Fallout, page 13
“Nothing. How are you doing?”
I wanted to blurt out my latest discovery, but years of keeping to myself prevailed. “As well as can be expected. Thank you for saving my life.”
Dutch looked down and awkwardly patted me on the shoulder.
“I wanted to say that earlier and I don’t remember if I did, but I also came over here because the phone in Highland House is out.”
Dutch picked up a nearby phone, listened for a moment, then hung up. “Seems all the phones are down.”
“Is that normal?”
“It happens. Who did you need to call?”
“A man I met today named Norman Bottoms. He just called because he wanted me to look into something having to do with Suttonville.”
“Did he say what?”
“He was spelling out a word when the phone went dead.”
“What word?”
“I believe he was spelling out Kyshtym.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s an event. The Kyshtym disaster, in the midfifties in the former Soviet Union, was an explosion in a cooling tank holding radioactive materials.”
Dutch rubbed his mouth for a moment, then began pacing.
“What’s wrong?” I finally asked.
“That’s the problem. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’ve been trying to put some things together, but I’m not getting very far.”
Now it was my turn to want to pace. “Dutch . . .”
He paused and looked at me. I was suddenly aware that we were alone and no one knew we were here. I’d avoided putting myself in this situation ever since . . . I scrambled to put a brick over that memory. On the other hand, I really did need someone to talk to, someone who could look at the puzzle I’d been assembling. “I need to show you something.”
“Okay.”
“It’s in Beatrice’s studio.”
Without speaking, Dutch left the library and grabbed a jacket from his lab. Once outside, he pointed to the side of Highland House. “You can get into the studio without going through the house.”
It was as if he could read my mind. I didn’t want to run into Mary nor have Dutch in my bedroom.
Inside the studio, I pulled out the foam board that held my own research.
“Nice job, Samantha.”
The heat ran up my neck and onto my face. I turned away and pretended to look for a marker so he couldn’t see how much his approval touched me. “I, um, well, the two people who seem to be connected to all that’s going on—Beatrice and Ryan—are both dead.”
“True. But Ryan’s death was a terrible accident.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I found this in the library.” Taking a piece of tape, he placed a printout on the board of an article on Clan Firinn with a photo.
I moved closer to see. “What’s important about this?”
He took the marker, his fingers lightly brushing my hand.
I’m in real trouble here. I like Dutch. A lot. And I swore I’d never trust a man again. I stepped away.
If Dutch noticed, he didn’t say anything. “This person.” He circled someone behind Dr. Brùn. “Might, just might, be Beatrice.”
“So? She’s lived here a long time.”
“Look at the names.” He tapped the names listed under the photo.
“B. Green.” I looked at him. “I don’t understand.”
“If that’s Beatrice, she may have changed her name.”
“Or the paper got it wrong. And if she did, I suppose there could be a lot of reasons.” I sat in the drafting chair. Dutch leaned against a craft table. “Is there any connection between Beatrice and Suttonville?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. This fellow who called earlier . . .”
“Norman Bottoms.”
“Norman. You said you spoke to him in Pasco. What did he say then?”
I closed my eyes and thought about our meeting. “He mentioned the fence they put up. The town was blocked off with a guard to keep people out.”
“That makes sense.”
“Um, the people working there wore biohazard suits.”
Dutch nodded.
“Oh, and the vehicles had no markings on them, like to identify they were the police or sheriff’s department.”
Dutch straightened. “That part is strange. There should have been a few marked cars. Anything else?”
“He was coughing a lot, poor man. Said he had cancer—”
“What kind of cancer?” Dutch stared at me with an intense gaze.
“I think he said throat. Or thyroid. Why?”
“How old do you think he was?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Maybe in his seventies. What are you thinking?”
Instead of answering, Dutch leaned forward and wrote Norman, Hanford, Kyshtym, and nuclear on separate sheets of paper, then taped them on the board below Suttonville.
The wind outside rattled the windows, followed by the tapping of rain.
“Why did you write Hanford?” I asked.
Dutch walked to the window, stared out for a moment, then returned and looked at the board. “I don’t know if any of this is connected, but I think I have a place to start looking.” He tapped the word Hanford, then glanced at his watch. “I need to dig deeper. The phones should be working by morning. I need you to give your friend Norman a call. I’ll meet you here tomorrow at ten.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Find a map of Washington State.”
Sixteen
Dutch raced through the rain squall to the library. He usually didn’t mind the lack of internet access, but tonight he really needed it. He’d find what he could in the microfilm and microfiche records and tomorrow he’d take a trip to find out the rest and see if it all made sense.
When he finally finished his research, it was after three in the morning. Norman’s thyroid cancer combined with the biosuits opened a new possibility. His eyelids felt like sandpaper. He’d ended up with more questions than answers, but nothing more could be gleaned from the Clan Firinn library. Tomorrow. He glanced at his watch. Make that later today, I’ll try to put it all together.
* * *
After Dutch left I moved to my room. The steady rain lulled me to sleep.
