by Robin Lamont
Praise for If Thy Right Hand
* Winner of the Gold Medal, 2012 Independent Publisher Book Awards *
* Named Suspense Magazine’s Best of 2011 *
“Lamont has treated a painful and difficult subject within the context of an enthralling mystery. A superb first novel.”
—Suspense Magazine
“This is a splendid debut novel from a promising author.”
—Mystery Tribune
“Exploring the volatile treatment of sex offenders vs. society and the real-time challenges of Asperger’s Syndrome, Lamont carves a coherent and thoughtful path through often emotionally loaded territory with a bounty of relevant material — a thoughtful balance of crime and punishment.”
—Luan Gaines, Contributing Editor, Curled up With a Good Book
Praise for Wright for America
“Snappy dialogue and a madcap pace propel this lighthearted caper… Lamont who has performed on Broadway and worked as an assistant district attorney, clearly knows the territory, and her fast-paced high enjoyable novel is all the better for it.”
—Publishers Weekly
“For anyone who has ever longed to see one of those hatemongering, rightwing blowhards get their comeuppance, Robin Lamont’s Wright for America is that revenge fantasy come to print. The author has crafted a delightful, if at times wacky, tale that will leave her audience with a satisfied smile on their faces.”
—ForeWord Review
“What a find! Too many characters will be familiar to us wonks, but it makes it all that more fun. Ever want to see the bloviating bubble busted? Step Wright up.”
—Political Carnival
The Chain
© 2013 All Rights Reserved, Robin Lamont.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover and Interior Design: AuthorSupport.com
Cover Imagery: Shutterstock/Bernhard Richter
Grayling Press
ISBN: 978-0-9858485-4-5
eISBN: 978-0-9858485-5-2
LCCN: 2013946532
Printed in the United States of America
Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without Gail Eisnitz – a pioneer in the animal protection world. Her book Slaughterhouse, was transformative for me, changing forever the way I see our relationship with animals. Gail’s help with the manuscript has been invaluable, as is her friendship.
My gratitude also to Martin Rowe of Lantern Books for his wisdom and encouragement and for setting me on the path of The Kinship Series. To Paul Shapiro, thanks for being such a staunch supporter. Thanks also to Dr. Shiya Ribowsky, Amanda Hitt, and to Jason Spector for their counsel and expertise.
For Ken Swensen, my selfless editor and husband, I could not do this without you. Your patience, persistence, and commitment to helping animals is a constant inspiration.
Finally, I am grateful to investigators Cody Carlson and “Pete” for taking me inside the world of slaughterhouses and factory farms.
The Chain is dedicated to all the undercover investigators who risk their lives, health, and sanity to shine a light on some of the darkest places on earth.
Chapter 1
Frank Marino tightened his hands around the old laptop computer, wondering if his arthritic fingers had the will to part with it. The plastic casing was battered and scratched, but the hard drive held something invaluable. It held the truth – hours of secret recordings for which he’d risked everything. In a few minutes it would be lost forever.
Someone must have seen him and gone straight to Warshauer, who hadn’t made a straight out threat. He only said, “You have to think about Verna and Sophie.” Funny thing was when Frank first strapped on the hidden camera he was thinking about them. They deserved a better husband and father – a man who had principles. He’d tried to go through channels. After years of management giving him the brush-off, he’d written letters to the USDA, to OSHA, and the State Attorney General’s office … no response. Nothing. Not even acknowledge receipt of your letter. Screw them. He went on the internet and bought the spy camera. Just maybe he could do something that would reduce the suffering of the animals and the workers. Just maybe he could get his dignity back.
At least that’s what he was thinking until they found out.
He squinted through his car windshield into the darkness, expecting headlights at any moment. Bring everything, wait here, they said. Some computer geek from corporate wanted to see the footage. Probably delete it right then and there. Frank ran his tongue over his dry lips, dying for a drink. Then he closed his eyes while failure washed over him and worked its way into his bones.
A knock on the window startled him. A man motioned for Frank to unlock the passenger door, then slid in. He wore shiny leather gloves and carried an attaché case. Dark blond hair, clean shaven and well-dressed down to his Gucci loafers, he looked too sharp to be a tech nerd, Frank thought. Guys like this always made him feel stubby and dark-skinned, the way he remembered his Italian grandfather.
“You’re making the right decision, Frank,” the man said in an oddly collegial fashion. “You bring it?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, let me see.”
Frank unclenched his fingers and handed over the laptop. “What’s your name?” he asked as the man powered it up.
“Bloom,” was all he said. Bloom – first name, last name? Just before getting started, Bloom reached into an inside pocket of his jacket, took out a silver flask and drew a gentlemanly pull. As he re-corked it, Frank’s eyes locked onto the flask then flickered to the glove compartment.
Bloom noticed and said, “You don’t need an invitation from me.”
