“Yeah, yeah. Just get out there and do something about Drapkin. I’ll be checking up on you, Porter,” Spud cockily retorted.
I didn’t bother to respond, but simply hung up. Then I placed a call to a friend with Sea World in Florida. He immediately agreed to hop on a plane and fly to Georgia. At least I knew that the manatees would be taken care of. The toughest thing now was waiting until ten o’clock. Finally, it reached the magic hour.
The Reverend broke into a blessing while Venus gave us each a small bag of root.
“Here. This will keep you safe,” she said, pressing the packets into our hands.
Even the dog, Jake, got into the act, howling at the top of his lungs when we walked outside. A raspy chuckle rose from within Eight-Ball, as if stoked by the fire still sizzling inside his burns.
“I swear that dog’ll stop howling the day I die,” he uttered, which seemed to be his favorite expression.
I just prayed the dog didn’t stop howling tonight.
Eighteen
Soon we were underway, winding past expensive new homes, built on land once owned by former slaves. Eight-Ball tilted his head while lowering the passenger window, once again listening to something I couldn’t hear. That was all right. My mind was otherwise engaged as we raced beneath a sky darker than death.
We were flying across the causeway toward Brunswick when the moon slipped from behind a bank of clouds as if it had been playing hide-and-seek. I gazed down to where its golden rays formed a mystical pool on the still black water.
Lo and behold, floating on its mirrored surface was a manatee! The mammal stood upright, seductively basking in the moon’s milky light, like legendary sirens of old. An aquatic Mae West, she beckoned to me while swaying to a silent melody, and I knew I’d never seen such a magnificent creature in all my life. I vowed to do everything in my power to make sure that the species never died. Then the manatee slowly sank from sight, into the watery depths below.
I shivered in the warmth of the night, nearly jumping out of my skin as my phone suddenly rang.
It better not be Spud, I swore. One wrong move, and I’ll kick his ass straight across Georgia.
“Agent Porter,” I snapped.
“Rachel? Don’t you ever check your machine at home? I’ve been trying to reach you all evening.”
It was Santou’s boss. He couldn’t have been trying terribly hard. All he had to do was dial my cell phone.
“Why? What’s up?” I asked, fully prepared to hear some lame excuse as to why Santou hadn’t called.
“I’ve got some news. It’s not great. But we also don’t know everything yet, so don’t go jumping to any conclusions.”
The headlights around me blurred into a large fireball and my heart began to pound. It’s always a bad sign whenever the first words out of someone’s mouth are to stay calm. I immediately steered off the road, knowing that something was wrong.
“Why are we stopping?” Eight-Ball inquired.
But I didn’t respond. My world had abruptly shrunk, encompassing only the cell phone clutched in my hand.
“What’s happened?” I asked, my voice sounding alien to my own ears.
“It’s Santou. I’m afraid that his plane has gone down.”
The lights now whirled out of control in a deranged kaleidoscope that bounced around in my head. In fact, everything surrounding me spun in an orgy of delirium. I began to pass out, when Eight-Ball shoved the packet of root under my nose, jerking me back to consciousness.
“Rachel, are you still there?” Guidry demanded.
“Yes. Is Jake dead?” I asked, barely able to say the words.
“We don’t know yet. He was on a military flight that had mechanical difficulty and was forced to land in the Florida swamp. There hasn’t been radio contact with the craft. We can’t say anything for certain until a search-and-rescue team reaches the crash site.” Guidry hesitated, as if instantly regretting his choice of words. “I mean, if there was a crash. We’re using high-tech ground-penetrating radar to try to pinpoint the plane. I’m afraid our only access will be by helicopter or small boat.”
What was Guidry saying? That he suspected Santou’s plane had sunk into the swamp?
“But Jake took off last night. Why are you just assembling a search team now?” I demanded, wanting to believe that he was somehow wrong.
“Santou’s flight was delayed due to bad weather. His plane didn’t take off until today.”
