by Sandra Brown
• • •
He opened a trapdoor into hell.
That was Sayre’s first impression. The immensity of the heat struck her full force, like a wide hand pressing against the center of her chest and holding her on the threshold.
Beck was already several steps down the metal staircase leading to the shop floor. Sensing that she was hesitating, he looked back. “Changed your mind?” he shouted above the racket.
She shook her head and motioned for him to continue. He led her down the staircase. The treads felt so hot beneath the soles of her shoes, she was afraid the leather would dissolve.
It was a realm of noise and darkness and heat. The vastness of it amazed her. The space seemed infinite. She couldn’t see the far end of it. Only blackness and more blackness relieved by showers of sparks and bubbling vats of liquid fire. Molten metal glowed white hot in giant ladles as they rocked along the overhead monorail. Metal clanged against metal, conveyor belts rolled, machinery clanked and clattered and churned.
The racket was incessant. The darkness encompassing. But the heat was inescapable. Once inhaled, it became one with you.
The Vulcans of this underworld were men with sweating faces behind safety glasses, who regarded Beck and her with a mix of deference and wariness. They were in constant motion, some operating several machines at once. There was no sitting down on this job. One had to be always watchful for a spark, a spill, a fall, a slip, because life and limb depended on it.
“You don’t have to do this, Sayre,” Beck said, speaking directly into her ear. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
The hell I don’t. She looked up at the row of lighted windows high above them. As expected, there was Huff, the despot of this hell, standing with his feet widely spread, puffing a cigarette, the tip of it a smoldering red.
Turning away from the smug challenge she saw in his eyes, she said to Beck, “Show me more.”
As they moved along, he said, “We cast a ferrous alloy of predominantly iron, some carbon and silicon.”
She nodded but didn’t even try to respond.
“Hoyle Enterprises collects scrap iron. We have sources in several states who ship it to us by rail. It comes in here by the ton.”
Sayre supposed that unsightly mountain of scrap iron on the back side of the foundry was a necessary evil, although she remembered her mother asking Huff if there wasn’t something he could build, a wall or fence of some sort, to conceal it from the highway.
He wouldn’t even consider it because of the expense. He’d said, “If it weren’t for that pile of junk, as you call it, you wouldn’t have a mink coat and new Cadillac.”
“The scrap iron,” Beck continued, “is melted in furnaces called cupolas. The molten metal is poured into either a spin machine, which casts by using centrifugal force, or a sand-casting mold.”
She watched as a ladle of molten metal was poured into one of the molds. She was impressed by the technology but staggered by the danger to the men operating the machinery and coming into such close contact with liquid fire and hot, rapidly moving parts.
“What’s on his hands?” she asked, nodding toward one worker.
Beck hesitated, then said, “Duct tape. To make the gloves we provide thicker so his hands won’t get burned.”
“Why not just provide thicker gloves?”
“They’re more expensive,” he said brusquely, then nudged her around a puddle of molten metal that was bubbling on the floor. She glanced up to see it dripping from one of the ladles. The man overseeing the ladle was standing on a platform with no guardrails, she noted.
Beck went on to explain the process. “Once the metal has solidified inside the sand molds, they go through what we call shakeout. A vibrating conveyor literally shakes the sand away.”
He nodded her toward an exit door. As he held it for her, he summarized as though talking to a fourth-grader on a class field trip. “Once the castings have been removed, the pipe goes through cleaning and inspection. We do a metallurgical check for metal quality and chemical content. Any defective product is recycled and goes back to the furnace. What began as scrap metal ultimately leaves the foundry in one of our trucks in the form of a pipe with a wide variety of uses. Any questions?”
She removed her safety glasses and hard hat and shook out her hair. “How hot does it get in there?”
“In the summer up to a hundred and thirty degrees. Not that bad during the winter months.” He ushered her toward an elevator and pushed the up button.
Once they were inside the elevator, they both fixed their eyes on the light panel. She said, “One of the machines . . .”
“Yes?”
“Had a white cross painted on it.”
He continued staring at the numbers above the elevator doors and took so long to respond that she thought he was going to ignore her. Finally he said, “A man died there.”
She wanted to ask more, but when the elevator doors slid open, Chris was waiting to greet them. He smiled disarmingly. “Hello, Sayre. This is a new look for you, isn’t it?” he said of the clothes she’d purchased in a store on the town square just before coming here. “Can’t say I like it much. How was your tour?”
“Very informative.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“I didn’t say I enjoyed it.”
Beck’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, and stepped away from them to take the call.
Sayre said to Chris, “I saw nothing on the shop floor to dispel the allegations of safety and environmental violations for which you’ve been cited. What was the odor?”
“It’s from the sand, Sayre,” he said with exaggerated patience. “It has chemicals in it. Mixed with heat, those chemicals can give off an odor, which is sometimes unpleasant.”
“And potentially harmful?”
“Name me an industry that doesn’t have some occupational hazards.”
