“The reason I ask is because I’ve done extensive research on the dangers of synthetic chemicals used in manufacturing,” the doctor said. “I’ve had some papers published; it’s kind of a hobby for me. I’ve been studying it for years. Your father told me he’s experienced some headaches lately, a bit of dizziness, some confusion.”
“’Course he don’t say nothin’,” Travis said. “We’ve noticed he’s slowed down. You know he’s had breathing issues. He gets tired real easy. There have been a few instances of short-term memory loss.”
“Right now I’m checking his kidney enzyme functions and doing some more blood work.” Beezenhour had a habit of blinking repeatedly. “We’re also checking his urine, because it can tell us if there is something present in his system called Fenarene. That’s actually a synthetic chemical used extensively in the manufacturing of resins, plastics, fiberglass, and such. If it is present, these tests will tell how his body is breaking it down.”
“Thank you for being on top of this,” Claire said. “It’s wonderful we’ve found you.”
“Yes, indeed,” Travis said. “Now … I kind of promised Daddy if he came to the hospital, I’d make sure he didn’t have to stay the night or anything. When do you think he can go home?”
“Sometimes Fenarene affects the central nervous system, so I want to keep an eye on him for a little while at least, do some observation. Let me get some more of the tests back, and we’ll talk then.”
“This Fenarene, Doc, does it kill you?”
Beezenhour hugged the clipboard to his chest and grimaced. “I wish definitive proof existed one way or the other. Some epidemiologic studies suggest there is an association between Fenarene exposure and an increased risk of leukemia and lymphoma.”
“Momma died of lymphoma!” Travis said.
“Yes, I read that in your father’s history.”
“She didn’t even work in the plant. Daddy either.”
“Don’t have to. Ambient air in urban locations can contain Fenarene.” Beezenhour scratched his thinning brown hair. “Of course, indoor air is the principal route of exposure, but your folks have lived near that plant so long … it makes me wonder.”
“Well, you keep wonderin’, Doc, ’cause we sure could use some proof.”
They shook hands, and Dr. Beezenhour headed for the door. “We’ll have your father back here in a few minutes. I’ll follow up after I’ve reviewed everything. Shouldn’t take too much longer.”
“Doc.”
Beezenhour stopped and turned to face them.
“What if you do find this Fenarene in Daddy? What then?”
“Then we see what it’s doing to him, and how his body is handling it—or not.”
Chapter 23
Jack sat numb in his car early Tuesday morning outside Farley’s Home Store in Pell Town, watching quarter-sized snowflakes blanket the empty parking lot while he waited for the manager to arrive. His mind was on overload. He was going to be a father, and he wasn’t right with God—or Granger Meade. He and Pam were at odds, and she and the girls could be in danger. Yet he knew Demler-Vargus was dirty and that he was probably the one person who could stop them from unleashing further damage.
He started the car, turned the heat up, and hit the wipers. The snow blurred the windshield and was getting so thick in the air it looked like a massive pillow fight with feathers galore. He had to set his priorities and attack one thing at a time. His plan was to knock out the robbery story Cecil had given him so he could finish preparing for his interview with the CEO of Demler-Vargus.
His phone rang. It was Claire. Travis had asked her to call Jack to give him an update on Galen and the tests a Dr. Beezenhour was running to find any trace in him of a synthetic chemical called Fenarene. Although Jack hated that Galen was back in the hospital, he considered that Dr. Beezenhour just might be the godsend for which they’d been waiting.
An old brown Mazda with no hubcaps silently glided across the vast parking lot like a sleigh floating across a field.
“Claire, I’ve got to run. Give Galen my best, and tell Travis I’ll be in touch. We’re getting closer.”
The car slightly skidded to a halt. Jack scribbled some notes as a tall bald man with black glasses got out.
