GROUNDWATER FULL VERSION-PART II

The Wall

Roger called from the front desk. Mark answered in his room.
“Hello”
“Good morning, Mark; ready to go?”
“Absolutely. I can’t wait to get started.”
“I called your room earlier, but the line was busy, so I’ve been sitting in the lobby reading the front page.”
“I was probably on the phone to Doreen. I promised I’d keep her and Tim up-to-date. She say’s the next time we’re in Vegas, she wants to go to Jerry’s Casino for prime rib!”
“The Double cut?”
“God, no! She’d have ordered the Petite.” Roger chuckled.
“Be down in a second!”
Soon, they were heading toward the office.
“We’ll stop at the coffee house to eat so we can get to the office quickly. Michael called me at six am from the conference room phone. He’s been there since five-thirty this morning.”
“Were we supposed to be there then?”
“No, he just told me so we wouldn’t take too long for breakfast. He’s looked over your material, and he’s already designed the basic approach to remediation of the plume. He’s probably already drawn it on the white board. He likes to think out loud with you in the room. He uses the white board like a thinking tool. It’s fun to watch, and never ceases to amaze me and every client who experiences it. It’s uncanny; he just spits it out.”
They were soon loading up on eggs and bacon, biscuits and gravy, juice and milk.
“It’s rare that I run into another man who likes milk for breakfast,” Roger commented.
“I love milk, always have. Doreen too, and we make certain that Tim gets his quart-a-day.”
“Let’s Eat Right to Keep Fit?”
“I think that’s the one. Have you read it?”
“With my weight? Only about twenty times over the years. It’s been around for years and years, since before I thought I should read it.”
“I heard she died young of liver cancer. That seems like a contradiction for someone who recommended the dosages she did of such a wide variety of vitamins and minerals and foods.”
“Maybe the dosages caused the cancer.”
“It’s like that guy who wrote the book on running. I heard that he dropped dead of a heart attack one morning while running himself. Is that true?”
“I don’t know, but that would be a troubling contradiction too. I’ve seen many recent articles advocating walking in preference to running. You don’t injure yourself, and you move the same weight the same distance. It works for me. I have enormous energy, but it tires me to run.”
“I run a lot because I enjoy it,” Mark said, “But I admit the point. You should gain the same stamina. Well, I’m finished.”
He downed the last half glass of milk. Roger shoved half a gravy-covered biscuit into his mouth as he rose.
“I can’t leave that on the plate. It’s too good!”
As they entered New World, it was almost eight. Mark asked the receptionist to notify him as soon as a FedEx arrived from Houston, securing her promise. They proceeded directly to the conference room, eager to see what Hodges had come up with. Mark realized Hodges still didn’t know about the time constraint. In a way, he was glad. He would be able to watch the change in infrastructure density as a function of project duration. That would be extremely instructive to him personally..
“Good morning, Gentlemen!”
Hodges had on a blue dress shirt with fancy suspenders and slacks. His coat was laid over a nearby chair and his sleeves were rolled up. He was a big man, not tall, five-nine, maybe, but big. He had the look of an eagle with his protruding nose when Mark studied his face from the side. His hair had a natural waviness to it. Roger had said that he was forty-five. He moved like a man ten years younger, and when his mind quickened, so did his pace. Sandy had said he was a Scorpio in a manner which suggested it was very important. She was into that kind of thing.
On the white board before them, the elements of the site plan were reproduced, and Hodges had superimposed an infrastructure design which he said could vary, depending upon completion of the plate counts after the water samples arrived. A biomap could not be composed until those all-important data were available. Without knowing where the indigenous bacteria had already acclimated and adapted to the contaminant as a food source, multiplying exponentially, any attempt to address remediation would be arbitrary at best. It might as well be an old P&T company taking on the project.
“How long do you wait after pouring the plates and inoculating them with a dilution from each water sample?” Mark asked.
“Normally, 48 hours, but we can tell much of what we need after 24 hours with most plates by using an agar additive containing a growth accelerator. It lifts the baseline, but gives results that are relatively correct.”
Mark stared at the infrastructure design for a few moments.
“Are you ready for the explanation of how it will function?” Hodges asked.
“I’m eager to understand it better.”
“Here’s a handout I prepared for your client. It shows a cross-section with only one injection well in the center and only one extraction well on each side of it. It’s as simple as I could possibly construct to explain the process if they’ll take a minute to look at it.”
“I hate to say this,” Mark interrupted, “but there’s a component of society that wouldn’t even look at your drawing.”
“Do you think they lack the basic intelligence necessary?” Roger queried, seeming troubled.
“As simple as your diagram is, I think a sixth grader could understand it if he could read; it’s something else, and I’m uncertain what, but having dealt with many otherwise intelligent clients and well-educated members of their staffs, I’ve seen them look at even the simplest diagram as though it were a problem on a calculus exam.”
“Well, notwithstanding your observation, Mark, we need to stay on-point. Notice that the injection of water into the injection well causes an immediate rise in the surface of the groundwater because, unlike gases, water doesn’t compress. You inject new water on top of it, the water already there–highly contaminated-is pushed out of the way, and the only directions it can go are up and out, forming a mound. Similarly, the two extraction wells on either side each have a submersible pump pulling groundwater through the slots in the well casing and pumping it up to the surface to the Bio-Sparge units. That creates an immediate depression in the surface of the groundwater there and provides a preferential flow direction for gravity to push the displaced water from the injection well groundwater mound toward the extraction well’s groundwater depression. Mark, you know this, but your client will need this handout so that he can understand what’s involved in a Bio-Sparge remediation project. Otherwise you’re keeping him in the dark, and he can’t appreciate the difference between this technology and the low-tech junk that’s out there now.”
“What would you estimate remediation duration to be with this infrastructure design?” Mark asked.
“That’s a function of the system power. You’ll note that there are two units, one located beside the Chronicle building and the other in the southwest corner of the Convention Center property. Each has an in fluent supply line to the injection wells indicated by the hollow circles, and another drawing effluent from the Extraction Well Return lines. The extraction wells are indicated by the solid dots in my white board drawing. With a reasonable system capability, and this well density, the site should be remediated within a year to eighteen months, possibly as much as two years. The primary limitation is the twelve feet of cold groundwater above the aquitard where all of the Stoddard solvent is located if you include the dissolved phase above the free product zone. The water temperature has to be increased from 65 degrees Fahrenheit to 80 degrees for the exponential growth curve of the bacteria to kick in, and another ten degrees to enable the biosurfactant to strip the remaining adsorbed solvent from the lower two feet of soil above the clay aquitard.”
“I don’t know whether Jess mentioned it or not, but the city has the option of canceling the contract with Gangley Enterprises if an environmental impairment is discovered subsequent to the sale. Gangley was told by a member of the City council that if construction of the new Convention Center cannot begin within six months, the contract will likely be rescinded, which will mean a loss of 200 million to Gangley. I sold him on your genius. Since first studying Bio-Sparge, I’ve gathered, based upon my own scientific skill, that completion time is a function of infrastructure density. The more wells, the quicker the remediation. Gangley has been led to believe, by me, I’m afraid, that Bio-Sparge, i.e., you-Hodges-can at least theoretically achieve the remediation in six months or less. If that isn’t true, I can only apologize, but I don’t know what the result will be. You can’t do what can’t be done.”
Hodges had been looking at the white board while Mark was delivering the time blow, rubbing his chin with his hand.
“Six months, or less, huh?”
“I’m afraid so. I can’t overemphasize the importance. Gangley’s willingness to open his checkbook is pegged on the sale of the property. That’s his sole motive for spending the money. I assumed that by increasing infrastructure density and system power, regardless of the cost, if it was possible to achieve, you could do it.”
Mark looked at Roger, who had been watching the performance up to this time. He had a questioning look on his face. When Roger saw that there might be a question in Mark’s mind, he piped up immediately.
“Michael’s not considering whether it can be done. He’s only thinking about what it will require. If you say six months, he’s shooting for four. If you say a year, he’s shooting for six months.”
“I came here expecting as much.”
Hodges selected a chair and sat, staring at the board. After thirty seconds, he jumped back up, facing them.
“A quiz, guys. How many calories does it take to raise one gram of water from 65 degrees to 85 degrees, the exponential bacterial growth phase?”
“20.” Roger blurted.
“Correct! A mere 20 calories, one calorie per gram, per degree of temperature increase. That’s the low energy cost inherent in the design I’ve drawn on the board. Now, here’s another one: how many calories does it take to change a gram of liquid water into water vapor, steam?”
“540 calories!” Mark responded.
“And what is that called?”
“The Heat of Vaporization.”
“If we send hot water from the systems on board the Bio-Sparge units as shown, it will require six to nine months just to raise the temperature of that twelve feet of water to the optimum temperature threshold. But what happens if steam is injected into the formation?”
“It will condense back into water upon contact with the cooler subsurface, releasing 540 calories per gram,” Mark replied. He thought for a moment, and added, “but it would also require 27 times as much energy!” Hodges was on Mark’s turf with these questions.
“And what is the release of that heat referred to as?”
“The Heat of Condensation”
“Correct, and all of it is trapped underground.”
“So, by injecting steam, the process will be accelerated to a rate twenty times as rapid.” Roger was excited.
“Yes, Roger, dramatically!”
“So we add a steam generator?” Mark ventured.
“More like a steam plant. You say money’s no object?”
“Of course it isn’t, not with 200 million at stake.”
“O.K., let me do a few calculations here,” he said, pulling his calculator out of his shirt pocket.
“We’re talking about nine to ten million gallons of water, more or less. So we’ll need around two million calories per gallon . . . that’s about 7.4 trillion grams of steam.”
“I’ll say we need a steam plant!” Roger exclaimed.
Hodges erased a section of his drawing and wrote on the White Board:
We need a steam plant that can convert between two and two and one-half million gallons of water into steam and do it quickly, say in one month. First, we would pump from all wells simultaneously to determine a Free Product recovery rate. In pure sand, we should be able to pump out a lot of the solvent fairly well.
"Secondly, we will inject Biosurfactant to reduce the surface tension and begin emulsification of the remaining free product. Emulsifying it will render it less dense so that it becomes lighter than water and can be pumped out more easily. All remediation activity must be in terms of the percent of free product removed by each step. This enables us to plot the effectiveness of each action and overlay each on the same graph. Where the lines cross, we must change to another approach to continue a high recovery rate.
"After recovery efforts have attained, or are nearly at equilibrium, meaning that we can’t remove any more by pumping at that temperature, steam injection will resume as the sole activity. As the steam condenses to water, the water will form a mound underground, along the line of Injection Wells where steam is being introduced and is condensing to water. Since the mound is in a state of continual collapse, we will be able to determine how rapidly the groundwater surge created by that collapse will push the solvent toward the extraction well lines. This will be observed by sector - different parts - of the site, and the flow of steam will be adjusted at each injection well point to create a uniform wave front, so that we don’t end up with hot spots in solvent concentration later, delaying completion."
“How about infrastructure density?” Mark persisted.
“You’re sure this is an open checkbook?”
“Absolutely!”
“Because the steam injection wells have to be 316 Stainless Steel. The PVC won’t hold up under the temperature and pressure conditions required to do what I’m now proposing. Leaks, mainly from vertical cracking, could cause loss of pressure to the vadose zone above the groundwater. Extraction wells, of course, will be 4-inch PVC, with a submersible pump within each.”
The receptionist entered, announcing the arrival of Mark’s FedEx shipment. Mark took the plastic cooler and set it on the floor next to the conference table, opening it.
“I’ll be so glad when someone invents a cooler with a lid that doesn’t have to be taped down to prevent it from opening during shipment.”He said.
“Trademarks of the industry, Mark.” Hodges confirmed.
Soon, all of the samples were identified. At the bottom of the cooler, there was a plastic baggie containing some black, rock like material, and a note from Doug. Mark opened the note and began to read it. Hodges opened the bag and took out a piece of the black, oxidized material to observe. The note read:
"Mark. We replaced the piezo as you asked. On the way down, we drilled through three feet of this material. This is within the backfill area. Below the surface soil used to level the site, we encountered this. What do you think? Sample BF-1 is the water sample drawn from the piezo after we got through the black stuff into undisturbed soil. It was pulled from within a virgin soil area as you requested."
“This is slag!” Hodges exclaimed, “worked with it for years. Was there a smelting operation on the site previously?”
“I can answer that as an unequivocal, ‘No!’” Mark was numbed. “I need to speak with you alone; sorry Roger.”
“Roger, I need you to do two things anyway,” Hodges said, “Get these samples to Plate Counts; also, ask Jim to process this slag-no grinding-just make a rinsate, and run it like you would leachate: ICP and metals. I want to know what its toxicity is in its present form.”
Roger grabbed the baggie, the samples, and left, closing the door behind him.
“How much of this is there?” Hodges spoke first.
Mark thought for a second; so many questions now were answered. It was so obvious. Why hadn’t he realized it before? All the mystery about whom ‘Slag’ was; Slag wasn’t a ‘who?’ Slag was a ‘what?’ No wonder such excessive over excavation had been undertaken by Clarke Environmental while they were in charge of the site. They weren’t digging up fill soil; they were creating a landfill, a landfill in which to hide Gangley’s other serious problems: Mucorp’s arsenic and lead-contaminated slag. It was preventing Gangley from using the otherwise valuable Mucorp property. Rather than deal with the EPA, he had just bought Mac Turner and Moss. With them in his pocket, the rest was easy: a clever deceit. And had Doug not drilled through the edge of it, no one would have ever known . . . until the toxicity showed up down gradient in someone’s well.
“Michael, what I’m about to tell you is highly sensitive and highly confidential. I’m not even supposed to know, but the slag answers many questions.”
“Everything you tell me is confidential. You’re my client. My only purpose is to obtain the information needed to address the solvent project successfully with our technology. The rest is interesting, but superfluous to that primary purpose.”
“I’m glad to know that, and frankly, I’m glad to be able to share what I know with someone who can fully grasp its significance.”
Mark told Hodges about the twin projects at the Convention Center site and at the old Foundry, and how he had discovered that Moss and Gangley were up to something, along with Clarke Environmental, from the beginning. After creating what now was obviously a massive over excavation of sufficient volume to contain the slag heap, they moved it over one weekend in a caravan of trucks, and by Monday morning had buried it under clean backfill, removing all monitoring wells in the process, as they had to increase the elevation to construction grade.
“Just a second, Mark.” Hodges pressed the intercom.
“Grace, connect me to the lab, please.”
“Lab, this is Jim.”
“Jim, run the slag I sent over uncrushed through a leachate extraction process; do it now, because I need the data within two hours. Make a basic extraction liquor of 5% hydrogen peroxide, 20% hydrochloric acid, and 75% nitric acid. Leave out the proprietary additives on this run. Do a rinse with a second solution, graph the fall in extracted metal concentration, and construct a time series.” He punched the intercom again.
“Grace, contact Plate Counts and tell them to inoculate sample BF-1 undiluted . . . yes, no dilution. I’m expecting it to be sterile, and that’s the easiest way to verify it quickly. Thanks. Okay, Mark, go ahead . . . no, wait! What’s the slope angle on the sides of the excavation pits?”
“Its heavy with sand, so I’d guess about 45 degrees, more or less.”
Hodges was drawing on the White Board.
“You said they’re all forty feet deep, right to groundwater?”
“Uniformly. As I think of them now, they were designed like landfill cells, without the liner.”
“God, the things people do,” Hodges expounded, “How did you get in the middle of this?”
“Line of duty. I corrected the groundwater gradient, started punching wells, and . . . bingo.”
“Sounds like Clarke got himself out in the nick of time. Have you spoken to him since to see if you have all the pieces of this scenario?”
“Not him, but a friend of mine at Clarke filled in the missing blanks for me. I have an idea I know what the agenda is now.”
“The problem now, Mark, and we’ll soon know if I’m correct, is that groundwater mixing will result when the extraction wells along the boundary common with the slag start pulling out water. As you know, groundwater enters the well from all directions until a depression is created. That means we’ll be pulling water probably contaminated with arsenic and lead into our system along the side where the pits are, and redistributing it throughout the solvent plume area. Within a short time, the toxic metals would eliminate all microbial life. Our bioremediation would have NO living organisms in it.”
“Oops!”
“Oops, indeed! The slag backfill will have to be physically and hydraulically separated from our solvent plume.”
“How do you propose to do that?”
“By spending an additional $800,000 to $1,200,000 of this fool’s money constructing a bentonite clay slurry wall.”
“Ouch! How would that be constructed?”
“I’ve done it before. It involves placing a three-foot thick wall of bentonite slurry between the two plumes. Come with me to my office.”
They walked to Hodges office. Not overly large, it was nicely done and contained many pictures of his wife and children, along with diplomas, degrees, and art objects special to him. Hodges sat down in a very sturdy leather chair and asked Mark to join him. He pulled up the site plan he had reconfigured on his computer and showed Mark where the bentonite wall would have to be constructed.
“This design configuration will suffice,” he said.
“How is it built?”
“Well, it can’t be dug out directly with a long arm excavator, because as soon as you get near to the groundwater, you’ll generate flowing sands, undermining the side wall from beneath into the trench. What we have to do is drive two rows of sheet piling in the position shown. The second is three feet closer to the solvent plume. When the excavation is done between them, the temporary steel sheet piling wall remains solid, and we excavate to three feet lower than groundwater. Afterward, the bentonite clay slurry is mixed and pumped into the three-foot wide, 40-foot deep trench. The weight of the slurry forces it into the pore space surrounding the entire area at the base, then it begins to rise through the water, and we fill it to an elevation 5 feet higher than the current groundwater stands. Now that should do the trick.”
“How long will it take to build?”
“Oh, that’s not the issue. Its construction can be accomplished simultaneously with installation of the solvent infrastructure.”
“I think we need to make a conference call to Moss,” Mark said, “let him explain it to Gangley, and get back to us.”
“I agree.”
Grace connected the conference call once she had Moss on the line. Hodges put the call on the speaker so he and Mark could both hear and respond to what was being said.
“How are you this fine afternoon, Mr. Moss? This is Michael Hodges in Las Vegas, and I have Mark Houser with me.”
“Great! How are things going out there? Are you guys working, or just playing the slots?”
“We’ve been very busy, Harold.” Mark said.
“Good, have you gotten the infrastructure design ready to bring back tomorrow?”
“There are a few issues that have developed, Mr. Moss, and I need Mark to stay the week. We’ll get him home Sunday, if you could have Jess make the changes.”
“That won’t be a problem. What’s come up?”
“The cost will be substantially higher than we anticipated, because the slag is high in arsenic and lead. If we don’t isolate the backfill from the northern side of the plume, our extraction wells will draw in groundwater which has been in contact with the base of the slag. It will be drawn into the system, redistributed throughout the site, and kill all of the bacteria. In other words, if we don’t place a bentonite slurry wall three feet thick from the surface to three feet into the clay below the groundwater, the project is doomed before it even starts.”
Moss almost swallowed his tongue at the casual nature of Hodges’s discussion. Just how many people did know of his, Turner’s, and Gangley’s secret environmental crime? Mark had to know in order to tell Hodges. How did Mark know? But, worse than that, if they hadn’t found out, four million would have been wasted, and his head would be found stuck on a pole along some Interstate. He was confused, unsure whether to admit knowing, or not, whether to act outraged that Gangley could have pulled such a thing on the State. If he answered wrong, it was prima facie evidence of him, a top state official, having been party to two separate environmental crimes involving deadly hazardous waste. He froze. Hodges could hear his every thought echoing in his own mind.
“Harold . . . can I call you, Harold?”
“Uhh . . . sure!” the words almost stumbled on his lips getting out of his mouth.
“Harold, Mark and I are attempting to achieve a solvent remediation project within six months or less. If the slurry wall is emplaced, I can do this for you in not more than ninety days beginning with the turn on of the systems and the steam plant which will be required to feed them. It can’t be done within that window without steam. What Mark has confided in me is in absolute confidence, and you needn’t respond in any manner designed to elicit a determination of your involvement, because that’s not what this is about. Mark has known for some time, and you may rely both upon his discretion and his fondness for you. With what he has told me about Gangley, we’re all pushing for the same objective, and that’s to get the solvent plume remediated and let this man keep his money and perhaps you keep your head. Am I on the right track here?”
Silence.
“Harold, there’s no tape recorder running, and Mark has your interests primarily at heart. He knows you’re in big trouble. He knows what happened with Clarke, and that the man gave the money back. There’s no need to be anything but dead serious about this, if you know what I mean?”
Moss felt about two inches tall. What must these sincere professionals think of him? He simply could not answer. His heart was pounding, he felt faint, and sweat poured from his forehead so fast it dripped from his eyebrows.
“Harold, we’re not moralists, here, okay? The correct course of action is to discretely extend the slurry wall all the way around the three slag emplacements. You may not have that option with Gangley, but he’ll agree to what Grace is faxing over to you now when you explain it to him.”
Mark interrupted. “Harold, we needed a plate count from bacteria in the groundwater on the northern perimeter in order to complete a reliable biomap. I had Doug install a temporary piezo along the common diesel/solvent plume boundary, and he went through three feet of slag. He doesn’t know or suspect anything. I had asked him to forward some of the backfill so we could test it for organisms as well. He sent me a baggie of the slag. It’s loaded with arsenic and lead, so the entire common portion of the slag/solvent boundary has to be physically separated from the solvent plume. It’s that simple. Just explain it to Gangley. No one’s ratting him out. We’re bound by client confidentiality. We just want to achieve his mission for us, and the wall is now a fundamental component of that.”
Moss’s head was leaning forward precariously.
“Can I call you two back in a few minutes?” He didn’t sound well.
“No problem,” Hodges answered. “We’ll be working on the design”
“Just one question: how long will the wall delay the installation of the infrastructure?”
“It won’t. They’ll be installed simultaneously.”
“I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.
“That man’s mortally terrified, because out of the blue he knows he’s fully exposed and completely vulnerable. He must be having a full-blown panic attack.”
“It sounded like it. I know he must be worried to death.”
“About Gangley?”
“No, about us.”
Moss picked up the phone with a trembling hand. Would Gangley blame him because Mark had found out? Why should he? The guy’s a geologist. That would be like trying to hide an artifact from an archaeologist. It’s their specialty to discover things, and both he and Gangley should be damn glad they had, or the project would have failed and no one would have known why. That was not the time to discover the arsenic and soon after, its source. He dialed the number.
To his surprise, Gangley showed no anger and seemed only directed to the point. He merely asked Moss to wait outside while he spoke to Merrill, said he had a couple of questions. Then he invited him back in, a big smile on his countenance.
“Shit, Moss, can you imagine if they hadn’t discovered it? I’d have lost everything for sure . . . what will it cost?”
“Hodges thinks a million more or less, but he thinks what should be done is to surround the entire area of the slag with a slurry wall, not just the dangerous common side. Then when it’s covered by the parking lot, it will be forever encased.”
“Lawson just handed me the diagram they faxed you. I see the wall, but its only separating the two. Are they blackmailing me to put it all the way around?”
“No, only the portion shown is necessary to protect the project. It’s your call on the rest, but . . . ”
“Fuck that noise. From the length of what’s here, you’d be talking another two million. Fuck, no. We’ll do what has to be done. You said there’s nothing down gradient that would ever show up right?”
“Not in our lifetimes.”
“Okay, tell him to proceed. What about the six-month limit? Can he do it?”
“He says he can do in three from the time the systems are turned on.”
“How long will that take?”
“From the time they get the go ahead and the 25% deposit, about six to seven weeks.”
‘So that’s four and half to five months. Let’s don’t lose a week talking about it. Get me an invoice faxed over this week with wiring instructions and they can start on Monday. Otherwise, there’s no slack in the system. And see if that mobilization can be completed within five weeks from Monday. We can pay an expedited fee or something, can’t we?”
“I’ll ask.”
“Call me back this afternoon . . . and relax. Tell them if they meet these deadlines, I’m giving New World and Delta a nice bonus.”
“They won’t take bribes, Randall.”
“Did I say the word, “bribe?” I’m talking about a legitimate performance bonus for Delta, and a legitimate acceleration bonus for Hodges. Neither will have a problem with that. They’ll move faster, and it’s also a guarantee that they keep their mouths shut. If they intended to do otherwise, they would have called someone besides you. I’ll speak with you again later today.”
Moss realized he was right. Everything would be okay. There was no reason to discuss anyone’s role or any form of payoff. He would deal with it like the environmental professional he was, along with Mark and Hodges. He called them and delivered the conversation verbatim.
“He’d like an invoice faxed by Thursday night so he can wire on Friday, and the deposit will be in your bank on Monday, Michael. He also said that if you and Mark deliver on your time deadline promises, there’ll be an acceleration bonus for you at the end, and a nice performance bonus for Delta.”
“Mark and I will celebrate with champagne at dinner tonight, since we missed lunch. I’m certain we both have things we can do with a fat bonus.”
“How much do you think he’s talking about?” Mark asked.
“What do you think? If you save the man more than 200 million U.S. dollars, and you are the only two people on the planet that could possibly, actually achieve that, what kind of a bonus do you deserve?”
“I hardly dare wonder.”
“Moss, tell him he’ll have the invoice, and there’s no expediting fee necessary. We’ll mobilize by five weeks from Monday and Delta can start installing the infrastructure Monday as well.”
“What about the Chronicle portion, Harold?” Mark asked.
“They’ve given the go-ahead. You’re in charge of it all. Let’s just make it fly!”
“You’ve got it! Call Doreen and tell her I won’t be coming back tomorrow, and that I’ll give her the details tonight.”
“The details? Your wife’s a reporter!”
“Not all the details, Harold, just that the design is taking longer than anticipated. You can tell her that yourself, if you wish. This all stays confidential. No worries.” He could hear Harold’s sigh of relief.
“Keep up the good work guys! I’ll let Doreen know, Mark.”
He sounded to Mark like his old self again.

The Vigil

The extra days of Mark’s trip meant that he would be returning home on Sunday evening. Though she would miss him, this would enable Doreen to fulfill her plan involving the mystique of dangerous investigative journalism–the type they made movies about-on Saturday. It was easy enough to persuade Patricia to sit with Tim during the time she’d be gone, and leaving at 8:00 am didn’t bother Tim, because he’d spent every evening with Doreen since Mark had left. They’d even watched a couple of the old Westerns one night and talked about the kind of horse Tim wanted when they moved to the country “someday.”
During the week, she had studied the best available locations for the shooting. Her final choice was a donut shop across the small plaza. It had shaded glass to keep out the Houston sun, and the glass made it difficult to see in from the outside. It offered a clear view of the 50's Diner on the opposite side, slightly to the left when viewed from the shop. She had her lenses prepared to enable clear head shots as well. She ordered her coffee and secured the permission of the kids running the place that morning to take pictures through the front window from the corner table. By 9:30, she was in position.
Mark had told her that every Saturday morning, Gangley’s club of former Indian owners arrived for breakfast around 10:00 am before departing on their weekend trip. It was a beautiful morning in south Texas; blue skies, hardly a cloud. There would be as many as eight couples, all owners of Harley-Davidson Dynawide Glides. She focused her closeup lens, and had hardly done so when the sound of thunder arose in the distance, Harley thunder. There was no other sound like it. Almost immediately, it grew very loud as the first bike rolled into view, the buildings in the near-town plaza echoing the deep purr of the engines. She obtained several excellent full-body shots of the couple on the bike, then, as they removed their helmets, she shot the faces close-up. Another bike roared into view, and she repeated the process.
“So far, so good,” she thought.
The next shooting wasn’t quite as easy. Three bikes arrived together, and it kept her busy capturing the same series for all, but she pulled it off. Then another arrived, and finally, the last two together. She was changing film, focusing, and shooting in rapid sequence. Only one rider didn’t remove his helmet before entering the diner. She bought another cup, a bagel with cream cheese, and ate while she waited. She also took pictures of all eight license plates from left to right, along with a shot of the eight bikes as parked. This would enable her to tie the riders to the bikes and the bikes to the registration data which could be obtained with the plate numbers.
Within half an hour, they began to emerge, giving her face-on shots of everyone, including the one she had missed before he put his helmet on. It was loud enough when they arrived a few at a time. When all eight started their engines together, the plaza quaked with the combined thunder of reverberating, raw power. An elderly couple seated on a park bench had their hands over their ears. Young boys and men congregated nearby or stood and watched from a distance, enjoying the stoking of Primate fury. They pulled away amidst the sound of an Apollo launch vehicle in their blended intensity. A biker with Mark, she couldn’t help but enjoy the thrill of it all. Harley was uniquely American, and made her proud.
After they had departed from view, she immediately gathered her gear and headed straight to the Chronicle. She found her friend, Christine in the Photo room.
“Hi Chris! How’s your morning going?”
“Is this for me?” she queried, as Doreen handed her three rolls of film.
“Yes. Can I wait for it?”
“You’re lucky. I just finished my last project a few minutes ago. How do you want them?”
“All 8x10's.”
“It must be an important story.”
“It is, an exclusive for the Chronicle.”
While Christine went to work, Doreen dropped by Lou’s office. The door was open, but Lou had stepped out. She penned a cryptic note and left it in his chair.
“Lou, Step one was a complete success. Will complete Step two this afternoon and call you with results-Doreen.”
As she sat on the sofa across from his desk scanning the Morning edition, giving Christine time to develop the film and finish the prints, she noticed a piece which gave her a start.
Recent rains following the illegal dig out of the slag heap at the old Foundry have resulted in the deaths of tens of thousands of fish and birds in Buffalo Bayou. An EPA spokesman attributes the fish and wildlife kills to arsenic washed into the bayou after leaching from the freshly disturbed soils which had formerly underlain the slag heap. Although the slag is gone, the soils beneath it contain high concentrations of arsenic and lead. The precipitation dissolved high concentrations of these heavy metals, creating a hazardous waste. The public is warned not to fish within a mile of the foundry, and not to accept for consumption any fish caught near the area. Parents have been advised not to allow their children anywhere in the proximity of the foundry.
The casualness with which the perpetrators had committed this environmental disaster gnawed at Doreen’s insides. She cut out the story for use later when the whole mess would appear as one big Chronicle exclusive. She and Lou would bring the entire corrupt group down at one stoke, especially if Step two was successful this afternoon.
Lou still had not returned when Christine appeared with a large 9x12 envelope stuffed with photos.
“Here they are. Great shots! All crystal clear. I love big bikes. I can hardly wait to read your story. When are you running it?”
“Probably a couple of months. I have additional research to complete.”
“Let me know,” she said as she turned to leave, “I don’t want to miss it.”
“I’ll be sure you don’t. Thanks, Chris!”
“It’s my job.” She said, a grin on her face.
After returning home, she cleared the table and laid out the eight pictures showing each bike with its riders. Then, she paired the head shots of each pair of riders and placed them above and below the bike, associating them with it. She found Tim and Patricia in his bedroom and sent Tim to bring the pizza in from the car “before it gets cold.” Tim didn’t like lukewarm pizza, so he immediately ran to get it. Doreen thanked Patricia and gave her a nice bonus before sending her home.
Tim hurriedly brought two plates to the table. He loaded three pieces on his own plate and a single slice on Doreen’s. Doreen liked to eat pizza one slice at a time, but Tim was just like Mark. After wolfing down the first slice, and attacking the second, Tim’s eyes spotted the pictures beyond them on the table. He jumped to look, shoving what was left of the second slice into both jaws.
“You can look, but don’t touch. You’ve got greasy fingers.” Doreen instructed.
“Wow, Mom! Where did you get these?”
For an instant, his eyes protruded like Arnold Schwarzenegger's in Total Recall.
“I was having breakfast at a donut shop this morning, and a biker club rode up to the 50's Diner. I’ve never seen so many Dynawides in one spot, so I pulled out my camera and took pictures of them. I don’t recognize any of the riders,” she baited him, “I don’t think Mark knows any of them either.”
She waited in silence, almost holding her breath, heart pounding. This feeling was mixed with fear that he might not recognize them. She didn’t have to endure the tension long.
“I know this lady and the man with her. Dad and I talked to them in the stairwell at Nancy’s hotel–well, Dad did; Me and the lady were grinning at each other. They were staying there too, and were coming down while we were going up. He and Dad talked about the Dynawide, and the whole time, this lady was smiling at me. She’s a nice lady.”
Doreen could hardly maintain a look of normalcy as she leapt up from her seat and almost pounced on the picture Tim was commenting about. Tim returned to his third piece of pizza.
So this was the pair. She had to admit that if she didn’t know otherwise, she would find it very difficult to believe that the woman in the picture was capable of even witnessing a murder, far less helping commit it. Something must be terribly amiss behind that kind face and those pretty brown eyes. The man had a thick neck and looked like the type that worked out a lot. Maybe that was a prerequisite for owning a Dynawide. Who but such men could pick it up if it fell over? Tim loaded another three slices of pizza into his plate, but thinking about Nancy made Doreen lose her appetite even for the one piece she had. She waited until they had finished and Tim vanished into the yard to play with Muff. Then, she put away all of the pictures except those associated with the assassins, which she slipped into her briefcase. Calling Lou, she got his voice mail, leaving a message that step Two had been successful, and gave the license plate number he was to follow up on.
She sat in the den thinking about how well her investigative work was going. How was she to proceed now, though? She realized she needed help from law enforcement. After pondering the alternatives for a while, she decided to call detective Evans. Perhaps he would know what actions should be undertaken next.
“Evans here; can I help you?” he answered.
“Detective, this is Doreen, Nancy’s friend.”
“Oh, the mystery lady. How are you today?”
“How are you proceeding on the case?”
“I’m at a dead end and very frustrated,” he admitted.
“Well, I’ll make your day, I think.”
“Please, I could use the help.”
She proceeded to give him the entire story. How in an attempt to save Nancy after she was almost killed in her home, her husband and son had driven her from her hotel to Laredo, then put her on a bus for San Antonio, from where she would to fly to Ohio on a cash ticket under an assumed name. She explained the route Mark had chosen and that he was certain that they had not been followed because of the long stretches with no vehicles in view in front or behind. He had however mentioned that he had several times noticed a light from the far distance behind him, but it was always a single light, and he thought it must be someone’s porch light he had seen.
“The idea that a motorcycle might be trailing him never crossed his mind, but that is, in fact, how they failed to detect they were being followed. The bikers followed them to Laredo, then waited and followed the bus to San Antonio. Once she had checked into her hotel, she was a sitting duck. All they had to do was grab her at the right moment. They must have rented a vehicle, because they couldn’t have ridden a bike with her dead body on it to the disposal location, not even a Harley!”
“That’s why they could sit right next to her in the restaurant here on the River Walk, strike up a conversation, and she wasn’t the least suspicious.”
“How macabre to sit and become personally acquainted with someone you’re about to kill. What kind of a person could do such a thing and be able to sleep afterward?”
“A very, very sick person.”
She explained that her husband and son had mentioned talking with a man and woman who were bikers at the hotel, but had just assumed they were staying there. There was no reason to think otherwise. As she spoke, Evans said nothing, but he muttered to himself occasionally. She then explained how from a different source, her husband had learned that the man who ordered her killed belonged to a club of former Indian owners, all of whom now owned Harley Dynawides. She described the leather bands with the intricate bead work, and how that accounted for the beads found in Nancy’s mouth. She heard him gasp when she told him about steps One and Two of her plan.
“All of the riders had their bands on this morning, including the man who killed her.”
There was a possibility that he was unaware his band had sustained any damage. She had the couple identified and had the license plate number of the bike.
“What do you think, Detective?”
She waited for his response. He did not immediately respond and was obviously in thought. After a brief pause, he had arrived at a plan.
“I have an idea. See what you think of it.” Evans offered.
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve a couple of buddies in the Houston P.D. that owe me favors. Give me the license plate number and I’ll have the information within ten minutes. Tonight, you’ll drive by the address of the individual who owns the bike and see if the Dynawide is parked there. If so, they haven’t moved since the bike was registered and they’re our perpetrators.”
“I can’t do it tonight. They leave with the club on Saturday mornings and don’t get back until sometime Sunday afternoon or evening. But I can do it late tomorrow night.”
“Fine; I’ll have two warrants issued: a search warrant and an arrest warrant for Suspicion of Murder. I’ll notify Hicks at Houston P.D., and he and a couple of street cops can go by, present the search warrant, claiming they got a report that the place is a crack house and they’re there to follow up. If the guy is wearing the band on his wrist, they’ll do a light search and take him in for questioning, leaving the woman. If he’s not wearing it, they’ll tear the place apart until they find it. They’ll hold him overnight, so his personal items will have to be checked until morning, including the band. Then, Hicks and someone from Forensics can examine the bead work carefully to see if the damaged area is visible. Hell, he may not even realize any of the beads are missing. If they find the damage, then he’ll be held on the murder charge. Then, they’ll go by and pick up the woman.”
“Brilliant, Detective! Absolutely brilliant. He’ll never even know how they tied the murder to him. What an incredible shock.”
“See, it’s always better to work with the police, Mrs. Houser, but it’ll get worse in this case. We’ll have them questioned separately, and go back and forth until one of them breaks - you know, fuck with their minds - make them each think the other is selling them out for a reduced charge. After they both break, the prosecuting attorney can offer them a deal to give Gangley up. They should be willing to do anything to save their asses from Death Row; excuse my language.”
Doreen loved the idea. She just wished she could stand behind the window and watch their astonishment, wondering how in the world the law had found them.
“I can arrange that with Hicks. It should give you a hell of a thrill after what they did to Nancy.” Doreen gave him the license number.
“I’ll call you back in fifteen if you’ll give me your number.” Without thinking, she gave it to him.
“I guess we’re friends now?”
Realizing what she had done, she could only agree. They hung up and she waited for the call back. Tomorrow night, she would tell Mark that she and Tim were going shopping for his birthday present, and while out, she would swing by the address Evans gave her and see if the bike was there. If it was, the plan would be set in motion tomorrow night!
“Oh, Goody!”

Momentum

After Moss had relaxed enough to sense he was off the hook, he realized he needed to bring Mac Turner up to date. Although eager for the payoff, Mac had been calling him on a regular basis to make certain the cat was safely in the bag. This time, Moss needed to put him on alert.
“Mac, it’s Moss. How’s your day?”
“Great, actually, unless you’re calling with bad news. You’re not, are you?”
“No, not anymore, although I got the crap scared out of me earlier today.”
“How so?” he asked, nervously.
Moss related the entire sequence of events so that Mac could share in the terror he had to endure, and he could hear Mac’s breathing rate increase as he went along. Then he moved it in the direction of their mutual deliverance, and assured him that they had nothing to fear.
“You think they’ll keep the lid on? This will ruin both of us. I don’t want to spend the next fifteen to twenty years of my life in prison.”
“With the proper recognition of their work, and we can certainly arrange that.”
“Elaborate.”
“It’s simple; you got your asses kicked by the OTA, claiming you were suppressing biotechnology at the EPA.”
“Most of it’s just Snake oil, Moss. You know that.”
Snake Oil was the remediation industry pejorative for charlatan technology, which most “Bioremediation technology” was.
“Yes, but Bio-Sparge isn’t. It’s scientifically sound and has already demonstrated its effectiveness unequivocally. This is your chance to hedge our personal security with these guys and get points for the EPA at the same time.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Okay, here’s what you do: I’ll join you in it, and we need to do it today . . . ”
Deadline was approaching. The editors were gathered to decide what was running in the Evening edition, and how many column inches each would get. Clemmons, Executive Editor of the Chronicle, presided, with Bard there to make the final calls on anything sensitive.
“What have we got?”
Burke spoke up for International,
“We had a car bombing in London, 12 people injured; two killed. Also, a border clash: Palestinian youths throwing rocks at Israeli soldiers. One of the soldiers got his nose broken and opened fire. The kids ran, but three of them were dropped.”
“Shit, when are those guys giving up? These stories never end,” someone commented.
“They’re news, Babe!” Burke quipped.
“Yeah, and I’d rather read a roll of used toilet paper than that crap!”
“Well, it’s rumored you spend a lot of time in the toilet!”
“Cut it out, you two,” Clemmons interrupted. “They’re both old news and boring as hell, but do we have anything else?”
“I got a picture of a dancing chicken from some kid in the mail this morning. Maybe that would be more interesting.” Burke sniped. Almost everybody laughed.
“That was yo Daddee, wadn it?”
“Very funny, and fuck you.”
“Okay! Burke, we run the London and Palestinian pieces together; tie them with a byline expressing concern about these never-ending disturbances. What’s next–other than the dancing chicken?”
Beverly spoke for up National.
“We’ve got a major teacher’s strike down in Puerto Rico, and that is national. Former Governor, Rossello tried to bring Puerto Rico into the twentieth century so they could become a state. He was defeated by the mayor of San Juan. She’s for maintaining Commonwealth status. It’s been proposed that English textbooks be used in the schools so the students will be adequately prepared when they attend college in the states. The problem is, many of the Puerto Rican English teachers can’t read or speak English properly, especially in the small towns–most of Puerto Rico-which means they would lose their jobs to U.S. teachers. They’re demonstrating, saying they won’t use them even if they’re made available. Further, they oppose bringing English teachers from the mainland. This is the second time this issue has flared up.”
“God, doesn’t anyone down there care about the kids? How the hell do they have a worm’s chance in a bird cage of doing well in American universities if they’re not fluent in English? Those teachers, self-serving, socialist bastards! Why don’t the kids just learn English?”
“From whom? Someone who quips it off with an unintelligible accent and hardly understands it themselves? We should have let Spain keep that bunch of coffee pickers, instead of putting half the population of that island on welfare and food stamps. They don’t have the sense God gave a goose. They’ve still got people down there talking about independence, for Christ’s sake!”
Beverley countered, “So you think Ricky Martin and Raul Julia are coffee pickers?”
“Hey, people in Nigeria can sing and dance, too. You wanna make Nigeria a state? Didn’t we just hear about a dancing chicken? That’s bull shit!”
“You’re the bull shit; cold, prejudiced, bull shit, Mr. Almighty. I have a friend who lives in Puerto Rico, and I can tell you that the generalizations you just parroted are as arcane as those spouted by Pat Buchanan because he didn’t like the traffic jams on Puerto Rico day in New York. During the last ten to twenty years, that island and its people have changed dramatically. The teacher’s have children too, and if they lose their jobs because they can’t teach from textbooks they don’t fully understand, what then? You sound like a Libertarian: ‘Send them into the streets to work or starve.’ I think it’s a great story, but not written from your perspective.” Beverly trembled with outrage.
“They’re still talking about independence in Montana and Arizona too, I hear.” someone quipped.
“You’re right Beverly,” Clemson confirmed.
“Run it, Bev, and make sure you write it the way you preach it. Just don’t stuff it with a lot of socialist tripe. This is Texas. What do we have from Metro?”
Lou spoke up excitedly, “We’ve got a major story from the EPA. Apparently, a new remediation technology is being used to clean up our solvent plume at the Convention Center.”
Bard leaned forward, listening carefully, ready to snuff anything negative about Gangley that Metro desk might be thinking of tying to the story.
“The EPA says it’s the most visionary, scientific biotechnology yet developed, and they’ll be watching the site with great interest. Moss at the state says it will be the first time it’s been used in Texas, and they’re proud to be associated with it. And, check this out. The mayor has congratulated both of them for putting Delta Environmental in charge of the project, since they’re the only consultant that has proposed the use of the technology. Delta ascribes the decision to the Project Manager, their principal hydrogeologist, Mark Houser. Guess who Mark Houser is?”
“Isn’t that Doreen’s husband?”
“Yep!”
“Run it with a flair. That’s a great story.” Clemson approved.
“Just make certain nothing negative about Gangley Enterprises waters it down,” Bard said, looking at Lou, then at Clemson.
“Well of course, negative comments wouldn’t add anything to that story,” Clemson added. “Keep it straight up.”
“Absolutely.” Lou responded.
“Okay; the rest of you, I’ve spoken to. Let me know the column spread if there’s a dispute. Otherwise work it out by space required. Let’s get moving; we’re pushed for time.”
“Aren’t we always?”
“This meeting’s over.”
The room emptied as quickly as it had filled. Lou returned and gave Doreen the good news. She was delighted her story had been approved as written. It portrayed Mark as a hero. He was a hero. Even Moss had characterized him that way. She kept the edition in the den for him to stumble upon when he returned Sunday, just a few days away.
On Sunday afternoon, Tim and Doreen enjoyed picking out leathers for Mark. She had told Tim that it wouldn’t be proper for her to buy hers on Mark’s birthday. Some of Tim’s opinions had to be eschewed, because men in their thirties don’t necessarily find exciting the same items that men in their tens do! But they had pulled it off, and both were convinced it would be a happy thirty-fifth birthday for Mark, not to mention a wonderful homecoming. He never was away for more than a week or two at a time, and that even seemed long to them. Mark was usually so busy on his trips that the time passed quickly for him, though he called almost nightly, but for Doreen and Tim, it always seemed much longer.
Afterward, they stopped for ice-cream, and Doreen took occasion to carry the city map inside for perusal. After Tim had ordered butterscotch, which surprised Doreen to no end, she ordered mint chocolate. They sat at one of the small tables.
“Mom, what are you looking for on the map?”
“I’m trying to find Halley Drive. I’ve never heard of it before.”
“Me either.”
Convinced that it would be in some far off corner of Houston, she was surprised to discover that it was less than twenty miles or so from where they sat. That wasn’t too bad. She marked the map and circled the street so she could see it better with the interior light when they passed by. It was already dark.
When they finished the ice cream, she suggested they take a little drive, an idea to which Tim offered neither resistance, nor interest. It had been a long day, and the ice cream was already having its effect. Mark’s flight was arriving late, and this would just help fill up the time. She would leave a message on Evan’s voice mail and remind him to call her only at the Chronicle, never at home. He’d been told, but she couldn’t be too careful.
By the time she found Halley with some difficulty, Tim was asleep and would probably remain asleep until she awoke him at Houston Hobby airport. Slowly, she drove along, looking for a reference number, discovering that she had three blocks farther to go. Moving slowly, she perused the houses. They were more or less upper class on Halley, probably successful corporate types and entrepreneurs. When she came to the number on the registration, she didn’t even need to slow down. There, parked proudly next to a Lincoln and a van of some sort, was the couple’s Dynawide. She wondered how much they had been paid for Nancy’s murder. What was the going rate for snuffing out the life of a kind woman these days with utter disregard? Without stopping, she returned to the main road and headed toward the airport half an hour away. Then she called Evans to leave the message that the arrest scheme could be enacted immediately. The house number was correct and they were home, presumably for the evening.
“Evans here. Can I help you?” He was still there.
“I thought you’d be gone.”
“Tonight? God, I’ve been sitting here on pins and needles waiting for you to call. I’ve got this thing completely set up. They’re waiting for my call right now. The warrants are in place and Hicks is on call. Is the address correct?”
“Yes, and they’re there. The bike is parked in the garage, and also a van.”
“YES! he bellowed, Yes!”
“I thought you’d be happy about that.”
“Thanks. You’re my best Detective-in-training.”
“I have very personal reasons to be.”
“That’s certainly true. Well, let me go. That fellow’s about to get the surprise of his life within the hour. If you call me later, I’ll give you the details.”
“I want to know every one of them, Detective. Just remember to never call this home number, only my number at the Chronicle. I’m on my way to the airport to pick Mark up, and we’ll be preoccupied for the rest of the evening.”
“Have a nice reunion with that husband of yours, and tomorrow we’ll talk again.”
“Thanks, Evans, and good luck.”

