Fallout, page 21
“I’d much rather—”
“I know. I had to agree to a few concessions to get you out of the hospital.”
“In that case, thank you. I take it Mary doesn’t know where Sam is either?”
“I didn’t talk directly to her, just Scotty. He says she’s pretty upset—something about her husband—and needs a few days to rest. I doubt she knows what’s happened since she left.” Dr. Brùn cleared his throat. “Have you been able to recall anything that occurred after you left Clan Firinn?”
“No. I know I wouldn’t have been driving anywhere, nor would Sam without a driver’s license. What about Leroy? Have you contacted him?”
“We haven’t been able to get hold of him. I’ve asked the sheriff to do a welfare check at Alderman Acres. I would have checked myself, but I wanted to make sure you were going to be okay. We’ll swing by there before going to Clan Firinn.”
Dutch closed his eyes. Black SUV. The words echoed in his brain as clearly as if someone had shouted them. “Black SUV,” he said out loud.
“What’s that?”
“It just came to me. Black SUV. A black SUV with two men in suits has been following us—at least that’s what Sam believed. I did see them in Suttonville, parked at the edge of the coulee. Maybe they were following us and . . . I don’t know . . . did something to the car . . . I remember lights . . .”
Dr. Brùn’s jaw clenched. “I see.”
Something in the way he said that made Dutch turn to look at the older man. “Do you know something about that?”
“No. But I can call around.” He patted Dutch on the shoulder. “Everything will be fine.”
* * *
Alderman Acres soon filled with official vehicles from the sheriff’s office. The handcuffs chaffed my wrists, and the car’s interior was heating up. I was about to lie on my back and kick at the windows when the deputy returned and opened the door.
“What’s your name?”
“Samantha Will . . . McWilliams.”
“You’re not sure?”
“Long story.”
“Do you have any identification?”
“You searched my pockets—”
“Don’t get smart. Just answer my question.”
“No. Another long story.”
“Where have you been the last twelve hours?”
“Ano—”
“Don’t tell me another long story.”
I didn’t answer.
He rubbed his chin. “Where do you live?”
“I’m staying at Clan Firinn.”
“So you’re one of Dr. Brùn’s refugees. That explains it. Stand up.”
I stood. He turned me around and uncuffed me.
I rubbed my aching wrists. “Did you decide I didn’t kill Leroy?”
“I’m still investigating. I need you to stay put. I’m going to have someone drive you over to Clan Firinn for now.”
“Then I’m not under arrest?”
“Just wait here.”
I waited until he moved away, then walked over to a tree to get out of the sun. Now what? Clan Firinn could be the epicenter of this whole tornado of events. I didn’t want to be under house arrest there.
Where else could I go? I didn’t want to put Janet in any more danger. I was homeless, broke, hungry, tired, and being pursued by people who seemed to want me dead. I needed a place to hide until I had a plan.
A white Escalade pulled into the excavation site, parked, and Dr. Brùn stepped out.
I retreated farther into the tree’s shadow.
Dutch, now sporting a blue fiberglass cast, got out of the passenger side.
I grew breathless. He’s alive! I wanted to launch myself at him, have him wrap his arms around me and say everything would be fine. I started forward, then stopped. An idea formed in my brain. What if I disappeared again? Went someplace where they’d never suspect me of hiding.
Clan Firinn.
None of the buildings were ever locked and most seemed empty. All my notes were there. I could stay out of sight, invisible, at least for a few days. It was crazy, bold, and just might work.
Several deputies, Dr. Brùn, and Dutch gathered near the camper.
Crouching and keeping various vehicles between the group and me, I raced to the SUV, opened the back door, slipped inside, and crawled quickly to the cargo area in the rear. The windows were heavily tinted, so I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be spotted by someone walking by.
I’d barely settled when Dr. Brùn and Dutch returned to the SUV.
“. . . believe someone shot him,” Dutch was saying.
Dr. Brùn started the car, effectively making it difficult to overhear the conversation.
We drove for a few minutes. The crunch of gravel and rattle of the cattle guard oriented me to our location. All the gates must have been left open, because we didn’t stop until we pulled into a garage.
The two men got out and walked away, leaving me curled up in the back. So far, so good. I thought the garage was to the right of the main lodge, fairly near Beatrice’s studio.
Heart pounding, I listened for any sounds before rising and peering out the window. The cedar-and-glass garage door was down. Good. I crawled to the side door and opened it.
The car alarm blared, smashing into my eardrums in the small space.
I slammed the door and frantically looked around the spotless garage. A row of plastic garbage bins along the front wall seemed to be the only hiding spot. I jerked the lid off the first one, then the second, before finding the third with only one black bag in the bottom. I jumped in, pulling the lid over my head just as the garage door opened.
The stench in the confined space made me cover my nose and try to breathe as little as possible. What’s with me and garbage?
Footsteps sounded as someone entered. The clamor ceased, leaving my ears still ringing. A voice called out, “Nothing. Maybe a small quake or a glitch. If it happens again, I’ll take it in.”
The footsteps left, then the garage door shut.
I couldn’t get out of the garbage can fast enough.
