Walter smiled. “May I?” He unscrewed the top from the shaker and passed it to me.
“Thanks.” I poured the salt into my glass. “Then when Ryan Beltzman comes with the radwaste truck, they make their swap. The Swap Cask, now containing talc,” I held up my glass of salt, “for a resin cask from Beltzman’s radwaste shipment.”
Walter was already filling a glass with pepper.
We swapped glasses.
I continued. “So now Beltzman, with the Swap Cask full of talc in his truck, continues on to the dump. Where the cask gets buried.”
Walter set his glass of salt on the table and covered it with a napkin.
God, I loved this man. “Meanwhile, the resin cask,” I held up my glass of pepper, “awaits Jardine in the offroader’s trailer. So Jardine now drives his rig to his depot. A mine, let’s say.” That place we’re going to find when we build ourselves a new map.
Soliano was nodding.
“But instead of storing the resin cask at his depot, Jardine dumps out the beads.” I grabbed the nearest thing at hand, a wastebasket, and dumped in the pepper.
Hap chuckled.
I held up my now-empty glass. “Now Jardine has an empty cask. And he can take it back to the talc mine and fill it with talc.” Walter already had another salt shaker open. I poured the contents into my glass. “And this now becomes the Swap Cask for the next exchange, when Beltzman next comes with a shipment of hot resin casks.”
“Ongoing?” Soliano said. “This is what you mean?”
That’s what I meant. “Talc for resins, talc for resins, and so on and so on.”
Scotty sat forward. “And he dumps the resins, at the depot, every time?”
“Yeah, he’d have to.”
“Into what?”
“Good question.” Where, in the depot mine, is he stockpiling those resin beads? Not in a wastebasket, that’s for sure. It would overflow.
“Christ,” Scotty said, white, “then all the beads are uncasked.”
There was a long silence, in which shouts from the pool filled the vacuum. No one moved. No one recapped the salt and pepper shakers. No one touched the wastebasket containing stockpiled pepper. It might as well have held resin beads.
“And so,” Soliano finally said, “his ongoing swap comes to an end Monday night. This means the resin cask in the talc mine—which Mr. Jardine came to fetch—that is the last cask exchanged?”
“It’d have to be.”
“How long do you theorize this swap has been running?”
I looked to Ballinger. “How long has the dump been taking the hot resins?”
Ballinger’s face took on a sickly hue.
“Well,” Hap said, “we get resins from reactor cleanups, spent fuel pools, messes at legacy sites.” He whistled. “Boy could’ve stockpiled one hell of a shitload of stuff.”
“And what,” Soliano asked, “could he contaminate with such a quantity?”
“A shitload of the priceless.”
“A shitload,” Scotty said. “How the hell much is a shitload? How the hell is my team supposed to handle that? This is unbelievable. You guys let this clown steal this stuff for God know’s how long and it’s out there. Jesus Christ.” He ran his hands through his hair. “And don’t forget the Spare Cask. Why’d he steal that one? What’s that for?”
I shrugged. Good question.
“Let me have a go at it,” Walter said. “Let us say, on one of his swaps, he does not empty the resin beads into his stockpile. He sets that resin cask aside. For a rainy day.” Walter selected an unopened pepper shaker, and set it aside. “Then, to keep the swap going, he will need a new empty cask. So he steals another—the second cask missing from the dump.” Walter picked up the empty glass I’d set on the floor. “The Spare Cask, which now becomes the cask used for the ongoing swap. And the swap continues.”
“So he’s got his shitload of loose resins in the depot,” Scotty said, “and he’s got this rainy-day resin cask somewhere? Jesus H. Christ.”
“Well what’s the friggin rainy-day cask for?” Ballinger asked.
“What is any of it for?” Soliano snapped. “Find it. Before it matters.” He checked his watch. “We have fifty hours until his deadline.”
~
Walter said, “Cassie, there’s something else.”
With an effort, I nodded. What the hell else could there be?
“A message was sent, about finding our car.”
“Backpackers. Hap told me.”
Hap looked up from his sketchbook. “Told her what the message said.”
