Poison Town (24 page)

“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 poor 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.”

It was starting to make sense. Why else would Cecil have stonewalled them when they were trying to connect Demler-Vargus with the arson at the Doyles’, Spivey Brinkman’s disappearance, and all that was happening to the Randalls?

“So what happened?”

“Oliver was in the process of filing a lawsuit against Demler-Vargus when he went down in a plane crash in Sawtooth National Forest, not too far from his home in Boise.”

Derrick got chills.

“He was the pilot and the only one on board,” Jenness said. “He owned a little Cessna four-seater. They called it pilot error.”

Derrick’s stomach flipped. “Jenness, what are you saying?”

“That’s just one example. My dad knows a lot of people on the east side, people who’ve worked at Demler-Vargus for a long time and have lived in this neighborhood forever. It’s become pretty clear that Cecil Barton has no intention of running negative stories about Demler-Vargus. In fact, Dad said if the interview with you didn’t get anywhere, he was going to WDUC radio and the big newspaper in Columbus, for starters.”

“This makes so much sense,” Derrick said.

“Since my dad … isn’t here, I wanted to let you know. But I’m sorry to be the one to say that about your own boss or whatever.”

“It’s good you did.”

“And I don’t know that my dad has proof. It’s just what he’s come to believe.”

“I’m grateful, Jenness. Thank you for calling. I’m hoping to God your dad turns up alive and well, very soon.”

They hung up, and Derrick went over and knelt by the fire. He rubbed his freezing hands and reached them toward the heat.

He had a hollow feeling inside … and a decision to make.

Could he do this? Did he have the guts to pursue Demler-Vargus? He could get killed. Was Cecil really involved? How would he handle that? Jack would know what to do.

But Derrick could quietly ignore all of this. Act like he’d never talked to Jenness. Not mention any of it to Jack. Go about his job. He’d be safe, and so would Zenia.

He inched closer to the comforting heat, staring at the flames.

He admired Jack so much. The guy would not back down; Derrick knew that at his core. Jack would stand up and speak out for the truth, for the victims, even though he had Pam and the girls to worry about. Jack trusted God and steamrolled ahead. He did what was right.

What had Derrick accomplished? What had he really done with his life?

He had an opportunity to help people—the Randalls; the Brinkman girls and their dad; and all those other poor people on the east side who had no voice, who were being taken advantage of and made ill, all for the sake of big corporate dollars.

Staying silent, forgetting the whole thing, would be so easy—s
o safe.

That’s what Derrick had always done.

He stared at the fire, feeling something akin to it burning inside him.

It was time to fish or cut bait.

* * *

When the nurses wheeled Galen back to his hospital room, he was grumpier than a grizzly and couldn’t sit still in the bed. “I feel like a dern pin cushion,” he said. “Son, you got me into this, now you can git me out.” Travis tried to calm him and comb his hair, but his father pushed his hand away. “I’m fine. I just wanna go home. That was the deal.”

“Here, Daddy, you’ll feel better with your glasses on.” Travis put the glasses on him, but they were miserably crooked.

Galen ripped them off and glared at Travis. “Son, your bedside manner is atrocious.”

Claire had found a microwave and brought Daddy his coffee, along with a big powdered doughnut. She pulled a chair right up next to him, sat, and served him.

“Now that’s more like it, right there.” He took a bite and smiled at Claire, who patted away the white powder that drifted down to the front of his light blue nightgown.

“I told Travis you remind me of his momma,” Daddy said.

Claire lit up. “Well, that is a compliment. I remember Mrs. Randall.”

“Ya do?” Galen’s head tilted.

“Yes, sir. One time I saw her at our school—I think she was dropping something off—”

“I probably forgot my lunch.” Travis snickered.

“Don’t interrupt, son.”

“Sorry, Claire.”

Claire gave Travis a slow nod, agreeing with Galen.

Travis chuckled.

“Anyway,” she said, “this huge kid, Freddy Sikorski, was picking on a younger boy, calling him names. And right when Mrs. Randall came down the sidewalk, Freddy shoved the younger boy down to the pavement.”

“No,” Daddy said.

Claire bit her bottom lip and nodded. “Yes! She got one look at what was going on, and she grabbed Freddy by the wrist and dragged him inside. My friends and I followed them, and she took him straight to the principal’s office. That was back when they still paddled kids, and I think he got it good from Mr. Tanker.”

Daddy shook his head. “That’s my girl.”

“I can’t believe you remember that,” Travis said. “I can just imagine Momma doin’ that.”

Claire handed Galen his coffee. He took it with shaking hands and managed to get a sip. He wouldn’t have taken it from Travis. Daddy really liked her.

“How are the boys doin’ at the shop?” Daddy asked. “Have you talked to ’em?”

“LJ called a couple hours ago to see how you was doin’. Things sounded okay. But he was still waitin’ for Bo to drag his lazy bones out of bed.”

“Dadgummit. When is he gonna make that boy grow up?”

“Well, I’m assumin’ they’re on top a’ things now.”

“You should know by now not to assume anything when it comes to yer brother.”

“I’ll give him a ring.” Travis went for the phone next to the bed, but it rang just as he got to it.

“Trav, LJ. How’s Daddy?”

“Cranky as all get-out, but good. Waitin’ for the doctor. Hopin’ to get outta here soon. How ’bout you boys? Bo rise from the dead yet?”

“Yeah, I got him on that Dodge; he’s in his glory workin’ on that thing. He’s got a couple cars he’s supposed to be detailin’—”

“They’s gonna have to wait, LJ. We need him on our stuff first.”

“I know, I’ll have to break it to him.”

Travis rolled his eyes. “Anything else new?”

“No, and I’m hopin’ nothin’ else shows up. You better git your skinny buns back here.”

“Doin’ my best.”

“Thanks for takin’ him, by the way,” LJ said.

“Sure thing. Good to have Claire here, too. She brightens it up.”

“Hey, I forgot to tell you, Coon dropped by.”

“What now?”

“Our meeting with Demler-Vargus got moved up. It’s tomorrow afternoon, two o’clock, instead of Thursday.”

“Did he say why?”

“Nope, and I didn’t ask. Sooner we do this deal, the better. It’s time we git this monkey off our backs.”

Travis turned and looked out the window, staring at all the cars in the snow-covered parking lot below.

Another gray day. The lot was a slushy mess.

“Yeah.” LJ laughed. “Old Coon didn’t look too good.”

“Really? What was wrong with him?”

“Said he fell down some stairs. Had a big bandage on his forehead, one on his chin, bad bruise on his cheek.”

Fell down some stairs? Or got the pulp beat out of him?

“This thing ain’t sittin’ right with me,” Travis said.

The thought of receiving a check from Demler-Vargus made him feel filthy, just like the grimy, salt-covered cars below.

“Oh, come on, Trav. This is what we’ve been waitin’ for. Come about this time tomorrow, you’re gonna be a wealthy man, and all this junk will be history. I was thinkin’ maybe we could even get Daddy outta here for a spell, maybe take him on one a’ them fancy cruises to the tropics.”