“Tim, Honey, wake up! Dad’s plane will be here in fifteen minutes and we want to be waiting at the gate with big smiles on our faces, right? Wake up, Tim.”
“I am awake,” he yawned, sitting up. Doreen stroked his hair.
“The walk through the cool air will feel good to you after sleeping.“
“How long did I sleep?”
“Oh, quite a little while.” she said, opening the door.
Tim jumped out the other side. After his restful interlude, he was recharged and ready to talk about anything once they arrived at the gate. Doreen was relieved that Mark would soon become his prey, and she could just observe and listen. Tim ran to the window when the plane started turning into the gate. He was waving, although he couldn’t possibly distinguish any faces from that distance. She waited as the rampway gave the plane a shudder upon contact, and the doors opened by the check-in counter. Tim ran to be in front of everyone else as the passengers disembarked. She stood, watching for Mark’s first recognition of Tim, then of her. When he appeared, he shouted at Tim, who had to run into the ramp to hug him. He tousled Tim’s hair, looking anxiously through the crowd and then beyond for his Doreen. Then he saw her. A chill went down her spine as she observed his delight. She waited anxiously for he and Tim to work their way through the milling wall of bodies.
“I’ve been longing for you, Baby,” she said, throwing her arms around him. Mark dropped his carry-on and grasped her tightly.
“It’s wonderful to be home! I love you guys. Let’s get out of here. What time is it? Eleven twenty-five; sheesh! Let’s get out of here.”
Tim insisted on struggling with Mark’s briefcase, leaving one of Mark’s arms free to encircle Doreen’s waist. Both of them felt the energy bouncing and flowing back and forth. They kissed intermittently. He slung his carry-on over his other shoulder.
As they made the trip home, he told Doreen the details of the visit, omitting highly newsworthy matters which were confidential and sensitive. Tim was actually quiet, enthralled with his dad’s voice. Doreen related they had passed the week quietly, but they were looking forward to his birthday Tuesday night.
“I’d almost forgotten about that.”
“Mom and I didn’t. Right, Mom?”
“Right!”
She hoped he wasn’t about to enumerate the entire list of presents they had purchased. Fortunately, he kept quiet about that.
“Here’s the best birthday present of all.” Doreen said, handing him the Metro section with a full page story of the Convention Center cleanup. Mark was at first stunned, then elated.
“Can you believe this? The EPA coming out on record with comments like these? I’ve got to send a copy of this to Hodges. He’ll drop his teeth when he sees it. And I know just what Roger will do with it. It’ll be framed, and hung on the conference room wall.”
“You like Roger, don’t you?”
“He’s a character, I can tell you that. You wouldn’t want to make the mistake of not taking him seriously though. He’s a major asset to New World.”
Doreen squeezed his hand. He had enjoyed his trip and accomplished his goals. She was proud of him.
“Home at last. Boy, the place looks beautiful! You don’t realize how much you love it until you’re gone for awhile.”
As soon as they entered the house, Tim ran to the back door and let Muff in so he could do a proper welcome.
“Muff missed you too, Dad.”
Mark rubbed Muff’s head, his tail wagging like windshield wipers in heavy rain. Thank goodness it was dry.
“Time for bed, Tim. Tomorrow’s a school day.”
“I know, Mom. Goodnight, Dad; goodnight, Mom, C’mon, Muff!”
“Goodnight, Son. We’ll talk tomorrow night some more.”
“Sleep well, you and Muff.” Doreen added.
Tim and Muff disappeared.
Mark and Doreen looked at each other, and without saying a word, walked toward the Master bedroom suite, arm-in-arm.

Arrest

Walter H. Lipscomb was both a musician and a biker. He lived with Polly Simpson, a rich, Daddy’s girl from Raleigh, North Carolina. Her father was some powerful, top executive in one of the giant tobacco companies. They lived in a nice home paid for by Daddy, and she also received a liberal stipend each month.
As a juvenile, she had a rap sheet three fold-sheets long: shoplifting, burglary, drug possession, public drunkenness, assaulting other students while under the influence, destruction of property, and joy riding with boys in stolen cars. She’d been passed between enough members of the football team that envious boys taunted her with “Polly, want a whacker?”
Her parents were completely frustrated by the embarrassment she was causing the family, and by her rebellious attitude. Realizing that they could do nothing with her by the time she was sixteen, and that in only two years hence they would lose all power to guide her, they had made the difficult decision to send her to a boarding school for girls, located in far-off Texas. The school was basically a ranch in the middle of nowhere, where classes were taught and the girls were kept to a strict regimen of work and study. This was all conducted within an intensive counseling program tailored for each girl individually. As might be expected, it cost a small fortune, but the quality of their daughter’s future life was at stake, and they could afford it. The boarding school approach completely cut her off from bad boys, bad friends, bad habits, familiar places, and allowed Polly a fresh start. She resisted initially, but the program commitment was overwhelming, and like almost everyone else that found themselves there, she had finally come to her senses. Her parents visited twice a year-the program maximum.
By the time she was eighteen, she had been reformed into a fine young woman with a real chance to make it in life. On graduation day, her father had made a deal with her after she expressed an interest in remaining in Texas, which they agreed was a wise idea. The agreement was that he would purchase a nice home for her, and give her a monthly allowance. If she stayed straight, gained employment, and wasn’t involved in any arrest or legal problems, the stipend would continue until her twenty-first birthday, upon which she would be deeded the home.
It gave her every incentive to keep on the straight path, so she agreed. The parents purchased a home in a better neighborhood, furnished it for her, and her father gave her the first month’s stipend. After they returned to Raleigh with high hopes for her future, she and her mother spoke weekly, and she got a job at a company that purchased oil leases for resale to oil companies.
For a while, Polly had continued on the right track, but she became bored. None of the "straight" guys who showed interest in her seemed very exciting. Then, at a dance one weekend, she became attracted to the Bass guitarist. Wally noticed that interest, and during breaks, they sat and talked. Over the next few months, Polly went wherever the band was playing, which wasn’t very often, an average of perhaps two weekends each month. She and Wally started biking together on the other weekends with his club, the Indians, all of whom owned Harley Davidson Dyanawide Glides. Polly loved “real” men, and she became totally enthralled by Wally’s power and mystique. That led to regular sex, and soon, Wally moved into Daddy’s house, dragging all of his musician’s equipment with him. The Living room looked more like a studio. Occasionally, he would leave for a day or even several, on assignments from his other job, which was only intermittent. Initially, she was unaware of the name of his employer or the nature of the services he provided. She just knew that he always returned with a wad of cash, usually a big wad. Weeks of partying, travel, and excitement always followed, and more toys, like the five by nine, flat, digital screen mounted on the wall that made DVD all the more enjoyable. Eventually, he told her she didn’t need to work. She was providing a great house, and he had plenty of cash. One night, while he was stoned, he confided in her that he was a Hit man for someone named, Gangley. Later, sober, he claimed he was just pulling her chain. She knew he wasn’t. She was actually the consort of a real Hit man! Though infatuated with Wally, she was careful not to do anything that would upset her mother, or cause her father to cut off her stipend. The hits were faceless nobodies whom she neither knew, nor felt anything. It was more like a drama than real life to her.
That evening, as they sat watching a movie on their world-class DVD system, Wally had his boots propped up on the sofa table, a habit Polly disliked but knew he would do anyway. She sat snugly against him. They were enjoying beer together when, suddenly, there was a pounding knock at the door.
“Who the hell is that this late, and who do they think they are pounding on your door like that?” Wally shouted angrily.
“Don’t worry, Wally, I’ll go check.”
She sat her beer down, slipped on her house shoes, and padded to the front door. Upon opening it, she saw two police officers and a man dressed in a suit. He was holding some paper in his hand.
“Is there a Walter H. Lipscomb here, Ma’am?”
Startled, not knowing what to say, she said there was, and asked what they wanted.
“We have a search warrant, Ma’am. Seems we received a report that Mr. Lipscomb is selling drugs out of this house.”
He showed her the warrant giving them the right to enter and search.
“That’s a goddamn lie. This is my house, not Wally’s, and there are no drugs here. It’s a mistake. Somebody’s playing a joke on him or something.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s in the back. We’re watching a movie. Go away!”
“Sorry, Ma’am, would you please step out of the way?”
“This is my house. Go away!”
“If you refuse to let us pass, we’ll have to arrest you too. What’s your name?”
“Polly Simpson. Am I required to let you in when I’ve already told you there’s nothing here and it’s a mistake?”
“Fraid so, Miss,” another officer spoke. “Do we have to move you out of the way, cuff you, and put you in the car along with him?”
Without comment, she backed to the side, opening the door. As they entered, she ran ahead of them to alert Wally.
“The police are here and they have a Search warrant. They say they got a report you were selling drugs out of here. I told them it was a goddamn lie, but they forced their way in.”
Walter jumped up just as the men entered the room.
“Mr. Lipscomb, I’m Detective Hicks, and these are officers Oakley and Sparks. We have a search warrant....”
“There ain’t no goddamn drugs in this house. This is someone’s idea of a sick joke.”
“As I was saying, we must proceed to search the house, and we have to take you downtown for questioning. If we don’t find any drugs, I’m sure this will all be straightened out and you’ll be released in the morning with our apologies.” After Hicks noticed that Wally was wearing his wrist band with the Indian bead work, spoke up:
“Officers, Wally seems like a pretty nice guy, so let’s go easy on the search and make this as painless for Miss Simpson and her home as possible. Could you both be seated on the sofa while we conduct the search?”
Both Wally and Polly were so confused, they sat quietly, giving each other a “what the hell is wrong with these guys?” look.
As the officers went through the motions of a frivolous search, Hicks commented to Wally,
“Wally, I have an arrest warrant, but if you just come with us, it won’t be necessary to serve it, and we can keep everything out of your record. If you choose not to come voluntarily for questioning, then we’ll have to serve the warrant, read you your rights, and cuff you for the trip.”
The three waited for Wally and Polly’s reaction.
“What the hell, I’ll just go,” he said, looking at Polly, “I mean, what does it matter. There’s no drugs and someone’s trumped this all up anyway. I’ll see you in the morning, Polly.”
“You be careful with my Wally. He hasn’t done anything, and you know for yourself now that there’s no drugs here. Only beer.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Simpson,” Hicks assured her after reviewing her Driver’s license. “If everything checks out, you’ll have him back in the morning. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Polly watched as they led him to the car without handcuffs and drove away.
“What a bunch of crap this is,” she mused, "Wally will be pissed when he calls in the morning, and those guys will be red-faced.”
Having nothing better to do, she thought about it for awhile, then finished the movie. Her sleep was light.
Wally entered the precinct station and was informed he would be checked in for the night. He wouldn’t be put in with the general population, merely held in the front holding tank until he could be formally questioned about the drug peddling tip.
“Let’s have all of your valuables for the night. You’re not allowed to have anything in the cell with you.”
“Not even my smokes?”
“You can keep them, but take off your belt, watch, that bead thing, and your ear ring. Please roll your belt up in a spiral so we can slip it into the envelope with everything else.”
Wally complied, handing it all over. Hicks noticed a recent flesh wound near where the bead work band was worn.
“Did you get bitten by a dog? That’s a serious wound. You can still see the tooth marks.”
“Yeah, it was real bitch dog, too. Hurt like hell.”
“You should do something for that so it doesn’t get infected.”
“It’s better than it was.”
“You can wait in the cell now and sleep until questioning.”
Wally walked inside. The bars gave him the creeps. He was a free spirit, and even being alone in the holding tank made him feel like he was suffocating.
“I could never spend any time in a place like this.” he thought. “I’d go nuts.”
As soon as he was safely out of the way, Detective Hicks moved into action.
“Forensics,” the woman said as she answered the phone.
“This is Detective Hicks. Tell Tolstoy I’m on my way and I have the band.”
“Yes, Detective.”
Hicks rushed to Forensics, unable to resist turning the band in his hands until he spotted a freshly scraped tooth mark at the edge of the leather. The beads were so small that he couldn’t tell if any of them were missing near the scrape. Tolstoy was waiting as soon as he entered and took the band from him. He looked at it carefully through a large, hand-held magnifying glass one would use with the two-volume, Oxford’s English Dictionary. The print was so small, they gave you a big, hand-held magnifying glass just like the one Tolstoy was using so you could read the damn thing!
“Well, you can definitely see that this scraped area on the leather is fresh. There’s one bead missing along the outer border of the beads right in the center of the scrape. Additionally, there are two spots, one vertical, the other horizontal, where two beads each are missing. That’s five total, and they all ended up in the victim’s mouth with the broken chip from her tooth.”
He handed the magnifying glass to Hicks so he could see for himself.
“Solid physical evidence.” Hicks mumbled, beside himself with delight. They had the asshole red-handed. "It's just the kind of evidence every detective dreams of finding."
“Especially when even the colors of the missing beads match the places they were scraped from by her bite.” Tolstoy added.
“Thanks Tolstoy. This is all we need. Now, we can nail those two cold-blooded assassins!”
Hicks had seen the photographs of the woman’s body thrown into the dumpster. Usually in such cases, they never caught the perpetrators. He was so happy they had nailed them this time that he felt a new commitment to an often thankless and frustrating job as a Homicide detective. He would thoroughly enjoy the next sequence of events. He took Detective Evans’s call asking how it had gone.
“We’ve got them dead-to-right, Evans. The beads match, down to the colors, and there’s a wound on Lipscomb’s wrist that I know can be matched to the woman’s bite. She bit the hell out of him; probably would have taken out a chunk of flesh if her upper teeth hadn’t caught on the band.”
“That’s how she told us who murdered her, though, so it was very fortuitous for justice,” Evans observed in a reflective mood, “Sherlock Holmes in action, Dr. Hicks! I just wish I could be there to see his face when you read the second warrant to him.”
“That could be arranged.”
“Oh, God no, I’m not on night shift. I’m getting some rest. I’ll get to see them in the morning when I get in. They’ll be here by then?”
“It’s all arranged and about to be set in motion.”
“You’d damn sure better grab that woman before she gets nervous and runs.”
“I covered that possibility. When we brought Lipscomb in, I left a patrol car to watch her house from an angle she can’t observe from the inside. If she attempts to flee, they’ll bring her in. That hasn’t happened. I think she’s as oblivious to our little scheme as he is.”
Evans laughed, Hicks joining in.
“You thought of a good plan, Partner.” Hicks complimented, “a damn good plan, and it worked.”
“I can hardly wait to call Doreen tomorrow and tell her the good news.”
“Call who?”
“Oh, not important, just a friend of mine. Talk to you later.”
Hicks called the patrol car, and a minute later they pulled into Polly’s driveway. She was awake at the time, and noticed the lights through her bedroom window as the car turned in.
“Wally’s back. Thank God!”
She jumped up, grabbed her robe and reached the front door at the same time the officers began knocking. But when she opened it, there was no Wally, just two officers. Surely, they weren’t keeping him. There had never been any drugs sold out of her house, at least not that she was aware of. They even kept their own stash hidden under a landscaping rock in the back yard.
“Where’s Wally? What have you done with him? Why didn’t you bring him back?”
She looked toward the car, but no one else was within. They looked at her almost sympathetically.
“Well, where is he?”
“Miss Simpson?”
“Yes.”
“Miss Polly Simpson.”
“Yes!”
“Polly Simpson, we have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of First-Degree murder.”
“WHAT?” she screamed.
“For the murder of Mrs. Nancy Herrick of Houston, who was murdered in San Antonio recently. Would you come with us please? You have the right....”
She became as white as a ghost while they read her rights to her. Nancy Herrick! No! This was impossible.
“Do you understand these rights as they have been explained to you.”
“Yes,” she answered, barely able to speak. She wanted to say she was innocent, but there wasn’t enough air in her lungs to push out the words. She felt sick, then extremely thirsty, then faint.
As she began to collapse, the officers lunged forward, catching her under each of her arms. They led her to the patrol car and sat her in the back seat. One returned to lock the door, and they drove to the precinct.
Wally had fallen asleep. He was very tired and it was after midnight when he had finally nodded off. He was annoyed by the sound of his name piercing the cloak of sleep wrapped so tenuously about him.
“Mr. Lipscomb, wake up!”
He rose with difficulty, realizing it must be morning and he would be home soon, and out of these confining walls. Drug peddling! Shit, what a bunch of losers these cops were. He stood up, grabbed his cigarettes, and walked to the cell door, where Hicks stood, facing him. He waited for Hicks to unlock the door so he could get the hell out of there. The place gave him the willies. Hicks was looking at him with disgust!
“So he doesn’t like musicians or bikers,” Wally thought. “Fuck him!” He saw what he guessed were the release papers in Hicks hand. Hicks raised them as if to read.
“Walter H. Lipscomb, we have a warrant for your arrest on the charge of First-Degree murder involving the death of Mrs. Nancy Herrick of Houston. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you......”
Wally was as surprised as if he he’d been shot from behind. Thoughts raced through his head like rush hour traffic. He was instantly wide awake. He reran the events of the hit in his mind. There had been no mistakes made. It was perfectly executed. No one had seen him; no one had followed him into the desert with her tied, lying face down in the back seat of the van; no one had passed by while he taunted her during her last breath for having thought herself smart enough to directly attack Randall Gangley; no one had followed him into town, and the alley was dark and quiet as he lifted the lid and tossed her body into it, closing the lid afterward; no one had seen him drive away. It was perfect. Now they were arresting him. How could they possibly know?
“Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?”
“Fuck off!” he shouted at Hicks.
“Do you understand these rights as....”
“Hell yes, you son-of-a-bitch!”
His head was spinning. Had Gangley given him up? No way he would ever do that. They had been friends for years. He had done all of his hits. He could put him away forever if he told the half. No, something had gone wrong. Polly? She was the only other one that knew. Who had she told? Stupid bitch! She had surely shot off her mouth to someone, but who? And that someone had told the cops. Damn, how stupid could a broad be? It was Hicks mouthing off again...
“Mr. Lipscomb, could you turn around, place your back to the cell door, and cross your wrists so I can cuff you, please?”
“Hell No! You’re not putting those things on me.”
Hicks motioned for three officers standing nearby.
“Mr. Lipscomb refuses to allow me to cuff him.”
“Is that right?” A large black man in uniform asked as they approached. He looked like a version of Muhammad Ali.
Wally stepped back from the door, ready to beat the crap out of anyone that tried to grab him. He worked out, was strong as an ox, and nobody messed with him. Nobody.
Hicks turned the lock and the three officers entered. He turned it closed again, then spoke.
“Mr. Lipscomb, you’ve been charged with a Capital offense. You are being transferred to San Antonio because they have a hold on you. The police van is parked outside, waiting, and we are required to cuff you for the trip. There is nothing you can say or do to prevent this from happening. Make it easy on yourself. Don’t get charged with resisting arrest as well.”
Wally decided to catch them off guard and eliminate one of the three up front. He slammed his fist into one of the officer's jaw with such force that it knocked him off his feet and he fell to the floor. He was about to do the same to another when a smashing blow from the black Sargent bounced him off the wall behind him. Startled, he jumped forward, swinging wildly, landing blows on both of them. But blow after blow from them was hitting its mark. He kicked the other white officer in the testicles. He fell to the floor, moaning and holding his groin. Then, as he was springing toward the black Sargent again, the toughest of the three, the officer he had first decked grabbed him around the waist and the two of them wrestled to the floor. He felt the round toe of the Sargent’s boot on the side of his head, then on his right eye. He grabbed the ankle and jerked desperately, pulling the Sargent down on top of him.
Hicks watched the writhing pile of swinging fists and kicking legs. This was the first time anyone already locked in the holding cell had resisted arrest with such ferocity. The man was a lion. Nancy Herrick must have been utterly helpless when he grabbed her. The officer Wally had kicked in the testicles was on his feet again with only one idea–to return the favor. He started stomping on Wally’s groin repeatedly every time he got the chance until the heel of his boot made solid contact. Instantly, there was no fight left in Wally. Noticing it, the Sargent and the other officer quickly rolled him over on his stomach and jerked an arm each behind his back. He was cuffed! The three then lifted him to his feet.
Now Wally was as docile as a lamb. He looked awful, but all three officers showed evidence of the struggle. No one had gotten off easily. Hicks opened the door and they took the prisoner to the Men’s room to clean him up for the trip. After the bleeding had stopped, they placed Band-aids over the five, worst cuts, and took him to the waiting police van from San Antonio. Polly was already inside.
“Oh, Wally! What have they done to you?” she cried.
His entire head had golf-ball-sized knots all over it. His eyes were black, his ears looked damaged, one bleeding, and he had marks and scrapes over his face and arms, even under his chin and on his neck.
“You Sons-of-bitches; you’re going to pay for this. You just wait!”
“Sorry, Miss Simpson, he resisted arrest. He brought it on himself.”
They closed and locked the van door. A small interior light enabled them to barely see above the darkness. Soon, the engine started, and they were underway.
Wally was only semi-conscious. He hurt everywhere, and he was certain his testicles had swollen to the size of peaches. The pain was so severe he had trouble not passing out.
“Stupid!” Polly heard him say. “Stupid.”
“Wally, what can we do? I’m scared to death.”
Wally had gone under, lying down along the seat on his side of the van. Polly was left alone with her fear in the near-darkness. As she watched the lights of Houston passing by, she was enveloped by blind panic.
“If only Daddy were here,” she wished aloud. If only she hadn’t followed Wally to Laredo and then to San Antonio in the van, keeping far behind his bike and communicating with hand-held radios. If only she had stopped it in the restaurant on the River Walk when she struck up a conversation with Nancy and realized what a sweet person she was. If only she had threatened to expose Wally when he dropped her at the Walgreens and circled back around to grab Nancy as she walked back to her hotel in the darkness. What would become of her now, and of Wally? She had enjoyed living life on the edge, but this was different. This was real. This was not the edge. It was a headlong dive over it into the abyss. What would they do to her? She had to find some way to get out of this, some way to go back to her life before Wally. He was history now. She would find a straight guy and go forward, never looking back. How foolish she had been. Eventually, her mind fogged over, and she fell asleep. The van passed the trip from Houston to San Antonio in silence, with only the gentle sound of the freeway reaching the driver’s ear.

Panic

“Gangley’s office, Lawson speaking.”
“Lawson?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“This is Wally.”
“Hey, my man. How’s the toughest biker in Houston this morning?”
“Not very well.”
“You sound almost like you’ve got a lisp. What’s the matter?”
“Got my ass kicked last night, actually in the middle of the night.”
“By whom?”
“Three cops: one black, the other two white.”
“Shit! I hope they’re in worse shape than you!”
“Doubt it.”
“You sound down, Man, not at all like your usual self.”
“Good reason, I guess.”
“What could that be?”
“I’m in jail. So’s Polly.”
“Good grief! That must have been some fight. Tell me where you are, and I’ll call Merrill. He’ll have you out within the hour.”
“Don’t think so, Man; they don’t make bail for murder.”
“What? Did you kill one of them? What the hell happened? Tell me!”
“Nancy Herrick. They’ve charged Polly and me for her murder. I’m calling you from San Antonio. Polly must have shot off her mouth. It’s the only way anyone could have found out. I did everything perfectly, just like always.”
“Goddamn, don’t say stuff like that over the phone, Wally. They could be listening in. What if this line’s been tapped?”
“Sorry, Man, gotta talk to someone. I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t do anything. And don’t say another word. Did you tell Polly to keep quiet till we got in charge of this thing?”
“She was in the police van with me last night, but I don’t remember talking to her; must have passed out. When I woke up at the station here in San Antonio, she was already gone. Never got to talk to her. Hope she’s smart enough to know to keep her mouth shut!”
“Oh man....this is bad. Listen, Wally, don’t go anywhere. I’m putting Merrill on this immediately. He’ll know what to do.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Man.”
“You know what I mean. Just sit tight. Randall and Merrill will figure out a way to get you guys out of this.”
“Later, Man.” Wally hung up the phone.
Lawson sat in a stupor for a moment. Then, he sprang into action, calling Gangley on his cellular.
“Gangley.”
“Randall, it’s Lawson, and we’ve got a big problem.”
“Calm down!”
“Where are you?”
“I’m out here at the site, watching our hero, Mark from Delta, direct a flurry of activity. This place is humming like a bee hive. Just a minute, Mark. I’ve got my office on the phone. What’s got you so excited, Lawson?”
“They got Wally and Polly!”
“Who?”
“The cops. Wally just called me from San Antonio in jail. They’re both there, and they’ve been charged with murder. Nancy Herrick!”
“Fuck! When did this happen?”
“They arrested them last night, then released them to San Antonio police. They had a hold on them.”
“Goddamn! Did he say how they found out?”
“Yeah. He said Polly told someone and they reported it to the cops.”
“She’s a dead bitch, and it’s gonna be worse than Nancy. I’ll set her on fire myself and watch her burn! Goddamn it!”
“What should I do, call Merrick?”
“Has Polly called?”
“No, just Wally.”
“That means she’s calling someone else. She knows she’s in trouble with us and caused this whole goddamned mess! We’ve got to find out who she called. We don’t have any connections in San Antonio. Merrick probably does. Yes, call him right now and tell him I said this goes to the top of his list. He’s got to act fast and find out as much as he can.” They hung up.
Gangley told Mark it looked like he was in good control of the project, that something had come up, he couldn’t stay, but to keep up the good work. Then he got into the car and returned to his office.
This was a bad situation. Wally knew too much. He had to convince him he wasn’t going down over this, that they would get him out of it. They only had hearsay evidence from Polly. Hell, Merrill might have him out by this evening after he flew over there today.
Lawson called Merrill as Gangley had confirmed he should.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Merrill isn’t in today. He’s playing golf with someone this morning.”
“I have to reach him immediately. What’s his cellular number?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we have instructions never to disturb him when he’s playing golf.”
“Goddamn it, Woman! This is Lawson from Gangley Enterprises. An emergency has come up and I’m to notify Merrill. What’s the fucking number?”
Rattled by the severity of Lawson’s reaction, without another word of argument, she complied, hanging up without speaking afterward.
Lawson dialed Merrill and listened to several rings. Shit!, Merrill didn’t intend to answer the phone. He called the woman back and obtained the name of the course, then called and told them it was an emergency and he had to speak to Merrill, who was playing there.
“We don’t provide that service, Sir. If you need to speak with someone using the course, you’ll have to come here and locate them on whatever hole they’re playing at the time.”
Lawson wanted to pull his hair out, he was so angry. He locked his office, took the elevator down, and drove to the golf course, which was more than half an hour away. He suffered the further indignation of the rental of a golf cart to move quickly. He finally located Merrill on the eighth hole. Merrill saw him running up and looked baffled.
“What’s up, Lawson? You look like a man on a mission.”
“We’ve got a big problem and Randall wants you on it immediately.”
“Well, I’ve only one hole remaining. What’s the rush?”
“You remember Nancy Herrick?”
“Yes, but I thought that problem had been dealt with.”
“It was, only Wally’s girl Polly shot her mouth off to someone, and whoever it was turned them in to the cops. They were arrested last night, and released to San Antonio. Wally called me from jail this morning and said they were both charged with murder in the Herrick assassination.”
“Did they use the word, ‘assassination?’”
“Hell no, that’s my word. But what difference does it make? They’ve got them and you’ve got to get them out before someone talks. By the way, Polly didn’t call, which means she’s called someone else.”
“In answer to your question, if they had used the word, assassination, it would reveal that they knew the murder was a hit. It makes a lot of difference. They don’t know it was a hit. They must think it was just a brutal killing. If you look at Wally in the right way, you could believe he could be brutal if he wanted to.”
“Well, what are you going to do?”
Merrill’s opponent was walking up to find out why he had stopped playing and was just standing, talking.
“I’m ceding this game and flying to San Antonio. We need to know how strong the evidence is, or if it’s just hearsay from whoever Polly told. Then, I’ll ask her who she revealed it to, and we’ll have to get them out of the picture first. Then we need to get Wally and Polly out of jail and make Polly disappear. Gangley will demand that. Disloyalty is unforgivable in our organization. Since he’s a walking encyclopedia, we have to protect Wally and either get the charges dropped, or win in court. They can’t have much in the way of evidence. I doubt it’s anything more than hearsay. I have a lot of work to do this week to get this resolved without harm coming to us. Tell Gangley I’m on it and I’ll let him know what’s significant after I arrive and talk to the two of them. I’ll know what we’re up against.”
Lawson returned the golf cart and headed for the office.

James Thurston Simpson was enjoying a fine cigar, settled deeply into the comfort of his enormous leather chair, when his secretary paged him.
“Mr. Simpson, we have your daughter, Polly on the line. She sounds hysterical.”
“Put her through,” he said, alarmed.
“Daddy?”
“What is it Polly? You sound upset.”
“Daddy, they’ve charged me with First-Degree murder and I’m innocent. I don’t know what to do. Please help me, Daddy!” she cried, sobbing, her voice trembling.
“Murder? What’s going on? Who got murdered?”
“Mrs. Herrick, Nancy Herrick, but I didn’t do it. Wally did!”
“Wally? Who’s Wally, Polly?
“He’s my boyfriend. He lives with me. I only drove the van to San Antonio. I was in Walgreens and then went to the hotel. He grabbed her, tied her up, drove to the desert, suffocated her with a plastic bag, then threw her body into a dumpster downtown in an alley. You’ve got to help me, Daddy. I’m so scared.”
“God, How did they connect you with a murder?”
“I don’t know. I’m innocent. I wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Have you spoken to your mother?”
“No, she’ll be terrified. That’s why I called you.”
“Polly, I’ll take the corporate jet to San Antonio this afternoon and be there tonight. I’ll speak with you as soon as I arrive. Stay calm, Polly, and let me take care of this. In the interim, don’t sign anything, and don’t admit anything. They can talk to you after I’m there. Do you understand?
“Yes, Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Murder! That was Death Row in Texas. She wasn’t capable of any such thing. She had too big a heart. But she could still be tried as an accomplice and receive a very long prison sentence. A large chunk of her life could be wasted by the time she was free. Now he had to call her mother and break her heart, There was nothing else he could do.
“Mildred,” he paged his secretary, “Get Ron on the line for me, then call Randy and tell him to prepare the jet and select two of our top security men. We’ll be flying to San Antonio this evening. Length of stay unknown. Clear my calendar for the next few days.”
“Yes, Mr. Simpson.” Momentarily, his phone rang.
“Ron?”
“You wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes, I’ve a serious personal issue involving my daughter in San Antonio, and there’s a potential for danger. I need to take the jet and two top men from security this evening. I don’t know how long I’ll be there. It could be a few days. Any problem with that?”
“Of course not. Charlie can cover for you while you’re occupied. Take as much time as you need. If you find you’ll be there more than a week, send the jet back and we’ll get you when you’re ready to return. I thought your daughter lived in Houston. Didn’t you buy her a place there?”
“Yes, but the problem is in San Antonio. Keep what I’m about to tell you close to the chest.”
“We’ve never betrayed one another yet, have we?”
“It’s just so shocking I can’t stand to think about it. She’s gotten mixed up with some hoodlum, and both of them have been picked up for murder. She’s innocent; I’m making certain that’s the case and that the police know it. According to her, her companion did it and she wasn’t even there when it happened. I don’t know if the police are fishing, or what. I do know it’ll break Sarah’s heart, but we have to stand by her. She’s our only child and she’s in trouble.”
“I don’t believe it either, and I’d do the same. How do people get themselves in messes like this?”
“I wish I knew. She’s been doing so well. She just got herself mixed up with the wrong man.”
“I hope so, Jim. I really do. Listen, forget about the company, your responsibilities, everything in North Carolina, and focus your attention on this as fast as you can. Don’t worry about this end. It’ll be here when you get back. I feel for you. You tell Sarah that Lynn and I are here for her while you’re gone. Are you taking Sarah?”
“I think I need to see what the facts are before I let her face this. For now, she needs a filter between her and the trouble. You know how fragile she is when it comes to Polly.”
“I’ll make sure Lynn checks on her. I couldn’t keep her from it anyway. Don’t worry about it spreading beyond the four of us. I’ll keep a tight lid on.”
“Thanks, Ron!”
“Hey, you’d do the same for me.”
“Yes, I would.”
By six pm, the jet lifted off, bound for San Antonio non-stop. On board besides the pilot were Jim Simpson, Robard Grimes, and a fellow everyone just referred to as “Plumber” Jones, an ex-CIA man. Grimes and Jones were experienced in working together on tough or sensitive company assignments. Jim considered that part of the company business suspicious, but he had asked for “top” men, so he was glad to have them along. Maybe he was over-reacting and over-prepared, but he knew very little about what Polly had gotten herself into or what kind of characters might be involved. If he could obtain her release, he planned to fly her back to Raleigh and sell the Houston house. She could have a new start without something like this near at hand that everyone local was certain to learn about.

Polly

Fiddle was concerned that the bureau’s undercover agent was in too deep.
“We can’t pull him out now,” Irons observed. “There’s too much about to come down, and we have knowledge of capital offenses.”
“What do you think, Wilson?” Fiddle asked.
“He couldn’t have prevented the murder, and if he had tried, he would have exposed himself. I say we keep him in and enact the Gangley scenario.”
“Who do we have slated for it? I’ll make the call.”
“Very well; we need to give him field support to frustrate Gangley’s group. The Merrill tap gave us the critical information we need to follow up. Agent 24 is assigned to keep watch in San Antonio. He’s from the Houston office and won’t be recognized. Agent 13 is being sent down from Dallas to enact the Gangley scenario in Houston, working with our undercover agent. Lipscomb cannot obtain bail, but Simpson is needed to lengthen the trial. Evans may attempt interference on this point.”
“Okay,” Fiddle agreed, “we’ll let him stay in until the scenario’s been carried out and see what happens.”

There was no doubt in Evan’s mind that Gangley had on retainer the best legal talent in the state of Texas, and that they would do their best to frustrate his case. He knew that the quick transfer from Houston would catch them off guard, but it would only buy him one day during which to break the assassination team before representation came swarming in like so many mosquitoes from every direction.
He had warned the DA this would be a hard-won conviction, in spite of the circumstantial evidence, unless they could make a deal with Polly Simpson. If the DA would go along with dropping the charges against her in exchange for her corroborative testimony, they could improve their position and ensure Lipscomb’s conviction. Reluctantly, the DA had agreed,
“ . . . as long as your suspicion that she was not in the van when Mrs. Herrick was murdered proves correct.”
Upon transferring the pair to San Antonio, they had routed Lipscomb through treatment for the bite wound still festering on his wrist. They had obtained an “x-ray,” which was really a photo of the bite marks for comparison with Mrs. Herrick’s bite. Looking through the one-way glass at Polly Simpson with Detective Ruppert joining him, they observed she appeared very weak and nervous.
“Look at her,” Ruppert noted. “She’s scared to death: chain smoking, trembling hands, like she’s having an anxiety attack.”
“Let’s just hope it stays that way during interrogation,” Evans noted. “If she toughens up, we won’t have much from her going for us.”
They entered the room, looking pleasant and relaxed, and introduced themselves. Polly started to stand.
“Oh, don’t get up. We’re sitting down.” Ruppert told her.
“Are you comfortable?” Evans asked her, “Sometimes people complain that it’s too cold in here.”
“Yes, I guess.” She was biting one of her nails to the quick.
“I see they got you something to wear besides that robe you had on when they brought you in last night. That must be a relief.”
“Yes, it is. I was very embarrassed.”
“Miss Simpson, you realize that you are charged with murder in the death of Mrs. Nancy Herrick of Houston?”
“Yes,” she said nervously. She had a gripping headache.
“Did the arresting officers read you your rights when they picked you up?”
“Yes, they did.”
“Did you understand those rights?”
“Yes.” She was still working on that nail.
“Were you and Wally surprised when you realized we knew it was you?”
He waited for her response to the can-opener question. There was no reply.
“I know Wally was surprised. He didn’t realize that he left a trail of evidence a mile wide. I guess you were too, though.”
“I didn’t kill Nancy Herrick,” she insisted, “I’ve never killed anyone.”
“Did you call Gangley and tell him you’d been arrested, like Wally did?”
“I don’t know a Gangley.” She hoped to mislead them.
“Well, for someone who spends every week-end with the Indians, I find that difficult to believe. Starting off with a big lie makes me doubt you had nothing to do with Mrs. Herrick’s murder as you claim. My experience is that if a person will lie about one thing, they’ll lie about a lot more.”
How did they know about the Indians, or that she was along on weekends? She became frightened already trapped in a lie.
“I mean, I’m not close to the man. I called my Father. We’re very close.”
“Did your father know Wally?”
“No, they’ve never met.”
“Boy, he must have been shocked to discover that his daughter had been charged with a crime that carries the death penalty in the state of Texas.”
“I told you I didn’t help kill Nancy Herrick.”
“Why did you back out?”
“Are you trying to trick me?”
“No, I just thought that, maybe after sitting next to her in the restaurant on the River Walk and striking up a conversation like you did, you decided that she was a nice person and refused to have anything more to do with it. Since you left before she did, I thought maybe Wally dropped you someplace, circled the block in the van, then grabbed her as she was walking alone to her hotel. Knowing how special she is-excuse me, how special she was-you probably didn’t have the courage to destroy her life. Maybe you even tried to persuade him not to do it. But he had taken Gangley’s money, and he carried it out.”
Polly turned visibly white. How did they know such things; every detail? Did they have someone watching the entire event? If so, they would catch her in every lie, every denial. She would never be able to convince them she was innocent of the murder unless she started telling the truth. Daddy had said to say nothing and agree to nothing. But he couldn’t possibly have anticipated this, anymore than she had.
“We know you didn’t kill Nancy, Polly. Wally’s the one with the bite marks on his wrist that match her teeth.”
“That was one hell of a bite!” Ruppert injected, laughing, “It must have almost taken a chunk out of his arm.”
“I’m not saying anything else until I talk to my Father. Christ, I don’t even have a lawyer in here to represent me. This is crazy.”
“Then, why not just be waiting out front when he comes to pick you up? Why make him wait for a year while you sit in jail as an accomplice, then spend five to ten years in prison hoping to eventually make parole, when you can just walk away?”
Evans got her attention with that.
“You mean, you’ll let me go?”
“We can let you go if you cooperate. I’ve already spoken to the DA. It’s not you we want. We’re after Lipscomb and Gangley.”
“What about Wally? I’d be betraying him.”
“Who care’s about Wally? He got you into this. He thinks he committed a perfect murder like the ones before. He’s never even been charged with any of those. No one ever knew but he and Gangley. But this time, three people knew. All of our evidence comes from sources he knows nothing of. That means, in his eyes, there’s only one reason he’s in jail: you told somebody. Now, that somebody has gone and turned you both in. He’ll blame you for making him spend his life in prison until his death sentence is carried out. He doesn’t like being locked up. You see what happened when Detective Hicks merely tried to cuff him in Houston before you left. He practically took on the whole precinct. Wally doesn’t give a damn about you, and this isn’t about him. It’s about saving your own skin while we’re offering you the chance. You’ll never see Wally again, unless, best case, you plan on waiting for him until he’s sixty-five or seventy. A young woman like you can’t possibly find that idea attractive. Marry some nice man and raise a family. Don’t throw your life away when you’re so young.”
Polly’s mind was envisioning being out of there, on the street, free. If they meant what they said, she could be out today! Her desperate thoughts during the trip last night could actually come true. She could reverse everything, escape the terrible fate that awaited her otherwise.
“What would I have to do?”
“You’d have to answer all of our questions truthfully, no matter what they are. And you’ll have to return and testify in open court when that time comes. Don’t worry about being seen. We have ways to get you in and out of the courtroom without anyone seeing. That’s it. You tell the truth, and the truth will set you free.”
“I’ll do it!” she blurted.
“Detective Ruppert here will videotape your statement with your permission. He has a list of questions he’ll ask you. Look into the camera and answer, including all of the details. I’m calling the DA to set your release in motion. Thanks for helping us, and helping yourself, Polly. I hope you never fall for a guy like Wally again.”
“Believe me, I won’t!”
Evans felt triumphant. He had Wally in the bag and the poor oaf didn’t even know it. He and the DA were so happy they agreed to meet for drinks later and celebrate. When the heavyweights showed up tonight or tomorrow to start trashing their case, Polly wouldn’t even be there. They would also learn that prime client was tied to Nancy in ways they never could have suspected. They had not told her, however, that the minute she stepped onto the street, her life was possibly in danger. They decided to take her to a hotel in a patrol car and hold her there with officers outside the door and outside the hotel until her father arrived. Then they would deliver her into his custody, advising that she return with him, not to her home in Houston. They didn’t want another Nancy. Gangley would put out a contract on her as soon as he learned she had become their chief witness. He would be desperate to get rid of her. Her father probably would have no trouble comprehending what that meant or convincing her to go with him.
The King Air jet landed in San Antonio. A rental van was waiting as Jim Simpson had arranged. Everyone stowed the gear they hoped they wouldn’t need in the van. Simpson had called the SAPD and had been routed to Evans. They had a long conversation which at first upset him until he realized that Evans had achieved a miracle for Polly. They drove to the precinct to meet Evans and thank him for his efforts.
“I’d like to talk to Wally for a moment before I go, Evans.”
“Not a bad idea. We might be able to shake him up enough to promise him life instead of death if he gives the whole nine yards on Gangley.”
They walked to the jail section, and down the hall. It looked to Jim like a collection of every sort of vermin stored in boxes made of bars awaiting their destiny.
“What a sordid bunch.” He thought to himself.
They came to a stop in front of a cell containing a man that looked like he had survived a severe traffic accident.
“You’re Wally?” Jim asked, looking stunned.
“What of it? Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Polly’s father, here to pick her up.”
“Bull shit! She’s not going anywhere. She’s charged, same as me.”
“Yes, but she’s admitted everything about how you murdered Nancy Herrick, and it’s all on video tape. She’s testifying against you in open court. You should never have gotten her involved in your Hit man activities.”
“You fuckin’ son-of-a-bitch! She ain’t walkin’ outa here alive. She’s a dead bitch. She ratted us out, and she’ll be deader than that Nancy woman. You can take your suit and shove it up your ass. Think your daughter’s taking me down! You’re full o’ shit! I’ll kill her and you and her mother! The day will come, you’ll find out who you’re up against, Asshole. You’re nobody, NOBODY! You’re a fuckin’ worm. Got that? Remember who told you when you’re sucking air with your head in a bag. That cunt’s dead, Man, and you are too. She should’ve stuck by her man.”
“You’re no man, just a low-life loser. You’ll die in this hole. Having met you, I plan to enjoy knowing you’re sitting here rotting every day.”
Wally leapt at the bars, shoving his hand through in the direction of Jim’s tie. Grabbing it, he jerked so hard that he slammed the front of Jim’s face into the bars. Evans and Ruppert grabbed the tie, but almost choked Jim in the process. Ruppert began smashing Wally’s hands with his night stick through the bars. Wally finally let go, laughing and mocking.
“Now who’s a man, you weak, piece o’ shit suit?”
Jim was loosening the drawn tie that had become a noose. Blood was dripping from his nose.
“You’ll get a life sentence, and we’ll never meet again.” Jim held his tie to his nose as he walked away, with Evans and Ruppert holding him steady. From behind, they listened to Wally singing loudly and laughing.
“Old man Simpson had a farm, E-I-E-I-O. And on this farm he had a wife, E-I-E-I-O. With a bang , bang, here, and a bang, bang there. Old man Simpson ain’t no more. E-I-E-I-O. Fuck you, dead man. Fuck your dead wife and daughter.” He shouted at the top of his lungs.
It was a great relief when Jim couldn’t hear Wally any longer.
“You got him good, Jim! You really pissed him off!” Ruppert patted him on the back.
“Gruesome bum. Oh, I was smart enough with my nose against the bars, choking to death! I was stupid standing that close to the cell. I didn’t think he’d try anything with you fellows there. That guy’s a bull . . . a monster! I thought my neck was broken for sure. I damn near choked.”
“He’ll be in a state of madness just thinking about Polly walking,” Evans said. “We’ve got him right where we want him. Thanks for doing that.”
“Just make sure you keep him here.”
“He’s never going anywhere except to the prison bus after his trial. Maybe Gangley will be waiting on him.”
They left after Jim had cleaned up, following Evans to the hotel. Grimes and Plumber jumped out, looking around cautiously through binoculars. The two patrolmen looked impressed.
“Yo, Evans! You finally made it.”
“Yeah, we had a few things to do. You two can leave now. Thanks for keeping watch.”
“Later.” one of them said, as they got into their patrol car and drove off.
“I’ll keep watch down here, Grimes,” Plumber instructed. “You can keep the inside clear. Use channel three.”
“Got it.”
They entered the hotel, Evans leading the way. Polly’s room was on the third floor. As they stepped off the elevator, they saw one of the officers by the door.
“Officer, where’s your backup?”
“In the john. He’s been in there quite a while.”
“Go pull him out. He must be stuck. Wait by the entrance downstairs until we’re underway. After that, you’re free to leave.”
“Yes, Sir, Detective.” he answered, walking toward the Men’s room.
The reunion of father and daughter was touching as the door opened. Polly ran up, hugging him for dear life, and kissed him repeatedly, tears in her eyes..
“Daddy, what happened to you, the knot on your head, and your nose is swollen?”
“I met Wally.”
“What?”
“I had Evans take me to see him in his cell.”
“Is he alright?”
“I think he’s pretty upset. He says you told someone and they turned the two of you in. He kept saying you, Sarah, and I were all dead. I put down his lunacies and told him he’d never get out. He grabbed my tie and almost broke my neck. I hit my head on the bars when he pulled my tie.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” she said as Jim and Evans told her how he blamed her for the arrest, saying she had “ratted them out,” and how he had threatened her and Sarah and himself, claiming they would all be killed.
“He’s a madman. How in the world did you get mixed up with him?”
“He was never like that before. Just a nice guy and fun to be with.”
“You never met the real Wally.”
“I guess not. Do you think we’re in danger?”
“Not if we’re all home in Raleigh. He doesn’t know where to find us. But I think they’ll kill you very soon if you return to Houston. I think you’d better come home with me. Grimes and Plumber will keep the van and go to Houston. They can have all of your things shipped and put the house up for sale.”
“There’s no question in my mind that you’re dead if you stay within Gangley’s reach.” Evans confirmed. He looked convincing.
“I guess we should leave immediately, then?” Polly asked, looking at Jim.
“Immediately! We need as big a head start as possible.”
Standing next to the van with everything ready to go, Evans said goodbye and shook Jim’s hand. Then he looked at Polly and told her to remember the advice he had given her. He explained to Jim how she would need to return when needed, that if she failed to testify as agreed, the deal would be rescinded and a new warrant as an accomplice would be issued.
“I know you won’t let that happen. She has to go through with the testimony.” Evans said, looking confidently at Jim.
“She’ll keep her word. I think she’s seen enough of the wild side to last the rest of her life.”
The van left for the airport, Grimes in the front, Jim and Polly in the middle seat, and Plumber in the back. Evans got into his car and drove back toward the precinct.
“I wonder if it’s possible . . . ?” he thought to himself.
As they drove along, Polly began apologizing to her father, telling him how very badly she felt about his nose and the knot on his forehead, that she just couldn’t believe Wally would talk or act that way to him.
“Don’t worry, Polly,” Jim said, “Just put your head on my shoulder and rest.”
Rest was what she needed. She wanted to rest, to forget. Sitting next to him, feeling safe, she thought about Wally. She hadn’t told a soul about what happened to Nancy, but Wally had just assumed it was her. Gangley liked her and they had spent much time together on weekends, had lots of laughs and fun. How could he now try to kill her? But she knew he would. He had known Nancy for more years than her, yet didn’t hesitate to have her killed when he no longer considered her within his circle. It was all loyalty with him, and now she was suspected of disloyalty by telling someone, which she hadn’t done. To save herself, she had actually turned, revealed all, and was the star witness against Wally, which was the equivalent of becoming the star witness against Gangley. He would be after her alright. How could Daddy believe they would be safe in Raleigh? He could just send someone to get them. Perhaps, by returning with him, she was placing her parents’ lives in danger. She couldn’t reason clearly now. It had been too upsetting an experience the last two days. She decided to think about it later. It felt so safe against her father. She dozed into sleep.

“We’re being followed, Jim,” Plumber alerted, “that fourth car back, old Chevy with four men inside. They’ve worked over one lane at a time, one car forward at a time.”
“Grimes, how about you?”
“I see them in the rear view mirror.” He removed his 45 from its shoulder harness and laid it on the seat beside him. Plumber opened his case and assembled a pump 12-gauge shotgun with a butt made of fine Hickory. Then came the shells. He also had a 45 in his harness.
“Jim, when I give the word, hit the floor with Polly before any shooting begins.”
“How far are we from the airport?”
“Another five miles. They’ll have to make their play before
then.”
Gradually, the tailing car moved directly behind them. Plumber loosened the back door latch, so that he could kick one door open and fire if they attempted to ram the van.
“They’re easing forward. Jim, I think its time.”
If Plumber thought it was time, that was good enough for Jim. He wrapped his arms around Polly and rolled to the floor, almost crushing her as he fell on top of her. She awoke with a start and was about to scream, but Jim put his hand over her mouth.
“It’s okay. We’ll be less likely to get hit here.”
“Get hit! By what?”
“We’re being followed, and they’re right behind us. Plumber thinks they intend to run us off the road. Put your hands over your ears like I do. A gun is very loud when you’re this close to it.” Polly couldn’t believe it. They weren’t even to the airport yet and someone was already trying to kill her.
“Here it comes, Grimes!,” Plumber shouted. He braced himself, then kicked open the driver’s side back door, firing simultaneously, just as a tremendous smash from the car shoved the van forward in a lurch. Plumber had blown out most of the Chevy van’s front window. Now he began emptying the shotgun into the car. It swerved violently, glancing off the guard rail, sparks flying as the bumper ground against it. One man was hanging out the window with a rifle, trying to get aim on the van. Plumber shot twice and saw the rifle drop to the pavement, discharging upon contact. The man jerked back inside.
“I’m taking the exit here at this McDonald’s by the service station. There are dozens of cars there. We can dodge them or eliminate them.”
They swung to the right onto the off-ramp,and down the side road, coming to a stop in front of McDonald’s. The car followed, but at a safe distance, almost a block away. It pulled off in the darkness near an overgrown field with trees and bushes along the road.
“Jim, you and Polly should go inside and have some coffee while we eliminate this problem.” Grimes said, climbing out of the car, gun in hand.
“Let’s go, Polly.”
They scampered to the entrance and Polly fled to the Ladies room while Jim stood innocuously in the order line.
Through his binoculars, Plumber could see the Chevy pulled hard off the side road in the darkness, as near the fence as possible.
“Two men just got out.” he said to Grimes, as he joined him.
“I see them. Look, they’re carrying a body. You must have gotten one. They’re placing it in the deep grass by the fence.”
They continued watching.
“Now they’re pulling out another one!”
It was true. They piled it atop the other. One of the men got back into the car; the other walked around to the front and started taking a whiz. Neither noticed the patrol car approaching slowly from the opposite direction on the side road. When the driver did spot it, he panicked and took off with the tires spinning. Suspicious of cars with spinning tires and the windows shot out, the patrol car turned on its lights, spun around, and started in pursuit, siren screaming.
“The guy took off and left his buddy taking a whiz! Let’s get him!”
They both started running in the direction of the whizzer and the bodies by the fence. As soon as he saw them, Whizzer tried to put it away, whizzing all over himself in his hurry. Apparently deciding he didn’t have time, he left it dangling and tried to jump the barbed wire fence, getting caught on the top strand. He rose, bent over, grabbing himself and shouting in agony. Now they were less than a hundred feet away. In a desperate effort to save himself, Whizzer stood erect and lunged forward into the brush, disappearing from view. For a minute or so, they could hear a muffled yell every few seconds. Then silence. They knew they wouldn’t have to worry about Whizzer any more, nor did they want to be seen near the two bloody bodies, so they walked back to McDonald’s and found Jim and Polly sipping coffee.
“We got each of you a cup, too.” Polly said.
“Bring them with you. Now’s our chance.”
“Do we have to lay on the floor again?”
“No, I don’t think we’ll have any more trouble between here and the airport.”
Plumber and Grimes were laughing. Once underway, they passed the Chevy on the side of the road with the patrol car behind, its lights flashing. They had gotten him just before the on-ramp. Two officers had a Mexican-looking fellow in handcuffs, laid over the trunk, after stopping him and finding blood and glass all over the inside of the car. He didn’t see them pass. He was too preoccupied with fear that they might return to where he had left Whizzer and the two bodies. When they told Jim and Polly the story, everyone had a healthy laugh. At the airport, Jim reversed his decision.
“Since the van’s damaged, let’s leave it here and have it picked up. We’ll spend the night in Houston, and you two can get a new van there.”