There were two side doors. I was pretty sure the one on the left led to the main lodge. I gingerly opened the door on the right. No one was in sight. I started toward Beatrice’s studio.
The two Scottish Deerhounds rounded the corner next to Highland House, spotted me, and raced in my direction.
I jerked to a stop. I’d made my peace with Fonzie, but how would it feel to be near these two monsters?
The dogs slowed their approach, staring at me. No, not at me. They were staring at my hair.
“What do you think of the color?” I bent forward so they could smell.
Both dogs did a thorough exam, with one giving a loud sniff in my ear. It tickled. When I stood upright, the dogs sat in front of me. “Have we come to an understanding?” I gingerly reached forward and stroked each dog on the head.
Apparently we had. The dogs trotted away.
I was inordinately proud of myself.
Sliding through the studio doors, I entered Highland House and listened. The room was heavily insulated. No sound penetrated.
I needed to figure out if anyone was in the house.
I checked Beatrice’s bedroom first. It appeared as I left it, but it felt different this time. I’d known her, loved her like a caring friend. It didn’t seem fair that I’d finally located her only to permanently lose her again. Had they held a funeral for her?
The bedroom door was closed to the rest of the house. I listened, ear pressed against the surface for a few moments. Voices.
Cracking the door, I peeked through the opening.
Dr. Brùn was speaking to Dutch. “. . . so like I said, I’ve heard from the sheriff’s department. Samantha was detained outside of Leroy’s camper shortly before we arrived. The truck she was driving is still there, so she’s either on foot or got a ride with someone. They have an all-points bulletin out on her.”
“Why would she run?” Dutch’s voice was high pitched. “There’s no way she could have killed Leroy. She’s not safe on her own.”
“Don’t worry about it now. We’re doing all we can to find her. You need to rest.”
“I need to—”
“No, you don’t, unless you want to return to the hospital.” Both men came into view as Dr. Brùn, hand on Dutch’s back, urged him toward the bedroom. “You’re over there. Mary will be arriving soon and will be in her old room.”
Dutch paused. “What’s that smell?”
Dr. Brùn stopped.
I ducked back into the room.
“It smells like old garbage,” Dr. Brùn said. “I’ll get someone to clean out the kitchen. Go lie down now.”
Dutch’s bedroom door shut, followed by the front door.
Smell? I sniffed my sweatshirt. Hard to be invisible when I smell like failed deodorant, trash can, and a hoarder’s rotting house.
Twenty-Eight
I risked a quick shower and found a welcome change of clothes. After bundling up the stinky ones, I stashed them in an oversize drawer in the studio.
With Dutch, and soon Mary, in the same house, my grand idea of hiding out didn’t seem so great anymore. Once again my aunt’s voice came into my head. “‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; Of whom shall I be afraid?’”
“Okay, God, now would be a good time to drop in with a little boost,” I whispered. I was really hoping for a beam of light to illuminate . . . something. A choir of angels would be nice.
The board with my notes lay where I’d placed it. The sooner I figured out the riddle, the sooner I could . . . what? Call the police? FBI? DHS?
Somebody.
Worry about who to call when you figure out what everyone wanted. I’d already formed some connections. Ryan Adams had been the officer responding to the bones at Alderman Acres and had a family connection to Suttonville. Mrs. Gimble/Beatrice was connected to Clan Firinn, the paperweight, the summons from the fake coroner, and me. The two suits were connected to Hanford, the paperweight—or whatever had been hidden inside—and my parents. My father had worked at Hanford.
I didn’t want to fall victim to false reasoning by linking things together that had no association. I have ears, and an elephant has ears; therefore, I am an elephant.
Maybe a timeline would help.
Beatrice had been connected to Clan Firinn since at least 1990. Could this week’s events go back to the beginning of this place?
I studied the board again. I had no idea when the blackmail notes were delivered to her.
Returning to my bedroom, I pulled the notes from their hiding place in the cushion and brought them into the studio. Nothing on them gave me any idea of when they had been sent.
I was about to tape them to the board when again I noticed the glue holding the scanned photo to the paper. Someone had done a sloppy job. I rubbed a small area. Rubber cement.
Leroy had rubber cement in his camper, along with a box of latex gloves, a ream of paper, envelopes, and printer ink. Everything he would need to create blackmail notes.
It could be just a coincidence.
Leroy supposedly “found” the golden apple. What if he didn’t? What if he owned a golden apple paperweight and knew about the contents?
Guesswork. Leroy had no known connection to Clan Firinn, Beatrice, or me. At least on the surface.
My connection to the paperweight was through my parents, who supposedly died by murder and suicide. What if Leroy was connected in the same way? I had thought it strange that Dr. Brùn had hired Leroy’s dad, who was in bankruptcy and involved in an illegal labor practices suit. His dad had been a chemical engineer with a degree from Stanford with a gap in his history between 1980 and 1985.
My father had worked as a physicist at Hanford until 1985.
I jotted my thoughts on a piece of paper and added it to the board. There still wasn’t a direct link between Hanford, Clan Firinn, the paperweight, and Beatrice—only an intriguing possibility at this point.
