by Janet Dailey
“Maybe.”
“Why? Because they thought I knew something about these vests? Joke’s on them,” she said bitterly. “If I ever did, it got knocked right out of my head.”
“It might come back to you.”
Christine heaved a sigh. “Looking at the forms and codes is a start. But in five minutes I know I’m going to forget. What I knew—and who I used to be—all that is still in pieces. Sometimes they come together—”
“That’s good.”
“Sometimes they don’t. Like you don’t know that.”
Christine’s eyes were shadowed with confusion. Kenzie knew that her erratic reactions and blunt way of talking were aftereffects of the accident. She hated asking about it.
“Kenzie, when I was looking at the spec sheets, I thought the vest looked familiar. So I checked the photo Frank posted—him showing off his new gear.”
“I know the one you mean,” Kenzie said.
“Do you? He was wearing an X-Ultra vest. Was that what got him killed?” Her voice was raw with pain.
“We don’t know that for sure,” Kenzie said quietly.
“Maybe I tried to tell someone that the vests were defective. I just don’t remember.”
“Just let it be,” Kenzie pleaded. “What happened to Frank just—happened. You couldn’t have prevented it.”
The haunted look on her friend’s face was heartbreaking.
“I want to do something to help,” Christine said slowly. “But I can’t. Was he the only one?”
Kenzie hesitated. “No.”
Christine stared dully at the floor. “Any other things you haven’t told me?”
Kenzie fought off a feeling of guilt. “No. That’s it. You weren’t in any shape to hear the whole truth. So I’m not going to apologize.”
Christine smiled faintly. “Same old Kenzie. You’re tough.”
“I used to be.”
Christine didn’t respond to that, just got up and went to the window.
“So what happens next?”
“We—meaning me and Linc and Mike Warren—are trying to keep you safe.”
“How?”
“Mike arranged for two unmarked cars to guard the front and rear entrances here.”
“I think I see one.”
“Don’t wave,” Kenzie said wryly. “Seriously, they can only be here at night.”
Christine thought that over. “But what about you? Who’s guarding you?”
Kenzie sidestepped the question. “You’re a lot more vulnerable than I am.”
“Should I give back the SKC laptop?” Christine looked at it like it might blow up.
Kenzie didn’t smile. “Not just yet.”
By nightfall, Christine was back on the laptop again, her curiosity piqued by her earlier look at the work files on it.
It held a lot more than that. She clicked into the miscellaneous files that she’d kept on it, looking for one with pictures that had been forwarded by someone in publicity.
Lee Slattery was big on company get-togethers. Besides the balloons with SKC printed on them, there were always motivational signs over the real draw, a catered buffet.
She might be able to pick out a face that would jog her memory.
Christine found the file and opened it. Vaguely aware that the hallway was quieter, she studied one photo after another. Everyone had posed, from the top—Slattery, Kehoe, and a few other execs—to the thickly populated ranks of middle management, including her boss, Melvin Brody, right down to the janitorial crew.
Smile big for the camera, she thought. Which one had tried to kill her?
The footsteps of the night nurse stopped at her door. The woman peeked in. “Don’t stay up too late, Christine. You know the rules.”
“Oh—I didn’t realize what time it was.” She sat up straight on the bed and looked at the digital clock. “Almost midnight.”
“That’s right. Time to turn in. Want me to turn off the overhead for you?”
“Thanks.” Christine didn’t object to the gentle reminder. Her sense of time was definitely altered.
The night nurse flicked the switch and Christine realized how tired her eyes were. The darkness was soothing. Listening to the footsteps walk away, she looked at a few more photos, then gave up.
She shut down the laptop and moved it to her nightstand. After a while, she fell asleep.
Two hours later, she awoke, gasping for air. A nightmare had seized her brain.
Some of the accident came back to her again. Not in sequence. More like jagged pieces of glass.
