The Forensic Geology Box Set

by Toni Dwiggins

  Had she looked up, I would have waved.

  What to say, if she’s waiting outside our door at the Inn when we pack up to leave? You saved us, twice. How did you do that, at fourteen? Maybe we should sign you up. But, then, you pulled that teenage stuff too. You scared the shit out of me, disappearing from my bathroom. You should have told Walter what you were up to. And you didn’t talk him out of coming after me. Okay, that worked, Walter coming after me. I didn't really get what you said—if he can't go he won't go. I get it now. He could, so he did. Bottom line, Pria, you didn't make my head explode, although it was touch and go. You let me talk to you, even though I don’t speak alien. You made me surprise myself. So if you’re waiting outside our door I guess I’ll just say thanks.

  The chopper banked and now I got a view of another chopper parked downcanyon of the mine. Milt was there, on a stretcher, attended by medics. So he was alive; beyond that, I could not tell. On the other side of the chopper, considerately out of Milt’s view, lay three body bags. I thought, fiercely, Roy Jardine shouldn’t be allowed in the same neighborhood with Special Agents Darrill Oliver and Hal Dearing.

  Walter leaned close to stare out my window. I spoke, low, so as not to attract the attention of Hap on the gurney, although Hap lay with eyes closed, unconscious perhaps, in his own world certainly. I didn’t worry about the medic who squatted beside Hap or the pilot because I’d never seen them before and didn’t care if they heard me or not. Soliano, I cared about, but Soliano was up front and likely could not hear me over the racket of the engine. So I said, low, to Walter, “I never know how to tally the costs.”

  Walter settled back in his seat. “Don’t even try.”

  The chopper banked again, cutting across the canyon to avoid flying over the hot zone.

  Soliano’s head swiveled, showing his profile. He needed a shave. His whiskers were salt-white and I had to wonder if they’d been that color at the start of the week. And then I, too, looked where Soliano looked—down at the reservoir. From up here the beads appeared liquid, like a desert mirage.

  A RERT stood well uphill from the tub, hands on hips, studying the cleanup job below.

  I guessed they’d have to airlift in bulldozers and loaders to recapture all the beads, and empty casks to put them in, and telehandlers to move the casks. I wondered how many beads had been washed by the rain down into the soil. I wondered how far down the cleanup crew would have to dig to remove the contaminated earth. I wondered if they’d get it all.

  Soliano appeared to know what I’d been wondering. “EPA will make this a Superfund site.”

  I wondered how long it would take to remediate.

  The RERT I’d been watching sank to the ground, draping his arms across his knees. I could now read the name on his air tank. Scotty Hemmings. He bent his head and clutched his facepiece in his gloved hands.

  I guessed Scotty was wondering the same thing.

  CHAPTER 50

  We took ourselves home.

  Soliano offered to send us by chopper but we needed measurable time and distance in getting from here to there and so we rented a car. There was a tense moment when the clerk placed the keys on the counter. Who would pick them up? I told Walter, “Go ahead.” Seemed to me he’d proved his abilities ten times over. But he declined. On the “minuscule chance,” as he put it, that he’d have an “untoward event” on the drive home, he declined. He preferred to wait for the all-clear from his doctor, at which point he would resume his place behind the wheel.

  And so I picked up the keys.

  We crossed the desert and when we came to the Sierra and began the climb to the plateau on which our hometown sits, each degree drop in temperature put more shielding between home and the pools of Death Valley.

  We fell, hopefully, into the routine. It was good to be back in our own laboratory with its view of trees and mountains. It was good to drink the snowmelt water of the Sierra. It was good, even, to bury ourselves in the newest work, a straightforward and largely mindless case of sabotage at a plastics fabrication plant. I had just identified the crystal under the scope as amphibole when Walter came through the door. He came balancing the day’s mail on top of a pink donut box. We’ve compromised. Donuts on Fridays. TGIF.

  I wanted to get at that mail before he sorted it.

  As he set the donut box on the counter in our mini-kitchen, I rescued the unstable stack of mail under the guise of helping out. Walter started the coffee. I took the mail to my workbench and put my eyes on the particulars.

  “Looking for something?” Walter yelled over the grinding of beans.

