Poison Town (4 page)

Dark-skinned, dark-eyed Waheed—who was always trying to schmooze Cecil—was referring to reporter Amy Sheets, who had covered the east side for years until she moved to Columbus to be closer to her aging parents.

Pete Forbes spoke up. “Whittaker’s got that beat now.”

Jack was privately of the opinion that Forbes, the city editor, was going through a midlife crisis. The guy was on a no-carb diet, had a personal trainer, wore orthodontic braces, and had recently shown up at work in a yellow Miata.

“Of course, Whittaker doesn’t have the contacts at the courthouse that Amy did,” Pete added.

“Never will.” Cecil crossed his arms in a huff.

Derrick Whittaker, a thirtysomething African-American reporter, was one of Jack’s best friends. Although he was a fantastic writer, Derrick sometimes lacked speed at deadline time. Jack coached him whenever he could and truly believed he was becoming a star reporter.

“My contacts say they know people who’ve gotten payoffs from Demler-Vargus,” Jack said, “but it’s all been hushed up.” He knew that would ruffle Cecil’s feathers. The editor hated missing a story or getting scooped, especially by the news team at the popular local radio station, WDUC 550 AM, which
Dispatch
reporters fondly called “the Duck.”

“For the love of peace, Crittendon,” said Cecil, “if anything earth-shattering was going on over there, I’d have thought you would have dug it up during that feature you did on the CEO. What did
he
have to say about it?”

“He’s insists they’re green—all kinds of clean initiatives. But before I interviewed him I looked at Amy’s stories. They dealt more with government compliance issues than with personal complaints. What I’m getting from my sources is that there’s a whole lot of animosity on that side of town toward the company.”

“What sources?” Nigel snapped.

“Just a family of longtime residents. They have a small business there. The mom died of respiratory failure, but she had mouth sores, hives, chronic sore throat.”

“Who?” Cecil said.

“The Randalls. Galen’s the dad. LJ and Travis are the sons.”

“Amy told me once she was working on a story with an employee of Demler-Vargus,” said copy editor Jocelyn Jenkins. “Actually, it was a couple—they both worked in the plant. Amy was going to meet with them.”

“What came of it?” Cecil threw his bony hands in the air and glared at Pete, then Nigel.

“I don’t know anything about it.” Nigel shrank up like a prune, his black eyes enormous, apparently shocked that something might have gotten past him.

“She must’ve been flying under the radar on that one,” Pete said. “I never heard about it.”

“Well”—Cecil nodded rapidly, as if he was the only one who understood—“obviously it was a dead end, or she would have told us about it.”

“When was that?” Jack asked.

Jocelyn pursed her lips and shook her head. “A year ago? Nine months? Something like that.”

“Would you consider letting me spend a few hours on it?” Jack asked Cecil. “See if there’s anything to it?”

Nigel groaned and closed his notebook.

“It might make a good community-interest series,” Jack said. “If it pans out.”

“Depends.” Cecil shrugged. “It might be hard news. It might be a softer feature series. I have a hunch it’s
nothing.”
Cecil was animated, his small brown eyes forced wide open by his taut nerves. “Jack, you’ve got a full plate, and that’s Whittaker’s beat, anyway. It’s time he got his big-boy pants on. Pete, have Derrick interview Jack’s sources over there and see what he finds. But no more than a couple hours. That’s it. If there’s nothing there, forget about it.”

“I’ll go on record saying he’s not gonna find a thing,” Nigel said. “Amy was the best. If there was anything there, she would have dug it up. But knock yourself out.”

The meeting broke up, and Jack stopped in the break room for a cup of coffee to take back to his desk. The sprawling newsroom, with its maze of cubicles and computers, was dotted with a person here and there staring at a glowing computer screen. Since the
Dispatch
had an evening deadline, many reporters and photographers were out on their beats until after lunch.

Jack had worked with Cecil long enough to realize what his editor was doing, and it bugged him. He was throwing Pete and Derrick together on Demler-Vargus, knowing that they had bumped heads about Derrick’s supposed lack of productivity. Cecil wanted them to work together in hopes that things would magically resolve themselves. That was one of the editor’s managerial weaknesses—not addressing personnel issues head-on. Not only that, but Jack was certain the Randall family wouldn’t talk to Derrick as readily as they would to him.

He got to his desk and found his notes from the recent Trenton City municipal meeting. He slipped on his headset, plunked into his chair, and opened a Word document where he would keystroke notes during his phone interviews. He had to track down five city council members, make a two o’clock water board meeting, and write two stories before deadline.

Jack knew what was going to happen. He would get swept up in all his assignments, more work would be thrown at him, and he would forget all about the Randalls and Demler-Vargus. And he’d buy LJ his six-pack.

But something about the situation was nagging at him. He felt for the Randalls, having lost their mother to such a cruel sickness. And what about the other victims in that neighborhood? If Demler-Vargus was hurting people, Jack wanted to know—and he believed Demler-Vargus should be held accountable.

His phone vibrated. At the sight of Pam’s number, his heart jumped—even after so much time had passed since her kidnapping.

“Hey darlin’,” he answered quietly.

“Is this Jack Crittendon, famous reporter and feature editor at the award-winning
Trenton City Dispatch
?” Pam said.

“You got him.”

“I have a story to report …”

Jack smiled, glad to hear her voice, but uptight about all he had to do.

“What’s happening?” he said.

“Girls off to school, laundry in. Did you get the car to the boys?”

“Yep. Galen’s in the hospital with respiratory problems, but he’ll be okay.”

“Oh no … maybe you can go see him.”

Sometimes Jack wondered if she realized how busy he was.