“The wording is irrelevant,” Soliano said. “The provenance is telling. It was a text message, routed through a resender in Bulgaria.”
It took me longer than it should have. “Jardine?” I went cold. “But why?”
“The message means that he knew about, or carried out, the attack. Presumably his purpose was to interrupt your work, steal your samples. That achieved,” Soliano shrugged, “perhaps he did not wish to accrue another murder charge.”
“Jeez,” Ballinger said, “that makes him some kinda twisted guardian angel.”
The hairs rose on my forearms.
“Don’t look like the hands of an angel,” Hap said.
We all turned.
Hap was studying his sketchpad. “Look real earthly, to me.” He reversed the pad, showing us. “Roy’s hands.”
The sketch was surprisingly detailed, considering the short time Hap had given it. Roy Jardine’s hands looked ready to move. The long fingers flexed, showcasing big knuckles. The nails were short, squared. There was a signet ring on the right pinkie.
I said, “What’s that engraving on the ring?”
“Beats me. I’m drawing it from memory.”
Scotty peered. “The ocean, and a beach.”
Walter moved closer. “No, it’s the desert.”
Hap beamed. “How about it’s a Rorschach test? You know, the ink blots where everybody sees what they want to see? So Scotty wants to be surfing, and Walter’s right where he belongs, the desert rat. How about the rest of you? Milt? Ever notice Roy’s ring?”
“No, but I’d like to wring his disloyal neck.”
“Hector? Give it your best shot. Could be a clue.”
Despite himself, Soliano edged in for a look. “Desert,” he said finally.
“Cassie?”
I said “Death Valley” although it could equally well have been the Great Rift Valley in Tanzania. I wished Jardine in Tanzania.
“Then desert it is, with a prejudice toward Death Valley.” Hap studied his sketch. “Now the hands. You notice that little callus on the right middle digit? That’s maybe Glock finger. Not so angelic. That’s what you get when you shoot a lot and your finger rubs against the trigger guard.” He glanced at us. “I used to shoot.”
Walter threw me a look. Men carry guns, too.
“So what?” Scotty said. “We already figured Jardine shot Beltzman.”
“Yeah but we haven’t figured why.” Hap shut the sketchbook. “I have a theory.”
Soliano gave him the long look. “You are being very helpful, Mr. Miller.”
“Doin my best, which y’all might mention to the CTC honchos, in case the subject of rewards comes up.” Hap grinned. “Anyhoo, I call it the one-thing-leads-to-another theory. Goes something like this—Ryan effs up some little thing and Roy yells at him. Ryan gets his feelings hurt and then, by and by, the gun comes out. Don’t know whose gun, who shoots the tires, but at the crash site the gun ends up in the hand of the guy with Glock finger, Roy Jardine.” Hap whistled, sound like a falling skyrocket. “The oops factor.”
Soliano frowned. “The what?”
“Human frailty, Hector. Murphy’s Law.”
“You make a point, Mr. Miller?”
“Maybe you don’t know Murphy’s Law, not being a native speaker. That’s when everything that can go wrong does go wrong, in the worst possible way.” Hap cocked his head. “Surely y’all experien
ced that? You make a mistake that leads to another mistake, that leads to a real big miscalculation?”
My ears rang. Coyote scream, a cry for help. It almost had gone wrong, in the worst possible way. I nodded. Yeah, I knew Murphy’s Law.
Walter looked, suddenly, older than his years. “We take your point, Hap.”
Hap turned to Scotty. “Scotty me boy? Any miscalculations on your watch?”
“Yeah, lost track of a guy’s dose rate once. He went over the limit. Anybody doses over again, on my watch, I go back to surfing and the sharks.” Scotty glared. “That answer your question, Miller?”
“Honorably.” Hap turned to Soliano. “Hector? Miscalculations?”
“On occasion. I am human.”
“Me too! That’s why I live in utter mortal dread of screwing the pooch, so to speak.” Hap patted his T-shirt. “Homer and I know you don’t wanna screw the pooch when you’re in charge of the gents.”
“Who are the gents?” Soliano asked.
