“I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me.”
“No can do.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
As I took another draw on my beer, I mapped the deception in her elaborately innocent face, read the tension in her shoulders, read the runes of her hands, which now curled so tightly around her coffee mug that the knuckles were bleached. I thought, We both love the science in this story, but earthquake alone don’t make us that tense. No, you’ve found something all too human in the middle of your story. “I get it,” I said slowly. “You’re trying to figure out who killed Sidney Smeeth.”
Pet’s smile crimped up tight as a little raisin. “Then you are, too.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The police haven’t yet released what they know. You’ve forgotten that the unwitting public still thinks her death was accidental. So your connections confirm that it was murder. That’s terrific.”
I sank my face in one hand, then snapped it up again. “No. I—I didn’t know until you just told me. Oh, how surprising—”
“Cut it out, Em. You’re a lousy actress.”
“Wait a minute; how do you know it was murder?”
Pet bit into her taco. “I was on my way up to interview her when the ambulance pulled up. They said it was an accident, but I waited awhile in my car, writing up my notes. Okay, I hid and watched. I saw them put up the crime tape.”
“You were going to interview her. Why?”
“Because she is—was—the state geologist.”
“No, there was more.”
“Because they cut off her TV interview.”
“Which she had staged in front of the new stadium.”
“Correct.”
“So here’s the question,” I said. “Who’s they?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. Okay, so I’ve given you something; now it’s your turn. Who told you? Was it that cop boyfriend of yours?” She wiggled her eyebrows at me.
I wondered what to say. There was no way I was going to tell her about my FBI connection. I could tell Pet that I’d heard it from Ray, because he was city police, whose jurisdiction it was to investigate the murder. That would cover my tracks with Tom Latimer, whose interests went far past the termination of one life to the protection of tens of thousands. But saying that Ray had spilled the beans would get him crosswise with his bosses, if they found themselves reading it in the Tribune, and that would be very bad for our relationship. I decided on the slipperiness of another nonanswer. Let her presume what she would presume. “How did you know I was dating a cop?” I asked.
“Like you say, I’m good. And this is a small town. It didn’t take me long to dig up the connections. Okay, I have a friend who covers the police desk. She remembered your name from the dinosaur job you got involved in, the one where you met Ray. You were something of a celebrity for a day or two there, little that you let yourself be interviewed for our paper. Like I say, it’s a small town.”
“Not that small.”
“Well, okay, Ray was at the funeral, and—”
“Sidney Smeeth’s?”
“Yes, and his brother-in-law. Quite the family affair.”
That made my head spin. What had Ray been doing at Sidney Smeeth’s funeral? “What, is he working the case?” I looked askance at Pet, who was sipping at her beer, looking even more elaborately innocent. “You’re fishing,” I said. “Quit messing with me.”
“Okay, okay. I know Ray’s sister Katie.” She gave me a look of sympathy.
Now I put my head all the way down on the table and groaned. “Katie,” I said into my plate, “my guardian angel.”
“Yeah, I thought she was a real bitch, too, first time I met her. Clear back in grade school.”
“Wait—how did you know I was at the Planning Department yesterday?”
“I asked the guard if he’d seen you before. Evidently, your red boots made an impression on him. But don’t change the subject. Katie Harkness is one of my very favorite bitches.”
I vowed right then to leave my old red ropers in the bottom of my closet forevermore. “Listen, I have to give Katie the benefit of the doubt. It’s serious business between me and Ray, and—”
“You’ve got to be kidding! You’re not a Mormon, and the Raymond clan are as Mormon as they come. Wow, this is incredible!”
I stared at Pet, wondering how she’d gotten off on a spree of gossiping, but then realized that she was just using a gossipy tone as a way to try to railroad me into spilling my guts. “No sale,” I said.
