Tin Foil (Imogene Museum Mystery #4)

by Jones, Jerusha

  “I wondered if the speedboat was meeting certain people or certain barges, or both. Sounds like maybe both.”

  “Speedboat,” I murmured. “I saw it.”

  George turned to me, his eyes wide. “When?”

  “Wednesday night,” Pete said.

  “What was the cargo?” George struggled to sitting, breathing hard with the exertion.

  I stood, not sure how to help him. Susan handed me more pillows, and I stuffed them behind his back.

  “Scrap metal,” Pete answered.

  George nodded. “Scrap metal is scanned for radioactivity, nothing else.”

  “George,” Sheriff Marge scooted even further forward on her chair, “fill in the blanks for me.” She scowled, her pen poised over her notebook.

  “During one of the deliveries, I got a pretty good look at what was being transferred. And it scared me.” George glanced at Pete. “You know what an 8-inch projectile looks like.” It wasn’t a question.

  Both Pete and Owen stiffened. The military veterans in the room.

  “I went to talk to people who know munitions well.” George shifted, wincing.

  Beside me, Susan inhaled sharply and pressed her hand over her mouth.

  “Several Umatilla tribe members worked at the Umatilla Army Depot as civilian contractors,” George continued. “Both chemical and conventional weapons were stored there in the past. At one time, they had over 14,000 8-inch projectiles filled with sarin.”

  “Sarin — that’s the stuff used in the Tokyo subway bombing, right?” Archie blurted.

  “Yeah,” Owen answered quietly. “But that was a homemade version which deteriorates quickly. Military grade sarin is more stable — and deadly.”

  “But the projectiles leaked,” Susan whispered. “We all know that.”

  “They’ve been destroyed — incinerated,” Sheriff Marge said. “The depot’s just thousands of acres of desert with empty igloo bunkers now.”

  “The elders said rumors have flared up again — that maybe some of the chemical weapons were smuggled out before they were destroyed,” George said.

  “No way,” Owen said, shaking his head hard. “No way. There are all kinds of sensors — motion, pressure, you name it — so sensitive even tumbleweeds set them off. The stockpile’s inventoried constantly. Plus all employees, military and civilian, are screened, double-screened, triple-screened, and ongoing too. You have a fight with your wife at night, they know before you come into work the next morning. And the guards have authority to pursue with lethal force, off base, across state lines, whatever — it’s a national security issue. No way.”

  “No one was allowed to be alone,” Susan said. “My husband’s uncle worked there. They always had to be in pairs, usually in fours. Always watching out for each other. It was dangerous work. Nobody wanted to die. They carried antidote autoinjectors with them at all times.”

  “There is no accounting for how it was done, if it was done,” George said. “The rumors are circulating on the reservation again — a couple wealthy ranchers with former army contracts for foodstuffs and construction supplies have been named, an anarchist leader in Idaho whose grandfather worked at the site, plus others even more obscure. What the elders know for sure is that a couple tribe members — men who already had criminal records — were offered significant sums of money to help move undisclosed contraband. Family members have come forward. They are worried. The men are missing.”

  “Someone’s tried to kill George twice,” I said. “So they must know or at least suspect he saw them. Whether chemical or conventional, they’re taking it seriously.”

  “This speedboat have a license number?” Sheriff Marge asked.

  George shook his head. “Black or dark blue. Runs without lights. Engine is big but quiet.”

  His description matched the boat I’d seen. In the dark, it was impossible to get more details.

  Sheriff Marge puffed out her cheeks in a hard exhale. She shifted until she had a clear view of Pete. “These loads of scrap metal — where do they go?”

  “They usually end up in China or southeast Asia. But there’d be plenty of opportunity along the way to remove the weapons, if a person knew the time and location in advance,” Pete said.

  “So we could be dealing with a whole network of people?”

  “Wouldn’t have to be many if their communication’s good.” Pete folded his arms across his chest. “One or two each at strategic spots — on the tug, at the sorting facility where sea containers or freighters are loaded, someone on the receiving end, if it gets that far. I’d think whoever’s doing this would want to keep it pretty tight.”

