“Okay, there’s Dennis,” Jack said as the officer wheeled up in a dark, unmarked squad car.
“Don’t be long. We’ve had it,” Pam said. “Really. I just want to go home.”
“Okay. I’m thinking maybe I’ll just stay up tonight, keep watch. That way everyone can sleep in their own beds,” Jack said.
“Good. We can just go now—”
“No. We’re going together,” Jack insisted. “Just let me talk to Dennis—”
“What on earth!” Margaret said. “Those men have rifles. Girls, get down!”
They all looked toward the Randall house at once.
There stood the silhouetted figures of LJ, Bo, and Travis, steam rising from their mouths, guns and shotguns trained on Jack and company. Even old Galen was leaning in the doorway, pointing a pistol down at them.
“Who’s there?” LJ called. “Whoever it is, you just found trouble!”
Chapter 37
Derrick drove toward Trenton City in stunned silence. Amy had finished recording everything she knew about Demler-Vargus and had fallen asleep with her head against the foggy passenger window. The car that might or might not be following them remained way back but was locked steady on them.
Derrick stared at the snow-dusted highway, shell-shocked by Amy’s confessions. She claimed that she, Cecil, Nigel, and Pete were all paid various five-digit sums of cash on the first day of each month for keeping negative Demler-Vargus news suppressed. Her job was to nix and cover up anything that had to do with employee and citizen health issues; complaints and cases against the corporation; OSHA and EPA violations; and, especially, any mention of the fiberglass product known as Streamflex. She suspected that at least two EPA officials were on the Demler-Vargus payroll.
Even though Demler-Vargus knew full well that the manufacturing process to create Streamflex was, in essence, a killer, they produced the high-priced, high-demand sheets of fiberglass like clockwork eight times a year. Each of those production cycles lasted ten days, but Streamflex was only manufactured from nine at night until three in the morning during those ten-day spans. It was shrink-wrapped and trucked off in the middle of the night to buyers and distribution centers across the country and beyond.
Jack was much closer to Cecil than Derrick was and had always looked up to the editor as a role-model journalist. So much for that, Derrick thought. Not only had Cecil slowly brought the others onto the Demler-Vargus payroll, he was the one who’d thought of sending Amy away under the guise of pregnancy—but not before she had amassed a lethal amount of inside information.
Amy had learned from Emmett and Barb Doyle that Barb had undergone extensive medical testing, which determined, although tentatively, that her chronic illness had been caused by extreme levels of Fenarene.
Derrick looked over at Amy and back at the road, contemplating what the money had gotten her. A crevice was chiseled between her eyes, even while she slept. She looked bulimic. She had no friends. Her career was finished. She’d lost her family. And now she would be going to jail.
He checked his rearview. The one-eyed car had inched closer and was probably only a hundred yards back. His stomach soured. The recording in his bag would bring down the giant. He knew they wanted Amy Sheets—and him.
Amy had fought back tears when she told details about the longtime Demler-Vargus nightshift employee, Merv Geddy, who passed away from the effects of lymphoma. As it turned out, his attorney son had had an autopsy performed on his father. Catastrophically high levels of Fenarene were found. Oliver had been in the midst of filing a lawsuit against Demler-Vargus on behalf of his father when his little plane got sabotaged and slammed into the Sawtooth National Forest.
Derrick checked the rearview again.
Uh oh.
The car behind him had shifted lanes. It was coming—and coming fast.
* * *
Travis sat next to Claire on the couch in the TV room, listening to Officer DeVry as he paced the room, explaining his idea for a sting operation the next afternoon at Demler-Vargus.
Coon refused to look at DeVry. Instead, he sat smoldering because the Randalls had given up on their chance to milk two-point-five million bucks out of the cash cow. Jack had convinced them they would be walking into a death trap. But DeVry was certain the Trenton City PD could protect them well enough and long enough to get key evidence on tape.
Coon’s phone vibrated for the gazillionth time. He read for a second and began pecking away. Travis wondered if clients were contacting him at this time of night, or maybe he had a mad wife at home. Nope, it wasn’t that; Coon was not wearing a wedding ring.
“Tomorrow morning we can get LJ, Travis, and Mr. Coon wired with two-way recording devices,” DeVry said. “Galen, we don’t expect you to be in on this—”
“He’s got to be there.” Coon glared at DeVry. “They made that clear.”
“I’m in.” Galen’s stubbly face was like stone. Travis was sure he was thinking about Momma, how they shortened her life, took her from them too soon.
It was time for payback.
“Fine, but we’re not going to wire you; it would be too confusing,” DeVry said. “We’ll let your sons and Mr. Coon deal with the voices in their ears and the recording equipment.”
“Are they going to be armed?” Claire said. “Can you promise they’ll be safe?”
DeVry shook his head. “They won’t be armed, but our SWAT team will be fully engaged. We’ll have the place surrounded. Sharpshooters will be stationed wherever we can possibly put them. The building where we assume you’ll be meeting has plenty of windows; we canvassed it today.”
