by Alex Kava
The old guy’s eyes darted around constantly. Leon had been close enough to notice this the other day, too. That was fine. He could look around all day if he wanted.
“I like Snickers better,” Galloway suddenly said without acknowledging Leon’s presence.
Leon didn’t say a word. Instead, he pulled up the wrapper and put the Snickers bar on the tray table. He picked up the Almond Joy and started again. He had a couple of bites down before Galloway grabbed the Snickers.
“They don’t like me having chocolate,” he said, stuffing his mouth with about half the candy bar as if he was worried someone would notice and take it away.
“Bossy sons of bitches, huh?”
Leon thought he saw Galloway smile just slightly. It was hard to tell.
“You visiting somebody?” Galloway asked, still not looking at him.
“Yeah, but the schmuck wasn’t in his room.”
Galloway finished the candy bar in two bites. His hands went to the arms of the recliner and his fingers started drumming. Leon tried not to stare, but the guy’s fingers fascinated him. There was rhythm to their movement.
“What about you?” Leon asked casually, trying to sound like he didn’t have anything better to do for the time being. “You get many visitors in this place?”
“A few.” And that was it, nothing more.
“My buddy doesn’t have anybody. His own kids won’t even come see him,” Leon said, glancing to see if he was pushing any buttons. “They say this place creeps them out.” He waited, but couldn’t keep his eyes off the guy’s fingers. The right hand did something different from the left hand. “My buddy says he doesn’t mind on account of his kids always wanting to borrow money. Says at least he gets some peace and quiet in here. You know what I mean?”
But Galloway was gone. Leon knew. He could sense it. He wasn’t making a connection with the guy.
He glanced at Galloway’s feet and noticed them both tapping. No, not really tapping, but maybe pumping…yeah, like pumping the pedals on a piano.
Son of a bitch!
Leon shifted his gaze back to Galloway’s fingers. The guy’s playing the piano, he realized.
And he certainly wasn’t listening to Leon. He watched Galloway a little longer, recognizing the gestures, the rhythm and the motion.
“What’ cha playing there?” Leon decided to ask.
Without any hesitation Galloway answered, “‘When You Wish Upon a Star.’”
68
Pensacola Beach, Florida
Eric had acted on gut instinct, pure and simple. Now, as he watched his sister share pizza with her eighty-one-year-old escort while the huge white cat climbed up and down the furniture, he wondered what the hell he was thinking. Being here with him might be more dangerous than sending Sabrina back to Tallahassee. Maybe it’d be safer to take their chances with the State Patrol if they could get them to believe her story. Her story did seem a bit crazy and he had heard some zingers. One thing Eric knew for certain was that unlike him, she couldn’t kill anyone.
With the TV remote in hand he paced his small studio apartment, pointing it at the TV in the corner, flipping channels. He should be relieved. Apparently it wasn’t a big enough story for national news updates. Finally he left it on Fox News and sat on a squeaky futon, the noise drawing both women’s attention.
“What? The place came furnished,” he told them with a smile, and the women resumed eating.
He ran a hand over his eyes, then pushed his fingers through his hair. It was way shorter than he was used to and still surprised him a little. It was part of his new look, his new disguise. And that was exactly why he shouldn’t have Sabrina stay here with him. But he couldn’t just send her away.
He’d been up all night, his usual schedule. But today he hadn’t had a chance to take a nap. Damn, he could sure use one, though he doubted sleep would help make sense of the situation.
“So who do you think hired this killer?” Eric asked.
“Mr. Sidel arranged the meeting,” Sabrina told him, batting at her new bangs. “Except I was supposed to be meeting the plant manager, Ernie Walker.”
“And this wasn’t Ernie.”
“No.”
“So you know Ernie?”
“I know who he is. This guy wasn’t any kind of plant manager.”
“Wait a minute. How do you know that for sure?”
She gave him an exasperated look.
“I’m not just busting your chops, Bree. I’m trying to figure out if this guy could be someone who works there.”
She put her slice of pizza down and sat back in the plastic-resin chair Eric used for his dining set. She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, slowly, deliberately, but Eric knew she wasn’t simply stalling but rather thinking.
“He didn’t have any protective gear,” she finally said. “No goggles, no hard hat. Just a long pipe or a club, maybe. I couldn’t tell from down below.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to be bothered with all that safety stuff.”
“No, there was something more.” And she rubbed at her eyes, closing them tight as if that would help her to see the man in her mind.
Eric sat patiently. He noticed the old woman’s small black hand cupped over Sabrina’s right hand, flat on top of the cheap plastic table. The woman had introduced herself to him as Sabrina’s neighbor, but Eric knew in Chicago Sabrina barely let her neighbors know her name and she had lived in the same building for over ten years. She had told him once that she liked the anonymity. Same thing with her students. He knew she kept them at arm’s length. Unlike other professors, Sabrina never socialized, no coffees after class, no special-occasion pizza parties.
Eric had always envied her ability to compartmentalize the people in her life, even if he didn’t agree with it. In these past two years when he desperately needed to do exactly that to survive, he still found it difficult. His boss, Howard, was a prime example. But Sabrina was either good at it or made it look as though she was, with the exception of Miss Sadie.