  “Who’d want chemical weapons now? The treaties have been signed, the munitions are being destroyed — both here and in the former Soviet Union. Isn’t all that over now?” Susan asked in a low voice.

  “Terrorists,” Owen grunted. “The threat of nerve agents causes paranoia. Right up their alley. The entire world will take even the most fringe group seriously if they use a chemical weapon. Once is enough, but if they assert they have more—”

  The door thudded against Pete’s back. He cracked it open, and Gemma pushed her way in.

  “Alright, folks. I know this is an important powwow, but I have to change an IV bag and check my patient’s dressings.” She shooed us out with flapping arms. No one — not even Sheriff Marge — argued with her.

  We stood in loose clusters in the hallway — law enforcement in one, civilians in the other.

  “How long are you here?” I asked Susan.

  “I really need to go home today. My husband’s mother has been watching the girls during the day while he’s at work, and I think she’s exhausted. They’re a handful.” She smiled. “And I miss them. But I can probably come back next weekend. When George is released, he’ll need someone to check on him and help with daily tasks.”

  “He needs a new place to live,” Pete said. “I don’t suppose — since he just woke up — does he know what happened?”

  Susan nodded. “He remembers parts of it — asked about you first thing.” She squeezed my arm. “He knows his trailer’s gone.”

  “Any chance he’ll go live near you?” I asked.

  Susan bit her lip at the corner of a slight smile. “Not yet. We’ve asked him to, but he’s so independent. Says he’ll come when he’s old and good for nothing else, to spend the days telling our girls stories.” Her eyes lit up. “They adore him.”

  Sheriff Marge joined us. “Thanks for coming. I think we got enough info to take action. Susan — see you next week.” She nodded to Pete and me. “I’ll be in touch.”

  We watched her march down the hall, flanked by Archie. Owen resumed his stance in front of George’s door.

  We bade Susan goodbye and wandered toward the parking lot.

  In a median of brown grass near my truck, Pete pulled me into a light embrace, checking his watch at the same time. “Hungry?”

  “Not really.” I leaned against him.

  “Worried?”

  I nodded, my forehead bumping his chest. I inhaled — he smelled even more strongly of licorice than normal. Maybe he had some in his pocket.

  He tipped my chin up and looked into my eyes.

  I love how Pete doesn’t talk when there’s nothing useful to say. Platitudes aren’t his style. We just held the gaze — and each other — for a few minutes.

  “Is your engine still in pieces?” I finally asked.

  Pete chuckled. “Mostly.”

  As an independent tug owner/operator, Pete and his crew do their own maintenance of the tug’s two huge diesel engines. If the tug’s not moving, then an engine’s being overhauled. Pete was on his own right now since he’d given his crew vacation while he was docked at the Port of Platts Landing for my sake.

  “You need a nap.” Pete stroked my cheek.

  “I’m afraid so. I’m won’t be very good company this afternoon without one. Good thing you have your engine to work on.” I tugged on his shi
rt. “I’ll take you back to church to pick up your bike.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I dropped Pete off next to his motorcycle in the otherwise empty church parking lot and promised him leftovers if he wanted to swing by the campground again for dinner.

  Tuppence staggered, bleary-eyed, out of her open kennel when I drove up to the fifth-wheel. If napping all morning hadn’t improved her perspective and energy level, I wasn’t sure what it would do for mine.

  “You want to come inside?” I asked, my throat raspy from the stagnant, polluted air. Maybe that was part of why I hadn’t slept well last night. Maybe we were all a bit oxygen-deprived.

  She tromped up the stairs behind me and went straight to her big pillow bed where she flopped with a loud sigh.

  “That’s encouraging,” I muttered.

  I kicked off my shoes and crashed on my own bed. My brain skittered through all the scenarios I could dream up for what someone might do with a nerve agent weapon — from extensions of the standard fare seen on the world nightly news all the way to apocalyptic firestorms. I knew I wasn’t being entirely realistic, but my imagination wasn’t pausing to grapple with objectivity.

