Fallout

by Mark Ethridge

  “I don’t buy it. If they were after me, there are better ways to—”

  “I agree. But if you’re right, we have an even bigger problem. If someone didn’t contaminate that fish to hurt the newspaper or you, then it got contaminated on its own. And if that’s the case, we’re not just dealing with contaminated jewelry. Radioactive material may be wherever that fish lived, maybe even in the water supply.” The notion was mind-boggling.

  Josh’s head spun. Either he was a target or the contamination was far more widespread than they had imagined. “I want to see that note,” he said. “Get your guy to fax over a copy.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Dorn felt liberated Sunday afternoon as he boarded Carbon Forward’s Cessna Citation Five for the trip to West Virginia.

  “Big day tomorrow,” Clendenin noted. “Decision day for the carbon boys.”

  An hour later a hand pushed aside the curtain separating the cockpit from the passenger compartment. The co-pilot twisted around to face them. “I’ll make a low pass over Winston before we approach Charleston. The weather’s not great but it’s still quite a sight.”

  Dorn gave a thumbs-up. The jet descended from a clear blue sky into a thick layer of gray clouds. Rain appeared on the windows. Dorn sensed the plane was dropping but visibility was zero and he couldn’t tell. Just as he was getting nervous, the plane dropped below the clouds and leveled off—still comfortably above the ground but low enough so that he could see houses, fields, streams and roads.

  The first thing Dorn noticed was the RVs. Short of when the WVU Mountaineers were headed to an undefeated season and Morgantown became a parking lot on six fall Saturdays, he’d never seen so many land yachts at one time. And the community itself seemed to have doubled in size geographically, principally because of the midway that extended all the way through Winston and ended in a carnival, already up and going, long neon tubes brightening the afternoon gloom.

  “Wow!” Dorn breathed.

  “Woodstock!” the pilot yelled over the engine roar. He hit the throttle. The jet gained altitude and banked toward Charleston, providing Dorn a magnificent view of the river, the fold in the ridges, and, in the distance, the blinking red lights on the towering smokestack of the plant.

  The limousine carrying the candidate and his aide pulled into the Sternwheeler Hotel in Winston after 9 p.m. Dorn would have much preferred to stay at Possum Island and come to town in his SUV in the morning. But the organizers had worried about traffic and timing. He had just enough time to unpack before Clendenin knocked and entered with an ice bucket and a thick black briefcase that Dorn knew contained a bottle of Old Forrester Kentucky bourbon.

  Clendenin made drinks. Dorn switched on the 10 p.m. television news from Charleston. The third story included footage shot in Winston that afternoon of tourists arriving for the kickoff of River Days. Dorn heard the anchor mention that Senate frontrunner and local hero Harry Dorn would be speaking at ceremonies Tuesday. He raised the volume. “Listen to this,” he shouted.

  Clendenin rushed in just as footage of Dorn speaking appeared on the screen. “It’s the speech from the commercial,” Dorn said in amazement.

  “Getting great coverage. We never paid to run that ad outside of Washington. Now it’s on the local TV news and it’s gone viral on YouTube.”

  Dorn chugged his bourbon and immediately made himself another.

  When the news was over, Clendenin left for his room. Dorn removed his trousers and stretched out on the bed. The exhilaration of making a fresh, clean start was fading. The bourbon and the hotel room were resurrecting memories that were better left buried. He scrolled through his catalogue of encounters, each tagged with a scent, a sensation or another cue that triggered the replay. He was quickly aroused.

  He got up and poured a third drink to knock him out until morning. Tapping came from his hotel room door. “Clendenin?” he asked.

  No answer. Light knocking again. Dorn peered through the peephole. His knees weakened. He eased the door open until the safety chain pulled tight. He peered through the crack.

  A sweet young face smiled back at him. “I thought you might like some company.”

  Dorn intended to be strong. “Who sent you?”

  The girl looked hurt. “No one.”

