“I saw a man leave his room. The police got here right away. They’re working with hospital security, checking all the video cameras. Only a trace made it into Daddy’s system, but the doctor said whatever they gave him would have made his whole respiratory system shut down in another couple minutes.”
“Who would do this, Travis? Did you recognize the guy from anywhere?”
“No sir. And I got a clear look at him at one point, in the waiting room. And I can assure you of this—I ain’t gonna forget that face.”
The only long-shot idea Travis had was that LJ had got vengeance on the posse that carved his eye out, and this was some sort of payback. He’d be asking his brother about that in one minute flat.
“But he’s going to make it?” Jack said.
“Yeah, yeah.” Travis sighed, feeling like a slow-leaking tire. “They gave him an IV with some medicine that counters the effects of the bad drug. He vomited twice from it, but he’s resting good now. We’re hoping he gets back to a private room by tonight.”
“I’m going to try to get over there to see you guys.”
“You don’t have to, Jack. Besides, you ain’t got no car, remember? Sorry to leave you stranded.”
“Don’t worry about it. Pam can get me.”
Bo had managed to unfold his lazy bones from the couch and made his way over to Travis. “Can I have some coin for the snack machine?” he whispered. “I’m starving.”
“Hold on a minute, Jack.” Travis looked up at Bo with a snarled face and covered the phone. “Did you ask yer daddy?”
“He ain’t gonna give me nothin’.”
Travis was a darn softy. “In a minute,” he whispered.
Bo nodded and meandered away.
“Jack, sorry. I guess that’ll do it. I’ll let you know when your car’s ready.”
“Okay. We’re flexible.”
“All righty then. I gotta make some more calls—one to that big-shot lawyer I told you about.”
“The one helping you with Demler-Vargus? What’s his name?”
“Ralston Coon.” Travis chuckled. “How could you forgit that one, right?”
“Do you know how often your dad has met with him?”
“Only once I know of. I drove him downtown to Coon’s office—it’s only a couple blocks from the Dispatch, in the Flat Iron Building. You shoulda seen that place. Whew-golly, it was polished.”
“Did you meet Coon yourself?” Jack said.
“Yeah. I went in with Daddy to make sure he got up to the office okay. Coon came out, and we said hey. I left Daddy there to tell Coon all the stuff he knew, and I ran errands.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Daddy keeps notes—dates when we can actually see pink fiberglass all over the neighborhood. Names of neighbors who’s ailing from it. Names of employees who had the inside dope on what really goes on in the plant.”
“And your dad shared all that with the lawyer?”
“Yeah. Coon made copies of his notes. Daddy felt real good about the whole thing.”
There was a long pause.
“What’s wrong, Jack? Daddy felt like we was finally gonna get some justice. You think we did wrong?”
“Not if Coon’s honest. How did Galen hear about him?”
“His best buddy, Charlie Snellinger, recommended him.”
“And is that the only time they met?”
“They’ve talked on the phone a couple times, but I’m pretty sure that’s it. We keep pretty close tabs on Daddy. He’s been strugglin’ with rememberin’ things lately, like where he put his keys and his chewing tobacca.”
“Has he mentioned that to a doctor? They have patches you put on your skin now to slow down memory loss.”
The gimmicks people don’t fall for these days.
“We might look into that,” Travis fibbed.
“Do you recall when it was your dad met with Coon at his office?”
“Second Tuesday of the month,” Travis said. “You know how I remember that so quick? ’Cause down at Gebralter’s Grocery, Mr. Gebralter makes his homemade sausage the first Tuesday every month. That’s where I went after I dropped Daddy.”
“Travis, I talked to my editor today about doing an investigative piece on Demler-Vargus.”
“You get the green light?”
“He gave it to another reporter, a good friend of mine, Derrick Whittaker.”
“Hmm.”
“But I’m going to see if I might be able to work with him on it. Do you have those notes your dad kept?”