In the dream she had reached out to touch a stop-motion image of herself, screaming. Her hand went through the window of the car to touch her badly wounded face. Christine pulled it back covered in blood.
Awake now, she looked at it. It was just her hand, the same as always. Irrationally, she wanted to scrub off the imaginary blood on the sheets that covered her. Then she realized that the damp feeling on her skin was sweat.
A cold sweat.
She sat up, feeling sick and weak.
Christine looked around for something to write on. She might not remember in the morning. Kenzie would want to know what she had seen.
The man’s face was familiar. That was all she knew.
She couldn’t find a pen or a pencil. Her reaching hand knocked her cell phone to the floor. The little screen glowed. The hell with it. She was going to tell Kenzie right now.
Christine tapped the number to speed-dial her.
After several rings, Kenzie answered, her voice fuzzy with sleep. “Christine? What’s the matter?”
“I think I’m starting to remember.”
There was silence, then a faint sound of movement on the other end of the call. She could imagine Kenzie throwing back the covers and grabbing a robe.
Christine knew her friend would take the nightmare seriously.
She did her best to describe it. “I saw myself in the car,” she began. “Like I was outside and inside at the same time.”
“When?”
“After the crash.” Christine suppressed a shudder. “My eyes were closed but I was screaming. I wanted to help myself—I tried to reach in the window and I cut myself. Then I saw him.”
Kenzie waited for her to compose herself.
“There was a man in another car right near mine. He was so close I could see his tattoos—big thorns, dripping blood. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.”
“Did you see his face? In the dream, I mean.”
“Yes,” Christine said hesitantly. “But not his eyes. Just his smile. It was so evil. Oh, Kenzie—I’m so scared.”
The hand holding the cell phone shook and she dropped it into the bedcovers. Christine scrambled to pick it up, hearing Kenzie reply before she brought it to her ear again. “It was a dream. Just a dream.”
Christine shook her head. “Yes and no. It’s the first time anything’s come back to me.”
Kenzie was quiet for a few seconds. “Okay,” she said finally. “Let’s talk about something else for a little while. When you feel calmer, you might remember more.”
“I hope so. I’m sorry to wake you up, Kenzie.”
“It’s all right. I’m not going to go back to sleep. If I could come over right now, I would.”
“I know, Kenzie. But don’t.”
CHAPTER 20
“What’s going on?” Melvin Brody pointed a thick finger at Vic Kehoe. “Your signature was on the original X-Ultra production runs. But not anymore. Mine is. And it’s on the official okays too. I never signed off on either.”
“Close the door.” He waited for Brody to obey. It was important to establish who gave orders and made demands. Not middle-level managers in short-sleeved shirts.
Brody came back, looking around the austere office. Vic got brisk with him. “What are you talking about?”
“The vests, what else? I never okayed all the lots. Several should have been scrapped.”
“You mean they went out?” Vic asked blandly.
&
nbsp; “Yeah. Some did. Months ago. Then we got that order for ten thousand units and ramped up production. I didn’t realize the problems with the fiber and the plates hadn’t been resolved, so I didn’t follow up when Lee Slattery pulled me off X-Ultra.”
“That can’t be. Let me look at the okays.” Vic had to soften his tone or Brody might run screaming to Lee Slattery. “We can figure this out. Does anyone else have duplicate files, by the way?”
Brody pulled out a crumpled handkerchief and mopped the sweat off his face. “The laptop Christine Corelli used has the production run documentation for last year and this year.”
Vic frowned. “Was that necessary?”
“She needed some of it for cost analysis,” Brody said defensively. “Most of what was on those docs was too complicated for her to actually understand.”
“You hope.”
Brody caught his breath and rested his hands on the belt slung below his gut. “I’m still trying to get that damn laptop back. I finally reported it stolen. Her mother swears she doesn’t know anything about it.”
“And?”
“Who knows? Haven’t heard a word from the cops.”
