A pink and white bar showed the search was 25 percent complete, 50 percent, 80 percent … at 95 percent it seemed to stall out.
Great, the one person it can’t find …
Jack began planning how he would contact the company to try to get his money back. But at that moment, a new screen folded down, populated with information.
Amy Sheets
3351 Applegate Plaza, Suite 882
Columbus, Ohio 43203
Home phone: unknown
Cell phone: (614) 498-2552
Email: unknown
Facebook: unknown
Twitter: unknown
Jack googled Amy’s address, clicked satellite view, and quickly determined that she lived in some kind of high-rise condo or apartment in downtown Columbus. He clicked for directions. She was forty-one miles away, a fifty-four-minute drive.
Jack’s heart raced. He knelt down and turned off the space heater.
He opened a clean Word doc, put on his headset, and got his thoughts together. He should probably take five or ten minutes to jot down specific questions, but the anticipation was too much. He dialed Amy’s number and prayed it was right.
The phone rang once, twice, three times, four times.
Someone picked up.
A long pause.
“Hello.” The female voice was meek, apprehensive, but it was Amy.
“Amy? It’s Jack, from the Dispatch.”
Silence.
“Amy? Hello?”
Jack’s face flushed. He immediately thought he’d made a huge mistake. Amy really was pregnant. She’d not wanted to be found. He’d gone against Cecil’s wishes to protect her privacy …
“How’d you find me?” Her voice was robotic.
“On the Internet. We’ve been searching for you for days.”
“We?”
“Me and Derrick Whittaker. You remember him.”
“I figured my brother told you—or Cecil.”
“Cecil wouldn’t give me your contact information, for some reason. Neither would your brother.”
“I see. What do you want?”
“I’m calling about Demler-Vargus.”
She said nothing. Jack listened hard for a baby in the background but heard only silence.
“I know you interviewed Galen Randall, and Barb and Emmett Doyle—”
“Stop. We can’t talk about this. Not on the phone.”
“Why not? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t … You wouldn’t understand. Just, just—”
“Yes, I would, Amy. Yes, I would. That’s why I’m calling. All kinds of weird stuff is happening—to the Randalls, the Doyles. I know Demler-Vargus is behind it—”
“Don’t say any more! Please, just leave this alone.”
“Amy, Demler-Vargus is hurting people. Galen Randall was poisoned. Their house was ransacked. The Doyles are dead—”
“No! No, they’re not! Don’t say that. Don’t do that. This is … is this a trick?”
“Their house in Charleston burned down. It was arson.”
“Shut up, Jack! This phone could be tapped. I’m hanging up …”
“Spivey Brinkman is missing. Did you interview him?”
The line went dead.
Chapter 25
Pamela made up her mind. She put the pork chops back in the freezer. It had been a long time since Jack had suggested they go on a date, and she wasn’t about to let fear, or routine, or her mother, or some creep on Demler-Vargus’s payroll ruin an opportunity to get her marriage back on track.
Where would they go—someplace fancy? Remington’s on the square was one of her favorites, especially in the winter; they always had a real fire crackling and soft music playing. It was dark and candlelit and romantic. Maybe she could convince Jack to splurge.
She checked the kitchen clock. If she hurried, she could make it to Marshalls or TJ Maxx before the girls got home from school. She’d been wanting a new winter outfit to wear with her brown boots anyway.
“I’m going to stop.” Margaret came around the corner, carrying a bottle by the neck in her left hand and another in her right. She clanked them on the counter, opened one, and turned it upside down over the sink.
As the clear liquid gurgled down the drain, the harsh aroma of hard liquor permeated the kitchen.
When Margaret was finished pouring, she examined the gold label on the bottle as if she were admiring a cherished family photograph. She sniffed the bottle top and extended it toward Pamela. “Where do you want that, recycle?”
Pamela took it. “Sure … I’ll get rid of it.”
The next bottle to go was vodka, with a blue and silver label.
“Thirty-six bucks a pop.” Margaret poured it away like water.
“Wow, I didn’t know it was that expensive.”
“Not all of it; just the good stuff.” Margaret forced a smile and watched in a daze as the vodka disappeared.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m not making any promises. Just saying I’m going to give it a go.” She sealed the second bottle and handed it to Pamela. “You helped me realize I need it too much. I’m not myself. I don’t even know who ‘myself’ is anymore, because of that stuff. But I’m ready to find out … I think.”
“Well, I’m proud of you. Dad would be proud.”
“Don’t be proud yet. It’s all talk at this point. I thought about not even telling you, but you’ll know something is up. I’m sure there’ll be some sort of side effects.”
Pamela immediately thought of Rebecca and Faye. Would Mom’s withdrawal symptoms frighten them? Endanger them?
“I’ve done some research,” Margaret said. “There’s a clinic in Columbus. If I can’t handle it alone, you and Jack can get me checked in.”
“I don’t know what to say, Mom. This is fantastic.”