Wally

Merrill entered the precinct station and announced that he was defense counsel for Mr. Walter H. Lipscomb and Miss Polly Simpson.
“I’d like to meet with my clients.” he said.
The Desk Sargent on duty looked at the list in front of him.
“Mr. Lipscomb we have, but . . . no Polly Simpson. She was released earlier this evening.”
“That’s not possible. Could you check again, please? They were transferred here from Houston overnight together. I’m positive she’s here as well.”
“It’s nice that you’re positive Mr. Merrill,” he said, reading the name from the impressive gold business card Merrill had handed him, “but I’m not. I was sitting here when she left with detective Evans after the charges against her were dropped and she was released. Would you like to see your other client? He’ll be here a good, long while, and I’m sure he’s in.”
Merrill wasn’t feeling very well at that moment. Half of his defense strategy had just gone south with Polly’s release.
“Yes, I’ll see Mr. Lipscomb.”
An officer led him into the visitor’s booth and called over the intercom for someone to bring Lipscomb out handcuffed.
Merrill was shocked by Wally’s appearance when he came through the door. He looked like a homeless person who’d been mugged and left for dead.
“Merrill. Am I that hard to recognize?”
“Good heavens, Wally, what did they do to you here?”
“Did it to myself in Houston last night. Took on three of them that wanted to cuff me.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Felt like not wearing cuffs, I guess.”
“Shit, what a mess this all is. Are you aware that Polly’s been released with all charges dropped?”
“Yeah. Her Old Man told me.”
“Who?”
“Her father, weak son-of-a-bitch with a smart mouth. I gave him a scare, though. Grabbed his tie and almost broke his neck.”
“When did this happen?”
“About an hour ago.”
“I must have just missed her release.”
“She wasn’t part of it anyway. Just drove the van down for me. After she met her, she tried to talk me out of it. Then after I did the job, she told someone about it, and they turned us in.”
“Wally, I need to know who she told. Gangley wants to know, because we have to follow up on that.”
“She didn’t say.”
“How do you know she did then?”
“Cause it was perfect. Nobody saw anything. It was as clean as any job I ever did for him. Cleaner.”
“Hmm.”
“So, how are you getting me outa here? This place gives me the creeps; I don’t like small places like this.”
“We’ll have to establish a power base, and I just arrived. I wanted to see you before checking into a hotel. With Polly gone, everything becomes much more difficult. Do you know why they let her go? Did you tell them she had nothing to do with it?”
“Hell no! Might as well admit to having done it. She turned and agreed to testify against me. Can you grab that? I can’t. I thought the bitch loved me. They videotaped her testimony. Got it all. She’s coming back to testify in court.”
“Goddamn it!” Merrill said.
“No shit”
“Goddamn it!
“Like I said, no Shit!”
Merrill looked at Wally as if he hated him. He liked to win, and this case had lose all over it.
“What evidence do they have?”
“They haven’t told me.”
“Who’s spoken with you so far?”
“Nobody.”
“This is damned strange,” Merrill observed, “damned strange. I’ll have to talk to the detectives and the prosecutor in charge of this case and see what the hell they think they’re pulling on us. They’ve gotten a leg up. A real leg up. I’ll be back to see you tomorrow when I find out what evidence they think they have.”
“Just don’t leave me in here, Man. I can’t take this place. Get me out.”
“You have to stay a few days until after the arraignment, so don’t get freaky on me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tell Gangley to get me out!” This was a conversation Gangley would prefer not to be involved in. Wally was in, and his hands were tied.
“We can’t get him out, and he’s acting unstable. He’ll never last ‘til trial, and Polly’s release has got him spooked.” Merrill observed.
“It’s got me spooked.”
“Polly hasn’t got jack shit on you, Randall. She’s a weekend party girl, that’s all. Her goods were all on Wally. Wally’s our problem. She’s his.”
“Yes, but she ratted him out to someone, and we’ve got to find out who that was.”
“That was Wally’s assumption, and its wrong. Polly didn’t tell anyone. With her in North Carolina, the best thing to do is let her sit and sweat. I think you should call off the dogs on that one. It could complicate matters. Wally’s in. If anything happens to Polly, it wouldn’t look good for you.”
“Well what do think we should do at this point?”
“Do you want me to be brutally honest?”
“I’m asking.”
“I think there’s a very high probability that if Wally’s still in there a week from now, he’ll start threatening you to obtain his release, or else.”
“Wally? He’s tight as a drum!”
“Not after the arraignment; he won’t be then. As soon as he starts realizing he’s destined for Death Row, and you haven’t gotten him out somehow, I think at that point, he’ll start considering trading his life for yours. With what they offered Polly and the speed with which they did it, he’ll be the next. Right now, they’re letting him stew. They haven’t even interrogated him yet. They’ll probably wait until just before the arraignment, then plant the seed.”
“I don’t know, Merrill. We’ve never taken out a friend who’s been loyal to us.”
“He isn’t reasoning like the Wally we’ve known on the outside. He took on three police officers in Houston the night of his transfer to San Antonio? And do you know why?”
“No. I hadn’t heard.”
“He was already locked up behind bars. When they told him he had to be cuffed during the ride there, he refused to let them cuff him!”
“Hmm . . .”
“Three officers came into the cell and tried to reason with him, and he tore into them, all three at once. I don’t know what he did to them, but he looks like some homeless man who was mugged and left for dead. He’s got so many facial and head injuries and so many knots on his skull, I hardly recognized him. When I asked him why he did it, he said he guessed he didn’t feel like wearing cuffs right then. Doe’s that sound like the man you know as Wally?”
“He’s cracking up, isn’t he?”
“You could say that.”
“He’s always been so smooth, completely reliable, always in control. And a friend loyal to a fault.”
“On the outside, yes. But that Wally was free and tough. No one dared take him on. The man I spoke with last night and today is not that Wally. You said the magic words: ‘completely reliable,’ and that’s what he’s expecting you’ll be. You’ll get him out with your magic. He can’t consider any other alternative, because Wally can’t stand confinement. In that movie, The Gods Must be Crazy, remember someone telling him that a Bushman can’t be locked up, because he’ll die if he is?”
“Sure.”
“Well that’s Wally now. He won’t die, but his loyalty will. His single objective will be to get out as quickly as possible.”
“True, Merrill, but the thing is, the more he tells them, the less possible it would be to let him out.”
“Yes, but he can be led to believe otherwise by a sharp detective just long enough to hang himself and you with him. So let me ask you the same question again: What do you think?”
“Is there any possible basis upon which you could get him out for any length of time so we could get him out of the country?”
“None. First-degree murder is the Row in Texas. There’s no way that’s happening. It’s only a matter of time, Randall. I’m sorry. I know he’s been loyal.”
“So we have to move to remove him, and quickly. What do you suggest?”
“Our alternatives are limited, No one’s making it look like Wally hung himself in his cell. If we had someone try that approach, they’d find him hanging in Wally’s cell the next morning, and Wally would be sitting with a smile on his face ready to tell all.”
“What then?”
“Stealth.”
“In what way?”
“There’s a woman; I’ve used her services before. I’ll give you her number, but lose it as soon as you have her on the line. Her name is ‘Trudeau’”
“That’s her last name? How about her first?”
“That’s her only name. She was raised in New Orleans, and she has a strong Voodoo background.”
“Sounds weird, Merrill; not like someone you’d know.”
“It isn’t. We had a woman about to spill the beans on another client of ours. He offered her a small fortune in a Cayman Islands account if she would do the time quietly. I told her she’d be out in three years a rich woman with her life still ahead of her, but she wasn’t willing to endure three more months, let alone years. She demanded to be gotten out somehow, but it would have been legally awkward to accomplish. The client panicked, so I asked if he objected to her having an unfortunate death. By then, he was ready to agree to anything. The next week, she died of a massive coronary and he got to keep his small fortune for his own uses–except for my fee and what he paid Trudeau”
“Sounds pretty devious. She must be a witch! Shit, you’re a ruthless son-of-a-bitch aren’t you, Merrill?”
“Protecting my clients has been a very lucrative part of the profession. He offered her a deal that was more than fair, and she turned on him. She deserved what she got.”
“And you see Wally as the same threat?”
“Absolutely. There’s not a doubt in my mind, Randall, or I wouldn’t even suggest it.”
“So what do I tell this Voodoo witch, or whatever she is?”
“Tell her Merrill needs a repeat performance on a flight to San Antonio tonight. Give her my hotel and room number in San Antonio so she can verify it’s been sent. I’ll pick up some fancy toiletries and other items not available to Wally in jail, include the package from her, and sometime during the next week, we’ll see the end of Walter H. Lipscomb.”
“Is it painful?”
“No, but it’s irreversible. They’ll find him dead in his cell. His death will be mysterious as hell, but with the case dismissed by the morgue, everything ends for us.”
“What about finding the drug in his blood?”
“If they find it at all, they’ll mistake it for food poisoning.”
“Poor Wally.”
“Hey, you’re not hitting Wally. You’re freeing Wally; doing him a favor.”
“That’s a hell of a self-serving rationalization, isn’t it?
“Is it? Can you get him out?”
“No.”
“So at this point, he will either die after who knows how many years on Death Row, or he’ll get out at the ripe old age of sixty-five or seventy on parole. Is that a happy prospect for a man who can’t endure thirty days?”
“Sounds hopeless. There must be some other way, Merrill.”
“When I was a kid, I had a dog named Old Yeller, and I was closer to him than any of my friends.”
“Now you’re bull shiting me!”
“I swear on my mother’s grave that was his name.”
“Okay, I’ll go along.”
“I spent all day during the summer with my dog. Central Texas is a paradise for boys and dogs. We did everything and went everywhere together. Then one day, Old Yeller was sick, and I couldn’t make him feel better, so I asked my dad to do something for him. He said he’d check it out. When I got home from school, Old Yeller had been shot and buried.”
“Just like in the movie?”
“Yes. At first I hated my dad, but he was right. He explained to me that the dog he had shot wasn’t Old Yeller any more. Being shot and buried freed him to be a dog somewhere else once again.”
“I get the point. Give me the number and I’ll make the call.”
Merrill complied, then asked, “How did you like my story?”
“Smoke up my ass.”
“Well, I tried. I did read the book as a kid. It was one of my favorite stories, and the Disney movie was well done.”
“How much do I pay this Voodoo queen?”
“Whatever she asks, Randall. Whatever she asks.”

Lady Trudeau stroked the unkempt hair of the Jamaican doll, then sat it on the small table. Drawing the curtains to her little workroom, she arranged the materials she would need.
“We gots work to do, Jaima! We gots work to do for Mister Merrill; yous be watchin’ out for me and I don’t make no mistake all right.”
She carefully opened the carton of cigarettes after using a straight razor to separate the glued seam. Removing one of the packs, she rubbed a cloth dampened with a chemical brew against the plastic fold on the end and waited. The plastic swelled slightly, then released as if by magic. Carefully, she unfolded it while it was still pliable, and with patience slowly worked the sheath off the end with deft, nimble fingers. Opening the paper was a bit more difficult, but within an hour, the row of tiny slits yielded to her gentle tug, and the cigarettes were exposed.
Removing a single cigarette, Trudeau used a tiny pair of needle-nosed tweezers and a long pin. Strand by strand, she removed two-thirds of the tobacco from its interior length with such precision that the paper was neither torn, nor wrinkled. She reached for a small, clay crucible, and setting it immediately in front of her, sprinkled a few white crystals from a glass vial, to which she added ten drops of distilled water. Stirring the tiny mixture, the crystals dissolved, and she sprinkled a pinch of the removed tobacco over the liquid, allowing it to entirely absorb it. Afterward, she allowed it to dry under a lamp.
“He’s not gonna feel so good,” she said, looking at Jaima, “He’s really not gonna feel so good.”
Next, she opened a dark brown bottle, and removed a small chunk of dried mushroom. Placing it in her pestle, she ground it slowly with a mortar until it was reduced to a fine, dark-brown dust. This, she tossed with the remainder of the tobacco, mixing it until the mushroom powder was uniformly distributed.
“The mushroom’s gonna get him,” she hummed repeatedly to herself as she worked. “Whatcha thinkin’ bout that, Jaima?”
Jaima looked at the cigarette with her time-worn, shriveled face, the same noncommittal expression as always.
Replacing the dried tobacco carefully into the cigarette casing, Trudeau then packed the remainder with the tobacco-mushroom mixture until the cigarette was complete. Holding it in front of his face, she allowed Jaima to admire her work.
“He’s gonna be sleepin’ for a long time, Jaima.”
She then reversed the initial procedure carefully. No one would ever know the carton or the pack had been opened. She stared ruefully at Jaima, then thanked him for overseeing the process.
“Sheila!” she yelled out, “You’ll be comin’ now to make a little trip for your mama!”
“What is it, Mama? What d’ya need me to do?”
“You’ll be takin’ this package to the airport for your old mama, Sheila.”

Evidence

The next morning, Merrill descended on Evans like a high-powered law firm would be expected to do. It had to be convincing with the plan he had set in motion. After terse introductions, he asked Evans to see the evidence against Mr. Lipscomb so he would know how to plead his client at the arraignment. Evans was happy to accommodate his wishes. They met in one of the private rooms and Evans placed a stack of files on the table as he sat down across from Merrill.
“Here’s a picture of the wound on your client’s wrist. The bite marks are still visible as white scars right at the bottom of the wound. Those bite marks match the victim’s lower teeth. It’s her bite, alright.”
“This is shaky and you know it. The bite was matched after the wound was mostly healed. It’s nothing more than circumstantial.”
“Yes, it would be purely circumstantial if it weren’t for this,” he confirmed.
“That’s Wally’s Indian bracelet.”
“Yes, he was wearing it when he was arrested. But take a closer look at it.”
Merrill turned it in his fingers until he saw the scratches on the leather edge. He laughed.
“You think this proves anything? It just proves that he was bitten, but not by whom. It’s circumstantial and does nothing for your case. It’s starting to look to me like this case should be dismissed tomorrow. I hope for your sake, you’ve got more than this on my client.”
“We do. You see, when Nancy bit him, she broke her tooth, and during the autopsy, the chipped portion of the tooth was found in her mouth. That means she bit him during the last moment of the murder, when he was putting the bag over her head. She didn’t even have the time, sense, or bodily reaction to deal with it, because by then, she was already suffocating.”
“That’s solid police work. But we all know already that she was killed by placing a bag over her head. You’ve proven the murder, but you haven’t tied it to anyone.”
“Here’s a blown up photo taken of Mr. Lipscomb’s bracelet. Five beads are missing, Merrill. There’s a vertical spot where two were scratched out; here’s a horizontal spot where two more were scratched out, and right here along the straight border, you’ll notice that one is missing. That’s five beads: two turquoise, two red, and one yellow. Would you agree with that by looking at the design itself on the bracelet?”
“Why not? It’s perfectly obvious, but Evans, you’ve been around awhile. Don’t you know that, too, is purely circumstantial? Everything you’ve shown me proves nothing, and the connection to the bracelet is a huge leap, utterly circumstantial in nature. No matter how closely you look at the damage on his bracelet, it’s still just damage. It doesn’t tie my client to Nancy’s murder. Surely you can see that?”
“Yes, but look at this.”
Merrill looked at another photo showing the broken part of Nancy’s tooth being held against the rest of the tooth, proving that it was broken from that spot.
“Ditto, Evans,” Merrill said, handing it back. He looked like a man who was ready to get up and go home.
“And then there’s this one of the tongue being pulled tight by tongs and lifted up.”
“I can’t see it clearly.”

“That’s right, you’ll need this hand-held magnifying glass. I had to use it in the autopsy room myself. Age, I guess.”
Merrill took the glass and adjusted the distance for maximum clarity. This time, he said nothing. There, bunched against a piece of broken tooth, were five little colored beads: two turquoise, two red, and one yellow.
“She didn’t have time to spit or swallow because her head was already in the bag and she was suffocating. And this, Mr. Merrill, is not circumstantial. It’s Death Row, because it’s a guaranteed guilty verdict. Your man is going down.”
“What else have you got?”
“Two eyewitnesses that saw them enter a restaurant on the River Walk and sit next to Nancy; Polly and Walter. Polly actually struck up a conversation with her. Then they left just before Nancy did.”
“What else?”
“Two eyewitnesses who positively identified them. They met them leaving Nancy’s floor of her hotel in Houston just before she was picked up and driven to Laredo. By the way, they weren’t registered at the hotel, and they were avoiding the elevator, instead coming down the stairs as the eyewitnesses were going up. Would you like to see Polly’s videotape?”
“Of course!”
“Come along; I had it set up in the viewing area.”
As the videotape played, Merrill could see why they would release her as a bargain for putting everything she knew on tape. She filled in every blank, and her story blended exactly with the eyewitness data they had found on their own. She liked Nancy after talking to her at the restaurant and had refused to have anything to do with it. She had tried to dissuade Wally, but he told her she was a paid mark and he had never reneged on a contract. One thing was clearly omitted, however, from Polly’s account. There was no reference to Gangley except as a business biker she had gotten to know on the weekends. Did she know if Gangley had ordered the hit? She had no idea who Wally was working for. That wasn’t true and Merrill knew it. The video was sending a clear message to Gangley. Leave her alone and her lips would be sealed where he was concerned. The police couldn’t know otherwise. Very clever, and very wise. Merrill would be sure Gangley would let her live out her life in peace.
One thing was equally obvious though. Wally was dead meat. Merrill could see no way around the evidence. The beads sealed Wally’s fate. Without them, he could win this one, even get him released on bail long enough to fly him out of the country. It wouldn’t be the first time. But the fellow hadn’t even realized the beads were missing, probably still hadn’t been told. He was history.
After thanking Evans for his time, he left for the airport, picking up his package. Then he went by a drugstore and bought some high quality toiletries, an electric razor, and a few other items. He shoved the carton of cigarettes in the bag and returned to the jail asking to see his client. The guard sniffed every bottle and opened the carton of cigarettes, examining each package. Then he let him into a room and had Wally brought in without cuffs, as Merrill had requested.
“Man, good to see you again. Am I about to be released?”
“We have to go to the arraignment tomorrow, but Randle has devised a clever way to free you from this morass.”
“Great, how soon?”
“Within five days to a week at most. I left some toiletries with the guard so you can clean up for the arraignment, and a nice suit. They have it out front. Be sure you’re wearing it. I also left a carton of cigarettes.”
“Thanks, man,” Wally said, “The smokes are what I need the most. I’m running low.”
“I’ve seen the evidence. We’ll have to work around it. Moving you here overnight and getting Polly released before I could get here put us behind the eight ball.”
“She’s a dead bitch, and I thought she liked me!”
“You just never know, do you?”
“So I’ll be out after the arraignment?”
“You’ll be totally freed from all this within a week, Wally. Randle knows you expect nothing less. You’ve been a loyal friend. But don’t say a word to anyone or we won’t be able to pull it off.”
“No way I would, Man. I can hardly wait to ride with the Indians again. I want to stretch out road to someplace I’ve never been before.”
“Randle has certainly arranged for that, and the evidence against you will be rendered worthless.” He smiled his broadest smile, with two rows of perfectly capped teeth. Wally smiled back, looking much more relaxed even with his bruised face.
“It’ll be great to free you from the torture of being locked up.”
“It will be. I’m nuts in here. I gotta get out. Tell Randle to hurry. I’ll tell you who’s gonna get a big surprise when I’m out, too.”
“Who?”
“Polly’s Old Man when he wakes up in the middle of the night with a knife to his throat and a smile on my face. I’m gonna let him live just long enough to watch me fuck his wife and cut her throat. That’s the last thing he’s gonna see, arrogant asshole.”
He gave Merrill a bear hug that made him think his ribs were about to break.
“Tell Randle I knew he’d come through. See you at the arraignment tomorrow. Will he be here?”
“That wouldn’t be wise, Wally. It has to look as much as possible like you two aren’t that close. They know you ride together, but that doesn’t prove anything.”
“Sure, Man.”
They shook hands and Wally turned and walked away with the guard. Merrill watched until he was gone. He had told him the truth. Gangley had arranged to set him free. Wally just didn’t know how.
“They’ve got him by the balls, and there’s no way to win the case,” Merrill told Gangley after reviewing the details of the evidence with him.
“So it’s a matter of days then.”
“Yes it is, and one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Forget about Polly. I watched the video tape of her testimony. Wally’s history just from that alone. But there’s nothing she knew when they asked her on tape about your activities. That Evans is the shrewdest bastard I ever met. He pulled this off on his own with brilliant detective work. It wasn’t Polly. She feigned a complete blank on questions about you, leaving out things I know she knew. The message is, leave her alone because she has no intention of trying to cause you any harm. I think we should accept the offer. She doesn’t know enough for beans without Wally to support it. With him gone, she’ll never be returning to Texas to testify. She’ll keep her distance. It’s a dead issue. By not taking her out, you’re a man at a far distance. No one will be able to touch you.”
“Good point. That’ll be our position. No one bothers Polly.”
The arraignment went as anticipated. Other than the disturbing lumps still visible on his head and a stubborn black eye, Wally looked fairly good in his suit with his hair trimmed and cleaned up. The evidence was presented by the DA, with Merrill causing all of the disturbance he could. And when he was asked how his client pled, he coolly entered a “Not guilty” plea, as if he were Perry Mason at his best. Wally was beaming. No one suspected anything but a vicious court battle ahead. Trial date was set for weeks ahead. That made Wally twitch uncomfortably. Merrill told him he’d be released within a matter of days, to keep heart, and keep his mouth shut.
The DA approached Merrill, suggesting the only chance Wally had of escaping the row was to testify against the man who had Nancy killed. Combined with other hits he must have made, the information might be valuable enough for him to qualify for parole within five years. Merrill replied off-the-record that he would consider it between then and the trial, but that he wasn’t so certain they had a hands-down conviction. He was leaving for Houston, and would give him a call from there after reviewing the case in more detail.
As he settled into his First Class seat, sipping a drink, he thought about Wally, and wondered how long it would be before Evans and the DA got the awful news. The stress of it all had caused the forty-two year old man to collapse in his cell and die later. He also suspected that after the stomping beating they’d given him in Houston, they’d hold their breath during the autopsy, suspecting that the police themselves might have been directly or indirectly responsible. They’d be anxious to close the case with nothing left to gain. He vowed to let nothing disturb his golf game for the next few days.

Lawson

Merrill was back in town and did intend to play golf for a few days, but not before a face-to-face with his partner. Ignoring his normal protocol of calling first, he dropped by, finding Gangley and Lawson discussing the installation of the infrastructure for the solvent cleanup.
“It didn’t look that big on the drawing, but that barrier wall of bentonite clay looks like an Alaska pipeline excavation, and the whole area of the plume with well casings sticking out of the ground looks like a PVC farm out there.” Gangley commented. He noticed Merrill standing in the open door of his office.
“Shit, I didn’t know you were here. I was about to take my Caddy in for servicing. It took Lawson two weeks to get the appointment for me. These dealers are smooth as silk when you’re buying the car, but then they act like demigods when you need service.”
“We need to talk about the various matters at hand in private.” Merrill explained.
“No problem,” he said, tossing Lawson the keys. “Lawson can run it down.”
Catching the keys, Lawson paused. He just stood there, looking troubled.
“What’s the matter, Lawson?” Gangley asked.
“Actually, I can’t. I’ll get Debra to do it.”
“Hey, buddy, I don’t trust anybody but you driving my Caddy. Just drop it off before whatever you have planned. It’s less than two miles from here.” he insisted, turning back toward Merrill.
“Sorry, but I can’t. I’ve got a lunch date I can’t skip.”
“Hold on.” Gangley pressed the intercom, punching Debra’s office.
“Debra.” she answered.
“Debra, do me a favor will you? I’m in a bind, and Lawson has an important lunch meeting. Will you follow him in his car to the dealer while he drives my Caddy, then wait for the servicing for an hour or so?”
“Sure, boss. I’ll be there in a flash!”
“Thanks Debra, you’re a sweetheart. Happy now?” he said, looking at Lawson with a degree of irritation.
“I’m not doing it, Randall.”
“What do you mean, you’re not doing it? The Caddy will be at the dealer before you would even be leaving for lunch. What the hell’s the matter with you? Of course you’re doing it! Can’t you see I’m stuck here? Don’t get arrogant with me.”
“Like I said, I’m not doing it.” He looked like a man determined not to help Gangley out of a tough spot, no matter what was said.
“You son-of-a-bitch. You’ve never acted like this before. Fuck you, then.”
Debra came bouncing in, eager to please Mr. Gangley.
“Debra, you know how much I love my STS, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Gangley. It’s a beautiful car.”
“I’m trusting you to drive it to the dealer for servicing. Do you think you can get it there without a scratch?”
“Of course. I’ll be especially careful. It’s not that far!”
“I know it isn’t,” he said, giving Lawson the evil eye.
“Give her the keys, Lawson. I’d hate for you to be late for your lunch engagement.”
Debra disappeared toward the elevators. After she left, Merrill sat down, giving Lawson a puzzled look.
“How’dit go in San Antonio,” Lawson asked Merrill.
“I was looking at the evidence on the case there.”
“Really, what have they got?”
“You’re too busy to go out of your way even for five minutes to drop off Randall’s car, but you’ve got plenty of time to hang around for the scuttlebutt?”
“Yeah,” Gangley chimed, “what happened to the big reason you had to leave so quickly you couldn’t do me a simple favor? Are you feeling badly today? You’ve never stood me down before, and I’ll tell you something Lawson: you’d better never do it again, personal assistant or not. I don’t take shit like you just dished out from anyone who works for me. I hope you understand that?”
“I’ll make it up to you Randall. Sorry I was so insistent, but this is an important meeting.”
“With who? Why is it so important?”
“It’s personal.”
“Got a hot relationship going?” Merrill asked.
Lawson seemed especially agitated.
“I think we’d better let him leave, Merrill. He looks like he’s about to shit his pants or faint if he doesn’t get out of here right this second.”
Suddenly, a deafening explosion shook the walls of the office, rattling the glass windows so severely that they almost shattered.
“What the hell was that? Look out the window Lawson, quick.”
Lawson ran to the window and looked. Both Merrill and Gangley were about to follow.
“My God, Randall, your Cadillac just exploded. There’s fire everywhere. Oh, no....” he said, turning to face the other two astonished men, “Debra must be....”
When he had turned, Merrill was closing the office door, and Lawson was looking down the barrel of Gangley’s 45 magnum..
“So that’s why you refused to drive Randall’s car,” Merrill stated, a knowing look.
“It was supposed to be me, wasn’t it, Lawson? And you knew it was rigged to blow. Nothing was getting you into that car, was it?”
“You don’t think I . . . ”
“Shut your mouth, you Ratshit traitor! Sit down, back to the window, spread your legs, and put both hands palms down on your knee caps.”
“Randall, I would never . . . ”
“I said shut the fuck up! If I shoot both of your knee caps,” he said, screwing the silencer onto his gun, “then you’ll sit.”
Lawson obeyed. The looks on Merrill’s and Randall’s faces were stone. Nothing would get him out of this one. He should have just taken the keys, he realized, then just left. He had panicked because of the speed with which Gangley had moved to resolve the problem.
“You murdered Debra, you mother-fucker, in cold blood. You didn’t even follow her out and stop her before she was burned to a crisp. It was more important to you to pump Merrill for information.”
Gangley punched the intercom.
“Security,” rattled the speaker.
“Send A and B up here. I have an assignment for them.”
“Yes, sir. Do you know what just happened in front of the building?”
“Yes, we heard and felt it. I know exactly what happened. Call me when the police arrive.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Who are you working for?” Gangley looked at Lawson.
“Randall, you’ve got this all wrong. I didn’t know about the car bomb.”
“How do you know it was a car bomb? It could have been a bazooka fired from the street.”
“I just assumed . . . .”
“Right. Now tell me, which agency are you a snitch for.”
“I’m not a snitch, Randall.” The blood had fled Lawson’s face and lips.
“And you think I buy that, and you can just walk out of here?”
“Randall, we’ve been together for years, and I ‘ve always done what you’ve asked of me. How could you think I was an agent?”
“Either you’re very stupid, or you think we are,” Merrill observed.
“So you’re sticking with that story?” Gangley asked him.
“I have to. It’s the truth. You’ve confused two separate issues and you’ve got this all wrong.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
The door opened and a huge man with a neck as thick as his head walked in. Behind him was another man of nearly equal hulk.
“Cuff and gag him. The attention is in front of the building right now, so use the rear freight elevator. Pull your car around there, put him in the trunk, and take him to the plane. Merrill and I will meet you within an hour.”
“NO!” Lawson shouted, springing up like a rabbit. “Randall, you’ve got to believe me!”
A fierce blow to the solar plexus by the giant security officer knocked the wind out of Lawson. He felt his hands being cuffed behind his back. Next, they stuffed an entire handkerchief into his mouth and wrapped duct tape all the way around his head about four times. No sound was possible now. They led him away, Lawson kicking and fighting to no avail.
“Sir,” the intercom blared, “The police are pulling up. You’d better come down.”
“Let’s set this guy up so whoever he works for wouldn’t even think about exposing themselves. How he acted, and then what happened to Debra. He killed a faithful employee who was completely innocent, and we think he probably had something to do with another employee, Nancy Herrick. After the explosion, it all came together, but he had fled. He was some kind of plotter.”
It wasn’t necessary to fake horror when they viewed the charred remains of Debra’s body. It sent chills down Gangley’s spine realizing that was supposed to be his body, and if Merrill hadn’t arrived when he did, Lawson and his cohorts, whoever they were, would have gotten away with it.
“There’ll be hell to pay for this.”
His Cadillac was a twisted, charred shadow of its former self. They told the police what had happened in the office, how an employee they trusted had absolutely refused to get in the car, because he knew it would explode when the key was turned. He had murdered Debra by not warning her. He had left quickly, not long before the explosion. A Detective Hicks arrived within a few minutes, and Merrill mentioned somewhat casually that Lawson probably was the man who had arranged for another employee’s murder . . . a woman named Nancy Herrick. Hicks asked the Dealership’s address and phone number, saying he wanted to confirm there had been an appointment. Gangley gave him both.
“Since you’re calling, tell them I won’t be bringing the car in after all.” he asked Hicks.
Soon, based upon the testimony of witnesses and the corroboration of a prominent member of the City Council, a warrant for murder was issued for Lawson, and his description was circulated in an attempt to apprehend him quickly.
Merrill called Bard to make certain Metro did run the story. A flatbed wrecker with a cable arrived shortly after the Coroner’s office had extracted Debra’s remains and taken them away. The exploded car was taken to a police yard where it would be searched for clues.
After everyone had finally left, Randall told his people he was shaken and was taking the rest of the day off, which certainly was justified. Then they left in Merrill’s car for Randall’s private plane. Gangley got on the cellular and instructed the pilot to file a flight plan for a trip to the Cayman Islands. He instructed A and B to put Lawson inside the cargo bay behind the customized cabin so they could bring him in after the plane was airborne. They hardly spoke as they drove, their minds deep in “what if” thoughts about the car bomb meant for Gangley.
When they arrived, the jet was ready, fueled, and the flight plan filed. They boarded, and soon were taxiing to the runway. The takeoff was smooth and they circled toward the Gulf. After the plane was stabilized at 12,000 feet, Gangley instructed them to bring Lawson out and put him in the seat facing he and Merrill. The man known as ‘A’ spread out a sheet of plastic over the seat, covering the full area where Lawson would be sitting. ‘B’ brought him out, secured with so many loops of rope wrapped around his arms and legs that he looked like a mummy facing Gangley.
“Remove the gag.”
A ripped the tape off and pulled out the handkerchief, placing both in a plastic bag. B pulled out a knife with a six-inch blade as sharp as a straight razor, and stood next to Lawson. It was a routine well-rehearsed during similar flights in the past.
“Please, Randall, I’m your friend. Why are you doing this? I’ve been loyal to you, shared all your secrets, even about Wally and Herrick. Why won’t you believe me?”
“Shared all my secrets with whom? I’ll tell you what: I’m willing to believe you if you answer all of my questions without hesitation. If everything checks out, you’ll enjoy drinks in the Caymans with the rest of us tonight, and we’ll fly back tomorrow.”
He laid his gun with the silencer on the seat next to him and folded his hands in his lap.
“Sure, Randall. Anything!”
“Good! What’s your home phone number? You won’t mind if I use your cellular? We brought it along.” Lawson gave it immediately. “Tell them to drop to 2000 feet, so I can use the phone.”
“Not your local number. The number where your wife lives. I know you’re married and have a family.”
Sheepishly, Lawson yielded up the number. After the plane had descended, Gangley dialed, and waited, his eyes fixed upon Lawson’s.
A child answered, “Kawoski residence.” Then, after her mother yelled something in the background, said hurriedly: “I mean, Lawson.” Immediately, a woman took the phone.
“Who’s calling?”
“Is your husband there?”
“No, Bruce is in Houston,” she answered cautiously.
“Thank you, I’ll call later.” Gangley ended the call, still looking at Lawson.
“I told you not to answer, ‘Kawoski’! You can get your father into trouble,”she yelled at her daughter, after the call ended abruptly.
“Okay,” Gangley said, “you gave me the number. So you answered the first question correctly. Now for the second. What’s your real name?”
“Lawson, you know that!”
Gangley nodded at B and without hesitation, he cut off Lawson’s right ear. Lawson screamed in agony. B calmly showed him the ear, then laid it in his lap.
“Okay, okay . . . It’s Bruce Kawoski.” Lawson was completely unnerved, terrified, staring death in the face. His heart pounding, he gasped for air.
“And who do you work for, Bruce Kawoski?”
“The FBI.”
“And why is the FBI interested in me?”
“Logan’s Dry Cleaning.”
“Logan’s Dry Cleaning?”
“We got a tip that you had kidnapped the owners because they wouldn’t sell, and their’s was the only piece of property left in the six block area of the Convention Center site you were buying up at the time. According to the tip, they were taken across the state line into Louisiana, making it a Federal case. There they were murdered, cut up, and the pieces of their bodies scattered in the bayou.”
“If the bodies were never found, how do you know they were cut up and thrown into the bayou?
Because their son was visiting them, and was in the back. He hid when he realized they were being abducted because he had no weapon. Then, he followed the van all the way to the kill site, hid his car and crept up in the darkness. He had to watch his parents stripped, and with their hands and ankles tied, watch their bodies be sawn into pieces with a chain saw in the darkness. His mother was screaming the whole time her husband was being cut up until it was her turn and they took off her head. He said he heard the splashes each time a different part of one of the bodies hit the swamp water. He’s in a mental institution now because he went insane. No one would bid on the property, because it had been a dry cleaners and was presumed to be contaminated, and you bought it later at auction for a hundred dollars.”
“Do they know that it’s because of your snooping that I had Nancy killed?”
“I didn’t know you would kill her. I exposed her to increase your trust in me.”
“But you got her killed. I was buying her story. You put her at risk and now her blood and Debra’s is all over you and the FBI, Fool. You people are more guilty than us.”
A, B, Merrill, and Randall all laughed.
“Why the car bomb?”
“They wanted to pull me out because of Nancy, as you say, and they couldn’t prove anything, so they arranged for your death and my disappearance.”
“Well, the first part of the plan failed, didn’t it? Everyone will be looking for you under a murder warrant. I guess we’re doing the FBI a favor in arranging for your ‘disappearance.’”
“You said you wouldn’t kill me if I told you everything.”
“You’re willing to tell me everything?”
“Yes, everything, if you’ll just let me live. Leave me in the Caymans. I’ll disappear, and you’ll never hear from me again. I give you my word.”
“Give me the chain of command in full names beginning with your superior all the way back to the individual in Washington who approved my being murdered.”
Bruce hesitated. That meant being personally responsible for another string of murders. Gangley nodded, and with Bruce screaming, B cut off the other ear, showed it to him, and laid it beside the other one in his lap.
“Wanna try again, Bruce?”
“He sure looks strange with no ears,” Merrill said.
“Wait a second . . . just a second,” Bruce pleaded, now in so much dire pain and agony, he could hardly catch his breath, and it was difficult to think. Shortly, Merrill could hardly keep up with his pen, Bruce was spitting names out so quickly. When he had finished, Gangley had another question.
“Who planted the car bomb?”
“They didn’t tell me that.”
Gangley nodded, and B took off about half an inch of the end of Bruce’s nose, letting it fall into his lap. Bruce was looking very, very strange. Blood covered him, soaking the rope and accumulating precariously near the edge of the plastic sheet. A. pulled it farther in front of his feet to prevent it from staining the aircraft carpet.
Bruce was filled with the sheer horror that can only be experienced by watching pieces of one’s body being cut off a piece at a time.
“It was Stillman-Art Stillman, a former CIA man pulled in by the Dallas Office.”
“What’s the address of the Dallas office?”
“It’s in Arlington, between Dallas and Fort Worth.” He gave the address.
“Where does Stillman himself live?”
“In Arlington. He’s listed. He’s a specialist in explosives.”
“What have you copied from my files since you’ve been my assistant?” Bruce hesitated.
“An eye will be next, Bruce.”
“Everything except the stuff in the cabinet you keep locked with the vertical steel bar. I couldn’t get into it without your knowing.”
“Then the FBI doesn’t actually know shit, do they?”
“No. I was supposed to break into that cabinet after you were bombed and turn those files over so they could indict your accomplices in various matters.”
“Thank you, Randall. You’ve been very honest . . . with a little encouragement.”
“Are you taking me to a surgeon after we land? I’ve told you everything. You promised . . . ” In his heart, Bruce knew they couldn’t let him live, and they knew he did.
“That’s a promise I can’t keep, Bruce,” Gangley said, shoving Bruce’s phone beneath the rope. “Sorry.”
He nodded, and A removed the kerchief from the bag, stuffing it back into Bruce’s mouth. B instructed the pilot to drop to a thousand feet above the ocean. The plane began its descent.
“Since you came clean, Bruce, I will let your family live. You can die knowing that you saved their lives. Unfortunately, unless you can survive a 1000-foot fall, pull a Houdini freeing yourself, and swim about 100 miles, you won’t be joining them.”
The ultimate horror that accompanies the knowledge of certain death shown from Bruce’s eyes. Having managed to spit out the handkerchief, he was crying, begging for mercy.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be unconscious before you hit the water, old friend. You’d never recover from how you look, and we could never trust you. Hell, your wife wouldn’t want to live with you anyway with no ears and half a nose. You look pretty creepy!”
As Bruce wept like a child, Gangley told them to leave the kerchief out and get it over with. A and B pulled the corners of the plastic up over Bruce’s head and taped the top in a tight bundle with masking tape, leaving the plane spotless. They carried him, wriggling and moaning, to the cargo bay and wrapped twenty feet of heavy chain around his plastic-enclosed body, with the blood and body parts all neatly inside. Pulling it tight and joining the two end links with a lock, they opened the cargo door just enough to let the package slide out. The scream faded quickly into the air beneath.
That night in the Caymans, the four of them enjoyed drinks and prime rib from Argentine beef. Gangley and Merrill agreed it was more flavorful than U.S. beef. They laughed as they mused about the FBI’s predicament and planned the next sequence of events while sitting in the evening breeze. A swim in the waves followed.
“Anthony, Bryan, enjoy yourselves,” Gangley said, as they toweled themselves. “You’ve earned it. Bryan, tomorrow, you and Pritchard have a job to do in Arlington.” Pritchard was the man Nancy and Doreen had dubbed, “Scarface.”
A and B disappeared into the night life. Merrill spoke to the waiter. Two lovely young women joined Gangley and Merrill a few moments later.

Frustration

Doreen was pleasantly surprised when informed there was a call from a detective Evans in San Antonio. This was the call she had been waiting for. This would be a Chronicle exclusive.
“Hello, Detective!”
“How are you?”
“Anxious, as you might imagine. I learned everything from Hicks up until Polly and Wally were loaded for transfer to San Antonio. I just need your half. Today will be the big story!”
“I think you’ll be happy with what I have. I’d have called sooner, but we were under heavy pressure to get Polly out of the picture before counsel arrived. That done, there were other things connected with the case that required follow up. Sorry. Yesterday, I intended to call, but one of our check-in officers fell ill during the day and died later at the hospital. He was a friend. We were all shaken. He was only thirty-eight. I’ve recovered, so I felt I should give you the promised exclusive.”
“Great! Sorry about your friend. Let me grab a pad and pen. I’ll be right back. Hold on.”
Evans had prepared written notes including just about every detail, and though he wondered at the wisdom of telling her everything, had it not been for her, there would have been no arrest, so he felt strongly obligated.
“I’m ready and all ears.”
He laughed.
“They arrived here in the wee hours of the morning the other day. We separated them, removing Polly before Wally awoke. After checking her in and in clothes-she was wearing a robe over pajamas when she was arrested-she was put in a cell, Wally afterward. They never had a chance to speak together after waking. Wally made a call to Gangley, but Polly called her father, a good sign. Plus, it would also make Gangley wonder about her.
“Our plan when we saw how nervous she acted was to try to get her to sell Wally out in exchange for her release. She would merely have to return to testify. We ignored Wally for the time being, because we couldn’t offer him any deal other than avoiding Death Row if he gave Gangley up. On the other hand, Polly had reneged after meeting and talking to Mrs. Herrick at the restaurant, and tried to talk Wally out of the murder, but he was intent on fulfilling his contract. He let her out, then circled around and nabbed the Herrick woman. He took her somewhere and killed her, then drove into downtown and threw her into the dumpster.
“We began by explaining that she was in big trouble, but learned that her father had told her not to admit to or sign anything. The transfer gave us a day to work on her before either he or Merrill, their attorney, could get here, an advantage. When she said she wasn’t saying anything else until she had spoken to her father or had an attorney present, I asked her if it wouldn’t be a better idea just to be waiting out front when he arrived to pick her up. You should have seen her light up when I said that. She said, ‘You mean you’ll let me go?’
“I told her if she cooperated we would, because it was Wally we wanted, not her. After troubling about the rightness of it for a bit, it wasn’t difficult to get her to turn State’s witness. We videotaped her entire testimony and she answered every question in detail, supplying information we knew nothing about. We discharged her into her father’s custody, according to the deal I’d made with the DA, and hid her under guard in a hotel until he could get to the station. He couldn’t believe she was already out. He’s a big shot at a tobacco company and had his own security men with him. Good thing too, because Polly called me from Raleigh, North Carolina and told me Gangley’s thugs had almost gotten them a few miles from Houston Hobby airport.”
“What happened?” Doreen wanted to know.
“They were trailed by four men in a car who were supposed to get Polly, I guess. The two security men are trained professionals, and killed two of the four hoods during an attempt to ram and run them off the road. They actually got the better of them, then exited at a McDonald’s where there were a lot of cars and people. There’s a station there, too. I know the spot.”
“This is exciting material for my story.”
“There’s more too, some of it’s pretty funny. I’ll leave it to you to decide how much of it to print.”
“Tell me all!”
“Well, the car chasing them stopped on the side road in the darkness after following them off the exit. But Simpson’s security men were waiting outside to see if they would try an assault with so many people and cars. They didn’t. They just pulled off the road, and with Jim’s-that’s Polly’s father-men watching, they unloaded two dead bodies from the highway shootout, placing them by a fence in deep grass. A patrol car happened by from the other direction, and the driver panicked. Meanwhile, the other guy had walked around to the front and was relieving himself, when his partner floors it, with the tires screaming, and the cops spin around and go after him, leaving the guy’s buddy standing by the two bodies. When he noticed Jim’s security men running toward him, he tried to leap a barbed wire fence with it still hanging out, and practically ripped it off when he failed to clear the fence. He fell to the ground moaning, but as they got closer, he managed to run away into the night through the trees and bushes. After leaving McDonald’s, they passed the car with the escaped fellow’s partner that tried to get away. The cops had the guy in cuffs, laid across the trunk, and were calling in the incident. I’m sure the guy couldn’t explain what he was doing driving a car with the front window shot out and glass and blood scattered over the interior. Meanwhile, Polly’s group got to her dad’s plane and they flew home without further pursuit. That’s Polly’s story.”
“Incredible, Evans, just incredible . . . and anecdotal.”
“There’s not much to tell about Wally after his arrival here. You got the best on him from Hicks. However, you should have seen his attorney when he found he’d arrived within an hour of Polly’s release. He was devastated. I decided to try to beat him into urging his client to rat on Gangley in exchange for avoiding Death Row.”
“Merrill would never do that,” Doreen commented, “because he and Gangley are involved in too much together.”
“Perhaps, but what are they doing about him otherwise? I introduced the forensic evidence, keeping the beads for last. Just when he was certain the evidence was circumstantial and worthless, I introduced the bite marks and the bracelet tooth marks. He opted to state it was all circumstantial. Then I showed him the photo taken during the autopsy of the area under her tongue. When he saw the very same beads clumped together with the chip from her tooth, he essentially folded. I’m certain he wouldn’t dare tell Wally he was doomed while in the same room with him. Wally can get out of hand quickly if he thinks someone’s out to get him. The next day at the arraignment he pled his client ‘Not guilty,’ spoke to the DA a few minutes and left. He seemed anxious to leave.”
“The thing about this that makes me so angry,” Doreen pined, “is that the Gangley organization appears so innocent and the testimony seems to confirm it. The monster who killed Nancy is safely behind bars, and the case is airtight. But the real monster is getting off Scot-free. I just can’t stand it. I can’t make a single justifiable claim against Gangley in print, except to mention the car bombing yesterday. Did you hear about that?”
“No, what car bombing?”
“Apparently, Gangley’s personal assistant was an undercover FBI agent, and the FBI is implicated in trying to kill him by having his car blown up with him in it. I got a tip about the FBI being involved from Detective Hicks shortly after we learned of the car bombing. For some reason, a girl in Gangley’s office was to drive it in for servicing and the car blew up with her in it right outside the building. She was burned to a crisp during the fire that ensued. Somehow, Gangley realized who had done it, and he and Merrill told Hicks about Lawson, who now has a warrant out for him. He couldn’t be located though, because he left immediately after refusing to drive the car to the dealer himself, apparently making quite a big deal out of the refusal. They couldn’t figure out why he had acted so strangely until the bomb went off. This morning, Hicks called again, saying they had gotten a call giving Lawson’s real name, so now an undercover FBI agent named Bruce Kawoski from Washington D.C. is being sought on a murder charge. Another innocent woman is dead, but again, it’s somehow not Gangley’s fault. With a member of the City Council as a joint witness of this Kawoski’s behavior, the warrant was issued immediately. I called the FBI, and they’re saying Kawoski had no authority to bomb Gangley’s car, and don’t know his whereabouts. They won’t reveal anything on or off the record. I did a story on that yesterday, but it wasn’t an exclusive. This story will be, but it doesn’t implicate Gangley. And the story yesterday was so shaved to the bone by the Executive editor that it made Gangley look like an innocent priest who was attacked by an infidel.”
“Who’s your Executive Director?”
“Mr. Bard. I argued to make Gangley look as suspect as possible, but every line in that direction was cut. Lou wanted to shoot him, but Bard wouldn’t yield an inch. He wasn’t bending.”
“You’re frustrated.”
“Yes, and I’ve put myself out there by not involving my husband one point at a time as I made these discoveries during my investigations. He absolutely hates sting operations. The idea that the FBI, instead of pursuing actual criminals, would spend taxpayer dollars going around trying to create criminals makes him so angry, he shakes. He hates high level government corruption because he knows what their games did to his intended career, and the hidden things he knows about the EPA would make the average person’s skin crawl. When he learns that the FBI actually tried to murder Gangley, and that Lawson was an undercover agent, I fear he may think that we inadvertently helped another undercover agent escape.”
“Who?”
“Nancy, of all people!”
“You don’t think its possible that . . . ”
“Of course not! Not for a second. She was with him for years. Gangley tried to murder her in her own home. That’s the reason she was running. He had found the list in his own handwriting in her car.”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t tell me you could fall for that, Evans. Please don’t tell me that!”
“Let me ask you something. I know you hate Gangley. Me too because of the gruesome murder of a nice woman. But how do you feel about the FBI planting a car bomb to kill someone without due process of law? Doesn’t that disturb you?”
Doreen didn’t immediately answer.
“I’ll tell you, its scares the hell out of me. What I have to go through to get a guy like Wally. It would have been so easy just to send Hicks by and as soon as they gained access to the home, and have him shoot Polly and Wally. Instant justice, the system saves a lot of money, and there’s no necessity for proving anything. But it doesn’t work that way. Even if some guilty people go free, we have to maintain a civilized system.”
“I know, and I agree with everything you just said. My point isn’t about that. The FBI knew this man was a killer, just like I know. It’s about justice too, not just procedure.”
“So you would agree with the premise of the movie, ‘The Star Chamber?’”
“No, I couldn’t”
“They were actual judges with probably two-hundred years on the bench between them. That’s as good as the FBI’s criminal acumen. So why is it alright to blow Gangley up if it wasn’t alright for judges to assassinate men they knew to be guilty, but who had slipped through the net of justice?”
“I see your point. I think I agree.”
“You’re too close to this one to think rationally about it. I wonder what Mark’s reaction will be to your story?”
“I’m wondering myself, but I know he’ll be glad you caught Nancy’s assassins, whether or not he thinks she might have been an undercover agent.”
“He’s probably going to motive.”
“What motive?”
“My point exactly, and probably his.”
“I’m not following.”
“Have you asked yourself why a woman gainfully employed, paid well above scale for the normal person in her position, would try to bring down her employer by exposing him in the press in a clandestine manner? Why would she do that? Was she really that concerned and indignant about a few payoffs?”
“Obviously. She leaked it to us.”
“But why? Unless a person has a personal reason, they don’t normally bite the hand that feeds them, especially if they’re fed well and no one’s life is placed in danger because of it. What was her personal motive? Defense attorneys always try to eliminate the motive alleged by the prosecuting attorney. Did she ever give you a personal reason for her attack upon Gangley?”
“No. I think it bothered her that corruption was at the heart of the Convention Center deal and she felt badly about it.”
“I’m just playing the devil’s advocate here so you can maybe understand Mark’s thinking. You two are such a solid couple, I don’t want to see you become Gangley’s victims.”
“There’s no danger of anything like that. As of today, he’ll know the essentials of what I’ve been holding back, and I don’t plan on conducting myself like that any more. It’s counterproductive and inflicts a lot of guilt on me.”
“Send me a copy of your story. A few more items that might interest you: Merrill had Wally looking clean and neat for the arraignment. He also insinuated he’s planning a heavy defense, not a deal. Polly’s tape shows she knows nothing about Gangley’s role in Nancy’s murder. It mentions only Wally.”
“Thanks for your follow through, Evans, and for holding my feet to the ground about Gangley. I just hate the man. I have to go. I’m up against a deadline.”
“Goodbye, Doreen.”
Doreen felt she had just been chided because a terrible man was getting off and she hated it. She didn’t think Nancy was an agent, but the motive issue began troubling her for the first time.
Merrill was unprepared for the second call from Wally. He had no good news, and he was just biding his time until news of his death.
“Hey, Man, its been a week and I’m still sitting in this hole.”
“I know, Wally. We’re getting close.”
“Gangley’s gonna get me out of this, right?”
“Of course, but we have to get everything in place first. Do you need anything?”
“I could use some more smokes. I can’t get my brand in here, and some candy.”
“You’ve gone through the entire carton?”
“It wasn’t a full carton, only nine packs. You have to watch the guys who check your stuff. The inmate next to me said they usually lift a pack. What’re you gonna do? You hassle them and they may keep all your stuff back.”
“So you’ve smoked the rest?”
“Yeah, when are you coming back down?”
“Probably tomorrow. I have some questions for you.”
“Well, bring me more smokes, and tell Gangley he needs to hurry up. This place has me crawling.”
“Sit tight, Buddy. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Good, Man. It’s lonely not knowing anybody here!”
Merrill was on the phone to Evans immediately, not failing to note that Wally had not called him, "Randle," but "Ganley." That was a bad sign.
“Evans here.”
“Yes, this is Merrill, Mr. Lipscomb’s attorney?”
“Yes, Mr. Merrill.”
“I’m arriving there tomorrow. I’d like to view Polly’s tape again, and meet with my client.”
“Certainly. Could you make it early? One of our officers died yesterday, and his funeral is tomorrow afternoon.”
“How did he die?”
“They’re thinking heart trouble. He was only thirty-eight, and has a family. He had no history of health problems. I guess you go when it’s your time.”
“I’ll see you early.”
Gangley answered.
“It’s Merrill. Wally’s been through nine packs of the carton I gave him.”
“So it’s to be soon. He’s on his last pack.”
“No, one pack was pocketed by the guy who inspected the items I left.”
“Oops.”
“Yesterday, a thirty-eight year old officer dropped dead. He’s to be buried tomorrow afternoon.”
“Stiff punishment for stealing a pack of cigarettes.”
“Indeed.”
“Now what?”
“I called Evans and told him I needed to see Polly’s tape again; that’s when he said it would have to be tomorrow morning because of the funeral service tomorrow afternoon. Call the woman again, and this time I’ll be certain he gets all ten packs. By the way, he’s pushing to get out, wants to know what you’re doing about it. I told him it’ll be just a few more days. By then, he’ll have smoked them all. Can you believe the odds that the one pack the cop pocketed was the bad one?”
“Mystifying, isn’t it?”
Gangley hung up and returned to the discussion he was having with A and B. He gave B the address of Art Stillman in Arlington, the ex-CIA man who had rigged his car with explosives.
“I want you and Pritchard to make a statement to the FBI; take out the man’s entire family along with him. Here’s expense money. You can get the C-4 from our normal source,” he said, handing B a wad of unwrapped $100 bills to cover expenses. B left immediately to meet with Pritchard.
The next afternoon, TV news reported that a car bomb had exploded, killing one, Art Stillman, his wife, and their three children, residents of Arlington. On the same day, firefighters were called to extinguish a fire that erupted in the family’s home, largely destroying the structure before it was extinguished. Arson was suspected.

