Fallout

by Mark Ethridge

  Allison lit the candles. Josh placed the salad bowl on the table and dished out the spaghetti. He withdrew a chair for Allison and seated himself. “Sharon had radiation treatments. You don’t think that could have affected Katie, do you?”

  “Not unless she was in the room with her for those treatments.”

  “It couldn’t transfer over, then . . . ?”

  “No. In fact, most childhood sarcomas arise spontaneously. They’ve investigated links to diet, injury, growth rates, all sorts of things. No one has been able to make a connection. I know you want an explanation but the fact is, finding the cause of Katie’s cancer isn’t going to cure her. There could be a million reasons for it—or none. Just . . . be there for her. She’s a fighter and she’s going to be okay. There’s more steel in her than you realize.”

  She gave his hand a squeeze. “Trust me,” she said, and hoped to God he could.

  Chapter Twenty

  Pedro Cardenas’s fly to center—a real can of corn, Holt griped—ended the Cincinnati Reds’ chances and the chief’s hopes with them. He snapped off the radio and lay on his bed in the darkness. It was 1 a.m. He wouldn’t—did not even try—to sleep. Soon, his cell phone would ring and Viggy would tell him what he already knew—with the Reds’ latest loss, his credit limit was maxed. No more bets until he was current. He knew from past history that the bookie would require immediate payment of half the $10,000 that Holt owed.

  How was he to recover his losses if he wasn’t allowed to bet? He certainly couldn’t generate that kind of cash with his lousy police chief’s salary. He’d have to find it somewhere else.

  He sat up, felt for his wire-rimmed glasses on his nightstand and shuffled to the living room/kitchenette of his tired two-room apartment. A week’s worth of sports pages open to the box scores marked the passage of time like soil layers on an archeological dig. Styrofoam boxes containing the remnants of takeout meals—provided gratis by the Winston Diner—spilled out of a plastic trash can. Two empty microwave dinner trays—tonight’s meal—sat on the yellow Formica counter. The stuff was loaded with sodium and bad for his high blood pressure. But who had time to cook?

  It occurred to him that the tableau was a like crime scene, his detritus evidence. No, he decided, the empty plastic and Styrofoam containers were more like visual accusations, recriminations from a life with a no-count job, a life as empty as a microwave tray and as disposable as a take-out food box. The worst part was, he knew the accusations were accurate.

  Holt hit the remote and his 52-inch flat screen, the one luxury he had allowed himself, came alive with ESPN News. He poured himself a shot of bourbon, tossed it back and measured out another. He caught a glimpse of himself in a small mirror on his refrigerator. The mirror had been a goody-bag item at the state law enforcement convention. It had a magnet on the back and a frame that read, “World’s Toughest Cop.”

  If only that were true. The man looking back at him might as well have been Old Cheese Face. Old and tired. Alcohol-bloated and out of shape. Defeated. A far cry from what had been expected of one of Winston High’s all-time great baseball pitchers.

  Ironically, looking back, baseball was where his fall had begun. As a senior, he’d beaned a kid. Hit him hard enough on the left cheek that the kid’s eyeball had popped from its socket. The eye could not be saved.

  He was amazed the kid never held a grudge. But his own guilt was so great he could barely bring himself to speak when the former rivals passed on the street.

  Ultimately, the incident had cost Holt the ability to throw his fastball—his best pitch—without fear. He was never good again. He gave up playing the game. But he did not give up on himself. Not then.

  Like most Winston kids, Holt grew up hunting. An ability to focus so completely that everything faded but the plate had made him a great pitcher. The same qualities made him a great marksman. He joined the Marines with hopes of making Special Forces.

  But a heart murmur—which even now he wasn’t sure ever existed—had derailed his plans. He’d returned to Winston and joined the force. He already knew where the high school kids hung out to drink beer. He quickly learned a few other lessons of small-town policing. Like that if he arrested every Winstonian who broke a law, the jail couldn’t hold them. And that the people who complained most about speeding were the speeders. After fifteen years, he’d been named the top cop.

  Holt downed the second shot of bourbon and poured another.

  Top cop, indeed. But not top paid. The fact is, he’d gotten a lot more respect as a ballplayer.

  Occasionally, he fantasized about a major crime occurring in Winston, something he could really sink his teeth into, something that would showcase his skills. Maybe then, law enforcement would truly be appreciated. Maybe then, he’d have something to show for his life. Maybe he’d made a mistake in not going after Old Cheese Face. It was strange enough . . .

  Holt’s cell phone rang. Viggy. The third shot of bourbon disappeared down his throat. He knew it was pointless to ask for an extension. There was only one alternative and that was to ask for yet another “advance” from the place where he moonlighted. It was awkward—he had no respect for the security goons he had to work with—but he at least he could be thankful that these days they seemed to need a lot more of his hours than usual. He would be free and clear with Viggy—able to get back on the winning track again—but in the hole to the employer for, now, $28,000. It would take a lucky streak or a lot of moonlighting to pay that back. But you had to do what you had to do.

