by Diane Capri
Mike nodded, afraid to break the spell.
“I said yes because I have a son to take care of. But what Fletcher’s doing isn’t right.” Her voice was flat with a sadness that went too deep for tears. “Not right at all.”
Mike stared at the check with all those zeros and that elegant, lilting signature that fairly oozed money, and felt a fierce stab of pity for the widow. A terrible spot to be in. Almost untenable…which was exactly what that bastard Fletcher had counted on.
“If we can prove that Fletcher is dumping toxic chemicals that are contaminating the town water supply—you and I together—you’re due far more, ma’am. I know it’s asking a lot, but I’d like you to consider sharing your story with EBC viewers. You can cash that check, and I won’t tell another soul anything until I can back it up with solid proof.” He squeezed her hand and urged her to meet his gaze. “I’m asking you to trust me here. Can you do that?”
His fiancé always said he had a kind face. A face that made old ladies at the grocery store comfortable and drew children to him at the park. He only hoped Cathy Bartow could trust him. He wouldn’t let her down.
His pulse hammered as she nodded, sitting straighter in her chair.
“Okay. Okay, let’s do it. He had the nerve to roll up here in a fancy Bentley, would you believe? That car cost more than he wants to pay me for my husband’s life!” Cathy straightened her spine. For the first time since Mike had arrived, she didn’t look quite so defeated. “Fletcher doesn’t care about Charlie or me. He didn’t care about Chuck or Annalisa or Dale, either. Or any of the other people who live here. All he cares about is lining his pockets.”
Mike said a silent prayer as he asked the question he’d been holding back since he walked in. “Did your husband know exactly what Fletcher is dumping and where?”
“He knew it all.” She sounded stronger and fiercer by the second. “He wanted to go to the press or the police but he felt like he didn’t have enough proof yet. He was afraid he’d get fired trying to get evidence that would make anyone listen. But I know where the proof is. We’ll go get it together. Let me put on a pot of coffee and get Charlie to sleep. You can read Chuck’s notes until I get back.”
Mike nodded. Finally, something solid. Partial proof and a solid motive for murder. Chuck Bartow had died before he had a chance to be a whistleblower, but his wife would close that gap.
CHAPTER SIX
Mike stood with Cathy Bartow beside the now-mostly-empty pond where her husband’s body had been found. The midnight hour and night-vision goggles that gave everything an eerie yellow pallor contributed to the overall creepy factor. A full onset of gooseflesh all over his body had erupted the moment they’d pulled up to the place and got worse when Cathy used her husband’s key to unlock the padlock on the new fence.
He couldn’t believe he was actually trespassing at Fletcher Textiles again. Judge Willa Carson would most definitely not approve.
But Cathy had Chuck’s keys, and she’d surely have made good on her threat to come here without him if he’d refused to help her. He’d argued until he could argue no more, and Cathy won.
She’d said Chuck was afraid to go to Sheriff Danbury because he was too close to Bradley Fletcher. They were friends. Played poker together once a week. Danbury would give Fletcher plenty of warning. He’d get rid of the evidence, and then no proof would ever exist.
When he thought back to the day before when Fletcher had pulled up, he remembered how quickly the Sheriff went over to talk to him, the length of their chat, and how close together their heads had been during the course of it. At the time, Mike couldn’t reconcile their behavior, but it supported Cathy’s theory.
Could be Cathy was just paranoid. Or, could be her husband had been murdered, Fletcher paid her hush money and expected her to cover up the crimes. She had good reason to be paranoid.
In the end, the best he could do was extract her promise to get into the plant, gather the evidence Chuck said was stored there, and get out as quickly as possible. And he certainly couldn’t let her go in alone.
She tapped him on the shoulder and motioned to keep moving. She knew the layout of the factory and the grounds because she’d also worked here until her son was born. He slung his backpack higher and followed her around the pond, crossing the barren lot toward the back entrance of the main building.
