Fallout

by Mark Ethridge

  She was able to match the log book with bills of lading which documented the contents of the loads and the name of the businesses where Dunn made the pickups. An auto salvage yard was a regular customer where the records showed Dunn picked up junked cars. Other customers included a demolition firm, a mining supply company and two commercial construction companies in Charleston. Those loads were all unhelpfully listed as “waste.”

  She noted that the hospital in Columbus appeared a half dozen times in Dunn’s log. The pickups were recorded as “scrap.” Nothing suggested the pickups contained radioactive material but she noticed several of the bills of lading were stamped with the rings and spheres logo of the hospital’s Department of Nuclear Medicine.

  She went to her computer and emailed the hospital’s vice president whom she had met during the visit with Josh. She asked if the hospital had experienced any accidental radiation releases or couldn’t account for any radioactive material.

  She found contact information for KZ Demolition, H&S Construction, Mountaineer Mining Supply, and the AA Auto Salvage yard. She emailed each similar questions, starting with whether they handled radioactive materials. She was searching for information about three other businesses where Dunn had made pickups when Coretha buzzed.

  “Time for rehearsal.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Harry Dorn lunged with his five-iron and another new Titleist squirted into deep woods at the Tournament Players Club at Avenal. Dorn swore. He hated golf. It was boring. Pointless. A waste of good real estate. He played only when it was unavoidable.

  Today was one of those occasions and if it were possible, his game was even worse than terrible. He had played four holes and picked up on three. On the single hole he had completed, he had taken an eight. The hole had been a 123-yard par three. He had hooked, sliced, dubbed and whiffed. Whiffed! Twice! Even the five-iron, the one club he could sometimes hit, felt alien in his hands. It was as if he were playing a game he’d never played before. Worse, a game at which he was both physically and mentally crippled.

  Dorn dropped another ball in the fairway and concentrated on keeping his head down. It was a battle. Sleepless since the interruption of Gibbs’ message, he had learned from the morning’s Washington Post the disturbing news that he had a rival, the popular lieutenant governor, a former football hero. Not that he expected to waltz to the nomination without challenge but he had expected to have weeks, maybe even months of unopposed advantage in shaking the money tree before credible rivals emerged. Now, the fight had already begun.

  Dorn swung and another new ball emblazoned with the plant’s logo—he had a locker full of them—arced into the Maryland woods.

  “Let ’em go,” his partner advised. “Once golf balls have had a taste of freedom, they’re no good anymore.”

  Dorn smiled. When the invitation is from a member of the Joint Chiefs—a golf-mad, four-star Air Force general whose driver was fashioned of metal from a dismantled Soviet missile warhead—and when the other member of the threesome is the chairman of Carbon Forward, you play golf, or at least go through the motions.

  Lunch mercifully intervened four holes later. With Dorn running perilously low on Titleists and patience, they adjourned to the club’s mahogany-paneled grill and ordered Reuben sandwiches and draft beers.

  The general untied his golf spikes, stretched, and leaned back in his chair. “You suck at golf. I hope you’re a better senator.”

  Dorn was tempted to respond that it would be difficult not to be. But he had not been a ten-year member of the Foreign Affairs Committee for nothing and he knew the general well. He read the unchanging expression on his leathered face, the knitted forehead accentuated by his silver crew cut, the unblinking, steely eyes, and understood the man wasn’t joking. He also knew the general to be a man of precision in everything from his approach shots to his language. I hope you’re a better senator. The general was presuming his election.

  “There’s a lot to like about the Liberty Agenda,” added the carbon man. Tall, tanned, always gracious in public and with perfect white hair, the chairman gave the impression of a man totally at ease with himself and his business. Even the slogan on his golf shirt—“The Building Block of Life”—was designed, Dorn realized, to make the oil, gas and coal industry sound like an earth-friendly, green organization. In reality, Dorn knew Carbon Forward played hardball and the chairman was an all-star.

