Whitewash

  “If I knew there was a risk I would have taken measures immediately,” Lansik had said, genuinely offended. The entire process, and thus the plant, had become for Lansik an extension of himself. It wasn’t unusual. Sabrina had recognized the occupational hazard with her father every time he invented something.

  Which gave Sabrina all the more reason to believe Lansik would never have allowed a mistake to go unchecked or uncorrected. Nor would he resign and leave without a word to his team. Sabrina knew that EchoEnergy’s vision was as much Dwight Lansik’s as it was William Sidel’s. Maybe that was what bothered her so much. She wouldn’t expect Sidel to share with them a falling-out that the two men may have had, but it didn’t seem right that Sidel would be so nonchalant about it, either.

  She left the courtyard and also left any hint of shade. No one dared to venture out in the afternoon heat so close to quitting time. It looked like Sabrina would have the whole parking lot to herself. Even security would be staying in their air-conditioned outposts.

  She followed the pipeline along the concrete edge of the lot. The pipeline continued and disappeared into tall scrub grass and thick pine forest. Maybe she was being a bit ridiculous. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting or even what she was willing to do. Her face and bare arms were slick with sweat and she could feel trickles sliding down her back. She glanced down at her leather flats, black trousers and white linen shirt. She had six identical outfits in her closet. She could spare to ruin one. Though in the back of her mind she could hear her mother’s voice, scolding her for not taking better care of herself or her appearance. There were too many more important decisions to be made. And finding out why a clean-water pipeline had become clogged was one of those.

  Except that her mother’s memory distracted her. She was thinking of her mother more often the last several days, brought on, of course, by her father’s hallucinations and her own car accident. Neither was a pleasant reminder. Remembering her mother’s lecture about clothing was actually a welcome change.

  Even if she wanted to, Sabrina could never duplicate her mother’s fashion extravaganzas. For one thing she didn’t have her mother’s silky dark hair and dark brown eyes with a bronze complexion that certainly helped to make lime green and pink work well together. Eric had inherited their mother’s looks and the charm that went along with them. Sabrina favored her father—fair skin, blue eyes and light-colored hair that couldn’t really be called blond or brown. Even the way Sabrina wore her hair—carelessly down and straight with no attention to style—would cause her mother to shake her head and sigh. Once when she saw Sabrina getting ready for a run, pulling back her hair into a tight ponytail and plopping on a baseball cap, her mother almost refused to let her leave.

  “You certainly can’t go out in public like that,” she had told Sabrina in her dramatic manner that gave meaning to too many things that should not justify such theatrics. But that was her mother and as if in tribute to the woman she missed with an ache that felt as physical as mental, Sabrina bent down to roll up her pant cuffs. She wasn’t sure that it would save them from ruin, but she knew that to bother would please her mother.

  Her leather flats were history. Sabrina was certain of that after only a few steps into the marshy scrub grass. She followed the pipeline, navigating carefully. She searched for the ninety-degree angle that shifted the pipe’s flow directly down to the river. Not an easy search. Grass and vines had grown up around it so that only pieces of white showed through and it became like hunting for broken fragments. Sabrina checked the time. This was taking longer than she expected. She’d be late getting to Reactor #5 to meet Ernie Walker.

  Finally she heard a gurgling sound. And before she saw where the pipe turned, Sabrina could see a puddle where the clogged elbow was leaking. She felt her stomach twist into knots. The puddle was a murky orange, not clear.

  She pulled away vines, fallen twigs and pine needles, revealing the muddy elbow. Suddenly she didn’t care about dirty pant cuffs or sludge on her hands. She pried and tugged at the release hatch, breaking a fingernail, but not stopping until she felt the metal trapdoor swing open. The spray made her jump back, but it was too late. Her white shirt blossomed with a rust-colored stain. She wiped at her face as she came back for a closer look, relieved to see that opening the latch had been enough to disengage the clog. Clear water now flowed out of the elbow and Sabrina used the heel of her hand to slam the latch against the force of the water. Her fingers were shaking when she secured the release lever.