  I rolled over onto my stomach and pulled a pillow over my head. Misused nerve agent is catastrophic, regardless of the scale of exposure. Susan had mentioned an antidote. I wondered how readily available it was.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to regulate my breathing. In — out. In — out.

  My phone rang, and I crawled off the bed to dig it out of my purse.

  “Meredith? Just wanted to check on you since you seemed distressed this morning. Are you and Pete okay?” Pastor Mort asked.

  I slumped on the floor, pulled my knees up and rested my forehead on them. Mort and Sally were such good friends. What would I do without them?

  “We’re fine,” I said. “Good news, in fact. George regained consciousness. We were able to visit with him for a while.”

  “Ahhh,” Mort said. “That is good news. Sally, honey—” He pulled away from the phone to tell his wife.

  I hoped he wouldn’t ask for details of the conversation we’d had with George. Sheriff Marge hadn’t specified confidentiality, but that was probably because she knew she didn’t need to. Susan, Pete and I would never release word of possible chemical weapons being transported on the Columbia River without her approval. Platts Landing is a hotbed of gossip as it is. A rumor of this magnitude would be unquenchable and cause unprecedented panic.

  “Sally’s making brownies.” Mort came back on the line. “She wants to know if we could bring a pan over later.”

  I grinned. “I’d never turn down Sally’s brownies, and I think she knows that.”

  “It’s how we gain entrance to half the houses in Sockeye County.” Mort chuckled. “We show up with dessert. See you in a few hours.”

  I hung up and tapped the phone against my palm, still smiling. Mort was being characteristically humble. He and Sally were welcome everywhere because they cared. The same way Sheriff Marge protected her brood from external evils, they helped people deal with inner turmoil. It’d be good to catch up with them.

  I glanced at the rumpled blankets on the bed and sighed.

  I padded to the living room and sprawled on the sofa — which I also failed to find comfortable in my current state of mind.

  There was a knock on my door and a friendly “Yoohoo.”

  I jumped up to let Harriet in. She stood on my welcome mat with an armload of empty soda cans.

  “I was cleaning out the recycling, and I remembered that you need target practice.” Her infectious smile and eager eyes made me think of a five-year-old asking a friend to come out and play.

  “Now?” I wrinkled my nose. I was still trying to shove my swirling thoughts into order. Her proposal required more of a mind shift than I seemed to have capacity for at the moment.

  Harriet shrugged cheerily and dropped a couple cans, stooped to pick them up and dropped even more. Tuppence wedged against my legs to see what all the clatter was about.

  “Why not?” Harriet’s giggle broke through my funk as she chased cans. “I could show you. I’m a good shot. Another skill I learned in Girl Scouts.”

  Why not, indeed. Physical activity is often my antidote — and how I end up hiking trails in the gorge — it always lifts my mood. Harriet was saving me from an afternoon of interminable fidgeting.

  “I have a feeling I really missed out by not being a Girl Scout.” I hurried down the steps and helped corral the remaining cans.

  “Oh, it wasn’t part of the official curriculum,” Harriet said, her face flushed and wispy white hairs floating free from her ponytail. “In fact, most of the best parts weren’t. But when you get a bunch of farm girls together, well — we made our own amusement.”

  I chuckled. “I’m still envious.”

  Harriet set the cans in a row along the edge of the picnic table. Then she paced a suitable distance back and toed a line in the dirt. I handed her my slingshot and a pouch of buckshot.

  “I’m probably rusty,” she murmured, pulling the bands back, her right thumb pinching the pouch level with her cheekbone.

  I was trying so hard not to laugh. This tiny, almost frail, old lady with knobby knees poking out below her shorts; pale, blue-veined legs; sensible sandals and a determined squint. Hardly a formidable opponent.

  Until the first can in the row jumped with a metallic plink, toppled and rolled off the table.

  “There,” Harriet said with satisfaction. She whipped a ball into the pouch and pulled the bands back for another shot.