Concessions






“PVC Farm” was an intriguing pejorative for an infrastructure in the process of installation. Everyone who stopped by had a comment to make about wells protruding from the ground all over the site.
During installation of the bentonite slurry wall, now in place, hundreds of interested people had stopped by to ask what the sheet piling was for. “Foundation work,” they had been told. Mark was accustomed to the nuisance value of remediation work. There were always those who had to stop and comment or make inquiry. There was a client confidentiality issue, so, for instance, you never told them that client X had 20,000 gallons of solvent that was poisoning the groundwater. You put them off by telling them you were checking the groundwater. Some were quite clever and knew better. With these, you admitted there was an environmental problem but that it was in the process of remediation, and you never discussed the nature of it. Reporters were sometimes very ingenious, so you fed them misinformation, refusing to allow them to quote you. Then, if they ran a story, they were immediately threatened with a lawsuit by the client and they never bothered you again. Often it was some sixty to eighty-something-year-old troublemaker who loves cats but hates humans. To these, so busy railing that you couldn’t get a word in edgewise anyway, you just refused to say anything except to demand that they leave the site for “insurance safety” reasons.
Most people Mark had met over the years who called themselves “environmentalists” weren’t. It was only a catch-word for a surprising majority of their organization’s mainstay. Upon conversing with them for any length of time, he had often discovered that they mostly just hated change and development. More confounding yet, some seemed to be against any and all progress.
“Is it a function of their age?” he wondered
As an environmentalist himself, when he had first attended some of the Green Party meetings, thinking he should join it on principle, he found most of them to be amazingly ignorant of actual environmental processes, while claiming to champion the environment. Also, there were many strange bedfellows. He had decided not to become involved when he discovered that a significant ratio of the members espoused ancillary issues that had nothing to do with the environment, but were aimed at the destruction of entire industries, not their responsible operation. Mining and logging were principal targets. Mark had lived next to an International Paper Company Pilot Forest in his youth, and knew that managed timber was far preferable to wild growth. Annual forest fires attested to the far greater damage suffered by unmanaged forest. He had been involved in a project in Washington state in the Westport area and had watched these so-called environmentalists destroy the economy of the entire region by maneuvering the virtual shutdown of the logging industry, the backbone of the local economy. After their coup, the local economy went into depression. When one drove through the area, every other house was having a rummage sale, and every other car had an Herbalife or Primerica sticker saying, “ask me about . . . ” The people were starving and the “environmentalists” were thrilled. They never seemed to consider the impact of their campaigns over the long term. He considered this dangerous and irresponsible. The long term national impact was that the Japanese were forced to go elsewhere for lumber, and they discovered there were more kinds of wood in the world than just spruce and pine. In addition to Canada, they began shifting their purchases to South America, and at much lower prices than they had paid for U.S. timber. The charade left whole towns without adequate employment. Food on the table for children paid for by honest labor was not a consideration. The price of wood skyrocketed across the U.S. Mark was an environmentalist, but his was a studied loyalty, not invalidated by politics and extremism. Gangley was thrilled by the commotion and attention the sheet piling project generated, because it gave the impression that construction of the Convention Center was already underway. Moss told Mark he had never seen the man so happy.
Today was a good day, because as of now, over seventy-five wells had been installed and proven. Within a few more days, they would begin running the lines connecting them to the rest of the infrastructure. The steam plant had arrived and was being erected by the manufacturer. The Propane tanks installed adjacent to it were the largest he had ever seen. Passers by assumed because of its peripheral location that it must be the independent power plant that would support the Massive structure's operation. Hodges was accelerating construction of two very large Bio-Sparge units. Altogether, things were progressing well and ahead of even the accelerated schedule.
Gangley stopped by and invited Mark to lunch. During lunch, they discussed the attempted car bombing by an FBI agent. Mark was sufficiently indignant to impress Gangley. After all, both Delta and New World had bonuses riding on the successful completion of this project, and neither they, nor the project itself could be paid for by a dead man assassinated without due process of law by a rogue branch of the government. The fact that an FBI agent had been involved in the attempt on Gangley’s life was incredulous to him. They had officially denied any of their agents had been involved, but in the same edition of the paper, a different source within the bureau had attributed it to the illegal actions of a rogue agent. Neither source knew the other was issuing a response. They couldn’t even keep their own story straight. It was Ruby Ridge all over again. Deborah’s family had told Gangley they intended to sue the FBI, and he had recommended Merrill’s firm as being the best litigators in Houston. Merrill agreed to handle the case personally, and the FBI was positing all over the map, because the agency could wind up paying a horrific settlement for Deborah’s death. Unknown to Mark, though it wouldn't have surprised him, the suit held a special significance for them, as it provided an opportunity to offload the Herrick assassination on the FBI as well.
Late in the day, they had a small mishap when the slotted section of one of the well casings became plugged by the bentonite clay at the bottom of the hole and couldn’t be cleared by back-flushing, nor could it be pressured out. It had to be drilled out and replaced. This wasn’t a major setback, but neither was it routine. It did keep Doug on pins and needles to make certain there were no further mistakes under his watch. By the time the drillers had quit for the day, exhausted, it was time for home and solace. Mark was no exception.
Doreen had prepared Mark’s favorite meal: spaghetti, long and moist, with a succulent sauce; not too much meat, and rich in mushrooms. They were all feasting when Doreen casually asked if Mark had seen her front page exclusive in the Chronicle. He told her he looked forward to reading it as soon as Tim had gone to bed for the evening.
Later, sitting together in the den as they did each evening, she handed him the Late edition, and Mark looked at the large headline and opening lines of the story.

"Murderers of Houston Woman Arrested and transfered to San Antonio for Trial

In a Chronicle exclusive, it was learned today that two people involved in the murder of Mrs. Nancy Herrick of Houston had been arrested. The sensational murder occurred in San Antonio recently. Her body was discovered in a dumpster by two children on their way to school. Mrs. Herrick was found with her hands tied behind her back. A plastic bag had been placed over her head and taped shut around her neck, causing death by suffocation.

Police arrested Mr. Walter H. Lipscomb of Houston, and Miss Polly Simpson, also of Houston. The two had followed a vehicle transporting Mrs. Herrick to Laredo, Texas. The following morning, she boarded a bus for San Antonio, but after her arrival, she was abducted and murdered the same evening. Police later released Miss Simpson, who turned state’s witness, revealing details of the murder in which police say she did not take part and had, in fact. tried to prevent. Mr. Lipscomb is being held without bail on the charge of First-degree murder, which carries the death penalty in Texas . . . "

“Nancy’s Dead?” Mark was astonished, under the impression that she was safely tucked away in Ohio with her daughter and son-in-law.
“When did you find out about Nancy’s murder?” he asked.
“I saw it on T.V. the day after you sent her to San Antonio.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“I wanted to, but you were so involved in the project, about to leave for Las Vegas, and I didn’t want you carrying that baggage with you. I didn’t know how it might affect you. I decided to protect you.”
“God, how could you bear up under that alone? You should have told me so we could support one another’s grief . . . Nancy dead!” He was frozen, silent, and stunned momentarily, then began physically shaking, and wept uncontrollably.
Doreen cradled Mark’s head within her bosom, stroking his hair and making no attempt to hold back her own tears. She knew exactly how he felt. She’d been through it, was still suffering, still not at peace.
“In investigative journalism, I often have to withhold information until I get the story. It develops lead by lead, and the sources have to remain protected. I was involved in something potentially dangerous, and I didn’t want you out there in Las Vegas worrying.”
“It’s difficult to believe you could pass through the investigation alone. You’re a strong woman, Hon. What was the full extent of your role in this story? What else don’t I know?”
“It’s a solved crime, and I’m the one responsible for solving it.”
“You solved it, as in, personally?”
“Yes.”
“How!” He looked as if about to burst into tears again. It broke Doreen’s heart.
She told him the entire story of her involvement with detective Evans, first on an anonymous basis just to identify who the dead woman was, then later to provide information. She told him about the beads discovered during the autopsy and how it reminded her of what he had told her about the Indian’s hair or wrist bands of fine bead work; how she had photographed them without their knowledge and left the pictures on the table for Tim to discover; how Tim, without knowing her motive, had identified the bikers he and Mark had met in the stairwell of Nancy’s hotel; how Lipscomb was picked up on a phony charge and held overnight so they could innocuously store his valuables; how forensics had discovered the tooth marks and five missing beads that left gaps so small, Lipscomb hadn’t even noticed they were missing; How the colors of the missing beads matched the beads found in Nancy’s mouth with a chip from one of her front teeth; about the bite mark impressions on Lipscomb’s wrist; how later in the evening Polly had been picked up on murder one, and Lipscomb had been awakened and charged, on a warrant from San Antonio in both cases; how they had been transported overnight to allow one day of questioning before any counsel from Houston could get there. She explained how Polly had decided to plea bargain for her release when she discovered she could actually walk, how they were pursued when her father had picked her up, and two of the pursuers were killed by Jim’s security men, even down to the story of Whizzer and his partner who were left. Mark couldn’t keep from laughing at that.
“Doreen, they say you never stop learning new things about your spouse. To be honest, this all sounds like the plot of a mystery, action, and suspense thriller combined. Swear to God! Remember the night we were goofing off–the spy thing–at Crab Shack?”
“I’ve thought about that night a lot,” she said. “If I’d had any idea . . .”
“You’re right off the page, that detective work you did . . . that’s spy grade if I ever saw it! You’re more clever than I’ve ever recognized. You and Evans used Sherlock Holmes genius; just sheer genius. I’m worried about you being at the center of it. I won’t presume to tell you how to do your job, but I think you should back off on Gangley Aren’t you worried that if you keep pushing on this, sooner or later, Gangley will discover the link between us? I can understand why you shielded me, but you also must shield yourself. If he became even remotely suspicious . . . ”
“I’m just so frustrated. What you’re saying is what I’m hearing from everyone: ‘The murderer is behind bars, so leave it alone where Gangley’s concerned.’ I think Evans may even secretly suspect Nancy was an agent as well.”
“I don’t think that’s possible. We saw her soul. She was a wonderful person. I still can’t believe she’s actually dead. I’m proud, amazed you almost single-handedly brought Lipscomb down. Up for Death Row, Gangley can’t spring him; no one can.”
“I’m sorry for keeping you in the dark, Baby. You were just so up, I couldn’t bear to pull you down. But it’s bothered me, so I wanted to bring you up to date.”
Mark reflected for a moment, wondering how to defuse what had almost become a conflict.
“I’m sorry about Nancy’s death,” he said, “but I can understand Gangley’s mentality, twisted as it is! You need a job, so you go to Gangley and apply. You’re not part of his world, but you hope to benefit from it by employment. To your surprise, he not only employs you, but he pays you more than you expected. You work there for many years, and your economic capability allows you to live in a nice home, own a nice car-a Cadillac, raise a child and send her to Ohio State. She never stopped talking about how important it was not to lose her job until she realized she was in trouble and the job became secondary. So after all these years of living well because of Gangley, you happen upon a document of his-a private document-stuck in the shredder. Why is it in the shredder? Because he intended for it to be shredded. If he had intended for it to be circulated, he would have made it a memo and sent it to you. What do you do? Do you un-jam the shredder and run it through? No. That’s where it starts to go wrong. You instead invade his privacy, read his private document, and happen upon information which has no bearing upon you or your future. Gangley’s success is the basis of your success. He gives you a big promotion, unaware that you have confiscated his private documents. Then, to show how grateful you are for all the good years he has made possible, you start leaking confidential information to the press. Information that, if published, would financially destroy him . . . kill him for all intents and purposes in his mind. It’s death to a man like Gangley. That’s a dangerous game. You have chosen to become the enemy of a man who befriended and trusted you for many years. Why would a person do such a thing when it’s none of their business in the first place? I thought the world of Nancy, but being around Gangley, I realize that she brought the house down on herself, because in trying to destroy Gangley’s life, she lost her own. Knowing Nancy no longer than we did, it somehow seems completely out-of-character. It’s like we’re missing a piece of the puzzle. I can’t understand the why, her motivation.”
Doreen was in tears. It cut Mark to the quick, and he put his arms around her.
“We’ve always been so close, Mark. I was wrong to keep all of this from you, but you make it sound like she deserved to die. I can’t bear rationalization from you.”
“I don’t believe she deserved to die. I can hardly stand it. But I know that she caused it herself by turning on her benefactor.”
“So you think Gangley should go free?”
“No! But I don’t think he should be fire-bombed because they can’t find evidence against him. If they can find the evidence, they’ll go after him, and that’s as it should be. But to presume guilt and then assassinate someone, however just it may seem in a given instance, is against all that this country stands for. That’s a story in itself, isn’t it? It’s like: ‘ask not for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee!’ Why wasn’t Gangley mentioned in your story?”
“No admissible evidence. Lou’s frustrated too, but we can’t run a story which might financially damage a man unless we can prove it. Without the shredder document, it doesn’t seem possible. Evans, and I guess Lou and I also, are wondering about motive, too. Evans and Lou feel that she had to have a personal reason to do what she did, and that ‘civic responsibility’ just doesn’t stack up. That’s why they suspect she may also have been an agent. Nancy was no agent, Mark! I’m so pissed off at all of them for even thinking such a thing, I feel like shooting Gangley myself. You think I’m a vigilante at heart?”
Mark laughed, then held her close again. “With Nancy dead, Hon, I doubt we’ll ever be able to find out what her real motives were. I know you want to get Gangley, and I’d help you if we had an angle. Even now, If we could do it in some way without placing Tim or ourselves in jeopardy, I’d be for it. But I wouldn’t trade our lives for his. Also, as far as professional ethics are concerned, there’s the other issue. Murder dwarfs it, but it’s unrelated.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have to keep the project separate from the man in my own mind long enough to complete it, or he’d spot me within a second. The man’s not stupid.”
“I know this puts you on the spot. You see now the reason I didn’t tell you on your way out the door to Vegas, don’t you?”
“I sure do; the two don’t mix. Maybe that’s the point we missed in our spy game, or maybe that’s what makes the spy game so treacherous. Maybe it’s even the kind of situation that spawns double-agents. I never thought about it that way before, but my ass is certainly in the sling on this one.”
“Not to the degree mine is. If I make a mistake, it could be the end of the Houser family! I’m not even allowed to do my thing. If I don’t back off on Gangley so you won’t have to worry, if I don’t keep us out of Gangley’s affairs . . .” she fell silent.
“I think this thing’s about to take care of itself. Lipscomb may give him up to save his own skin. If he doesn’t, he’ll get the chair. No matter what, he’ll never get out. You could let that play out before you risk getting any closer to Gangley yourself.”
“It’s been like a game of chess for me, playing both sides of the board. Forgive me?”
“For what, being the shrewdest Investigative reporter I know? For solving a perfect crime? For being the most principled woman I know? It makes me proud to watch your mind at work. Think of it this way: Lipscomb is the actual murderer, and will end up in the chair, all because of you!”

Fiddle-ing Around

The FBI special task force met in an urgent meeting called by Fiddle.
“I was already concerned about the failed assassination attempt on Gangley, more so the linking of that debacle to the FBI. However, I’m frankly quite alarmed by the bombing of Stillman’s car. Gangley didn’t just kill Art . . . he took out his entire family.”
“Someone told Gangley and it fucking had to have been Kawoski; he hasn’t checked in, so it’s a safe bet that Gangley got him,” Irons observed. “We’ll probably never hear from Bruce again. Gangley’s gotten the upper hand on us.” Fiddle became more worried at Irons’s remarks.
“All because of your giving the order to take him out. Why did you do that, Fiddle?” Wilson demanded, “You don’t solve a murder by committing one, and now you may have gotten all our asses on his list. We asked you for field support, and you order a goddamned assassination without consulting with us first. We're the strike team on this one. What happened to team?”
“We had the Gangley scenario in place to get his files,” Irons said, “but now, we can’t involve anyone else in the bureau or we’ll be inextricably tied to this mess, possibly in jail! And we certainly wouldn’t be safe there. None of us can know what Bruce may have told him if they were about to kill him . . . that means that we’re all in danger.”
“I'm not so sure he killed him. No one has touched his family like Stillman's. I think we should just take him out.” Fiddle suggested. Wilson couldn’t believe his ears.
“It’s already gotten fucked up, now you want to try to save your ass. Count me out. You, Kawoski, and Stillman think criminal procedure doesn’t apply to you. You’re not the goddamned CIA, and you’re not fucking God! If you even think about another illegal move, I’ll turn you in myself. You made your bed, now sleep in it!”
“Don’t be such a pussy, Wilson. He probably doesn’t even know our names, nor would he waste his time sneaking around trying to find us.”
“Yeah? Well, tell that to Stillman’s survivors, if you can find any! He may have gotten our names from Kawoski before he died? Does anyone in the Bureau know, besides the three of us?” Irons’ jaw was set.
“No, we’re the only ones.”
Wilson and Irons rose together and left fuming, leaving Fiddle sitting alone.
“Pussies!” he thought.
Wilson and Irons waited by the far right elevator. When it opened, seeing a single man inside, they stepped in just before the door closed.
“Did you get it?” the man inquired.
“Yes,” Wilson said, as the elevator began its descent. The man pushed the stop button and the elevator jerked to a halt. Wilson removed his coat and tie, and quickly unbuttoned and removed his shirt. Removing the wire and the recorder, he handed it to the man.
“I hope this clears the two of you,” he said.
“It will,” Irons assured him.
“I have to take this to the Director; he’s waiting. Meet me for lunch at the usual place,” he instructed as Wilson quickly redressed.
The man pulled out the stop button, and the elevator began descending again.
Wilson and Irons entered the restaurant later and walked to the far corner booth where the man was waiting.
“Now, we know you’re clean,” he said, as they seated themselves across from him in the booth. “The Director thinks we should let Stillman and Fiddle meet their own fate. Kawoski gave up all five members of the task force before they dropped him out of a plane, so we know Gangley has your names.”
“How could you know that?” Irons asked.
“We’ve had our own man under deep cover in Gangley’s organization since we learned the task force had become corrupt three years ago. We have a plan we think will protect the two of you from reprisals. Here’s what the Director wants you to do . . . ”

Gangley was seated at his desk when a man walked into his office.
“Mr. Gangley?”
“That’s me.”
“I have a confidential communication for you,” he said, handing him a card that resembled a wedding invitation and a cassette tape player with a tape inside it. The man then left without ever introducing himself. Gangley found the incident puzzling as he opened the card. It read:

"Mr. Gangley. My sympathies for the loss of your employee, Deborah, and the premise of the explosion that killed her. I want you to know that Irons and I had nothing to do with the attempt on your life. It was a criminal act ordered by task force Director, Henry Fiddle without our knowledge or consent. If you recognize these names, then I respectfully request the following agreement: Irons and I will make the investigation go away, and Fiddle may be reached at 501 Sommers Way, Bethesda, Maryland, outside the Capitol Beltway. Sincerely, Wilson. PS: Enjoy the tape.”

Gangley got the message clearly, especially after listening to the conversation on the tape. Take out the guilty party and the ones who remained would snuff out any investigation by the FBI. This would end a problem that had been ongoing for years right under his nose. Better to have friends in high places that owed you.
“What a risk Wilson is taking, giving me their names. What if I didn’t know already? But of course, Bruce never checked in, so they know we got him.”
Amazed at Iron’s and Wilson’s audacity, he shredded the document personally. Since the business with Nancy, he never walked away from the shredder until nothing but strips remained. He pulled out his cellular while the document was shredded, twice.

Fiddle was watching a football game in bed next to his sleeping wife when he thought he heard a noise downstairs. The kids were supposed to be asleep. Leaving the T.V. on, he put on his robe, grabbed the gun he had been keeping close at hand since Art was killed, and crept down the stairs. He saw nothing and heard nothing.
Slipping into the kitchen, he noticed in terror that the glass pane above the door was broken and the door was ajar. Someone was definitely in the house, or had been. He dialed 911 quietly, then searched the house; whoever had been there was gone. Had they installed bugs? That had become a principal concern since the unauthorized assassination had blown up in the wrong face and in his as well. No problem, he knew someone who could check for bugs the bureau may have installed and keep it off the record.
He walked out onto the porch and stood at the edge, keeping the revolver raised in front of him. Seeing no one in the yard, he turned to come into the house again, but was stopped by a searing burn around his neck which became so constricting, it lifted him to his tiptoes, choking him. Grabbing at his throat, he dropped the gun, but was unable to cry out. As he tried to remain on his toes, a man climbed down from the roof and stood in front of him.
“Where’s the 911 response?” Fiddle was thinking, “They’d better step on it.”
The rope was just tight enough to allow him breath with difficulty as long as he stood on tiptoe, but he kept falling to one side or the other.
“I have a message from Mr. Gangley,” the man said after climbing down.
Tighter and tighter the noose became as Fiddle struggled to regain his balance, but another man who had remained on the roof just kept drawing it tighter. He wanted a breath of air more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.
“He wants you to know that this is for Deborah, a fine young woman whose innocent life you snuffed out. You took her life, now Gangley is taking yours.”
Fiddle began to feel faint, because he couldn’t draw a breath. He wanted to cry out, to make a deal, to plead for his life, but he couldn’t utter a sound as his assailant stepped back, and lifted a bow from the ground.
“Why didn’t I notice it lying there when I came out,” he wondered. He heard a siren in the distance, hoping the police would arrive, but knowing full well it wouldn't make any difference.
While he was still conscious, he watched helplessly as the man placed an arrow with a blood-letting tip used to bring down a deer and drew it fully back. A sharp pain surged through his body as his heart struggled to beat with an arrow through it. Then the man picked up another arrow and drew the bow back a second time . . .

Wally was fuming! He couldn’t understand why it was taking Gangley and Merrill so long to cut him loose.
“Why don’t they blow this place up, and I’ll walk out?” he shouted.
He lit a cigarette, drawing a deep breath. Smoking helped to relax him, and this one seemed to be helping a lot. As he sat smoking, mulling his sad situation over in his mind, he became aware of a feeling of numbness. He stood up and began walking around in his cell to get his circulation up, but the feeling of numbness intensified the more he walked. He sat back down, thinking he’d sleep for a while after finishing his cigarette.
“Too much fucking stress!” he thought, I gotta get outa this shit pen! If they don't get me outta this quick, I'm going to take the DA's offer. Fuck them!”
Later, a moment after laying back, he lost the ability to move his arms or legs. He tried with all his might to move, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. His eyes blurred; panicking, he tried to cry out, but could only grunt, his lungs had slowed so much. He couldn’t draw a deep, full breath, the kind that left him feeling satisfied. As he lay motionless, every breath more shallow than the last, he struggled to move, to cry out, to tell someone, “I’m fucking suffocating!”
Suddenly, a misty figure appeared. It looked like a formless fog at first, but gradually became more sharply defined. Was it the shape of a woman; he couldn’t be sure . . . then he saw that it was a woman. He knew her!
“You? You can’t be here; you’re dead!”


“Evans! That Wally character was found dead in his cell!” one of the men told him.
“Dead how? What happened?”
“I don’t know, except they said he looked blue-black, like he’d suffocated.”
Evans charged out of the office and left. When he arrived, the Coroner was examining Walley’s body.
What have you found out; god, he looks blue!”
“He says he’s been dead around four hours; he looks like he suffocated, but there’s nothing in his throat. He didn’t choke. We’ll see what the autopsy turns up.”
Evans was so angry he stormed around the office all that day. The coroner couldn’t explain why he had died, other than the prospect of the chair. He telephoned Doreen at the Chronicle.
“How could a man so young and healthy just drop dead like that? Was he alone?” she asked.
“There was no one else in the cell, and believe me, no one here would have killed him. Wally was our link to Gangley, and now Gangley will walk.”
“Do you think he died of an internal injury from that night he took on the whole police department?,” she asked. “That kind of thing happens.”
“I think it’s a long shot; the Coroner’s going to let me know what they find during the autopsy.”
“We can’t win for losing where Gangley’s concerned,” Doreen lamented.
“I just wanted you to know. I’m faxing over the story that ran in the local papers today.”
“Thanks, Evans. I’m sorry.”
“Let’s keep in touch. I’ll talk to you later."
Evans dialed Merrill’s number, prepared to tell him to go to hell if Merrill even tried to insinuate that the Houston or San Antonio PD had anything to do with the death of his client.

Hodges

Today was the big day. And what a day it was! It was the official start up of the Bio-Sparge remediation. The combined Chronicle and Convention Center solvent plume was about to come under attack from high technology!
Gangley had spared no effort making certain it was a significant event. He had called in all of his markers in the public sector. The speakers would include Hodges of New World, Jess from Delta Geotechnical, the mayor of Houston, Harold Moss of the State Department of Environmental Quality, and Mac Turner of the Environmental Protection Agency. Half of the City Council was present. The media were there in droves, and envious consulting firms had representatives lurking in the crowd. A bandstand had been set up and a local Barber Shop quartet was present to provide background, while nearby, hot-dogs, snow cones, cotton candy, and popcorn were served gratis by vendors wearing the same outfits as the quartet. A conspicuous blimp hovered in the sky above. A thousand colorful, helium-filled balloons were tied in bundles for release at the very moment the systems were turned on.
Every component of the systems had been pre-tested, the steam plant had been run through trials, and the lines and wells of the infrastructure had all been pressure-tested for integrity. Every facet of the system was sound and ready to begin it’s part of the magic.
Hodges had kept his word. The systems had arrived four weeks and five days following his commitment. They glistened in the sun, two 45-foot mobile units side by side on a concrete slab, a diamond-plate walkway connecting them, stood at the corner of the Convention Center property across the street from the Chronicle. Alongside the Chronicle building itself stood a third. The steam plant was positioned next to the two combined Bio-Sparge units.
A large tanker truck stood adjacent to the steam plant. It would receive the solvent pumped directly out of the saturated sand immediately above the caliche-clay aquitard. That was the first phase. This would be followed by the steam injection of biosurfactant foam. Then would come the direct injection of thousands of gallons of bacteria which had been especially prepared for this site and this contaminant. They had been starved prior to injection and were very small, allowing them to sweep through the sands with the help of the biosurfactant. Then it would only be a matter of time until the site was clean.
Gangley moved among the dignitaries as if they were all personal associates. For the most part, they were. All were indebted to him in some way. Turner was appalled at the shear size and volume of the bentonite slurry wall as Hodges covertly explained its purpose to him. Pretending to be nervous at first, he beamed after speaking with Hodges for a few minutes as they walked along most of it’s length. Moss and Jess were musing how unique this remediation project was compared to any other they had been associated with. The Barber Shop quartet sang an assortment of gala pieces, like Bicycle Built for Two and others from the period as guests milled about. A delegation from the Green Party was present. Mark wondered if they had been formally invited or had just come out of interest. Looking about suspiciously at first, after taking one of the continuous tours through the Bio-Sparge system, they were so overwhelmed by the technology and the presentations being given by two of Hodges presenters that they emerged chattering excitedly about how Bio-Sparge could change the future of remediation in America.
Doreen was present both as Mark’s wife and also as a Metro reporter for the Chronicle. As she identified reporters from various other papers, she almost felt sorry for them, because she had all of the inside information and they had none. The Chronicle story would be the best in Houston in the Late edition, and it would run again in the Morning edition in a slightly different format. Mark had been right,
“We have to keep the project separate from the man.” he had insisted. There would be plenty of time to get Gangley later.
Although it was Gangley’s party today, her Mark and Hodges were the center of everyone’s attention. The mayor and Merrill were even carrying on a discussion together, the atmosphere was so exciting.
After sufficient time had passed for everyone present to complete a Bio-Sparge tour, the dignitaries began accumulating in their indicated seats on the stage erected for the event. The podium had over a dozen microphones to capture the story for various attendees, reporters, and networks. Two local television stations were present, their cables strung everywhere, it seemed.
Noticing the increasing concentration on the stage, the crowd began to migrate into the chairs set up on spread canvases. They formed an arc in front of the stage. There were so many people present that almost every chair was taken, and those who preferred to stand filled the area behind and to the sides of the seated crowd. The tours stopped, and Doug and two others took position near the Bio-Sparge units and the steam plant control room, ready to throw the switches later when the signal came.
Gangley smiled as the speakers glanced over their notes. It was an impressive lineup, with Jess, Moss, Turner, Laurel, Hodges, the mayor, and Gangley all occupying the same space. The low rumble from the area of the crowd began to diminish as more and more eyes focused upon Gangley. He arose and took his position at the podium.
“It is a personal privilege for me to welcome everyone out today for a truly significant event. The discovery of contamination beneath the Convention Center site posed a serious threat to the timely construction of a great asset to our city . . . a Convention Center of such size and beauty that it will render our present facilities almost obsolete and rival the other great convention centers of the nation. Maintenance of our schedule is being made possible by the implementation of a new environmental cleanup technology so far in advance of existing alternatives that it is destined to change the industry. That technology is called Bio-Sparge. He paused and looked up, the eyes of the crowd following his. From the sky came the message,
“Welcome to Houston and to Texas, Bio-Sparge!”
“The first to speak to us today will be our esteemed Mayor,” he continued. He will be followed by representatives of the technology and the City Council. The podium is yours, your Honor.”
As the mayor stood and walked regally to the podium, the crowd gave a clapping roar, not as much for him as for Bio-Sparge. Having taken the impressive tour, most didn't really have more than a vague idea of how the darn thing worked, but it all very exciting.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, fellow Houstonians, and our revered guests, this is indeed a momentous occasion.” He removed a mobile microphone and began walking toward the stairs to the stage.
“Our city selected this site because it is neither too far from the airport, nor too far from downtown. Regardless of how a visitor enters our city, he will find the Convention Center convenient. With its futuristic design, stellar dimensions, and generous parking within three separate parking garages, the investment will be rewarded many times over by the influx of visitors and business for our local economy. I would like to announce that we have already pre-booked the center for most of the first two years following its construction, and the cornerstone has yet to be laid!”
He raised his hands with clenched fists in a show of triumph. The crowd roared and clapped. It was hard not to be impressed by the man, even knowing he was a scoundrel. He had been walking across the fifty feet that separated the stage from the dual Bio-Sparge units. A large ribbon had been strewn between power poles on both streets joining at the corner where the systems were located. Two young women clad like assistants on Wheel of Fortune brought a pair of scissors so large and caricaturish that the crowd laughed, handing them to the mayor. Doug and the others had their hands on the breakers.
“And now, it is my privilege to inaugurate the first instance of Bio-Sparge remediation in the great State of Texas.”
With an assertive motion of his arms, he closed the scissors, and the great yellow ribbon fell to the sides. The crowd startled as the systems came to life, a loud humming sound escaping from each. Across the street at the Chronicle building, the doors of the system were open. The crowd heard the sound of that system along with those nearby. Doug released a terrifying burst of steam from the steam plant. The crowd roared at the sheer technological power of the combined start-up; tears formed in Doreen’s eyes.
“I’ll never forget this moment!” She thought. The crowd would never forget either. Mark squeezed her hand, and looking into his face, she noticed that he too was overwhelmed. Hodges beamed like Santa Claus beside a Christmas tree he had just surrounded with presents. At a signal no one saw, thousands of colorful balloons rose into the sky. Wave after wave rose higher and higher, almost obscuring the blimp from view. The quartet sang loudly into microphones, Tie a yellow ribbon round the old Oak Tree, as the mayor returned almost unnoticed to the stand.
When the cheering had died down, Edith rose and gave the crowd a rousing list of the companies already scheduled to conduct conventions in Houston. As she read each name deliberately from her list, she paused to allow crowd response, and respond they did. Then, thanking the mayor for his foresight in first proposing this site, she shook his hand and sat down. Next, Gangley introduced the owner of Delta Environmental, the company with “the foresight to select Bio-Sparge technology for the cleanup”. Jess rose and walked to the microphones. Although virtually unknown to the crowd, his huge frame commanded immediate attention, and inquisitive eyes and ears awaited the sound of his voice.
“My comments will be brief, because I cannot justly take credit for the impressive array of technology you see surrounding us today.”
His deep, powerful voice grabbed the attention of every listener.
“All of us here owe a great debt to an individual who isn’t even on the stage. He’s a visionary geologist sitting out there with his beautiful wife in your midst. Although he asked for no recognition, I want you to see him, because it is forward-thinking men like him who are changing our industry. Mark Houser, would you please stand with your wife so that the people of Houston will know who you are?”
Mark and Doreen were taken by surprise. Somewhat embarrassed by the suddenness of the introduction, they arose from their seats. A total din of shouting, clapping and cheering filled their ears, accompanied by slaps on his back and hugs of Doreen by several attendees sitting next to her. They smiled and looked around, waving respectfully to their fellow Houstonians. Then they sat.
When the crowd quieted, Jess continued.
“It was Mark who convinced us at Delta Geotechnical to use Bio-Sparge for this project. Mark, on behalf of everyone here today . . . Thank You!”
Again the crowd cheered. Everyone on the stand was beaming with delight. Gangley couldn’t have been more pleased if he had just hit Megabucks with three tokens in Las Vegas!
“And now, I’m introducing the inventor of Bio-Sparge to explain briefly how this technology works. Thank you for your enthusiasm; Mr. Michael Hodges!”
He turned toward Hodges, clapping his hands. The stand and crowd followed. Everyone had questions in their mind about what this new technology actually did. And this was the man who would tell them. It was like attending a graduate university seminar for a special lecture presented by a visiting dignitary. Hodges was wearing a lightweight gray, tropical suit. His huge bulk was imposing as he took the microphone from Jess, shaking his hand.
“Thank you, Jess, and thank you, Mark, for the opportunity to be here today. I would also like to thank Mr. Harold Moss from the Department of Environmental Quality, without who’s approval this technology could not have been implemented for this remediation project. I also acknowledge the presence of Mr. Mac Turner of the Environmental Protection Agency who has been instrumental in his supportive role. I look forward to both of their remarks which will follow mine today.”
A large screen was set up at the back of the stand, with attractive sides and top curtains projecting forward, so that it would be visible in daylight. A simple diagram of a methane molecule familiar to some of those on the stand flashed upon the screen.
“How brilliant,” Mark commented to Doreen. “Start with simple concepts, and keep the entire presentation simple.”
“This is how we draw a representation of a molecule of methane. Methane is the gas you use in your kitchen stove. You may have wondered what actually happens to the gas as it burns. It’s very simple. You apply heat and oxygen, and it changes from methane into water and carbon dioxide. You know what water is, and you probably know that when you breathe out, you are expelling carbon dioxide.” The screen changed to a new drawing.
“This is how simple it is to cook your food on the gas stove,” Hodges continued. “Here is our methane molecule. Notice how simple its form is: a single carbon atom surrounded by four hydrogen atoms. You all know what carbon is: your ‘lead’ pencil isn’t really the metal, lead; it’s carbon. You know what hydrogen is, too.”
Hodges made a very determined look upward at the Goodyear blimp. The gaze of the crowd followed.
“That blimp won’t explode, because its filled with helium gas, just like that beautiful cloud of balloons. I can still see some of them.”
The crowd was craning to follow his lead.
“Helium doesn’t burn. It’s what we call an inert gas. So, the blimp is safe. But how many of you remember the Hindenburg blimp?”
Hands went up everywhere.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ll never forget the picture of the Hindenburg blimp on fire. The reason it caught fire was because it was filled with hydrogen, not helium. Hydrogen is a light gas, so we could have filled the balloons with it today and they would have risen just like they do with helium. But each one would be a little bomb if we held a match to it. Hydrogen burns very quickly. The Hindenburg fire was hydrogen inside the blimp combining with oxygen in the atmosphere in the presence of heat. Scary thing!” He turned to look at the screen.
“Methane has four hydrogen atoms, plus it has a carbon atom, so it loves to burn. It combines with oxygen and the reaction releases heat. What’s remains afterward is water and carbon dioxide. Now you all understand Bio-Sparge, so I’ll sit down.”
He walked to his chair and sat down. Everyone looked dumbfounded, as if to say, “that’s it?” He rose again and walked back to the microphone.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you how we do it underground,”
Realizing that he had pulled one on them for effect, everyone laughed, some nervously. Hodges was a comfortable performer, completely at home in front of a crowd. He’d had plenty of experience over the years trying to help regulatory officials and consultants understand the technology. A new drawing flashed on the screen.