“Maybe,” he said. “Got a lot cooking here.”

“How’d your editorial meeting go?”

“Not bad. Remind me to tell you about the Demler-Vargus thing.”

“You sound busy. I’ll let you go in a sec. I just wanted to tell you two things.”

“Shoot.”

“My mom called this morning. She said Daddy hasn’t been himself.”

Ugh. Pam’s mom, Margaret, was extremely paranoid. Her husband’s “illness” was likely all in her imagination.

“He hasn’t had any appetite—or energy. You know my mom; she’s a wreck. I was thinking it’s about time I got up to see them anyway. Maybe we could all go some weekend.”

“Okay.” Jack really didn’t want to make the two-and-a-half-hour trip to Cleveland anytime soon. “It depends on the weather. Let’s look at the calendar …”

“Okay.” Pam hesitated. “I was hoping we could do it soon—like this weekend or next?”

Jack took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, and grimaced, glad she couldn’t see his reaction. “Let’s talk about it tonight.”

“Okay.”

He could tell by her voice that he had burst her bubble. Now she was debating whether to even tell him the second thing.

“What else?” he prompted.

“I’ll tell you later.” Her voice fell into a monotone.

She had come to him recently with several things that meant a lot to her, and he had squelched her every time—it seemed to be the norm lately.

“Go ahead, really,” he said. “I want to hear.”

“I was just going to tell you I talked to Wendy McDaniel.”

Jack sighed. Wendy was the wife of Evan McDaniel, a local pastor who, clinically depressed and facing serious pressure at his church, had left town the same time the Granger Meade fiasco happened. In a stranger-than-fiction scenario, a suicidal Evan ended up in a crucible with Granger, and the two down-and-outers made a pact to live. Evan then counseled Granger during the latter’s incarceration at Mansfield Correctional Institution and now insisted that Granger was “reformed”—that he was “a different person.”

Jack refused to believe it.

“Yeah?” He tried to sound upbeat. “What’s going on with the McDaniels?” He knew Evan had stepped down as pastor of his church and had been working at an art supply store in Trenton City.

“Evan helped Granger find a job.”

Really?
Jack dropped his head. “Where?” That was all he could muster. Was he supposed to jump for joy that her abductor had found employment?

“Crafts Galore.” Pam spoke quietly, all emotion gone. “In Mount Camden. I just thought it was a good thing.”

“They’re going to let him be around all those attractive housewives?”

Dead silence.

Jack knew his burning comment had hurt Pam. He stood, realizing it was too late to take it back.

There was a long pause. “I’ll talk to you later,” she said finally.

“Pam, what do you want me to say? I’m so thrilled your kidnapper got a job? Be serious.”

“You know something, Jack? You have to let this go.”

“I just find it hard to believe—”

“This bitterness is poisoning you. You get so angry at the littlest things—ever since it happened.”

“And you can’t understand that? My wife was stalked by some pervert high school classmate. He invaded our home—took things. Tore you away from us for a night of pure hell!”

“Have
you
not been forgiven?”

“Pam—”

“You forgive to a point, but if it’s too big of a sin or too personal, forget it?”

“He’s dangerous! Okay? My job is to protect you—and the girls.”

“We’ve been through this. God’s big enough, Jack. He’s big enough to protect us. He showed us that. He’s big enough to make something of Granger, if that’s what He wants to do. But who are we to make that call?”

Jack knew she was right, but he had not been able to forgive, period. As far as he was concerned, it wasn’t even a topic for discussion. He had agreed to drop charges only to appease Pam.

“Look, I just don’t want any part of the guy, and, no, I don’t like knowing he’s free and living near us. That’s ludicrous. I don’t want to know anything about him. Can’t
you
understand
that
?”

“It’s not like we’re going to have him over for dinner. I was just sharing something uplifting. Wendy said they’re making progress. Evan is really helping him.”

“Evan’s wife wasn’t kidnapped by that freak!”

“Jack, he is not a freak
.
He’s a person who was mentally abused by his parents his entire life. Can’t you put yourself in his shoes?”

“No. I can’t! I can’t understand anyone who could steal a mother from her children. I don’t think I ever will.”

“Does it matter to you at all that Evan has talked to Granger about God?”

But all Jack could think about was what might have happened if Pam hadn’t escaped. Rape? Murder? Another unthinkable headline in the news?

“Answer me, Jack. Does it matter to you that Granger is considering God?”

“No,” he said flatly. “It doesn’t. It just doesn’t.”

Pam sniffed, and there was a long pause.

“I know I’m not perfect,” she said. “But you need to examine yourself on this. You need to forgive—just as much as you’ve been forgiven. I’ve gotta go.”

He sighed, not wanting it to end like this, trying to think of something to say.

“Bye.” Pam hung up.

He looked at the phone. His face flushed. He debated whether to call her back. But all he’d do was confirm what she had said about his temper.

“What up, dude?” Derrick Whittaker slung his leather satchel into the chair in Jack’s cubicle and peeled off his enormous green coat. Running a flat hand along the right side of his buzz-cut Afro, as if giving the side of a car one last polish, he said, “Dig the new ’do?”

“Nice.”

“What’s with you?” Derrick was big into weight lifting and was built like a brick house—not huge but lean, with zero body fat.

“What do you mean?”

“Dude, you’re usually in, like, this incredible mood. Something must be up.”

“Had it out with the wife.” Jack put his phone back in its cradle.

Derrick jumped back two feet, looking as if he’d smelled a skunk. “For real? You guys fight?”

Jack raised his eyebrows and tried to get back to what he was doing.

“What about?” Derrick made himself at home, resting an arm along the top of Jack’s cubicle.