Critical Reaction (23 page)

Poppy couldn’t understand what he was witnessing. Parked here in a depression along the highway, slumped down in his seat and half frozen in the dark truck cab, he couldn’t figure out what was going on just seventy yards away.

Three hours ago, he’d recognized Adam Worth in the entryway to the retirement home. He probably would have known it was him regardless, with his lean body and that uncreased face—but the bow tie was the clincher. There he stood while three other guys put a body bag in the back of an SUV.

Poppy couldn’t help himself. It was all too strange. As soon as they pulled away, he’d trotted back to the truck and followed.

It wasn’t hard to follow without looking suspicious—anybody on this highway had to go a long ways to turn off, since the road followed the reservation fence line until you reached the exit for Terrence Heights and Yakima. Still, he’d nearly given himself away by slowing when the SUVs took an unexpected turn off the highway toward the fence line. Poppy’d only just managed to give it gas and pass by, turning around at the next dip in the highway and coming back to the scene slowly with his headlights off. Then he’d pulled into this depression—deep enough and far enough off the side of the road so that no southbound cars would illuminate the truck.

He’d settled into place in time to see a man relocking a gate in the fence line just yards from a concrete guard station, as the SUVs rumbled across the desert and disappeared into the interior of the reservation.

Now, hours later, Poppy was watching the two Land Rovers return, their headlights off. They pulled up to the concrete bunker as the man reappeared and opened the gate once more. Then the Land Rovers pulled through the gate and onto the highway, their lights flicking on as they hit the pavement moving away from Poppy. Moments later, the man joined them—driving past the gate, relocking it behind his car, then driving off in the direction of the SUVs.

Poppy sat back up in the dark cab trying to figure out what he’d just seen.

He’d lived here all his life, worked in security at Hanford for decades. He knew with certainty that this guard station and entry onto the reservation grounds had been unmanned for years.

So what were they doing taking a body onto the Hanford grounds? And why use an entrance to the grounds that went off line two decades ago?

Did this have something to do with LB5 and what was hap
pening to him? It seemed a strange notion, one that took the unreality of all he was experiencing to a new place. He’d always thought that they’d cross a line someday and everything would go back to the way it was. But this crossed into territory so bizarre that things might never be the same again.

Poppy reached to restart his truck. Then he stopped dead, recalling again the image of those cars conveying a corpse out onto the reservation grounds.

It had just occurred to him that he still had no idea where Lewis Vandervork had gone.

CHAPTER 23

T
HIRTY
D
AYS
U
NTIL
T
RIAL

Ryan looked at the Vietnamese scientist seated across from him in Jackie’s Diner in Spokane. The doctor was wearing the same casual style of clothes Ryan recalled in the airport: a sweater, khakis, and button-down shirt. Dr. Trân’s glasses were again perched precariously on his forehead just below the hairline. The diminutive man was scrutinizing the document which Taylor Christensen had given his daughter only a few days before: the one that Ryan and Emily had already dubbed “the mixing room matrix.” At Trân’s elbow was a copy of the Covington amended report, as well as Dr. Nadine’s expert opinion.

Dr. Trân looked up with a solemn face. “Ordinarily, it would be impossible given the short timelines involved. But I have a few weeks between jobs to spare with my work finishing here in Spokane. Perhaps I could arrange more if I needed to testify. So yes. I would be happy to assist with expert opinions in your case.”

“That’s great,” Ryan responded, hiding his skepticism about the man before him. “Tell me your impressions about the amended Covington report.”

Dr. Trân nodded. “Very well. This Covington material is really only half a report. There are few appendices or backup data. There are also apparent gaps, though I would need access to your documents to see what may have been missed.”

Ryan leaned over to his leather briefcase at his side. He pulled out a twenty-page single-spaced document and slid it across the table to Dr. Trân.

“This is a summary of every document that Covington has provided us in this case. We can PDF you anything on that list. But these documents will have to do. Discovery in the case is closed.”