  He looked in the World’s Toughest Cop mirror. Old Cheese Face stared back.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a true friend of liberty. I give you the man without whom our jobs would not exist . . .”

  Senate hopeful and presidential prospect Harry Dorn—as CNN was calling him now, not the congressman from West Virginia—poised offstage like a runner waiting for the starting gun.

  “I give you our own congressman, the next senator from West Virginia, Harry Dorn!”

  A crowd of several hundred workers from the plant and a busload of faithful from a church in Charleston rose from ranks of folding chairs stretching from the outdoor stage to the edge of the woods. Dorn waited as always for the applause to swell. It didn’t. That’s gratitude for you, Dorn thought. Didn’t these folks realize they owed their livelihood to him? He waved and bounded energetically to the lectern anyway, almost bowling over the man who had introduced him.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you, my good friend Vince Bludhorn. Now don’t sue me for almost knocking you down!”

  The plant lawyer mimed a guffaw. Dorn peered at the unresponsive crowd and was unsettled. Most of the people assembled here looked as if they’d rather be anywhere else. Others appeared to be napping. Were, in fact, napping. Perhaps it had been unwise to shoot tape for the campaign’s knockout commercial on a Monday morning, a cloudy, dreary one at that. A man in a black turtleneck and headset at the foot of the stage motioned for him to keep going.

  Dorn launched into his standard speech, starting with a preamble which his staff always tailored to the specific location and occasion. He thanked the plant managers by name for inviting him. He saluted people in the audience including newspaper editor Josh Gibbs, “a distinguished representative of the fourth estate.” He invoked his local roots, mentioning the loyal service of Police Chief J. P. Holt who delivered a snappy salute from the side of the stage. He told workers how much he appreciated them taking time off work to see him and attempted another joke—“I’m sure you’d rather be back at the furnaces.” Nothing. Crickets. Dorn’s unease grew.

  He stumbled over his signature line—“This plant is a tax-paying, product-producing, job-providing example of what happens when the principles of economic liberty combine with the power of American industry.” Instead of “tax-paying” he’d said “taxing.” Even botch
ed, the line elicited cheers from plant executives in the front rows. But the reaction from those behind them was indifferent. His closing line, “This plant and the proud people who work here are the heart and soul of my campaign,” fell flat.

  The folding chairs were empty five minutes after the speech ended. Discouraged, Dorn endured fifteen minutes worth of grip-and-grin photo-ops and made his way to the video production trailer.

  The man in the black turtleneck gave him a thumbs-up from an editing console. A dozen TV screens flickered overhead.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Dorn said. “That was terrible. No energy.”

  “It was fine. We got everything we need. I’ve already made a rough cut. We’ll pump up the applause level and add music and voice over later but here—take a look.”

  All the screens switched to Dorn smiling at the lectern. Overhead, a scattering of white, puffy clouds drifted across a gorgeous blue sky. Behind the stage, a row of American flags snapped smartly in the breeze. Behind that, the massive main building of the plant dominated the landscape, the company logo the only adornment on its gray steel walls.

  Dorn heard his voice. “This plant is a product-producing, job-providing example of what happens when the principles of economic liberty combine with the power the American industry.” Magically, his mistake had been eliminated.

  The camera cut to the crowd—attractive people, happy people, apparently pleased to be associated with the plant and with Dorn’s campaign. Even the Charleston people, carefully positioned to represent just the right amount of racial diversity in the shots, looked happy.

  Dorn heard his voice again. “This plant and the proud people who work here are the heart and soul of my campaign.” Thunderous applause and cheers followed as the screen faded to black.

  Dorn smiled. It was just like he had imagined in his dream.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Allison had been on hold with the state department of public health for nine minutes, fuming as the timer on her office telephone ticked off more seconds. To heighten her irritation, an instrumental version of “Close to You” by The Carpenters was repeating for the third time—a threat to the public health if there ever was one.

  Too often the practice of medicine had to do with small-minded, turf-guarding bureaucrats instead of making people well or preventing illness in the first place. This was an example.

  She’d decided to notify state health officials first thing Monday about her MRSA concerns and to request expedited lab reports on Pringle, Scruggs and the jewelry samples. She had arrived at the clinic before dawn to finish an article on advanced care directives for the fall issue of Mountaineer Medicine, the quarterly publication of the West Virginia Medical Society, but the Internet had been down and she still wasn’t done by the time she heard Coretha start the coffee pot.

  She had been about to call when Coretha reminded her that state offices didn’t open for another thirty minutes and that she had promised to deal with backlogged insurance claims. The next thing she knew, it was 11 a.m. She dialed the regional office of the state health department which served Winston and surrounding counties but got an answering service. In the interest of avoiding panic, she kept her message vague.

  After a lunch courtesy of Schering-Plough, the early afternoon had brought the usual array of medical issues—from the removal of Bobby Joe Jimpson’s stitches to the renewal of Betty Shinn’s high blood pressure prescription. At 1:45 p.m. she’d dialed the regional public health director again. When she’d pried from the answering service that he was in the Caribbean for the week, she swore loudly and uncharacteristically. Coretha had come running. “Get me the main public health office in Charleston,” she had raged.