Chuck’s notes said that there was a hidden room beyond the boiler room in the basement where the noxious chemicals were kept. He had discovered the room containing unmarked barrels about six months before his death. The barrels were covered with warning labels. He had been afraid to open any of them to get a sample because the concentrated contents and fumes were fatally toxic.
Chuck had taken pictures of the barrels and their labels using a vintage Polaroid camera, which might have been enough to get a search warrant. But Cathy refused to wait. Mike had those pictures on him now, and his backpack contained gas masks and other safety equipment along with collection vials for the samples.
A branch crackled behind him and he wheeled around with a start.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, his heart galloping.
Cathy gasped.
He watched a skinny possum scurrying away. He turned to Cathy and shrugged. She continued toward the building. Mike trained his gaze on the building again as they crept closer.
No floodlights blasted on, no sirens blared. Cathy had said that even at the height of the dumping rumors a couple of years ago, Fletcher’s security was lax. Maybe because Fletcher had the local cops on the payroll. Or all of the evidence was already destroyed.
Or maybe Chuck had been wrong.
Cathy said there had to be damning evidence inside that building or Chuck would still be alive. She was sure of it, and Mike wanted to believe her. For both their sakes. Otherwise, they’d be in jail before the night was through. He refused to think about what Judge Carson or Lydia would have to say if he got arrested for this.
Cathy reached the side door. The single window pane had been broken and temporarily covered over with a piece of plywood. She reached into her pocket and pulled out Chuck’s set of keys. She’d just inserted the right key into the deadbolt when another branch crackled behind them. Mike turned, prepared to curse out their foolhardy little marsupial friend, but before the words left his mouth, a bright light flashed in a shower of red, blinding him behind his goggles.
Pain exploded in his temple, and his vision went black.
He became aware of a steady throbbing, like a stomach-churning drumbeat in his head. He was no longer outside but seated on a cold concrete floor. He fought through the pounding pain and forced his eyes open a crack.
Instantly, a wave of nausea hit him hard enough to make his stomach heave. He closed his eyes again and raised his fingers to touch his temple, gingerly.
“Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”
He sheltered his eyes with his hand and blinked, trying to clear his vision, as two blurry figures stepped into sight. He blinked again, and the two slowly became one.
Larry Sumner. The Fletcher Textiles shop foreman. Mike had found his picture online after he showed up at the pond when Chuck’s body was found.
The old man swiped at his sweat-dotted brow with the back of his arm as he stepped closer. Now that Mike could see his face more clearly, he realized the man was crying. What the hell was going on here?
As he tried to make sense of it all, the pain in his head was joined by a wrenching ache in his shoulder, and he shifted to ease it but stopped short. He was tied. Trussed up like a game hen and leaning against a massive, metal post in a small room of the warehouse.
“You can’t get away, Caldwell.” The genuine regret on the old man’s lined face was enough to squeeze pain out of the way and make plenty of room for icy terror as clarity returned. “I wish we could let you go, but things have gone too far for that now.”
“Is Fletcher making you do this, Larry?” Mike asked, tugging to free his h
ands from the cord that bound him to the post. “You can still save yourself. I can help you.”
“You can’t talk me out of it, son. I’m in too deep.” The old man blew out a sigh and stared off into the distance.
Mike struggled against his bindings. He wasn’t chained. It felt more like a nubby kind of fabric, but Sumner knew how to tie a solid knot.
Just keep him talking. Buy some time to think.
“I can’t believe you would kill Chuck in cold blood, Larry. Please…if I’m not getting out of here alive, I need to know the truth. It’s the least you can do.” Mike held his breath and waited.
“Do you come from a small town?” Sumner asked, finally.
Mike swallowed the knot in his throat and shook his head, ignoring the white-hot pain that blazed through him every time his head moved. “No, sir.”
“See, the Fletcher plant here is all we got anymore. All the other places closed up. We have a few local stores, but Fletcher employs eighty percent of the able-bodied people, now that the farms are all gone. No Fletcher, no paychecks.” He raked an agitated hand through his thin gray hair. He shook his head slowly.
Another blurry figure walked into Mike’s field of vision. He blinked. Twice. “Cathy?”