  Zing. Zing. Zing. Rapidly, and in precise order, the cans disappeared off the backside of the table.

  I stared at Harriet, my mouth open.

  She turned to me, grinning. “Your turn.”

  “Uh — I—I’m not sure—” I stammered, remembering the fiasco at the fair.

  “Nonsense. I’ll show you.”

  Harriet and I retrieved the cans and lined them up again. They all had neat entry and exit holes. I fingered the sharp starburst edges of one of the holes.

  “Let me think—” Harriet tapped her chin and gazed up into the maple tree. “Uh-huh, yes.” She ticked her fingers together as if counting. “Yes. Those pellets were moving at about 150 mph. A sufficient deterrent, certainly. Would leave a painful bruise and might even embed a little bit in a person or large animal. Might kill a small animal.” She tipped her head, her eyes bright. “It’s a good skill to have.”

  I exhaled. “Show me.”

  Harriet is a patient teacher. She explained proper form, how to sight down the top band, various pinching and release techniques. In an hour, I was nailing cans eighty percent of the time.

  “You got it.” Harriet nodded. “Feel good?”

  My arms were wobbly, the muscles exercised more than they had been in a long time. But it was a good kind of sore. There is a certain satisfaction that comes from wreaking havoc on perfectly defenseless aluminum cans.

  I nodded. “Iced tea?”

  Harriet flopped in a lawn chair and wiped her forehead. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  I heard the first siren while I was in the trailer digging ice cubes out of the freezer. The second and third sirens sounded close behind the first, then more sirens and they all blended together.

  I stuck my head out the door. Harriet stood at the edge of the campsite, peering toward the highway.

  “This doesn’t look good, Meredith,” she called. “They’re headed toward the port. Two fire trucks plus the command vehicle, a couple deputies, an ambulance.”

  My stomach hollowed out, and the breath choked in my throat.

  “Pete.” His name came out as a whisper.

  I scrabbled for my phone. Had I missed a call from him?

  Nothing.

  “Meredith? Honey?” Harriet stood at the foot of the steps. “Are you alright?”

  “Pete,” I said, louder this time. “He’s at the port. Overhauling an engine. Do you
think there’s been an accident?”

  “There’s a smoke plume,” Harriet answered.

  Images of the fireball that destroyed George’s trailer flashed through my mind.

  Suddenly, I couldn’t find anything. Where had I left my purse? And my truck keys?

  Harriet’s face was white and drawn. Mine probably was too. We stared at each other for a second.

  “There.” She pointed at my purse lodged on a step up to the bedroom. “I’m going with you.”

  oOo

  We couldn’t get anywhere near the ramp to the Surely, although I could see her wheelhouse rising above a conveyor boom, still intact. Fire trucks and emergency vehicles were parked haphazardly, blocking most of the gravel lot and truck turnaround area.

  Fire hoses and puddles turned the parking lot into a maze. We jogged around them, wending our way toward the river. I tried so hard not to think — not to imagine — what condition Pete might be in.

  My lungs burned, but I kept running, pushing through people now — firemen in their baggy yellow suspendered pants and bulky jackets.

  “Whoa.” Someone grabbed my arm, pulling me to a halt. My momentum swung me around to face him.

  “He’s okay,” Archie said, still with a vice grip on my arm. “Slow down.”

  I burst into tears.

  Archie’s awkward around women on a good day. He had no idea what to do with a weeping, snotty, distressed version. I knew I was embarrassing him. I buried my face in my hands, gulping sobs.

  “There, there.” He patted my shoulder. “Um, that’s alright — there, there.” Then his hand, holding a not terribly clean handkerchief appeared in the view between my fingers.

  I was a hairbreadth away from laughing hysterically through the hiccupy deluge when a strong arm wrapped around my shoulders.

  “Where is he?” Harriet asked.

  Archie shot Harriet a grateful look. He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket and pointed. “Medics are fixing him up.”

  Harriet turned me around and nudged a couple tissues into my hand. “Clean up, honey. Pete needs to see you brave.”