  Just when I think I’ve put one over on him I am reminded that he’s still sharper than anybody I know. I called back, “Yeah, the rebate for that iPod I bought.”

  No rebate, just bills and catalogs and the latest issue of the Journal of Forensic Sciences. And, near the bottom, the thick envelope I’d been expecting. I hid it in my drawer. Wait until the coffee’s ready so I can broach the subject when his mouth’s full of donut.

  Meanwhile, my attention caught on a large manila envelope with my name printed on a label and no return address.

  “Glazed or crumb?” he asked.

  “Crumb.” I opened the flap and pulled out a sheaf of papers. A blue post-it was stuck on top, and the handwritten note read: To Cassie, From Hap. Cassie, not Buttercup. The formality of that greeting put me on alert. In fact, getting mail from Hap put me on alert. Last I’d heard, he was in the hospital. I wondered what he wanted from me now.

  I pulled off the post-it and looked at the top sheet of paper. It was a printed form, the boxes filled in with the same neat cursive as on the post-it. My eyes skipped to the signature box at the bottom: Brendan F Miller, Licensed Health Physicist. The formal title chilled me.

  My eyes jumped to the block letters printed at the top. NRC Form 5. Occupational Dose Record For a Monitoring Period. My mouth went dry. What the...? Name (last, first, middle initial): Oldfield, Cassie E. Monitoring Period: 8-14 to 8-19. I rushed, a little wild, from box to box—Radionuclides, Intake, Doses. For crying out loud I had an entry in every box. I skimmed the numerals because I didn’t really know if those numbers were high or low or ALARA, and so I skipped to the comments box. The individual was exposed in the course of an emergency response to an incident. She has received above the recommended maximum yearly radiation dose. Long-term effects are not calculable. Recommend the individual limit future exposures. Hap had added a postscript, at kindergarten level: Recommend you take care out there.

  Walter set a donut on a napkin on my bench, sequestering it so as not to crap up the open dishes of soil with the crumbs. “What’s this?”

  I handed him the second sheet of paper, the form with his name.

  Walter sat down, reading. “How could he...”

  “Know the numbers?” Scotty’s the one who had our dosimeters, and Scotty had phoned day after we returned home to tell us “no worry.” Scotty promised to send the entire incident report, with our numbers, once the NRC review was complete. But I guessed Hap didn’t need to wait on bureaucracy anymore. Hap could get on the net and download NRC forms and then run his own equations. How many rads in the point source, how close I stood, how long I stood there. Still, Hap wouldn’t have exact numbers to feed into his equations. I said, “He took a guess.”

  “And why the devil is he sending them to us?”

  I didn’t want to know.

  There were three more forms in the pile. I had the urge put them through the shredder. I had the urge to stuff them back in the envelope, along with mine and Walter’s, and return to sender. Instead, I continued to read.

  Ballinger, Milton P. The numbers were huge but largely irrelevant because the neat cursive in the comments box said it all. LD. Lethal Dose.

  Jellinek, Christine C. Lower numbers than Milt’s, far higher than mine. The individual’s shallow dose equivalent, max extremities, has required reconstructive surgeries of the hands and arms. Outlook for the individual’s s
hort-term recovery is guarded; long-term effects are of grave concern.

  Miller, Brendan F. Double-digit microcuries, triple-digit rems. I closed my eyes. Breathed in, breathed out, settling my stomach. When I gained the nerve to read the comments I had to follow the arrow and flip the page. He’d needed more room than the comments box provided. Under the heading Long-term Stochastic Effects he’d written odds-on favorite to win the cancer lottery. Under the heading Thanks For Asking, he’d made himself a diary:

  Tuesday: Thought my latent stage would last longer but this morning when I rolled over I left my hair on the pillow. People think the hair falls out but what happens is it gets thinner and thinner and then you can’t even roll your head on the pillow without breaking it off. Here’s a health physics lesson for you—the parts of your body where the cells keep dividing are bullseyes for radiation. Like hair.