I was alone in a big, echoing house with bare floors. It was dimly lit, even though it was broad daylight outside. I was in my usual hiding place under the piano in the corner of the room. I had my favorite books there, though my father had made me bring them out so he could see what I was reading. He kept them for a couple of days until I asked for them again. He even bought three new Dr. Seuss books for me because he was sorry he forgot.
After I read my new books for the third time, I closed my eyes.
I stood in a field with a small stream. The stream ran through a large culvert, then dropped into a shimmering pool. I wanted to go wading, but the pool turned black and smelled awful. The black water got on my hands and I tried to wipe it off.
I opened my eyes. It was dark, but I could see through a narrow opening. Legs moved in front of the piano, and voices called out, but I didn’t know what they were saying.
I tried to sneak out of my hiding place, but everything had changed. The house was full of strangers.
As I tried to get to my room, a big policeman saw me. He reached for me, but I screamed. I screamed again—
I jerked upright, soaked in sweat. The remains of the dream clung to my mind like gauzy cobwebs. For years, the memory of the day my parents died haunted my sleep. It had taken a worse nightmare to erase it.
Going back to sleep would be out of the question. I got up and moved to the kitchen to brew some coffee.
The rain had stopped earlier in the morning, leaving a tepid sunlight to peek through drab clouds. The weather matched my mood. I took my cup of coffee into the living room, where Beatrice’s Bible still lay. After praying for my students, their parents, and the new friends I’d made here at Clan Firinn, I opened the Bible to Matthew. “Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.” I leaned back into the sofa and closed my eyes. Each day has enough trouble of its own. “So true, so true.”
“What’s true?” Mary walked into the room and settled into a chair with her cup of coffee.
“You’re up early.”
“Restless night. I kept thinking about Ryan. What a horrible way to die.”
I nodded.
“So what’s true?”
“Matthew chapter 6 verse 34.” I read it to her.
“Oh, that. Religious stuff.”
“Mary, it’s not religion. It’s a walk—”
She held up her hand. “Don’t. You can’t convince me there’s a loving God up in the clouds somewhere.”
“I’m sorry. My faith gives me comfort when things aren’t going right or easy in my life. It’s described as a peace that surpasses all understanding.”
“Peace? Really? Look around you. Death, war, disease. Where’s God in all that?”
“I think God allows us to go through some things in order to help others going through the same—”
“Don’t.”
I closed the Bible.
She stared at me a moment, then blinked. “I’m sorry. I just have had too rough a life to believe in anything or anyone.”
“You believe in your husband, believe enough to go looking for him. And you have a baby on—”
“Don’t,” she said louder than before, then took a deep breath. “What’s with the board in the studio?”
“You were in my studio?” I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
“Cool your jets. I was just looking for you.”
“I’m sorry. Like you, I had a bad night.”
“I thought you had that peace beyond understanding?”
“That’s why I pray.”
Mary stiffened. “Apology accepted. The board?”
“I was just trying to put all the pieces together, rather like my own jigsaw puzzle.”
“And did you?” She took a sip of coffee.
“No, but Dutch might have.”
“Dutch was here last night? Really?” She stared at me over the rim of her cup.
My face warmed. “I got a phone call last night, but the phone went dead, so I walked over to the lodge to return the call and ran into Dutch—”
“You don’t need to explain. You’re a big girl and entitled to entertain men if you choose.”
The warmth turned into a burn. “I . . . I need to get dressed.” I got up and headed for my room. I’m back to being a coward. I should have told her . . . what? That I’m not interested in Dutch? That would be a lie. I reached my room and shut the door. “What’s the matter with me?” What’s the matter is Mary struck a nerve.
But I’m not ready. I may never be ready.
After taking a shower, I inspected my meager outfits from Pullman. Even after washing, they still smelled faintly of mildew. In the closet I found jeans, a great rope belt, a navy long-sleeved top, and a blue-and-cream cardigan. When I finally found a place to live, I’d take notes on this wardrobe.
Dutch had arrived and was sitting in the living room talking to Mary when I entered. He stood. “You look nice.”
“Thank you.” I dug my nails into my palm to distract me from blushing. “I was about to make breakfast. May I make some for you?”
“Actually, I’m here to talk to you about . . .” He glanced at Mary.
“Don’t worry. If it’s about my chart, she’s already seen it.”
He pulled up a chair and placed a file folder on his lap. “I did some digging last night. It was when you mentioned the fellow who called you had thyroid cancer that something clicked in my mind. I just need to talk to Norman to ask him a few questions.”
“Let me get his card.”
“While you’re at it, did you find a map of Washington State?”
“I have one in my car.” Mary stood and left to retrieve it.
I returned first with Norman’s card and the foam-board chart. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Please.” He followed me into the kitchen. “Samantha, once you find another apartment and get settled, I was wondering if I—”
Mary trotted into the room. “Here’s your map.”
“Thanks.” Dutch took it and moved to the dining room table, which, for once, wasn’t covered with Mary’s clutter.
I wanted to ask him what he was about to say, but the moment had passed. I dialed Norman’s number. After he answered, I reminded him of who I was, then said, “I have someone here who wants to ask you a few questions.”
