An internal staircase dropped from the roof to the first floor, emptying onto the front side corridor. Poppy took it now to the hallway where all the paper pushers and managers worked. He strode the length of the corridor, noticing again its sterile smell, fueled by the powerful HVAC motors and filters that held the building under negative pressure. He’d go nuts stuck in this place for a whole shift, Poppy thought. Like working in an oversized casket.
He reached the manager’s office at the end of the hall, cleared his lungs of the new congestion gathering there, and stuck his head around the corner.
Dave Prior’s eyes were furrowed tensely beneath brushy eyebrows set in a pale face. Seated next to him in the cramped office was a man younger than Prior and Poppy by a good thirty years. With a full head of red hair, he wore a green bow tie over a crisp white shirt. Yep, he had the look of Human Resources. Probably a grandkid of one of the folks who actually used to operate these plants.
The manager noticed him and gestured to enter. Poppy took a seat in the narrow space in front of Prior’s desk. The HR rep stood and extended a hand, introducing himself as Adam Worth. Before sitting down again, the HR guy rounded Poppy’s chair and shut the door behind them. Poppy’s discomfort did an immediate uptick.
“Pops,” the building manager launched in, “we’ve got something we’ve got to clear up. As you know, Covington’s the general contractor at Hanford and has final authority over your company, Darter Security, on personnel matters. Well, something’s come up. I’ll let Adam here explain.”
Adam smiled and held up a piece of paper. “Mr. Martin, this is your report from the incident at LB5 last fall.”
This was a good start—they were finally going to talk about his statement, Poppy thought with satisfaction. Though he wondered who this kid was, talking with a slight accent. Australian maybe?
He nodded in response. “What about it?”
“It’s about that gunshot you claim you heard.”
“Heard and saw,” Poppy said, caught off guard by the word claim. “At least I saw the weapon in Lewis’s hand after he fired.”
Adam’s smile didn’t waver as he went on like Poppy hadn’t spoken. “Covington Nuclear would like you to withdraw your statement. Resubmit it and take out that reference.”
Poppy was stunned. “I don’t get it.” He glanced at Dave, who was looking down at the desk.
Worth slid the signed statement across the desk. “As you know, we’ve completed the LB5 incident investigation. We just want to clean up this anomaly, keep the record straight.”
Poppy shook his head; this couldn’t be what they came here for. “You want to keep the record straight. That’s fine. So why do you want me to change my report?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Martin, you didn’t hear Lewis fire his weapon.”
Poppy struggled to keep the heat out of his voice. “What are you talking about?” Calm yourself, hon, he could hear his wife saying. Remember your blood pressure.
Adam’s face was as placid as a lake at sunset. “It didn’t happen. We’d like you to remove the reference to avoid any embarrassment for you in the matter.”
Poppy looked around the building manager’s cramped office, trying to ignore the thunder in his chest. Maybe this kid just needed some clarification. He took a breath and started in again.
“Look, I heard what I heard,” he said as calmly as he could muster. “It was right after I lost the manager at LB5 on the walkie-talkie. Before I fired my own weapon, I heard the shot as plain as on the range, then I looked across the roof and saw Lewis pointing his rifle toward the ground. It was obvious he’d discharged it.”
The young man’s face didn’t produce a ripple. “You were mistaken. Your partner never touched his trigger. We’ve confirmed that in three separate interviews.”
“You mean with Lewis?” Poppy asked.
Adam nodded.
So at least they had talked to Lewis. Poppy wanted to ask about his partner, but kept his mind on track. This had to be a mistake. He hesitated, visualizing Lewis in the roof shack in the dark of that evening, his eyes round with fear. But this left him no choice: he’d have to mention it.
“You know, I didn’t want to say anything, but Lewis was pretty scared that night—we all were,” Poppy said. “Maybe he’s just confused. His weapon will tell you I’m right.”
Adam shook his head. “We’ve checked that, of course. It confirms what I’m telling you.”
Poppy looked over at Dave, still studying the desk surface.