“But there are modern ventilation systems that—”
“Are exorbitantly expensive. However, we’re constantly looking into ways to improve our work environment.”
“Speaking of the environment, I remember that we were heavily fined for polluting public water a few years ago. Runoff from cooling ponds, I believe.”
His smile remained, but it had become fixed. “We go out of our way to protect the local environment, too.”
Patiently skeptical, she said, “Tell it to the EPA, Chris.”
Beck ended his call and rejoined them. “You’ll have to excuse me. A matter has come up that needs my immediate attention.” He reached for the safety equipment Sayre had worn. “Can you find your way out?”
“It can’t be that difficult.”
Chris said, “It’s a shame I can’t take you to lunch before you leave town, but I also have business to attend to.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. His eyes mocked her as he pulled away. “Have a nice flight, Sayre.”
• • •
Together Beck and Chris watched her walk down the corridor and disappear around a corner. “Well, that’s that.”
“Not quite, Chris.”
He turned to Beck. “You think she’ll start bugging us about safety, environment, and so forth?”
“That remains to be seen. But she’s been an awfully busy young lady this morning.”
Chris arched his eyebrow. “Oh? Doing what?”
“For one thing, she talked to Red Harper. That was him on the phone. He’s asked that you come to his office and address some questions.”
• • •
Sayre didn’t leave town immediately. Instead she drove through a neighborhood that lay practically in the shadow of Hoyle Enterprises’ smokestacks. At one time, when she’d been young and naïve, when anything had seemed possible and the future had looked bright, just turning onto this residential street had made her giddy with joy. This house in the middle of this lower-middle-class neighborhood had been the center of her universe. It had signified hope, happiness, security,
and love.
Today, seeing it filled her with despair.
The whole neighborhood had declined in the past ten years. But this house in particular had fallen into disrepair. The run-down condition of the place made her think that surely she had made a mistake, taken a wrong turn, had the wrong address.
But of course she hadn’t. Despite the house’s appearance, she recognized it. And if she doubted her memory at all, she had only to read the name on the mailbox to know she had the right one.
The front yard was littered with children’s toys, many of them broken and seemingly abandoned. A few shrubs clung to life near the house, and they were in sad need of pruning. What grass there was grew in scattered patches. A metal glider sat rusting on the front porch. The paint on the exterior walls was blistered and peeling.
Although she told herself that she had come here on a whim, the truth was she had been toying with the idea of driving past this house ever since she arrived in Destiny. Now that she was here, she was stricken with a rare case of butterflies.
Before she could summon the courage to get out of her car, her cell phone rang. Recognizing Jessica DeBlance’s number on the caller ID, she answered.
After they exchanged hellos, Danny’s fiancée said, “I don’t want to bother you. I just called to ask if there had been any developments in Deputy Scott’s investigation.”
“I talked to Sheriff Harper this morning.” Sayre told her that he, Deputy Scott, and Beck Merchant had conducted a careful search of the cabin the night before. “I gather they found nothing untoward because he said that Deputy Scott would conclude the investigation no later than tomorrow.”
Dispiritedly, Jessica said, “Well, that’s what I expected.”
“Do you want me to mention the engagement to them?”
“No. It would get back to the Hoyles. They would probably blame me for Danny’s suicide, like I was pressuring him into marrying me and drove him to it.”
Unfortunately Sayre agreed. “I feel like I’m letting you down, Jessica.” Like she had let Danny down by not speaking to him when he’d called her last week. “I wish I could do more.”
“Your willingness to help me already has.” After a short pause, she said, “Maybe I just need to accept that Danny wasn’t as happy as I thought, that he had reasons unknown to me for wanting to end his life. He was deeply troubled by something. I suppose he couldn’t live with it, whatever it was. Now, I’ll never know.”
“I’m sorry.” This young woman’s heart had been broken in two, and that lame platitude was all Sayre could say to her. It seemed woefully inadequate. However, she did promise to notify her when she heard anything from the sheriff’s office.
They hung up just as the screen door of the house was pushed open and a man came out onto the narrow gallery. He was shirtless and barefoot, dressed only in a pair of stained blue jeans.
His manner was suspicious and belligerent as he called out, “Can I help you with something?”
chapter 11
Sayre realized he couldn’t see who was inside the car because of the tinted windows. Feeling guilty for being caught spying, she was tempted to drive away. But she’d come this far, she might just as well go through with it. She lowered the window. “Hello, Clark.”
The instant he recognized her, his lips formed her name, then his face broke into the smile that had melted hearts at Destiny High School when he was the star quarterback on the football team, president of the student body, the senior voted class favorite and most likely to succeed.
Clark Daly jogged down the front steps as she got out of the car. They met at the halfway point of the cracked walkway leading up to the house. They didn’t hug, but he reached for her hand and tightly clasped it between his.
“I can’t believe it.” His eyes moved over her face, down her body, back up again. “You look just the same, only better.”
“Thank you.”