  That had been all of—what? She looked at the timer on the telephone. Twelve minutes and fourteen seconds ago. At the office all day and she hadn’t been able to alert public health and was listening to the Carpenters for the umpteenth time. She rolled her eyes.

  “Chill out,” Coretha said. “You’re wound up tight as a tick.”

  Allison covered the mouthpiece. “Sorry. Bad day. Nothing but bureaucratic BS.”

  “The rep from Schering was easy on the eyes.”

  “Listening to the contraindications of the latest incontinence drug over corned beef sandwiches was certainly romantic.”

  Coretha pressed, “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Josh Gibbs.”

  The combination of Coretha’s prying and the beginning of another cycle of “Close To You” pushed Allison over the edge. “Coretha, I would like to make clear that I am not interested in any entangling relationships. I do not need a partner to be a complete person.”

  “He has a nice butt.”

  “Coretha!” Allison blushed and turned away from her assistant. She had to admit, she’d observed the same thing. And it was true her physical needs hadn’t entirely disappeared. But a romp in the hay just for the fun of it wasn’t in the cards. Winston was a small town. Everybody knew her. The details of any local liaison—even a date that merely got carried away—would be known quickly. Of course, she had plenty of opportunities out of town—if plenty meant the annual three-day convention of the state medical society where she was propositioned at least three times per reception by men with fish-white circles on their ring fingers who invariably began the conversation by recalling their friendship with her late father.

  She slammed down the receiver. “Twenty-five minutes on hold is long enough. Damn budget cuts. If the state would rather ignore a problem than answer the phone, the hell with ’em.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Maude Furbee dumped the mail on the conference table. “Don’t forget, Congressman Dorn is due here at three.”

  Josh looked up from his computer screen. The day was turning into a series of ambushes—just what he didn’t need. He had planned to devote time to sales for the River Days special edition. Deadline was approaching, as he was regularly reminded by the Main Street banner promoting the nightly pageants which portrayed Winston’s founding (loosely interpreted) by George Washington, and General Andrew Lewis’s 1774 victory over the great Shawnee chief Cornstalk, which the banner touted as “the bloodiest battle ever fought between the Indians and white settlers.”

  But that was before he’d learned that he’d need to cover Harry Dorn’s speech in connection the plant’s tenth anniversary celebration. On top of that, he’d received a call from the congressman’s deputy saying that Dorn wanted to come by the newspaper office that afternoon and pay his respects.

  It was little more than a media-stroking campaign visit, Josh knew, but of course he agreed. With Dorn widely considered to be a top senatorial contender, an hour spent on a Q &A for the Winston News certainly could be worthwhile. And by providing any resulting story to the Associated Press, he might even get some publicity for his little newspaper.

  Plus, he had to admit, he felt flattered. The editor of any weekly would.

  He turned to the mail. Furbee had sorted it into piles: bills, which he would not even open until the weekend; checks to be deposited that day; letters to the editor; and junk, often national press releases.

  A postcard featuring the University of Georgia bulldog mascot sat apart from the rest. The caption read Kickin’ Ass and Takin’ Names. Josh flipped it over and smiled. “Saw this and thought of you,” it read. “When you coming back to the fight?” It was signed by one of his former Atlanta colleagues.

  He was about to give Furbee the checks when he came across a manila envelope with a hand-written label and no return address. He tore off the end and shook it over his desk. A shower of one hundred dollar bills floated out, along with a standard Winston News contract for advertising in the River Days special section. The customer’s signature was illegible. Where the ad copy was supposed to be written, he saw the notation “TK,” newspaper shorthand for “to come,” meaning the ad itself would be prov
ided later. He scanned for the name of the person who had sold the ad and saw his own. The top of the contract listed the name of the customer. He handed the paper to Furbee. “Who the heck are the Friends of Chief Cornstalk?”

  Furbee studied it for a moment. “Probably a promotion for the pageant or an Indian rights group trying to place a protest ad.”

  Josh scooped up the bills and counted. Two grand. The price of a full-page. “That’s all we need to reserve their space. Maybe we should start getting payment up front from all of our customers.”

  “Good luck with that,” Furbee scoffed.

  Josh handed the cash to Furbee and returned to his computer. Whoever the Friends of Chief Cornstalk were, he didn’t have time for them at the moment.

  Dorn and aides arrived at the Winston News building just after 3 p.m. The obligatory tour of the newspaper, conducted by Furbee, usually took only fifteen minutes. But every staffer had wanted a photo of themselves with the candidate and even though it tied up the newspaper’s only photographer on an important news day, Josh didn’t mind because the delay had allowed him to shoehorn in a few more sales calls. So it was 4 p.m. when Dorn finally reached Josh’s office.

  Josh directed the congressman to one of the armchairs that circled his coffee table and settled into a seat across from him. Dan Clendenin, Dorn’s chief political aide, sat to the congressman’s right, pushed back to the periphery—not physically part of the conversation but available should the congressman need clarification. Joel Richey, Dorn’s senior office staffer, sat at the conference table cooing into a cell phone until Dorn silenced him with a glare.