Critical Reaction (21 page)

She looked away and picked up a stack of papers. “It’s not about blame,” she said. “It’s about choices. He always chose what he needed. And he chose not to be around.”

Until now
, a voice inside her corrected. He’s here now. He hadn’t completely disappeared on her this time. Not yet.

It wasn’t a point she was willing to concede at the moment.
She silenced the voice and looked back at Kieran. “Let’s get back to the case,” she said.

Poppy was up early, especially for a morning after a night shift. By noon he was dressed and ready to head out the door.

Three hours should be enough time for Michael and him to get down to their favorite hunting grounds south of Sherman for a short hike. The mule deer season wasn’t for months, but Michael had called the night before asking if he wanted to hike the area.

Poppy had jumped at the invitation. Not only did he need this kind of break, but it had been years since Michael’d had the time to hike or hunt with his old man. Poppy would do the hike, then truck over for a quick visit with his dad at the retirement home before tonight’s late shift. He went to his dresser and grabbed his keys and a bag of clothes he’d assembled for work.

As he lifted the bag, papers slid off the dresser from underneath, floating to the floor.

Poppy knelt and picked them up. They were his original statement and the replacement form from the HR guy—Adam Worth. Poppy stood for a moment looking at them in the late morning light coming through the bedroom window.

He’d told himself he’d take care of this, one way or the other. Still, here the papers sat. Weeks had passed, and he hadn’t even told Suzy yet about the whole mess.

He stared at the papers for a long moment. Then he folded the pages and slid them into his pocket.

Twenty minutes later, he was driving with Michael beside him, pulling onto Highway 16 heading south out of town. It was ten miles to the milestone of the Yellow River, then another twenty miles through dry country until the highway rose into hills covered with a patchwork of pine and larch.

All of this area was familiar to Poppy. He’d hiked and hunted
it with his father, then with his own children. As they gained elevation, Poppy could see for miles to the south and east. The afternoon sun highlighted the stark contrasts in the surrounding landscape—green trees and brown hills; further east, the orange outcroppings of the desert.

They pulled over to park at the wayside rest that served as the trailhead and soon were hiking, with Poppy leading at a brisk pace. “See if you can keep up, Mike,” he called over his shoulder.

Michael had no trouble at all. Within twenty minutes, Poppy felt his chest growing thick and his pace slowing. Michael came up near his shoulder.

“You okay, Dad?”

Poppy nodded, hating the question. “Fine.”

The trail rose for a few miles until they reached a rock outcropping, like a finger pointed west toward the horizon. It was Poppy’s favorite place on the hike—and a welcome stop for a rest. Leaning against a pine, he surveyed the view in each direction, listening to a silence so deep his ears strained for a challenging sound.

A singular conviction passed through him: he loved this land. He would never leave it.

Poppy glanced to Michael, kneeling a few yards in front of him and taking in the same view. His son was starting a career at Hanford. Maybe he’d go to law school. Even if he did, there was a good chance that Sherman would be his eventual home. Last summer, Poppy was content and even proud that his boy’s upbringing might lead him to spend his own life here, raising his family where he’d been raised.

But now Poppy wondered if that was what he wanted for his only son—or his daughter. And Michael Junior. Everything had changed so quickly in the past nine months. Did he really want them to spend their lives in Sherman?

He thought about the papers back in the truck. Poppy hadn’t told his wife or the rest of the family what was going on because
he had a good idea how they’d react. Suzy’d tell him to tell Covington to shove it. Michael would echo that, then insist his dad go to the guards’ union. Megan, his firebrand, would just threaten to torch the place herself.

Except it wasn’t as simple as any of those notions. Filing a grievance or telling the bow-tied HR guy at Covington that he wouldn’t change his statement could be satisfying for a day or two. Then it might cost Poppy his job, with the firepower Covington could bring to bear—just when they were helping Michael with some of his son’s medical issues and trying to save for retirement.

Still, keeping this secret from his family any longer wasn’t fair to anyone. It was clear that his silence was already affecting them: Suzy and Megan were openly worried and it was obvious Michael had suggested this hike today out of worry about his old man.

Besides, didn’t they deserve to know how Hanford was changing?

He took a deep breath and started telling Michael the story. It was all new to his son. He’d heard about the softball game and his dad’s role in it, of course: it had been all around the union the next day. But Michael had chalked up his dad’s intervention as a simple act of kindness. Now, hearing the context, Michael’s eyes grew glassy with anger.

As Poppy’d predicted, Michael pressed him hard to go to the union. He let him make his case, then shook his head.

“Son, I can’t do that. Covington will challenge my story and yank my clearance. I don’t know if I can win that fight.”

“Then
I’ll
go to the union.”

Poppy shook his head more vehemently. “This is my battle. Covington might already be keeping an eye on you as my son. The last thing I want is to get you and your family dragged into this—especially if I refuse to change my statement.”

He’d couched his decision as still unmade. Poppy looked
into his boy’s eyes and knew that there was nothing left to decide. Now that he’d told Michael the truth, there was no way he could face his boy if he backed down from Covington and altered the statement.

“Mike,” Poppy said, “you’ve got to promise no matter what happens the next few months—no matter how much you want to help out—you’ll stay out of this.”

“I can’t do that, Dad.”

“Then you make this harder, not easier.”

The whole hike back to the truck and drive to Sherman, Poppy worked to exact the promise he needed. He received it as he dropped Michael off at his house.

Poppy pulled away and drove a few blocks more before pulling over. There he closed his eyes and whispered a simple prayer.