Pet moved meditatively back to her taco, applied a little more of one of three salsas the waiter had provided, and studied me for a while. “I like you,” she said, “so this I’m giving you for free. Watch out for Katie. She doesn’t play by the same rules you and I do. You and I like to know the truth. The truth doesn’t matter to Katie. She just wants to be in control.”
“You mean she wants to be a good Mormon, and I don’t fit that picture.”
Pet shook her head. “No, that would be her mom’s department. Katie’s agenda has nothing to do with the church. Katies are born into every religion. She’s just a jealous, grasping bitch who only feels secure when she’s making the decisions for everyone around her.”
“Wait a minute. Jealous? Manipulative, I’d say. Proud to a fault. But jealous? What’s she got to be jealous of?”
“An older sister who’s prettier, and a younger sister who’s more talented, a sister younger yet who gets to be the darling. A brother who gets crowned king. I don’t know, maybe she was just born with a tin can for a heart. Maybe her mother wasn’t ready for another baby just yet. It doesn’t matter. Jealous people are like paranoiacs. They’re feeling inferior and have to have someone to blame it on. If there’s nothing real around to hang that feeling on, they’ll simply find something. So Katie’s found you, or should I say added you to her list. You must drive her wild.”
“What are you talking about? I’m no beauty. I’ve got no money, no influence. Why should she be jealous of me?”
“Oh, Em, you’d make her nuts simply because she can’t control you. You get it? People like her feed on family structure. They’re like vampires. They need everybody to hold still so they can get their big red drink. The more rigid the family, the better. Her family confuses her pushiness with support of the family interests. Just imagine: If someone comes in from outside who perturbs that structure, she’s got to make that person go away. Particularly a truth junkie like you.”
“Truth junkie. What are you talking about?”
“It takes one to know one. You want the truth, and you’ll risk everything to get it. People like Katie want order—with them at the top—and they’ll suck the blood out of anything in their path to maintain it. They’ll tell themselves-and you—that they’re the big victims, working their tails off while everyone else loafs. And they lack the capacity to see that their precious orderliness isn’t even in their own best interest, let alone anyone else’s.”
I leaned back and took Pet in from a wider angle. Her little poppet eyes had grown wide and fierce, and both of her hands had tightened into fists.
Pet looked away, out the window at the cars passing in the street. Her mouth ran on with her. “Yeah. Control is more important to them than truth. More important than love, because they wouldn’t know love if it jumped up and kissed them. But it doesn’t jump up, because everyone around them is either cringing or in deep, deep denial. They keep pushing people away from them, even while they’re trying so damned hard to hold on. Their hunger for power and importance is insatiable, and it makes them mean. Then it all becomes a big game to yank the rug out from under the people who have disappointed them. They’ll bad-mouth their own daughters one minute and then try to extort special treatment for them the next.”
My jaw was hanging halfway to my knees. Who knew that beneath Pet’s perky exterior beat a heart filled with such rage? And what had provoked it? I said, “You seem to know a lot about thi
s.”
Feeling my eyes on her, Pet forced her hands to open, but they quickly contracted back again. She glanced at me, looked away. “Let’s just say I’ve known a lot of Katies.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s no matter. I have a good job, and I’m going to have a great life.”
Going to have. What about now? I wondered.
We said nothing for the space of several heartbeats. I watched her chest rise and fall with her breath. Watched her hand dance lightly on the table, saw it dart out and grasp the remains of her taco and whip it up to her mouth.
I said, “So you’ve known Katie since school. Does that mean you’re a Mormon, too?”
“I’m drinking beer, aren’t I? The term is Jack Mormon, dear heart.”
“You can go in some doors but not others.”
“Precisely. And control freaks love keeping doors closed.”
Instinctively, I asked, “Tell me about her husband, Enos.”
Pet winced.
So that was it: Katie had beat Pet out for a husband.
Pet’s spirits seemed to wobble for a moment, but she recovered quickly and said smoothly, “Yes, I’ve known Katie since when, and Enos, too. He was supposed to become somebody, be the big engineer, but then Katie got her mitts on him. He was never brilliant, but he was a hard worker, did his missionary year, worked his way through college, all that, so he should have been okay.”