“Mr. Alpha, Mr. Beta, Mr. Gamma. The gentlemen like to play real rough.” Hap smiled. “Let me get philosophical on y’all for a minute. Ionizing radiation is by nature unstable, and people are like radionuclides. Unstable. It’s like you said, Hector, we’re human. So we jess cain’t help it—we gotta eff up, now and again. And when you put your unstable people in charge of your unstable atoms...” He rolled his eyes. “Ooops.”
It struck me that Hap had not asked about any screwups on Ballinger’s watch. Then again, I guessed we were living one right now.
21
Walter and I were making space in his suite to set up our lab when someone pounded on the door.
I opened it to the sound of shrieking. The girl was inches from me. My height. Weedy. Eyes wild. I took a step back. Shrieks came again, somewhere outside.
Walter came over. The girl grabbed his hand. “Hurry, Grandfather. Trouble.”
I followed them outside and down the walkway that led from our annex.
Again, the shrieking.
I broke into a run, passing them both.
There were paths leading in four different directions, and steps going up a level and down a level. I glanced down at the pool. Nobody there. A woman in a peach uniform rushed past and I stopped her but before I could ask she said “aqui aqui” and took off. I followed.
The path rounded the hip of a building and dropped down into cascading palm gardens on a grassy hillside. I stared in some wonder at the stream bubbling down to the pond, which was carpeted in water lilies. I thought I heard a frog croak.
I hurried down.
There was a good-sized crowd under the palms—in bathing suits, shorts, sundresses, housekeeping uniforms—guests and staff shoulder-to-shoulder all pressing in on something and then, as one, heaving backward in a renewed hail of shrieks. I picked out Milt Ballinger’s bald head, twisting to have a look at the bare thonged behind of a blond woman tanned to mahogany.
I tightened my robe and wormed into the crowd.
I saw bits of green between sunburnt shoulders and Hawaiian shirts, as if these people had gathered in mass heat-stroke delusion to stare at the lawn. The hot air smelled of sweat and coconut oil. I tried to work my way through the throng but a mahogany-chested blond man—the match to Milt’s thonged woman—blocked my way. He suddenly noticed me. “Kleine fledermaus,” he said, and popped me up to the front of the crowd.
I thought I was the one with heat stroke. It followed me, I thought.
No question of mirage, this time.
The bat canted in the grass, one leathery wing dug into the thatch, the other wing half-folded. The little body was raw with sores. One translucent ear was bent and cemented to the head by a yellowish crust. The creature had left a mark of its progress, a thin black trail of feces that culminated, where it now crouched, in a red-tinged seep. Suddenly the mouth opened to reveal a bloodied tooth hanging from its gums. The bat emitted a shrill cry.
The crowd cried back.
I saw, at the far end of the crowd, Walter and the girl. He had a hand on her shoulder. I wanted to go over and ask if he thought it was the same bat we’d seen on the saltpan, if it gave him a shiver like it gave me, but at that moment Scotty pushed through the crowd.
“Get back, get back, raus everybody, vaya vaya, merci people, get yourselves the heck outta the way!” Scotty ran one hand through his blond hair, spiking it, and with his other hand raised his cell phone. “Jasper, get yourself into a suit now and bring a Geiger and a collection box...” He looked around. “Some kinda gardens. Next to the pool.”
The bat opened its mouth and the dangling tooth dropped like a tiny spear into the grass. A Japanese woman began taking pictures. Scotty tried to block her view and a Japanese man complained.
Soliano brushed past me, whispering to a white-haired ranger.
Passing along the cover story, I guessed. We are, officially, an EPA team monitoring the health of the local ecosystem.
“Show’s over, folks,” the ranger shouted, flapping his hands, and the gawkers reluctantly fell back.
Scotty was on the phone again, standing sentinel between the bat and the departing crowd, sparing more than a few glances for the retreating behinds.
I moved to Soliano, whose attention was fixed on the bat. “We saw a bat last night.”
He flinched.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It is just...” He touched his forehead. “I am reminded.”
“Of what?”
“A dying dog. And the heat.”
I asked, anxious to figure out Soliano, “What happened?”
