Poison Town Page 19

  It was usually just for a moment, like that.

  And she was better.

  She’d come a long way, but she had a long way to go.

  But tonight, nothing was going to interfere with her date with Jack. They were going. And they were going to have fun, just like old times.

  “Pam … did you hear me?” Margaret leaned toward her, snapping her fingers. “My goodness, you’re in another world.”

  “Sorry.” Pam chuckled. “I was daydreaming.”

  “I said, what time do we need to leave to be home for the girls? Isn’t it about time—”

  Startled, Pamela looked at her watch. “Oh! We’ve got to go! My gosh.” She was on her feet, ready to run out with coat in hand.

  “Honey, okay, calm down. Get your coat on.” Margaret stood.

  “What was I thinking? They’ll be home in fifteen minutes.” She threw her coat on and grabbed their bags. “Hurry, Mom.”

  “I’m coming.” Margaret got her coat on. “Now, we’re not going to fall on the ice or something. Just take it easy.”

  Look who was telling whom to take it easy.

  * * *

  “Finally!” Daddy got right on Dr. Beezenhour when he entered his hospital room. “Good golly, I thought you’d gone ice fishin’.” It sounded funny, but his father’s jaw was locked and his face was a deep shade of scarlet.

  Travis had just about fallen asleep in the vinyl chair in the corner, and it looked like Claire had been helping Daddy with the crossword.

  “I apologize for the delay, Mr. Randall.” The doctor pulled up a chair, licked his fingers, and flipped through the pages on his handy clipboard. “We’ve had an influx of patients today. Forgive me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, so give me the good news and send me home,” Daddy said.

  Beezenhour was thoughtful before he spoke. “Mr. Randall, I want to keep you awhile longer—”

  “Dadgummit.” Daddy tugged the sheets up around his shoulders. “I knew this would happen. A person can’t come in here without gettin’ nickeled and dimed to death. What’s wrong now? I feel good.”

  “I’m sorry you’re agitated, sir.” Beezenhour blinked relentlessly. “What’s happened is, we did find some traces of the synthetic chemical Fenarene in your system.”

  Travis’s heart sank.

  Claire frowned and crossed her arms.

  “Now, it’s not an enormous amount by any stretch, but I want to know how well your body is getting rid of it, and to do that we need to do more tests.”

  “Now wait a minute, Doc.” Travis stood. “Is this necessary, or are you just wantin’ to use Daddy as your guinea pig?”

  “Travis!” Claire said.

  “It’s okay.” Beezenhour held up a hand. “I told you of my interest in the chemicals used in manufacturing and how they affect the body, so it’s a fair question. What I want to find out is this: is your father’s body eliminating the Fenarene, or could that chemical be sticking around, possibly causing harm?”

  “How long would Mr. Randall need to stay,” Claire said, “and what would you do?”

  Travis was sure glad she was there; otherwise he’d have blown a gasket.

  The doctor nodded, as if to say, At least there’s someone in the room who has some sense. “He could probably go home by this evening; latest, tomorrow morning. It depends how fast I can get a neurologist here.”

  “Neurologist … a brain man?” Travis said.

  Dr. Beezenhour nodded and blinked. “I want to put your father through a full neurological exam. It’s not painful. But I believe it, and some other blood work and simple tests, will show us a lot more about what the Fenarene in his system is up to.”

  Travis paced, squeezing the back of his neck. They’d been there since before dawn. “What if we don’t do it?” he said. “What if we just go home?”

  The doctor’s head swayed. “That is completely your prerogative. My concern is what we talked about before. Could this be making your father really sick? Could it be affecting his central nervous system? I will say, if it were my father I would want to know.”

  “May I ask,” Claire said, “what if his body isn’t getting rid of the Fenarene? Is there something you can do to help him get rid of it? And is that a necessity?”