“Mr. Martin, we’re not saying you’re lying,” Adam went on solicitously, adjusting his bow tie automatically with one hand, like he was scratching an itch. “We’re just saying you’re mistaken, that’s all. After all, you’d inhaled some of that smoke; you were coughing hard. You’d just been through the incident yourself. Your ears were probably ringing.”
Smoke? To describe that hellish-looking plume? Like the word incident the kid had used twice now to describe the explosion. Poppy saw bureaucratic paint all over this.
He stared over the valley of Dave’s desk at the bow-tied figure, feeling his pulse pound in his temples.
“Are you telling me to lie about what I saw?”
Dave shifted uncomfortably in his chair, though the HR rep didn’t waiver. “I’m telling you the point is settled,” Adam said.
As strong as Poppy’d felt his heart pounding, now it felt like it ought to stop. He stared in disbelief at the stolid HR rep, searching for the slightest hint the man knew this was wrong. Poppy felt like he was shouting into a canyon and waiting for an echo that wouldn’t come.
“I won’t do it,” he said tightly.
Adam scrutinized Poppy for several seconds, no disappointment or anger appearing in his eyes. At last, he set the statement on the desk surface, along with a blank form.
“We’ll give you a few days to revise the statement. You can return the amended one here to Mr. Prior.”
Poppy’s anger and confusion mounted. The gun wasn’t the only thing he’d heard and seen that night. There were things he hadn’t bothered to put in the statement, not wanting to get someone in trouble for what he’d assumed were screw-ups outside his responsibility.
“If you know everything that happened that night,” Poppy muttered, “tell me why’d they shut off the lights.”
For the first time, Adam’s eyes widened a notch. “What do you mean?”
“I mean when the LB5 lights went out while I was on the roof.”
The HR rep shrugged. “Oh that. I believe they’ve concluded that they had a short. Things got shaken up during the incident. Took everything off line for a bit.”
“Then if everything went off line, how’d they finally blow the take-cover sirens?”
Adam paused. “Separate breakers,” he responded at last. “As you know, everything’s redundant.”
“Yeah, I know,” Poppy replied. “Every building in Hanford has backups for every single circuit. So tell me again: why’d the lights go down?”
The HR rep didn’t respond.
Poppy’s voice grew hard. “You know what alpha radiation from plutonium can do when it’s inside you?”
“Of course,” Adam said, unflinching.
“You see it in a slide show down at headquarters, did you?”
Silence.
Poppy half rose out of his chair. “So when are you boys at headquarters going to tell me what was in that cloud that night!”
At this, Adam clasped Poppy in a long gaze. The rigid mask slid away, replaced by a stony smile—cold as an undertaker’s condolence, Poppy thought. The HR rep turned to Dave.
“Mr. Prior, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to release Mr. Martin for a few days. I don’t believe he’s been examined on a psychological level for the aftereffects of the incident. I was hoping to clear things up this evening, but his continued fixation on this particular point of the gunshot only highlights the need for in-depth testing. It may go so far as to impact his security
clearance.”
Dave looked stunned. “When?”
“Starting tonight. Indefinite leave. We’ll make arrangements for the examinations.”
Poppy didn’t like small spaces, but he’d never had real claustrophobia before. It had to be what he was feeling now—like the walls of this box of an office were an arm’s length apart and closing. He wanted to shout at this pale-faced man, younger than his eldest boy, who had to know that a psych exam could end what remained of his career here.
He needed to get away and clear his head, let his heart slow down before he came over the desk at this guy and made the psych exam a formality.
Without another word, Poppy stood, took the statement forms from the desk, and made the half step toward the closed door. There, he turned back, stifling the rancor in his voice with an enormous effort. “Know where I can find Lew?” Poppy asked. “He owes me twenty on our gin games.”
Adam Worth smiled wanly, a counterfeit of friendliness Poppy’d seen in an IRS agent once. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say.”
Poppy glanced at Dave, who looked back in pained helplessness.