The doctor nodded.

“What about radiation exposure?” Ryan asked. He’d already mentioned the blood studies that Pauline Strand had been unable to afford. “Is there any way to get radiation blood studies done in time?”

“How long again, exactly?”

“Twenty-three days until our reports are due.”

The doctor grew thoughtful. “These types of studies are mostly performed at universities under contract to the Department of Energy or the nuclear industry. But I believe I can prevail upon an independent lab to perform the work.”

“So quickly?”

Minh nodded, smiling. “It would take a call to be certain, but it is possible.”

“How much?”

“Umm. That would require some calls as well. But I believe I could convince some colleagues to do a blood study quickly and at a discount—say, ten thousand dollars.”

Again, Ryan suppressed his natural reaction.

Dr. Virgil Strong had finally committed to Kieran’s case this morning by phone. Ryan had nearly fallen on his knees with relief. “I’ll need every day from now until trial to prepare,” the USC professor had cautioned. “It will be very close.” Ryan had assured him that was acceptable—then sent the sizeable retainer check by FedEx within the hour.

Because it had to be acceptable. All of Ryan’s research indicated Strong had the potential to give Kieran’s case instant
credibility. If the professor concluded that Vat 17 would have exploded whether or not their client touched the valve, then a jury would give that great weight. With a PhD in nuclear engineering and eighteen years as a tenured faculty member at the University of Southern California, he would dominate the courtroom. It was, Ryan thought, an extraordinary stroke of good fortune that he was available and willing to step in.

Which brought Ryan back to the man seated in front of him. With Strong committed, he ordinarily would have canceled this scheduled meeting with Dr. Trân—especially given his doubt about the man. But despite everything, Trân’s credentials were as unassailable as Strong’s. A refugee from Vietnam as a child, Trân had been one of the youngest doctoral students in physics to ever graduate from Princeton University. He’d written stacks of articles in the area of health physics, several of which Ryan had reviewed. More importantly, Ryan could find few direct connections between the man and the American nuclear industry—mostly he’d worked as an independent consultant for special interest groups and foreign and tribal governments. If anything, he had much less connection with the nuclear industry and DOE than Strong.

So Ryan had taken the meeting—setting aside, for the moment, the strange circumstances of their introduction at the airport. And it had gone fairly well, until this bombshell: Trân claiming to be able to perform the blood testing for ten thousand dollars. After Dr. Nadine had quoted fifty thousand, and Dr. Strong the same. Considering it, Ryan’s skepticism soared again.

Still Ryan couldn’t shake a nagging worry about relying solely on Strong so close to trial. Especially when Dr. Trân was making it relatively inexpensive to try him out. Perhaps Covington was pulling his strings, especially given his offer of a Walmart-priced blood study. But in view of the man’s credentials and Ryan’s desperation to insure the expert report they needed, maybe he should pay the price for a backup.

“All right, Dr. Trân,” he finally said. “You’re hired.”

The scientist nodded. “Excellent.”

Ryan reached for the tab. “Let me know which documents you’ll want from the list, and I’ll have Emily email them to you.”

“Good.” Dr. Trân smiled. “I will be in touch about arranging for your client’s blood to be taken and shipped to the lab I mentioned.”

Then he leaned across the table with a questioning look. “You mentioned earlier that you have a difficult judge in the case. Judge Renway, you said?”

Ryan nodded. “Yes. Nothing we can do about that.”

Trân nodded solemnly. “I see. Do you suppose he’d permit me to tour the site of the explosion?”

Ryan pondered the request for a moment. Pauline had toured room 365 when she was still counsel. Ryan had seen the pictures. It looked like a terrorist hit. The room was leveled and Vat 17 had disintegrated, though part of the steel tube and all of the valve had survived. There wasn’t much to see—plus, at this late date, Renway would have to approve another inspection. That was about as likely as a winning lottery ticket.

“I’ll see,” Ryan answered.