He opened his eyes again, hoping for confirmation about his decision to act. Nothing came to him. No flash or prophetic whisper. All he felt was twisted and spun around—and a little scared. Like he had for weeks.

But then it’d never worked that way, Poppy told himself. He knew what he had to do.

On the road again, Poppy drove directly to the Covington Nuclear building, just a block from the federal and state courthouses. Poppy parked on the street and made his way to the front entrance.

It was near closing time, but the guard directed him to the Human Resources Department on the second floor. Poppy walked the crowded halls, asking for more directions until he found the right door.

The HR Department was about what he expected: a large open room with offices surrounding it, stuffed with cubicles. A pretty young woman passing by stopped and asked if she could help. Poppy held out the report in his hand.

“Could you give this to Adam Worth, please?”

“Of course,” she said with a smile.

Poppy wondered, as he joined the flow of Covington employees working their way to the building exit, what Worth would do when he saw the unchanged copy of his original statement with
The Truth
written across the bottom.

He ran some errands after that, moving from store to store half aware before heading to the retirement home. As he walked the aisles, Poppy had a feeling of discomfort that he couldn’t place, something different than the fear of retaliation or the worry about what he’d been exposed to at LB5.

It was nearing dark when he finally pulled the truck into the retirement home parking lot. As he turned the key and the engine grew quiet, he finally realized the source of his discomfort.

For the first time since he’d begun his career at Hanford decades ago, here in the heart of his hometown of Sherman, he felt utterly alone.

CHAPTER 22

“Explain that to me again,” Adam Worth said, standing in the empty lobby of the Sherman Retirement Home, where he’d stopped when his phone buzzed.

Eric King’s sigh came over the cell phone. “All right. Kieran Mullaney’s attorneys don’t have to get us their final expert reports for a few more weeks. But under the rules, they
do
have to update us on the identity of any new experts they intend to use. This afternoon we received the names of two new experts that Emily Hart and her father are substituting for Dr. Nadine, their Princeton expert.”

“Give me the names.”

“Dr. Virgil Strong out of USC and a Dr. Minh Trân. Looks like Trân’s a consultant type, unaffiliated with any university.”

“So they’re using two experts now, to replace their Princeton man?”

“Yes, or they could be identifying both but only planning on using one. Hedging their bets until they see their reports.”

Only one of these new names was familiar to Adam. The prospect of being in the dark about a potential expert in the case disturbed him.

“Keep me apprised if you hear anything more,” Adam said, and turned off the call.

This news from King came on the heels of Patrick Martin’s
melodramatic delivery that afternoon of his unaltered original statement. Sixty-three years old, with no chance of finding other employment approaching Hanford’s pay scale, and Martin was risking his job over this. It was a gesture Adam hadn’t expected. But if this security guard thought he was bluffing, he’d know better soon.

He wondered if his father would claim to admire such a man.

Adam pulled up his iPhone contact list and punched the name.

“This is Dr. Janniston,” he heard the line answered.

“Doctor, this is Adam Worth. Do you recall me alerting you that we might need an exhaustive psych exam of one of the victims of the October sixteenth explosion?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we’ll need to move forward on it. As soon as possible.”

“That will be difficult. Such an exam could take days—weeks, possibly.”

“This is imperative, Doctor. And I’d like a face-to-face with you about this man before you meet with him.”

There was a grunt of shock. “I’d have to move things around. I might be able to get up there in a week and a half—though there would be a
significant
cost. . . .”

“That’s not an issue, Dr. Janniston. We need a
very
complete evaluation, and quickly. Very thorough. Frankly, we’re concerned about the man’s mental stability in view of paranoid statements he’s been making.”

“Alright. What is the man’s name?”

“Patrick Martin.”

“I’ll email you my travel arrangements.”

Adam ended the call. Good. That was now in the works.

He pocketed his phone and continued on his way to the elevator. At the end of the fourth-floor hallway, the security guard at Dr. Schutten’s suite acknowledged him as Adam approached.

“They’re all inside,” the man said.

Adam nodded and entered, closing the door behind him.

He had never been in a closed room so soon after someone had died. The sense of death was palpable here—more than just the somber mien of the treating doctor and his nurse as they packed their equipment and monitors, greater than the silence of the three other guards in the room awaiting Adam’s arrival. There was a personality to death, Adam mused. This had substance.

Schutten’s body was already enclosed in a lead-lined body bag. Adam took the treating physician into a corner and spoke quietly with him for a few moments. The doctor reacted with awe—just as Adam had hoped—when he handed him a check for twice the doctor’s charges. Good, Adam thought. He knew now he’d have no debate about retaining the medical records or the importance of the confidentiality agreement the doctor and nurse had already signed.

With a final nod, Adam signaled the security crew. The three men quickly converged on the bag and heaved it from the bed onto a gurney. Adam followed as they pushed the gurney from the room.

It was fully dark outside when they left the retirement home entrance and pushed the gurney up to the two Land Rovers parked at the entrance curb. Adam glanced quickly around while the men transferred the bag into the back of the nearest vehicle. He hated the risk of being seen here. If the treating doctor hadn’t insisted on delivery of his check before leaving for the airport, Adam wouldn’t have come. But now that he was here, he might as well accompany the body to the disposal site; he’d wanted to inspect the place again for some time now.

It was very quiet at this late hour. The only sound, beyond the guard’s grunts and the creaking shocks of the Land Rover as the body landed on the floor, was the hurried footsteps of someone approaching from the parking lot. It was a man, moving rapidly through the splash of light from the overhead lamps at the door before entering the home.