  Dorn desperately wanted to believe her. He looked again—heavy eye makeup, low-cut blouse. In the worst case, he reasoned, he could contend he thought she was at least eighteen. Longing melted logic and his resolve. Ardor defeated intellect.

  This time would truly be the last, he promised himself. This was not failure—just a farewell to a former acquaintance, like an alcoholic having one last drink before swearing off liquor forever.

  He unlatched the door.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “You’re making it difficult this morning.”

  Allison’s bed partner responded with a guttural grumble and snuggled closer.

  “I’d love nothing more than to stay in bed with you, Hippocrates, but I’ve got a huge day ahead.” She slipped from the covers so as not to disturb the snoozing cat.

  She selected a pantsuit for the meeting with Josh and Dorn. Inspecting herself in the mirror, she concluded she’d need to put aside her distaste for shopping and acquire something less dowdy for the River Days ball even though she was attending as a single.

  She said goodbye to Hippocrates, set the alarm, locked the door and walked to her car through a light drizzle. A padded manila envelope sat on the passenger seat. She stopped, looked around for whoever had left this for her.

  Spotting no one, she slid into the car and picked it up. The package contained a disc—perhaps, she thought, one of the DVDs drug and medical equipment company sales reps desperately tried to get her to watch.

  She turned the package over. The mailing and return addresses were blank. The only identifying feature was her name. She tore the envelope open. No letter or press release, just a DVD. She read its hand-written label and her body turned to ice.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Josh checked the parking lot for the tenth time. Still no sign of Allison. It was unlike her to be late. Dorn was due at any minute. He punched her number on his speed dial and got voice mail—again. He slammed the phone shut in frustration. He was about to jump out of his skin.

  He was coming off a sleepless Sunday night, his mind ping-ponging between wondering who was out to get him and all the things that would be decided in the next forty-eight hours, starting with his daughter’s leg. Much hinged on this meeting with Dorn.

  Consuming two ‘Counselors’ at the Java Joynt while lingering on a mistaken hunch that he’d encounter Vince Bludhorn had stretched his nerves even tighter.

  Then he’d arrived at his office to find a note pinned to the back of his office chair and his voice mail button blinking like crazy. The note was from a production supervisor: the regular ink delivery had been mysteriously cancelled. The weekly press run had left the News almost out. The voice mails were from advertisers withdrawing their ads from the River Days section—first a car dealer, then the drug store, then the bank.

  Customers canceling ads was hardly an unknown phenomenon. A product might not arrive at the store on time and an ad would need to be pulled. Cash flow problems sometimes intervened, although it was usually the publisher who decided to pull the ad since, unlike a car or a television set, the ad could not be repossessed.

  But only the bank vice president mentioned a reason. “We’re not going to support tabloid trash investigations.”

  He was about to phone the advertisers when Dorn’s SUV wheeled into the visitor spot at the News.

  Dorn killed the engine. The scent of the girl rose fleetingly from somewhere and he was swept by arousal, then shame. But that was behind him. So was his relationship with the plant. But it wouldn’t be the messy, perilous divorce that Clendenin had suggested. Instead, it woul
d be gradual, like an office affair that cools without recriminations when novelty wears off and practicality sinks in.

  The easy exit was possible because, thankfully, the News would not publish for two weeks. He hadn’t even needed to use his leverage to keep the paper from publishing whatever it was pursuing regarding the plant, although it would be ideal if Bludhorn believed his efforts had actually led to the news blackout. For that reason, he would help the editor with his daughter. It figured to be a quick meeting. He cracked the car door, popped open his umbrella and stepped into the rain.

  Allison still hadn’t shown up by the time Dorn settled into a chair in Josh’s office. The congressman didn’t waste time. “How’s your little girl?”

  “Scared, I imagine. I know I am. She’s home from camp this afternoon and then it’s off to the hospital tomorrow.”

  “Well, let me remove one of your worries. I came by to tell you I’m going to contact your insurance company first thing when I get back to Washington. And they’ll listen. Makes a nice impression when they get a call from Capitol Hill. No one wants questions from government regulators.”