“They’re in Momma’s old desk in the kitchen. You was standin’ right by it this mornin’.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to see those notes.”
“Sure, sure. How ’bout when you come by to get the Jetta?”
“Yeah. I might want to see them before that. I’d like to talk with Coon, but I want to know what’s in those notes first.”
“Good idea,” Travis said.
“Is anybody around the house—if I were to get a ride over there?”
“Shoot, it’s open, Jack. Just go on in, same way you came in this mornin’. Daddy’s notes is in the drawer on the far left, in one a’ them manila folders. It’s got D-V written on it. Can’t miss it.”
“Okay then. I might have Derrick run me over there.”
“Jack, you think Demler-Vargus did this to Daddy?”
Jack exhaled loudly. “I can’t imagine that. It would be very sloppy.”
“Well, someone poisoned him.” Travis stood. “And whoever did it is gonna face the wrath of the Randall clan—and that ain’t gonna be purty.”
Chapter 5
Jack was jealous of the heat blasting in Derrick’s maroon Toyota FJ Cruiser, which had him sweating within minutes as they drove to the Randalls’ place. He felt quite hip riding shotgun in the Cruiser, which Derrick had decked out with the all-terrain package: rock rails, fog lights, side steps, roof rack, tow kit, and black wheels.
As they rolled through slushy backstreets beneath a dreary winter sky, Jack explained all he knew about the Randalls’ accusations against Demler-Vargus and Galen’s apparent poisoning.
“That is crazy,” Derrick said. “They’re sure he was poisoned?”
“Yep. I got a feeling about this one,” Jack said.
“Barton’s gonna lose his marbles when he finds out we’re both working on this thing.”
“Look, he told Pete to give you the story, and for me to give you my leads. That’s what we’re doing. Finding Galen’s folder will get you started. You can take it from there.” But Jack wanted to be more involved—and had a hunch he would be.
“You believe how these people live over here?” Derrick scanned the drab, impoverished landscape. “Never fails to remind me of Detroit.”
“That’s right, you’re a Motor City kid.”
“Lower east side. Mostly single-parent homes. Food stamps. Drugs. Gangs.”
“You had both parents, didn’t you?”
Derrick nodded and tugged at his black leather gloves as he drove. “We were the exception. Had a lot of love between my folks and my three sisters. All my buddies wanted to hang at my house. It always amazed them—how calm things were, when right outside the door there was gunfire and all kinds of chaos.”
“Where’d your dad work?”
“GM. Mom, too. We got out of that neighborhood eventually.”
“Turn left here, and that’s it on the right.” Jack pointed.
Jack’s Jetta and several other vehicles sat covered in a dusting of snow in front of the large metal garage. Derrick pulled into the driveway over some tire tracks and footprints that were fading with the new snow.
“I can’t believe they just leave it open.” Derrick parked, yanked the brake, and turned off the car.
“If you knew them, you’d understand. Very simple people.” Jack opened his door. “Brrr.”
Rusty, stationed on the back porch, howled with such zeal that he came off his front paws.
“Hey. I don’t do attack dogs.” Derrick got out of the Cruiser slowly and stood behind his open door. He tugged his green ski cap low over his forehead and remained there.
“He’s harmless.” Jack trudged toward the steps. “I was just here this morning and walked right past him. Come on.”
“Man, they don’t pay me for this.” Derrick slammed his door. “Wait up, Critt.” Derrick slipped but grabbed the big side mirror on the Cruiser to stabilize himself.
“Watch yourself,” Jack kidded. “Calm down, Rusty,” he said in his nicest tone. “Be nice to Derrick.” He looked back at Derrick, who was ten steps behind him. “I hope this dog’s not prejudiced.” They both laughed.
Jack trudged up the steps, which were covered with a half-inch of snow and a bunch of old footprints.
“Just wait for me, would you?” Derrick was right behind him. “Easy, Fido, ea-sy.”