  Even at a glance the contents of the clog made her knees weak. She found a stick to poke at the glob that glittered with chunks of metal embedded in pieces of what Sabrina could only imagine must be unprocessed feedstock.

  Sidel was wrong. This looked like Grade 2 garbage. Sabrina fumbled through her trouser pockets, coming up with only an empty plastic sandwich bag from lunch. Using the stick, she scooped up a sample of the sludge into the bag. She stopped when she dislodged a disk of metal about the size of a quarter. There was no way Sidel could deny Grade 2 garbage when she showed him this. Sabrina shoved the metal disk into the bag.

  She cleaned her hands on the grass and made her way back to the parking lot. She was a mess and she was late.

  45

  Leon watched from below the catwalk. Down under the massive pipes and valves the sound was deafening. Stuff clanked and hissed as machinery overhead turned on and off. It sounded like water spraying and shooting through the maze of twisting white pipes, some of them as small as Leon’s arm, others big enough to swallow him whole. All of them snaked in from the walls. Most of them, especially the massive ones, were connected to the huge tank in the middle of the room.

  This tank was different from the one outside—no floating chicken heads. That had freaked Leon out. All those bobbing chicken heads with their eyes wide open, witnessing him toss that poor sucker in. Maybe it wouldn’t have bothered him so much, except for that stupid fortune-teller. She had him looking over his shoulder, scrutinizing stuff, examining it like it mattered. The same stuff he wouldn’t ordinarily think twice about.

  The place was a sauna. He could feel the steam and heat radiating off the pipes. He had gone through his packet of tissues waiting for her. Now a river of sweat ran down his back and sides. His shirt stuck to his skin. His forehead dripped. But he tried not to rush it this time. Being in a hurry had made him screw up twice. Instead, he stayed put and watched her up on the catwalk. He’d wait for her to settle down.

  She looked different somehow, but Leon couldn’t decide what it was. He had scoped out the place before she got here. No one else had been around in this entire area, not even in the hallways that ran along the upper floor, so he didn’t have to worry about her bringing anyone along. As far as he could tell, there were only two doors into this place, the one behind him that led outside to the parking lot and the one she had used on the second level that connected the catwalk into a series of hallways that led to the rest of the plant.

  She paced the length of the catwalk, shoving her hands into the lab coat and then taking them out to check her watch. She kept glancing at the door as if expecting someone to come through it.

  Leon wiped the sweat from his eyes again. She appeared jumpier today, on edge, impatient, like she wanted to get this over with. Leon smiled, thinking, You aren’t the only one, lady.

  He started up the metal ladder on the back wall. He had already checked it out. An easy four-foot drop got him to a platform that was connected to the back end of the catwalk. She’d never see him coming. Leon reminded himself he didn’t need to waste any energy trying to be quiet. No one could hear a damn thing in this place with all the clanging and hissing.

  He’d brought along a two-foot length of galvanized pipe. He’d used it the last time. It felt good in his hand—just the lucky charm he needed.

  Not that Leon was superstitious. He wished he could use a fucking .22 and get it over with. This accident crap was bullshit. He was much better with a simple do
uble tap to the back of the skull, letting the bullet ricochet inside the skull. No mistakes with a .22.

  He was still sweating like a son of a bitch, but he climbed up the ladder with ease despite that fucking ringing in his head and the throbbing beat of the clanging pipes.

  He dropped onto the platform and stayed in a crouched position, hidden behind a square metal box that vibrated. She didn’t turn around, didn’t break her pace. He was safe. That metal box shimmied and rattled the catwalk enough that Leon’s added weight didn’t matter.

  Leon caught his breath. Adjusted his grip on the pipe. This was almost too easy. Just like the last time they had brought his prey right to him. He could have saved himself a car trip clear out to that loony bin had he taken care of her here on Saturday. Stupid security guard got in the way. And then he freaked over Casino Rudy. After all, what were the chances of your botched hit being in the same loony bin that your next hit includes on her Sunday-after-noon drive?