  Wednesday: Still trying to maintain my morning schedule. Been reading the papers. Guess what? Our story made page one of the Vegas Sun today. I know you disapprove of my demonstration, Buttercup, but you have to admit it made a point. Even interrupted. Wish I could sit across the breakfast table from John Q Public, watch him reading what nearly happened to the water. See how that goes down with his morning coffee. To be frank, not really feeling up to morning coffee myself.

  Thursday: Nurse put a diaper on me since I can’t seem to make it to the john. The cells that are supposed to maintain my intestinal integrity aren’t doing their job. Man in diapers talking about intestinal integrity—that strike you as funny?

  Friday: Too bad it’s not Halloween because I’ve got bloody fangs. Scared the nurse anyway when she made me go aaahhh. Mouthful of lesions. Yuck. Stem cells in my bone marrow went on strike—how’s that for loyalty?

  Saturday: Coughed up a hairball last night. (Jess funnin youse) Was the mucous membrane in my mouth sloughing off.

  Sunday: Can’t write much more. Nurse will get your address and mail stuff for me. She’s a peach. Come tomorrow, only going to have one hand left. My drawing hand thank the good lordy. Right now I’m going to use it to sketch my left patty-cake so I don’t forget I had one. Infection’s gone gangrene. Where the knife went in—you remember.

  Monday: I’m scared Buttercup.

  I understood now why he’d sent the forms to us. He’s scared, alone, and he wants company. And, I thought, absolution. I couldn’t give him that.

  I got off my stool and went to the window to shield my face from Walter. I stared out at the forested flank of the Sierra. If I was a kid I’d go up into the trees and hide. Do my crying there.

  Walter made a lot of noise, letting me know he was picking up the forms on my bench. Then he went quiet.

  When he had finished reading I headed him off, in case he wanted to discuss Hap. I said, “My numbers are okay. Just means I need to be careful in the future.” Like I’d go anyplace near unshielded shit without full hazmat and a ten-foot tallywhacker. “And you’re fine. You didn’t pick up any dose.” Thank God. Thank Scotty, and even Hap—I’d thank the devil himself if he’d had anything to do with keeping Walter from sucking up dose.

  Walter said, “Never again.”

  “Never again what? Never again take a case where we need to wear full hazmat?”

  He nodded. And then he grunted.

  I knew that grunt. It meant, never again unless a case comes along that cries out for justice, in which case we’ll goddamn likely end up taking it.

  We got coffee to go with our donuts and went back to work on the plastics case. I left the thick envelope in the drawer. We worked until one-thirty and then I suggested lunch. When he looked up I brought out the envelope and laid it on his workbench. “It’s that conference,” I said, “on soil forensics.”

  “Dear, it’s too far. We don’t have the budget.”

  “Yes we do. I got a deal.”

  “What kind of deal?”

  “Internet special. It’s off-season in Belize. And don’t forget frequent-flier miles.” I folded my arms. “So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to that conference because it has a session on geostatistics that I’m dying to attend. And we’re staying in this funky hotel I found—right on the beach. Meals included. And in our down time, we’re going to learn how to dive. Don’t worry, hotel’s got a certified instructor.” I leaned forward, nearly coming off my stool. “Walter, we’re going to get back in the water. With breathing tanks and facepieces. Only this time it’s going to be fun.”

  Walter opened the envelope. He paged through the lime-green hot-pink brochure, studying it as if he’d never heard of an Internet special. He spoke, finally. “This diving instructor? He’s young and good-looking? And kind? And intelligent—you’ll want someone you can have a conversation with.”

  I groaned.

  He smiled.

  I relaxed. “And we’re going to drink margaritas and eat lime-baked chips.”

  “With salsa?”

  “Yup. I’m not giving up salsa.”

  He said, firmly, “No seaweed, though.”

  “Only in the water.”

  “Only when the conference is not in session,” he amended. “I’ll want that deduction on income tax.”

  I got off my stool and came to him and extended my fist, to seal the deal. He knew what to do. We bumped fists. Very cool. But then I couldn’t help noticing the age spots on his hands. Suddenly I could hear Hap’s voice, clear as if he were here in the lab assessing Walter. Your cells are already in the decay mode. I shook Hap off. I didn’t need a health physicist to tell me to wear a hat and shades and sunscreen out there. SPF-50.

  I said, firmly, “It will be fun.”