My mind now raced, as I began to play the morbid game of what if. What if the plane hadn’t been delayed? What if Santou hadn’t followed me to Georgia? What if he was alive, but stuck inside the craft and couldn’t escape? Everglades water is dark and murky, filled with gators, slime, and thick muck. Other planes had gone down in that swamp. Sometimes there were survivors, but mostly there were not. I grew cold at the thought of Santou as one more restless ghost in a watery grave.
“I want to go along as part of the search team,” I insisted, knowing that I couldn’t just sit around.
“Sorry Rachel, but that’s a no-can-do.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I nearly shouted, my eyes filling with tears.
“You’re too emotionally involved. I don’t have time to worry about you, along with everything else going on.”
“That’s a pile of bullshit!” I angrily retorted.
“No, it’s not,” he snapped. “Listen to me, Rachel. Santou’s tough. Remember, he’s Cajun and the swamp was his playground as a kid growing up. If anyone can walk away from a crash and survive, it’ll be Jake. But this is going to be done by the book. And that means you can’t come along.”
Guidry was clearly controlling what he chose to tell me. Still, I had no option but to believe there was hope.
“I’ll call you with any updates. But right now, I’ve gotta go.”
With that, he hung up.
I sat staring into the night, seeing nothing but Jake’s face before me. Part of my soul had been stolen, and in its place had been left a cavernous void.
“Someone you care about been hurt?” Eight-Ball questioned.
I nodded, refusing to give the news further credence by saying the word yes aloud—not that I could have spoken over the lump in my throat. The world had suddenly become a movie, and I just one more bit player, stuck in a role I didn’t want. My life was crumbling around me and all pretense of control was now lost.
“But he could still be alive, right? Then that’s what you gotta believe in your heart.”
It’s what I tried to keep telling myself, though my demons whispered it wasn’t so.
“We don’t have to do this right now, if you don’t want,” Eight-Ball offered. “I can always get you into DRG another time.”
I could easily have gone home and curled up into a ball. But I was afraid that if I did, I might very well lose my mind. Not only that, but I now wondered, more than ever, why Jake hadn’t bothered to call when his flight was delayed. Had he not wanted me to worry? Had he simply been too busy with work? Or was something else going on?
“No, let’s go ahead as planned.”
I threw the vehicle into gear, and pulled back on the road. DRG soon appeared up ahead where the plant’s smokestacks rose like ominous ghouls in the sky.
Eight-Ball jumped out and unlocked the gate. Then he waved me in, and I took my foot off the brake, so that the Ford slowly rolled down the drive. Though I tried to park in the shadows, the moon spilled its light across the asphalt, exposing a throng of anguished souls that walked the night.
Wraiths, specters, hobgoblins, bogeymen—call them what you will. They were each acquaintances of mine, having stalked me all my life. They came along now, as I got out of my vehicle and followed Eight-Ball inside.
The long hallway furiously whispered as we walked by, the linoleum floor chattering beneath our feet. I’d have given anything to know what was being said. But only one word filled my head, Santou.
“Where do you want to go first?” Eigh
t-Ball questioned.
He must have felt the spirits around us, as well. Even his voice was subdued.
“Drapkin’s office.”
We walked inside, and I immediately headed for the filing cabinet next to his desk. It proved to be locked, just as I’d expected.
Eight-Ball looked at me and shrugged. “Sorry, Miss Rachel but I’m afraid I can’t help. Mr. Drapkin don’t give me the keys for that sorta thing.”
No problem there; I always come prepared. I pulled out my Leatherman multi-tool, and promptly began to jimmy the lock.
So focused was I that it took a moment to realize numerous eyes were bearing down on me. I quickly looked up. There was Howard Drapkin in all his posed glory, scrutinizing my every move from the photos on his desk. I leaned to the right and then to the left. Each set of eyes followed along, as if accusing me of being somewhere I didn’t belong.
Tough luck.
The lock finally popped and I yanked open the drawer. Stashed inside was the file that Drapkin had shown me. I bypassed it to skim through yet more neatly written reports addressed to the Georgia Environmental Protection Division, declaring the amount of mercury discharged by DRG to be well within the legal limit.