  “Good questions. Understand, this is all new ground,” Beezenhour said. “We are at the cutting edge of studying this synthetic chemical in the system. There have been experiments—”

  “I’m sorry, but I feel like this is exactly the case you’ve been waiting for and you’re gonna milk it for all it’s worth—”

  “Travis.” Claire glared at him. “Don’t make assumptions like that. Please. Can we talk about it like adults?”

  The cat had Travis’s tongue. He wasn’t used to having anyone around to put him in his place like that.

  “If you’ve had enough for today, we can always schedule it for another day,” Beezenhour said. “I just thought, while you were here, it would be a good idea to knock out these tests and try to get to the bottom of it.”

  Claire looked at Travis, then at Daddy. “What do you say, Mr. Randall?” she said. “It’s your call.”

  Daddy stuck his jaw out and shook his head, not looking at any of them. “Dadgummit, Doc, I appreciate what you’re doin’, but I ain’t up for no more today … especially not for waitin’ around for some neurologist to get done with his four-hour lunch.”

  Beezenhour closed his eyes and nodded graciously, but it was clear he was disappointed.

  “Can we schedule it for tomorrow?” Claire asked the doctor.

  “Can’t,” Travis said. “We got the big thing tomorrow at two, remember?”

  Claire’s countenance fell. “What about the next day, Thursday. Would that work, Dr. Beezenhour?”

  “Absolutely. You let me know what time works best, and we’ll fit it in.”

  Travis faded out. He was dreading the meeting with Demler-Vargus the next day. Something about it wasn’t sitting right. What did they call it—a premonition? Whatever it was, that’s what he was having.

  Chapter 29

  It was roasting in the plush chrome-and-glass conference room high above the Demler-Vargus plant, where a tall brunette secretary had led Jack in and asked him to have a seat to wait for CEO Leonard Bendickson III. Jack took off his winter coat and sweater and was still burning up.

  Why had he worn the gun in here? He should have left it in the car. Now he was afraid it might be showing. Looking through the glass wall leading to the reception area, he checked for onlookers. The secretary had her back to him. He bent down from the black swivel chair and shimmied the ankle holster higher up his calf and tightened it.

  His notebook, pad, questions, mini recorder, and tapes were all laid out on the thick glass table in front of him. He’d chosen the chair to the right of the head of the table, thinking Bendickson would want the place of honor.

  He scribbled the date and D-V on his pad and wrote the names of the Bendicksons, then numbered them, 1 for the father, 2 for the son; he would write the number for each as he took notes, signifying who was talking.

  Fifteen minutes passed.

  These guys didn’t care about making people wait.

  Give me wisdom, Lord. Let me be relaxed and real. Help me get the truth. Help Derrick.

  He stood and wandered to the floor-to-ceiling window. The carpet was cushy. They spared no expense on the glass, steel, and wood furniture, lamps, and opulent décor. He peered outside at the eerie, massive sculpture of metal apparatuses, scaffolding, storage tanks, pipes, and loading docks. The brilliant snow made everything look dirty, especially the yellow-gray smoke billowing from half a dozen towering smokestacks.

  Jack put his hand on the window. Cold. Very cold.

  The place gave him the creeps.

  He was startled when a hidde
n door swung open in the middle of the paneled wall. Men in dark suits filed into the room. One, two, three, four, five—more than expected.

  The heat of the situation pressed in on Jack.

  “Good to see you again.” Tan and dapper Leonard Bendickson III gave him a firm handshake. “Thanks for the feature story; we’ve had a lot of positive feedback.”

  That story was one of the reasons Bendickson had agreed to meet with Jack again; plus, they probably wanted to see how much he knew. They also likely felt safe about the meeting because Jack worked for Cecil Barton—who was apparently in their back pocket.

  Bendickson, a towering man, stood behind the chair at the head of the table, gripping the top of it with his large, ruddy hands. He wore a black suit, yellow tie, crisp white shirt with shiny black and gold cufflinks, and a wide gold wedding band. “This is my son, Devon, our environmental liaison.”

  Jack could see the father-son resemblance as Devon smiled pleasantly and they shook hands.