Jack grabbed his notebook and met the manager, Ray Brucks, on his way into Farley’s. Ray greeted Jack kindly and ushered him into his office, where the two men took off their coats and set their stuff down.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to put on a pot of coffee. Why don’t you come with me, and we can talk as I do that.”
The break room was right around the corner. Ray grabbed a trash can and went along the counter, throwing away used paper plates, Styrofoam cups, dirty napkins, and a variety of wrappers from vending machine items.
“People are so messy,” he said. “Do they do this at home? Some of them, probably.” He threw away the old filter and coffee grounds, rinsed the old coffee from the pot, and filled it with tap water.
Jack asked Ray to give him an overview of the robbery.
“I can show you the surveillance video,” Ray said. “It was a two-man job. Same as the other Farley’s robbery in Wilkesburg. Had to have been the same guys.”
He turned on the coffeemaker and sighed. “Come on, I’ll show you what we have.”
They went back to his office. Ray pushed piles of papers aside so he could get to his mouse, and punched up the video of the robbery on his computer. There were four split screens.
“Top right is the parking lot,” he said. “See the green conversion van sitting there? He was in a fire lane about thirty or forty feet from the entrance; same place he parked at the job in Wilkesburg. Can’t see much of the driver. Looks white, dark beard, dark ski cap. Here now, you see the passenger getting out?”
It was blurry footage, and authorities couldn’t get a license number, Ray said. But once the armed man entered Farley’s, the quality of the video improved on one of the different cameras. “Here he comes.” Ray pointed to the bottom right screen. “He loitered for a few minutes at the jewelry counter.” He fast-forwarded the tape and hit play. “Now, see, he goes to the checkout. See, here he is.” He tapped a different screen. “He actually got in line behind this guy with the cart full of toilet tissue and paper towels.”
The robber’s right hand hovered over his stomach, where Jack assumed he had the gun. He swayed like an anxious child about to step onto a roller coaster. And he looked around nervously, waiting for the man in front of him to check out. “The guy in front of him had a ton of coupons for paper products, so we get a good look at the robber here as he waits.”
The man was older, perhaps fifty-five or sixty. He had dark, curly hair—possibly dyed—and a shadow of a grayish beard. He wore a leather bomber jacket, loose-fitting dark corduroy pants, and white tennis shoes.
“Here it comes,” Ray said. “The guy in front of him wheels his cart away and right here, the guy draws his gun.”
The young female clerk jumped back two feet, and her hands locked over her mouth. The robber waved the menacing gun at the cash register, then at her face, then back at the register.
To scare someone like that was so low. So stinking low.
“I felt so badly for Jenny, my checkout girl,” Ray said. “She really was afraid she was going to take a bullet. You can see she’s leaning back away from him as far as she can while she gets the money from her drawer. She’s shaking horribly. You can see there was no way she could’ve hit her alarm, he’s all over her.”
“Can you email a still shot of this guy?” Jack said.
“Sure.”
“We can probably run it. Give me as much of a close-up as you can. Don’t show Jenny, though.”
The idiot yelled something at Jenny, who tipped over the metal bag rack while getting a plastic bag. Her hands were trembling so badly, she could b
arely make them do what she wanted. The thief ripped the bag from her and jabbed his gun to the right. Jenny crossed her arms in an X over her chest and hurried to where he pointed. He hurdled the counter, dumped the money in the bag, and bolted, leaving Jenny dropping to the floor in tears.
“Back to the outside camera.” Ray pointed to the top right screen. “Here he comes, running now. They take off … Just another pleasant day of shopping at your local Farley’s Home Store.”
Chapter 24
Back at the Dispatch later that morning, Jack hammered away at the story on the Farley’s robbery from his freezing cubicle. A small space heater hummed away at his feet. Derrick’s cubicle was still dark.
When Jack was under pressure, he wrote extremely fast. He was ahead of where he’d wanted to be on the robbery piece, so he saved the story, hit the restroom, and headed for the break room to get more coffee.