It was time to see what the next drawer held. But first, I snuck another peek at the photos. Drapkin’s mouth now seemed to have turned from a smile to a frown. However, he wasn’t the only one in the room who wasn’t happy.
Damn, damn, damn!
I couldn’t get the bottom drawer open. It was as though I’d lost my touch. I started to sweat so much that my shirt stuck to my back and my hands shook. The problem was, I couldn’t stop thinking about Santou. The next thing I knew, Eight-Ball was kneeling by my side.
“Why don’t you let me give that a try, Miss Rachel?” he gently suggested.
I nodded and watched as Eight-Ball adroitly picked the lock.
“There you go,” he said and opened the drawer.
I plunged in, anxious to find something in which to drown myself. It appeared I was in luck. A notebook lay inside that was marked STRICTLY PERSONAL. I pulled it out, and thumbed through the contents.
It now began to seem as though DRG were two completely different companies. The first chlor-alkali plant, as depicted in the file Drapkin had shown me, played by all the rules. However, this notebook detailed a company that had totally run amuck. Corporate records revealed a startling fact—the plant regularly purchased ten thousand pounds of mercury every few months. Even I didn’t have to be a scientist to know that meant something was terribly amiss. DRG shouldn’t have been buying any mercury at all—not unless vast amounts of it were being lost.
I continued to flip through the pages, increasingly astounded, as I now discovered what I’d been searching for. There was no question but that the reports filed with the Georgia Environmental Protection Division were totally bogus. In reality, the daily average of mercury being discharged was fourteen times the permitted amount!
I stared in disbelief, certain that I had to be reading the numbers wrong. But the figures refused to change. Instead what I saw amounted to nothing less than felony conspiracy. DRG had dumped 850,000 pounds of liquid mercury into the neighboring marsh over the last ten years.
I removed the pertinent papers, and let my fingers do some more walking. It wasn’t long before I hit upon yet another gold mine—a folder marked CONFIDENTIAL, with each of its letters underlined twice.
Ooh, baby, baby. Your secrets are safe with me, I lied and opened the file. What I found completely blew me away. Enclosed was a summary stating that the plant was a “hazard” and “in total disrepair.” In addition, DRG posed a serious threat not only to its employees, but also to the community at large, due to mercury and poisonous chlorine gas leaks. At least ten million dollars was necessary to correct immediate health and safety problems. An attached note, signed by Sterling Engineer Consulting Firm, guaranteed that the information would be kept strictly confidential.
But there was still more. Yet another report revealed that DRG’s treatment tank was too small. In reality, it was half the size the company had originally claimed it to be. Also included were copies of memos sent from Drapkin to the plant manager, urging him to “keep this place running. Money is important. We don’t want to lose one single dollar.”
I couldn’t believe Drapkin hadn’t shredded this stuff. Either he was stupid or outrageously arrogant, or had the balls to think that he could actually get away with it.
This time I didn’t bother to pick and choose among papers, but took the entire folder. There was still one last item in the drawer that I now opened—a small blue accordion file containing canceled checks. Each was in the amount of fifty thousand dollars. But what caught my interest were three of the recipients—Mrs. Joe Fellows, Mrs. Ralph Moore, and Mrs. Bill Norris.
“Eight-Ball, aren’t these the names of those men you mentioned? The ones who died shortly after having been involved in accidents here?”
Eight-Ball held the checks between his wrinkled fingers and squinted at them. “They sure are. Well, ain’t that nice of Mr. Drapkin to help their womenfolk out like that.”
Uh-huh. Except for the fact that I was suspicious this was hush money.
“Why don’t we head over to the nurse’s office next?” I suggested, overcome by the sudden urge to take a good hard look at employee health records.
We closed the door to Drapkin’s room and proceeded down the hallway.
It’s a good time to die. It’s a good time to die, the linoleum whispered each time our shoes hit the floor.
Oh, God! Could this have been a warning about Santou all along?
I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, struck by an unexpected bout of dizziness.
“You okay?” Eight-Ball asked.