REDRAW THIS FIGURE
H - H - H -H - H - H - H - H - H - H -H - H - H
I I I I I I I I I I I I I
H - C - C - C - C - C - C - C - C - C - C - C - C - C - H
I I I I I I I I I I I I I
H - H - H -H - H - H - H - H - H - H -H - H - H




“WOW!” Hodges shouted, “Look at all of those carbons and hydrogens. Can you imagine how much oxygen it must take to burn all of those and turn them into water and carbon dioxide? That’s a lot of oxygen! Of course, a diesel engine just pulls it in from the atmosphere, but what if you have a storage tank of diesel underground at a truck stop and it corrodes, getting holes in it? Well the diesel just leaks out, works it way down, while smudging itself all over the soil until it reaches groundwater. Its lighter than water, so it starts spreading itself out across the surface. Yuck! What a mess that makes!”
The crowd mimicked his facial expression of disgust spontaneously.
“If we could remove all of the soil between the surface and just look at the diesel floating on the groundwater, it would have a shape like this.” The screen changed again. Doreen looked at Mark, a big smile on her face.
“He’s good, isn’t he?”
“Yes. A child could understand it.”
“Hey! This map looks familiar! Why, that’s the Chronicle building right across the street,” he said, pointing. “And that’s where the Convention Center is being built!” He pointed to the area behind where the crowd was sitting. Heads turned to look out across the huge, six-square-block area.
“And what does this say right here?” he said, pointing to the diesel tank in the picture. “Former diesel tank location? Uh, Oh, that’s bad! You know why its bad? Because it leaked. It leaked to the degree that this much area of the groundwater has been impacted.”
He pointed to the oval area of the plume, outlining it with his wand.
“Wow!s” of disbelief rang from the crowd. A rumble of comments mixed with the hum of the Bio-Sparge units.
“It’s bad because...” he turned and walked over to Moss sitting in his chair on the stand.
“What’s your name, Sir?”
“Harold Moss.”
“Harold Moss!” Hodges shouted into the mike. The crowd stared.
“And where do you work again, Sir?”
“At the Department of Environmental Quality for the State of Texas.”
Pointing at him like the accused, Hodges shouted into the microphone, “Moss here works at the Texas Department of Environmental Quality. And he says we have to clean that mess up!”
He walked back to the podium.
“How can we do that? That’s a lot of diesel!”
The crowd looked dumbfounded to the person. Every person there was asking himself,
“How do you clean it up? Is it even possible?’
“Well, that’s the easy part.” Hodges spoke loudly, “You just dig it all up, and pump the liquid diesel off the surface of the groundwater. And that’s just what they did here.” Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
“Boy, I’m glad we got out of that one!” Hodges said, pulling out his handkerchief and rubbing his forehead like a man who had just been pulled from a burning vehicle, “Whew!”
The crowd laughed. They were enjoying this man. Some had thought this would be the most dull part of the program and had hoped it would be brief. Now, they were hoping it would last a while. The screen changed again.
Mark felt proud, because almost everyone who worked at Delta was here for this event at Jess’s directive. He’d had lots of problems making some of them understand what Bio-Sparge did. Now the inventor was about to make it very clear, especially in their case with their training and background.
“WHAT THE HECK?” Hodges shouted.
The crowd was looking with more understanding this time. There was a second plume below the first. They waited to see what he would say.
“Here’s another plume, because here’s the former diesel tank location and there’s its plume we just looked at, but that plume is gone now. What’s this one? Let’s see, the leak is always at the pointy end, so where is this plume pointing? Oh, my goodness! It’s pointing at the Chronicle building right over there! Look!”
The crowd turned in a single movement to look at the Bio-Sparge sitting alongside the building. Doug and an assistant were waving their hands vigorously from the door of the system. Now it was beginning to come together for the crowd. An entire segment of Houstonians was actually understanding some significant hydrogeology. They were eager to hear more. Mark was astonished at Hodges’s ability to create and maintain interest in what was usually an overwhelmingly complex subject.
Merrill was looking out over the group.
“This crowd looks confidant.” he thought to himself, “They’re seated like jurors waiting for more evidence to be presented.” It was a great day for everyone.
“Is this another diesel plume we can just dig up and haul to the landfill?” Hodges asked innocently, looking around as if someone on stage would answer. He walked over to Moss again, extending the microphone toward his mouth. Moss couldn’t keep from smiling at the routine. The other participants were also enjoying the comic relief.
“Mr. . . . what’s your name again?”
“Moss, of the Department of Environmental Quality”
“Oh, yes, uh, Mr. Moss, is this plume any different than the diesel plume? Let me ask you. Is it okay if we just dig it up and haul it away? You wouldn’t mind, would you?”
“Yes, I would mind very much!” Moss was into the act now.
“Why, my good Sir? You had no problem with us hauling the diesel plume away? Didn’t they just dig up the soil and take it to the landfill?”
“But this plume you’re showing on your screen is not diesel.”
“What is it, Sir?”
“It’s solvent.”
“So? What’s so bad about solvent?”
“It’s Stoddard solvent, and it doesn’t float.”
“WHAT! IT DOESN’T FLOAT?” Hodges shouted.
“No, it’s heavier than water; we call it a sinker!”
“A Sinker! Thank you for helping us understand the problem, Mr. Moss!” He walked back to the podium.
“It sounds like we have a real problem here, folks. If it sinks into the water, it could just keep going forever, deeper and deeper, and deeper. How in the world are we experts solving that one?” He looked over the crowd as if expecting someone to raise their hand. No hands went up.
“I think we’re in DEEP trouble here,” he said, emphasizing the word “deep.” Everyone sat wondering what the solution was.
“These are the facts of the case: we have some solvent tanks over there by the Chronicle and they’ve leaked a lot of solvent, a sinker, into the ground. It has sunk down, down, down. It reached the groundwater at forty feet, but unlike the diesel, it kept going down . . . down . . . down. But we got lucky, because just twelve feet below the surface of the groundwater is a layer of thick clay. We all know about clay; we played with colored clay as children. It’s sticky and gooey, and fortunately, nothing can soak through it. So when the solvent reached the clay, what did it do? Why it just started spreading itself out across the surface like the diesel did. But the diesel spread itself over the top of the groundwater. Isn’t this interesting? The solvent spread itself out under the bottom of the same groundwater, and it’s sitting there, soaking the sand just above the clay!” The screen changed again.
“Look at this. Here’s the solvent in a nice layer above the clay aquitard. How are we getting that out? We can’t dig down through twelve feet of water. The plume’s too big for that. So here’s where Bio-Sparge comes in, and this is what all of you have been waiting for during my silly antics.” Everyone smiled.
Now Hodges demeanor changed and he became very serious-looking. Everyone else became serious too.
“As you saw during your tour of the site, we’ve installed many wells. Some have pumps in them. Solvent is thinner than diesel, so we can just pump out a lot of it. That’s nothing new. Consultants have been doing it for years. The problem is, we can only pump out part of it. There’s still an enormous amount coating the soil particles, and those particles are ten to twelve feet under the groundwater. They’re sand, so there’s lots of space between them, and we can use that to our advantage. That’s what this big steam plant you see over here is for.”
Doug had been primed to let out an enormous, deafening surge of steam at that instant. An impressive display of raw power wasn’t lost on the crowd. Mark and Doreen were so happy, their faces looked like a Pepsi poster. This was all very good. The Chronicle had been uncomfortable with the idea of focusing negative attention on the newspaper, but with a call from Merrill, Bard had reluctantly given his permission. Nothing Hodges had said had been unanticipated or out of line. The Chronicle’s attorneys had approved the script-under Bard’s directive.
“That steam is very hot. It will be pressurized into the well, forcing it out the slots at the base of every well and into the formation. As soon as it touches the groundwater, it will condense to water immediately, but in the process, it’s going to release a lot of heat. The warmer the water moving through the soils, the more solvent we can displace and pump out, because it’s thinner, like a jar of honey pours much more quickly after its been out of the refrigerator for a while and warms up. It’ll take us awhile, we estimate about a month, to heat this groundwater, and during the entire time, we will occasionally turn on the pumps. Slowly, we’ll start getting more and more water, and less and less solvent. What do we do then? We start sending down a biosurfactant - that’s kind of like a soap that bacteria can eat. You know how slippery the water in the washing machine gets when you add the detergent. That will literally wash the sand. You all know what a bathtub ring is. It’s what’s left when the soap emulsifies the oils on your skin. Biosurfactant emulsifies solvent. Emulsion is sticky-like the bathtub ring. We’ll be able to pump some of it out, but most of it will stick to the sand like glue. That’s exactly what we want it to do. We don’t want it to spread out any farther than it already has.”
The crowd found the analogies simple, and seemed to have no trouble visualizing what was being discussed as they looked at the screen.
“Now what do we do at this point?”
No one had a clue.
“Now we send down the bacteria. These bacteria are special. They’ve been raised in a tank and fed nothing but the hydrocarbon molecular structure specific to our particular solvent for a thousand generations. They live on it. They eat it. We starve them just prior to injection so that they become shrunken and hungry, just like any other starved animal! They move along with the biosurfactant we send down, and they eventually coat all of the soil contaminated with the solvent emulsion, the bathtub ring stuff.
Now remember, we want water and carbon dioxide. With this solvent, which has been chlorinated, we’ll also get some harmless Iron Chloride salts as a byproduct, but they’re of no concern. How do we convert the hydrocarbon into water and carbon dioxide?”
“You burn it.” someone shouted.
“You combine it with oxygen.” someone else added.
“You’re both correct. The process of burning is just combining oxygen with what you’re burning. You’re actually just oxidizing it, combining it with oxygen. The only problem is-and this may come as a shock to some of you-there is little or no oxygen down there at fifty-two feet.”
Now the faces of the crowd looked dumbfounded again.
“No problem. On board all Bio-Sparge units are oxygen generators, and when the water is pumped out, oxygen is added to it before we re-inject it. This way there’s a lot of oxygen available. Hydrocarbon plus oxygen equals water and carbon dioxide. But wait, there’s not enough heat to ignite it, and it’s under ten to twelve feet of water. We can’t start a fire there.”
Silence prevailed. Some of the crowd was perched on the edge of their seats at this point, really getting into this.
“Fortunately, bacteria don’t need as much heat. They will be happy as larks with a water temperature of eighty degrees, and that’s how warm we will have made it down there. The bacteria do the same job for us. They take two hydrogens, combine them with one oxygen, and make water. They take the one carbon, combine it with two oxygens, and make carbon dioxide. The more they eat, the more they multiply. The more they multiply, the more of them are eating. Get the picture? Bio-Sparge has the job of supplying them with the oxygen, giving them some special nutrients that they won’t find in sand, and they do their thing.”
The screen changed for the last time.
“As you can see, as the bacteria multiply, they consume the solvent, so that by the third month, the site is clean. We turn off our support, but the bacteria are everywhere, and the population will adjust downward as the amount of solvent available drops to a non detectable concentration. That’s it in a nutshell.”
Hodges looked at Gangley.
“I’ve taken more than my share of the time. Should I take a few questions or sit down?”
“Take a few questions.” Gangley invited.
Here and there hands went up. Hodges selected one Mark recognized as being among the Green Party group.
“Thank you for your excellent and very lucid explanation of the project, Mr. Hodges. But isn’t it a fact that the bacteria you are using are genetically engineered and could pose a threat to the environment?”
“You mean like escaping the subsurface and attacking people?” Hodges was setting her up big time.
“Well, I guess you could put it that way.”
“I’ll answer the first part of your question first. No! They are not genetically engineered and occur naturally in all soils. When we know we will be remediating a site, we have soil samples from all of the wells sent to us. We make a composite, and inoculate petri dishes with the very bacteria that live below your feet today. We feed them the contaminant they must degrade for up to a thousand generations. No other food source is made available. They become very proficient at eating it, or they die. So we end up with the toughest Hombres down there and we put them right back where they came from.”
There were nods of approval from all over the crowd, including the Green Party members.
“As for escaping and attacking mankind, like the movie, The Blob, I’ll give you an example of that actually happening to us.”
There was an “ooh” from the crowd, with many concerned faces in the midst.
“On our very first site, the consultant was instructed, as always, to glue the PVC connections in the pipe connecting the wells. The fellow who installed the connecting infrastructure missed one. After the Bio-Sparge system was turned on, we went through the normal step of injecting the biosurfactant foam which distributes the bacteria within the subsurface. Everything was going well, so we went home for the afternoon. Later than evening, I received a call from a panicking cashier at that service station saying the bacteria had escaped from underground and were attacking customers at the fuel island.”
The crowd was leaning forward, every ear anticipating the horror of the blob.
“We drove to the site, and here was this enormous layer of pink biosurfactant foam that had covered one side of the fuel island three feet deep. We turned the system off temporarily and washed down the area, locating the spot where it was emerging from the ground. The next day, the consultant dug down and found the unglued joint, repairing it. After we turned the system back on, we assured the cashier that the blob would never escape and attack the customers again.”
A din of laughter grew in intensity.
“No, the bacterial population just dies back down to normal levels when the project ends. It’s about as safe as you can imagine.”
“Mr. Hodges!” a voice called from another place in the crowd.
Hodges motioned for them to ask their question.
“Mr. Hodges, I’m a doctor and I work at the burn ward in a hospital. I happen to know that the genus Pseudomonas spp. is in fact a dangerous pathogenic organism, and if it gets into the burn unit, it can cause serious interference with the patients.”
“That’s certainly true of burn ward patients. But it isn’t true that their kids playing in the back yard are getting them all over their hands and sucking their fingers? They are indeed pathogenic as any organism is under the right conditions. E. coli lives in our intestines, but if a septic tank leach field leaks into a drinking water well or a river used as a water source, you could have a serious epidemic. So your concern is justified for burn patients, but prior to installing the system, we checked the entire area between fifty and fifty-two feet below the surface, and although you can rarely be absolutely certain in science, we can virtually guarantee that there isn’t a single burn patient down there.”
The crowd rocked with laughter. Hodges waited for further questions. No hands were raised.
“Well I thank you very much for your time and attention. You’ve been an excellent group. I applaud you for your patience.”
As Hodges walked back to his seat, the entire stage rose clapping, and the sound from the crowd was deafening. He had won their hearts and inspired their minds.
“Mr. Moss has a few words and he will be followed by Mac Turner of the EPA. You know who Moss is very well by now,” Gangley said, laughing.
“You’ve been a good group,” Moss began, “so I’ll just make a brief statement and turn the remaining time over to Mac. I have always considered myself to be open to new ideas. I think Bio-Sparge contains a number of new ideas and the technology is interdisciplinary in nature. That means that it utilizes the principles not just of geology, but also physics, chemistry, and microbiology. My hat is off to the genius of the man who has just graced us with his presence and his mind. Thank you, Michael! Mac, the time is yours.”
The audience clamored again, and Hodges looked very humbled by the acceptance of the Houstonians. Mac Turner half-walked, half-strutted to the podium. He knew his political rhetoric well and was an excellent finish.
“I, too, will make only a brief statement, but I have a bone to pick, not with Bio-Sparge, but with my own agency, the EPA. Thank you Mr. Hodges for getting me so worked up that I have to speak out. Few of you have probably heard of the Office of Technology Assessment. It was set up by the United States Congress to evaluate developing technologies. It produced output from 1972 through 1995, when it was unwisely discontinued.
“One of its greatest conclusions was that over ninety five percent of the Pump and Treat cleanups that had proliferated like dust on a sofa table across our great nation would eventually fail. I want to repeat that so that everyone here gets the point. We had applied thousands of these systems to contaminated sites all over the country. P&T is excellent for containing a problem, because by pumping from the center of a dissipating mass of any sort, you will reverse the gradient toward the depression cone, and stop the plume development, as long as the withdrawal volume and reach are adequate. But because a depression cone pulls the water down below the soils with an adsorbed contaminant load, it cannot function as a remediation technology. From Mr. Hodges remarks, I think you can grasp the concept of fuels or chemicals smeared all over the soil zone that has been in contact with the free product floating on the groundwater, or underlying it as with the Chronicle plume for that matter. No contact means no remediation. No oxygen means little or no remediation, and low temperature means more adsorption and less bioremediation. So let me just say that if you used a scale of one to ten, Bio-Sparge is a ten, and P&T would probably fall in well below one.
“Another observation by the OTA was that Bioremediation, and Bio-Sparge is the epitome of bioremediation – the use of biological organisms to assist in the remediation process - was being deliberately suppressed by the establishment, including my agency. To a very real degree, I think that Mr. Hodges would agree with me that it still is. There were a few charlatans that gave it a bad name in the beginning. Their snake oil didn’t work. But I think if the OTA were still in existence today, they would raise the roof in Congress if national attention were not focused on Hodges’s Bio-Sparge. If it comes into general use, it probably will wreak havoc on the most wasteful and least productive elements of the environmental industry, because it is faster and more efficient than anything else that’s emerged from the technology sector. I hope it will, and I certainly intend to do my part to make that happen. I wish Delta and New World a great success on our Convention Center site. We’ll all be watching enthusiastically. Thank you all for your time.”
Gangley rose as Mac returned to his seat, and waited for the applause to die down.
“All of you can see the last chart Michael put on the screen. We’ve left it up for comment. Notice that it says three months. The systems have just been turned on. All of Houston will have the opportunity to see for themselves whether or not Bio-Sparge is what it is claimed to be in only ninety days from today. I know we’ll not be disappointed. Having listened to our eminent guest, I have been seized by his zeal and his knowledge. All of you are welcome to eat all of the hot dogs, pop corn, snow cones, and cotton candy you can hold. Thank you. You’ve been a great crowd.”
Afterward, there were conversations going on in every corner and space where one could stand. Hodges was accosted first by the dignitaries prior to their movement into the crowd, and then by reporters, academics and people of all stripes. He remained gracious until it was time for dinner, then left with Mark and Jess. The hum of the three Bio-Sparge units persisted when the last chair had been stacked and loaded and the last canvas folded. Eventually, they and their operators were all that remained on the site of an arguably historic day in Houston.

Blackmail

It was now six weeks into the cleanup, and it was on target. All extractable solvent had been recovered, and the bacteria had been introduced. The dissolved oxygen concentration in the groundwater was up, and there was every reason to believe that the project would be completed well ahead of the time remaining.
With Wally and Lawson out of the way, all of Gangley’s exposure appeared to have been removed. But Doreen and Lou had watched events carefully. They suspected that the car bombing that killed Art Stillman and his entire family was connected in some way with the attempt on Gangley, that it was a reprisal bombing. It required little investigative work to learn that Art was an explosives expert. That made it the more obvious. Though Kawoski had not been apprehended, they might never have suspected the information about Stillman was obtained by torture were it not for the mysterious murder of the head of an FBI task force in Washington D.C.,reported by UPI, almost certainly linked with Stillman and Kawoski. The manner in which Fiddle had been used as a target for arrows seemed to imply a macabre reflection of the task force targeting Gangley. Yet all attempts to secure any further information pertaining to his “task force” had met with a complete dearth. The two other members of the task force, Irons and Wilson, insisted that his death was unrelated, because
“There was no investigation of any kind ongoing that involved Mr. Gangley.”
This left Doreen and Lou with nowhere to go. They had no basis upon which to suspect foul play in the death of Wally, because Evans had not. He regarded Wally as a man about to explode any minute, that he was a type triple A personality. That had been a justified conclusion just considering the lunacy of his refusing cuffs and nearly getting beaten to death in the brawl the night he and Polly had been transferred to San Antonio from Houston. And he was sober at the time. He nearly broke Polly’s father’s neck, and he was incorrigible during the only questioning they had attempted after his attorney left, and seemed to have only a two-word vocabulary,
“Fuck you!”
This stifled Doreen’s determination to bring Gangley down, because every time they obtained a lead, it led to a dead end, and in the most literal sense. For the time being, they had virtually nothing on the man, except one promising contact from a man who had called her, claiming to have proof that Gangley had assassinated his parents. She agreed to meet with him out of town later.
If they released information from the list Nancy had obtained, she would immediately become suspect, which would not only interfere with the Convention Center project, but could potentially lead to her dead end, and possibly Lou’s, because Lou was the Metro editor, and Gangley would have him murdered at the drop of a hat if it meant self-preservation. So they waited, hoping for a new angle.
As Gangley sat in his office that particular day, opening his personal mail, he encountered a card that looked more like a wedding invitation than anything else. His social links led to being invited to many such events, which he often attended. But this one was different. It read:

"Mr. Gangley, I know that you murdered the owners of Logan’s Dry Cleaners in the most cruel manner, using a chain saw. I also know that you kidnapped them and carried them across the state lines into Louisiana, and having checked parish records, discovered that the property where they were murdered is owned by Gangley Enterprises, together with several other properties in the area. I want $15,000 cash to keep quiet. Leave it in a brown grocery bag hidden behind the dumpster in the alley behind the Gangley Tower day after tomorrow after nightfall. All twenty dollar bills. If anyone is in the alley when I arrive to pick it up, I will not return. I will proceed straight to the police and to the newspapers. Don’t try a bomb, because I may send someone else to pick it up. If anything happens to them, I will proceed as threatened above. It isn’t but a nickel to you, but I need it to get a new start, so don’t screw it up, or you will be very sorry."

A photograph showed the kill site, with blood-soaked sand on the dirt road. He knew it had to have been taken within a day of the murders. Why the long silence, he wondered?
Gangley was shaken. How much did this person know, and who was he? It couldn’t be ignored, because he didn’t need any bad publicity at the moment, and if he paid it once, he was certain to be tapped again.
The more he thought about it, the more furious he became. The very idea that he, Gangley, could be the one on the sting end of a blackmail! He grabbed pen and paper and jotted down the names of every person associated with these and other murders. Wally was dead, Polly was gone, A & B weren’t even suspect. Scarface was strange, but fiercely loyal. So who could the blackmailer be?
The date on the envelope was the day before yesterday, and it was postmarked in Dallas, which meant the blackmailer was expecting it to be there tonight when he arrived from out of town!
He called A & B and showed them the card. After reviewing possible approaches, they settled on a plan which could work. A would watch from a distance, and B. would hide inside the dumpster and wait to jump out and grab the collector. The $15,000 would be there in cash, so if B failed to nab him before he could get away, when the blackmailer escaped with it, they could follow him to his destination. Then they would know who it was, and they had a reasonable possibility of getting more than their money’s worth.
Gangley obtained a bag, took $15,000 from his office safe, and gave it to A, who left soon afterward with B.
That night, a blue 1994 Buick with no license plate drove through the alley around 8:15 pm., but didn’t stop. At 8:25 pm, it drove through again, throwing its low beams in the area behind the dumpster so the bag could be seen, but then swerved away and went to a local hardware store. Certain this was their man, A followed and parked some distance away. The car then returned and passed through the alley a third time, stopping in front of the dumpster. B listened quietly from within. It sounded like the man was banging something, possibly a gun, against the dumpster. After a moment, he heard the rattle of the paper bag, and gave the lid a tremendous shove prior to leaping out. It didn’t budge! He heard the car door slam, and the car move away. Throwing his shoulder against the lid, he still couldn’t open it. He began to panic. He had never been in a claustrophobic situation before. He began pounding on the lid in the dark, yelling for A, who was supposed to rush to the alley, pick up B, and pursue the car. When he arrived at the dumpster, the bag was gone, and B was banging fiercely on the inside of the dumpster. He tried with all his might to lift it, but it wouldn’t open. Upon examining it carefully in the dark, he noticed that a C-clamp had been installed on the center and screwed tight. He quickly unscrewed it and released B., but by the time they returned to the road, the blackmailer was gone and so was the money. There was no question who was most embarrassed, but it was a toss-up who was the angrier; them, or Gangley.
Three days later, Gangley received another envelope identical to the first. He already knew what it was before he opened it.

"Mr. Gangley, I thank you for the money, but as I had the inconvenience of having to go buy a C-clamp, you violated our agreement. Too bad for you, because this time it’s $25,000 or I go to the police and the newspapers. All twenties. How about repeating the same arrangement as before, and this time, be certain no one is rattling around in the dumpster. By the time you receive this, it will be the day, and I will be back to collect. Remember, no tricks, or the next amount will be commensurately larger, you chainsaw butcher! You’re getting off light, so don’t fuck it up, asshole."

Gangley was so angry, he slammed his fist into the wall, almost breaking his knuckles.
“There won’t be anyone in the dumpster tonight but you, you son-of-a-bitch,” he thought aloud.
This time, it was thought out in much better detail. Scarface would be on the roof with a night scope, and when the blackmailer got out of his car and leaned over to pick up the bag, he would get it in the back. The only place he would go from there was the dumpster he was so fond of, cut up in pieces and put in tied black landscape bags so no one could find him.
At 7:00 pm, everyone was in place. A was on the road pulled off a block away in one direction, and B was on the road a block away in the other direction. “Scarface” Pritchard was on the roof, and they all had radios with earplugs so they made no audible sound.
At 8:00 pm, the same Buick drove slowly through the alley, its lights on bright. He stopped at the other end, and paused, as though scoping out the area, then started backing up. About fifty feet before getting back to the dumpster, he stopped, then eased forward, circling the building like before, but he stopped for a moment in the front. Then he pulled through the alley again and drove through slowly, but without stopping until he had turned left to circle the building, stopping again. Scarface couldn’t see anything but the reflection of his tail lights on the storage shed at the end of the alley.
“I think he’s spooked, because he was backing up to make a grab for it, then changed his mind and circled the building. He stopped after turning at the end. I’m watching the back of the building between where he’s parked and the dumpster, just in case he tries sneaking along on foot against the wall. So far I can’t see anything.”
“I can see the headlights from where I’m parked,” A said, “but nothing else. If he comes this way, I’ve got him.”
“I can’t see anything, because it’s too dark,” B joined in, “but once he pulls onto the road, I’ll see him immediately if he comes this way.”
After some time passed, Pritchard decided to move slowly along the edge of the roof toward the car, so he could look over the edge without spooking the blackmailer. He decided that, occasionally, he should look back the other way, and began doing so. When he got to the end of the building, there was the car with the engine still running and the doors closed.
“I think he waiting to see if there are any other cars in the area. He probably knows Gangley’s mad as hell and wants to personally carve his eyes out. I think he’s so afraid, he can’t make up his mind.”
“Shoot directly through the roof,” B instructed, “first on the driver’s side, then on the passenger side. Put about half of your clip on each; you’ll either cripple him, or if you get lucky, one will go right down through the top of his head.”
Immediately, Pritchard opened fire, the bullets easily penetrating the roof. He aimed so quickly, and fired so rapidly that the driver didn’t stand a chance. The car didn’t have time to move. He had gotten him.
“He didn’t budge. The car’s just sitting there.”
“We’re on our way to check it out,” B stated, “but don’t take your focus off of the driver’s side door. If he’s still alive and tries to make a move, drop him.”
“Got it.”
Soon, A and B entered the property from opposite directions, sandwiching the blackmailer between them. B shot out the headlights as he approached, keeping low in the seat. With guns drawn, they exited and stayed behind the door. Silencers made little noise, so B fired directly into the front window on the driver’s side, then ran at an angle and shot from the side. There was no sound nor movement from within afterward. Apparently, Pritchard had killed him from above. It had worked . . .or so they thought, until they opened the door and found the car empty.
“The bag!,” A shouted. They both ran down the alley as fast as they could toward the dumpster.
“Pritchard, run to the front of the roof. They’re on foot.”
Pritchard ran so fast, he tripped over a roof vent he couldn’t see in the dark and sprained his ankle. In sheer agony he half ran, half crawled to the front of the building, scanning as quickly as he could.
“Can’t see anything, and there are too many cars passing on the road; but I’m hurt. I think I broke my ankle. I need help getting down.”
“Goddamn it!” B shouted, the first to arrive at the dumpster, “the bag’s gone! Goddamn it, Gangley will cut off our balls for this! That’s forty grand in a week. Goddamn it!”
When A arrived seconds behind him, it was true. The bag was gone.
“Let’s don’t make it any worse than it is,” A said, “Drive that piece of junk down the road a mile or so and pull off into some alley. I’ll go up and get Pritchard, then pick you up and take you to your car. We’re in deep shit for blowing this one.”
“How the hell did he pull it off?” B was astonished.
“My guess is that while Pritchard watched him after he passed the dumpster-while he sat still and then started backing up, stopping before he reached the dumpster, and pulled forward, he had Pritchard’s complete attention. He must have had someone with him who moved along the wall and grabbed it behind him in the dark. The circle around the building was just to whet our appetite. When he stopped, he was picking up his helper and the cash. And after passing without stopping again, he turned the corner. While we were fucking around, they left their car and walked along the road to another one we never saw. When you and I came back, he just turned the key and drove away. And we don’t even know what to look for next time, because he could afford to trash the Buick. We’ll probably find that it’s stolen.”
“I know you’re right. He’s a clever shit, but if we get another chance at him, someone’s eyes will be on the bag every second. The simplicity of the first pickup led us to believe he would use the same strategy a second time, and by going through the same motions, he tricked us. Next time, we’ll be ready for anything.”
After retrieving Pritchard and B, A took Pritchard to the hospital, and told B to go home. This failure would piss Gangley off, and A knew better than to deliver the news face to face. He’d be at the hospital getting his jaw set. While he was waiting for the doctor to put a cast on Pritchard’s ankle, he called Gangley and reported step by step what had occurred, and how he thought the blackmailer had pulled off the pick up. Gangley’s verbiage was predictably vicious. He told A if the money was lost next time, he would hang them by their balls. A knew he meant every word.
The next three days, Gangley’s mood was so bad that everyone kept their distance. They had seen him like this before, and they had learned to stay out of sight. As he knew it would, another envelope arrived right on time. His hands trembled as he opened it-not from fear, but from raw rage.

"Mr. Gangley, I again thank you for the money, but as you again violated the agreement, it will not count. And since you tried to kill me, it’s much more serious than before. This time it’s $50,000 or you know the consequences. What stupid fucks you and your cronies are.
No, we’re not repeating the same arrangement again, except that it must be all twenties. If you’re as smart as you think you are, this time, you’ll honor your part of the agreement, and I’ll mail you the negatives and other evidence I have.
As before, by the time you receive this, it will be the day, and I will be back to collect. Sorry, no time to plan. I’ll call you with instructions where to make the drop at 6:30 pm There won’t be enough time to pull anything off, because I will already be there and if anyone besides the drop off man shows up, you can keep the money, because this is your last chance to avoid what I would rather do. I already have enough money to meet my needs for some time now. Again, thank you for the $40,000."

That moment was probably the closest Gangley had ever come to a blood pressure-induced heart attack or a stroke. This wasn’t about money any more. It was personal. This time, Gangley himself would be there. He could already feel the blade slicing into the blackmailer’s throat. There would be a chain saw in the trunk of the drop off vehicle, and he intended to personally listen to the gratifying screams of little pieces being sawn off, worse than the slaughter houses he once worked in. He was going to take his time with this punk! He had dared to cross the line. He had taunted him! How dare that worthless piece of shit taunt him; taunt Gangley. Big mistake!
Merrill picked up the phone. It was Randall.
“Buddy, I need some help and I need it very quickly. I know you guys use clever bugs all the time. I need a very small one that I can hide in a stack of bills with a rubber band around it, and a receiver I can have in my car. I’m being blackmailed, and the shithead’s outsmarted my men twice. I’m not using them again. How quickly can I get it?”
“If you just want a tiny bug and a direction finder that shows the direction it’s coming from, I’ll have it there within an hour. If it’s more sophisticated, I don’t know if I can get it to you before tomorrow.”
“There is no tomorrow. I have to leave after I get instructions at 6:30p.m. I’ll have to use what you can get me quickly. What’s the range?”
“The units vary, but a good two blocks, anyway. Can you keep that close?”
“I’ll keep a lot closer than that! I guess I need a drop off man, or he’ll recognize me following him. You want to have some fun tonight?”
“It sounds like pretty gory fun you’ve got in mind. I think I’ll take a rain check on this one. But I’ll have the device to you within the hour.”
“Thanks, Pal.”
“Randall?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“No, it’s got me stumped; but he sent me a picture and knows some things I can’t afford to have circulating until the Convention Center deal is closed. I’m finding out tonight though, and I’m killing the son-of-a-bitch!”
“Now I know I don’t want to be along. It sounds bloody.”
“It will be; about five quarts!”
For $50,000 in unmarked twenties, Gangley would have to go by the bank. He called his contact so the cash would be waiting when he arrived. When he returned, Merrill was there.
“Turn it on by flipping this rocker switch. That activates the receiver. As long as you hear a continuous beep, it’s picking up the transmitter. If it changes to tone, it may or may not function. The higher the tone, the closer you are to losing the signal. If it goes silent, it’s lost. This thing that looks like a Christmas light from a string is the transmitter. Notice how the top and bottom are separated an eighth of an inch. That means it’s off. I just put a new battery in it. When you’re ready to turn it on, just push the two ends toward the middle like this. It’s that simple.”
“Fantastic! I can already smell warm blood.”
“I’ve got to run, but good luck, Buddy. Don’t forget to push the ends together, or nothing happens.”
Gangley took the band from one of the stacks and split it, placing the transmitter in the middle, afterward re-banding it.
“You couldn’t see that thing if you knew it was there,” he laughed to himself.
At 6:30, A was waiting with Gangley in his office. The drop off would be clean, and the blackmailer would be allowed to take the bag and leave. A would leave in full view, driving in a direction away from the drop off. A block away, Gangley would be secluded in his car. As soon as the signal changed direction, he would follow it for awhile, until there was an opportunity to make the hit. They waited. The appointed time for the 6:30 pm call came and went. It was almost seven.
“I hope this guy hasn’t decided just to turn the evidence over after stripping me of forty grand.” A listened, but offered no opinion.
The minutes passed slowly, like watching a thin stream of sand fall through the orifice of an hour glass. Seven; 7:10; 7:15; 7:25. Suddenly, the phone rang. There were two sighs of relief. Gangley answered.
“Here’s the drill; don’t say a word or I hang up and it’s over.” Gangley remained silent.
“Drive to the K-Mart one mile from you at midnight tonight. Circle the building twice so I can see the car involved. On the third pass, if no one else is behind the building, slow down and toss the bag out without stopping. Then leave to the south. If your drop off man even looks like he’s turning to pursue, even you don’t have enough money for another opportunity.” He hung up without warning.
“When you get within a couple of blocks, pull a stack apart, push the two ends together like this . . . then insert it in the center of the stack. Put that stack on the top of the bag, so the signal won’t have to pass through the rest of the currency.”
Gangley rehearsed the procedure repeatedly. With A’s current state of mind, he only needed to hear once. His part was easy this time and there would be no mistakes.
At midnight, A circled K-mart. It wasn’t that dark because there were security lights, but there wasn’t a soul behind the building. After circling again, on the third pass, he slowed only enough to throw out the bag. It had been taped to avoid bursting upon impact. He then left the parking lot and headed south, not even looking back.
Gangley saw the signal flutter, but it didn’t seem to move.
“The guy’s so confidant, he’s probably counting it,” he thought. After several minutes, he became nervous.
“I hope this damn thing’s working!”
After five minutes more, he couldn’t stand it any longer and drove as quickly as he could to K-mart, tearing around to the back. No one was there, but the tracking device said that they should be. As he pulled to the front it moved again to indicate the back of the building. He returned, and stopped when the direction was neither in front nor in back. Getting out of the car and looking about, he noticed that a hole had been cut in the tall chain link fence covered with dense flowers. He stepped through it and found himself in the back of a subdivision. The tracking device continued pointing in that direction. He walked for almost a block, until the direction flipped. Dumbfounded, and growing angrier with each passing second, he found what was left of the bag next to a bush. Looking in, he noticed twenty five rubber bands, but no transmitter. He started to walk back when he stepped on it, and the sound of smashed glass was audible. The blackmailer hadn’t even discovered it. He had unbanded the money, transferred it into a different case, placing the rubber bands in the sack, then tossed it under the bush. The location of the transmitter suggested it had fallen out when the band was removed from that stack, but had gone unnoticed. Or had it? He would know in three days. The next afternoon, A dropped by the office just as Gangley was about to leave, expecting to see a smile and hear that justice had been dispensed.
“Well, did you get the bastard?”
Gangley decked him and left for home.
Three days later, another envelope arrived. As he opened it, panic struck a man who had been sweating and lethargic for seventy-two hours.

“You were smart this time. Thank you for the $90,000. You won’t be receiving any more mail from me. Enclosed are the negatives.”

Gangley stared at the note and the negatives for a long while. This was the first time any man had dared to injure or taunt Gangley and lived to tell about it.
“We should have planned better the first time, certainly the second, and the blackmailer would be in the landfill now. Not a dollar would have been lost,” he reflected, “But hell, a dangerous threat has been eliminated, and if the devious bastard keeps his word, and there were no other copies, the Convention Center deal is secure.”
He located his calculator and divided $90,000 by $207,000,000. The screen displayed 0.000435%.
“Shit! Not even significant!”

The Family Outing

Four-day weekends were always nice; enjoy any place that could be reached within a day or less by air. From Houston, that meant virtually anywhere in the United States. It was Labor Day weekend and they had chosen to fly to El Paso, the area of the Basin and Range geographic province of the western United States.
A refreshing night’s sleep followed dinner and relaxing together at home. The next morning, they ate breakfast and left for the airport. Hodges told Mark he could take a week if he wanted because the operators had the site down cold.
“You deserve a break! You’ve been going a hundred miles an hour on this project. A few days after you get back, I’ll need you again to complete test borings and see if it’s clean across the fifty to fifty-two foot depth interval. Take your family and enjoy yourselves.”
Reluctantly, because every aspect of the project was so fascinating to him, Mark consented.
“Jess is in total agreement,” Hodges assured, “We talked about it over drinks last evening.”
“You met to discuss a vacation for me?”
“No, we talked about many things. That was just one. Jess is a very entertaining fellow. He certainly made me laugh! And he was very agitated about one thing.”
“About what?”
“This unbelievable thing he personally witnessed.”
“It sounds important; was it connected to the site?”
“No. It occurred downtown.”
“Saw what? What happened?”
“He was at a corner, waiting for the WALK sign to come on, when there he was, right across the street! He couldn’t believe it!”
“You’re killing me, Michael.”
“There was a lawyer standing there with both hands in his own pockets!”
Hodges watched cognition flash across Mark’s face. He had to laugh!
“Okay, you got me! I should have known. If you’re with Jess, you’ll hear a new Lawyer joke.”
With a full week to enjoy, this trip would give them five days not counting the two flight days, enough time for Tim to get a good feel for the Basin and Range province, a trip Mark had spoken of many times. Doreen called the airlines and arranged for the tickets.
They arrived in El Paso late in the afternoon, crossing into Mexico for a few hours before returning. This was an opportunity for cabrito they weren’t missing. It was the best; a wonderful dinner with an excellent salsa made of tomatoes, onions, and the cilantro, which gives it its distinctive flavor.
Returning to the hotel late with an array of impulse purchases, Tim watched a movie on cable in their two-bedroom suite, then slept like a contented kitten. Mark and Doreen enjoyed themselves in other ways. The next morning, they picked up the keys to the rental car and were on the road before 10:00 am The plan was to drive north, then west. They would encounter spectacular examples of the Basin and Range Province he knew so well, where he and Doreen had spent a summer on his Harley two years before Tim was born. Now Tim was old enough to learn the macro features of the regional geology. How quickly the years had passed!
As they topped the first mountain range and began descending into the enormously wide valley separating them from the next one, with Tim looking over her shoulder, Doreen reviewed Mark’s roadside geology guidebook to the area she had dusted off prior to their trip, explaining that they were crossing a massive geologic feature.
“Dad, how was the Basin and Range Province formed? I don’t understand these two pictures. The book says the pictures are what we’re driving across!”
That’s what the writing next to them explains, Tim,” Doreen answered. “See, it says that the upper picture shows layers of rock one on top of each other before an enormous shock to this entire region caused block faulting to occur; faulting means breaking those layers, forming separate blocks. The lower picture shows how it looked afterward. That’s quite a difference isn’t it?”
“I’ll say! The faulting broke it all up.”
“The surface was once relatively flat across most of the area between here all the way to Pacific Ocean, Tim,” Mark explained. “Later, some earth-shattering event broke up the solid crust into huge blocks. North-south-oriented faults–faults are cracks-hundreds of miles long separated the blocks with huge chasms, some of which reached all the way down to the molten rock underneath!”
“That’s so cool!”
“Not if you’d been here when it happened, with the strata breaking up underneath your feet. That would be scary as hell, like the end of the world. You know that stratum is the word for a single layer of rock, and strata is more than one layer together, like a stratum of sandstone overlying a stratum of limestone is two strata.”
“Like we saw in the Grand Canyon. The strata there were really thick!”
“After the crust cracked–faulted–some of the blocks sank, leaving the ones next to it raised. We’re driving across one of the sunken blocks now-that’s what caused this valley. Of course the top of the block is far beneath us, buried. The mountain we just crossed before dropping into this valley is just the high block next to it. The high ranges have been worn away by rainfall erosion for millions of years and have partly filled in the depression created by the sunken blocks, huge blocks. This sequence of mountain-valley - mountain-valley continues for hundreds of miles as we drive west “
”That mountain range looming on the other side of this valley is just what’s left of the next raised block,” Doreen said, “and will be followed by another valley where the block beyond it sank.”
“I understand the pictures now,” Tim said, “but what made it happen?”
“The force that pulled the crust apart had so much tension that if we shoved all of the basins and ranges back together, the province would be one-hundred miles less wide!”
“How could it?”
“The gaps between the crustal blocks were wide, the faults weren’t just little cracks; they opened so wide that the width of all the cracks added together totaled one-hundred miles in width across this province,” Mark said. “They were huge abysses that would make our Grand Canyon look skinny! Yet now, the surfaces are smooth enough that we can build roads like this one down across the valley and then back up and over the mountain ranges. That’s what the drawing is showing you.”
“It’s actually easy to understand once you explain it. Geology is interesting, Dad. Now I know why you wanted to be one. I’m going to be one too!”
“Geology helps us understand the land we’re driving over. Otherwise, we would have no idea how what we see came to be.”
“What a frightening thrill if we were standing in the middle of this valley the minute after the faulting occurred, at this very spot,” Doreen mused. “We’d be looking up at almost sheer rock walls one or more miles high on both sides of us, not these beautiful, eroded slopes. The magnitude of it all still amazes me when I reflect upon it.”
“Also, molten, basalt lava would be moving like a wall of fire hundreds of feet high from both sides, and we would soon be buried alive under it.” Mark studied the horror on Tim’s face.
“Do all grownups know this stuff?, Tim asked. “I think everyone should know.”
“I think much more geology should be taught, beginning in elementary school; but of course, I’m a geologist, so I’m prejudiced.”

Two days later, returning back across the province, they stopped at a location where the exposed mountainside had little vegetation growing on the surface.
“This is the place.” Mark announced.
He had promised Tim they would look for fossils at least once on the way back when they spotted a good location. Bare rock in visible, ordered layers.
“Will the car be safe by the freeway Mark?,” Doreen asked.
“It should be out here in the middle of nowhere. There’s a fairly steady stream of traffic.” He eased onto the shoulder.
Each had their own geologist’s pick, a ten power magnification hand lens on a chain or leather string around their neck, and a canvass collection bag. Mark suggested they climb to the top first, then work back down. That way, he could keep two promises at once. He had also committed to a mountain climb during the trip. They decided Doreen should lead on the climb up, followed by Tim, with Mark bringing up the rear in the event anyone slipped.
The climb was tedious over the often jagged edges of the strata and fallen chunks of rock which could roll under your foot as you stepped on them. Slow, but exhilarating. The view from higher up became increasingly dramatic. After climbing more than three-hundred feet, Doreen was the first to notice. At first, she wasn’t certain, but looking down at the car in the distance, she heard the car alarm sound. Another car had parked behind theirs. Someone had broken the glass and the front door of the rental was open.
“Mark! Someone’s trying to steal our car!” she screamed.
“Wait right here!” he shouted. He began bounding back down with incredible speed as Doreen and Tim feared, certain he would fall and kill himself. But the prospect of being abandoned in the desert sharpened his focus. Like his Field Camp days, he seemed to know just what ledge or boulder to leap to next, and the correct angle to strike it with his field boots to keep from slipping, a remarkable skill borne of experience.
Hoping he could frighten the intruders away before they got the rental started and drove away, he began yelling at them while still far in the distance. He did his best to traverse the eighth of a mile that stretched between the top of the geologic sequence and the side of the Interstate quickly, but the thieves knew that they had plenty of time. They noticed Mark running toward them. When he reached the level desert surface, they still lingered. Mark began to suspect that they were either having difficulty hard-wiring the ignition, or they were after the contents rather than the vehicle. They had more than enough time to take anything they wanted if that was their intention. Momentarily, as he drew nearer, he heard one of them yell out at the other, who appeared to be sitting in the passenger seat. Was he so inept that he was still trying to get it started? When his partner shouted, he leapt out, slammed the front door, and ran to their vehicle. They sped away at his approach, leaving dark-rubber skid marks as they escaped. Though he tried, he was still to far away to read the license number. They were too far gone.
This time, he decided Doreen was right. It was far too risky to leave the vehicle on the side of the freeway. More astonishing, nothing was missing! They obviously hadn’t been able to get it started, though looking, he couldn’t see any loose or torn out wiring, and it started immediately when he turned the key.
Pulling onto the desert surface, hard-baked by the sun, he carefully drove back to the collection area, parking it behind a protruding hill near the base of the outcrop. Now, it couldn’t even be seen from the highway, and it was directly below where they would be working.
“That was close,” he said, as he re-attained the height where they were waiting with very relieved looks on their faces.
“Too close.” Doreen agreed.
“You poor baby, you’re dripping with sweat!”
“It’ll evaporate. We won’t let that happen again and we won’t let it spoil our day.“ As they drove along later with an open window on Mark’s side, their fossil-filled bags stowed in the trunk, Tim fell asleep from the exhaustion of the afternoon. Doreen decided it was a good time to bring up the subject of Gangley.
“If they were allowed to run rampant, the Gangleys of the world would have everything, and the rest of us would have nothing.” she baited.
“What brought that statement on?”
“I received a call just before we left from a man who claims to have witnessed the murder of both of his parents on Gangley’s orders.”
“You’re shitting me. Does he have any real evidence like you produced for Lipscomb and Simpson?”
“If it’s as he claims, I think it would be conclusive to a jury.”
“The project’s almost over, and I’ve been faithful to Jess in conducting it apart from the man. It’s time to switch my psyche to bringing him down. You’re doing it in a manner that won’t link anything to our family?”
“It may just be the chance we’re looking for. Gangley has no means by which he could determine my involvement. When you had Doug check the history of each of the properties comprising the six city blocks so that you could ascertain which ones had a potential for contamination, do you remember a former Logan’s Dry Cleaning property?”
“That’s the location of the carbon tetrachloride release, but since it falls within the larger Chronicle plume, it’s been degraded with it. What’s the connection?”
“Was there anything in the paperwork that revealed how Gangley obtained the property?”
“I don’t recall, but that doesn’t mean anything, there were so many former properties.”
“The man that called me claims to be the twenty-two year-old son of the Logans, only recently released from a mental institution.”
“Oh, he sounds like a very credible source.”
“Don’t be wry. He’s been there since a few months after witnessing his parent’s death by being sawn up alive with a chain saw, the body pieces tossed into a bayou. He claims he watched helplessly because he had no weapon and became frozen with terror. Later, he felt guilty for even being alive after not doing something to try to save them. He says the killing was ordered by Gangley, because he had been offering them more and more for the property, but old man Logan just became more resentful and incorrigible. He intended to die owning that business. According to the son, one night these two bruisers came in and kidnapped the Logans at gunpoint. They had never seen his son and didn’t know he was there. He hid in the back until they left, then followed them at a distance all the way from Houston across the state line into Louisiana to a country bayou road where they were killed. He hid his car and walked in the darkness to the kill site just before they cut up his father. I can’t imagine the horror. He could hear his mother screaming and begging for her life while they threw piece after piece of his father’s body into the bayou.”
“That makes me sick at my stomach.”
“They cut her up next, the only mercy being that-unlike the father-they cut off her head first. They had made her husband endure unimaginable torture by cutting from the feet up in little pieces because he had resisted and offended Gangley so steadfastly.”
“The son told you this?”
“He called the Chronicle office and said he had a story. Since it supposedly involved someone living in Houston, the call was transferred to the Metro desk. Lou took it. Realizing it was Gangley related, he turned it over to me when I returned. The man wouldn’t leave his number when he talked to Lou, but he said that he would call back at a specified time. When he did, I was there. No matter what I said, he refused to tell me more or to send me any of the evidence he claims to have except on a face to face basis. He lives in Dallas, but I didn’t want to go without discussing it with you first, didn’t want you to think that I was endangering us without your knowledge. I don’t think it’s dangerous to interview him. I made a tentative appointment on the phone, but you and I were both too involved at the time to even discuss it. He called, concerned at my disinterest Friday morning, saying all the big papers in the Dallas-Fort Worth area had treated him the same way. I explained I wasn’t disinterested at all; to the contrary, so I reset the appointment for next Monday afternoon. I knew we’d be back.”
“If his evidence is so strong, why didn’t he go to the police or the FBI? Did you ask him that?”
“He doesn’t trust the police where Gangley’s involved, and after the FBI debacle-trying to blow up Gangley illegally, he doesn’t feel they would pursue anything involving him very aggressively.”
“Well, it’s your job as an investigative reporter to uncover the truth, so I certainly wouldn’t interfere. I just hope you’ve thought it through.”
“I wanted you to know. Once the project is confirmed clean by next weekend, Moss will give Gangley the Department of Environmental Quality’s letter approving closure of the site. At that point, if the son’s story checks out, he actually has the photographs he claims and will testify, taking Gangley down will become mine and Lou’s joint priority.”
“It’s a dangerous scenario; there’s one limitation I insist upon.”
“What?”
“You can’t use the list, because it will become public, and at that point, Gangley may demand that those who took bribes get him off or go down with him. I don’t care about any of the others, but I don’t want anything to happen to Moss or to embarrass Jess.”
“I’d already ruled that out, not to mention we don’t have Nancy to describe how the Chronicle got it.”
The next day, they flew back to Houston, refreshed after a very relaxing and diversionary vacation.