Dr. Trân smiled once again, then plucked the check from Ryan’s hand.

“Allow me, Mr. Hart.”

The Vietnamese man gathered his papers and left the table to pay at the register. Ryan watched him go, shaking his head.

So what did this mean, he wondered. What did it mean when his consultant picked up the tab—and the man hadn’t even asked for a retainer?

CHAPTER 24

T
WENTY
-T
HREE
D
AYS
U
NTIL
T
RIAL
S
HERMAN
, W
ASHINGTON

Poppy dropped the list of names he’d been calling the last few days as another explosion of coughs built in his chest. Before he could stand, they erupted, bending him over and wracking his lungs until he was gasping for air. His stomach muscles ached by the time he finally straightened, stood, and stumbled to the bathroom for the prescription his wife had filled before heading to her sister’s house for the afternoon.

Pills in one hand, he cupped a mouthful of water with the other beneath the tap and gulped them down. After a moment, he eased straight, confronting his bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror.

Poppy walked unsteadily back into the living room. He dropped onto the couch, where he picked up his cell phone as well as the list once again.

Poppy skimmed the scribbled names. Fourteen were struck off. None had been helpful. Most had echoed Poppy’s surprise about Lew’s disappearance. That left half a dozen to go.

After ruminating for a day about what he’d witnessed that night outside the reservation, Poppy had turned to searching for Lewis. But first, he’d told Suzy everything—including HR’s effort to make him change his statement. Over several days,
she’d cycled through stages of emotion from relief at learning the source of Poppy’s strange behavior to volcanic anger from concern about where this all would lead. In the end, she’d offered to help him with his search for Lewis.

Poppy had gently but firmly turned her down. She had a job of her own. More importantly, he knew Suzy. If he let her, she’d throw herself into it and tear herself down with worry and anxiety in the process. It’d be better if one of them stayed on the sidelines for now. He’d thanked her with a smile and a kiss.

But his search these past few days hadn’t paid any dividends. He’d confirmed that Lewis didn’t have close family in town. Lew’s parents lived in Missouri, though Poppy was having trouble running them down. Lew had worked at Hanford for three years, yet Poppy couldn’t locate anyone Lewis had reached out to on his way out the door—or anytime in the months since the explosion.

Poppy ran his finger down the dwindling list. The next in line was a man identified by someone at work as Lew’s former roommate. He punched in the number.

“Hello?” a man answered. He sounded young.

Poppy identified himself and explained why he was calling.

“No, sorry, man,” the voice said. “Not a word. Nada. I was out of town when that explosion happened. I come back and he’s checked out. Left cash for the last couple months on the lease. And he hasn’t answered a text or posted on Facebook since he went ghost.”

“Thanks,” Poppy said. He was about to punch out of the call when the voice came back.

“Tried Bev?”

“Who?”

“Beverly Cortez. She was an on-again, off-again girlfriend of Lew’s. They had the mother of all fights last summer. Has
she
got a temper. Lew called her his ‘exploding piñata.’ Smart as a whip, but . . .”

Bev, Poppy thought as the man rambled on. Beverly. The name Lew had assigned to his weapon.

“What’s the number,” Poppy interrupted.

“Uh, I don’t have it. But I know the number where she used to work. Lew had it up on our bulletin board forever.”

Poppy wrote down the number. As soon as he was off the line, he tried it. A young woman answered and told him she couldn’t give out a home number for Beverly, but would try to reach her with a message.

“Okay,” Poppy said. “Please tell her that I’m trying to reach Lewis Vandervork. Tell her it’s very, very important.”

He set down the phone. Almost the instant it hit the table, it started vibrating from an incoming call. Poppy picked it up, hoping it was the girl. It wasn’t and he didn’t recognize the area code.

The voice over his phone was tight and high pitched. “Mr. Martin?”

Poppy answered cautiously. “Yes.”

“Mr. Martin, my name is Dr. Zachary Janniston.”