Dutch took the handset from me. “Hi, Norman, this is Dr. Van Seters. Samantha mentioned to me you had thyroid cancer. I was wondering if—” He listened for a moment. “I see. Yes, I’ve heard of it. Where did you grow up?” He listened for a minute. “Yes. Thank you so much for the information. If I learn anything new, of course I’ll share with you. Goodbye.” He hung up. “Why don’t you both sit down.”
Mary and I both sat at the table on either side of Dutch.
He placed the file folder on the table, then spread out the map. “This is just speculation, but it might also tie some things together. When you mentioned Norman has thyroid cancer, Samantha, and he told you about the biohazard unit in unmarked vehicles in Suttonville, I had a theory.” Under where he’d written Norman’s name, he wrote Green Run. “There are several reasons for someone to develop thyroid cancer. Certain inherited genetic predispositions, being female, and exposure to high levels of radiation.” Dutch shifted his sling and winced.
I’d almost forgotten his broken arm. It must have been bothering him this morning. “Can I bring you an aspirin?”
“Thank you. I’ll be fine.” He circled a city on the map. “Norman was born in the 1940s and raised here in Kennewick, part of the tri-cities of Richland, Pasco, and Kennewick.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “You cling to as much useless information as Sam does.”
“Maybe. But for now, we’ll have a little history lesson.” Dutch glanced at both of us. “Part of my research from last night. In World War II, the United States created the Manhattan Project, a highly secret effort to end the war. The physicists who invented the nuclear bomb were in Los Alamos, New Mexico, but the largest plutonium production work was done here.” He circled an area south and west of Clan Firinn along the Columbia River. “Hanford, Washington.”
Cold fingers of fear tripped up my spine. “I knew that, but I guess I never really thought about it,” I said slowly. Hanford and Kennewick were less than thirty miles apart.
“The Hanford Nuclear Reservation created more than half the plutonium used for the United States’ arsenal.” He opened the file and shuffled his notes for a moment. “In 1949, the United States was at the front end of the Cold War. The Soviet Union detonated their first atomic bomb in August of that year. That sent the US into a tailspin to keep up, and the best place to work out possible weapons was Hanford. Also, because of the site’s remote location, Hanford was a perfect place to experiment with radiation.”
Mary’s lips were tightly pressed into a line. I made a point to relax my hands, currently gripping the edge of the table with a white-knuckled clasp.
“Over the next several decades, Hanford’s radiation fallout found its way into the air, water, and soil, with the largest intentional release in 1949, known as the Green Run. The idea was to test equipment that could track the radioactive plume so the US could monitor similar Soviet activity. The public downwind of the plume was not warned, nor evacuated. The highest levels of iodine-131, almost one thousand times higher than the acceptable limit, were found on vegetation samples taken from Kennewick.”
My mouth had dried. I got up and went to the refrigerator for some bottled water. I held up the bottle to see if anyone else wanted one. Mary nodded. I brought two waters to the table.
Once I was seated again, Dutch continued. “Green Run released several hundred times more radioactive iodine than the 1979 Three Mile Island accident. Three Mile Island, ironically, is listed as the most significant accident in US commercial nuclear power plant history. Green Run doesn’t even appear on the list.”
“Because it wasn’t an accident,” I said quietly.
“Right. The radioactive materials settled on the pastures and ground in a two-hundred-mile radius where cattle were grazing. It passed into the milk as well as food supply. The children living downwind were the most affected.”
“Norman,” I said.
Dutch nodded and looked at a page of written notes. “In 1986, the Department of Energy released nineteen thousand pages of carefully redacted documents relating to Hanford. That’s when the information about Green Run became public.”
“I’m guessing that not everything became public,” Mary said.
“Good guess.” Dutch made a mark on the map. “Which brings us to Suttonville, less than fifty miles from Hanford.” Dutch placed three printed images in front of us, all of people in white coveralls, hoods, and masks. “Can you tell which photo is from Hanford and which are from other biohazard events?”
“All the suits look very similar. No, I couldn’t tell you. So you think that those people that Norman saw cleaning up Suttonville may have been workers from Hanford?” I asked.
“Not necessarily,” Dutch said. “Contractors have always worked on the Hanford Site and could have been hired for this. The contracted companies are almost a who’s who of American businesses. General Electric, DuPont, ARCO, Westinghouse—rumor had it Hanford subcontracted practically everything.”
“Do you think Hanford was somehow responsible for the deaths at Suttonville?” I finally asked.
“Another Green Run situation?” Dutch shook his head. “All but one reactor was shut down between 1964 and 1971. N Reactor was shut down in January of 1987, fully ten months before the incident at Suttonville. It couldn’t have released any contaminated fallout.”
“How does all this fit in with Beatrice’s blackmail notes, death, or Clan Firinn, or . . . or . . .” Mary shrugged.
We were silent for a few minutes, each studying the board. I touched each mounted image, trying to find something new. When I came to the apple varieties, printed in alphabetical order, I scanned the list. My gaze stopped partway down the first page. “Well . . .” They both looked at me. “This may be a connection. The apple paperweight in the blackmail notes is similar to the one discovered at Alderman Acres buried with human remains from Suttonville.”