“Crittendon.” It was Cecil waving him over from the city desk.
Jack headed that way, hoping Cecil wasn’t going to pile any more work on him.
“Derrick’s not coming in,” Cecil said. “Sick.”
“Really?” The reporter in Jack immediately wondered if Demler-Vargus had gotten to his colleague.
“Really. Pete’s reassigning a few of his stories. No big deal. How’s the robbery story coming?”
“I’m on it.”
“Good.” Cecil started to walk away.
“If I wrap that piece up soon, can I work on Demler-Vargus for a little bit?”
Cecil shook his head impatiently, threw his hands up, his eyes darting about. “Nothing’s changed since we talked about this last night.”
“Precisely why we need more time.”
“Jack, we’ve got hard news to cover. When the police make an arrest, then it’ll be news. We’re not going down this path until we have more. We’ve been through this.”
Jack lowered his voice so no one else could hear. “You’re scared, Cecil, and I’ve never seen you scared in all the years we’ve worked together.”
“Huh.” Cecil shook his head with a sour frown. “The problem is, you don’t understand the big picture of the business. You don’t have to worry about getting sued or telling all these people they’re out of jobs because we printed something we should have left alone. You’re a reporter, Jack. I’m the commander. I don’t blame you for wanting to dig into this can of worms, but you have got to start respecting my point of view. I’m thinking about eight gazillion things that never enter your radar.”
“It’s just not like you.” Jack looked away. “This isn’t the newsman I know.”
Cecil took a step closer to Jack. “The publisher is watching me like a hawk.” He spoke quietly and evenly, just below boiling. “There’re a thousand details you don’t know—and don’t need to know. You need to trust me on this. Just do what Nigel and I told you last night. If and when Demler-Vargus becomes a concrete story, you’ll be the first one we turn loose.”
“Cecil, my gosh, this thing has gotten personal! Who the heck do you think is doing all this stuff? All that’s gone down with the Randalls? The Doyles? The guy who followed Pam. Come on—”
“That’s enough.” Cecil jabbed an outstretched hand toward Jack’s chest. “You think you can just run around and play Woodward and Bernstein all day and answer to no one. You live in a dream world. I’ve got a business to keep afloat and people to answer to. You know nothing of that stuff, and I’ve asked you to respect that—but you keep pushing. Stop it, Crittendon. I mean it. Get off my back—or we’re going to have a real problem.”
Cecil walked off in a huff.
That was a threat. Jack didn’t know whether Cecil would suspend him, fire him, or what, but for the first time in their working history, Jack felt that his boss was prepared to cut him loose if he continued to pester him about Demler-Vargus.
The rift made Jack’s stomach ache. That was all he needed, another fractured relationship.
No longer feeling like coffee, he returned to his cubicle. Still standing, he dialed Derrick.
“Hey, Jack.”
“Where are you?”
“Not feeling good. Just gonna hang low. Have a fire. Watch some movies.”
“Dude, what’s happened since last night?”
“I don’t know, man. This whole thing has got me so stressed out.”
“Are you scared?”
Long pause.
“I’m worried for Zenia. Scared? Kind of, yeah. Aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I’m scared, but we can’t stop now.”
“Dude, it might be different if Cecil wanted us covering this thing, but he doesn’t. That’s number one. Number two, I don’t have any personal stake in this, so I don’t need to be sticking Z’s neck or my neck out on the line. Besides, I can’t afford to be losing my job when I’m about to get hitched—”
“Derrick, come on, man. I need you—”
“Jack … Jack, stop! You’re such a bullhead. Just stop a minute. Think about what they did to Pam. That is not okay. No one else wants to pursue this except you—”
“I thought you did.”
“Let the Randalls get their money and be done with it. That’s it. You need to know when to give up, man.”
“What about Spivey Brinkman? What about what they did to the Doyles?”
“We don’t know that.”