He looked neither the same nor better. His athlete’s body, always lean and hard, was now so thin that each rib was discernible. He had several days’ growth of beard, and it wasn’t a fashionable scruff—he had neglected to shave. His dark hair had thinned, making his forehead and brow seem more pronounced than she remembered. His eyes were bloodshot. And unless she was mistaken, there was alcohol on his breath.
He let go of her hand and took a step back, as though suddenly aware of how changed he must look to her. “I guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised to see you,” he said. “Did you come in for Danny’s funeral?”
“Yes. I arrived yesterday morning just in time for it, and I’m on my way out now.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral. It’s just, you know . . .” He waved his hand toward the house as though that would explain his failure to attend the services for Danny.
“That’s all right. I understand.”
There the conversation lapsed. She had a hard time looking him in the eye. Shyness was a typical reaction to seeing an old flame for the first time in years, but there were more profound reasons for the awkwardness between the two of them.
Injecting her voice with an artificial brightness, she asked, “So, what are you doing these days?”
“Working at the foundry.”
She gasped with disbelief. “Huff’s foundry?”
He laughed shortly. “That’s the only one we’ve got.”
“Doing what?”
He shrugged self-consciously. “Charging the furnace. Graveyard shift.”
At first she thought he must be making a bad joke. But as she gazed into his sunken eyes, she saw a bleakness that was deep and absolute.
Her father had succeeded in ruining this man’s life as thoroughly as if he’d shot him dead, as he had threatened to do.
“It’s a living,” he said, forcing a grin. “You want to come in, have some coffee?”
She lowered her head so he wouldn’t see her dismay. “No, I have a flight to catch. Thanks, though.” She was sure he hadn’t really expected her to accept his invitation. It had been extended half-heartedly, out of obligatory politeness.
After another awkward silence, he asked softly, “Are you happy out there in California, Sayre?”
“How did you know that’s where I live now?”
“Come on. You know what the grapevine around here is like. You’ve got a decorating business out there, right?”
“Home interiors.”
“You’d be good at that. Do you have a . . . a family?”
She shook her head. “My marriages didn’t last.”
“I’m on my second.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Four kids. Three of them hers. We’ve got one together. A boy.”
“That’s wonderful, Clark. I’m happy for you.”
He ducked his head, slid his hands into the rear pockets of his jeans, and looked down at his bare feet. “Yeah, well, we all do the best we can, I guess. Play the cards that are dealt us.”
She hesitated, then asked the pressing question. “Why didn’t you go into electrical engineering like you planned?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“Didn’t you know? I never got to go to school. My scholarship was revoked.”
“What?” she exclaimed. “Why?”
“I never was told why. Just one day I got a letter that said, basically, don’t bother enrolling unless you can pay your own tuition because your academic scholarship has been rescinded. I tried for an athletic scholarship, but even the smaller colleges wouldn’t grant me one because of that knee injury.
“Mom and Dad couldn’t afford to send me to school, so I decided to work for a couple of years, save enough money to put myself through. But . . . well, things happened. Mom got cancer, and Dad needed help taking care of her. You know how it goes.”
They both knew the reason his scholarship had been rescinded—Huff. He had pulled strings that probably had large amounts of money attached to them. He had vowed to ruin Clark Daly
and he had. You could always trust Huff to keep his word. Clark was now on his payroll, doing backbreaking labor, and that must have given Huff tremendous satisfaction. He probably derived a daily chuckle or two out of it.
“I guess you’re disappointed in me.” With a self-deprecating laugh, Clark added, “Hell, I’m disappointed in me.”
“I’m sorry things didn’t turn out better for you. There were extenuating circumstances you couldn’t overcome. Namely Huff Hoyle.”
“You didn’t exactly have an easy time of it yourself, did you?”
“I survived, and survival was all my life felt like for years.”
“Danny must have felt that survival alone wasn’t good enough.”
“I suppose.”
“How are Huff and Chris reacting to his suicide?”
She motioned toward the smokestacks that dominated the town’s skyline. “Nothing stops production. They’re back at work today. Beck Merchant—I gather you know who he is.”
His lips compressed into a hard line of dislike. “I know who he is, all right. Steer clear of him. He’s—”
“Clark?”
A woman who appeared to be in her late twenties had come out onto the gallery. She was blond and pretty. Or would have been if not for her surly expression. A child about a year old, wearing only a diaper, was propped on her hip.
“Hey, Luce, this is Sayre Hoyle. Sayre, my wife, Luce.”
“How do you do?” Sayre said pleasantly.
“Hi.”
Her notable lack of friendliness seemed to embarrass Clark, who said quickly, “That’s Clark Jr.”
“He looks like a fine boy.” Sayre divided a smile between the parents.
“He can be a handful,” Clark said. “He skipped walking and went straight from crawling to running.”
“I’m going to be late for work,” Luce announced ungraciously. The screened door slammed shut behind her as she reentered the house.