The reply made Vic sit back and think. “Could be a lost cause,” he said after a while. “All right. Don’t worry too much about it. Like I said, I have your back on this one.”
“Really? You going to explain to Lee Slattery that I didn’t do anything wrong?”
“Sure. Not a problem. Sit down, Brody.”
The other man looked around the office. “On what? You have the only chair.”
Vic chuckled in agreement. “There are a couple of folding chairs in that closet.” He pointed. “It’s my office. I like to work alone.”
The door swung open again. Vic looked up, a flash of anger in his black eyes. He calmed down when Lee Slattery stepped into the room. Jaunty as ever. Another five-thousand-dollar suit on him.
“Vic—what are you doing here, Brody?”
“Just, uh, chatting with Vic.”
“How about that.” Lee held up a folded letter. He tapped it against his palm. “I wanted to talk to both of you.”
“What is this, a firing squad?” Brody joked. He was sweating harder than before. “What’s the severance?”
“Brody, don’t say things like that. You’re a valued employee,” Lee said. He could have been talking to a kindergartner. “Read it, Vic.”
Lee Slattery didn’t bother to unfold the letter he tossed on Vic Kehoe’s desk. If it had been in an envelope, that wasn’t attached.
Vic looked up at him with annoyance.
Lee liked to play at being CEO. He expected a certain amount of deference from everyone, which was why he wasted so much time strolling around the buildings. SKC employed over a thousand people, not all of them in this complex. He didn’t have time to visit everyone. But Lee sure as hell got his required daily allowance of sucking up from those who were interested.
Vic excepted himself. “Can I read it later?”
Lee thrust his hands in his pants pockets, buckling his suit jacket across the middle just so. He liked to pose too. Most days he looked like an ad for men’s fine tailoring.
“No. It came registered mail, return receipt requested. From a government agency I never heard of.”
With a sigh, Vic rotated his leather swivel chair, turning sideways to the desk as he unfolded the letter.
“Material and Supply Testing, Military Division,” he read aloud. “I never heard of them either.”
“Maybe that’s because we don’t make a lot of mistakes at SKC. I run a tight ship.”
Vic’s mouth tightened. That was another annoying habit of Slattery’s: assuming that he ran anything. He was a useful figurehead—a rich guy with extensive connections on the Hill.
Vic was the one who had arranged for the financing of the vast complex when their business went global, put his own fortune on the line when Lee came up short. They’d recouped his investment ten times over.
However, due to a couple of undue-force incidents in a dusty, violent outpost several years ago, Vic still had to keep a low profile.
Lee was the face of SKC. He liked everybody, cranked up the charm for one and all. He was as happy with a hundred-unit order from a businessman like Dana Scott as he was with a ten-thousand-unit order from the army.
Vic set aside the opened letter, but he kept his hand on it. “They want more information on X-Ultra components. And they want to know if we use an independent testing lab.”
“Do we?” Lee asked breezily.
Melvin Brody looked a little shocked. Good old clueless Lee. Vic shook his head. “No. We do our own.”
“Oh, right. And pass along the cost to customers.” Lee grinned. “We get the goods out, don’t we? And fast.”
“That seems to be a concern.” Vic read aloud again. “Preliminary studies indicate an unacceptably high rate of failure for the X-Ultra vests. This may or may not indicate inadequate testing and below-standard manufacturing. Please forward information as specified below on original components, and country of origin.”
“Oh no,” Lee mocked. “Sounds like we might have violated a regulation or two.”
“The letter doesn’t cite any,” Vic said. “What do you want me to do?”
He refolded it and put it as close as possible to where Lee Slattery was standing. Maybe he would take the hint and answer it himself.
“You’ll think of something,” the CEO said cheerfully. “Check in with me when you do. And Brody, better print out all the relevant documents and get them into binders by month.”
“Okay,” Brody said.
Lee snapped his fingers. “Wait, you have a temp. What’s her name again?”
“Brenda White.”