“Poor boy?”
“No, his folks had a little money, or they could have at least helped him, but they believed in tough jobs to build tough men. Kinda harsh.”
“The Raymonds have money.”
“Yeah, Ray senior was treasurer of the company. Did very well for them all.”
“So, did Katie marry down?”
“Katie married someone she could control.”
“He seems happy enough,” I said, pushing her.
“Happy? He never knew what hit him. She latched onto him so fast his head spun. She insisted that they not wait to get married, that they have babies immediately. He crumpled under the strain of trying to do school and work and become a father at the same time. That’s what Katie wanted, see, so that’s what she got. Crank out the babies as fast as you can, because that’s the big badge of honor in our community. But it wasn’t enough for her that he worked as a humble little guard at the City and County Building. Night shifts. Imagine trying to do college and family and work nights. The minute he graduated with his degree in engineering, she booted Enos into the family business, real fast-track job, lots of responsibility but almost no experience, but it pays the freight. I guess he’s done his best, but he sure doesn’t laugh anymore. She even wants him to run for political office! She has a big plan. First county commissioner, then—”
“Wait. Laugh? Enos?”
“Used to be a real cutup. You think I’m kidding? He used to kid me that I should come on down and he’d take me up that very same clock tower we just climbed.”
“Enos? He doesn’t strike me as the romantic type.”
“Liked to do it, you know?”
This time, I did choke on my beer.
Pet said, “Oh, you’d be surprised. He was fun and romantic and—now he’s just stressed. Gone real secretive. Doesn’t come around to see his friends anymore,” she added, as if it were an indictment.
“Well, parenthood alone can do that, right?” I said, still playing the Devil’s advocate.
Pet gave me a “you fool” look. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She reached over and polished off the last of my tamale. “Now, give.”
“I’m sorry. It sounds like you already know more than I do.”
She eyed me carefully. “At least tell me why your geologist pals clam up around me. What am I doing wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. You’re just an outsider.” Glad to turn the wheel toward safer ground, I continued. “Geologists gossip with one another but clam up around people who aren’t their professional colleagues.”
“Talk about paranoid,” she said.
“It’s not that. It’s the nature of the work, and the training. Geology’s a close-knit community, but more importantly, it’s a community of people who speak a special language. We all know what constitutes a presumption in our language, and what’s a fact, so we don’t have to label them separately when we’re together. We can let our hair down and chew on ideas. But ideas are exactly that, just speculation, and we’re not allowed to speculate in public. It’s against the rules. We might set off a panic. We’re dealing with information that can influence people’s lives, or even whether they live or die. You’re the last person we’d want to shoot our mouths off around.”
“But I’m a science writer. I understand the difference between fact and conjecture.”
“Yeah, but you’re trained in journalism, not geology. Geology is a very qualitative science, full of incomplete or ambiguous data. We speculate all the time around one another, think aloud. That’s how we work. Exchange ideas, then go out and test them. But our mandate is different. We’re trying to get at the story, but we’re not trying to sell papers. We wait until an idea has been tested into a good, solid, predictive theory before we announce it to the press, because again, the public doesn’t understand the difference between an idea and a fact, not to mention a theory. You want me to start giving you some examples? A meteorologist in Missouri gets a little gaga with age, but that doesn’t erase the ink on his Ph.D. diploma. He gets to playing with numerology and decides that one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine spells earthquake. So he announces: ‘On January second, at three-forty-five P.M., there’s going to be a magnitude six point seven quake that will kill eight hundred and ninety people.’ The press picks it up, reports this guy’s prediction and people go nuts, because he’s a Ph.D., so he must know, right? No matter that his Ph.D. isn’t even in geology.”
“Then why not educate the public? That’s my job, right? You’d think your pals would love to talk to me.”