“Dave, my headache’s gotten a whole lot worse,” Poppy said. “I’m cutting out early. Besides,” he finished, holding up the forms, “I’ve got some paper work to do.”
Without awaiting a reply, Poppy turned and headed down the corridor toward the exit into the parking lot.
Chapter 14
Dr. Schutten awoke disoriented. It was very dark. Still, he expected to see something through the bedroom window shades—or the faint glow of the nightlight in the master bathroom.
Except now he remembered that this wasn’t his bedroom. He felt the firm hospital mattress beneath his hips, the lassitude in his arms and legs that had to be from the painkillers. This was the room that had become a virtual cell, where he’d been sedated for pain for so many months that he’d nearly lost track of time.
What had woken him up?
“Dr. Schutten?”
He turned his head to the left. The outline of a man was just visible, seated across the room.
“Yes,” he answered in a voice as dry as crumbling leaves.
“Dr. Schutten, I didn’t turn on the light because I didn’t want to startle you. Are you feeling well enough to talk?”
“I suppose,” he rasped.
“Good. Doctor, I know we’ve covered this ground many times, but I’ve been asked to run a few questions by you once again.”
“I’ve told you everything I remember.”
“Well, I’m sure you have. But we’re restarting Project Wolffia very soon. The new team leader couldn’t come to interview you, but asked me to run a few questions by you once more. Is that alright?”
He felt so tired. “Alright,” the doctor answered reluctantly. “Who is the new team leader?”
The voice hesitated. “Well, that’s secure information just now. Can I proceed?”
“First, please answer me truthfully. I’m not recovering from the gunshot wound, am I.”
“The physician assures us you’ll be fine. There were . . . complications from the radiation you absorbed.”
Liar. The sympathy in his voice was as thin as frost.
“Now may we continue, Doctor?”
Such nonsense. “Yes.”
“Good. Dr. Schutten, in the last successful test at LB5 the night before the explosion, did the trigger configuration fully conform to the parameters contained in Dr. Fenton’s notes?”
The trigger configuration. The explosion.
The memories of that night were always vivid—particularly when they crept up on him in the dark. Dr. Fenton was with Matthew making final adjustments to the trigger across the lab in the open testing chamber—the furthest point from the emergency exit. Annie was nearer, running monitoring protocols.
Annie had looked up at him with a look of inquiry—sweet, sweet Annie, she was always the most sensitive, in every way. Then he sensed what had inspired her glance, too: a subtle shift in pressure in a room where pressure was controlled with such precision—instantly followed by the sound of liquid rumbling, gurgling, descending from above. Then a deeper pressure change, like a sudden drop in an airplane—and Annie’s eyes changing from questioning to stricken, as she called his name in a voice like shattering glass.
This wasn’t a glove-box breach like the month before—that had been bad enough, but mostly contained and with enough warning to escape the lab. This drastic and uncontrolled pressure change was catastrophic, coming as it did when the test chamber was still open, with the chemical trigger set to respond to just such an event.
He shouted and rushed for the emergency exit door. It was him, wasn’t it—shouting a warning? Could it have been Annie or Matthew or Dr. Fenton? He was nearly out of the interior door when the first enormous explosion struck; fumbling with the little-used exterior door when the second one knocked him down; and stumbling up the outside stairs when the third muffled roar came through both sets of shut doors, shaking the concrete beneath him. He’d taken two quick steps on the grass beyond the exit well of the staircase before the sledgehammer struck his back, followed by an echo of gunfire and the cold earth against his cheek.
Though he tried to fight it, panic now washed over him like released floodwaters. Dr. Schutten grasped the hospital bed with the hand of his uninjured side, easing his breathing to control it. Easy relaxed breaths—just as the nurse had instructed him. Again. Again.
The memory slowly faded and his mind began to clear.
When he finally opened his eyes once more, he saw that the figure hadn’t moved in the darkness. No call for a nurse. No expression of concern.
“Can we proceed?” the man asked.
“I suppose,” Dr. Schutten answered harshly.
