He glanced casually over his shoulder, wondering whether anyone was watching. Happily, no one was. He had to get a grip on himself. He couldn’t give himself away. He didn’t want to go down in flames—another failure, courtesy of Fred the Feeb. He would not let that happen.
He brought the cup to his lips and let the cool, clean liquid trickle down his throat. It seemed to have a calming effect on his nerves; he was feeling better already.
Much better. But not better enough.
He polished off his drink, crushing the paper cup in his hands. It felt good, the satisfying folding of waxed paper between his fingers. It was an empowering act. Or so he told himself.
He walked briskly out of the kitchen, glancing over his shoulder, trying to look every which way at once. He was becoming paranoid; that wasn’t good. Or perhaps it was—what did he know? Maybe he should be paranoid. He had a killer on one flank and a cop on the other. He had every right to be paranoid. Paranoia was a survival skill, right? And he was going to need every survival skill he could muster if he was going to get through this. Alive.
What he needed was a vacation. The idea came to him with such crystal clarity that he was stunned by its obviousness. He should get out of here, make himself scarce for a few days. Sure, the merchandise required him to wait until D-day, but he didn’t have to wait here. He could disappear for a while. You can’t kill a man you can’t find, right? He might avoid the criminal investigation, too. Hell, they might be done poking around here by the time he returned. They might miss him altogether.
The problem was the absolute absence of cash in his bank account. The merchandise wasn’t worth anything to him—not yet. And he had depleted his savings pulling that last fantabulous trickerooney on his former friends—and depleted his earned vacation time as well. Still, there were always possibilities.…
He ducked into Stacey Treadwell’s office. She was the pert young twenty-something who was his personnel supervisor, meaning the one who decided whether a vacation was a possibility anytime in his near future. She was as pretty as they came, sexy as a Victoria’s Secret catalog. She knew it, too, which was definitely a drawback. Although it hadn’t prevented her from becoming personnel supervisor when she was barely old enough to vote, had it? He wondered if she was sleeping with Harris, or maybe had just given his zipper a workout in the storage room a few times. It was possible. Anything was possible, right now.
“Stacey,” Fred said quietly, sliding into the empty chair. “What would you think about me slipping off to Beaver Creek for a few weeks? Just me and my fishing pole.”
“I’d think you’d be out of a job when you got back.” She was chewing gum, which Fred considered the most revolting of all vices. He’d rather come in and see her shooting up cocaine than watch her smacking that gum in his face. “You took your two weeks not four months ago. You haven’t got any time.”
“I could borrow against next year.”
“Mr. Harris doesn’t allow that anymore, Fred. You know that.”
“Yeah. But I thought maybe, you know, you could maybe … pull some strings. Do me a tiny favor.”
The utter absence of expression on her face made him sorry he’d even made the suggestion.
“Stacey, I really need to get out of here.”
“Sorry, Fred.” She pushed the gum out between her lips with her tongue. “Nothing I can do.”
“There must be some way I can get off for a couple of weeks.”
“Well, I can think of one way.”
He leaned forward eagerly. “Yeah? How?”
“You could quit.” The bubble popped. She licked her lips, collecting the splattered gum fragments and working them back into her mouth.
“I can’t quit. I’m almost qualified for retirement.”
“Then I suggest you get back to work.” She turned her chair toward her computer, the ever-so-subtle signal that the conversation was over.
That was it then. The answer was no. He’d been summarily dismissed. By a twenty-something gum-cracking tramp.
He stumbled out of her office, entered the hallway—and saw the cop, standing not ten feet away down the corridor.
He bounced backward, flinging himself back into the cubicle.
Stacey looked up. “What is your problem?”
Fred stuttered for a few seconds before answering. “I—uh—don’t—just—could—” He took a deep breath. Inhale, Fred. Inhale. “Did I mention how attractive that dress looks on you?”
Stacey glanced down at her bosom. “I’m not wearing a dress.”
“Well, that—dresslike thing. Thingie. You’re wearing.”
“This blouse?”
“Yes, that.” Looking out the corner of his eye, he saw the cop in the rumpled trenchcoat pass by without glancing his way. He hadn’t spotted him. He thought. “That’s it exactly.”
“Fred, are you coming on to me? "Cause I really hate that.”
Fred raised his hands anxiously. “No, of course not.”
“Do you know I could report you? You’d lose your job in a heartbeat.” She shuddered. “Why do you people always choose me? Why would you think I’d want to get anywhere near some lifetime low-level clerk?”
“I got your message, Stacey.”
“Do you creeps have some kind of club or something? Maybe a newsletter? You sit around and figure out who you’re going to drool over next?”
“Stacey, I get the picture—”
“Yeah, well, this isn’t the first time this has happened, so please put the word out to all the horny old geezers that I’m not available, okay?”
“Goodbye, Stacey.” He ducked out of her cubicle, making a beeline toward his own. Uppity tramp. She’d change her tune in a heartbeat if she knew what he had hidden away. He wondered if maybe Stacey would like some of the merchandise. No wondering necessary—she’d drop her blouse-thingie for him in a New York minute if she could get some of that action. Maybe he should give it all to her. It would be worth the loss, almost, just to put her on the hit list.