“Sure, that’s part of our job, especially folks who are in the public sector—Hugh Buttons, Logan de Pontier, Sidney Smeeth—it’s their job to get the information out there, so we can help the people we’re mandated to help, but at the same time, we have to push our observations and data through rigorous analyses and colleague reviews before we launch it into the public sphere. Otherwise, we might go off half-cocked and cause more harm than good. That’s why public employees are told to ‘state facts but not create public policy.’ We’re supposed to leave policy making to the elected officials, because they’ve got a lot of political footballs to juggle. It’s a real bugaboo.”
“That didn’t seem to stop Sidney Smeeth.”
“No, it didn’t.”
Pet said, “I applaud her. She really knew how to get her issues into the press.”
“Yes, but you’re also thinking that it looks like her media savvy got her killed. So now maybe you understand another reason why other geologists won’t talk to you.”
“Not even about something as important as seismic hazards? Hey, I’m trying to educate a public that’s living right on top of a killer fault in unreinforced brick houses!”
I said, “First off, you called it a ‘killer.’”
“Isn’t it?”
“That’s editorializing. Or anthropomorphizing. And inaccurate, Faults don’t kill people, falling buildings kill people. This city lies entirely within Seismic Code Four; but almost nothing here is built to that strict a code.”
“People can’t afford to build to Code Four.”
“Now you’re a politician, not a scientist. Aren’t you going to tell them that their lives are at risk below Code Four?”
“But drawing attention to the fault gets the facts about risk across,” Pet countered. “Then the citizens can make informed decisions.”
“Does it? You’re college educated and interested in the sciences, an easy sell. But do you really understand what is meant by risk? We talk
about earthquake probability—how likely it is that one will occur in a given place within a given period of time—but earthquake risk is a measure of how likely it is that people will be killed if the earthquake occurs.”
“Oh.”
“Where’s the greatest seismic risk in the U.S.?”
“California, right? Or Alaska?”
I started listing the numbers I’d read the day before in my geology text. “No. Probably Boston. One good shock through that area, with all that unreinforced brick, and wham. Or Saint Louis. Neither city has earthquake protection in its building code, and yet the most destructive earthquakes on historic record have occurred not far from them. Boston: Saint Lawrence River, 1663, Mercalli magnitude ten—that’s like a Richter seven. Devastating if it happened today. Boston, wham. Half of New York, too, I’d imagine. Or the 1886 quake that knocked down Charleston, South Carolina. Saint Louis: shaken by New Madrid quakes, 1811 and 1812, both magnitude eight or worse. The ground accelerated so fast that it snapped the tops off the trees. And yet the average citizen does not think of Saint Louis as a big seismic zone. In California, everyone braces for the earthquakes, and every revision of the building code decreases risk. In Saint Louis, they have diddly.”
Pet was silent for a moment, thinking. “Thank you. You clarified my thinking on that point. But still, the main point is to get people thinking about these things.”
“No, the tough part is getting them not just thinking but also educated, so that they understand. People don’t seem to understand that the Earth’s crust is continuously under tremendous stress, and that there are certain places where it’s likely to snap. California, sure. Alaska. Salt Lake City. There are places where the stress is minimal, and we worry about other things instead. And there are other places where we don’t even know it’s likely to snap, because while we don’t have historic records of movement, Mother Nature may have been winding up the spring for eons. And Congress just cuts the budget, thinking it’s not important to have scientists out there studying these things, that God won’t let it happen here, or that we’ll all be dead from pollution or viruses when it does happen, or who knows what!” Noticing how strident I was beginning to sound, I leaned back in my seat and took a long pull on my beer. “The Earth’s crust is being moved by convection cells in the mantle,” I said more calmly. “We’re riding around on a big heat engine. The flywheel goes clear to the center of the Earth. There’s no amount of wishful thinking on our part that’s going to make it stop.”
Fault Line (Em Hansen Mysteries) Page 16