  One guy, the size of a building, crossed to the corner of the room, looked down at the floor as if he was positioning himself on a mark, then looked straight ahead to the opposite corner. His neck was the size of Jack’s thigh, and he wore some sort of walkie-talkie earpiece. His large right hand gripped his left wrist in front of him.

  Bendickson ignored the bodyguard and swept a hand toward the other two men, who were pulling out their chairs. “Harry Dorchester and Eli August, two of our attorneys.” They barely nodded, but got busy opening their leather binders and getting situated. Eli clanked a tape recorder onto the table.

  Bendickson apparently felt obligated to explain their presence. “Since we might be talking about some sensitive issues, we wanted to make sure we had legal counsel.”

  “That’s fine.” Jack hadn’t expected the bodyguard, or the attorneys, or the recorder; he wiped the sweat from his forehead, wondering if anyone noticed how nervous he was. “I hope you don’t mind if I record this as well. Just to make sure I get everything right.”

  Bendickson’s dark eyes flicked to the attorneys.

  “We’d rather you not,” Dorchester said.

  Jack swallowed hard, at a loss for words.

  “Are you hot, Mr. Crittendon?” Bendickson said. “Devon, have Brenda turn down the heat, please.”

  Devon left the room.

  “The purpose in my recording this is to make sure I get everything down accurately,” Jack said. “It’s really a benefit for you, to make sure I get the facts right.”

  Dorchester started to disagree.

  “Oh, let him record it.” Bendickson looked at the attorneys with his sharp brown eyes and perfect teeth. “We’ve nothing to hide. Just let me know when to shut up.”

  “Thank you.” Again Jack wiped his forehead with his palm. The bodyguard stood like a statue, staring at the wall, mouth sealed. Devon reentered, set a bottle of water in front of Jack, and took his seat. Jack gave him a nod and thanked everyone for coming. He got the correct spelling of the attorneys’ names and jotted numbers three and four next to them.

  He’d put a lot of time into the questions before him and had a strategy. He began with several simple questions about the company, its history, and its products, just to get them relaxed and talking. Indeed, they seemed to be letting their guards down, thinking this wasn’t going to be the interrogation they had anticipated.

  “Now … you have had some violations in the past.” Jack mentioned the specific citations, one in 2009, one in 2010, two each in 2011 and 2012. “Tell me about those. What went wrong, and how did you correct those problems?”

  Jack kept checking the bodyguard, who never flinched.

  Devon explained the violations clearly, and his company’s response sounded respectable. “You’ll find those kinds of notices are quite normal with a manufacturing operation the size of ours,” Devon said. “We actually embrace those red flags from OSHA and the EPA; we view them as opportunities for continuous improvement. With each, we’ve made the corrections requested and complied within the allotted timeframe. And we’ve developed new systems to make sure those mistakes don’t happen again. They actually make us better.”

  Devon had a young, pink face, square jaw, and a pleasant demeanor that took Jack by surprise. He was cool and courteous and seemed genuine in his desire to make Demler-Vargus an environmentally sound company. Could it be Devon didn’t know about the bad stuff? Leonard was letting Devon do most of the talking. But as Devon rambled on with details about the specific violations, Jack wondered if he might be stonewalling, knowing they had allotted only one hour for the meeting.

  He sipped his water as Devon talked about their green initiatives and how much the company was spending on safety measures for employees and air-quality control measures. Could all that be true? Jack wanted to believe him.

  Twenty-five minutes into the meeting, Jack realized he had to get down to the nitty-gritty. He plunged ahead. “I know you produce a ton of different products; what can you tell me about Streamflex?”

  The bodyguard shifted his feet for the first time.

  Dorchester’s eyes flashed to Bendickson, then, as if he’d regretted it, fell back to his notepad; he looked like a child who’d just caught the glare of a fuming parent. The room fell silent. August didn’t flinch but stared right through Jack. Devon rocked back in his chair. Bendickson seemed frozen, with a thick, black eyebrow curled into an arch.