  END OF BOOK 2, BADWATER

  Turn page for Book 3, Volcano Watch

  VOLCANO WATCH

  VOLCANO WATCH MAPS

  PROLOGUE

  TOWN OF MAMMOTH LAKES

  MONO COUNTY, CALIFORNIA

  SIERRA NEVADA RANGE, the land of fire and ice

  Twice, the mayor of my hometown gave me advice.

  The first time was when she joined my third-grade class on a snowshoeing trip to chop a Christmas tree. She was nobody’s mom—just the town’s busybody mayor who volunteered for everything. Her name was Georgette Simonies. Call me Georgia she’d boom to any kid who addressed her otherwise, and since she was barely five feet tall, kid-size, we could do that. Out in the wilderness that day, I got myself lost. Trees suddenly thick, shrouded. That snow-blanket silence. Georgia was the one who found me. Next time wear a bell, she boomed.

  The second time Georgia Simonies advised me, I was eleven. My little brother Henry had recently died. He had hemophilia, wherein the blood refuses to clot. He’d gotten sicker that year, bleeding out again and again, and my parents stockpiled pressure bandages and I fed him pureed broccoli to replace the lost iron, but his luck ran out when he bumped his head and bled into his brain.

  I had night terrors for weeks until my parents, cartoonists, did the only thing they really knew how to do. My mother drew me a cartoon-brother snugly dead in his box. My father wrote the caption: death by God.

  My older brother added a comma: death, by God.

  I knew better.

  A week later Georgia dropped by our house and studied the cartoon and then took me aside. She asked, “You feeling guilty?”

  I nodded.

  “You couldn't watch him every minute.”

  “But I was in charge.”

  She put a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Nobody blames you.”

  “Nobody lets me say I'm sorry.”

  She picked up the cartoon and put it on the table in front of me. Gave me a pencil. “Say it that way.”

  It took me over a week, and an hour with a thesaurus, but I finally added my own caption: death by inattention.

  ~ ~ ~

  When I turned thirty, it was halfway through Georgia’s fifth mayoral term. She’d been in and out of office for twenty-five years, mostly in.

  She’s been missing almost five weeks.<
br />
  I’ve been catching the talk around town. People grumble that she can’t disappear on us now, when it’s a question of the town’s survival. A couple of jerks have made bets: accident, or foul play? A couple of wits say she’ll be back, she wants a sixth term.

  As for me, I’m paying relentless attention.

  CHAPTER 1

  It was an icy dawn.

  The four of us huddled at the Red’s Meadow trail head, nursing coffee, inhaling steam, hands stealing warmth from the mugs. Seemed like we’d continue nursing that brew until hell froze over, which appeared imminent. I drained my mug, slushed it out with snow, and gave the three men a look. They cleaned their mugs. I collected the mugs and stowed them in my pack along with the thermos. Always the female who brings the coffee.

  And then there was nothing for it but to snap boots into bindings and get going.

  There’s a body up the mountain, and from the report made by the ice climber who’d found it, the body had been there awhile. Until proven otherwise, the police had to treat it as a suspicious death. This mission had already been delayed three days because of bad weather, and another storm was forecast for tomorrow.

  The corpse, according to the ice climber, was female.

  Could be Georgia.

  Nobody wanted to postpone.

  The climb was too steep for snowmobiles and the weather too iffy for choppers. We had to ski it.

  The four of us strung out on the trail, packing yesterday’s snow. We were a silent group but I chalked that up to the weather, to the stress we’ve been under with a missing mayor and our hometown existence touch and go. No need for talk, though, because I knew this team down to the ground. Detective Sergeant Eric Catlin took the lead, cutting trail the way he worked a crime scene, muscular and precise. Recovery team volunteer Stobie Winder followed, ski patrolman in winter and horse wrangler in summer, thickly muscled as one of his pack horses—and that’s why he was hitched to the sled we’d use as a litter. I followed the sled: Cassie Oldfield, meeting although not beating the local athletic standards, gloomy for a time in adolescence and now only in her dreams, good with rocks like Stobie’s good with horses, precise as Eric in her work, once-student and now associate forensic geologist to the persnickety old man following her: Walter Shaws, the backbone of her life.