Margaret took a step toward Pamela. “You are a light to me, Pamela. A shining example of a strong, confident woman. You’re truly fearless.”
Pamela chuckled. “I put on a pretty good front, I guess.”
Margaret shook her head. “It’s no front. I wouldn’t fall for that. In many ways, you’re a lot like your father, you know that? I look back …” Her head dropped. “I put him through a lot of hard stuff.”
“But he loved you, Mom. He understood.”
Margaret nodded. “He did. So patient.”
“I think about him a lot,” Pamela said. “He was such a good guy.”
“More than I deserved. We’ve been lucky, Pam.”
“Hey, speaking of lucky, Jack wants to take me on a date tonight.”
“It’s about time.”
“I was thinking we could hang around until the girls eat and get baths. All you’d have to do is read them some bedtime stories and put them down.”
Normally Pamela would worry about her mom’s paranoia and drinking around the girls, but Pamela wasn’t going there that night. She was trusting that the date with Jack was meant to be and that God would take care of the details.
“Consider it done,” Margaret said.
“You’ll be all right?”
“Of course. Do you know what you’re going to wear?”
“Actually, I was thinking of looking for a new outfit real quick, before the girls get home.”
Margaret was in motion. “I’m coming with you—and I’m buying.”
“Really? Wow.”
“Yep, let’s hurry up.”
They headed in separate directions to get their things.
“Hey,” Margaret called, “maybe we can even look for those sheers for the windows by the front door while we’re out.”
“Mom, we won’t have time for all that.”
“Okay, never mind. Sorry. You know me …”
&n
bsp; Pamela smiled, and a deep sense of relief filled her. Perhaps, just perhaps, things were finally coming around.
* * *
Jack quickly finished the story on the robbery at the Farley’s Home Store in Pell Town, did a spell check, printed it out, and edited the hard copy with a red pen. He input those edits, spellchecked again and, instead of emailing the story to the copy desk, sat on it. Cecil would assume he was still working on it.
Instead, he called up the questions he’d written for Leonard Bendickson III and his son, Devon. He read them over, tweaking and adding new questions based on his conversation with Claire—questions about the dangers of synthetic chemicals used in manufacturing, specifically Fenarene.
His phone rang. “Crittendon,” he answered.
“I’m calling from a pay phone.” Jack sat to attention. It was Amy Sheets. “I think my other phones are bugged, or they’re listening somehow.”
“Who’s they?”
“Everything I’m about to tell you is off the record for now. Just … we have to start that way.” Amy spoke fast. “I’m going to tell you what’s happened, and we’ll decide what to do from there.”
“Okay.” Jack opened a clean document and typed Amy’s name, half wondering if she had gone off the deep end.
“The only reason I’m doing this is because I know you’re a Christian—and I can trust you.”
Jack recalled talking with Amy about his faith at an office party one time. She had never attended church but seemed interested.
“Thank you, Amy. Now tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ve made some terrible mistakes, Jack. Stupid, stupid mistakes.”
Jack typed, then prompted her. “One thing I know is that you interviewed Barb and Emmett Doyle. Want to start there?”
“Are they really dead?”
“I’m afraid so. It was arson at their house in Charleston. Expensive place, which is suspicious.”
“They called me,” Amy said. “They’d gone to Demler-Vargus requesting help paying their medical bills.” Her voice was breaking up. “They threatened to contact the Dispatch if Demler-Vargus didn’t help. They were ignored. They called me. I interviewed them at their house.”
“What’d you find out?”
“They worked in the plant. They both had terrible symptoms. Dizziness. Shortness of breath. Bad eye problems. Chronic rashes.”
“I was told they led you to Galen Randall.”
“His wife had the same symptoms. You said earlier Spivey Brinkman is missing …”
“Four or five days now. Did you have contact with him?”
“Yes, Galen told me about him. He was leading the charge to shut Demler-Vargus down … This cannot be happening.”
“I know. And I can’t get Cecil to let me spend any time on it. He’s afraid Demler-Vargus is going to sue the Dispatch. It’s not like him—”
“Look, Jack, here’s the Holy Grail. At various times, often in the middle of the night, Demler-Vargus produces a certain type of fiberglass that is in extremely high demand; it’s bought by companies that make expensive products with it. The thing is, when Demler-Vargus switches into that manufacturing mode, to produce that type of fiberglass, the plant releases certain toxins and pollutants that are making people sick.”
Jack typed as fast as he could.
“Those carcinogens are in the air in the plant and outside—in the neighborhood. They’re deadly. It’s illegal to do what they’re doing.”
“Is one of those pollutants Fenarene?” Jack said.
“I don’t know.”
“Is there a name for this expensive fiberglass they produce?”
“The Doyles called it Streamflex. I’m not sure that’s what Demler-Vargus calls it. It comes in long sheets, one inch thick; the sheets are three feet by twelve feet.”
“How’d you find this out?”
“The Doyles. Spivey Brinkman. People in the plant know, or at least there are rumors about the dangers associated with it.”