  Devon rocked forward, steadied his chair, and spoke tentatively. “We have experimented with the production of Streamflex.” He paused. “But we have not been able to find a way to produce it and remain within environmental guidelines.”

  The attorneys were now ramrod straight, looking as if they’d each had four shots of espresso.

  “When was the last time you tried to produce it?” Jack said.

  Devon’s face scrunched up as if he smelled something rotten. “A year ago?” Nonchalantly, he rocked again and waved a hand at his dad for confirmation.

  Bendickson, who himself had developed a foul look on his face, only shrugged, as if the dialogue had just transgressed into meaningless chatter. He wasn’t talking.

  “I think it’s been about a year,” Devon said. “I know it was last winter sometime, but I’m going to need to check on that for you.”

  Jack hated it when that happened—another loophole to follow up on, for which he would probably never get a straight answer.

  His recorder clicked off. As calmly as he could, Jack ejected the micro-cassette. With trembling fingers he flipped the tape and hit record. Then he forged on. “Can you tell me, does your plant use, produce, or release the synthetic chemical Fenarene?”

  August looked at his watch, pursed his lips, and glared at Jack.

  “You want Devon to talk about that?” Bendickson addressed the attorneys.

  “Let me try,” Devon said before the attorneys could answer. “A very high, high, high percentage of manufacturers like us—that produce plastics, rubbers, fiberglass, resins, and such—do use Fenarene. But we do so sparingly and within environmental guidelines. Twenty-five states, Puerto Rico, and the Virgin Islands have OSHA-approved plans for the use of Fenarene. Ohio is one of those states, and we strictly adhere to their guidelines.”

  Man, this dude was killing Jack. It was all too neat, too perfect.

  “Can you tell me if Fenarene is used to produce Streamflex?” he said.

  August set one clenched fist on the table. “We don’t need to get into that. We don’t produce Streamflex, so it doesn’t pertain.”

  The bodyguard turned his big head toward Jack, made stone-cold eye contact for three seconds, and turned back toward the wall.

  Time was flying. Jack eyed his notes and looked at Devon. “Are you aware that some epidemiologic studies suggest there is an association between Fenarene exposure and an increased risk of leukemia and lymphoma?”
>
  “No comment,” Dorchester cut in before Devon could say anything. “Next question.”

  Devon sighed and chuckled, as if he would have preferred to answer.

  The tension was palpable.

  Jack swigged his water, hoping it would cool his system for the heated exchange he was about to ignite. “Are you familiar with a couple who worked in the plant named Barb and Emmett Doyle?”

  In unison, the attorneys turned to Bendickson with eyes of apprehension.

  The bodyguard’s head dropped.

  Bendickson laughed heartily. “Jack, do you have any idea how many people we employ?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’m sure I would recognize them if we went down on the floor.”

  Jack took a deep breath. “Can you confirm they came to you asking for compensation for their medical bills?”

  Bendickson frowned sourly, shook his head, and looked down, rubbing the leather binder in front of him—apparently a cue for the attorneys to do their jobs.

  “We would have to look into that.” Dorchester scribbled on his pad. “I can write down their names and do some research.”

  Another stall.

  “The reason I ask is because a former reporter for the Dispatch, Amy Sheets, interviewed them. They said they came to you for compensation for medical issues and, getting none, they went to the media with their story.”

  The only sounds were pens tapping and chairs squeaking.

  The bodyguard looked at Bendickson as if waiting for the order to boot Jack out on his can.

  “Do any of you know Amy Sheets?” Jack probed.

  Bendickson stuck his elbows on the table and craned his neck, as if his collar was too tight.

  Devon spoke up. “Our PR people dealt with Miss Sheets on things like those minor infractions we talked about earlier. I don’t know about the Doyles …”

  “What we learned,” Jack said, “is that the Doyles told Amy Sheets about their issues with Demler-Vargus, but then they suddenly came into some money. They moved to a house in Charleston.”

  Bendickson sighed loudly. “Jack, what else do you want to talk about? Really. This is not what we want to do—”