“Sorry, Mike.” Cathy Bartow stood five feet away, holding a pistol aimed at his chest. “When a bunch of city lawyers came sniffing around last year, talking about a few sick kids and chemicals, Fletcher had already cleaned up his act. Stopped the dumping. Got rid of the chemicals. But Chuck wouldn’t let it go. Annalisa is my sister-in-law. Did you know that? And what happened to his nephew just ate Chuck up inside.”
“That’s right. Mr. Fletcher didn’t have nothing to do with this. This is a hundred percent on Chuck.” Sumner started pacing, mopping at his brow with his shirtsleeve again despite the chill in the air. “It will take some years before the water and soil gets right again, but things are on the mend. Chuck had to go snooping around, digging all this up again, flapping his gums all over town.”
Cathy shook her head in mock despair. “It’s a shame, is all.”
The fabric around Mike’s wrists finally seemed to give a bit, and he tugged frantically while trying to keep his voice even and steady. “Is that why you killed him in cold blood, Larry?”
“Of course not.” Sumner drew back, stung by the accusation. “No. I caught him same as I caught you. Red-handed. Then I called Cathy.”
Cathy grimaced. “You should have weighted him down better, Larry.”
“Yeah. He wouldn’t stay sunk. I’ll do better this time.”
Mike expected Cathy to shoot him then, but she didn’t. Sumner moved toward a door to the far right, barely visible in the dim light.
Mike craned his neck, straining to see what Sumner was doing in his periphery. He heard the crackle of electricity and an engine chugging to life.
“What is that?” he asked, dread forming a snowball in his belly.
Sumner continued fiddling with something a few feet away. When coils on the wall began to glow a soft amber, Mike gave up trying to stay calm and started struggling in earnest, yanking his hands hard as he rocked forward, desperate to get free. What the hell was this room?
“Cathy, please don’t do this.” Mike leaned toward her. “You want to protect Peru, keep Fletcher Textiles alive. This isn’t the way to do it. The mill will not survive news of two bodies found on the premises in two weeks. You have nothing to gain and everything to lose.”
The coils that covered the walls glowed hotter and the chill in the room had already begun to dissipate. Understanding dawned. This wasn’t a room. It was some sort of incinerator. The entire room was designed to burn every bit of its contents to ashes.
“Not really a problem. There won’t be anything of you to find, Mike,” Cathy said as Sumner pushed open a hatch-style door. She backed through the hatch out of the incinerator and squatted, keeping the pistol pointed at Mike. “I’d rather not shoot you first. They might find the bullet.”
“Let me knock him out again. It’s the humane thing to do.” Sumner ambled over to Mike and picked up a blackened brick from the floor.
This was his last chance. His head still weighed a thousand pounds and nausea still coated his belly, but he couldn’t just give up. No way was his life going to end like this. Lydia deserved better.
Sumner lifted his brick to knock Mike out.
Mike gave one last, hard tug and the fabric handcuffs broke.
He fell to one side as Sumner’s brick descended.
The brick landed hard and solid on his shoulder.
He let out a roar as he struggled to his feet.
He was too weak. He lost his balance. He stumbled.
Sumner was old, but he was strong. He used that split second to send an uppercut straight to Mike’s jaw.
Pain screamed through him, but he managed to remain on his feet.
He weaved sideways and blocked Larry’s path with his body. Sumner pushed him. Mike had been a wrestler in high school, but that was a long time ago. He remembered the moves. Could he still execute them?
He reached out and wrapped his arms around the man’s torso and tried to bring him down. The pain in his head and his shoulder would not quit.
He saw Cathy, still outside the incinerator, aim still steady. But the two men were knotted together in a grotesque dance. She didn’t have a clean shot.
“Come on, Larry! Let’s go!”
“Go on! I’ll catch up!” Sumner shouted back.
Cathy shoved the gun into her waistband and ran.
In an instant, Sumner shoved Mike hard to the side. Mike, still too unsteady, stumbled off balance. He let go of Sumner’s body rather than fall on the concrete.