The dog pranced in a circle and sniffed them with his dirty nose, then gave a low growl.
“Hurry up, man. He’s seriously deranged.”
Jack snickered as he opened the squeaky screen door and nudged the heavy wood door open, Derrick pushing from behind.
The place did not resemble the kitchen Jack had stepped into that morning.
“Hold up.” Jack threw an arm up to stop Derrick.
Derrick froze and looked around. “No way.”
“Shhh.” Jack held a finger to his lips.
The kitchen cupboards and drawers were open at cockeyed angles, their contents spilled over the counters and floor. Broken dishes, pots, silverware, pans, and shattered glass were everywhere.
Standing completely still, they listened. Something moved in the adjacent room. Jack bent down, hiked the leg of his pants up over the black holster, and yanked the gun out. He rose, caught a glimpse of Derrick’s gaping mouth and huge eyes, and cocked the gun with his thumb instead of racking the slide, to keep it quiet.
A skinny gray cat slinked around the corner.
Both men exhaled, and Jack lowered the weapon.
With its back arched, the cat tiptoed through the broken plates and strewn silverware.
“What’re you doing with that?” Derrick eyed the gun.
Jack ignored him and took in the scene. The kitchen table where Travis had eaten that morning was overturned, and the desk where the Demler-Vargus folder was supposed to be had been smashed onto its side, its drawers and contents scattered everywhere.
“I think they’re gone.” Derrick’s voice broke. “Don’t you?”
“Yeah.” Jack holstered the gun.
Someone had been searching for something.
Whoever it was knew the Randalls were away.
Jack’s head got fuzzy as he contemplated the danger the Randalls were in—and the potential story he and Derrick were sitting on. He made his way across the kitchen and peeked into the TV room—a complete demolition site.
“There, too?” Derrick asked.
Jack nodded.
The couch was overturned, its cushions knifed open and gutted. Everything was smashed, from the big-screen TV to an antique glass cabinet that looked like it had held a coin collection.
Jack assumed that the rest of the little house was in a similar condition, and his heart broke for Galen and the boys.
He came back into the center of the kitchen. Whoever had ruined the place had done so with a vengeance. The kitchen chairs were broken like kindling. The dishwasher door was dented from a boot.
“I’ll call Travis.” Jack got his phone out. “Let’s look for the folder.”
“You think that’s what they were after?”
“Who knows? It might just be random, but somehow I don’t think so.”
“Should we call the cops?” Derrick bent down over one of the desk drawers on the floor and began sorting through what was left in it.
“Yeah … I’ll ask Travis if he wants me to.”
Jack dialed Travis’s cell phone and got no answer, so he tried LJ.
“LJ, is Travis available?” Jack knew Travis had the cooler head.
“He’s indisposed right now, if you know what I mean. He told you the Jetta’s gonna be late, right?
“Yeah, how’s Galen?”
“Steady. Should be back to a private room right quick here.”
“Good.” Jack hesitated, knowing he needed to tell LJ about the break-in. “LJ, did Travis tell you he gave me permission to go to your house and get your dad’s notes on Demler-Vargus?”
“No, but it’s fine. The house is open.”
“Yeah, me and another reporter from the Dispatch came over to get the folder.”
“Knock yerself out.”
“There’s a problem, LJ. Your house has been … searched.”
“Searched? Whatcha mean, Jack?”
“When we got here, we found it—pretty badly torn up. Someone was looking for something.”
“Tore up? You mean robbed?”
“We don’t know if anything’s missing. Do you want me to call the police? I kind of wanted one of you to be here …”
“Just wait, Jack. We’ll be right there, fast as we can.”
“Okay, we’re going to keep searching for the notes.”
“How bad is it, Jack?” LJ’s voice was low and cold.
“It’s pretty bad, LJ … I’m sorry.”
“Bo!” LJ had covered the phone, but Jack could still hear his booming voice. “Git yer coat. Find your uncle. We gotta go … Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re coming.”