  Josh shook Dorn’s hand. “This is wonderful! This means everything.” A guilty twinge tempered his elation. “I hate asking for a special favor.”

  “Nonsense. Constituent service.”

  Josh swallowed any unease. “On those terms, agreed.” He would never have accepted Dorn’s favor on his own behalf, but for Katie there were no lines he would not cross.

  “Glad we can help. Joel Richey will get back to you on the details.” Dorn stood and extended his hand. “Sorry to run but I know you have a lot ahead of you. If there’s nothing else—” Dorn felt he had made a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth.

  “As a matter of fact, there is something else.”

  “I only have a minute,” Dorn backpedaled.

  “A couple of weeks ago, a local physician started seeing people suffering radiation injuries from body jewelry. Nipple rings, that sort of thing. We traced the jewelry to a roadside dealer and from there to a truck driver who was supplying the metal. Before we could find him, he was murdered.”

  Dorn’s stomach sank. He had a bad feeling about where this was headed. He adopted an expression that he used for congressional hearings that said “attentive” but revealed no bias.

  “There’s more. A few days ago someone threw a catfish through our office window. It, too, turned out to be radioactive.”

  Alarms sounded in Dorn’s head. He felt immediately that the murdered truck driver was related to Bludhorn’s “problem” although nothing had been said to indicate that. “Who’s aware of this?” he asked cautiously.

  “The local police. And several state agencies are aware of parts of it. But Chief Holt’s overwhelmed and the key state people are away. We put up posters to warn people about the jewelry but a lot got torn down. We have more posters but, Congressman, we need federal help. We have tens of thousands of people coming to town.”

  Dorn relaxed a little. Contaminated jewelry and a murder, bad as they were, didn’t rise to the level of congressional attention, especially with the local authorities already involved. The newspaper editor hadn’t even mentioned the plant. His biggest problem might be how to satisfy the editor that he was making a difference while actually doing nothing.

  “Radioactive catfish,” Dorn said. “Sounds like what happened with one of the tabloids. Had Anthrax mailed to it. Same nut sent some to members of the House.”

  Josh remembered the incident well. The anthrax had killed a photographer. The newspaper building had to be abandoned for five years.

  “The posters were a fine idea,” Dorn commended. “It sounds like the appropriate local authorities are aware of the killing and jewelry. I don’t know what alphabet agency this falls under but I’ll look into it as soon as I’m back in the office. Meanwhile, I think you can relax.”

  “Maybe we could—”

  Dorn patted Josh on the back. “You’ve done all you can. Allow the authorities to do their jobs. See to what’s important to you. Take care of your little girl. Leave the rest to me.”

  Back in his car, Dorn debated whether to call Bludhorn. The situation had become unnerving. On the one hand, he really needed to know the facts to prepare himself in the event that he’d have some explaining to do. On the other hand, he might learn more than he wanted. There was a lot to be said for deniability.

  Curiosity got the better of him. He called Vince and asked his questions carefully.

  “This problem, was there anything dangerous involved?”

  “Depends on your definition,” Bludhorn said cooly. “Crossing the street’s dangerous.” Dorn took that as confirmation.

  “Did it involve a death?”

  “Harry, there are going to be regrettable accidents, even fatalities, in any industrial situation.”

  Dorn’s stomach sank. “Did you know about this when I was down there?”

  “It was handled at that time.”

  Dorn hung up. He felt ill. These plant people were crazy. Clendenin was right. He needed to break the bonds as fast as he could.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  When his attempts to reach Allison failed, Josh drove to her condo. The Wagoneer was parked in its usual spot. He rang the doorbell and knocked. No one answered. He trooped around back, scaled a plank fence and dropped onto the rain-slicked patio. The door was unlocked. Hippocrates scooted out as Josh stepped in.

