’s when my frustration about the entire situation boiled over. “Look, I just want to know what happened on the Magellan that night. I’ve always felt safe on an offshore rig. Safer than anywhere else, really. And now I don’t anymore. What’s worse, some creep is trying to frighten me away from here too. Meanwhile, you two knuckleheads are making dumb female jokes.”