The Son

The next few days were extremely busy following their trip to the Basin and Range province. Doreen left for Dallas on Monday, with Tim under instructions to go to Patricia’s house next door after school because Mark would be working late for several days. The ninety-day deadline was just eight days away and Hodges was intent upon meeting it. That meant Mark would have to select the locations and number of confirmation borings the Department of Environmental Quality would accept as adequate. Personnel on the laboratory payroll would hand-carry the soil samples to the laboratory, so there would be no possibility of anyone switching samples en route. Signing the Chain-of-Custody form wasn't going to suffice in this special case. Too much was at stake. Gangley had ordered twenty-four hour turn-around time-at double the normal rates. Upon receiving the results, Mark would be required to write a Consultant’s report which included a formal Request for Closure. If the results were as anticipated, Moss would then construct the state’s response, approving closure of the site, which would be signed by himself and his two superiors. The approval of a request for site closure is more or less a form letter, but it may as well be etched upon sheets of pure gold, because it means that the long arm of the law, with its entanglement of financially ruinous regulations, is finally releasing the offending site owner from its grasp.
Often, it took forever before the coveted relief came, often after the poor site owner had nothing left anyway. But with Bio-Sparge, it was possible to actually expect one before the end of the world. Following the approval of closure, Hodges would disconnect and demobilize his equipment, and Delta would backfill all wells on site with cement to the surface. At that point, New World and Delta would have qualified for the bonus Gangley had promised them. Since there would be no question they had saved his deal with the city, they each had their own ideas about how generous it might be. Hodges told Mark that he secretly hoped he might get as much as a hundred grand. Jess hadn’t even speculated, but Mark felt Delta would be bonused perhaps fifty thousand, which would make Jess happy, so happy that he might share a piece of it with Mark personally, since it had been his inspiration that led to the miracle.
The test borings, upon which requests for closure of a site are based, are a very serious affair. In all cases of importance, the State DOE will have someone present to watch every soil sample during the process of collection. At random, or if they suspect a certain area for some reason, they will split the sample, and the state will send it’s half to a separate laboratory under a different numbering scheme. No hanky-panky or collusion with the lab is possible. And as Bio-Sparge was a new technology for Texas, it was certain that one or more of Moss’s superiors would demand split samples, especially in the area where the solvent had filled the entire pore space. That meant the depth interval between fifty and fifty-two feet below grade. They would also want a water sample from each monitoring well to prove that the solvent hadn’t been diluted by redistribution into the clean groundwater between the groundwater surface at forty feet of depth, and the impacted water at around forty-eight feet of depth. It would be Doug’s responsibility to collect the groundwater samples while Mark directed sampling during the soil borings.
The rig arrived on Tuesday morning, and everything was ready. Moss arrived at 8:30 am, saying no one else from the department would be present, but they had directed that the lab results be provided to them for review prior to granting closure of the site. When all that is required is soil samples for verification, a simple two-inch auger will begin drilling at the surface, and soil samples are pulled every five feet or so, beginning at the surface down to the groundwater-dry soil interface, the bottom of the vadose or unsaturated zone in hydrogeological terms. Since the total depth here was fifty-two feet, samples would be pulled at 42, 47, and 52 feet of depth respectively in each bore hole.
Borings would be discontinued if the first boring failed, bringing up smelly soil, or worse, soil dripping solvent from it. At P&T sites, it happened so regularly that it was usually only completed at the demand of a client because he had run out of money, and his lawyer was asking the state to consider the work completed as “sufficient to allow the site to self-attenuate by natural processes.” Here, the client had plenty of money, and if the process was shown to be working, he could only be released from continuing remediation if the site was actually clean. That meant that the solvent concentration would have to fall within a negotiated range between fifty parts per million and non detect. Non detect means that the measured concentration is less than the detection capability of the instrumentation used to measure it. It is the golden exit door, equivalent to “zero” in the consultant’s mind.
Moss had already been over the site while Mark was on vacation and had agreed with Hodges’s proposed locations for the confirmation borings. Since the stratigraphy and nature of the contamination was relatively uniform across the entire plume, Moss had consented to ten borings running straight down the long axis of the plume, one near the bentonite slurry wall to determine if it had held properly, and one in the center of the small carbon tetrachloride plume which had been included within the overall area undergoing treatment. Everyone knew that the highly soluble carbon tet’s would to some extent disappear simply by being spread across the entire site. Hodges maintained this was unavoidable and had calculated a concentration low enough to ensure that bioremediation had actually reduced the initial dilution concentration. The state had no choice but to agree on this single, troubling issue. To refuse was to deny application of the entire approach to remediation, an unacceptable alternative.
Mark was faced with twelve borings which he was determined to complete within a single, long day. Normally, the moody driller they were using would never agree to such an intense schedule of hard work. They were among the best, but the owner was cocky and became recalcitrant as quitting time approached. Mark had expressed his concern to Gangley about the possibility of the driller demanding two days in which to complete the twelve borings. Unbeknown to Mark, Gangley had sent the man a handwritten note that he would be very angry if they didn’t comply, and further, he would personally take him to his horse farm outside west Houston and forcibly make him bend over and grab his ankles. Had he ever noticed the size of a stallion’s prick?
Strangely, that had been enough to make them willing-even eager-to complete all borings in a single pass. The lab agreed to have the results ready by 8 am the next morning. Someone would be working all night to pull that off. All was readiness.
Hodges was completely confident, because he had his own techniques for ascertaining the state of the subsurface remediation by checking samples from the in fluent groundwater coming into the system from the subsurface.
Mark was nervous, because he didn’t have Hodges’s uncanny feel for what Bio-Sparge had accomplished at any given point. But no one was more concerned than Moss. He had staked everything upon this technology. If it failed, he wasn’t certain how Gangley would react, but it wouldn’t be good, because not understanding the complexity of the degradation biochemistry of the organisms, he had hitched his wagon to Mark during the meeting at the Crab Shack months ago and had never doubted since that it would work. There was also the issue of Moss taking it upon himself to publicly endorse a privately owned technology, which hadn’t gone over well within the consulting community generally, and would have infuriated his superiors if not for the fact that the EPA itself was championing the endorsement. If it succeeded, anyone wishing to take retribution against him would be hard-pressed to justify it. If it failed, he would lose his position, even if Gangley accepted that he had done all he could be expected to do, a point still open to question.
The driller screwed the first two auger sections together, aligned the back of the rig with the orange paint spot sprayed onto the ground by Moss, and began penetrating the ground. When they were down about thirty feet, adding additional auger sections as they increased the depth, to everyone’s surprise, a television van drove up. Moss hurriedly rushed to tell them they were not allowed on the site for “safety” reasons, but they informed him that Mr. Randall Gangley had requested that they be in attendance to film the success of the cleanup. Moss was devastated. He was powerless to prevent it.
To Mark, Moss, the lab rep, and the drillers, this was like a shotgun wedding. Only Hodges showed pleasure and enthusiasm. He freely answered television reporter’s questions about the technology, how they already knew (!) what the results would be, all with his normal charm and flair. Doug was just glad he didn’t have to be nearby. He stayed occupied with the monitoring well samples, beginning at the ones farthest from the initial boring, and well out of sight of cameras or reporters.
“Forty-two feet coming up!” the driller yelled. Mark prepared to grab the sample. As he knelt, he noticed the absence of any odor, and the sample looked clean enough to eat. It was bagged and labeled, and the Chain of Custody form was completed and signed by he and the lab rep, who then took charge of the sample and put it on ice. The television camera filmed the entire process, even zooming in on the hand-written sample label. The forty-two foot sample was expected to be clean, so it was no bonanza. The next two were coming from the worst part of the original plume on Gangley’s side of the street. If these were clean, then the entire site was probably home free. On the other hand, if they were dirty, the television coverage would discredit everyone involved. Without realizing, Gangley had initiated a game of Russian Roulette, with only two players: Gangley, and Gangley. But they would all be ruined on the Six o’clock news. Having pulled this, Gangley had left the players with no options. Sweat was pouring from Mark’s brow. Not alone, he noticed Moss was using a handkerchief so continuously that he didn’t even put it away after each use.
Hodges reveled in their panic. Stepping between them with the cameras following, he put an arm around each of their shoulders, and announced loudly with a huge, broad, smile:
“I just want to point out to the viewing public that these are the two men entirely responsible for us being here today. Mark Houser of Delta Geotechnical and Mr. Harold Moss of the Texas State Department of Environmental Quality.”
The cameras closed in on each of their faces. Mark didn’t know what Moss was feeling, but forced smile aside, he felt like one of the four-legged antagonists in the movie, Mouse Hunt being attacked with a shotgun. Moss was practiced in the art of the Gladhander’s smile, yet left for the men’s room immediately afterward. Mark wondered if he had shit his pants.
“Forty-seven foot depth coming up!”
Mark stooped to grab the auger sample. To his great relief, it looked like clean sand, and was odorless. Maybe Hodges actually had that much certainty after all. The fifty-two foot sample was the ringer. Every sample from that depth during installation of the infrastructure wells was dark brown to black, and had solvent dripping from it. Fifty-two feet was immediately above the surface of the caliche, so it was impossible to avoid the consequences if the technology had failed. To Mark’s astonishment, Hodges was emphasizing this fact to the TV crew. Either the result was a foregone conclusion to him, or he was a self-made environmental Kamikaze.
“Fifty-two foot depth coming up!”
Mark gave him a look of contempt, but when he saw the driller vicariously sweating along with them, he smiled instead, trying to look confident.
“Hell, either it is clean, or it isn’t,” he thought, trying to minimize the most critical moment of his career to date. His own mind called him a liar. It wasn’t only important, but would affect him profoundly for good or for evil from this day forth. Chips of caliche were presenting now. Only the caliche proved the depth beyond the shadow of a doubt. Before he could even grab a sample, Hodges grabbed one. Mark then grabbed his, which was to be split with the State.
“You see folks,” Hodges said, one of his operators walking up on cue with a filled baggie of caliche in hand, “the sample my assistant is holding is what this very spot was like before Bio-Sparge remediation was initiated. He opened the bag of black, gooey soil, dripping with solvent. The camera focused upon it, and everyone on the TV crew said “Yuck!” like a church chorus.
“And this sample is from the same area at the end of the remediation.” He held up soil so clean it could have been run through a dishwasher.
“Wow!” the choir sang again.
“Smell it! Notice the fresh, earthen smell. That’s the smell of healthy soil. That’s the power of Bio-Sparge at work!”
They all sniffed the sample in turn, unanimously agreeing with Hodge’s assertion, obviously impressed. Moss walked up just in time to see it happening and grabbed a sample for himself. It was the happiest moment of his life. He and Mark beamed at each other, aware Hodge’s laughter was directed at them. Only at that point did Doug appear, grabbing and sniffing his own sample. If the TV crew hadn’t been there, he would have shaken Mark’s hand, and probably hugged Hodges!
“Well, you’re welcome to follow us along for eleven more borings if you wish,” Hodges told the crew.
“But wasn’t this the dirtiest spot on the entire site?” the reporter asked.
“Absolutely!”
“We already have enough for our story this evening. Let’s go, guys!”
Cables were rolled up, gear stowed, and they disappeared as quickly as they had appeared.
“Did you shit your pants?” Mark whispered to Moss.
“No, but if I hadn’t left when I did, I would have. Can you believe how clean that soil is? It goes beyond anything I could have hoped for.”
Hodges had overheard.
“That’s the smell of soil with adequate bacteria. It would make any farmer happy, the smell of Mother Earth.”
They all laughed.
Hodges shouted to his assistant, who had been taking snapshots at key points during the first boring.
“Get that film to the Chronicle right now. Give it to Lou at the Metro desk, tell him how it went and how the TV crew reacted. They’ll want an exclusive tonight.”
The assistant scurried away.
“Well, the rest will be boring, Fellows, pun intended.” Hodges almost sounded disappointed.
“It’s not necessary, just a waste of time and money.” Moss said. “Pull one by the slurry wall, one at the down gradient tip, and two more equidistant down the center. Unless we get a surprise, that’s adequate.”
They were finished before four o’clock, no surprises. Mark had already prepared two versions of the report during the previous weeks anticipating both ways it could potentially have turned out today, in the event he had to appeal for more time. He went to the office, added a few particulars he hadn’t known during the previous weeks, and printed it.
Jess was waiting with Hodges and Moss to celebrate. If Gangley had been in town, he would certainly have been there with them, but he’d notified Moss he’d see him Tuesday.
“You guys go ahead without me. I’m taking these copies for lamination of the cover and binding. I’ll have them on your desk in the morning, Moss, as soon as Jess has counter-signed them. Unless the lab results don’t correlate what we can usually tell by looking at a and sniffing a sample - don't tell anyone I said that, your letter will be finished tomorrow morning and you can hand-carry it to Gangley, if you wish.” Duh!
“Why can’t you join us later?” Jess pressured, “It won’t take more than half an hour to get that report bound.”
“Doreen’s in Dallas on a story, and won’t be back until late. Tim will be anxious for me to pick him up at the sitter’s. But drink a few for me anyway.”
They all promised to keep him in mind as he left with the box of report copies.
“Be in early, so I can sign those? I’ll have already copied the lab results. I’ll help insert them in the reports.”
Home at last, exhausted from the day, he envisioned Gangley’s delight reading the golden pages of the Approval for Closure.
“Hello, Mark,” Patricia’s mother opened the door. “Come in, we saved your dinner.”
“Oh, I don’t want to intrude. I’ll eat something at home.”
“Nonsense! I insist. Do you like Southern-fried chicken, cornbread muffins, and mashed potatoes?”
That was all it took. Betty seated him as Patricia chased Tim through the room, trying to recover something.
“Hi, Dad!”
“Hi, Mark!”
They were gone before he could answer.

It was late. No Doreen. It dawned upon him that he hadn’t checked the phone for messages. Sure enough, she had called before he was home, saying that the contact proved to be extremely nervous and required much more time for the interview than planned. The poor fellow was taking three kinds of anti-panic medication, and had taken two tranquilizers just during the two-hour meeting. At one point, he became certain they were being watched and accused Doreen of being followed, placing his life in danger! It had taken some effort to calm him and explain that no one but he and her husband knew of the appointment or when she would arrive. Eventually, he relaxed, completed the interview, then asked to know how soon the story would run. She replied the next week or two, at which point he became furious, demanding it be run the next day, requiring creative explanation.
“The guy’s stable, but then again, so panicky I worried after we separated. He moves every few weeks, if you can imagine that. He lives only in motels, but says he’s seriously considering a motor home, so that his address can never be traced. Talk about paranoia! If you’re home late, don’t bother calling unless you need to discuss something urgent. I’m ready to relax and fall asleep. I’ll be there when you get home tomorrow, Love. I’m anxious for your touch.”
What a strange fellow Logan’s son was turning out to be, he thought. For the first time, he mused about Gangley’s absence from Houston today, and troubled about his paranoia. Doreen was correct. No one else knew; she had discussed it with him in a rental car moving through the Basin and Range province. Gangley couldn’t know anything about it. He was doing something else. It was just coincidental.

The knock frightened Chip. He had been careful to avoid acquaintances and no one knew him. So who could be at his door at 11:30 pm? Since his successful extortion games with Gangley, he had been especially paranoid, and the meeting with Mrs. Houser from the Houston Chronicle earlier in the evening had only made it worse. He was certain he saw someone watching, but running to the door of the restaurant, hadn’t seen anyone out front near enough to have been looking in the window the moment before. He had no confidence in her assurances she hadn’t been followed and how it was impossible they had tracked him down. Another knock, this one louder, terrified him. He fled into the bathroom, but the window was metal slats. There was no way out the back of the small motel room, no phone to call the office or dial 9ll. He returned to the front room and froze.
“Mr. Logan! Open up! It’s a friend.”
“Go away! I don’t have any friends. Get lost!” He backed into a corner, fearing they might shoot through the door.
“You have one. I’m probably the only one. I watched your meeting tonight. I was with Gangley at the time. You saw us, but we stepped into the alley before you came out front. I’m alone now. We need to talk. Gangley’s planned a Three-o’clock knock for you later. If I were you, I’d open the door, because I can only speak with you for a moment, or I’ll be missed . . . I’m unarmed, Mr. Logan.”
Chip’s head was spinning, certain he was to be killed. Three-o’clock-knock? The man surely would kill him now. Why had he been so stupid to stay in this same room? He should have followed his instincts, left town immediately. Now it was too late.
“Mr. Logan! Open up!”
Chip stepped to the edge of the drape covering the front window and slowly pulled it away from the wall just enough to give him a view of the man at the door. To his surprise, the man had on only a shirt, and had nothing in his hands, no gun stuck in his belt, no bulge above his shoes. He looked like a wrestler, though. He didn’t need a gun. He could just break his neck! The man noticed him looking, raised his arms above his head, and turned slowly, allowing Chip a full view of his body.
“I have no weapon, Mr. Logan. I’m here to give you information to save your life. Just let me in.” Chip considered the man capable of kicking in the door if he didn’t. He decided to open it, and if the man lunged at him, try to jump to the side and run out the door. Slowly, he unhooked the chain, turned the deadbolt, and stepped back.
“It’s open.”
The door opened and the man entered, looking around outside before stepping in. He closed the door behind him and turned the deadbolt. Chip now had no way to escape. He sat limply in the chair close by, feeling faint.
“I know you don’t know me, but I know all about you. We’ve been investigating Mr. Gangley for a long time, and have more than enough to put him away for the rest of his life. The reason we haven’t is many corrupt associates we want as well, and if we arrest him now, they’ll be alerted before we can complete our investigations. You’re an important part of our case against him; we’d like to keep you alive.”
Chip relaxed and sat erect. It was the safest he’d felt in a long time.
“How can I help? What do you want?”
“First, get your things together and leave here immediately. Get out of Dallas, but stay away from Houston. Don’t go anywhere someone might know you. Mr. Gangley has ways of finding you if you do. I’d suggest a vacation.” He passed Chip a card. “When you get wherever you’re going, send a postcard to this gentleman. He’s at the Justice Department in D.C. If you change your location, keep him notified. When we’re ready, we’ll fly you in under Federal protection. Don’t worry, we know what we’re doing. That’s it, Mr. Logan. I have to run. Any questions?”
“I’m so glad someone’s going to get him, finally. I guess not. Thanks for warning me. Are you remaining until I leave?”
“I can’t, but I’m fairly certain Gangley doesn’t know I’m here. Just be quick. Is that a rental car?”
“Yes.”
“Lose it. You still have plenty of money from the extortion, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Chip felt embarrassed. The man laughed.
“That was entertaining. Don’t try it again, though. Turn that car in and take a cab to the airport. Rent one there you can drive Interstate with. Go several hundred miles, turn it in, and buy a bus ticket to wherever you decide to go. After you arrive, buy one locally from a used car lot. After we hear from you, we’ll advise you further.”
He rose, shook Chip’s hand, and left. Chip followed him out less than ten minutes later.

The long day and Betty’s meal was pulling him down, so Mark slumped into the bed without catching Headline News. He was too tired and had to meet Jess early. As his head sank into the pillow, he tried to think about the day and Doreen, but only achieved falling asleep and an unintelligible dream about cornbread.

Chip

Arriving early, Doreen moved quickly to Lou’s office. She appreciated Mark’s not having called to awaken her the night before. She had arisen early refreshed. Early enough to beat the I-35 morning traffic. Although the drive to Houston took a few hours, not a moment was wasted. Her story was written in her mind before she arrived at the Chronicle. There were two things to do: verbally go over it all with Lou, and get it into the computer. Tonight, she would verify that Mark had succeeded in closure and was off the project. Then the two of them would go over the story and it could break at the soonest possible moment. Gangley would be arrested on suspicion of murder, but he would not make the connection to their family. They would have to be certain of that.
Though her mouth watered at the idea, the story would not be released under her name, but rather the name of a fictitious reporter. She would convince Lou to create the employment data, and for all intents and purposes, that person would exist as an employee of the Metro desk. It wasn’t even difficult. When the clever snooping began, it would be diverted immediately to Lou by the system. He would automatically know that anybody asking about that reporter was connected with Gangley. He would say that they were out of town on assignment in San Antonio, giving an address Evans would be tipped to watch. San Antonio would be like a scare word, because it would suggest that someone hadn’t bought Wally’s death by natural causes, and would thus divert Gangley’s attention in that direction. The hunted would become the hunter. If Evans arrested someone snooping around the fictitious address, the fellow would almost certainly have a record, and would provide links to others. It was just a matter of moving quickly before her source dropped out of sight even from her. He had agreed to testify only if the story ran first-Front page. With everything out in the open, he could feel some measure of safety.
“You’re back early, Doreen. I got your message from last night. Did you change your mind and drive back late?”
“Good morning, Lou! No, but I was asleep within minutes of that message, totally wrung out emotionally after a day with Chip.”
“What’s his real name?”
“Charles Watson Logan, but he likes to be called ‘Chip,’because that’s the nickname his parents used.”
“I’m anxious to review your research. Your message sounded as if you’ve got Gangley dead to right!”
Doreen removed a large envelope from her briefcase and pulled the chair by Lou’s desk around next to him. Arranging the stack of papers and photographs, she prepared for her presentation. Lou reached for his pad and pen, intent upon making a list as she went.
“Okay, Exhibit A . . . ”
“Are we enacting a courtroom drama?”
“Why not? It’s helps give a feel for the strength or weakness of the evidence in the mind of a juror.”
“I like it. Proceed, Counselor.”
“Exhibit A is a photograph of the exact site where Mr. and Mrs. Logan were murdered in a brutal and grotesquely unconscionable manner-cut up alive with a chain saw. This photograph shows clearly the enormous volume of blood that soaked into the surface of the sandy road that led into the bayou at that point.”
Lou stared at the picture for a moment. His brow wrinkled from attempting to imagine the degree of human suffering and sheer horror that such a death would inflict.
“Exhibit B is a copy of parish records. Note that the record shows ownership by a company called, Gangley Enterprises. Exhibits C through E are copies of additional parish records showing that the said Gangley Enterprises owns three additional properties within the same area, either near, or bordering upon, the property where the murders took place.”
Lou could already see Gangley hanging from the gallows, the rope squeezed tight about his neck, hands tied behind his back as his bound feet made it tighter with every lurch.
“Parish records! Be Jesus!”
“Exhibit F is a photograph of the murderer’s van the witness followed from Logan’s Dry Cleaners, located within the six-square-block area now known as the Convention Center site, owned entirely by the same company, Gangley Enterprises. The witness took the photo at night without a flash to avoid being detected. The photo of itself is thus of poor quality, though it shows the license number, and it may be possible to see the van more clearly by computer enhancement.”
“It’s taking some work to make this usable. The van fades with the surrounding darkness so badly that you can’t even tell the make or model. They do some pretty fancy work in the lab, though, so we’ll give them a shot at it.”
“Exhibit G is a close-up photograph of the license plate of the van. Notice that, like other vehicles owned by Gangley Enterprises, it is named as the component of a group: GNLY-13. It is probably possible to prove that this photo is the same van as in Exhibit F, which would place it at the site of the murder.”
“Why couldn’t he just tip off the police along the way?” Lou asked.
“I asked him the same question. Apparently, he had no cellular, and they stopped only once for fuel. His only preoccupation was not losing site of the van which held his parents. He was unaware of what was actually going on until their arrival in the bayou. It seems at first thought like he could have alerted a stopped patrolman giving a ticket or something. But that’s not what happened.”
“Too bad,” Lou mused, rubbing his chin, “just too bad. If it had been me, I would have forced them off the road, or blocked them in a busy spot somewhere along the way. There must have been dozens of opportunities. You know, I think Chip is basically a coward. He probably grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth. Dry cleaning used to be a lucrative business. It was especially so before environmental regulations defined the cleaning solution as a hazardous waste, forcing new expenses upon that industry. He didn’t have enough courage to act like a man. No wonder he was institutionalized. He could probably have prevented all of this a dozen different ways. And the more he pondered them, the more he realized he might as well have killed them himself.”
“I think you’re being hard on him, Lou. The kid was only nineteen when this happened.”
“How old do you think our soldiers in Viet Nam were? They took fire regularly. Over 58,000 died to save their country. What’s a country worth if not it’s families? And if you are willing to die for a cause as poorly defined as Viet Nam, how much more selfless should you be when your mother and father are being hauled to a swamp for slaughter so that some scum bag like Gangley can buy their environmentally impaired property at auction for a hundred bucks? Look how the guy’s acting now. You said in your message he moves every three weeks, took two tranquilizers just during the space of your interview? No story, no exposure of himself? If that’s not a sicko coward, I never heard of one!”
“God, Lou. You sound like you’d enjoy seeing him go down with Gangley as an accomplice. You are Irish . . . sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Well, you’re almost correctly describing my feelings. This guy reminds me of a story I heard; gosh, must be fifteen, maybe twenty years ago by now. This man out in Arizona or New Mexico lived on some Indian reservation. He wasn’t an Indian himself, but he lived there. One morning, he was sitting on his porch, and he saw three or four drunk Indian women who had captured a white woman. They had knives, and they were torturing her. He called the sheriff and reported it, but he didn’t do a goddamn thing, pardon my Irish, to help save her. Sometime later, he called in again because the sheriff hadn’t arrived yet, and said they’d better hurry, because the women were slowly killing her! I’d have grabbed a ball bat or shotgun and stopped that horse shit big time. The woman died, of course. That story made me so angry, that if I had lived in the area, I would have seriously considered blowing that miserable son-of-bitch away. What a lazy, twisted, fuck he must have been. God, it makes me mad to think about creatures like that.”
“I think Gangley would be happy to have you working for him, Lou. I see your point, but Gangley is the one guilty of murder here, not Chip, however weak he may be.”
“Yeah, I know. But I dislike him already. He’s at least partly responsible, and he’s got to deal with that. What he’s doing now is trying to redeem himself, but he can hardly muster the guts to do it.”
“I don’t think we should put any of that in the story though, because the public would probably judge him as harshly as you, and that will divert their hatred from Gangley.”
“You’re right, but I can just imagine the skill with which Merrill will beat the jury to death with it. He’ll have them hating Charles Logan more than Randall Gangley. I can picture it right now. What else do you have?”
“A complete, notarized statement signed by Chip,” Doreen boasted, “a full testimony of everything that happened, from the time the two men entered the Dry Cleaners until they disappeared into the darkness after sawing up his parents and throwing the pieces of their bodies into the bayou, even describing the splashing sound as the parts of their bodies hit the water.”
“See what I mean? He’s the sole witness. And because he’s such a weakling, Merrill will be asking repeatedly why he did nothing to prevent their deaths. Why didn’t he do this? Why didn’t he do that? He’ll go on for hours, and objections won’t stop it, because the Judge will be just as curious as the jury to know the answers. It’ll be in the papers alright, whether we put it in the Chronicle or not. The weeklies will love that crap It’s the sludge they’re always sniffing for.”
“A case could be made that, having seen the crudeness of the men, and their guns, he felt any action he might take could backfire and cause them to be killed right then, probably himself also. He was waiting for the right opportunity, but it never came.”
“That wouldn’t hold water five minutes.”
“Why not? It’s actually what I had concluded until listening to you. I think a jury could overlook all of that.”
“Really? It was concern for their lives?”
“Sure. He wouldn’t want to cause their deaths if there might be a policeman just a mile further down the road, right?”
“There’s a fatal flaw to that argument.”
“What?”
“If that’s true, then why didn’t he follow the killers out of the bayou? Then, in an act of sheer rage at their having murdered his parents in so horrible a fashion, drop back, stomp on the accelerator and knock their vehicle off the road into another of those bayous? I’ll tell you what Merrill would say, and he’d be right: the guy was scared to death. He wasn’t going anywhere near those killers. He was saving his own skin!”
“Hmm. Now I’m worried.”
“You should be. I don’t think a coward like that could stand testifying. Hell, he might crack up and have to be hauled out on a stretcher during the cross-questioning. They can ask anything they want during the cross, you realize. The prosecuting attorney won’t be able to prevent it.”
“That’s why I’m worried. The jury could end up asking themselves who the real murderer was, even though it’s ridiculous and has nothing to do with devolving a guilty verdict against Gangley. Eventually, though, they would have to focus all of that anger and frustration against Gangley himself. They would find him guilty. There’s just too much circumstantial evidence. Plus, there’s this, Exhibit H.”
Doreen handed Lou a photograph of a blue Buick, clearly shot up, with holes in the roof and the front and side windows shot out.
“What’s this?”
“Chip blackmailed Gangley three times; first for $15,000, then $25,000, last for $50,000. Gangley’s men tried to kill him of course, but he wasn’t in the car during the attempt. The details are in the notarized statement. If Gangley wasn’t guilty, why would he pay? These are real bullet holes.”
“So he has benefited financially from his parent’s deaths?”
“You keep focusing upon Chip, instead of Gangley, as though there was no case against him, Lou! You’re enacting almost a personal vendetta against this poor kid!”
“If he got $90,000 from Gangley, he’s hardly poor. Why would he do that to enrich himself instead of taking it to the police?”
“It’s as I told you before. He doesn’t trust the police where Gangley’s involved. And with the FBI trying . . . He says he doesn’t trust the FBI. Would you?”
“That’s not the point. Blackmail is a crime, regardless of whether the one you’re blackmailing deserves to be harassed. Is this his car?”
“That a problem. He knew if he used his own car, they could track him.”
“So?”
“So he ‘borrowed’ it from a used car dealer’s lot and sent the money to pay for it after the pickup. They all had signs with the price. I know that doesn’t change the fact that he committed a crime, but having been paid for the vehicle, the lot wouldn’t take action against him. What would be the reasoning? He made it right.”
“What if the pickup hadn’t occurred? Is it in the notarized testimony?”
“Yes. If the jury knows he paid the dealer back, they’ll . . . ”
“Did you tell him that blackmail and car theft are crimes for which he himself would be arrested?”
“I think he knows that.”
“Sure he does. Only courts are allowed to impose fines. Vigilante extortion is still extortion. That’s why he wants to try and convict Gangley in the press. You know what? You’ll never get this guy into court, Doreen. I see his entire plan. We get the public and the police involved and Gangley gets arrested, based upon the circumstantial evidence, particularly the notarized statement. Meanwhile, there’s no chance in hell he’ll ever show up for the trial. He thinks - wrongly - that the jury would convict Gangley anyway. But do you know what will happen?”
“I can hear it coming.”
“The case would be thrown out of court, and the Chronicle would become the laughingstock of Houston.”
“My God. You’re right. You’re recounting a scenario that makes me sick at my stomach. I actually think I’m throwing up!”
Lou watched Doreen run from his office.
“Poor thing,” he thought, “She thought she had this all wrapped up. That fucking slime bag, Chip was sticking it to everyone. Meanwhile, he’d be hiding out somewhere, enjoying life with his ninety grand score, slippery son-of-a-bitch. He’s cut from the same cloth as Gangley, willing and able to justify criminal activity in his own interest. Additionally, he’s a coward. Shit!”
After a few minutes, she returned. Pale, troubled, and devastated, she sat and wept. Heartbroken, she couldn’t hold back the heavy sobs.
“Poor Nancy. Wally’s death before Evans could induce him to testify was bad enough. Now I have nothing to avenge her murder and pull Gangley down.” She lamented.
Lou put his big arm around her to offer comfort. She was his prize, and he empathized completely. He’d been there many times before!
“Sorry. I know you thought there was a real exclusive in this stack, but I’m afraid it’s just you and me, Kid. Better put, just you, me, and the kid we’ll never know. We can’t touch him or his notarized affidavit with a ten-foot pole. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Spend some time with your family. It’ll help get your feet back on the ground. Your eyes are swollen. There’s no use embarrassing yourself in front of staff. I’ll cover anything that comes up.”
“Thanks, Lou. I’ll pick Tim up at school and go for an ice cream. He likes that.”
After giving her another squeeze, Lou returned to his desk and watched her leave, shoulders still sagging as she withdrew toward the elevators.

The Bonus

Alarm clocks were invented by a sadist to torment man. Mark was certain of it every morning like this one, when he could have slept another two hours if left undisturbed, and had trouble getting out of bed. It was straight to a long, hot shower. And this morning, he didn’t even have the customary big mug of Doreen’s coffee waiting, because she wouldn’t be home until tonight. No doubt, she would go straight to the Chronicle and work on the Gangley doomsday story with Lou.
“I wish Mom was here for breakfast. She never makes the yellows hard when she fries eggs. Why do you like them hard, Dad?”
“Thanks for the compliment, Son. The reason they’re hard isn’t because I like them that way. I was hurried, got the skillet too hot crisping the bacon, and didn’t turn the fire down before putting in the eggs. As little sleep as I’m operating on, you’re lucky you’re not eating oats this morning.”
“I like oats, especially with cinnamon and honey. Why don’t you like them, Dad?”
“I don’t dislike them, I just ate so many as a kid during a year my father was unemployed, I got burned out on them.”
“Have you ever been out of work, Dad?”
“Not since I was old enough to start my own Grit newspaper route and deliver them on my bike.”
“What’s a Grit newspaper? I never heard of it. Is it like the Chronicle?”
“I was reading a comic book when I was thirteen, and in the back there was an add picturing a tough guy doing something difficult. I don’t remember what it was, but it had a title that said, ‘You’ve got to have Grit!’ Grit means stamina and willingness to see a rough situation through. You know, be strong and determined in life.”
“What’s that got to do with a newspaper?”
“Well, what the ad was actually about was a weekly newspaper, the Grit. A kid could buy them for a nickel, and sell them for the printed price of fifteen cents, which means that every ten papers sold earned a dollar in profit.”
“Gosh! You’d have to sell a hundred papers just to make ten dollars!”
“True, but ten dollars was a lot of money when I was thirteen. The money was worth more then.”
“So you did it?”
“Yes, I had over a two hundred customers. I got them by just showing up at the door and offering to sell them the issue, telling them what a great paper Grit was. It was a canned speech that the company gave you, and it worked well. I was surprised how many older people knew of the paper and were glad that someone was selling it again in their area. They gave me the names of friends that would like it. It took almost all day on Saturdays to deliver them.
“Some of the people weren’t home, so I began leaving the paper and collecting the next week. Twenty dollars a week put me in the group of kids with money.”
“That’s a neat story!” Tim stuffed his last bite.
“We need to hurry so neither of us will be late.”
Before leaving with Tim, he tried to reach the hotel number Doreen had left in her message, but the desk told him that she had checked out earlier in the morning. Dialing her cellular, he got the “off or out of area” recording. He hated intermittent cellular service with a passion.
At the office half an hour earlier than normal with the box of bound reports, Jess was already there, copying the lab results from the fax when he arrived.
“You’ll love these lab data!”
“Any above 50 ppm?”
“Not one. There are two or three in the teens, but most are non detect.”
“That’s portentous for the technology, Jess!”
“Blows me away. I was so up tight yesterday I didn’t even go to the site.”
Mark knew he had made himself conspicuously absent during the confirmation borings.
“Moss grew so nervous when Hodges had the TV cameras turned on him that he had to run to the john as soon as they turned them away again.” Mark laughed.
Jess had a grin as big as a chimp on his face thinking about how that must have looked. They took the collated stacks of lab results and organized them by monitoring well, inserting them into the back pocket in front of the folded site plan. The classic moment followed when both signed every copy of the report with an expensive fountain pen in blue ink. Mark stacked them into the box, retaining two for Delta. Jess grabbed the box.
“I don’t want them damaged if your shoulder does one of its disappearing acts,” he smiled. “Has it occurred recently?”
“Not since I dropped a drink the night Roger took me to Jerry’s Casino in North Las Vegas.”
“The Double Cut!” Jess laughed. “Well, good luck at DOE,” he said, slamming the trunk, “This is a big day for you!”
“I’m sure Moss will be ready and waiting.”
“I’ll be here all day, just in case you need my help.”
“I’ll call the second I have something to report.”

Moss was ready. Following customary greetings, Mark presented him with the three copies the DOE required. Moss almost tore the back off the top one to pull out the lab results.
“I’ll be goddamned if this isn’t the biggest miracle I have ever seen in this business. The ones in the teens are from the confirmation boring near the Chronicle. I didn’t think this was possible at the source, because during the tank removal and replacement, I could see solvent-saturated soil. As far as the backhoe could dig down before they installed the fiberglass tanks, the ground was soaked. I was prepared to make an exception in that area, but now I don’t have to.”
“Do you have the Approval Letter ready for your seniors to sign?”
“Damned straight! Wait here while I go talk to them. They’ll only sign when they see the data for themselves. It could be a few minutes.”
Moss took the three copies and hustled between the booths lined up outside his office to the hall.
“This is a big day,” Mark reflected. “Doreen will return with her story with the evidence to back it up, and the Convention Center site will be officially signed off.”
That was a story she could run tonight. She and Lou would later catch Gangley completely off-guard. That would be quite a different story submitted under a different name, not Doreen’s. Gangley would never make the connection, and he couldn’t go after Lou because he was just a newspaper editor doing what he was paid to do, what was expected of the job. Once the story was out, it would serve no purpose. Gangley probably wouldn’t be allowed to post bail, his cronies on the City council notwithstanding. That would further disadvantage him. Once the story broke, he would be ruined even if not convicted. But Doreen had insisted that the evidence would convict him with any jury. He and Doreen would each have fulfilled their very different Convention Center roles, he would have completed what they had agreed to, and both of their career goals would be achieved.
“We’re walking a narrow chalk line to pull this off.”
“I’ve got them.” Moss said, returning. “Let’s pick up Hodges. He’s waiting. Also, Gangley’s in and wants to see you and Hodges after we’ve had our joint meeting and I’ve left.”
“Hmm. That sounds a little strange, don’t you think?”
“No, he just wants to individually thank the two men responsible for saving his ass. And you have no idea how truly I mean that, Mark. You saved mine. You’ll never encounter trouble getting my support for anything you choose to do in the future.”
“Thanks, Harold. I appreciate that.”
“I mean it. You saved a lot of ass-more than you know.”
Mark had a fairly good idea how much ass he’d saved. Of course, without Hodges, they would have all been screwed!
“We’ll each take our own vehicle?”
“Yes, and you should be the presenter of Gangley Enterprises’s two copies of the Closure Report; I’ll present the Approval Letter. He gets it all in one shot. He’ll be smiling all the way to the bank.”
“I’m sure of that!”
Mark followed Moss’s state vehicle with black-walled tires, quite a contrast between his and his wife’s matching BMWs. This was the day he would earn them. Gangley could make no further demands. Everything had been achieved that he had bribed Moss to do, half of it legally. Even the slag burial had been minimized in its’s potential for dangerous impacts down gradient. The necessary shape of the bentonite slurry wall required to prevent mixing of the groundwater on the different sides essentially stalled the gradient at that point. Further, it would be deprived of surface recharge by the structures and asphalt and city streets which covered or would eventually cover its entire extent. What that amounted to was capping, just about the only solution the EPA every came up with anyway. Big slag problem? Cap it! That meant spreading a layer of impenetrable clay across its entire extent, preventing any leachate formation by rainfall working its way down through. Gangley’s cap was probably better, no credit to him, than the one the EPA might have eventually placed at the Foundry site. Was that how Mac Turner had rationalized his bribe? He probably doubted his own agency’s commitment more than Mark did, being on the inside as he was. There were slag heaps and ore tailings piled all over the country that hadn’t had a single action taken to mitigate their impacts. They had been studied occasionally, but remediation wasn’t necessarily forthcoming just because a study had been completed. The ones that got the attention were those connected to deep pockets. If the money had to be paid by the EPA,
“Well, we’ll have to look very closely at the situation.”
Gangley Tower came into view. Much of the twenty story building was leased to other companies, but the top two floors were completely occupied by Gangley Enterprises. A penthouse suite of smaller dimensions sat atop the twenty-second floor, air-conditioning and communications equipment walled in behind. One penthouse wall was solid glass fronted by lush flower gardens-even small trees-planted on the roof. An impressive pool, not for swimming, but for the best Koi the Japanese could produce completed the corporate icon, enormous Koi according to those fortunate to have seen the place. Mark wasn’t part of the local nobility privileged to enjoy Gangley’s penthouse view. Few went to that floor but Gangley. He lived in the lush, apartment-office combo. During the day, he was in his public office wrapped around one corner of the twenty-second floor.
To enter the parking area, and upon leaving, it was necessary to pass through a security station. Those who worked in the building had merely to insert their card. All others were checked in by the Entrance guard and checked out when they left by the Exit guard. The spaces were numbered on one side of the lot for regulars. Everyone else was directed to park on the opposite side. An attendant was always on the marked side, and any unauthorized vehicle would be gone before the violator could conclude his business and return to his vehicle. Gangley Enterprises was run like a well-oiled machine.
Neither Mark nor Moss had cards, so they had to be checked in. If you were visiting Gangley Enterprises itself, the guard called the front desk and verified the appointment. Otherwise, entry was denied-period. This morning, the call was brief and entry approved. The attendant directed them to two shaded spots reserved for special guests. Gangley was obviously anxious. They noticed Hodges’s car already there. Even Gangley wouldn’t tire of his entertaining if they were in a drawn-out conversation. It was all in his interest, or those were Mark’s assumptions, but he had erred. Hodges was waiting for them in the Lobby near the elevators. It was the first time since the beginning of the project that Mark had seen him in a suit, clean shaven. He’d gotten a trim, had clean nails, and with his enormous size, looked carved from granite. Mark knew from experience now that the soul inside was solid as granite, too.
“We assumed you had already gone up,” Moss greeted him, shaking hands.
“Hush puppies! I wouldn’t consider such a thing. I’d be put in a position of revealing the lab results, and that’s you two fellow’s thunder. No, we all go in together as planned. You look good in a tie. I haven’t had the opportunity to see that look on you before.” They shook hands, then entered as a threesome.
When the elevator opened on the twenty-second floor, they stepped out onto polished marble. The entry was as impressive as Merrill’s law firm’s. Mark wondered if they had used the same architects and designers. Everything was trimmed in brass, the carpet was deep Forest green beginning at all hallways. To the left, the receptionist’s desk guarded the front of an imposing lobby paneled on walls and ceiling with the finest of inlaid woods. The bronze windows admitted unoffensive light, and the view over Houston was breathtaking. It wasn’t the tallest building in the city by any means, but it was amazing how many shorter structures one looked down upon from this height. The two receptionists were immaculately polished and smiling. They knew who the guests were and that Gangley was very happy today.
“Good morning!” Hodges boomed, “I’m Michael Hodges, and these gentlemen are Harold Moss from the DOE, and Mark Houser from Delta Geotechnical.”
“Yes, we’re expecting you.” one replied. The other was already notifying Mr. Gangley.
“Would you gentlemen sign in here, please?”
As they signed, the one who had called Gangley walked around one end of the impressive desk and stood waiting. When they finished, she invited them to follow her to Mr. Gangley’s office. They passed offices on both sides, most with the doors open, very busy employees inside. No one knew everything Gangley was into, but the sheer activity level bespoke an enormous business structure. Momentarily, they entered and Gangley rose to greet them. He shook the hand of each one in turn, smiling and welcoming them. Mark sensed his was an especially tight squeeze. After the receptionist had taken the coffee orders, Gangley motioned to the sofa surrounding a large, low, round table in front of the window on the other side of a enormous salt-water invertebrate aquarium. All three halted in front of it. stunned by its beauty.
“Shall we sit, Gentlemen?” Gangley invited, taking a seat near one edge.
Moss spoke first, handing an envelope over to him.
“I think you’ll enjoy reading this first, Randall.”
Both Moss and Gangley had smiles big enough to frame as he took the envelope, opened, and unfolded it.
“Excuse me just a moment, Michael and Mark. I have to read this.”
“Absolutely!” they both agreed.
“As his eyes moved across the words, Gangley looked almost humbled by the document. Everyone in the room knew why. That one sheet of paper containing four paragraphs at most was worth $207,000,000 to Randall Gangley. He laid it carefully on the table before him. The receptionist served the coffee, then left discreetly.
“Moss, my friend, I don’t know how to thank you!”
“You already have, Randall.”
“But this is special beyond that.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Moss, who accepted it graciously, looking genuinely surprised. It was thin, so it seemed to Mark that a folded check must be inside. That could only mean that Gangley appreciated his efforts and did realize he had accomplished far more than he originally agreed to when taking the money. Now, Gangley would consider him a friend, because he had been loyal, and loyalty was everything to Gangley . . . everything.
Gangley was a smart man. As he observed Moss’s gratitude, he knew that no matter how much money he had paid him, he would still have gotten himself in over his head financially by now, having never had big money before. This extra check would enable him to fill that hole and sustain his lifestyle with his DOE income from that point on. People didn’t like finding themselves in that position twice. He had estimated that an extra $50,000 would make Moss as healthy as he looked, fancy dresser that he was. After Moss finished his coffee, while Hodges was asking questions and making comments about the aquarium, Gangley stood, shaking Moss’s hand again.
“Moss, I think this finishes our business. I’d like to speak with Michael and Mark alone now, if you don’t mind.”
“I wish all of you a very successful day,” Moss answered, leaving the suite.
“I’ll see you on the green, Moss!” Gangley shouted after him.
“Don’t expect me to let you win!”
“Mark, let me speak with Michael alone for a few minutes, and then I’ll ring the receptionist. There’s a great selection of magazines in the lobby. It won’t be long.”
“Sure,” Mark reached for the two copies of the Closure Report.
“You can leave those.”
He closed the door behind him, assuming the personal discussions were to be private. Standing by the window overlooking the city, he pondered the surreal nature of his relationship with the most vicious man he had ever personally come into contact with. Now that the project was over, that relationship seemed half wonderful, half-nightmare. He wondered how he had been able to pull it off.
“You’re one of the most task-oriented men I’ve met,” Doreen had once told him.
As he contrasted the stream of her emotions with his over recent months, he knew he was only a novice at task-orientation compared to Michael Hodges.
“How many Bio-Sparge projects must there be just within the city limits here,” he wondered. “And what a great site on which to have demonstrated and proven the technology.”
He was encouraged about the bonus, because the check Gangley had handed Moss was totally unexpected. He could read Moss like a book. He hadn’t seen it coming. It probably was a significant amount, because it wouldn’t be otherwise. If Gangley was that generous with a man he had almost come to blows with, the bonus for Hodges and the one for Delta would probably be very healthy. He still clung to his previous estimate of $50,000 for Delta. It was Jess’s money, but Mark knew Jess would give him a bonus for what he had accomplished on Delta’s behalf. He and Doreen had discussed the matter, and she felt that he deserved a full half.
“Had it not been for you,” she had expressed, “Jess would be stuck on that site with a P&T forever. Any consulting firm in this city would be delighted to have you at twice your Delta salary. The publicity surrounding this achievement is worth that by itself. Plus, you have experience with Bio-Sparge. No one else does. Jess knows that, so I’m sure he won’t be stingy.”
A bonus was the least significant aspect of this project. The amount of money it would earn Delta in new projects would result in a large salary increase, no doubt about that. Jess paid everyone above scale. Why should he mistrust him now?