  He pulled himself up to his full height and began his stalk. He kept his eyes on her back. One slow step then another like an animal stalking its prey. Steady and focused, ready to attack. If she turned, he’d pounce and be there swinging before she had a chance to react.

  She pulled her fingers through her hair and he knew she had no idea he was there. He almost wanted to call out to her, at least let her know what was coming. Then he reminded himself that she had survived his first attempt. He had already given her a second chance. He told himself he could be on a plane right now, headed home if it wasn’t for this lady. He deserved a break.

  Leon swung the pipe from right to left, smashing it into the side of her skull. Despite the machinery noise he thought he heard a distinctive crack. The blow was enough to send her flipping over the catwalk railing, her white lab coat making her look like a broken-winged bird. She splashed facedown and he waited for movement.

  Nothing. Finally a dead hit.

  He took in a generous gulp of hot, stagnant air. In seconds he could see blood from her head wound beginning to pool into the clear water. And just as Leon turned to leave, a red light started flashing above him. A screeching siren pierced through the hum and rattle and clanking noises.

  Goddamn it! Something had tripped the fucking alarm.

  He didn’t remember sliding down the ladder, but his left knee would. He rushed through the same door he came in. Then made himself walk, not run, across the parking lot.

  46

  Sabrina ran, stumbling every time she looked over her shoulder. Was it possible he hadn’t seen her? She knew she had screamed out loud when Anna Copello’s body plunged into the tank. He had to have heard. Maybe because she was underneath the catwalk the noise of the engines and pumps had drowned out her scream.

  She took a sharp left around the corner of the building, slamming her body against the corrugated steel. She stopped to catch her breath. And to listen. The hydraulics of tanker trucks hissed and whined. An air-conditioning unit hummed. The alarm siren could barely be heard outside. It wasn’t necessary since the monitors in every security post would be flashing codes and location. They might not even hurry, Sabrina realized. After all, Reactor #5 wasn’t online. And the code wasn’t a breach of security. Sabrina knew exactly what had tripped the alarm. Lansik had installed alerts on every clean-water flushing tank so that when an oversized object fell in, an alarm would go off. Anna Copello’s body definitely constituted an oversized object and had tripped the alarm.

  Sabrina wedged herself between the building and a scrawny line of crepe myrtles. Her heart banged against her rib cage. She couldn’t think. Instead, her mind sounded its own alarm, drumming over and over again. Why the hell was Anna even there? Did she really believe she could gain something by honing in on Sabrina’s meeting with Ernie Walker? One thing was for certain, Anna could not have been the target. And that man, whoever he was, was not Ernie Walker, the plant manager.

  Sabrina contemplated what to do, where to go. If the man realized his mistake, if he heard Sabrina’s scream or saw her down below, would he check the lab? Would he find her office? Should she go to one of the security outposts? Would they even believe her? What would she tell them? She wasn’t even sure what had happened.

  She made her way along the side of the building until she could cross between the tanker trucks, using them for cover. One of the drivers waved her out of the way. She found relief in the organized chaos despite filling her aching lungs with diesel fumes. She continued to glance over her shoulder, suddenly aware that the noise would camouflage his following her. But he couldn’t attack, not here, not out in the open.

  She wanted to run again, but instead quickened her pace and wove her way under catwalks and behind tanks. Two men in hard hats looked up at her while they struggled with a lever on what Sabrina knew to be a shutoff valve. She checked their faces and wondered if she’d even recognize the man. That’s when she realized she must look a mess, her shirt stained and clinging to her, her shoes and pant legs muddy.

  She stayed away from the administration buildings, circling to the parking lot. Her fingers grasped and held on to the car keys in her trouser pocket. Her heartbeat throbbed in her head and she stepped to its rhythm, hoping it would keep her from panicking and running. She didn’t need to think beyond getting across this parking lot and finding her rental car.

  What the hell color was it? Why couldn’t she remember?