“Come on, man, don’t stick your head in the sand. If we don’t keep on this, Demler-Vargus keeps steamrolling people.”
“Jack, you know what? It happens. This is the world we live in. I just think I’m done with it. Ask Cecil for my hour a day.”
Derrick’s mind was made up.
Was Jack a stubborn idiot to keep pursuing it? Maybe he should just quit too. That would be the easy way. Maybe Derrick was right. Sometimes the bad guys just won.
“I think I found a way to find Amy Sheets,” Derrick said. “I’ll send you the link. It’s some white pages source; they claim they can find anybody. You have to pay like fifteen bucks. But I found a profile in there that matches her. You pay the money, it gives you her address and contact info—bam. I just sent it to you.”
“I’ll take a look.”
“Interview with the Bendicksons still on?”
“I don’t know … Maybe you’re right. I think the rest of my life has been so screwed up, I’ve used this whole Demler-Vargus thing as some kind of escape.”
“Call it quits, Jack. It isn’t worth your career—or your marriage.”
Jack’s countenance fell.
“I don’t like to leave you hanging,” Derrick said.
“Don’t worry about it. Call me if you change your mind.”
Jack sank into his chair and looked out at the white day.
He wasn’t right with God, so he was going to be righteous another way. By playing the good guy, the superhero. By bringing down the bad guy—Demler-Vargus.
He leaned over, arms on knees, exhaled, and tried to relax.
Maybe it was time to give up. Cancel the Bendickson interview.
It would be so much easier.
Just do the safe work.
Maybe even forgive Granger Meade.
Invest in Pam and the girls—and the new baby.
He picked up the phone and dialed Pam.
“Hello,” she answered.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hi. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry …” Jack was cut short by a stab of emotion.
He took a deep breath and composed himself.
“I haven’t been myself for a long time, I know. You’ve been so patient. I want things to be right between us.”
He thought he heard a hitch in Pam’s breathing.
It felt good to confess, to apologize.
“
I’ve been in denial about a lot of things,” he said. “I just want things to be back to normal.”
“What happened, Jack?”
He leaned back in his chair, instinctively moving the mouse on his desk.
“Just something with Derrick. I’ll tell you tonight. I just wanted you to know I love you. I love our new baby. I even love your mom …”
They both laughed.
Jack noticed a new email from Derrick.
“Maybe we could leave the girls with your mom and go out for a romantic dinner.”
“We’ll see.” Pam hesitated. “I’m thawing pork chops …”
Jack guessed she was concerned about the man who had followed her and wanted to stick close to home.
“Well, just think about it. I’m looking forward to spending the evening with you.”
“Thanks, Jack. Thanks for calling. It means a lot.”
Jack opened the email from Derrick and clicked the link to the white pages website.
As Derrick instructed, Jack typed in Amy Sheets’s name, approximate date of birth, mother’s name, brothers’ names, and possible location of Columbus, Ohio. He clicked “Find This Person,” and a screen came up requesting a fifteen-dollar payment.
Jack sat back and swiveled in his chair.
He and Amy had been good friends. He was convinced, if he could find her, she would tell him what she knew about Demler-Vargus.
He stopped and stared at the glowing screen and the blue button enticing him to pay the fee to find Amy Sheets.
But if he was giving up on this whole thing, why even bother?
It just ticked him off that Demler-Vargus was such a dirty bully; that they could do what they’d done to old Galen and his boys and get away with it; that they could continue poisoning people in the name of making a profit and not be stopped; that they could use scare tactics on women, as they’d done to Pam and Margaret; that they might actually be the first-degree murderers who killed Barb and Emmett Doyle. And who knew what role they might have played in Spivey Brinkman’s disappearance?
Why not?
He leaned forward and clicked the blue button. He whipped out his wallet and entered the credit card information before he could change his mind. Account number—tap, tap, tap, tap … He would try to talk to Amy. If he couldn’t reach her, that would be his sign to drop the whole thing.
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