My gaze drifted to the newspaper article Dutch had discovered. I kept returning to Beatrice.
A white space near her name drew my attention. It was where Dutch had written Hanford, nuclear, and Norman and had taped them below Suttonville. I could just barely see the evidence of where the tape had been. Maybe the note just fell off. I looked around the floor and underneath the board.
Someone must have removed that piece of paper. He’d written . . . I closed my eyes and pictured him working on the chart. Kyshtym. He’d written Kyshtym, the name Norman gave me in our interrupted phone call. That had triggered Dutch to look up Green Run and Norman’s thyroid cancer.
What if Norman had mentioned Kyshtym for a reason other than the cancerous fallout? What if . . . ?
I wanted to bang my head against a wall. Or maybe my sore toe. Think, think. What had those two men said about the golden apple paperweight at the farmhouse? “It was here, Sam. We found it. But it had been opened and the contents removed. We need the contents, or should I say, we need you to find and destroy the contents, and I think you do know where that is.”
If the golden apple held something like a microdocument or photos, who removed them, and why? Anyone might have found them after my parents died. Before that, who knew what the apple held? Mom and Dad, of course. But why hide the contents and then remove them?
Because . . . because . . . they found someplace else to hide them? I found myself pacing, ending up in front of the lightbox holding the negatives I’d found in my Dr. Seuss book.
I decided to examine the images again. A quick search of the art room turned up a magnifying glass.
Only one useful slide showed me my Easter basket, piano, bench, sheet music, bookshelves, and the edge of a vase. No handy reflection of a face in the piano wood or vase, a gun sitting on the shelf, or a golden apple.
I sat on the rolling drafting chair.
Maybe there simply isn’t anything to find, the contents of the apple forever lost. How could I convince anyone of that? The two men in suits seemed perfectly happy to eliminate anyone who was even remotely connected to that apple.
I leaned against the drafting table and rested my head on my hands, staring at the board. What am I missing?
Look again, the little voice in my head whispered.
Green Run was in 1949, Kyshtym was in 1957. Parents worked at Hanford until 1985, Suttonville was in 1987.
I wasn’t born when this all started. Come to think of it, my parents weren’t even born.
Start again. Someone wanted to bring attention to Alderman Acres, Suttonville, and the golden apple paperweights. Not just bring attention, but connect the three things.
Each of these elements—the bodies from the doomed town, the paperweight, and the location where they were placed—represented something.
A message. A warning? A threat? Meaningful to someone.
What if the warning was ignored or not understood? Two bodies had been placed in the same location a week apart. I’d bet there was an apple there also. The forensic anthropologist had not confirmed or denied a second paperweight, but Leroy had said there was one.
Explore the possibilities.
I stood and paced again.
What if you sent a message twice and the recipient ignored both? And what if you were . . . angry? Vengeful? What had Janet said were the strongest motives for crime? Money. Jealousy. Revenge.
Keep going. The next event was the murder of Beatrice. Beatrice died shortly after the second body was found. Was the messenger . . . don’t forget the suits . . . or the group getting desperate? Were they running out of time? If there was a specific date or day that was important, that would make sense. I’d been teaching at the school for some time. Beatrice had been at Clan Firinn for a lot longer. Why choose this time to start the chain of events?
Timing. Timing and messages. My gaze drifted to the lightbox.
Why would my father have placed this particular set of negatives in a place that only I would look? Why would they have made such a fuss about that particular Easter? And why would he write in only one book?
Our dearest daughter,
Should you ever need any guidance in your life, note the gifts given to you this Easter, 1997.
All our love,
Mommy and Daddy
It’s always easiest to remember something when it’s connected to an emotionally powerful moment. We remember where we were when we heard about the events of September 11. When the space shuttle Columbia disintegrated after takeoff. When Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans and much of the coastline in Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama.
Standing, I moved to the lightbox and picked up the magnifying glass again. My dad had written gifts, so I concentrated on the Easter basket: Bible. Dr. Seuss. Plastic eggs. Enough yellow Peeps to keep me wired for a month.
Guidance suggested the Bible, but he’d also written note. Not look to the Bible, turn to the Bible, or any other logical word. Note.
As in musical note?
Shifting to the sheet music on the piano behind me, I could make out musical notes on classically lined sheet music with the words underneath. There wasn’t a title at the top of the page, and the words were too tiny to read. I jerked upright.
Sheet music? Mom didn’t use sheet music. She played by ear.
This is ridiculous. There was nothing to see.
Not with the magnifying glass.
“What could I use to enlarge—” Dutch’s microscope.
I could kill the proverbial two birds with one stone. Look up more on Kyshtym in the library and see if I could read more in the negative.
I checked the time. Dinner would be served soon at the main lodge, and residents would be wandering over to eat. I crept outside and watched for a few moments. No one seemed to be moving about. I crossed to the other building unnoticed.
The outside door leading to the library was unlocked, as was the library itself. The computer showed two articles on Kyshtym, both on microfiche. I straightened when I read the name of the second article. “Kyshtym and the Hanford Tank Farms.”