“Nice girl. Seems competent. Be sure to tell her Lee Slattery will be stopping by.”
He nodded to both of them and pushed the folded letter back across Vic’s desk.
“Take care of that, Kehoe. What you get paid for, right? I gave you the X-Ultra project for a reason.”
Vic watched him go. He had a short fuse, and Slattery had just lit it. Having Brody as witness to his humiliation didn’t make Slattery’s condescension easier to take.
“You didn’t exactly get me off the hook,” Brody snapped.
He looked up at him. “I didn’t have a chance.”
“Listen, Kehoe—”
Vic stuck the folded letter into a drawer. “Don’t take this too seriously. It’s not a subpoena. We can stall them.”
“Are you going to take my signature off the okays? That’s all I want to know.”
“I said yes, didn’t I?” Vic lowered his voice. “Don’t make yourself crazy over nothing.”
The balding man cast a cynical look at him. “Hope I’m not being set up,” he said.
Brody wasn’t stupid. Of course he’d been set up. And when the printouts were analyzed, Brody wouldn’t look good.
Vic guessed the man would raise an unbelievable stink. He could almost smell it now. A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he kept his expression composed.
“Just so you know,” Brody said, “I did a little research.”
Vic forced himself to look interested. “Did you? On what?”
“I’m sure you remember that kickback investigation a few years ago.” Brody smirked. “Did any of that money land in your bank account?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
SKC had grown so fast since then that the investigation had largely been forgotten. The recent reports on the defective X-Ultra fiber were buried deep. No reason to screw up the bottom line over them—soldiers got shot no matter what. Vic wondered what exactly Melvin Brody had found out.
The other man gave him a sly look. “You had your hand in the till. My guess is that you still do.”
“Actually, I don’t,” Vic finally replied. “But I think you and I need to discuss this.”
The other man’s smirk widened into a triumphant grin. “Now
you’re talking. But don’t take this for a blackmail attempt. Let’s just say I believe in sharing the wealth.”
Vic fiddled with a pencil and finally snapped it. It occurred to him that he could snap Brody’s neck just as easily. The cracking sound didn’t seem to register with the other man.
“So, drinks and dinner? I assume you’re paying.”
Vic looked at him calmly. “Fine. But let’s go somewhere we won’t be overheard.”
“All right,” Brody said expansively.
The man was a fool. “Tell you what,” Vic said. “Let’s leave early today. You don’t get seasick, do you?”
Brody shook his head. “Not if the water’s calm.”
“Up for a cruise to Virginia Beach?”
His motorboat was docked at a marina a few miles away. Thirty feet of white fiberglass with a modest flying bridge, like thousands of others between here and the Chesapeake Bay. Essentially invisible, right down to the forgettable name. He changed the vinyl lettering on the stern now and then. Like the barnacles gave a damn.
“Hey, you heard Slattery. He told me to—”
“He won’t care where you are. Tell your temp to get started.”
“Poor Brenda.” Brody shook his head. “She’s going to have to stay late for a week. I miss Christine.”
“Is she able to talk yet?” Vic knew that she was. The purse bug had picked up her voice too. He hadn’t listened to the feed today, though.
“I guess so. They moved her to a neurological rehab place about a week ago.”
“Remind me to send flowers.” Vic couldn’t help but smile.
“What for? You barely know Christine. I didn’t send anything when she was in the ICU.”
Vic tsked.
“I didn’t want to be a hypocrite,” Brody pointed out. “It’s not as if she likes me. I think she was ready to quit.”
No loss to the company. Although Vic had Christine to thank for leading him to Kenzie. Inadvertently, of course. But she was no longer useful, when you got right down to it.
“But Brenda is okay, for a dumb bunny,” Brody was saying. “If I’m going to stick her with that much work, I’d better buy her a box of chocolates at the drugstore.”
“Sure. You do that. I’ll pick up beers and fresh burritos so we don’t get too hungry before we get to Virginia Beach.”