And because Frank wanted the alcohol more than he resented the stranger’s ability to see through him, he reached over and retrieved the pint of Jim Beam he kept for emergencies – that’s what he called it anyway. His wife took a dim view of the habit, accusing him of having emergencies every day based on the number of empty bottles she found in the trash. He was trying to cut back … but now was not the time. A little hair of the dog would settle his nerves. Frank unscrewed the cap, breaking the seal, and took a long drink. He felt the reassuring burn and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“This it?” asked Bloom, as the first shaky images came up on the computer screen.
“Yeah.” Frank looked away to avoid seeing the file deleted and with it a part of his soul, both about to be dispatched to an indifferent, black universe from which they could not be retrieved.
“Camera?” asked Bloom curtly.
Frank fumbled in his jacket pocket and removed the miniature video recorder. He gave it over to Bloom, who packed it in his attaché case crisply, matter-of-factly, like an exec wrapping up a business meeting.
“Okay, how about copies?” Bloom asked. “Surely you made a copy.”
“Nope.” Frank took another slug from the bottle.
“No?” Bloom pressed amiably.
“I said no, goddammit.”
“Okay, then. Any questions?”
“Damn straight,” said Frank. “No one goes near my wife and daughter, right?”
“Of course not. Not if you’re giving me everything.”
Frank screwed up as much bravado as he could. “If anything happens to either of them, I’ll kill you,” he said flatly.
Bloom glanced at him with a mixture of curiosity and pity, and Frank curled his fist into a ball. But suddenly feeling weak, he covered his anger the only way he knew – by taking another drink.
“How did they find out I was taping?” he asked.
“Someone saw you with the camera inside,” replied Bloom coolly. “We were curious what you planned to do with it, so we got your cell phone from your locker and put in a piece of spyware.”
Frank shook his head in disbelief. “Shit. So you know about the girl? You listened to all our conversations?”
“We did.”
A chill went down the back of Frank’s neck. “I’m supposed to meet with her tomorrow.” It must have been the bourbon on an empty stomach, but an overwhelming sleepiness was trying to lock down his brain. He shook the fog from his head and tried to reassure the man. “Look, I’m not going to risk … I’ll make something up, tell her I changed my mind … I won’t say a word.” The sound of his own voice seemed to be coming from far away.
“Of course not,” Bloom replied. “Listen Frank, I’ve got a question for you. How did you get the conversation on tape?”
“What?” It was so close in the car, Frank struggled for air. He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest felt constrained by a slowly tightening band.
“I said how did you get Bannerman and your boss Warshauer on tape?”
“Crawl space. Sent me down there. Rats. Too many rats, gotta put … poison … in the ducts.”
Bloom nodded in understanding. Sure, there must be air ducts running through the offices that ended in the crawl space below the building. A ten or twelve inch duct would probably magnify the sound of people speaking in the office upstairs – and there was Frank recorder-ready. Incredible. A perfect shit-storm.
Frank wanted to impress on Bloom that neither his wife nor daughter knew anything about it. But something had gone terribly wrong and he couldn’t think of the words. So tired. The bottle slipped out of his hand and fell between his legs, spilling out the last two inches of whiskey on the floor mat. He gripped the steering wheel and managed to fire off a final salvo. “You people are ... scumbags. All of you, Warshauer, Bann’man, and fuckin’ Seldon Marsh…”
“That’s not my area,” said Bloom, watching him carefully.
“Whuss your area?”
Frank’s heart slowed to a death march beat, his skin was cold and clammy, he could barely breathe. Unable to fight anymore, he rested his forehead on the steering wheel and let himself be pulled into the black.
“This,” said Bloom. He waited a few more moments until he knew that Frank wasn’t coming back. “This is my area.”
And then he got to work.
Chapter 2
Alice Chapel blew a lock of hair from her face while she flipped the bacon with one hand and reached for a stack of plates with the other. The sun was just beginning to lift itself above the tree line behind the house. Streaks of light filtered in through the cramped window of the small, wood-paneled kitchen and fell on the smiling snapshots affixed to the refrigerator with magnets. Frantic cartoon voices blared from the TV in the next room, and as she laid down the plates and plastic glasses, she called out to Will again.
Her youngest finally turned off the TV and bounced into the kitchen with his six-year-old curiosity in full gear.
“Am I going on a school trip today?” he asked, pulling out a chair from the table and perching precariously on the edge.
“No, honey, that’s next week,” said his mom.
“Why can’t it be today?”
“Because they didn’t schedule it for today, they scheduled it for next week.” She spooned some scrambled eggs onto his plate and poured him a glass of orange juice.
Will thought about it for a moment, then said with finality, “It should be today.”
His father, who had overheard, came into the kitchen and went right for the coffee. “You can bring that up with the superintendant when you get to school,” he advised his son.
“What’s a super attendant?” asked Will.
“A school official with a cape,” said Emmet, taking his seat.
“Is that so he can fly?”
“Yeah – fly the school budget under the town’s radar.”