Gangley smiled admiringly at Hodges.
“I’m at a loss for words, Michael. I am. You’ve been a straight player and you did everything you said you would. That leaves me at a loss for words.”
“It’s been good for me too, Mr. Gangley, a bell-ringer project in one of the most important environmental markets in the country. If you hadn’t given New World that opportunity, especially so distant from our headquarters relative to our other clients, we wouldn’t enjoy the boom in business this project is certain to generate.”
“Yes, but that’s not enough. I promised you a bonus if you finished within 90 days, and you even beat that deadline.”
He rose and walked to a closet, unlocking it with a key he had on his person. Hefting a finely crafted leather case, he handed it to Hodges. With neither hesitation nor embarrassment, Hodges opened it, lifting out one of twenty-five taped bundles of $100 bills carefully stacked inside.
“There’s ten thousand in each bundle, and it’s half yours. It can all be yours on one condition.”
“What?” Hodges asked, looking mysteriously at his benefactor. Hell, he’d parachute off the top of Gangley Tower for $125,000 extra.
“I understand your systems are being demobilized today and that you were planning on flying out tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, I already have the ticket.”
“The mayor is having a formal dinner Sunday night at 6 pm, an exclusive at a private club with all the works. I need you there, because the dinner is a Convention Center gala, due mostly to you and Delta. You’ll be asked by the mayor to speak a few words-nothing like the big event we threw before the project, just a few remarks, maybe two minutes at most. If you’ll delay your return, you can walk out with that entire bag. I’ll consider it a personal favor.”
“Why, you’ve got it, Randall! I’ll be there. Will wives be welcome?”
“Expected. That’s part of the deal.”
“Then I’ll fly my sweetheart here for the event. We’ve missed each other, apart so much recently.”
“I’ll be happy to pay for her ticket.”
Hodges laughed so loud that Mark heard it all the way to the lobby.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Thanks, Michael. You’re a remarkable fellow. If I can ever put in a word to help you get a project, let me know, which reminds me.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, checking it.
“Oh shit!” he laughed, “I wonder what must be going through Moss’s head right now!”
“What’s the matter?” Hodges asked.
“I gave him your envelope, a glowing recommendation for you and Bio-Sparge on our letterhead. I was about to hand you his envelope with a $50,000 check in it.”
He laughed again, Hodges joining in, each at his own imagery of Moss’s face when what he thought was an extra bonus from Gangley turned out to be a letter of recommendation for Bio-Sparge!
“Don’t worry, I’ll drive over there now and make his day for you!” Hodges offered.
“Would you?” he replied, handing the envelope to Hodges, “Just look carefully along the road between here and there, because I know he thought it was money I was handing him, and after opening it, he may have passed out by the road somewhere along the way. You might not have to go any farther than the parking lot!” They laughed again and parted.
“If you’ll get your final bill to me by tomorrow, I’ll be sure the check is ready by the time you leave.”
“Thanks, Randall!” Hodges said, leaving the door open behind him. “I’ll see to it.”
Gangley called the receptionist and told her to bring Mark back to the suite, and to bring another two cups of coffee immediately after. He sat thinking about Moss, chuckling to himself.
“Mr. Houser, Mr. Gangley is ready to see you now.”
She led the way again. Mark followed excitedly. Hodges smiled, holding the leather bag high as he passed toward the elevators, saying nothing. Stunned, Mark knew it had to be a large amount of cash to require a case that large. The story about the bag-flinging event in another office in a different part of Houston was still a very vivid memory.
“I’ll be back with your coffees momentarily,” she said, leaving Mark and Gangley alone.
“Have a seat, Mark. I didn’t make you wait until last because I thought less of you than the others. Actually, you’re my favorite. You made this happen for all of us by going out on the limb, taking a risk that paid off in spades. You hear rhetoric about what constitutes a true hero. I honestly feel honored to have known you. If I could rewrite my life, remake who I slowly became as a consequence of many wrong decisions spanning many years . . . It’s too late, but if I could do that, I would want to be someone like you, Mark. Loyalty has always been important to me. I got it because I paid for it. You, a professional man of somewhat moderate means, have a power deep within you that enabled you to be loyal, not because you respected me, not because I bought it, but due to the furthering of an ideal, Michael’s Bio-Sparge. Incredibly, you maintained absolute focus upon that objective to the exclusion of all other issues, issues that to you must be of troubling magnitude. I hope Jess recognizes just how valuable you are. How’s your family?”
“We’re great.”
“You have a son, right?”
“Tim, a real character!”
“I understand he’s quite precocious. Moss told me you take him out alone with you somewhere every month for . . . Boy’s Night, you call it?”
“Yes, it’s one of our family traditions; Tim’s favorite, of course!”
I think that’s admirable. My wife and I had no children. After I lost her, I’ve never found another woman that could replace her.”
“I’m sorry.” Secretly, he wondered if she might have gotten out-of-line or threatened divorce, and Gangley had done her in with the so-called “boating accident.” At the moment, he felt ashamed of such thoughts, but this was still Randall Gangley sitting across from him.
“It’s obvious that your family is very important to you. Does your wife work?”
“Yes, she’s been with the Chronicle for years.”
“The Chronicle? She must be ecstatic we got that paper off the hook. We even paid for their part of the cleanup, and we’re not going after them for the millions it cost us to clean their site.”
“You’re not?”
“No, not a cent. All they paid for was the removal and replacement of their tanks.”
“Why not? That plume would have killed your deal with the city. You don’t realize how assured that was if Bio-Sparge hadn’t performed.”
“Oh, I’m aware. Believe it. But frankly, it would cripple their financial picture. The Chronicle doesn’t have any extra money and their insurance is worthless. It specifically excludes environmental liability. So we made a trade-off that benefits us both.”
“What was that, if it’s any of my business?”
“They save three million plus-that’s their end. They remain relatively prosperous. Our end is that they’ve agreed never again to run any negative stories or commentaries about me or Gangley Enterprises. Three million seems like a lot to pay for that, but last year they wrote a couple of articles based upon lies. They printed retractions when our counsel threatened to sue them, but retractions never undo the damage. The same person who reads the article may never see the retraction, or it might be hidden back in the announcements almost no one reads. It’s an unsigned agreement between our counsel and theirs. At least I won’t have to worry about that kind of thing any more.”
Mark could feel himself turning white. What would this mean for Doreen’s story? She couldn’t possibly know of such a deal. It violated everything the paper stood for. On the other hand, what choice did they have if the alternative was no stories, because maybe there would be no paper?
“Is something wrong?”
Thinking fast on his feet, he answered,
“I was just imagining what it would have meant to our lifestyle if Doreen had lost her job in a collapse of the paper. You probably saved her job.”
Gangley bought it. It was obvious from his next comments.
“Well, it doesn’t even begin to compensate what you’ve done for me, Mark. Like I told Michael, I promised Delta a bonus if you pulled it off. I think you should know that almost no one believed it would work, especially in so short a time. I’ve heard rumors flying around these two floors here that Gangley Enterprises was about to go under, because certain people believed implicitly that the city would cancel the deal due to the contamination problems. I also know that you discovered the slag issue, and handled it as a professional challenge, rather than passing judgment You honored Delta’s Confidentiality agreement. You and Michael told Moss that you would never reveal it. Do you know what that degree of professionalism means to someone like me?”
“No,” Mark said, still trying to picture how Doreen would maneuver around the Chronicle deal. Surely, it wouldn’t include suppressing a story about the cold-blooded murder of a fine woman or two senior citizens, though. Or would it?
“It means everything. I didn’t get where I am because I was a preacher, or even a nice guy.”
“It’s a matter of client confidentiality. We have no right to betray your confidence as professionals.”
“Yes, and I learned Jess wasn’t the kind of person who would take a bribe, so it was never offered. Yet Delta came through because of your personal commitment to the project. That’s a great quality.”
Gangley stood and walked to a closet door, opening it. Bending forward, he picked up another case. Mark swallowed hard. It was exactly the same size and style as Hodges.’
Placing it on the table in front of him, Gangley repeated the same approach as with Michael. Jess, Mark and their wives must agree to attend the Mayor’s Key to the City dinner on Sunday night. If they agreed, the entire contents of the bag were Delta’s bonus. Doug had seemed like a key man in Mark’s conduct of the remediation, so he was also welcome to attend with his wife, if Jess wished. Would Mark agree to those conditions?
“I know Jess would agree without incentive, and I respect his wishes.”
“Aren’t you opening it?”
“This is Delta’s, Jess should.”
“I’m sure Jess wouldn’t mind.”
With fidgeting fingers, he slowly drew the fine quality brass zipper along the top and spread it open. He was numbed. The bag was filled with packages of $100 bills.
“It’s so much.”
“No larger than New World’s bonus, and it’s not so much. If you divide it by two-hundred and seven million, it’s chicken feed and seems inadequate, almost embarrassing when I think of it in those terms. But I think it’s fair.”
“Jess won’t believe it. Thank you on behalf of Delta. He’ll be overwhelmed by your generosity.”
“Delta’s team earned it. I’m hardly due thanks because I paid a bonus based upon achieving the time constraints it was based on. Believe me, if you hadn’t, it would be unearned and you wouldn’t have that case sitting in front of you.”
“All the same, he’ll appreciate it.” Mark rose to leave and extended his hand.
“Don’t leave yet, Mark. There’s one more thing, something that concerns you personally.”
Mark sat, a gnawing fear developing in his stomach
“Me, personally?”
“I feel I owe you something personally to acknowledge my appreciation of your role in all of this. It’s appropriate, it’s customary, and it would be rude not to.”
“I don’t expect anything just for doing my job.”
“Nonsense! I insist. You won’t refuse me, will you?”
“Well, no. That would be rude. I just don’t want you to think I expect more than a handshake.”
“Knowing how important family is to you, I got something special for your wife, hoping it’ll help compensate for all the nights you arrived home late or too exhausted to have any quality time with her and Tim.”
He reached to a nearby shelf and picked up a beautifully wrapped gift, actually three separate packages bundled together with a fancy, handmade bow, like a set of jewelry with the items individually boxed. Mark could imagine her casting it into the Gulf of Mexico.
“I think you should let her open it. Women generally don’t like husbands opening their gifts.”
“I’d never do that. Doreen and I don’t even open each other’s mail, even when it’s clearly just advertising. We respect each other. This will surprise her!”
“I’m certain of it. I hope you’re not naive enough to think you have to mention her receiving a gift to Jess!”
“No,” Mark acknowledged. It must be expensive for Gangley to raise that issue.
“I appreciate this, Mr. Gangley.”
“From now on, it’s only Randall to you and your wife; and remember, if you and Jess don’t both show up with your wives, half of that money comes home.”
“No way . . . Jess would wring my neck.”
“Thank you again, Mark, and don’t hesitate to contact me if you ever encounter a problem you think is unresolvable. I can almost certainly use my experience to help you with any problem.”
Mark knew he wasn’t lying. With images of some future competitor waking up with a horse head under the sheets, he zipped the bag closed and walked out, he and Randall smiling at each other.
“Thanks on behalf of my wife.”
Gangley folded his arms atop the reports in his lap and nodded slowly.
Mark called Jess to make certain he was in. As promised, he was.
“Jess, I’m on my way there. Don’t leave because I need to see you alone in your office as soon as I arrive.”
“Sure. Did the meeting go well?”
“It went fabulously well. That’s what I need to talk to you about. I’ll be there within half an hour.”
“I’ll be waiting . . . curious.”
When he arrived, he walked straight to Jess’s office, opened the door and pulled the blinds shut. Setting the bag on the floor, he went to find Jess, who had seen him come in.
“Mark! Over here!” he yelled in his huge voice.
They met at the office. Mark followed him in, locking the door behind them.
“Jess, you remember Gangley promised Delta a bonus if we finished the site within ninety days?”
“Yes. I didn’t think for a minute it could happen, but you and Hodges pulled it off.”
“Well, Hodges talked to him first, and he left with a bag just like this one . . . New World’s bonus.”
Mark placed it on the table between him and Jess.
“This is Delta’s bonus.”
“Not Delta’s bonus, your bonus. I did nothing to earn a bonus. This was all your call and your baby. If it hadn’t gone down, it would have been your failure, not mine. With that positing on my part, it was only fair that if it succeeded, the same rules would apply.”
“I think you’d better look inside this bag before you make comments like that.” Mark said, starting to unzip it.
“No, No! Don’t open it!”
Mark froze, “Jess, there’s . . . ”
“Don’t tell me. I’m dead serious. I never saw that bag.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Set it on the floor beside your chair and I’ll help you understand.”
In a daze of thousands of thoughts crashing into his mind at once, he complied. Jess turned on his computer, then sat back in his chair.
“What I’m about to tell you, I never did tell you, just like I never saw that bag. Agreed?”
“Okay . . . ”
“One day, many months ago, Gangley came to visit me. Two men carried in four bags, each of which was as big as that one. Are you with me so far?”
“Yes.”
“Gangley told them to leave the bags and wait outside. The two were thugs, if I ever saw any. One had a huge scar across his face like he’d walked into the prop of a small aircraft. The other was dressed like Moss, but he smelled like Moss’s ass probably smelled before he saw the samples from depths 47 and 52! Thugs! The only one that carried himself genuinely was Gangley. I asked him to take a seat and he asked if it was okay to close the blinds and lock the door. I thought that was strange, but agreed. Then he asked me to open one of the bags, which I did. It must have had a quarter of a million in cash in wrapped bundles. There were four the same size, about a million. He expected me to show surprise, and I’m certain I didn’t let him down. I’ve had a bank balance that size before many times during my career, but it’s not the same as seeing the real thing . . . cash! Gangley uses that difference as power when he wants to do business. He decides when and how much and shows up with it. Like little monkeys, no one can resist. You can buy almost anything in this world if you pile enough cash in front of someone.”
“What was he trying to buy?” Mark pretended not to know.
“My integrity.”
“How so?”
“Do you remember the mess Clarke Environmental left the site in: the reversed gradient trick and the other bull shit?”
“How could I ever forget?”
“That could have been Delta. He tried to buy my integrity. Hell, I fire any geologist I catch billing hours I know he didn’t work. This isn’t a law firm, and I’m not a lawyer. Clarke is a friend of mine. He went for it, but then he couldn’t sleep at night. He asked me what he should do, and I told him he should give the money back and walk away. That’s what he did. He darn near got himself beaten to death trying to give it back. Then, Gangley offered me the project on an honest basis. The city was all over him and he had to do something to buy time. I told him I would take the project on one condition: he had to promise never to touch Clarke. Like any corrupt man, he was so pissed at my presumptuousness that he stormed out of the office telling me to fuck myself, but within ten minutes he was back, willing to agree. Clarke doesn’t know it, but I saved his life. I know from Gangley’s reaction that he fully intended to kill him.”
“That’s a bizarre story, Jess. But this bag of money is a bonus. It’s not a bribe. If it were, I wouldn’t take it either. I think we earned every penny of it.”
“I’m not referring to this bag, Mark. This money’s clean. My point is, it would be absurd to accept payment for our geological services based upon the moral character of our clients. We did the work and earned every penny of it. However much it is, we saved him a thousand times more. If I thought it was dirty, you and I would drive straight back to his office and set it on his desk. Not only that, I don’t think I’d ever be able to trust you again. That’s all earned, and it’s yours. I’ve already gotten mine, and it’s much larger than that little bag. When Gangley’s thugs brought in four bags like that, I threw them out. From the get-go, this project has been legitimate, and so is the bonus.” Jess turned to his computer, and pulled up the Convention Center account.
“You know I keep a spreadsheet that keeps me up-to-date on each project we’re involved in . . . It also roughly calculates the pre-tax net profit we’ve earned as of any date by project number.”
He swiveled the monitor so Mark could look down the list. It was all coded.
“The Convention Center is number 1401 in the system; it’s on the left side, first column. See it?”
Mark focused on the detailed columns.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“See the blank cell on the bottom right?”
“Yes.”
“Type 1401 and press ‘enter.’”
Mark did, and the figure $783,775.46 appeared.
“That’s how much Delta has already earned from that project, net. That’s after subtracting all costs, including the personnel that worked on the site . . . everything except taxes.”
“That’s incredible. We’ve done very well on that project, haven’t we?”
“That figure doesn’t show the final bill, which will be close to $40,000. What kind of sorry wretch would I be if I even looked into that bag, when if it weren’t for you, that number would have come up as a zero?”
“Impressive!” Mark looked composed, but his entire body felt gelatinous.
“However, there is one thing I’ll let you spend part of that money on for my benefit.”
“What?”
“Allow Ruth and I to join you and Doreen at Joe’s Crab Shack tomorrow night, and you can pay, now that you’ve got a few extra dollars.”
“That’s a date! Doreen will be thrilled. She’s always complaining that you and I never do anything fun together, just work all the time! There is something else, though, or you have to give half of the bonus back to Gangley.”
“I hope it’s not something crooked, or you’ll have to ask me to pay for dinner.”
“No, nothing like that. You and Ruth and Doreen and I have to attend the mayor’s special presentation dinner Sunday night at 6 pm at the Rainbow Club. It’s free of charge. If we aren’t willing to attend, ‘half of that money has to come home’ is how he put it.”
“That’s an easy one. I’d be offended if we weren’t invited. Ruth complains she doesn’t get out enough; now she’ll get to go out Friday and Sunday evening. The dress code for these Mayoral events is Top Drawer. Does Doreen have a gown and so forth.”
“Not of that caliber.”
“Well, maybe you can allow her to put just two fingers into the bag and grab all she can? Then, I’m sure she’ll be able to afford the gown.”
“I understand your thinking.” Mark said, smiling. “So why do I feel guilty about this money?”
“I just explained that, Mark. Have you been listening? The psychological impact of cash, especially handed to you in a bag? And there’s just one other thing you should know.”
“Which is?”
“Hodges gave Delta Geological a Bio-Sparge license the night we discussed your vacation, an exclusive license. That means we are free to do as many projects as we want. You know what a license normally costs for a city like Houston?”
“No.” Mark could hardly contain his enthusiasm.
Jess scribbled it on a stick-em note: $150,000.
“That’s another bonus as far as I’m concerned. We’re evolving into a different kind of consulting company from now on, because we have a technology that works. Look out, Houston!” he boomed!
They talked for an hour about the implications of that license alone. Hodges had also made a deal to sell Delta the systems over a five year period, rather than pull them back to Las Vegas. So they were all set. Doug and one other person would be sent to Las Vegas for further operator training. The company was changing its name from Delta Geotechnical to Delta Environmental. The new signs would be delivered and installed within two weeks.
They parted, each happy for himself and for the other. As a final surprise, Jess handed Mark a letter on company Letter Head that awarded him a 50% raise. His new position would be to head the entire Bio-Sparge effort.
“In case you’re wondering, Doug is being promoted to Principal Hydrogeologist level. I gave him a healthy bonus and doubled his pay this morning!”
“That’s great, Jess. He’s earned it!”
As Mark drove home, his mind whirling, he could hardly focus upon anything. There was good and bad to share with Doreen. Mostly, he just wanted to hold her. He felt exhilaration and exhaustion at the same time, wanting to see his front door with her and Tim on the other side of it.

Missing

Doreen entered the school parking lot, parked in the shade of a large hickory, and walked to the school office
“Good afternoon.” The receptionist pretended not to notice her puffy eyes.
“I’m Doreen, Tim Houser’s mother. I’ll be elsewhere when he normally gets out, so it’s more convenient to get him now.
Another of the women looked concerned. Doreen could hear the principle yelling at a mischievous student in the back. Perhaps they were embarrassed for her to hear it.
“Could you please call him from class? I’m in somewhat of a hurry.”
The most elderly of the women, hair almost white with age and a relic of many years at her post, rose, walking to the counter.
“Mrs. Houser. Perhaps you forgot. Tim’s uncle picked him up today at lunch. He had your note,” she said, fumbling in a file under the counter.
“Tim doesn’t have an uncle in Houston, and in any case, I wrote no note to you.”
“Here it is, Mrs. Houser,” the woman said, handing it to her.
It looked like her handwriting. She was dumbfounded. Had Mark’s brother arrived from California and Mark plagiarized a handwriting sample so he could surprise Tim?”
“At lunch, you say; that’s what, around noon?”
“Just before one pm, according to the logbook.” Her fingertip on the datum. “Would you care to call home and make certain he’s there and okay?”
“I have my cellular,” she said, pulling it from her purse. The phone rang several times. No answer.
“I’ll just run to the house, it’s so close. Thanks.”
She looked anxiously for a strange car or Mark’s truck, but neither was in the drive when she arrived. Panicky thoughts arose. What if Tim hadn’t been picked up by his “uncle?” What if Mark had not arranged it? What if?
Her mind muddled and uncertain, she saw a package leaning against the entrance door. She picked it up while turning the key. She had to verify Tim was home, or had been.
“Tim, Honey!”
Muff came running, tail wagging in greeting, but Tim wasn’t with him.
“Tim!” she called louder, climbing the stairs. She half-walked, half-ran to his room, throwing open the door. No Tim.
Faster than she had gone up, she ran down, into the den, calling his name, but still no answer, nor any sign he had been home. She attempted to open the patio door, but it was locked. He hadn’t gone out that way. She pulled out her cellular to call Mark, then immediately closed the front again as the words on the outside of the package caught her attention. It was a 9x12 envelope with something wide inside, and on the front, there was no postage, no address, no return address. Only the words,
“Doreen’s eyes only.”
Her heart was pounding as she tried to open it. It was heavily taped and she couldn’t rip it. She ran to the kitchen, grabbed a knife from the rack, and jabbed it into the top, slicing it open. When she emptied it onto the breakfast table, three items fell out: a sealed envelope, a video tape, and a cassette. Opening the envelope, she found a note. It had been composed of taped on letters cut from magazines, very crudely cut. The message stopped her heart.
“Listen, watch, think. Then open the attached.”
To the back of the message was stapled a second sealed envelope. Laying down the message, she grabbed the cassette, walked to the entertainment center in the den, and placed it within the player, pressing play the same instant. She recoiled at the sound of Mark’s voice, followed by her own:

“What got you thinking in that vein?”
“I received a call recently from a man who claims to have witnessed the murder of both of his parents by Gangley’s order.”
“Does he have real evidence like you produced for Lipscomb and Simpson?”
“It’s more circumstantial, but it would be conclusive to a jury.”
“The project’s almost over, and I’ve been faithful to the man. What you’re doing won’t endanger our family will it? It has a chance of working instead of just infuriating him?”
“Gangley has no means by which to determine my involvement. When you had Doug check the history of each of the properties comprising the six city blocks so that you could ascertain which ones had a potential for contamination, do you remember Logan’s Sundown Cleaners?”
“That’s the location of the carbon tetrachloride release, but since it falls within the solvent plume, it will be co-degraded with it. It isn’t a separate issue.”
“Was there anything in the paperwork that revealed how Gangley obtained the property?”
“I don’t remember anything notable about it.”
“The man that called me is the twenty-two year-old son of the Logans. He was but recently released from a mental institution.”
“That sounds credible.”
“Don’t make fun, because he’s only recently been released. He’s been there since a few months after witnessing his parent’s death by being sawn up with a chain saw and the body pieces tossed into the bayou. He watched helplessly, because he had no weapon with him and became frozen with terror. Later, he felt guilty for even being alive after not doing something to try to save them. The killing was ordered by Gangley, because he had been offering them more and more for the property, but old man Logan just became more resentful and incorrigible because he intended to die owning that business. One night, these two bruisers supposedly came in and kidnapped them at gunpoint. They had never seen his son and didn’t know he was there. He hid in the back until they left, then followed them at a distance all the way from Houston across the state line into Louisiana, then out into the country to a bayou road where they were killed. He hid his car and walked in the darkness to the kill site just before they cut up his father. I can’t imagine the horror. He had to listen to his mother screaming and begging for her life while they threw piece after piece of him into the bayou. Then they cut her up, the only mercy being that unlike the father, they cut off her head first. They made him endure unimaginable torture by cutting from the feet up in little pieces, because he had offended Gangley the most.”
“The son told you this?”
“He called the Chronicle office and said he had a story. Since it supposedly involved someone living in Houston, the call was transferred to the Metro desk. Lou took it and turned it over to me when I returned. He wouldn’t leave his number when he talked to Lou, but he said that he would call back at a specified time. When he did, I was there. No matter what I said, he refused to tell me more or to send me any of the evidence he claims to have except on a face to face basis. He lives in Dallas, but I didn’t want to go without discussing it with you first, because I didn’t want you to think that I was endangering us without your knowledge. I don’t think it’s dangerous just to go talk to him. I do that all the time, but this is a special situation with Gangley being involved. I made a tentative appointment on the phone, but you and I were both too involved at the time to even discuss it. He called, expressing concern at my disinterest Friday morning, so I reset the appointment for next Monday afternoon. I knew we would be back and it would be convenient for me.”
“I can’t envision why he’s singled out the Chronicle when there are big papers in the Dallas-Fort Worth area. If his evidence is so strong, why didn’t he go to the police or the FBI? Did you ask him that?”
“He doesn’t trust the police where Gangley is involved, and after the thing with the FBI trying to blow up Gangley illegally, he doesn’t think they would pursue anything involving him very aggressively.”
“Well, it is your job as an investigative reporter to uncover the truth, so I certainly wouldn’t interfere. I just hope you’ve thought it through.”
“I wanted you to know. Once the project is confirmed clean by next weekend, Moss will give Gangley the Department of Environmental Quality’s letter approving closure of the site. At that point, I think if this son checks out and actually has the photographs he claims, and he’ll testify, taking Gangley down will become mine and Lou’s joint priority.”
“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing with Gangley. There’s one limitation I have to insist upon.”
“What’s that?”
“You can’t use the list, because it will become public, and at that point, Gangley may demand that those who took bribes get him off or go down with him. I don’t care about any of the others, but I don’t want anything to happen to Moss.”
“Or, embarrass Jess. I’d already ruled that out myself.”
“Right, that would be another downside, not to mention the fact that you don’t have Nancy to describe how the Chronicle got it.”

Doreen was stunned, stupefied, and paralyzed. Now she understood the incident with their rented van in the Basin & Range province. They weren’t car thieves, the men who were in the vehicle; they were installing a bug. They had heard every word. Everything was on the cassette. And there was more, in a strange, gruff voice, like that of a mobster.

"Mrs. Houser, thinking of doing someone harm? Not without destroying Mark, Hodges, Moss, and endangering yourself and Tim as well. Sorry you’re disappointed, but every one involved has been check-mated. You’ve done all you could reasonably be expected to do. Nancy would agree. It’s time to think of your own family now."
“If the slag were revealed, Gangley wouldn’t be indicted. He received approval for all that was done. However, Mark, Jess, Moss, Mac Turner and Michael Hodges could all be indicted for criminal environmental conspiracy, even though they might think they’ve done the most environmentally responsible thing. Gangley knew that when Moss got the call from Las Vegas. He had them all along. As soon as he agreed to install the bentonite wall, he knew he was safe from any of them. It’s a giant monument-proof positive that they all knew.
Think about it. Do you want Mark to spend the next twenty years in prison, just because you stuck your nose where it doesn’t belong? You don’t understand how to use power. You’re out of your league. Wally’s capture was a slick trick, but you just got lucky. Luck doesn’t strike the same person twice.
Watch the video."

She was horrified. Why hadn’t she realized the full legal implications for Mark and the others before, even when Mark pointed it out to her during the conversation they had on tape? No one could touch Gangley now. She had thought herself immune-too clever. The cold truth: she was out of her depth on this one. If it hadn’t been for the importance of the Convention Center project to Gangley, no doubt, she, Mark, and Tim would be dead already for their involvement with Nancy, Lipscomb, and Simpson.
Fearful, barely able to steady her hands to insert the video into the player, insane to know where Tim was, she pressed, “play.” There he was. The first part was Tim at play with Patricia. This short segment was followed with five minutes of her sitting at the table with Chip Logan in Dallas!
“Oh my god,” she screamed, “They’ve surely caught and killed Chip!”
Her mind was overcome. The video went blank. She removed it, then opened the second envelope. It had a small 3x5 card with a few lines written on it.

"Say nothing of these items to Mark or the kid dies in an accident. Take no further action against Gangley or the kid dies. Forget everything. You’ve done your job. Enjoy your family. Tim thinks you tricked him and had some friends pick him up for the zoo . . . Ha Ha! He’ll be home soon."

A knock at the door. Quickly, she ejected the video, grabbed the cassette and the envelopes, shoving everything back into the 9x12. Stuffing it into the trash compactor and turning it on, she ran to the door, throwing it open.
“Hi, Mom! The zoo was great! They said it was a trick you pulled to surprise me when they picked me up at school. I liked all of the animals, especially the giraffes.” He was holding a stuffed one, and a bag with several books and other items purchased at the zoo gift shop.
“Oh, Tim . . . ” she cried, grabbing him up in her arms and bursting into tears. I love you and Dad more than anything in the world.”
“We love you too, Mom. Don’t cry. Let me show you the neat stuff the man and woman bought me. Let’s watch this one that talks about where giraffes came from . . . ”

The Gift

Finally, he was home. Mark could hardly wait to see Doreen; so much to share with her, so much to discuss. He would learn how her trip had gone, and how the story would run. He would surprise her with the bonus, the Bio-Sparge license, his raise . . .
He opened the door and saw no one. That meant that Doreen and Tim were in the den and didn’t realize he was home. He crept to the bedroom and put the bag and her gift from Gangley high on a shelf on his side of the walk-in closet. Quietly, he went back downstairs, and eased toward the den. He could hear them.
“Don’t be sad, Mom. Why are you crying? Want me to bring you something?”
Tim had his arms lovingly around her neck, stroking the back of her head. She loved having her head rubbed. Mark did it for her if she was worried or had a headache that refused to go away.
“I’m sorry, Tim. I just feel so badly about something that happened today, but I don’t want to talk about it. It’s grownup stuff.”
“Did someone hurt you or something?”
“Oh no, don’t worry about that. I’m just upset about a situation I’m aware of, but can’t do anything about. You know how you feel when you want to do something, but because of something else, you can’t?”
“Yeah, that happens to me all of the time, like when I want to play basketball but I have to do homework instead or I’ll get in trouble the next day.”
“It’s exactly like that. Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll get over it.”
Tim kissed Doreen on the cheek, and Mark watched her put her arms around him and give him a squeeze that seemed to comfort her more than him. She needed comfort. He knew his entry needed to be much different than he had planned. This was a strong, sweet woman who needed to be listened to by an understanding husband. Doreen had her head against Tim’s in such a way that, as she opened her eyes to sit back up, she saw Mark standing there.
“Oh, Mark, Baby. I’ve missed you so!”
“Hi, Dad!”
Tim ran to be first to hug Dad. Returning the affection, Mark walked over and put his arms around Doreen, kissing her as they embraced, what seemed for Doreen a desperate embrace. Tim had a big smile on his face as he watched.
“I love you. You feel so good against me.”
“I need this right now.”
That was the signal.
“How did your trip go?”
“It was terrible, Mark. Everything about it. The source was a creep, and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I arrived at the paper early this morning to discuss how we should write it with Lou, and right before my eyes, he started questioning the source, instead of enjoying the evidence. Initially, I resented it, resented Lou, couldn’t understand his behavior. But as he kept at it, like I said, right before my eyes the entire view of everything I thought I had just accomplished evaporated. No, worse than evaporated; it turned into something horrible I hadn’t even seen. Lou tried to comfort me, but the more I thought about what Gangley has over everyone now, the more I realized that there will never be a story. I don’t know why I couldn’t see it before it’s so vivid now. Thinking about how not to come under his view, I suddenly realized he may as well have a shotgun pointed at our heads. Now, I just want to forget the entire Gangley business and go on with our life together. We have much to be thankful for, especially each other, and Tim.”
“That compressed hours into about a minute,” Mark thought. He had a dozen questions, but would let Doreen set the pace. She had been through an ordeal. He could see it in her swollen eyes. They had shed many tears before taking on that appearance. Her comfort became his sole concern.
“Dinner’s ready. Shall we eat?”
“I need refueling. It’s been a busy two days.”
Doreen brought out broccoli and cheese souffle and pork chops. It had required tremendous resolve to prepare it, but she wanted Mark to feel as natural as possible returning home. He had smelled the chops when he opened the door. The souffle was a surprise. Tim leaned over his plate, stuffing as much as his jaws would accommodate. Doreen did less picking and more eating as dinner progressed.
“Tell me about the project! Did the site test clean?” Her demeanor reflected a willingness to hear of a great disappointment.
“Clean and closed as of this morning. Doug will finish filling all the wells with cement tomorrow!”
Doreen jumped up and gave Mark a big hug, smiling now, anxious for a mind dump of Gangley and to replace it with new material.
“I’m so proud of you. Hodges must be ecstatic. And Jess! He must be sitting there as if hit between the eyes that you actually pulled it off. Congratulations! You deserve all the credit, you know.”
“Much credit was given.”
“Did Jess give you a bonus?” Doreen asked cautiously, sitting.
“It was fair. He couldn’t have been more pleased. He asked that we join him and Ruth at the Crab Shack for dinner Friday night to celebrate. He showed me how much he’s already netted top to bottom on the project; it’s a big chunk of dough.”
“Oh, fun! It will be so pleasant in the aftermath of a successful project. Ruth and I will enjoy catching up while you to go on about it together. The bonus Jess gave you, was it significant?”
“You mean more than a paltry few thousand?”
“I know the secret figure you mentioned several times.” She looked to see if Tim was listening. “Would you have considered that figure fair?”
“For Delta, or if he had given it all to me?”
“The latter.”
“I would have considered it incredible.”
“Well?”
“It was more than fair, then. I’ll discuss it in detail later. There were several bonuses, actually, making up the whole. Gangley was very generous with Delta and New World. He even gave an extra bump to Harold. I haven’t spoken to him since his meeting with Gangley-He met with Harold, Michael, and I together, but after thanking Harold and giving him an envelope I suspect had a nice check in it, Harold left. Then he met alone with Michael, then with me.”
The mere mention of Gangley’s name gave rise to a surge of nausea. It seemed insane and entirely implausible that they could even be having this conversation in light of what had happened with Tim only a few hours earlier, and in view of Gangley knowing everything. He was a stalking chimera.
“Did Gangley seem pleased when he spoke to you?” she asked guardedly.
“He couldn’t praise me enough. And he asked about you and Tim. He was extremely engaging. I never saw him happier.”
Doreen paled. “What did he say about me and Tim?”
“He complimented me on our Boy’s Night tradition, and told me how fortunate I was to have such a wonderful family, said he and his wife never had any children, and since her drowning, he hadn’t found anyone else to compare with her. He gave me a gift for you just before I left.”
Doreen couldn’t believe what she was hearing. A gift? If Mark only knew. It was no gift. It was a payoff to keep her mouth shut!
“You seem troubled.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just so unreal getting a gift from a cold-blooded murderer. Where is it?”
“In the car. Want me to fetch it?”
“I’ll look when we talk later. You must be very happy to have the project behind you.” She wanted to get off the personal note.
“I’m pleased everyone seems happy with their bonuses. It will improve our lifestyles significantly! He wants me to foot the bill at Crab Shack since, as he put it, I ‘have some extra money now!’”
Doreen laughed, perking up.
“You accepted, of course!”
“I did.”
Doreen was daring to accept that Mark had actually gotten a bonus of around $25,000. It would give them a nest egg. She felt relieved, not because Gangley had been generous with New World and Delta, but because Jess had been fair with Mark.
“I’m happy. This is a wonderful advance.”
“More than you know.”
They were both anxious to be alone, but it was far too early. Doreen hit upon an idea. She called Patricia and told her that she was back in town, she and Mark hadn’t seen each other for two days, and they wanted to go out for drinks. Could she sit with Tim?
“I’d love to.”
“Good, and guess what?”
“What?”
“I’m paying double your normal rate tonight!”
“Ten dollars an hour? How long will you be gone?”
“Two to three hours, I think.”
“Golly, that’s twenty or thirty dollars! I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Make it twenty. I have to wash my face and put on new makeup.”
“You’ve got it!”
“Patty’s coming over? I get to stay up late?” Tim beamed.
“Yes, but not too late, okay?”
“Okay!”
“You look great!”
“Not my face, Mark. I’ll be good as new shortly, though.”
There was a special bounce to her gait as she went up the stairs. He felt relief. When he had first heard the dialogue from the den, he thought it might be some time before he could even mention Gangley’s name. He wiped his mouth and told Tim he was going upstairs as well.
“I’ll wait for Patty,” he said. Another serving of souffle.
He went to the car, took out the gift Gangley said was for Doreen, and proceeded to the master suite. Doreen was in the bathroom applying lipstick, almost ready and beautiful to look upon.
“If we weren’t already committed to going out, I’d carry you to bed this second, you look delicious.”
“It will be special later, won’t it?”
“More than. Wonderful. I want to consume every inch of your body till there’s nothing left.”
“Me too!”
He anticipated her asking to see the check, and didn’t have to wait long.
“Have you already deposited the bonus check?”
He didn’t dare tell her Jess had diverted Gangley’s cash to him. It seemed strange that the money had to be “laundered” by being run through Jess, but he knew her reaction to cash would be even more repugnant than his had at first been. He devised a plan that would require Jess’s assistance.
“I haven’t gotten the check. He’s presenting it to us at the Crab Shack. But I know how much it is.”
“How sweet! How much is the bonus, Mark? You haven’t said.”
“Fifty thousand dollars!” He knew that would seem like a reasonable percentage of the overall bonus amount. “Twenty percent of the total cash bonus.”
“That’s twice what we had hoped for! But if Delta’s bonus was a quarter of a million, it’s fair.” She emerged from the bath, a jewel.
“The same as New World’s. You should have seen the grin on Michael’s face after leaving Gangley’s office, like a fat-jawed possum!”
She giggled and embraced him in a moment of joy. It darkened when she saw the gift Mark had placed on the bed.
“That’s Gangley’s present?” She wanted to know what the man thought was appropriate after the his last package, one she found against the door before discovering Tim was missing.
“Sit next to me while I open it,” she said, trying to suppress the darkness enveloping her again. She needed him close at this moment.
A knock on the suite door interrupted the moment. Mark rose, walked over and opened it, blocking the entrance. Patty stood there with Tim.
“I’m here, you can go now.”
“It’ll be a while longer,” Doreen said, “but your time starts now. You two go ahead, begin playing.”
“Okay,” she said, dancing away with Tim, dreams of ten bucks an hour in her head.
“There was one condition to New World’s bonus, or Jess has to return half of it to Gangley. Naturally, he agreed.”
“What?” Doreen asked, suddenly uncertain.
“It’s nothing. We would have done it anyway.”
“Done what?”
“The mayor’s throwing a premier dinner at the Rainbow Club Sunday night. Hodges and his wife, Moss and his wife, Jess and Ruby, and you I are all invited. It’s a celebration event for the Convention Center. Since we cleaned it up, all of us with our wives will be at the head table with the mayor. There’s also an award ceremony.
“If we’re to be paraded in front of the top names in Houston, I’ll need a new gown.”
Mark laughed so loudly, it hurt. Doreen didn’t get it.
“That’s the very thing I told Jess you would say, almost word for word! That’s two dates in one week, not counting tonight. Another item you’ll be pleased with is that Hodges gave Jess a Bio-Sparge license free, and an exclusive for the Houston area. The license is worth $150,000. He also sold him the three systems from the Convention Center for half of their value, and he has five years to pay them off, interest free. The reason for my fifty percent raise is to head a Bio-Sparge division of the company, which is to become the chief focus of Delta Environmental, the new name. The signs will be up in two weeks.”
“You got a fifty percent raise! Oh, this is so much, and it’s happening all at once, a list of dreams come true.”
“Are you going to open the gift?”
“It’s elegantly wrapped, chic ribbon work.” she said, “but coming from Gangley to me directly, it disgusts me.
“Leave off opening it now. You can be disgusted when we get back. It’s something you’re supposed to wear at the mayor’s thing. All three wives got one, he told me; Ruth, Tabitha, and you.”
“If he only knew!” she thought, though relieved somewhat by the commonality of the gift; it wasn’t a payoff to her personally after all. It was to make certain that Gangley's trophy wives weren't under dressed for an event only the cream of Houston society ever got invited to.
“I’ll open it now, since we all received one.” She peeled off the elegant paper. “This is velvet paper. I love it’s texture.”
Mark wondered what was in those three cases, knowing how much Delta’s bonus had been. As she removed the paper, three royal purple, velvet-covered, gold-inlaid cases appeared.
“What beautiful cases, inlaid gold.”
She sat the three cases on the bed side by side to look at them.
“Gangley is just the kind that would want ‘his people’ to shut down every other woman there,” she said, absorbed in the delicate details of the inlaid gold.
She wouldn’t have accepted anything personal from Gangley. However, as Sunday was a big event for everyone involved at the Convention Center, she decided to wear them, as the other wives would be wearing similar items. She would ask Ruth when they shared dinner. She opened the largest case first, about ten inches long, and seven inches wide. She felt Mark’s forehead touching hers. He had leaned forward with anticipation. She kissed him, then opened it with a tug.
For a moment, what they saw silenced them, a diamond and ruby necklace. Not the style so short that it nearly choked the woman wearing it, but long enough to fit loosely around her neck, hanging a couple of inches below. Every other stone was a diamond, every other a ruby the same size as the diamonds on each side. On the end, the length of a quarter, hung a tear-shaped ruby she knew was worth thousands of dollars itself, it’s small end encircled by diamonds. The piece could not cost less than fifty to seventy-five thousand dollars.
“These must be rented just for the occasion?”
“He didn’t say that, nor mention returning them afterward. Maybe he knew . . . as a woman, you would know that.”
“He couldn’t take that for granted. He intended for us to keep them. But how could, how would Gangley be willing to spend so much on a single piece?” Then she saw it. He had left the tiny price tag inside.
“I don’t think it’s rented, Mark. How like him to leave the price tag attached. If it were rented, the jeweler would surely have removed the price tags; but maybe not.” Perhaps he wanted her to know the value of the jewelry. She picked it up and read.
”$85,000?”
“It must be rented,” Mark gasped.
“He must have had a consultant consider each woman’s complexion and hair color, then make appropriate recommendations.”
There were two smaller cases still unopened. Mark didn’t know what they contained, but she already knew.
“I can describe what’s in these without looking.”
“Get out o’ here!” Mark jested. “Let’s see. I’ll turn them toward me and open them, and you try to guess!”
“One will be a bracelet of alternating diamonds and rubies that exactly matches the necklace. The other will be two delicate earrings, single rubies. Where they’re attached to the gold will be a ring of tiny diamonds like the necklace.”
“Here goes!”
Mark raised the lid of the next largest case. There it was, just as she had known. And there was the little price tag.
“$17,000 for one bracelet!” he couldn’t help blurting.
“I’m not surprised, considering the cost of the necklace.”
The little one was next. She could have drawn them, but not with rubies so large. The tag: $37,000.
“That’s even more than the bracelet! How so?” Mark queried, confused.
“You’re the geologist. Rubies that large are much more valuable than the small gems on the bracelet!”
“I’m not a gemologist!” he replied, “although I see your point.”
“Mark, that’s one hundred, thirty-nine thousand dollars,” she mumbled, looking at the tags, verifying the amounts.
“Even in a genuine half price sale, that’s $70,000.” he said.
“Mark, jewelry like this is never on sale for half-price. Those department store sales are just for cheap jewelry and the more lackluster gold items, almost always under a thousand dollars. Not this quality jewelry. This set couldn’t be had for less than a hundred thousand dollars! I can’t believe he didn’t read you the rite act on protecting them until after Sunday night. The insurance for rentals like this is very expensive. I’m calling Ruth right now.”
As she dialed the Remington’s number, he rehearsed Gangley’s giving him the package for Doreen. He hadn’t said or even implied that it was a rental. He had said, “gift?” Yet, surely, he wouldn’t have purchased a third of a million in jewelry for the three wives of the team responsible for lifting the environmental impairment of the site. Or would he? Doreen was asking Ruth about her jewelry.
“Can you believe the jewelry? What did you get?” Ruth asked.
“A diamond-ruby necklace with a ruby pendant, and a matching bracelet and earrings, also with ruby pendants.”
“They’ll go so well with your complexion. You’ll be simply stunning! I got a diamond-sapphire set; and can you believe the wad it cost to purchase them? I’m wearing my blue slubbed silk gown with mine. What are you wearing?”
“I don’t know. I have to buy a gown. Your’s will be ideal with your blond hair, Ruth. Are you wearing it up?”
“You know I am!”
“The jewelry is rented, just for Sunday, right?”
“Rented? That’s not what the card said!”
“The card?”
“When the woman delivered it, she said it was a gift from Gangley Enterprises for the absence of our husbands during the environmental cleanup. It seemed like a thoughtful gesture. If it’s not rented, I’m certain I would have had to sign a document accepting responsibility for it’s return. The card said the gift was a token of appreciation from Mr. Randall Gangley, and was signed by him. What did your card say?”
“I didn’t get a card or a special delivery. He gave it to Mark to give to me.”
“But of course, Jess wasn’t at the meeting. That explains it.”
“How do you feel about getting jewelry from a man like Gangley?”
“Child! With all the time I do without Jess while he takes care of his clients, I’ll take anything I can get! Besides, Jess would never spend that kind of money on me, no matter how long I stayed down on him!” They giggled hysterically.
“You’re so funny, Ruth!”
“What is it?” Mark was curious.
“They’re not rented.”
Mark thought about the implications. How could one admire the generosity of a murderer? Yet, here they were, sitting on the bed in disbelief, looking at a set some women would probably have committed murder for themselves!
“Was that the message?” He wondered, “genuine appreciation from a twisted soul?”
Truman Capote had studied a simple case of the murderer’s mind compared to Gangley. Gangley was much more complex and difficult to analyze. A soul that knew no limits to it’s gratitude for those it considered it’s friends, and no depths of diabolical hatred for those whom it believed had betrayed or wronged it. Black and White, no grays.
“It’s true. We all got one of equal value and quality. They’re not rented.” she repeated, still astonished.
“Let me see you with it on.” Mark asked, after she hung up the phone.
Doreen cringed, but for Mark’s ignorance, removed the set she had planned to wear tonight. She picked up each piece and put it in place. Mark stepped back to look.
“You’re a queen!”
Doreen blushed, viewing herself in the mirror.
“Yes! Let me see you with only that on.”
Realizing they weren’t going anywhere just yet, she reached around her back and unzipped her skirt, allowing it to fall down her long legs to the floor. Mark wanted to tear the rest from her body at once. She unbuttoned and removed her blouse. The dainty black bra held two gems more exciting to Mark than the ones dangling from her ears. They fell out with a gentle bounce as she removed it. The panty hose came next, without sitting. Her balance was perfect as she seductively peeled each from its leg, treasuring Mark’s lust. The lovely, braided design of her panties fled from what they concealed, falling with embarrassment to the floor.
She stood, Mark’s gift from the greater gods, ornamented with the finest of gems, as though made for her. He undressed quickly, hearts throbbing. For the moment, she ignored the source of the jewels. She had missed him and glowed with desire, a candle in the darkness. All around Mark seemed to go dark. She moved the cases from the bed. Skin to skin, their mouths combined, slavishly pursuing more, unable to find satisfaction, their hands touching, feeling, gently stroking. Kissing each other’s bodies, primate allure exuded from every pore. To Mark, no other woman could smell more feminine than Doreen. To her, no other man could be consumed with more delight than he. The spontaneous music and phosphorescent hues of lust and love arose within, inspiring awe. Supplanted by feverish passion, in one great burst of spiritual splendor, ecstasy overran them.
Afterward, they laid quietly as the sweat slowly evaporated from their skin, the experiences of the last six months reverberating in their minds. For good or for evil, the Houser name would be on the list of popular people in Houston now. Each wondered if they were ready.

Guilt

Mark awoke with troubled thoughts. The joy of the Convention Center site closure, his enormous raise, and the bonus from Jess were all natural rewards of entrepreneurial risk paying off. The momentary mystique of such beautiful jewelry, especially dangling from Doreen’s lovely neck, had catapulted him, indeed both of them, into a fantasy world last evening. This morning, he felt an uneasiness about not disclosing Jess had given him the entire bonus, and the fact that Gangley had conveyed it to Jess in cash. Unaware of the omitted details, she felt only delight for Mark’s raise and bonus. They had been honestly earned and were certainly justified. He had risked his career on his assessment of Hodges’s technology, a visionary decision, the type that elevates risk-takers in the world.
Mark wasn’t alone; Doreen’s conscience bothered her for withholding knowledge of Tim’s kidnapping, which continued to taint her perspective on the jewelry even more than Nancy’s murder. That it had come to her directly from the hand of a man who had kidnapped her son and openly threatened his life, her life, and Mark’s career and freedom, was difficult to live with. It wasn’t that she felt herself unworthy as a person to own fine jewelry. She wasn’t a socialist who believed wealth was evil and one should experience but limited prosperity. She was a capitalist, a believer in the right of the individual to prosper. Were it an inheritance, if she had just received jewelry worth a fortune from an antecedent's will, she would have felt otherwise. But this particular jewelry had been hand-picked by the most despicable men she had ever known, had even been handled by him. When she imagined him standing at the counter envisioning it around her neck, thinking he could take credit for calling attention to her beauty, she felt sleazy and cheap, like she supposed prostitutes must feel. She would not be prostituted by Gangley! She would be his executioner perhaps, but not his prostitute.
Neither expressed their private conflict to the other, yet each was aware that the other felt uncomfortable.
Lou had encouraged Doreen to take an additional week or two off.
Yes, you've taken one week. Big deal! You've got six more accumulated. Use some of it for rest and relaxation. You remember the concept of R&R? You're not yourself right now, so I don't want you on the street; get some rest, play some golf. You're always saying you plan to. Life is one decision at a time, and I know how you feel. You've been check-mated by a powerful man. It's not your fault. Which is more important to you? Gangley, or your life together as a family?”
"I don't feel guilty. I feel frustrated."
"I understand. I once worked on a case that provided several exclusive stories, benefiting my career, before my days at the Chronicle. I was a much younger, thinner whipper-snapper, charging about just like you. Like an Arkansas Coon hound after a raccoon, I thought I had the killer treed. All of our press coverage was negative. I found out–maybe, I learned from the detectives-a sheaf of clues and circumstantial evidence had never been introduced into court. Because of the nature of the crime, the accused couldn't obtain bail, a practicing orthopedic surgeon. He lost his practice, home, cars-everything-during the months of incarceration. He maintained his innocence through those mounting debacles. Then, the actual murderer was identified and the doctor was released. I was frustrated too - not that a guilty man was getting off in that case, but because I had contributed to the incarceration and great personal loss of an innocent man. Day after day, I woke up to in the morning and it hung in the last haze before I escaped into sleep. See this ?” He pulled the plaque from his desk and handed it to her to read.

He that robs me of my good name enriches
not himself, but renders me poor, indeed.
– Shakespeare

“I could restore neither his wealth nor his family. You expend a great effort, then find it was misdirected or wasted. You become emotionally involved, rather than remaining detached. Everything becomes personal. When it’s over, you can't let go. Someday, Gangley will make a mistake that brings him down; you seldom get away with anything forever unless you're the government. So unless you can suggest a plan of action that isn’t blocked, go, get some rest. Come back when your mind is clear and you're ready to concentrate on a new issue. ‘Heal thyself,’ as they say. If necessary, see a therapist. They can help you view the problem and your entanglement with it from a different perspective."
Doreen agreed, rather than being ordered to comply.
Early in the day, on Friday, she took the jewelry to the store where it had been purchased. Gangley had left the tags attached. Arriving at Le Visionairre, she asked for the manager.
"I am the Manager, Mrs. . . .” the elegant woman answered.
"Houser, I’m Doreen Houser."
"I'm happy to meet you. I'm Sandra. What may I do for you?"
"I received this jewelry as a gift. I love it, but I have a real problem with the purchaser. I'd like to exchange it sometime, next week perhaps." She opened the boxes and showed the pieces to Sandra.
"Certainly, you can exchange it any time. That’s why we leave the tags attached. Women often exchange jewelry, as you must know. What our admirers think is lovely isn’t necessarily our taste, is it?” she said, smiling, touching Doreen’s hand. “These cases are precious; they weren't purchased here, only the jewelry. Have you had a problem with that particular service before?"
"I don’t understand the question."
"Just a moment," Sandra said, entering the ID number from an earring tag into the computer. "It was Executive Shopping Service. You say you’ve had a problem with them before? What is it you don't like about them?"
"I've never heard of them before. Wasn’t this set bought by Randall Gangley?"
"I wouldn't have any knowledge of that. Shopping services don't work that way."
“Shopping services? Could you help me understand this a little better?"
"Of course, Executive provides a service to busy executives or others who don’t have the time available to shop for gifts or other purchases. Suppose you worked there as a ‘Personal shopper.’ You receive calls from either the executive himself or his Administrative assistant telling you what items they want purchased."
“In this case, there may have been several sets purchased at the same time," Doreen said.

"Yes, it’s on the screen, here. There were two sets purchased by Executive from this store, but others may have been purchased from other jewelers. We wouldn’t have knowledge of that. We don't stock many sets of this quality and price. That's an even better way to explain what Executive does: suppose you're speaking with the secretary, and she tells you she needs three sets costing around $25,000 each; this one, of course, was many times that. She also gives instructions that she wants beautiful cases, inlaid with gold, that will match each set, and that the sets themselves have to be dissimilar in color and style. She wants the sets wrapped in top quality fashion and delivered to her. After arranging for payment, you–the Personal Shopper-visit various stores, and consider pieces within that price range. It is you who actually does the shopping for that company or individual."
"Do they look at your choices and approve them?"
"That's a client option. If they've done business with you before, then normally the answer would be 'no.'”
"They're that unconnected to the sale?"
“Shopping service personnel are professionals, and very good at what they do. Often, the service just delivers the items and they're paid."
"How can they do that if the purchaser doesn't select a piece appropriate for a particular woman?"
"Doreen, you know how individual we women are. I can’t tell you how many wives come in and exchange jewelry their husbands bought for them. There's seldom a direct hit, especially in high value items like yours. That’s why the tags are left in place: the items can be exchanged, to satisfy her individual tastes. You say that you like this set?"
"It's captivating; more so than anything I ever imagined wearing, far less, owning. It looks exquisite on me, but . . . "
"That's because your personal description is in the computer too. Acceptance is limited to individual taste. It’ll look great on you, but you may still choose to exchange it for stylistic reasons."
"God, that makes it so impersonal!"
"Yes, but the woman receiving the gift doesn't know that. Her husband bought it especially for her, so she presumes he took the time to look and carefully choose something special just for her. She may still dislike it. Since you're here, what would you like me to show you that you might wish to exchange it for?"
"I don’t wish to exchange it now. The purchaser hasn’t even seen it?”
“No, Executive bought it-and one other-on Monday. They provided the cases; we wrapped the set and returned it to them. Did you like our wrapping?”
“It was elegant! Thank you Sandra! You’ve cleared up several issues for me."
“Anytime, I'm glad we could be of service."
Doreen left after learning that actual layout for her set, less the cases, was almost $125,000! It couldn’t be construed as a bribe, because, as Mark suspected, the other wives received gifts of equal value. She had never before been confronted by a situation so rife with contradiction, anomaly, and surrealism. Gangley viewed it as nothing more than a part of the bonus earned by the men, directed to their wives. The other women would recognize that, just as Mark had. This was a personal dilemma, because while holding a gun to her son’s head with one hand, she had supposed Gangley had handed her a gift with the other! No matter how she thought about it, it was as simple as that. How to address the reality. On the one hand, she imagined the joy of throwing them in Gangley’s face as hard as she could. On the other, without knowing about Tim being kidnapped, the death threats, video, and the tape obtained by bugging their car, she knew Mark would not appreciate her tossing out $125,000 in an emotional burst. If she ignored the warning, told him, and that led to an attack, even a confrontation of Gangley, the tenuous relationship between the two men might disintegrate into God only knew what; it was even plausible to fear it might lead to the slaughter of her family. Gangley had after all cut his teeth in the slaughterhouses of Chicago during his formative years. Venting her contempt for the man could never compensate. Mark’s warning: that she could endanger their safety echoed in her mind. His wisdom was proven later, right on the tape. She had ignored it, met with Chip Logan anyway, which Lou had debased to a foolish adventure into jeopardy. She needed someone to talk to, someone with a detached perspective who could counsel her. Lou had tried, but his ignorance of the same events she had withheld from Mark skewed his perspective and the experience he had related was too disparate from her own; his involved an innocent man. The orthopedic surgeon had, in fact, been a noble human being. How could he be compared to a monster like Gangley? She needed someone who could understand her feelings better, someone who could be told about the kidnapping and threats, someone capable of suggesting a way out of her paradox.