Santou’s face loomed before me, and I knew I’d never be okay again, unless he were found alive.
“Fine. Just give me a second.” I took a deep breath and straightened back up. “Okay, let’s go on.”
We entered a room that was even more bland and sterile than the hallway.
“This is Verena Harper’s office.”
It should have been easy enough to guess. The walls were painted a nauseating shade of hospital puke green. I made a beeline for a pair of filing cabinets, picked the locks, and immediately got down to work.
Inside were the health records of every DRG employee. Rather than stored alphabetically, the charts were arranged according to work areas within the plant. So much the better. I swiftly targeted the files of those men in the cell buildings.
Each employee’s folder contained a list of health complaints ranging from headaches and shakiness to memory loss and lack of equilibrium. Results of urine samples revealed the amount of mercury that was filtering through their kidneys. The acceptable government level was no more than one hundred fifty micrograms.
I examined the records closely, wanting to make absolutely certain that I knew what was going on. But there was no mistaking the information before me. These men were walking time bombs. Every cell worker averaged over four hundred micrograms of mercury in his system. All except for one poor sucker, who carried the notation living dead next to his name. He was walking around with over one thousand micrograms inside him.
I couldn’t believe the ramifications of what I’d just found. DRG employees had plenty of ammunition with which to file one hell of a lawsuit. I felt like Norma Rae preparing to lead a workers’ revolt. That is until my eyes fell upon a large manila envelope with MEDICAL RELEASES written across its front in bold red letters.
My fingers trembled as I fumbled to remove its contents. Stuffed inside were a wad of release forms; one for every employee. I quickly read their gist. They acquitted DRG of all responsibility for any future medical problems that should arise from having worked at the plant.
“Eight-Ball, did you sign one of these things?” I tersely questioned the man beside me.
He looked at me blankly. “Well, I don’t rightl
y remember, but I suppose so.”
“You suppose so? Do you realize what this means for all of you in this damn place?” I angrily snapped.
Eight-Ball remained quiet for a moment before he finally spoke. “You know, Miss Rachel. Just ’cause we’re poor don’t make us stupid. Sometimes it don’t matter how angry or scared we get. We still got no choice but to turn a blind eye. Too many folks around here need the work. When it comes right down to it, men gotta feed their families.”
My face burned in embarrassment. Eight-Ball had deftly put me in my place with just a few choice words. None of these men were lawyers versed in the legal mumbo jumbo of signing away their rights. Most probably didn’t remember having put their John Hancock on these papers in the first place. After all, that’s what happens when you’re constantly exposed to mercury—you tend to forget. What it did clarify was that Drapkin was one clever son of a bitch who had shrewdly covered his ass.
I gathered what information I’d found, fully determined to figure out a way to take this bastard down. Then I headed outside, where I stashed the papers in my Ford.
“Where you wanna go next?” Eight-Ball asked, turning on his flashlight.
Between being sick with worry and consumed by growing fury, I was ready to explode. But my obstinacy refused to let me stop. I caught sight of two abandoned railroad cars up ahead. “What’s inside those?”
Eight-Ball scuffed his shoes on the ground, as though there were something he hated to admit.
“One’s filled with a whole lotta bad liquid. You don’t wanna go fooling with that stuff.”
“What about the other car?”
Eight-Ball shrugged. “It’s basically used for storage. You know, odds and ends like old tools, spare parts, and bags of pesticide.”
That last item caught my interest. “Let’s take a look in there.”
We crossed a field that was quiet as a graveyard, in which no crickets chirped and no cicada sang. It was Silent Spring all four seasons of the year, a place where nothing alive seemed willing to remain.
Eight-Ball and I placed our hands flat against the railroad car and slid the entrance open. The portal emitted a long, low groan eerily reminiscent of a Cheyne-Stokes gasp—the last gasp one makes before leaving this earth and entering death’s door. Then he flashed his light inside, where I caught sight of fifty-pound bags heaped in a corner. One of the gunny sacks was slit open, and a mound of tiny brown grains had spilled out.
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