But no. He retreated into his cubicle and hid behind the relative security of his own desk. So he wasn’t going on vacation. He’d have to deal with it. He’d have to figure out a way to keep clear of the police, and most important, to stay far away from his old friend. He had to keep his wits about him, keep one step ahead of everyone else. He could do that. He knew he could. He’d have to. Because the alternative was death. Death in a million pieces.
Chapter 8
GIVEN THE EVENTS OF the day, Ben didn’t manage to get home until well after dark. He knew it was late, but he decided to stop in to see Mrs. Marmelstein anyway. Perhaps it was silly, but he just felt better when he’d checked on her with his own two eyes.
He knocked gently on the door. He heard soft footfalls on the carpet on the other side. Joni Singleton answered.
“Hi there, counselor,” she said. “Heard about you on the evening news.”
Ben groaned. “Don’t you know better than to watch that crap? It’ll rot your brain.”
“Too late.” When Ben had first moved into this boarding house, Joni, her twin sister, and their oversized family were already living in the room on the opposite side of the top floor. Back then, she was just a silly teenager with big hair and an equal-sized wild streak. Under Ben’s tutelage, she had matured into one of the most nurturing caregivers he had ever known, first with Ben’s nephew, Joey, and now with Mrs. Marmelstein. “Don’t worry, Ben. Everyone who knows you knows those accusations are, like, total nontruths.”
“That’s swell. But what about the other half a million people in the greater metropolitan area?”
“I’m sure you’ll prove it to them, too. Why is that skank saying all those nasty things?”
“To please his corporate bosses. It’s a tactic. He’s trying to get me to back off.”
“Wow. Harsh.”
“You could say that.”
“But you’re not going to back off, right?”
“Right. I’ve got a few tactics
of my own.”
She grinned. “Razor.” She widened the door and motioned for him to come inside. “I’m glad you came by. I called earlier, but you weren’t home yet.”
A worry line creased Ben’s brow. “Is something wrong with Mrs. Marmelstein?”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. She got out an old photo album earlier this evening, and she’s been acting strange ever since. She’s sitting in her bedroom, practically in the dark. Every time I try to talk to her, I get no results.”
That was disturbing. It was a shame, really, that Ben principally saw her at night, after work. Mrs. Marmelstein had a tendency to sundown; night was usually her least lucid period.
Gently, he pushed her bedroom door open and stepped inside.
“Paul?” She was sitting in an easy chair. The lamp beside her was the only source of illumination. “Paulie, is that you?”
He recognized her voice, although there was something odd, something different about it.
“It’s Ben. Ben Kincaid.”
“Paulie?” she repeated, her voice strange and breathless. “Paulie? I knew you’d come.”
He took a step toward her. He turned on the overhead light, trying to brighten up the gloom.
“See? It’s me. Ben. I’m sorry to be home so late. I’ve had … a busy day.”
Her eyes lit upon his face and, after several seconds had passed, the light of recognition finally came on. Her shoulders sagged and her whole face seemed to droop. “I thought … I …”
Her voice drifted off into the darkness. Ben saw she was wearing a flannel nightgown, despite the fact that it was quite warm out. A slipper on one foot; nothing on the other. Her face was pale, almost ashen. Her hands trembled noticeably. He had never seen her look so feeble.
The photo album was in her lap. But in her hand, she held a gold-framed photograph he had never seen before.
“Can I look at this?” She didn’t answer, but she didn’t resist, either. He took the photo and held it up to the light.
It was very old; he judged it to date back to the Fifties at least. It had sculpted edges and was black and white, although the years had begun to give it a sepia tone. In the center of the picture a man and woman huddled close together. They were young—early thirties at best.
And between them, they cradled a tiny baby.
Ben had never seen any of the three in the photo as such, but even as old as the picture was, he could tell the woman was a much earlier version of Mrs. Marmelstein. The man, he assumed, was her late husband.
Ben pointed to the baby. “Is this Paulie?”
Her eyes darted away. “Paulie will come back. I’m certain of it. I always was. Paulie will come back.”
“Who’s Paulie?”
“He will come back. You’ll see.”
Ben frowned. “Where is Paulie?”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. He’ll come back to me.”
Ben ran his fingers through some of the other photos in her lap. He found another old one with three subjects, the Marmelsteins and a boy with jet-black hair, maybe twelve years of age.
“Is this Paulie?” he asked.
She seemed startled by the name, or perhaps by Ben’s use of it. She glanced at the picture. “That was a long time ago.”
“How long?”
She looked up abruptly. “Paulie’s coming back to me, you know.”
“He is?”
“Oh, yes. He’s coming. I’m certain of it.”
“When is he coming?”
“I don’t know when exactly. But I know he’s coming. I know it.”
Ben gazed into her ashen face, then made a silent prayer that Paulie hurried.
He placed the photos on the end table and quietly left the room. Seeing her like this made his heart ache. For all her foibles, Mrs. Marmelstein had always been such a sweet, gentle person. He hated seeing time rob her of her personality, her sense of self, all the things that made her the special person she was.