  “The Liberty Agenda’s more powerful than any fanatical religious or totalitarian movement,” Dorn added.

  “I like the way you’re taking on the tree-huggers. If they think the atmosphere’s heating up now, just wait until we resume atmospheric nuclear testing,” the general laughed. “Just kidding. These new generation neutron nukes are clean as a whistle.”

  The general waited until the waitress who was delivering their sandwiches departed. “Harry, you’ve been good for us on Foreign Affairs. Over at the Pentagon, we think your Liberty Agenda is good for freedom, business, the military, everything this country stands for. Tens of thousands of companies employing millions of people do business with the military. They’d all like to see the Liberty Agenda flourish.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Dorn said.

  The general took a bite of his sandwich. “The military doesn’t take sides. We do support American ideals. If we put out the word that you’ll support us, many executives from those thousands of companies will find a way to give to your campaign and their wives will, too.”

  “Nothing improper about that, right?” Dorn asked.

  “Perfectly legal. For the most part.”

  Dorn swallowed hard. “For the most part?”

  “Well, I’m sure the contributions get reimbursed at some companies. The company submits an invoice for some defense work. Invoice gets paid. Money in the form of a bonus grossed up to account for taxes goes to the executives who contributed. Illegal as hell. We know it works that way sometimes but what are you going to do? In the defense budget, it’s small money.” The general turned to the carbon man. “What about you, Charlie? Your guys ready to throw in?”

  The chairman chuckled. “We still have some decidin’ to do.” He drained his draft and turned to Dorn. “We’ve known each other a long time so I’m sure I know the answer. Any skeletons in the closet? Booze? Pills? Girlfriends? Queer relatives or things of that sort?”

  Dorn’s stomach dropped like he was in a free-falling elevator. Not that he hadn’t anticipated probing into his personal life. He just hadn’t anticipated it so soon. “No,” he joked. “Never had that much fun.”

  “That’s too damned bad!” the chairman roared. “Maybe we just oughta take up a collection to get you laid!”

  Dorn laughed weakly. “When do you make your decision?”

  “We’re meeting next week. With the general’s endorsement and the relationship we’ve had over the years, I’d say it’s yours to blow.”

  Dorn swallowed again. “How much might be involved?”

  The general and the chairman looked at each other. The general shrugged. “Ten million, maybe.”

  “That’s the direct money,” the chairman added quickly. “Throw in soft money to the party, money to fund the supposedly unaffiliated outside groups—like the Swift Boat people—maybe close to twenty, thirty million. Almost Obama money, at least for a Senate seat.”

  Dorn did some quick math: There would be little need for additional fund-raising.

  Dorn noticed movement outside the grillroom window. Joel Richey. “Pardon me for a moment,” he smiled to the general. “I’ll be right back.”

  Dorn found Richey by the putting green, bouncing up and down on his toes like a beered-up Redksins fan waiting for his turn at the urinal. Dressed in a wrinkled black suit, scuffed brown shoes and one of his decades-old ties, Richey looked like he belonged at the Salvation Army instead of a country club. Dorn was embarrassed to be se
en with him.

  “We gotta talk,” Richey said as soon as Dorn got within hearing distance.

  “We don’t gotta do anything.”

  Richey plunged ahead. “The plant people called. They want to talk to you right away.”

  “They know how to reach me.”

  “They want you to call on a secure line.”

  Dorn saw the general standing by the tenth tee, waving at him with his driver. “We’re up,” the general yelled.

  “I’ll be right there,” Dorn mouthed so as not to disturb golfers on the practice green. He pulled out his cell phone and started walking away. He turned back to Richey. “Joel, learn how to dress.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Josh struggled into his buckskins as if he’d never worn them. He got his pants halfway on before he collapsed into his desk chair. He was almost ready to screw the whole thing. Who’d miss another trapper? The festival was frivolous and stupid.