The questions came now in quick succession, and he answered through a thin haze of lingering anxiety. At last, the voice took on a tone of finality.
“And you’re sure the trigger configuration at the last successful test fully conformed to the prototype parameters contained in Dr. Fenton’s notes?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” The figure finally stood.
Suddenly, Dr. Schutten didn’t want to be alone. “The explosion was so unexpected,” he said hurriedly. “The pressure spike could not have occurred at a worse time, especially with the test plutonium in the lab. And Dr. Fenton once warned that a major test failure might overtax the aging HVAC system at LB5—even blow out the smokestack filters. He feared radiation could be released inside and outside of the building. Was he right? Did that happen?”
The figure stopped moving. “Yes. The plutonium near the test chamber was burned. And the filters were blown. Radiation was released.”
“Annie was such a sweet girl,” Dr. Schutten rushed to continue. “She was married and had two small children. She hated the secrecy of the Project. They had me over to dinner once.”
No response.
“I shouted, you know,” Dr. Schutten added urgently. “Before I left the room. Could you tell that Annie and the others had been warned? Did they nearly escape?”
Pause. “Yes, Doctor,” he said. “They nearly escaped.”
The figure began moving once more.
“Wait,” Dr. Schutten called out. “It’s been so long. Was there a service for Annie and the others?”
“Yes,” the man said. “There was a belated special memorial service. Just recently, actually. You weren’t well enough to be there, so we didn’t tell you about it. But perhaps we can arrange to get you out to their resting place soon.”
Adam stopped outside the door to Dr. Schutten’s suite and took a deep breath. His first meeting earlier tonight out on the reservation grounds with the security guard, Martin, had been tense enough. But these meetings with Dr. Schutten were far more draining, though in a different sort of way. Mostly it was the man’s growing maudlin displays. Adam wondered how he would face his own death. With more dignity, he assured himself.
He picked up
Dr. Schutten’s medical records folder from where he’d left it on the floor before entering the room. Yes, he’d read it correctly. The physician’s most recent notes confirmed the gunshot wound was still not healing, the necrosis almost certainly due to radiation poisoning. It was obvious the scientist correctly sensed the seriousness of his condition. It was a matter of weeks or even days now.
Adam glanced at the treating physician’s final chart note from his last visit, hinting that Dr. Schutten would have stood a greater chance of survival in the Sherman Hospital rather than here, in this jury-rigged suite at the Sherman Retirement Home. Adam shook his head angrily. The specialist wasn’t being flown here weekly at a princely sum to render ethical judgments, much less record them: he was here to attempt to treat the man. If they could have taken Schutten to the hospital, they would have—but how was that possible given the secrecy of the Project?
If Adam wasn’t already planning on eventually destroying these records, he’d have torn the physician’s comments out on the spot.
At least Dr. Schutten was a solitary bachelor, enabling Adam to pay his household expenses without arousing suspicions these past months. Such a lonely life. There hadn’t been a single personal inquiry about the man in all that time.
Adam smiled at the most important news of the night. Dr. Schutten’s answers today confirmed once again how close they’d been last fall before the explosion. The minor test failure they’d managed to cover up in September had been no more than a stumble compared to the October surprise. The earlier test failure had caused the loss of four injured workers, forcing him to bring in the unvetted temporary replacements to keep up pretenses with the DOE. And it was the presence of those replacements during the October explosion that were such a source of headaches for Adam now.
But those headaches were, at last, under control. Adam glanced at his watch.
Three a.m. No wonder his eyelids felt like sandpaper.
He left the private suite, nodding to the security guard posted at the door, then walked down the hall to the lift. The floor numbers over the door tracked his descent as Adam pondered other details—whether to give the retirement home the sixty-day notice to release Covington’s lease on Schutten’s suite, whether his plan for Schutten’s remains was appropriate. He supposed there was no rush on the notice. They were certainly under no budget constraints, and the cover story of a wealthy man seeking seclusion for his illness was standing up. As for Dr. Schutten’s resting place, their choices were few.
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