And what was this business about Paulie? He’d never heard her mention a Paulie before. And she’d certainly never given the slightest indication that she had any children.
“How long has this been going on?” he asked Joni.
“Since we finished dinner. Normally, she eats and goes straight to sleep. But tonight, for some reason, she was determined to get out that photo album. And she’s been in there muttering to no one ever since.”
“Do you know anything about this Paulie?”
“Sorry. Clueless.”
“Joni …” He was trying to think of a painless way to address this. “Mrs. Marmelstein … doesn’t look so good.”
Joni nodded her head somberly.
“Did you go with her to the doctor this week?”
Again she nodded.
“And?”
Joni gently placed her hand on his shoulder. “She’s failing, Ben.”
His eyes darted down toward the floor. “That’s what I thought.”
Chapter 9
CHRISTINA MET BEN AT the door the moment he arrived at work.
“It’s official,” she said, waving a thin document in front of his face. “We’re at war.”
Ben snatched the paper from her hands. “As if I didn’t know that already.” He threw his briefcase down on his desk and gave the pleading a quick onceover. “They’ve filed their Answer? Already? Defendants usually let a month pass before they get around to that.”
“It came accompanied by a Motion to Dismiss.”
“That son of a bitch really did it.”
“He did.” She passed him the motion. “It’s a tactic, Ben. That’s all it is.”
He did not appear appeased. “When’s the hearing?”
She drew in her breath. She knew he wasn’t going to like this part. “Three o"clock. This afternoon.”
“This afternoon? What’s the big damn hurry?”
“To read their motion, you’d think all of Western civilization was teetering on the brink.”
“Who’d we draw?”
“Judge Perry.”
“Perry! Jiminy Christmas!” Ben pounded his forehead. “You’re full of good news today, aren’t you?”
Christina held up her hands. “Hey, don’t kill the messenger.”
“I can’t believe we drew Perry. The last thing on earth this case needs is a Reagan appointee. And not one renowned for his big heart, either.” This was a critical blow. They needed a sympathetic ear, someone who would be moved by his clients" plight and perhaps even would cut them some slack occasionally as a result. But they didn’t get it. And like it or not, this judge would be with them till the bitter end of the case. “I’m still surprised they went ahead and filed their Answer.”
“I think they wanted to strike quickly while the story was still fresh and the press was still reporting each new development. Check out the section labeled General Overview.”
Ben did as she instructed. It read:
While the H. P. Blaylock Industrial Machinery Corporation regrets the loss of children’s lives and sympathizes with the grief of their parents, Blaylock nonetheless states that it categorically and without exception is without fault or blame with regard to those deaths. H. E Blaylock has always maintained and rigorously enforced a systematic policy for the disposal of its industrial waste, which has not at any time involved removal of such waste to any place where it could even conceivably contaminate the water supply of Blackwood or of any other community.
“Well, that just about covers it, doesn’t it?”
“I have a question,” Christina said, “as a struggling law student who can’t possibly understand all the nuances of big-time litigation. What exactly is the purpose of a General Overview?”
“There isn’t one,” Ben said. “At least not in terms of the pleading. That section was clearly added for the press. They know the reporters will pick up copies of the Answer at the courthouse. This was designed to give the fifth estate a succinct, quotable quote for the front pa
ge.”
He flipped to the second page, where the actual pleading began. The purpose of an Answer was supposed to be a paragraph-by-paragraph response to the allegations contained in the plaintiffs" Complaint. Here, the defendants managed to deny everything without actually saying anything:
“With regard to the allegations contained in Paragraph Four of Plaintiffs" Complaint, Defendant H. P. Blaylock either denies them or is without sufficient information to form a belief as to the truth of the allegations and therefore denies them.”
A quick scan told Ben that most of the Answer repeated this unenlightening language. Only the number of the paragraph referenced changed.
“Not very helpful, is it?” Christina said.
“Answers rarely are,” Ben replied. “I wonder why courts require us to go through these hoops anymore, since they almost never convey any useful information.”
“You mean this isn’t unusual?”
“Unfortunately, no. Typical. This is time-tested language.”
“Because defendants like to play it safe?”
“Actually, I think it’s mostly laziness. You can draft this kind of response without doing the least bit of investigation. A lawyer can draft an Answer like this without even calling his client up on the phone. Heck, his secretary could probably draft this, without knowing a thing about the case. Just plug the names into the word processor and recopy it over and over.” He rifled through the pages. “Is there anything useful in here?”
“Check out the last page.”
Ben found one lone paragraph that broke the pattern. Christina had marked it with yellow highlighter:
H. P. Blaylock admits that the land behind its plant in the Blackwood area consists in part of forests and marshlands. Although this land has occasionally been used for the temporary storage of industrial equipment and drums, the contents of the drums have never been permitted to escape and no industrial waste materials have ever come into contact with the ground, ravine, or any groundwater stream.
Ben looked up. “Now that’s interesting.”
“I thought so. Why did they suddenly become so verbose?”
“Well, they had to say something. They could hardly claim that they "lacked information sufficient" to know what was going on in their own backyard. Did we say anything in our Complaint about a ravine?” Christina shook her head. “I didn’t know there was one.”
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