The air inside the incinerator was hot and getting hotter. Sweat ran down Mike’s face.
Sumner hustled toward the hatch and darted out.
Mike followed, weaving on his feet like a drunken sailor.
Just as Sumner shoved the hatch to close it, Mike pushed his arm through the opening and clutched Sumner’s ankle on the other side.
Sumner fell onto the ground floor on the other side and slammed the rusty hatch on Mike’s arm. “Let go!”
Mike hung on.
Sumner slammed the door again and again.
Mike bellowed with agony. His arm was surely broken, but he wouldn’t let go. With his last ounce of fading strength, he yanked hard on Sumner’s ankle and jerked him off balance.
Sumner let out a cry as his leg flew out from under him. He toppled to the ground in a heap. Mike heard a sickening crack when Sumner’s head hit the ground and the older man went suddenly silent.
Stars exploded behind Mike’s eyelids as he tried to maintain consciousness. He had to get out of here. The incinerator’s heat was well over a hundred degrees and fast becoming unbearable.
Mike let his right arm hang uselessly at his side and used his left to pull himself up through the hatch door. He slammed the hatch closed and collapsed on the ground next to Sumner’s unconscious body.
Mike’s legs quaked as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone.
The last thing he had heard before he blacked out again was, “9-1-1, please state the nature of your emergency.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Fletcher Textiles criminal dumping scandal had garnered so much bad press in North Florida that the criminal case had been transferred to Tampa. Two months after he’d nearly been cremated alive, Mike sat in Judge Willa Carson’s courtroom as Bradley Fletcher was arraigned on twenty-six counts of criminal misconduct.
Cathy Bartow was already in jail in Jacksonville, awaiting trial for the murder of her husband, Chuck. Larry Sumner was in another cell in the same jail. Mike planned to testify at both trials. The prosecutors told him all three would be in prison for a very long time, which was just fine as far as Mike was concerned.
After the hearing and Bradley Fletcher was led away, Mike answered Judge Carson’s summons to her chambers. Her law
clerk buzzed him through. The Judge was at her desk when he entered and closed the door behind him.
“Have a seat, Mike,” she said, scribbling her name on some papers. It wasn’t an invitation.
He did as he was told.
It took him a few moments to get settled. His right arm was still in a sling because of the injuries Sumner had inflicted to his shoulder. And his left arm was casted for a while longer. The doc said the damage wasn’t as bad as it could have been, considering how many times Sumner had slammed his forearm in that heavy hatch door. The headaches had subsided, too. When he was fully recovered, Madsen had promised him the Eyes on Eight gig.
“How are you feeling?” Judge Carson asked.
“Better every day, thanks to Lydia’s good nursing care.” He nodded as if she needed extra emphasis to believe him.
“I’m glad you’re on the mend. I called the judge up in Jacksonville handling Cathy Bartow’s case.” She paused and cleared her throat. “There’s been a development and I didn’t want you to hear about it third hand.”
Mike sat up a little straighter in his chair. He remembered one of the images of Chuck Bartow he’d used in his Eyes on Eight story about Fletcher Textiles. Bartow was around twenty in the shot, wearing his dress blues popping a salute. Standing adoringly next to him, one hand on his arm, with love gleaming in her eyes was the girl who would become his wife. Obviously, Cathy had adored him back then. What had gone so horribly wrong for those two?
Willa finished signing the orders and laid down her pen. “Cathy Bartow pled guilty this morning on all counts of the indictment. In exchange for testimony against Fletcher and Sumner, she’ll receive a life sentence instead of the death penalty.”
Mike nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. And he had no idea what he would say, anyway.
“You achieved some justice for Chuck Bartow.” Willa folded both hands on her desk. “Fletcher Textiles was well insured. The civil cases will return some money to the people in Peru. Annalisa Fantz and her son will finally be able to afford the medical care they need. I thought you’d want to know. You did a good thing here.” She paused and raised her eyebrows. “And you’re damn lucky you didn’t die in the process.”