Alice put a plate of eggs and bacon in front of her husband. “Let him eat his breakfast, Emmet,” she scolded. “Eat your eggs, Will, they’re getting cold.” She went into the hallway and called to Caroline to hustle up.
Back in the kitchen, neither of her boys had touched their breakfast. “Eat, eat,” she pressed Will. Then she looked at Emmet.
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“No surprise,” replied Alice, her lips pressed tight with disapproval.
He tilted back in his chair, working on his coffee and staring out the window.
“These are too runny,” complained Will, lifting a spoonful of wet egg and letting it plop back onto his plate.
“Fine,” said Alice tersely. She snatched both breakfasts away from the table and set them on the counter. “Eggs are nearly two dollars a dozen, so the both of you can eat this tonight. Will, go and get your shoes and don’t forget your backpack.”
When he trudged off, she sat down across from her husband. Alice had fallen in love with Emmet Chapel at age sixteen, and he was all she ever wanted. Now, she saw him red-eyed and hung over – a frequent condition that threatened to uproot the firm soil that held the family together. It made her furious at the same time it was breaking her heart.
Caroline came in and made a beeline for the coffee maker. As usual, their sixteen-year-old daughter was dressed inappropriately for school – no coat, not even long sleeves on this cold October morning, her black skirt too short, her gray top too tight. She was inches taller than Alice and had her father’s striking features, though she seemed to be doing everything possible to negate them. She wore thick stripes of black eyeliner and had chopped off her long brown hair, refusing to go to a salon so they could trim the shaggy edges. Infuriating her parents further, she had pierced her nose to complement her multiple ear piercings. At home, disdain was her trademark and she clutched it to her chest the way she carried her school books.
After pouring herself a cup of coffee, Caroline leaned against the counter, daring her mother to suggest food. Alice was too smart for that and didn’t even try. But Emmet’s buttons were more easily pushed.
“You’re not going out in that, I hope,” he said.
Pretending she hadn’t heard, Caroline blew on her coffee.
“You have gym clothes at school?” he demanded. “Because you’re not doing track in that ridiculous outfit.”
“I’m not on track anymore,” she stated.
“What?”
“I said I’m not doing track. I quit.”
Emmet’s jaw muscles rippled with anger. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“Because there’s no point,” she shot back.
Emmet growled, “Don’t start that again.”
Alice tried to head off another fight. “They have to get to school,” she said weakly.
But her daughter was ready for a clash. “And don’t you tell me what I can or can’t believe,” she burst out. “A lot of predictions have come true. And it’s not so far fetched when you consider global warming–”
“It’s ridiculous, Caroline,” he spat angrily. “This is some kind of sick, romantic fantasy you have – and I’m tired of it.”
The teen had fire in her eyes. She thrust her face forward and clenched her fists. “Dad … you are so out of touch with the universe that you wouldn’t see the truth if it drove a truck.”
“Caroline, please, honey…” Alice was crying now.
“I’m so
rry it makes you sad,” Caroline said, holding her ground. “For your information, it makes me sad, too. At least let me have these last months without fighting all the time.” She was close to tears herself.
Emmet slammed his coffee cup down in frustration. “This is all because of that boy – that long-haired, tattooed freak.”
“He is not a freak!”
“And he does drugs,” added Emmet bitterly.
“No, he doesn’t. He smokes a little weed. Big deal. Everybody at school does.”
“Oh, great!” Emmet stood up, scraping his chair against the linoleum floor with a piercing screech. “I’m going to work,” he said and stormed out.
Alice called after him, “I thought Frank was picking you up.” But the door had already slammed behind him.
Outside there was a thin layer of frost blanketing his car. Emmet slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition, hoping the junk heap would start one more time. Screw Frank if he couldn’t show up on time. His head pounded as he grasped the ice cold wheel and his eyes moved to his hands. There was still a thin line of darkened blood under a couple of fingernails. Jesus, would it never come out? Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and zeroed in on the pronounced scar that ran from under his left eye, across his temple, and into his hairline. Its pale sheen of new skin drew attention to his electric blue eyes, the ones Caroline had inherited. Emmet Chapel used to be handsome. But it wasn’t the injury that marred his good looks. It was what happened when you turned into a man you never wanted to be – never imagined yourself to be. The booze dulled that knowledge. But this thing with Caroline kept bringing it back to life, kicking and screaming.
Chapter 3
The pastor’s voice rolled sonorously over the mourners, but all Emmet could hear was the creak of the ropes as they rubbed against the wood. He and Howard Bisbee held tight the supporting lashes at one end of the casket and two of Verna’s cousins held the others, suspending it over the yawning, cold-blooded cavity. When the pastor’s voice rose to deliver the last line of the psalm, Bisbee locked eyes with Emmet, who nodded, and they began to deliver Frank Marino’s body into the earth. The others followed suit, hand over hand, lowering the coffin as gently as they could until it bumped on the bottom. And in those moments, the last conversation he had with Frank at the bar replayed in Emmet’s head.