“What about OSHA and the EPA—don’t they know about it?”
“Let’s just keep going. I can’t talk about that.”
“Hmm. Are they still producing it?”
“I doubt it. They know you’re onto them, obviously.”
“Oh yeah. My wife was followed and nearly run off the road.”
“I can’t believe this. Is Mr. Randall okay? You said he was poisoned.”
“He’s okay for now. That’s the thing, Amy; I’m the only one crying foul! More people are going to get hurt, but not if we can stop them. Do you have notes from your interviews? How much of this can I tell Cecil? This is what he needs to hear—”
“Jack, hold up.”
Amy hadn’t told him about her mistakes yet, but he had a feeling that’s what was coming.
“When you approached Cecil about contacting me, what did he say?”
“It was confidential; that you left for personal reasons, to be back near your folks.”
“I’m not pregnant. I never was.”
What? “You lied to Cecil? Why? I don’t follow.”
Her silence made his mind reel.
Then it hit him.
“Wait. Did Cecil know you weren’t pregnant?”
“Cecil came up with that lie!”
“What? Why?”
She must be nuts.
“So no one would contact me and find out what I know about Demler-Vargus. He forced me into this—made it so attractive. I should have blown the whistle on him right then!”
“You’re saying Cecil is in on this—with Demler-Vargus …”
“You said yourself it’s not like him to ignore a story like this.”
The gears in Jack’s head spun out of control. Cecil, on the take? Impossible! They’d worked together for years. Amy must have her facts wrong.
“This is all about money, Jack. Or at least it was. It’s changed now. It’s become dangerous—just like my brother warned us.”
“Who’s us?”
Silence. Jack heard a car whiz by in the background.
“I’ve got to go,” Amy said. “Someone’s been following me.”
“Who?”
“Two guys. I don’t know who. They’ve been watching me.”
“Amy, what part of this is on the record?”
“You don’t get it, do you, Jack? Cecil’s in on this! He’s not going to run anything.”
“Why did you tell me all this if I can’t use any of it?”
“Shoot. I’ve gotta go … I told you because I’m in trouble. I just know you’re a good man. I’m gone—”
The phone rattled and went dead.
Breathlessly Jack tried to recall every word Amy had said, typing as fast as his fingers would fly. When he’d gotten it all down, he dropped back in his chair and closed his eyes.
God, please, protect Amy right now …
Chapter 26
As a city boy, Derrick was proud of the decent fire he had blazing in the fireplace at his apartment. He had bought one of those packages of precut firewood and a lighter at the gas station around the corner. Lying on the couch in sweats and thick socks near the crackling blaze, he scrolled through the movie choices on the TV screen before finally realized he just wanted quiet.
He clicked off the TV and stared at the ceiling.
Most everyone in his complex was at work, so it was peaceful, still.
He was embarrassed that his fears were holding him back from helping Jack. He’d let his best friend down—hard. And Jack needed him.
But Derrick was protecting his job and his future marriage.
And to be honest, he was scared of what Demler-Vargus might do to him if he pursued the story.
He thought of Galen, Travis, and LJ; of Spivey Brinkman and his girls; of all the p
oor residents on the east side.
The phone rang.
It could wait.
He went over and tossed another log on, determined to enjoy the rest of his day off.
The answering machine picked up, gave his brief message, then the tone.
“Mr. Whittaker, this is Jenness Brinkman, Spivey’s daughter …”
Derrick crossed to the answering machine and leaned over it.
“We’re desperate. My dad’s still missing. We’re racking our brains, trying everything we know to find him. There was something I didn’t tell you that day you were here. I won’t leave it on the machine, but if you want, you can reach me at—”
Derrick picked up. “Jenness, it’s Derrick. Sorry about that. I’m off today. What was it you wanted to tell me?”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Whittaker. Thank you for taking my call.”
“Gladly. I’m sorry to hear your dad hasn’t turned up.”
“Thank you. I’ll get right to the point. You might have noticed that day you were over, with my sister, Tatum, it got kind of awkward …”
“Yeah, it did. I got the impression you two were dancing around something. In fact, I meant to get back to you, but I haven’t found time.”
“Well, what I thought you should know is this,” Jenness said. “My dad went to the editor of your paper a number of times with solid information about Demler-Vargus, and nothing happened. Nothing ever got printed.”
“Are you talking about Cecil Barton?”
“Yes.”
Something pricked Derrick’s mind. “What kind of information, specifically?” He opened the drawer, got out a pen and paper, and sat down.
“Well, there was a man who worked in the plant for like thirty years. Merv Geddy was his name. He died of lymphoma.”
Derrick was listening, but half his mind was focused on Cecil—why had the editor with the nose for hard news not turned Derrick and Jack loose on Demler-Vargus?
“My dad found out that Merv had a son, Oliver, who happened to be an attorney from Idaho. I don’t know all the details, but Oliver believed Demler-Vargus was responsible for his dad’s cancer and said he had medical evidence to prove it.”
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