“The alarm,” Sabrina said suddenly, almost jumping out of her chair as if an alarm had literally gone off. “I knew there was something that didn’t seem right. He didn’t know about the alarm.”
“What alarm?”
“Every reactor has a clear-water flushing tank. It’s the last stage in the process. Whatever runoff is left, which should be only water, gets flushed and cooled before it’s released through a filter into the river. If there’s any solid particles that might clog up or break the filter, anything as big as…” Her voice trailed off and he recognized the look in her eyes. Post-traumatic shock. He’d seen it in Sabrina’s eyes before, right after their mother’s accident. He didn’t like seeing it again.
“Anything as big as a body,” he said, finishing her sentence. “Let me guess. It trips an alarm. Any chance he thought he had shut off the alarm or tried to override it?”
“It’s all computerized,” Sabrina told him. “Only one person can change the process or override or shut off any of it.”
Her eyes met his and he watched the realization flood them. It was the same look she’d have when they were kids and she figured out some puzzle for the first time, or discovered the mystery ingredient in Pixie Stix. Only this realization was tinged with a bit of fear.
“What is it, dear?” Miss Sadie saw it, too.
“I was meeting the plant manager because Mr. Sidel wanted to prove to me that Reactor #5 wasn’t online.”
“So whoever sent this guy must not have known that the reactor and the alarm were on.” Eric left the squeaky futon to pace again. “Or they turned it on, wanting him to get caught.”
“The only person who can turn anything on or off has been gone since Friday,” Sabrina said.
“Forget about on or off.” Eric grew impatient. He was tired. It was too easy to lose focus. “More importantly, why the hell would someone want you…” He couldn’t bring himself to say “dead.” “Why would anyone want you gone?”
“I think this might have something to do with it.”
“What is it?” He picked up the bag and fingered the stuff that felt like jelly with glitter.
“I’m not sure.” Sabrina stared at it, but didn’t attempt a closer look. “Whatever it is I fished it out of what’s supposed to be a clear-water runoff pipe just before it got pushed out into the river.”
69
Chattahoochee, Florida
Leon listened. He wasn’t quite sure which parts of Arthur Galloway’s ramblings were true and which ones were fantasy or hallucinations. He knew Galloway’s wife, Meredith, had been killed in a car crash about two years ago. The poor schmuck still talked about her as if she were alive and well, even meeting her for lunch. Leon didn’t want to interrupt, afraid he’d derail the flow. And somewhere in the ramblings there was bound to be the information he needed. So he listened.
Galloway stopped playing the piano while he talked about his lovely Meredith.
“She was the prettiest girl on campus,” Arthur Galloway told Leon, his tongue flicking in and out and around the inside of his mouth. “I thought I’d have a heart attack the day she noticed me.”
Galloway’s eyes continued to dart from one side to the other, as if watching an imaginary tennis match. But Leon noticed a glint in them now and there was a smile despite the tongue activity.
“She sat outside in the commons area,” Galloway said. “She’d spend her lunch hour doing pencil sketches and sipping Tab.”
Leon listened closely as Galloway told the story of a sugar-sweet courtship of romantic picnics and walks in the rain. Leon couldn’t really say when it occurred to him, but at some point he realized he had gone from wanting to roll his eyes to envying Arthur Galloway. What was it like, Leon wondered, to love someone so much you didn’t want to live in the real world without them?
Leon certainly didn’t claim to have any sort of a grip on the human psyche, but he also didn’t think it took a degree in psychiatry to see what was going on with Arthur Galloway. This guy wasn’t crazy. In fact, if Leon’s hunch was correct, Arthur Galloway was crazy like a fox. Leon wondered if the man had simply created his own reality, one that included his beloved Meredith. In his mind she was still real. In his mind he could still see her, and so could Leon as Galloway described her hands slick with wet clay as she plied and shaped her latest masterpiece. To hear him talk about her, even the scent of her—a combination of oil paints and herbal shampoo—it was almost as if she were in the room with them. Leon caught himself looking over his shoulder once when Galloway’s eyes flitted in that direction and stayed for a beat longer than usual.
Where better to indulge your fantasies than someplace that expected them? Not only expected them, but fed and housed you while you sat back and lived in the past. Man, the guy had his act down—the flitting eyes, the jittery fingers that weren’t really jittery at all.
None of this, however, was getting Leon anywhere. If the guy lived in his own little fantasy world maybe he didn’t want anything or anyone reminding him of the real world, like real, breathing kids who only reminded him of the reality he wanted to shut out. The reality that didn’t include Meredith. Could be why he hardly acknowledged his daughter the other night. Geez, if that was the case Leon had probably wasted his whole fucking morning. This was the sort of thing where he couldn’t even use a pair of pliers to extract what he wanted.
Galloway was quiet again and Leon took it as an opportunity to leave. He stood and waited, but noticed Galloway’s fingers already tapping away at his imaginary piano keys.