“And you’ll have them on GPS, right?” Jack said.
“Yeah, oh yeah. We’ll know where each of you is in the building, every second.”
The room fell silent except for the crackling of wood burning in the fireplace and the gray cat scratching a piece of firewood leaning in the corner.
“Remember, if at all possible,” DeVry said, “we want you to get them to admit aloud what they are paying you for—to quit pursuing them, to stop trying to prove they were responsible for Mrs. Randall’s illness.”
Daddy huffed and mumbled and sat up in his chair.
“Bring it,” LJ said.
“Darn right,” Daddy said.
Coon reached with both hands for his large briefcase and slid it onto his lap. Phone still in one hand, he wiped sweat from his forehead with the palm of the other.
“What’s with Coon?” Claire whispered.
Travis shrugged.
“He’s acting weird,” she said. “I don’t trust him.”
* * *
Sitting on the edge of an antique wood chair in the corner of the toasty TV room, Jack was thrilled that the Randalls and Coon had agreed to go along with the sting … although Coon was unabashedly upset about it. He sat on the couch, clutching his briefcase as if he were clutching a bomb.
The meeting was wrapping up. Jack’s phone vibrated. It was probably Pam, telling him to hurry up.
Instead he found a text from Patrick Roe, the reporter in Charleston who’d been dealing with the Doyles’ arson.
Sorry. Cannot get you copy of dvd from Doyles’ fire safe yet, but we played it. They documented dates/times Streamflex produced. Names of people in charge. They show paperwork w/ Barb’s hi Fenarene counts. Name of EPA guy on D-V payroll. Very incriminating.
Good! More proof. Now if Derrick would just hurry up and get back with Amy, they would have even more nails for the Demler-Vargus coffin.
He texted Patrick back:
Thanks much! Anything else of interest?
“Jack, what did you decide about tonight?” Claire said.
Jack looked at Dennis. “Do you think we’ll be all right at our house? I was thinking about staying up, keeping watch; hopefully it will only be for one night.”
“Jack, I told you, you and your family is welcome to stay here,” Travis said. “We got plenty of sleeping bags and all that.”
“Yeah, we got all kinds of camping gear,” Bo said.
“I’m staying,” Claire said. “You may as well join the party.”
Dennis started to answer but got cut off again.
“Ain’t nobody gonna mess with us here.” LJ swept a hand toward the cache of weapons that encircled Bo, who sat crosslegged on the floor. “We’re gonna take turns keeping watch.”
Coon’s eyes darted back and forth.
“Can I go first, Daddy?” Bo said. “Please—”
“Sounds like you’re staying here,” Dennis said. “LJ, I hope you have a permit for all these weapons.”
Jack’s phone vibrated. Another text from Patrick Roe.
On dvd, Doyles insinuate Cecil Barton. Also mention a lawyer who works for D-V, Ralston Coon. I am trying to get permission to send you—
Jack stopped reading.
His face caught fire.
He forced himself to continue staring down at his phone.
His forehead was instantly filled with sweat, and his heart thundered.
Think this through … think it through.
Ralston Coon was a plant.
This meant Demler-Vargus knew everything. Including the fact that almost every key witness against them was conveniently gathered in that one tiny room.
Jack’s insides screamed.
Sweat dripped from his armpit into his shirt.
Would Coon somehow notice Jack was on to him?
Jack would never have guessed that the gun strapped to his ankle would be needed for anyone other than Granger Meade.
He took a deep breath, exhaled silently, and slowly looked up.
With thick arms draped over his briefcase, Ralston Coon was tapping furiously at his phone, wearing the scowl of a troubled man.
Chapter 38
Amy was still asleep, and the car that had been following them was within a hundred feet and closing. Derrick squeezed the steering wheel and swallowed back the sourness erupting at the base of his throat. The interstate was black, snowy, and virtually desolate. He could barely breathe. He thought of Zenia and their upcoming wedding day and doubted he was going to make it.
He reached over and gently shook Amy’s knee. He tried to sound strong. “Hey, we got company.”
Amy lifted her head, shook it, and squinted back at the car with one headlight.
It was racing toward them, directly behind them now.
The NAV showed a huge body of water coming up; Derrick remembered it from the drive over—a very high bridge. The BMW had waited until the lake to close in.
“It’s the same car that’s been back there the whole way,” Derrick said. “Make sure you’re buckled in tight.”
She did so without a word.
“Call 911 again,” Derrick said. “We’re near mile marker 186, heading east.”
The police wouldn’t get there in time.
If Derrick and Amy were going to see the light of a new day, it was up to him. He had to think of something, do something.
He had to make the BMW crash—a horrific crash.
He could hear the roar of the dark car, just feet from his rear bumper. It was so close, its lone blinding headlight disappeared from his rearview mirror.
Amy looked up at the NAV. “Oh no. We’re over water.”
The car rammed them. Derrick’s breath was snatched away. It felt like an amusement park ride someone else was controling. He gripped the wheel like a vise to keep the car straight.
The other car released and dropped back, teasingly.