He angled toward me, although his eyes never left the bat. “I was a boy in a family of wealth. Our estate was in the mountains, for the coolness. I was driven to school by a chauffeur. A small sedan, so as not to draw attention. The windows were tinted, so that no one might see inside. My family wished to avoid trouble. Once, unfortunately, trouble found us on the drive to school. A man and a dog lay in the road, blocking our way. They had been shot. Bandits. My chauffeur was fearful. He was fearful to turn around and take me home because his job was to deliver me to school. He was fearful to bring the wounded man into the car...all the blood. He was fearful to get out and move the man out of the way...bandits, he feared. He was fearful of the dog, which showed its teeth. My chauffeur could not drive around the man and the dog. The road was narrow, ditches on each side. He was fearful to drive over the man, afraid for his own mortal soul. The consequence was that we waited in the car. It grew stifling.” Sweat bloomed, now, on Soliano’s face. “At last the man appeared to have died. My chauffeur drove onward. I felt a bump. That was all.” Soliano made his gesture, hand to brow. “I looked out the back window. The man was crushed. But the dog, remarkably, lifted its head. I saw the teeth. I knew I was going to have dreams of those teeth. The sun must have lighted the teeth but I feared it was God’s doing. I thought the dog had been resurrected to exact revenge because we did not act.”
After an excruciating half-minute in the stifling vacuum, I had to say something. “You were just a kid.”
Soliano gave a curt nod.
“The chauffeur was in charge.”
Another nod.
The bat opened its eyes. They were a solid milk of cataracts.
Soliano flicked aside his khaki shirttail, reached into his waistband holster, and brought out a small pistol. He fired and the bat somersaulted backward, leaving a new trail of blood. It did not move again.
This time, I said nothing. He’d done the right thing—people had to be protected, and the creature surely needed to be put out of its misery—but I felt I was intruding on Soliano’s peculiar path to action.
“Hector.” Scotty was suddenly with us. “You got a lab in Vegas can do a necropsy?” He eyed the carcass. “Looks a whole lot like ARS.”
I knew those initials but Soliano had to ask.
“Acute radiation sickness,” Scotty answered.
22
Roy Jardine woke u
p bright and early Wednesday morning.
Well, it wasn’t bright because he was deep inside the hideout, and eight a.m. wasn’t that early. But he’d deserved a good night’s sleep.
He ate his freeze-dried Eggs Ranchero with satisfaction, as if they were real eggs.
He dressed with satisfaction. He wore his shirt with the cowboy pockets and pearl buttons, Levi jeans, and concho-strap boots. Although he could not see himself—there was no mirror in the hideout, that would be vain—he knew he looked ace. A pity nobody was here to see him in this outfit.
Today, he dressed for himself. For the occasion: Strike Day.
He assessed his mental state. Ready? Yes. Rested? Yes.
Come to terms with the events of yesterday?
Yesterday—Tuesday at three PM precisely—he’d had his brainstorm. How to stop the geologists. And it worked. They were stopped. Their dirt map was destroyed. They were left to the mercy of the desert.
He’d retreated to Hole-in-the-Wall in relief.
And there he’d turned his efforts to the mission. He worked on the plan for hours, well into the night, but when he rechecked his work he’d been disappointed. Too many details left out. Too much left to chance. He’d berated himself. Then forgiven himself. He was exhausted. He’d been without sleep for almost two days. And he was still hurting about Jersey.
That’s when he’d let his guard down.
Somehow, in his weary soul, his bitch got mixed up with the female geologist. He saw himself holding the female over his bathroom sink at home. Cradling her. She lapped desperately at the running water. She was so thirsty. He had the knife at her throat.
He’d shaken off that vision—he flung it away!—but he couldn’t shake the vision of the female in the desert.
That was real. She was out there right at that moment. Without water, so thirsty. She would die. As he brooded, he allowed himself a tiny fantasy: himself coming to the rescue, scooping her in his arms and carrying her to a green meadow. Cupping water in his hands from a bubbling brook for her to lap up.
Badwater (The Forensic Geology Series) Page 11