  He found himself in Allison’s bedroom. Her bed was unmade. A beige bra lay strewn on the floor. A silky nightgown pooled on the seat of a chair. Josh took a deep breath. The place smelled feminine, intimate. The only light came from a television which flickered silently in the corner with the image of a naked woman. Allison.

  He watched transfixed. Even for a jaded newsman, the images were shocking, well beyond commercial pornography. The DVD loop began to repeat. He could not tear himself away. Josh stepped closer. He studied Allison’s face. Was she aware she was being recorded? He was stunned by what he saw and horrified by his fascination with it. What kind of sick bastard got pleasure from humiliating someone like Allison he would never know. He felt his rage building. Feeling like a participant in Allison’s violation, he grabbed the remote, snapped off the video and turned on the overhead light.

  His heart stopped. Allison stood in the doorway. Gone was the poised, confident physician. She looked half dead. He’d seen the look before—in disaster survivors and on the faces of people after the bombing at the Atlanta Olympic Games. He rushed to her and drew her tightly to him.

  Allison pushed away. “Get away from me,” she said woodenly.

  Josh took a step forward. “Are you okay—?”

  She lashed out at him with both arms. Josh grabbed her wrists and pinned them to her sides. She fought to get free but Josh held on until Allison stopped struggling and melted into heaving sobs.

  He held her until the sobs became sniffles. He led her to the edge of the bed, sat beside her. She would have to speak first.

  “I never thought . . .” She shook her head. “I’m going to have to leave town. My life is shot.”

  Allison slammed a pillow to the floor. She’d worked so hard to gain the respect of her patients, to regain her own self-respect. Now, she’d been crushed. She dissolved back into tears.

  Josh wanted to make her feel better but he couldn’t think of the right thing to say.

  The phone broke the silence. Allison didn’t move. She let the call go to the answering machine. “It’s Carl. We’ve restored almost the whole note. I’ve emailed you a scan.”

  She could sense Josh’s anxiety. They both believed the note in the fish had been aimed at him. The DVD’s arrival helped her appreciate his need to know who was targeting him and why. “Check my email,” she said. “I’m signed on.”

  Josh went to her computer. He
found the email and opened the attachment. “W-Y-N-E- something-U-E-C-H-S-I-K-A- apostrophe—S. Followed by the word CURSE,” he read. “We knew about ‘Curse’. There’s also a signature. ‘One of the Remaining.’”

  He studied the smudged letters. Something about the note looked familiar but he couldn’t place it. “What starts with W-Y-N-E?”

  He went to dictionary.com and typed the letters. No results.

  “The apostrophe means it possessive. Maybe it’s a person,” Allison suggested. She could feel her own natural curiosity pulling her back from the brink.

  Josh Googled WYNE. “WYNE is a radio station in Erie, Pennsylvania. And there’s a stripper named Brandy Wyne.”

  “See what you get if you type in all the letters we have and guess at the one we’re missing. Start with A and keep going until we get a match. There are only twenty-six possibilities.”

  Josh studied the letters. “It almost has to be a consonant.” Seconds later, he reported, “The word is Wynepuechsika. It means maize plant. It’s the Indian name for Chief Cornstalk.”

  “‘Cornstalk’s Curse.’ Signed ‘One of the Remaining,’” Allison said. “What the heck does that mean?”

  Josh Googled “Cornstalk’s Curse.” The site of the West Virginia Historical Society came up first. “It says Chief Cornstalk issued a curse before he died and supposedly a lot of local disasters have resulted—coal mine accidents, bridge collapses, that kind of thing.”

  “Might as well blame him for the Marshall football team plane crash, as long as they’re at it.”

  Josh scrolled further. “Actually, they do. Here’s the curse itself. ‘May the curse of the Great Spirit rest upon this land. May it be blighted by Nature. May it even be blighted in its hopes. May the strength of its peoples be paralyzed by the stain of our blood.’”

  “That’s one upset chief. But what’s the curse have to do with a radioactive catfish? And why direct it to you?”