“Well?” Derrick said.
“I can’t get them! I’ve barely got a signal out here,” Amy said.
“Keep trying!”
The other car veered into the left lane and sped up until it was next to them.
The car’s passenger window buzzed down.
A gun came out, pointing at them …
Derrick ripped his foot from the gas an instant before the gun exploded in a flash. A muffled bam.
It had missed.
The BMW slowed and was right beside them again in an instant.
Its window went up.
“Hang on!” Derrick said.
The BMW dived at them.
Crunch.
Derrick felt helpless as his car slammed to the right, right, right—too far!
Sparks exploded as the SUV ground against a short concrete wall—the only thing separating them from a three-hundred foot drop into a huge Ohio lake.
The dark car was entangled with his.
The bridge in front of them was long. Very long.
Derrick fought the wheel, forcing it left, gunning the engine.
Amy shrieked as the sparks continued to fly outside her window.
“Can you stop?” she cried.
“No!” If he did, it would be over.
“I’m gonna try something,” he said. “Hold on.”
There was nothing to lose.
The muscles in his jaw tightened, and Derrick floored it.
Both cars roared. Friction mounted. The red car continued to press them right, but Derrick insisted on squeezing in front.
He broke free!
For an instant Derrick and Amy were in the open!
“Good!” Amy cried. “Go!”
Derrick had the accelerator to the floor, but the SUV had no more to give.
The BMW roared up in the left lane to within twenty feet of them.
“This is it!” Derrick was sweating profusely.
“What are you gonna do?”
“Slam on the brakes. Brace yourself.”
“Oh dear,” Amy mumbled. “Oh, please help us …”
The BMW had no problem catching back up. It eased up next to them. Derrick kept checking for the gun at the window but saw none.
“God help us,” he whispered.
The millisecond the BMW bent toward them, Derrick bashed his brake to the carpet.
Amy screamed. They both jolted forward, then backward.
The other car catapulted to the right—just missing them.
Derrick and Amy careened left, left … screeching … sliding.
The other car exploded in a nasty cloud of sparks and flames as it hit the wall.
Derrick finally brought the SUV to a halt, its lone headlight shining into the wall on the left of the bridge.
Their anguished breathing was the only sound.
The smell of burned rubber and gas and antifreeze enveloped them.
The other car … Derrick looked back … it was gone.
Gone!
Like a magic show, only a cloud of smoke remained where it had hit the wall and flipped over the side.
Amy’s head dipped. She shuddered and began to cry.
Derrick examined the black highway. There wasn’t another set of headlights in sight.
He took an enormous breath and flopped back in his seat.
Without looking at him, Amy reached over and grabbed his hand.
They sat in utter silence.
Two souls that would live to see another day.
Derrick covered Amy’s hand with his. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
It was getting cold again in the car, and Pamela wished Jack would hurry up. The girls were nodding off in the backseat, and Margaret couldn’t sit still.
“I could sure use a drink,” she whispered.
“Mom, please,” Pamela whispered back. “I don’t want the girls to hear that.” She was about to start the car so they could get some heat, when she noticed movement to the side of the Randalls’ house.
It was two men, comi
ng down the narrow steps of a neighbor’s home, a double-wide trailer. They wore dark overcoats and gloves. One had removed a glove and was doing something on his phone. The other carried a large cardboard box.
Wait …
The one on the phone resembled the man who had followed them. But it couldn’t be.
Margaret must’ve seen the alarm on Pamela’s face; she quickly spotted the men.
“That’s the guy who chased us!” she said.
“Shhh.” Pamela looked back at the girls, who were both asleep. “Stay calm.”
“That’s him!” Margaret screamed in a whisper. “We’ve got to tell the policeman!”
The lights of a small car blinked.
It was the silver car!
The trunk popped open. It partially blocked her view, but Pamela saw the one man set the box in the trunk. They squared off, talking.
Pamela fumbled for her phone.
Chapter 39
Jack was trying desperately to figure out how to play this thing. Would Coon try something? It seemed farfetched. But why was he clutching his briefcase like that? His wide forehead was covered in sweat, and he was pecking away at his phone as if it was his lifeline. Jack’s mind reeled.
He had to let Dennis know. Or should he act now and talk later? Try to reach his gun? Force Coon to stand down and then explain his alleged involvement with Demler-Vargus?
His phone vibrated. He reached for it slowly, still feeling self-conscious, as if Coon knew Jack was on to him.
He looked at the screen. It was Pam. Maybe he could somehow signal to her to get help.
“Excuse me,” Jack said and answered the call. “Hey, hon, we’re almost done—”
Pam’s voice came fast and furious. “The man who followed Mom and me is right outside the Randalls’ house—right now.”
Jack replayed the words in his head.
Coon and the guy in the silver car were working together!
“He’s with another man.” Pam’s voice wavered. “They’re standing … at the trunk of the car that chased us. They just left that trailer behind the Randalls’.”
Spivey Brinkman’s house! What had they done to Jenness and Tatum?
Poison Town Page 24