“So your daughter must favor your wife, huh?” Leon poked one more time. What would it matter? He had come all this way again. “I saw her visiting you the other night. Very attractive young woman. Your Meredith must be a looker.”
Leon stood over him, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jumpsuit, jiggling some change like he was in no hurry, fingering the pair of pliers.
“Sabrina. Isn’t that her name?” He watched Galloway’s fingers, trying to see any indication that he might trip his trigger again. The floodgate had opened so easily about his wife, but the daughter was too real, too much of this world.
Leon considered the pliers. It wouldn’t be hard to snap a couple of those fingers. Hell, he could do it without any tools. Push them back until he heard the crack.
He glanced around the TV room. One orderly helped a woman down the hall, otherwise it was a bunch of fucking zombies. He couldn’t see the nurses’ station. His guess was it’d take a few minutes for any of them to respond. Maybe a little pain would be just the thing to bring this guy back to reality.
“We might have peas for lunch,” Galloway said suddenly without looking up at Leon.
Poor, pathetic bastard. Leon shook his head. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the man was crazy. Crazy or not, there wasn’t a damn thing Leon could do to make him any more miserable than he already was. He checked the time. He’d wasted three fucking hours.
Leon turned to leave when Arthur Galloway said, “Eric favors his mother. Especially with the tan he’s gotten from living on the beach.”
Leon didn’t move, afraid he’d ruin it, break the spell. Was the guy throwing him a bone? Maybe he thought he could trust Leon with his secret. And yet who knew if the old man had seen his son with a tan last month or last year. But it’d make sense the daughter might go to the brother for help, wherever he was. Still, Leon needed to be careful. Treat it as if it was nothing and they usually started singing. Treat it as if it mattered, they clammed shut.
“Yeah, I got a bitch of a sunburn down in Fort Lauderdale last month.” Leon threw it out casually, then waited for Galloway to correct him, reveal what fucking beach his son was living on.
“With pearl onions,” Galloway said.
“Excuse me?” Leon asked, but was thinking what the fuck was this guy talking about? There was no pearl beach, but Galloway interrupted Leon’s thought process with his next words.
“My Meredith loves peas with those little pearl onions.”
Leon let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. Either this guy was fucking brilliant or nuttier than a fruitcake. Either way, he had just wasted Leon’s entire morning.
70
Washington, D.C.
Jason Brill pushed away from the laptop computer on his desk. He rubbed his eyes and then tried to twist the knot out of the back of his neck. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see that he had been on the Internet nonstop for the last several hours. No wonder his eyes were starting to cross and his stomach was growling.
There appeared to be no secrets in Arthur Galloway’s life. Of course, Jason didn’t have access to anything on the order of FBI classified. What he did have would certainly not point to or highlight any suspicious activity. One thing Jason had learned from Senator Allen was how to read a bank account. Jason’s first assignment with the senator had been to find a leak within the senator’s own office staff. “Follow the money,” Senator Allen had told him. “A person’s bank account can’t hide a person’s true character.” Within days, Jason had found the staffer, an intern with a sudden passion for Prada and a new secret boyfriend at the Washington Post.
After spending hours accessing and analyzing Arthur Galloway’s finances for the last five years, Jason had put together a profile that exhibited mostly sadness and defeat rather than anger and revenge. There were paychecks from an accomplished career at the University of Chicago and an alumni newsletter that named him professor of the year. Mortgage payments and property taxes for a two-story home in a Chicago suburb. Then things began to
change drastically after a seventeen-thousand-dollar payment to Krauss, Holmes and Sawyer’s Funeral Home.
A search of Google easily found the obituary for Meredith Galloway and an earlier article almost five years before in the Chicago Tribune, featuring three artists who were making it big on the international level. It included a photo of an attractive, dark-haired woman with an infectious smile despite the brooding brown eyes. It was her face that made it easy for Jason to commit the story to memory.
A large deposit followed by a large payment to the mortgage company indicated the sale of the house in the suburbs. Almost immediately came new paychecks from Florida State University and monthly payments to an apartment complex. All during this time there were no unusually large withdrawals, no paid memberships to suspect organizations, no purchases online of ingredients for deadly terrorist attacks or books from Amazon.com on defaming the president or his administration. Nothing Arthur Galloway bought or paid for seemed out of the ordinary, let alone marked him as a threat to the energy summit or to EchoEnergy or William Sidel. The only thing that connected him at all was his daughter.
Almost a year ago everything stopped. Outside of a onetime payment to a Dr. E. J. Fullerton, Arthur Galloway’s financial history—checking accounts, savings accounts, credit card accounts, everything—came to a grinding halt.
Dr. Fullerton’s longstanding association, currently as chief of staff, with the Florida State Hospital at Chattahoochee, Florida, seemed evidence enough of where Arthur Galloway was. No one on staff, however, would confirm that he was a patient. Even without confirmation Jason knew Galloway couldn’t possibly be a security risk. So why would William Sidel be worried? Whatever the daughter’s agenda, the father was hardly in any shape to even help her. Jason wondered if this was really about the energy summit.