  Two weeks earlier, the financial success of the River Days section and getting Katie off to camp had seemed like the most important things in the world. Now, he couldn’t care less.

  His daughter had cancer, insurance wouldn’t pay the bill and the system didn’t care. The newspaper’s suddenly-in-a-hurry buyers still hadn’t returned his phone calls. Something about the newspaper had provoked someone to vandalism. Fallout like that might happen in Atlanta, not Winston. And Katie had a boyfriend. A boyfriend!

  He was depressed, dejected, and done trying to do good for the world. The effort was pointless. It presumed that you had some control over things. If that were the case, Sharon wouldn’t be dead and Katie wouldn’t be sick. Even with that understanding, he’d always tried to do right. But it was time to quit trying. Look where it led.

  He sat there for another ten minutes.

  A chestnut mare carrying funeral home owner Mark Cotter costumed as surveyor George Washington pranced in the street. Woody Conroy, the appliance store owner in full uniform as pageant hero General Andrew Lewis, shared a cigarette and a laugh with Shawnee Chief Cornstalk, his soon-to-be vanquished foe played by barber Bill Booth. “I got a news flash for you,” Booth yelled when he saw Josh. “Cornstalk’s going to win this year.” Josh gave him a weak thumbs-up and kept walking.

  Out of force of habit, Josh checked the weather as he stood in a line of costumed characters waiting to be approved by the pageant’s several wardrobe mistresses. The weather could determine whether a particular year’s festival failed or succeeded. This year, it was starting out perfectly. The summer had not yet turned hot and the air was filled with the smell of growth and fresh-turned soil. The sky was deep blue. The humidity had magically lifted.

  In years past, that would have been enough to make him ecstatic.

  Josh felt a hand slide down the small of his back and inside the waistband of his leggings. He whirled around to find Hattie Duvall with a measuring tape clenched between her teeth. “Nothing to let out,” she said, looking at him disapprovingly. “Drop a few pounds or it’s the last year for those leggings.”

  He felt himself blush. “Maybe you oughta make ’em out of Spandex.”

  She slapped his butt and sent him on his way. He found himself on a collision course with Allison. His heart went to his throat. Her blonde hair fell from beneath a simple white cap and fanned out across the tops of her bare shoulders, drawing Josh’s gaze to her cleavage revealed by the scooped white ruffled blouse which she wore over a long black muslin skirt. He felt enamored, and not for the first time.

  She spotted him. “There you are,” she said. “You heard about Darryl Dunn.”

  “Yeah. Holt thinks Spike did it.”

  “I know, but I don’t think so. He could barely hold that baseball bat. And Dunn was shot. How could Spike have gotten his finger on a trigger with his hands messed up? There could be any number of people who had a problem with ol’ Darryl. Maybe Candi killed him. Dunn knew from our phone calls we were on his trail about the metal. Maybe his supplier killed Dunn to keep him quiet.”

  “That’s a pretty big leap,” Josh cautioned. “I’m thinking Candi. Cherchez la femme.” He shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know.”

  Allison was starting to feel frustrated. She took his hands and forced him to look at her. “Josh, I’m really worried. We don’t have an idea where this stuff is coming from and how much is out there. We need to go public. We have to warn people. You told Dunn you were going to do a story. Now’s the time.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  Allison was incredulous. “We’re just going to let it drop?”

  “Let’s go where we can talk.”

  “I haven’t been through wardrobe approval.”

  “It’s got my approval.” Feeling like a schoolboy who’d just passed a love note, he held his breath, hoping for some expression of mutual attraction.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. She patted him on the shoulder and smiled.

  It was, he decided, the condescending smile of the head cheerleader asked to the prom by the class geek. He felt like a fool. Obviously, he’d misread things.

  They moved to a bench by the river when she returned—the same bench on which he and Sharon used to sit and where he had talked to Katie about her leg.