Jack put his phone away and examined the mess as Derrick made his way to another of the strewn drawers on the floor.
“Which ones haven’t you looked in?” Jack asked.
“Those two.” Derrick pointed toward two small desk drawers lying on the floor near the sink. Jack tiptoed through the maze of broken dishes and picked up one of the drawers.
“Hold up. Got something.” Derrick turned a manila folder toward Jack. “Says D-V right here in pencil.” He opened it, stared down, then lifted the manila folder so that it dangled open—empty.
Derrick’s face was stone. “This is all that was in it.” He waved a small piece of white paper in two fingers, then held it up and read it aloud to Jack: “LEAVE IT ALONE.”
Chapter 6
Although you wouldn’t guess it from the clothes he wore, Travis was a neat freak. He tried to keep the house clean, because that’s what his mother had always done. So when he walked into the foul mess at the house, a sick feeling gnawed at the pit of his stomach, and he got right to work picking things up.
Who could do this to another person’s property? It was downright heartless. There just wasn’t any respect anymore.
Jack and the other reporter, Derrick, had stayed at the house till Travis and LJ arrived. When Travis saw the note he was scared and blazing mad at the same time. LJ was just blazing mad. They scanned the house and quickly determined that nothing else was missing. To Travis’s way of thinking, that meant the break-in and his father’s poisoning had something, if not everything, to do with Demler-Vargus.
LJ wanted to wring somebody’s neck but didn’t know whose. Instead, he ended up kicking things around, muttering to himself the whole time, making things even more tension-filled than they already were. Bo had stayed behind at the hospital to keep an eye on his grandfather. So it was pretty much up to Travis to do the work, picking up that cruel mess until the winter sky turned dark at suppertime.
The cop who came to the house was a skinny, nervous wreck of a kid named Delgado who Travis was sure was a rookie right out of o
fficer training. He basically took a few notes, stuttered that he would file a report, and advised the boys to keep the door locked. Trenton City’s finest.
“What you want to do for dinner?” LJ lazed into the TV room where Travis had finally plunked down in Daddy’s blue corduroy recliner to take a blow.
“This mess and Daddy’s poisoning … they got nothing to do with you, right?” Travis said.
“Me?” LJ craned his neck. “What would they have to do with me?”
“I want to make sure there’s nothing you’re not telling me, like if you’re in more trouble with Roxanne’s crowd.”
“No sir. Whoever did this is the same person who poisoned Daddy, most likely.”
The phone rang, and Travis answered.
“Travis, it’s Jack. Just calling to see how Galen is.”
“Bo is still with him. He says they done moved Daddy back to a private room. Nurse said he’s in ‘good condition.’”
“Is Bo going to spend the night there?”
Travis raised an eyebrow. “Why? You think they’re gonna try something else?”
“This thing isn’t sitting right with me,” Jack said. “I think one of you should be at the hospital overnight. Did the police ever get back to you on the video from the hospital?”
“Tomorrow,” Travis said.
“Think about it, Travis. They poisoned Galen. They ransacked your house. These guys are playing hardball.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“Let’s meet at the hospital, see if we can talk to your dad. I’ve got some questions for him. And meanwhile, you need to tell your lawyer what’s happened.”
“How soon can you be there?” Travis was already heading for his coat and keys.
“I’m about to grab a bite with my family,” Jack said. “But I can be there in an hour. I’m going to have Derrick meet us there too.”
“We’re going now. They moved him to room 356.”
“See you there.”
* * *
Rebecca and Faye loved eating at Campolo’s, the cozy Italian restaurant nestled along the sidewalks near their Merriman Woods neighborhood. Pamela sat on one side of the booth, watching for Jack, while across from her Rebecca and Faye colored away at their kids’ menus, sipping their lemonades through straws, gabbing like old ladies, and looking out the window every once in a while at the gently falling snow.
Poison Town Page 4