  Before the panic dismantled her, she saw the corner space where she always parked. Thank God for routine. Now all that was left was to get inside, start the engine and get the hell away from there.

  47

  Washington, D.C.

  Natalie Richards poured herself a second glass of wine. She needed to sip, not gulp, this one. Her boss would certainly understand, but Natalie knew her own limits. She’d wait until after their phone call before she had a third. She checked her cell phone to make sure it was turned on, then she set it aside and dropped onto the sofa.

  She had kicked off her shoes at the door and peeled out of her panty hose. The tension in her shoulders and at the pit of her stomach wouldn’t leave, though she was determined to get both under control. This was the earliest she had gotten home in months and thankfully it was peaceful for a change. Her sons and ex-husband were somewhere in Michigan at a campground on a lake in the middle of nowhere. It was supposed to be a three-week vacation. She’d give them three days, maybe four, and they’d be begging and bargaining for a PlayStation or an Internet connection. As nice as the silence was, she missed them—all three of them.

  Ron had offered to take the boys when Natalie thought she’d be accompanying her boss to the energy summit in Florida. “You go to Florida and treat yourself to a few extra days. You never do that,” Ron had told her. “The boys and I have been talking about fishing with my dad for over two years. We’ll just do it.”

  He’d say things like that and she forgot why she divorced the man, especially since Natalie knew how much of a sacrifice it was for Ron Richards to spend three weeks in the wilderness, no matter how much he loved his boys. And despite what Natalie told anyone, she had liked the idea of going to Florida and possibly tacking on a few extra days so she could enjoy an afternoon at the beach. The Reid Estate sounded like a paradise retreat, fifteen acres overlooking the Gulf of Mexico with a private coastline of sugar-white beach. But now for sure she’d be staying in Washington, D.C.

  Her boss had called Zach Kensor’s death “unfortunate” and “collateral damage.” “Sometimes it takes sacrifice and loss for a greater cause,” was another phrase. Natalie knew all that. It was exactly the sort of thing she had tried to use to reassure Colin Jernigan. It hadn’t relieved Colin’s guilt, nor would it relieve Natalie’s. And for a man like Colin who had seen more crime scenes and collateral damage than Natalie watched on TV, guilt was a frivolous emotion and definitely one she didn’t expect to see in him. Of course, all that guilt was before the fingerprint match. Either way it didn’t really matter. It was a mess and
it would be up to Natalie to figure out how to clean it up. And do it in forty-eight hours.

  Her cell phone startled her. She jerked enough to spill merlot on her white carpet. She cursed under her breath and grabbed for the phone, sitting up and gathering her thoughts, then finally hitting Talk.

  “This is Natalie,” she said only because she knew her boss hated to ask.

  “You’re not gonna believe the size of the fish I caught.”

  It took Natalie a second or two before she sighed and sank back into the sofa.

  “My baby boy caught a fish?” And she smiled at his groan. Oh, how he hated when she called him her baby boy, but he was and always would be.

  Maybe it was only the wine that made her a bit teary-eyed as she listened to Tyrell tell his fish story. She smiled at the excitement in his voice and suddenly she couldn’t help wondering about Zach Kensor’s mother.

  She bit down on her lip and that was when she decided. Her boss would approve, of that she was certain. Yes, Natalie knew exactly what she was going to do in the next forty-eight hours. What she had to do.

  48

  EchoEnergy

  William Sidel had almost escaped his office for a late round of golf when Van Dorn, his head of security, called. He was tempted to have his secretary tell the man he was already gone, but this was what he had hung around for, anxious and curious. He waved his secretary to take off for the day. It was after five.

  “Hey, Van.” Sidel used it like a nickname only because he could never remember the guy’s first name.

  “We’ve had an accident. A worker in one of the tanks.”

  That’s what he liked about Van Dorn, quick and to the point.

  Sidel was alone in his office. He allowed a smile, but kept his voice concerned. “What are you talking about? What kind of accident?”