  Josh explained his reasoning. “No question Darryl’s murder is a huge deal, but we don’t have a story nailed down yet that connects him to dealing in radioactive metal.”

  “We have Spike.”

  “One source isn’t enough,” said the newspaperman. “Plus, the timing’s bad. It’s two weeks until we print a regular issue again.” He wished now that he’d invested in a good website for the News instead of agreeing to Bella Partners’ request to hold off until the new owners took over.

  “You could put it in the River Days special section. We’d be saving Winston. It’s what a newspaper is for.”

  “Saving Winston? We don’t know where the metal’s coming from. We don’t even know that there’s more out there. Besides, saving Winston has never been on my agenda. I’m not in the business of crusading anymore.”

  Allison had spent a hard week on the trail of radioactive contamination and a Friday short on her passion—patients—but long on her nemesis—administrivia. She’d done much of it with Josh and she’d become worried about the threat they’d uncovered together. “That’s selfish,” she shot back.

  “Selfish?” Stinging from rejection, Josh felt the blood rush to his face. “Selfish? That’s something coming from a woman who doesn’t have to worry about anybody but herself. You make this big deal about caring for the public—Detroit, Appalachia, wherever ‘the public’ needs help. You care for patients but do you know what it’s like to actually care for a person?”

  He regretted lashing out as soon as the words left his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I know you want to do the right thing. I do, too. But Katie’s facing the fight of her life and I have to be there for her twenty-four/seven. She’s . . . all I’ve got. I failed Sharon. I will not fail Katie, too.”

  “You’re not the only one who grieved when Sharon died. She was my best friend,” Allison reminded him. She had come to feel that she and Josh were better together than they were alone—not only in doing what was best for Katie but also investigating the cases of tissue death. Now, he had abandoned her. “Are you sure you’re not worried about failing yourself?” she challenged.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I suppose the surest way to never screw up a big story again is to never do another big story.”

  “That’s unfair!”

  Preparations had reached fever pitch. A lamb, a goat, and some chickens roamed part of the riverfront park that had been staked out for a petting zoo. Nearby, workers erected a small stage that would be used for The Little Miss River Queen pageant, gymnastic and square dance club exhibitions and demonstrations of hous
ehold products. On the other side of the street, two water colorists argued over a prime location that provided a place to display work and a picturesque scene for the artist to capture as crowds meandered past. The food vendors, Allison knew, would be the next arrivals, peddling everything from candy apples and cotton candy to shish kabobs and other fare whose connection to the Ohio River, West Virginia, George Washington or anything else being celebrated was remote at best.

  She swept her hand over the scene. “We’re talking about protecting them. You have an obligation to do the story.”

  “I have an obligation to Katie,” Josh said firmly. “ . . . To Sharon.”

  “Sharon’s not here anymore. They are.”

  Allison understood completely his devotion to Katie. She felt badly about calling him selfish. And maybe it had been unfair to bring up Atlanta, even though she was sure what happened there contributed to his reluctance.

  But he was also wrong about her. Admittedly, she had a hard time trusting, given everything that had happened. But the fact is, she did know what it was like to care for someone. Her doggedness was proof she did care for people. She cared for Candi, Wanda, Ricky, Spike and her other patients. She had cared for Sharon. She cared for Katie, especially. She’d always keep that promise to her best friend.

  Allison looked at him with an expression between sadness and regret. She leaned over and kissed him tenderly on the cheek, leaving Josh weak-kneed and speechless, his cheek still burning where she had kissed him and his thoughts so jumbled that all he could do was watch her disappear into the crowd.

  His eyes caught Vince Bludhorn observing from a distance.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The bass bellow of a steam whistle rolled through Winston, lingered, and repeated as Allison arrived back at her office. She hurried to an alcove at the end of the second-floor hall that afforded a sightline to the Ohio River. She was joined by Coretha just as the bow of the stately paddle wheel steamer Cincinnati Queen slipped into view.