Friday night at the Crab Shack would be a festive event shared with true friends. Doreen had been able to distract herself for awhile searching out a gown that would adequately complement her jewelry Sunday night. She was extremely fortunate to discover an imported, Italian silk gown, exquisitely cut to enhance her slender figure. Ruby red, it was almost a question of whether the gown accented the jewelry, or the jewelry the gown. Viewing herself in the mirror while shopping, she felt a little uncomfortable with the amount of cleavage exposed by the French push-up bra the middle-aged sales attendant insisted was required to properly display her bosom.
“You don’t think it makes me look promiscuous combined with the gown? I love the gown, but they’re really in your face with the bra.”
“Nonsense! They’re lovely, Doreen, but they need to be lifted to fill out the top,” the woman had confided in a motherly tone. “At such a showoff affair, your husband will be proud of the emphasis. You’ll be positively captivating.”
“I guess you’re right. I’ll take it.”
She arrived home after the time planned; Mark was certain they would be late, given the distance they had to drive. Pushing it on the freeway saved the day. They arrived within minutes of Ruth and Jess.
Although Jess was Mark’s employer, Doreen sensed an entirely new attitude, as if they were partners. Their manner of conversation conveyed that impression. Ruth had always been very kind, never condescending. Now, the shared experiences of their husbands made them feel, and relate, like sisters, though Ruth was ten years older. They enjoyed their wine together, eating modestly, while Mark and Jess outdid themselves, trying to eat some of everything on the seafood bar. Jess always amazed everyone with his capacity to consume oysters on the half shell. The Crab Shack had both Oysters Florentine, and Oysters Rockefeller, and Jess was determined to consume an equal amount of both. Mark preferred to stuff himself with King crab claws and catfish fillets. When he ate catfish, it seemed to Doreen, he consumed an almost equal weight of sweet white onions;
“I heard them referred to somewhere as ‘the undiscovered fruit.’” He had told her. She and Ruth couldn’t refrain from occasionally giggling, or winking, as their husbands built an entire Bio-Sparge empire in the sky during that single evening.
"That’s alcohol talking,” Ruth said, leaning over to Doreen to speak above the din of Mark and Jess, “but, actually, the Bio-Sparge business could make this one of our most successful lifetimes. Come with me to stalk the dessert bar. I want to envy your slim figure while I drool over all the things I’m a fool if I eat! It’s always my favorite part" They strode over to the array of southern delicacies.
“Oh, look at that pecan pie. It must be an inch-and-a-half thick!" Ruth exclaimed. "Look, how dense the pecans are; they're so close together you can’t see beneath, and there's cheesecake," she added, "You love it like I do?"
"It depends. Mark’s so picky about it that I've become just like him. He's had lots of fun at the expense of waitresses over the subject of cheesecake." she said, laughing.
“How so?"
"I was remembering the looks on various waitress’s faces he's pulled it on over the years. He's so cute, the way he does it."
“You have my interest."
“We'll be at some restaurant we don't normally frequent, as when traveling. When dessert time comes, and the waitress rattles off what desserts they have, mentioning cheesecake, he always responds with ‘Cheesecake?’’Yes,’ they'll say. Then he asks, ’Is this the rich, soft, succulent type, or that cheap stuff, where when you bite into it, you can't get your teeth apart?’ They usually don't know how to answer him." She laughed again.
"Mark's a character. You two fit together so well. I don't know how you stay so thin if you love cheesecake! You're so lovely.”
Doreen enjoyed Ruth’s company. She was fun to be around and it helped her feel more relaxed.
“Ruth, if I shared something with you, could I count on your confidence?”
“You can tell me anything, Girl. I probably know things that would scorch your ears! I could shut down half of Houston if I told all I know!”
“It’s very sensitive, and if Gangley discovered I had told anyone, it could be very dangerous!”
“Of course, but whatever could be that bad? We can wait on dessert; come on, let’s hover like two broads at the bar. Those tycoons aren’t going to miss us! They’re too busy building castles in the air!” Doreen laughed and followed.
Ruth listened in bewilderment as Doreen relayed the entire history of hers and Mark’s strangely dissimilar and macabre relationships with Gangley, concluding with her repugnance at receiving jewelry from the man and the implications she felt it all had.
“Christ, Child! I want the publication rights to your novel!” She wasn’t laughing when she made the outburst. “The jewelry isn’t your problem. Hell, sell it and put the money down on a nicer home; but make sure it’s closer to us! What you need is a different kind of plan to get the bastard, a way to do the butcher in ourselves! But you must be careful. That man doesn’t play around.”
Jess’s voice had grown less dominant. He and Mark were speaking quietly at the table, casting occasional looks in their direction. Jess handed Mark an envelope.
“Here’s the “bonus” check you asked for. I deposited the $50,000 you gave me. You’ll have to pay the taxes on that at year-end.”
“Thanks, Jess. I think I’d like to have you swap me another check for most of the rest of the cash, maybe all of it. I don’t want her to know how much cash Gangley handed to me directly in a leather bag! That’s why I wanted to exchange $50,000 of it for a Delta bonus check.”
“Now, hold on just a minute. I didn’t have any problem covering you with the check, but that was Delta’s bonus, my money you're talking about. Don't you think you're being presumptuous implying that it’s dirty? Delta earned every penny of that bonus. The reason I gave it to you was it seems unjust to make an enormous profit on the project, then give you only token recognition. But if you feel unworthy of it, just give it back to me."
"I think the fact it’s in cash is what bothers me. Why do I feel this way?"
"You’re young. I don't think you feel unworthy or worthless, Mark. You're just a victim of government propaganda."
"You've lost me."
“It's as obvious as the nose on your face. You don't believe ‘legal tender’ is legal . . . except in Schmuck amounts. The thieves in Washington and their cronies at the IRS, have convinced you that the currency of the United States is illegal. Would you feel the same way if I had taken the cash, and gave you a bonus check from Delta Environmental?"
"No, that’s what I’m envisioning."
“You want me to emotionally launder it for you? Because that’s all it is. You saw the Godfather series years ago, didn’t you?"
"Sure, everyone has."
"Well, remember . . . I think it was Godfather III, the one where the Vatican swindles him; anyway, Michael Corleon is sitting outside on the porch or patio with his sister. He'd grown old by then and he tells her that all of his life as a gangster, he worked hard to get higher up, convinced that one day he could attain legitimacy, But instead, he learned that the higher he went, the worse the corruption became. In the movie, the Vatican bank and those who controlled it were the most corrupt of all!"
"And your point?"
"The same as when Corleon told the senator that was trying to shake him down for a casino license that they were both part of the same hypocrisy, something like that. The government is so afraid that you might accumulate something difficult for it to tax that it’s been brainwashing citizens for decades now to believe that anyone who has more than a little cash is a crook. Make a withdrawal of ten thousand in cash and watch the bank pick up the phone to the IRS. When you hear shit like that, of course you start thinking Legal Tender’s illegal, if you have very much of it. But, you’re young and unseasoned."
"I get the point, but the fact it’s cash straight from Gangley’s hand to mine will bother Doreen. I know, because the jewelry bothers her. It came the same way.”
"Well, we can’t have trouble in the Houser home over a pile of cash, so if it will make you feel better, bring it over and I'll cut you a bonus check so it'll seem more natural to her . . . and to you.”
“Can we do it Monday?"
"That'll be fine. You say there’s $200,000 left?"
"Exactly that amount." Mark was feeling better already.
"Okay. Let's see, you should lump it with the $50,000 check I just gave you for tax purposes, because I didn’t deduct anything, and without that bag of cash, you won’t have enough to pay the tax at the end of the year on that fifty grand. So the net check on Monday will be . . . Let’s see, there’s about $120,000 tax on the $250,000 cash, and if it cost as much as Ruth's, around $43,000 tax on the gift of jewelry. Connie will have to figure the exact amount, but your check to clear everything should be somewhere around . . . $37,000, more or less. I'll tell her to have it ready by five in the afternoon on Monday, but bring the $200,000 cash in Monday morning, so we can deposit it before giving you the $37,000 check."
“Thirty-seven thousand for two hundred thousand?" Mark's face waxed red with heat.
"Why do you think Gangley gave it to Delta in cash for in the first place? Welcome to the big leagues, Mark! The fine lines you see between bonuses and bribes, cash and checks, is as wide as that slurry wall at the Convention Center. That bonus was earned; the jewelry was a gift. Don’t forget, lawyers run our government. They don’t start smelling sweet when they arrive in Washington and get their hands on that power. You think they suddenly take their hands out of your pockets? Remember what my old dad used to say, God rest his soul."
"What?" Mark was befuddled.
"The further you stick your nose up someone's ass, the worse it smells!"
“To hell with that,” Mark said, “forget the exchange; I’ll keep the cash!”
“I can give you some good ideas how to invest it if you’re interested. A long-term Swiss annuity would be a perfect place to park about half of it. We can talk more about that later.”
"They keep looking at us,” Doreen said, “Maybe we’d better rejoin them?”
“Probably, but I want to talk much more about this after the show Sunday night.”
“Show?”
“Honey-Child, that’s all these things are! You’ll be attending a lot more of them now that you’re someone they’ll want in their upscale crowd. It’s just a show. We’re going to show off at this one, too. The old bats will be dripping spit when they see us!”
Doreen laughed as they walked back and rejoined the tycoons.
The Remingtons and the Housers left quite late for home that night, Doreen and Ruth driving, Mark and Jess snoring.

The Mayor’s Foreplay

The mayor's regal Convention Center Award's Dinner at the Rainbow Club was tonight. The Rainbow was large and elegant. It wasn’t the biggest facility available, just the most ornate, boasting more than three hundred tables and a fire department capacity designation of twelve hundred occupants. There were three times that many dignitaries, notable Houstonians, and other Texans, who wanted to attend this high-exposure event. This meant the affair would be limited sharply to the creme de la creme, and for every person fortunate enough to be invited, there would be two who were disappointed or offended. Harding had learned in his position nothing is more certain than that, at all times, it’s easier to make enemies than friends.
He sat working on his speech. As he did so, he reflected upon the bizarre task it had been to develop the guest list. His choices were made along political and economic lines, attenuated by other important considerations. One simply could not exclude the big oil and oil service company figureheads in Houston. It defies the regional identity and geographic area. Additionally, they were major participants in the bond issue approved to raise the money for the sprawling facility.
Nor can one exclude those who have helped propel you to where you are. There is an obligation to return the favors and grant recognition. There are those who have powerful connections of every sort whom it is always a mistake to offend. Development of the guest list had been more difficult than all other aspects of planning combined. But then again, no one was more shrewd in Houston than he. Since he intended to step down, the event itself was partly created as a means of formally recognizing those who had enabled him to rise to his limit.
During this great event, and from within its grand setting, he would announce his non-candidacy for another term. He would begin tonight actually helping his opponent, Merrill and become a trusted friend. This was a necessary move. He was bored and preferred to spend his time with his hot new wife in Bora Bora more than in a stuffy board or council room. He wasn't that young anymore, but he wasn't old either. It was also necessary to dissuade his successor from "discovering" his corrupt contracts and payoffs.
The arbitrage he had lined his pockets with by manipulation of the city's investment deals had yielded several hundred thousand dollars. The brokers had shown him early in his twelve-year career how to work the system for his benefit, and had kept him as clean and invisible as promised. That money was tucked away in the Caymans. These weren't crimes in his mind; they didn’t hurt anyone. They were just opportunities that Merrill would also benefit from once he held the reins of power. Hell, Merrill probably already knew of ways to exploit the Mayor's office he hadn't even dreamed of. Merrill was a lawyer. Only brokers were more corrupt than lawyers, and he knew some who were both. Everything was about power. Money and power were the adrenaline of politics, the equity markets, and the practice of law. Only trailer trash and ignorant, working schmucks admired any of them. Bring up a diversion issue dear to their religious or social leanings, and they’d sell themselves out with tongue in cheek.
Houston's Harding Convention Center, which bore his name, would be his legacy. It was the first project since Houston Hobby Airport of sufficient novelty and scale to make one immortal. In a sense, even though not a governor like Hobby had been, he would be remembered and his name printed in guidebooks and atlases just the same.
The Hobby's had arrived in Texas as the result of an argument about a horse! Three Hobby brothers had moved from the east to Mississippi. Two of them fell into an almost fatal argument over that certain horse. When the third brother sided with one of the two at odds, the other left with his family for Texas, no idea whatsoever that one of his descendants would eventually become governor of the state, or that the Houston Hobby Airport would become a legacy of the Hobby name. The other two brothers settled in Mississippi and Arkansas. Harding didn't know much more than that about the Hobby's; not even Governor Hobby, nor did he care. His ambition was to have others remember the Harding name with equal regard after he was gone.
Growing up in the swamp lands of eastern Texas, he was a nobody. After the age of ten, he couldn't remember having even cared about a mosquito bite. Several million had made him grow accustomed. He made a small fortune as a younger man in the illegal trade of endangered species from the south Louisiana and east Texas bayous. Alligator skins were worth a fortune in those days, and gators were so stupid, he had often collected a dozen within a single evening. From there, he had inherited the family hardware business after his father was killed in a “hunting accident.”
The loss of his father in such an ignominious manner spawned an acute awareness of the uncertainty of life, eventually leading to the decision to move into politics. It had begun to consume him. After many years he had become the mayor of Houston. The money he had accumulated in office, combined with the two million Gangley paid him had brought his offshore fortune to almost five million. It was the biggest score of his career. He wanted the center as much as anyone, but he, Edith, and Merrill knew they could squeeze Gangley if they accepted his price. He would make a killing, and they would get their piece. Merrill had met secretly with Gangley and obtained the offer. That finalized the deal and the council affirmed the land purchase. Now, though, he was bored with politics, and wanted to spend the rest of his life enjoying what he had accumulated. His wife, one of those women who’ll shell out anything to a man with seemingly endless wealth, would keep him warm and satisfied. If she lost interest in him, or he tired of her, he could always buy a fresher one. There were plenty of willing applicants in Bora Bora or the Philippines just as mouth watering as she.
"Tonight, I will tie up most of my loose ends," he thought, "but I must make the awarding of the plaques seem like the principal intent of the function."
He planned to project the architect's rendering of the completed Harding Convention Center upon the surface of a giant screen, captivating the guests as soon as they entered the club. The bar would be open with five islands for half an hour before anything else happened, helping everyone warm up to the occasion. There would be a short announcement by Edith, after which guests would migrate toward appointed seats at the spacious tables. A few minutes into dinner, after all speakers had arrived, he would be the initial speaker, followed by Merrill, whom he had placed second on the speaker's list, enabling him to enact his first move in passing the chalice. Merrill represented the City Council, and would be the presenter of the plaques to New World and Delta Environmental companies. Gangley Enterprises would be formally presented with a check for $207,000,000 from the city, a portion of the bond issue. As each received their plaque or check, they would speak for up to two minutes, no more. They were not required to speak, other than to accept the plaque officially.
The primary presentation would be by Bradley & Bradley Architects, who had submitted the winning design. The hexagonally shaped, six-pad heliport on the top had a highly arced, half-domed roof protecting it from weather. Not a folly feature, it gave a futuristic, space port aspect to the facility that had caught the imagination of the City Council.
Following Bradley & Bradley would be his closing remarks. Harold Moss, Randall Turner, and their wives were on the guest list, but would not receive plaques, although he planned to mention during his remarks their having been of great help in bringing the site to the point of construction.
The award of the construction contract would also be announced tonight. Only those involved in the bidding knew officially which qualified bidder had submitted the lowest bid. The winner, as often happened, was the bidder who submitted during the last hour of the final day bids could be submitted. And since the mayor had access to inside information, he would notify his crony contractor of how high to bid and still win, keeping in mind the amount of the kickback, in this case $150,000. Notwithstanding the size of the project, the lowest bid was much lower than the rest, or than anticipated by his crony contractor. After some stirring of the numbers and reducing an unrealistic profit expectation, he had shown up on the final day with an even lower bid, ensuring that his company’s entire overhead would be covered for the next two years. Tonight, his firm would be announced as winner. None of the other bidders were invited.
Harding decided he was ready. If it went as well as planned, it would be an event long-remembered.

Wilson and Irons of the FBI sat with two other task force members, detective Hicks of the Houston PD, and the undercover agents in the Gangley organization and the city government.
“I want the timing to be capricious, Hicks. The Director feels that public figures should be publicly exposed, and tonight’s affair couldn’t be more optimal. You’ll need to cover the exits and have your twenty agents in position to move when I tell you.”
“Who all are you arresting?”
“Gangley, Costa, Pritchard, Harding, Merrill, Laurel, Turner, and Moss.”
“Who’s Costa?”
“Bryan Costa’s one of Gangley’s henchmen. Anthony here, our deep-cover agent, worked side-by-side with him and Pritchard and witnessed a number of their crimes while minimizing his own involvement. He has full immunity and is one of our key witnesses.”
“You’ve made my day,” Hicks replied.
“What about Hodges, Remington, and Houser?”
“The EPA is begging off on prosecuting them. They had no role in the removal and transport of hazardous waste from the foundry site, nor any foreknowledge. Additionally, there’s the client confidentiality issue, so they’ve decided to limit prosecution for that one to Turner, Moss, and Gangley.”
“True, but when they built a containment wall, they themselves were actively aiding and abetting!”
“Your point’s valid, but EPA feels they did the agency a favor designing an effective cap to affect containment of the slag using Gangley’s funds instead of EPA funds, which they suggested probably would never have been forthcoming anyway. That leaves New World and Delta off the hook. A discussion with Lou McCoy at the Chronicle revealed a key role by Houser’s wife, an investigative reporter there, in bringing Nancy Herrick’s assassin to justice. He also provided us with a copy of Gangley’s council payoff list Mrs. Houser obtained from Mrs. Herrick. Detective Evans of the San Antonio PD added significantly to the consensus that Houser especially should be left alone.”
“I concur entirely,” Hicks commented. “How about reading of the charges, and their rights?”
“In the crowd, do it quietly, so we don’t alert the rest. Once on-stage, after you make your move, stand as close to the microphones as possible. We want them publicly destroyed from the moment of arrest.”
They discussed other details of the landmark seizures.

Over the Rainbow

Mark and Doreen arrived at the Rainbow club just after 6:00 pm, stopping at the entrance. A smartly dressed attendant opened Doreen's door. She held out a gloved hand and he helped her step onto the carpeted walkway. Mark handed the keys to the valet as Doreen took his arm, her hair up with a red ribbon which matched her gown and jewelry. The eight-foot-wide carpet stretched from the curb to the entrance doors, onlookers lining both sides like the Academy awards. As they walked toward the door, all eyes moved to them. Doreen shined in the lighting and comments from men and women alike expressed admiration and approval from the midst. He felt proud, some men leering as if he had stolen a load of gold bricks from Fort Knox and gotten away with it.
As they entered the club, Mark noted that about half of the guests were already inside, grouped mostly within range of one of the five bar islands conveniently positioned to serve the large group. Men with dark tuxes were accompanied by women with gowns and jewelry of every description, an overwhelming display of power and wealth. Houston had it like nowhere else Mark had ever been. One of the great oil centers of the world, its economy provided opportunities to bureaucrats and entrepreneurs alike, and every sort willing to work on salary or by the hour. If you were willing to work and tried hard enough, you could make it in Houston.
"Mark, Doreen!" Ruth hailed from the nearest island. Doreen waved her delicate arm in greeting as they walked toward them.
"Doesn’t Ruth look beautiful, Mark?" She and Doreen kissed each other on the cheek as they joined them. Jess looked like a lumberjack in a tux, tall and broad, with etched face.
"Senator Houser, it's good to see you this evening!" Jess billowed. Absorbing Doreen's glow, he whispered in Mark’s ear,
"We've come for your wife, Chuck,” with a Beetlejuice expression. They laughed and Doreen blushed, having overheard.
"That’s ‘Big Jim’ from Amoco two islands over, at least six inches taller than anyone in the group! Look who’s talking to him."
Mark turned to look.
"Michael! He's already here!”
"He's been here . . . almost half an hour, with Big Jim for most of it. Big Jim doesn’t appear bored either, does he? He's hanging on Michael's every word. The woman wearing the black satin gown with the beaded flowers and the emerald necklace is Tabitha, his wife. She's so thin, she looks like she’d disappear under him."
"As lovely as she is, every night, knowing Michael." Mark added. "Do they know you're here?"
"Yes, they greeted us; we chatted a bit. When I pointed out Big Jim, Michael excused himself and led Tabitha over there. You see why I said it would be great having him here. You and Doreen get your drinks. I need to refresh mine, then we'll walk over and introduce you."
As they approached, Big Jim's back was to them, peering down at Michael and Tabitha as they spoke.
"Jim, let me introduce you to two of my best friends: Jess Remington, and his beautiful wife, Ruth. Jess is the owner of Delta Environmental. This is Mark Houser and his wife, Aphrodite!”
"My name is Doreen," she blushed, as Big Jim kissed her hand. "Michael's a character."
"Yes, I've been enjoying him quite awhile. I understand you’re the one I need to engage about scheduling trials of this Bio-Sparge technology on a few of our sites. Apparently, Delta pulled off a miracle here!"
His Texas drawl was one of the strongest Mark had heard. Big Jim kept looking back at Doreen admiringly like she really was Aphrodite, being careful not to leer. Mark didn't mind. It made him proud to think she was the most beautiful woman in the room. Just about everyone else was also looking every chance they got.
"We're very proud of Bio-Sparge, and it does work miracles compared to any other technology."
"I don't know what we’d have done with the Convention Center property if we hadn't had access to it," Jess commented.
"Mark, why don't you call me this week? I'd like you to look over the case files with some of our people and recommend which sites . . . say four or five to start with . . . you think would be most appropriate for Bio-Sparge­.” He handed Mark and Jess each a card and they responded likewise.
"Certainly. What day would you like me to call?"
"Just ask for my office, and when Jo Beth-my Administrative assistant-takes the call, ask her to set an appointment. I'll tell her to schedule you in the first available wedge. Michael here’s gotten me all worked up about this."
"Jim!" someone shouted above the increasing noise of the crowd, waving his hand. Jim waved back, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.
"Would you excuse me, folks? I’m challenging someone to eighteen holes!" He shook hands patronizingly before leaving.
"It's been a pleasure meeting you and your lovely wives. I can tell they're all King-makers!" He winked at Mark and Doreen, then turned and moved in the direction of his friend.
All six of them stood smiling at one another.
"Four or five sites?" Tabitha asked, as if she didn’t believe it.
"Yes!" Jess could hardly contain his excitement.
"See, you’ll have to buy one or two more systems from me!" Michael laughed.
Mark was still trying to believe his own ears.
"That’s around two million in business right off the get-go!" he approximated.
"Just with Amoco." Jess confirmed. Tabitha looked like she was about to jump out of her gown and heels, not that any man in the room would have minded. She was a looker, and to attract Michael, she had to be as intelligent as she was lovely.
"Michael, you've done it!," she said, swatting him on the rear. She looked like she could be a real pill if given the chance, "He's been wanting to drive a stake in Texas for years . . . ugh! That redheaded woman. What a gaudy gown . . . it looks slutty . . . like it was painted on!" Ruth and Doreen looked first.
"That's Mayor Harding and his new 'child’ bride, Sharon." Ruth told her. They all stared at the flamboyant young redhead wearing a bright gold lame she looked poured into. Her long hair piled high on her head, a diamond amulet hung in the center of her forehead, she mimicked an Indian princess to Doreen, if one ignored the color of her hair. She wore a huge necklace with several strings of diamonds. It might have looked lovely on another woman, but in Doreen’s estimation, it looked gaudy on her, no matter how tight her thighs might be. She blushed at her own thoughts.
"Let’s have a drink and celebrate before the program!" Tabitha continued, clapping her hands and giggling. She was a pill!
At the bar, Tabitha and the girls became absorbed while the men talked about the ease with which the first batch of Bio-Sparge projects had been obtained, and from no less a client than Amoco Oil! As a Rainbow site in Utah, Amoco's name there, had been the first Bio-Sparge demonstration project with the first mobile prototype, Mark wondered if Big Jim had been aware of it.

The Program

Presently, Edith stood at the podium and announced that the program would begin in twenty minutes, suggesting that everyone refresh their drinks and that the presenters be seated on stage during the next ten minutes. Upon entrance, each person was checked off the guest list and given a tag that identified the table number. Mark and Doreen's said simply, “stage.”
"I guess that means all of us," he said.
They ordered fresh drinks and walked to the enormous stage of the Rainbow Club. It stretched almost the entire length of one side of the hall. Unlike the round tables on the main floor, those on the stage were rectangular, running along its length, with the podium in the center; half of the presenters on each side. A few feet behind the tables, lush maroon curtains began at each side, meeting in the center. It was an elegant setting. They noticed that Edith and her husband were already seated at the first table to the right of the podium. Merrill and his wife were seated next to them, with Gangley taking his seat to Merrill's right. On the other side, the mayor and his wife sat nearest the podium, with the architect and his wife next to them. Half the remaining City Council members and their wives were assigned to each of the tables beyond.
On stage, they discovered each person's position noted by a card. They were seated to the right of the podium from the stage perspective next to the architect and his wife. It was an impressive array of dignitaries. An enormous screen was centered in the space behind the podium almost touching the curtains, let down from the ceiling, with the architect’s rendering of the Convention Center thrown upon it
As they sat, Edith stood and announced that salad would be served immediately, followed by the main course, Texas prime rib. Soon, the mayor would address the throng and the proceedings would continue as indicated on the printed program. She called attention to the screen before taking her seat.
An army of waiters emerged in pairs and within minutes, all salads were served. Pitchers of ice water and serving buckets of champagne on ice were strategically spaced along the stage tables, and in the center of each of the room's three-hundred plus tables. The hum of the crowd rose to a soft roar as twelve hundred people ate and spoke. The mayor reviewed a stack of 3x5 cards next to his plate as he ate. Doreen was happy that the podium prevented her from seeing Gangley, or vice versa.
After a time, the army of waiters stormed the tables again, carrying away the salad plates, and replacing them with platters in the shape of Texas. Texas prime occupied the southern half of the platter. In the panhandle lay a baked potato, and to the west string beans were heaped. Michael leaned back to make eye contact with Mark, a wide smile on his face.
"It's like the Thick Cut."
"Thank goodness! " Mark replied, a relieved look on his face. He joined Michael’s laughter remembering Roger and the Double Cut.
"What's so funny?" Doreen asked with an inquiring smile.
"I was remembering Jerry's Casino in North Las Vegas the night Roger tricked me into ordering the Double Cut. Michael's acting up again over there."
"You miss Roger, don't you?"
"Yeah. He's a great guy. I wish he was here too."
A few moments later, Mayor Harding positioned himself behind the podium that separated him from Merrill. The lights dimmed further so that the picture on the screen looked brighter than ever. The hall looked dim from the stage, especially after an irritating spotlight illuminated the podium and speaker. The only two areas lit on the stage were the giant screen with the sprawling Convention Center and the speaker at the podium; there was sufficient light for everyone to continue their meal and enjoy their champagne. All was in readiness for the program.
The mayor began by welcoming everyone to the event, Then he gave the history of the project, from its first conception by the City Council under his leadership, through the selection of Bradley & Bradley as architects, through the purchase of a full six-square block area of Houston in which to build it, an optimum location. He spoke of the surprise setback of several contaminated areas, and how Gangley Enterprises had overcome the problem. No one noticed twenty men dressed in suits moving casually from several directions toward the sides of the stage. Harding spoke only briefly of Bio-Sparge, noting that during the presentation of awards, Mr. Michael Hodges of New World would elaborate further. He brought the crowd forward with numerous rounds of applause. After fifteen minutes of focus, he shocked the entire hall.
"And now, I would like to turn the time over to Mr. Merrill of the City Council, the next mayor of the great city of Houston, Texas."
Merrill almost choked on the bite of prime rib he was chewing. A round of oohs and aahs and a mixed din of verbalized expressions ended with a standing round of applause for the mayor that rocked the Rainbow Club. Merrill rose and shook hands with Mayor Harding with the greatest of sincerity. Sharon smiled with satisfaction. She would now have her husband all to herself in a new life away from the vain, disgusting entanglements of his office. Mark and Doreen were as shocked as the rest of their group. The media, including the Chronicle, was billing the next election as the mayoral fight of the century. Now, the mayor was gracefully stepping aside, and openly handing the chalice to a man who had bitterly opposed him.
Mac Turner and Harold Moss were seated with their wives and others at a table in front of the stage. Also at the table were two of Moss’s superiors in the DOE, and one of Turner’s senior associates at the EPA. As they all stood, joining in the applause following the mayor’s stunning announcement of Merrill, four plainclothesmen wearing earphone plugs walked up to Turner and Moss, showing their badges.
“Mr. Mac Turner?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Harold Moss?”
“Yes.”
“You are under arrest on federal warrants for violation of federal and state regulations pertaining to the handling, removal, transport, and storage of hazardous waste. Could you come with us quietly, please?”
Turner and Moss, looking as if shot in the chest, stood motionless as agents handcuffed them, their wives and associates demanding to know what was going on. The applause died down as they were led away, and the commotion hadn’t been noticed on stage because of the lighting and the sound of the applause.
Merrill moved to the podium, drowned by applause for the mayor and choking on the news. His personal ambitions made the awards seem frivolous at the moment. He wanted to make an acceptance speech instead. Fumbling with the plaques and Gangley's check from the city, he could hardly associate the items at hand with the individuals seated on the stand. The exemplary remarks carefully prepared fled his mind, and he stood in the silence that followed totally flustered. Sensing the situation, first the council members and then the entire hall began laughing. When the joke was clearly on him, he laughed along and relaxed. Looking at Harding he said,
"Whew! Talk about being knocked off your feet with one blow!"
Harding laughed loudly, joined by everyone else. They were all smiling mischievously at him.
"I feel like making an acceptance speech, but this isn't the forum, so let me return to our program tonight. The great city of Houston presents the Award of Excellence to New World, for its successful remediation of our Convention Center site . . . Mr. Michael Hodges accepting for New World."
He stepped back from the podium and began clapping. The hall joined in. Michael walked up to be seized by Merrill, who put his right arm tightly around his waist, holding the plaque up with his left hand. From the near distance, the flashes of media cameras almost blinded the pair. Michael accepted the plaque, shook hands with Merrill, and took the podium as Merrill again shook the mayor's hand before sitting down relieved at being out of the spotlight for a minute or two.
Michael spoke with his characteristic charm, first introducing his wife Tabitha, having her stand and the spotlight thrown upon her. He followed with a one-minute synopsis of how Bio-Sparge came into existence, and moved quickly to his pleasure at meeting and working with Jess and Mark who had now become partners in Houston. He thanked Mac Turner of the EPA and Harold Moss from the DOE for permitting the use of a new technology in the State of Texas, and requested that they stand for recognition. The light swung to the table in the hall, but the table was empty.
“They left,” someone shouted from the adjacent table.
Hodges yielded the podium to Merrill, shook his hand again and returned to his seat next to Tabitha.
“What an embarrassing time to be outside or visiting the restroom!” he commented.
Merrill repeated the same exercise with Jess accepting for Delta Environmental. Jess expressed having been completely astonished by the speed and thoroughness with which Bio-Sparge had remediated such a difficult plume, and convinced all present that they had almost had their Convention Center delayed for several years at a minimum or would have had to choose a completely different site. All of this was conveyed in his deep voice within the two minutes allowed. He called attention to Mark and Doreen, having them stand. Again, the flashes of the cameras blinded them.
"This is the individual who deserves personal gratitude from everyone within these walls tonight. Were it not for his vision and faith in Bio-Sparge, we would not be here tonight. And beside him is his lovely wife Doreen, who I think we would all agree gives Mark an unfair advantage over the rest of us."
Mark and Doreen both smiled during the loudest applause of the evening so far.
"This plaque belongs to you, Mark," Jess closed.
Pointing his finger at Mark, he yelled into the microphone,
“You da ma . . . an!" Typical Jess, the audience loved it.
Jess yielded back to Merrill and sat. Ruth could see the ink drying on the Amoco deal in her mind. Big Jim was being submerged in the grandest marketing caper imaginable!
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, the people of Houston wish to present to Mr. Randall Gangley, owner of Gangley Enterprises, in full payment for the Convention Center site, a check in the amount of two hundred seven million dollars! Mr. Gangley!"
Gangley rose to his full height, walking toward the podium like a senator. Mark couldn't tell which of them had the biggest smile. They shook hands as if they were the emperors of Rome. As media lights again went off like light grenades, Mark noticed a group of men entering the stage from each side. Merrill sat as Randall faced the audience, putting the check into the pocket of his tux. As he was about to speak, the audience waiting in anticipation, Harding, Laurel, and Merrill were surrounded by agents.
“What’s going on?” Gangley demanded, insulted at the disruption, his voice resounding throughout the club.
Four agents, two from each direction, closed in as he stood at the podium astounded.
“Mr. Randall Gangley, you are under arrest . . . ” The entire audience could hear.
“What the hell is this?” he shouted.
“You are under arrest on federal charges of racketeering, kidnapping and interstate transport, for violations of federal and state regulations pertaining to the handling, removal, transport, and storage of hazardous waste, and on state charges for suspicion of murder.”
Gangley attempted to jerk away, but was quickly overcome and cuffed. At the same time, various charges were being read to Laurel, Mayor Harding, and Merrill. The audience broke into astonished conversations of utter shock and disbelief.
Mark, Jess, and Michael all looked at each other, petrified. The government had learned about the slag! There were agents all around them, and they held their breath, certain that they would be next. Mark looked at Doreen, also in a state of shock.
“Did you have something to do with this?” Mark asked.
“I didn’t know about it. I don’t how they found out about everything. I had nothing to do with this, Mark. I swear!”
One of the men stood behind the two of them. Looking at Doreen, he extended his right hand, resting his left on Mark’s shoulder. They both froze. He smiled.
“Hello, Mrs. Houser. At last, we meet. I’m detective Hicks of Houston PD.”
“Oh, Detective. I’m pleased to meet you,” she said, accepting his handshake. She could feel Mark leering. Michael and Jess didn’t say a word.
“I’m proud to meet you also, Mark. I have something that will give your wive a boost for the Chronicle’s next edition. This is a list of all those arrested today, and the list of charges for each . . . ” He passed a folded printout to her. “Thanks for all your help.”
Hicks shook Mark’s hand, then left. By now, almost everyone in the club was standing as the arrested were conducted through the crowd. The arrests had been videotaped, shot by reporters of all stripes from newspapers, radio and television stations, and an array of others. As the din of the audience continued, Mark spoke with Jess and Michael, who suggested they all leave. It took more than an hour to get out of the building, secure their vehicles, and escape the madness.

Revenge

The late night news on every radio and television station in Houston carried the story, airing footage or tape of the dramatic breakup of the largest corruption ring in Houston history. Mark, Jess, and Michael together with their wives, had driven to Jess’s home, embroiled in conversation concerning the probability of their being subsequently arrested.
“It’s a question of legality versus ethics: the “letter of the law” versus “the spirit of the law”, Hodges said. “Only the latter: “the spirit of the law” is subject to ethics.”
“What are you saying,” Doreen asked.
“I’m arguing that we did the ethical thing. The ‘letter’ demanded that we report discovery of the slag as soon as we encountered it, but we all know what would have resulted: the EPA would still be entangled in a milieu of options about what action to take–not legal action, but containment–and it would still be there, leachate developing and a plume spreading down gradient. The “spirit of the law” relates to its intent, and what is that? It’s preservation of the environment. Cajoling Gangley into paying for a valid containment approach satisfies both the intent and the spirit of the law; it was the ethical thing to do. Serendipitously, it also allowed us to continue the project, which translates into avoiding loss of the revenue involved; that would be the argument of a federal prosecutor. However, capable defense counsel could focus the jury’s attention on the relevant issue, the environment; it’s the only issue that’s relevant within a societal context.”
“That’s an astute analysis,” Mark said. “I don’t know that I could have articulated it so clearly, but it’s an accurate representation of what motivated us.”
They discussed Hicks’s approach of Doreen and Mark, and the help Doreen had provided after she related her and Mark’s role in attempting to save Nancy, and her helping bring Wally to justice.
“Do you think Gangley will suspect we turned him in?” Michael asked the others.
“We maintained client confidentiality throughout the project, so I don’t see what grounds there would be in his mind.” Jess argued.
“Who knew about the wall?” Doreen asked.
“Many people,” Mark said, “but most didn’t know its purpose, only a handful: Doug, us, Gangley, and whomever he told.”
“Gangley wouldn’t even tell his right hand anything it didn’t need to know,” Jess exclaimed, “so the source would have to lie outside his organization.”
“Moss wouldn’t have said anything, nor Turner. Their asses were on the line; they were the perpetrators. With full scientific comprehension of what would have been the consequences–had we not found them out–they used their fiduciary government positions to make the crimes possible; they did it for money, and only for money. They’ll likely receive the stiffest sentences.” Michael observed.
“What about all of those truckers who hauled the slag? You know they knew what they were doing!” Doreen said.
“They were on the payroll of the contractor that won the Convention Center bid,” Jess said. “They could be the source, but it would be job suicide for them; possible, but not likely.”
They watched as footage of the arrests on stage was periodically replayed within new contexts by the media. The phone rang, and they became anxious again. Ruth answered.
“It’s that detective. He said Patricia told him you two were here, and he wants to talk to you, Doreen.” The room fell deathly silent as Doreen took the phone.
“Hello, Detective.” she answered. She stood, listening–jotting something down-for what seemed like an eternity to everyone else.
“They already announced the walk tomorrow, but I really appreciate this list,” they heard her say, “I’m writing the story tonight after we end our meeting. Even more, I appreciate your setting our minds at rest about their involvement. We had concerns; it was kind of you to allay them, to think of us. I thank you, we thank you, for that.” After a further exchange, she hung up, all eyes upon her.
“No worries, Guys!” she said, relieved. A common sigh of relief flooded the room.
“Why is that the case?” Michael asked.
“As you reasoned,” she replied, “you had no obligation to report it; he was your client. Installing the slurry wall is a different matter, involving you directly, but the EPA’s glad it’s done, and they’re refusing to prosecute. They’re only going after Harold, Turner, and Gangley. For us . . . it’s over!”
“Disencumbered! Damned straight!” Jess yelled. The room broke into expressions of relief . . . and nervous laughter.
Shortly after, Mark and Doreen left.
“I’ve still got a story to write!” she said, “ . . . and it’s late!”
“Well, let me give you a hug, before you run off, Girl.” Ruth said.
Tabitha jumped from her seat. “Me too; I don’t know if I’ll have another chance before we leave.”
Mark felt the report from his shoulder when Hodges big arms encircled him.
“You did good, my man! We all did!”
“I’m going to miss having you around,” Mark said, “We couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Oh, I’ll be around. This was just the opening round; you still have a city to conquer, so we’ll chat often. Next time, though, it’s your’s and Jess’s turn to come to Vegas. Jess still hasn’t had the opportunity to enjoy our prime rib out there!”
“The Double Cut?” Mark asked.
“Nothing less!”
They roared. Looking back, Mark noticed Michael and Tabitha were lingering, and Jess was breaking out the wine.
Neither Mark nor Doreen wanted wine. Doreen was anxious to call and speak with Lou, then get her story written and e-mailed to the paper. Mark was anxious to sit, alone, in the den, and drink as much of a six-pack as he could before crashing. Maybe Roy Roger's voice would help him unwind, too.
The next day, he and Doreen went to accept Hicks’s offer to position them close enough for Doreen to snap the prime shot when the arrested were walked from the federal courthouse to a van for transfer back to jail after bond was either set or denied. Hicks had called Doreen earlier to inform her Lou had spoken to him, claiming Bard at the Chronicle had killed Doreen’s story! He’d also tried to insist “off-the-record” that Lou allow no Chronicle reporters or photographers there during the walk. Lou threatened to resign, Hicks said, and assured Bard that several others at the paper would follow, but Bard stood his ground. Faced with that attitude, Lou had phoned Hicks, saying he had called in all his chips to to run the story without Bard learning of it until the paper was on the street. He asked Hicks to arrange for a Chronicle photographer to snap the prime shot in such a way that neither Bard, nor Gangley’s entourage, could see it taken. If Bard saw, while watching the walk on TV, he’d be onto Lou’s insurrection. Hicks had told Lou he’d make it happen.
“It will be easy for your photographer to get the shot as they board to be brought back.”he informed her, and I’ll arrange for a monitor in an adjacent room so you can watch the proceedings.
“I want to take the shot, myself.” she informed him.
“There’s no place you can stand without being seen by them on this end,” he had told her. “Let me see what I can figure out; I’ll get back to you.”
The night before, a judge they now knew must be dirty had set bail for Harding, Laurel, Merrill, and Gangley on the state charges. Mayor Harding and Edith Laurel had been released on only $5,000 bail. The Convention Center bribe had been Laurel’s first foray into corruption (at least that they knew of), and there were no federal charges pending against Harding. But Gangley, Merrill, Moss, and Turner were still held without release until appearing before a federal judge on an array of federal charges.
Doreen, Mark accompanying her, was seated in a room apart from the arraignment; she watched on a monitor, due to the necessity of Gangley and Bard not knowing she was present. She would then be conveyed outside by Hicks to shoot the walk; he would do this before the crowd of reporters and others besieged the area. There was no interest in preventing the formation of a crowd. The prosecutors wanted as much negative press and talk throughout the city as possible to permanently destroy the reputations of those men.
As they watched, Mac Turner and poor Harold had bail set at $100,000 each. They were both suspended from their positions in federal and state government.
“Look, Mark! That Pritchard fellow is Scarface.”
“He looks like a scar-face! You and Nancy picked a good pejorative for him!”
Merrill was released on only $5,000 bail; somehow, his colleagues at the law firm persuaded the judge to throw out federal charges of racketeering. They were exasperated.
“He’s a Cloak and Dagger man if there ever was such a thing!” Mark said
“The one caveat is that he can kiss his mayoral aspirations goodbye!” She observed.
Gangley and his henchmen were held without bail. It would be a long time, if ever, before they walked the streets again. Likely, they would all be walking “the mile.”
“Justice at last!” Doreen was thrilled.
Hicks appeared to escort them outside ahead of the crowd.
“I’m putting you in position inside this van,” he said, “I’ve got it innocuously parked near the exit, but on the side opposite of where we’re corralling the crowd. You can take all the pictures you want right through the windows. This make us even, right; especially after the trouble I went to finding the glass cleaner and wiping them down for you?”
“No, we’re not,” Doreen said, “I’m even more in your debt, now!”
Soon, the door opened and a forlorn Pritchard and Costa walked out to begin their escorted, 50-foot, public walk to the vehicle that would take them back to jail. Federal agents had made certain the walk exposed the felons to the crowd long enough for everyone to get pictures, shove microphones their way, and tape them for Houston-the nation, for that matter-to see. The national networks were heavily represented.
Less than a minute after Pritchard, Costa, Merrill and Gangley emerged. Mark shifted just behind the open sliding door to the van, out of view, scanning the crowd.
Merrill was doing his best to look insulted. He made numerous statements to the press, as he walked, about the “groundless” charges, all of which had been “politically motivated.”
While Doreen snapped pictures as fast as she could, Mark suddenly heard a sharp, metallic “thump” on the other side of the van. He glanced back, thinking one of the officers had bumped it, but didn’t see anyone through the windows. The angle of the sun, optimum for Doreen’s photography, made it difficult to see behind the van.
Gangley deliberately resisted being led by the two agents on either side of him, getting their teeth on film. He sneered and jumped at the jeering crowd. Mark imagined what Randall would do with a couple of well-placed grenades if he had the chance, especially to the reporters shoving microphones in his face. He managed to land a fairly impressive gob of spit on the cheek of one of them. The impertinent fellow jumped back, hitting the guy beside him in the face with his elbow before landing on his ass. As he lay there momentarily, wiping spittle from his face, Gangley leered with satisfaction.
“Aren’t you a dumb shit! he said.
Appearing as if from nowhere, a shadowy figure moved quickly alongside the front of the van, catching Mark’s attention. Mark studied him, expecting it to be an officer maintaining security . . . until he noticed the atypical uniform: a Green Beret outfit. Before Mark became cognizant of the implications, a young man, now in full view, gave a sharp pull, followed by a terrible roar as he lifted one of the biggest chain saws Mark had ever seen above his head. Three painted, black bands sloped across his face, which-to Mark-seemed reminiscent of Arnold Schwarzenegger in Predator.
“An eye for an eye!” he shouted above the screaming chain, now moving toward . . . Gangley? . . . so rapidly that he caught everyone off guard.
Fully revved up, the chainsaw had the unnerving presence of a mechanical raptor. The sound was insufferable. Gangley and those with him spun around, aghast at the assailant. The crowd became a shouting, colliding mass, and those attempting to flee jostled with others struggling to get a better shot. The path to the van became blocked. As they attempted to jerk Gangley through, someone’s foot became entangled with his leg chain, causing him to fall, pulling one of the agents on top of him.
Seeing the hopeless confusion overtaking the jumbled crowd, without thinking, Mark leaped out the door of the van, and attacked the assailant from behind, intending to throw him to the ground. The agents escorting Gangley were blocked by additional officers running straight for them. They’d been concentrated at the opposite end of the walk loading the others into the van. Movement became as difficult as in a traffic backup for the same reason: the crowd looking on.
Just when Mark had almost overcome him, the arm injured in the accident six months earlier went limp for an instant, dropping to his side. This single second allowed the assailant to twist himself free of Mark’s grasp, and he lunged toward Gangley again.

Lou was fuming, so angry with Bard, he wanted to smash his face! The idea that he would decline publication of Doreen’s story was unconscionable! How dare he? It violated every principle of journalism he knew, not to mention the business interests of the Chronicle. Her story was firsthand: a veritable scoop resulting from being inside the story, a scoop of SCOOP dimensions. He didn’t know what had come over Bard, but he had a good idea who was responsible: the man he was watching on the screen at the moment, accompanied by four smiling federal agents, two on each arm.
His attention became more fixed as a loud, roaring sound suddenly dominated the broadcast. He couldn’t see where it was coming from. The walk was at the back of the courthouse. Had the power failed, followed by a giant generator that deafened the senses kicking on? No, the crowd was going berserk; not a typical reaction to a generator. Then he saw Gangley fall forward, disappearing in a tumble of agents. Officers were running toward them from all directions. What the hell was going on?
Suddenly, the camera veered sharply left and he saw a man with a chainsaw being attacked by another man. Was that . . . Mark, Doreen’s husband?
“Well, fuck me . . . what the f....” he shouted, as Mark struggled with the assailant, who began trying to bring the saw down against him. Lou heard the assailant yelling something, but couldn’t get the words above the din of the crowd and the awful roar overwhelming the sensitive electronics of the microphones. The man broke free of Mark and raised the saw into the air high above his head. Now he was running toward Gangley; that was obvious. The agents had changed direction and now appeared to be trying to regain the door to the building, the same door they had stepped from only moments before. Why wasn’t anyone tackling the man with the saw? Lou answered that question himself, wondering if he would be that stupid. The assailant was upon them, bringing the saw down, narrowly missed the face of one of the agents, but it jerked his suit sleeve, throwing shards of material into the air. He managed to save his face, but the whirling chain still caught and damaged his hand; it also gashed Gangley’s suit and threw blood helter-skelter from the chain as it ripped into the flesh of Gangley’s left shoulder. Lou heard him shout in agony, jerking against his escorts in the attempt to reach the door. The crowd was frozen at a distance, watching in horror as the the attacker brandished the saw back and forth at other officers moving toward him, causing them to jump back.
“Remember the bayou, asshole? Remember the Logans?” Lou heard the assailant scream above the saw.
“His voice must have been picked up by the microphone of that reporter just inside the door; shit, he’s part of the problem with them trying to get in!” Someone else must have agreed, he thought, because the reporter was almost thrown back by the agents between Gangley and the door.
Again, the assailant lunged forward, with a clear arc to bring the saw down into the middle of Gangley and the agents, when Mark again ran into view from the left side of the screen. Grabbing him around the neck with one arm, and wresting the saw from his grasp with the other, Lou saw him toss the saw away from them, Mark was much stronger than the assailant, and with saw out of the way, Mark threw the man to the ground. Immediately, one of the officers grabbed and turned off the saw, as several more pounced upon the assailant. This time, Mark’s arm didn’t fail him. Gangley had turned back, watching from the safety of the building After they cuffed the assailant, Mark rested on his knee before rising again.
Lou was astonished at the footage. He saw Gangley look at Mark for just an instant; the cringe of pain on his face changed to an expression of sincere gratitude before the attendants pulled him inside the door to begin working on the chainsaw wound. A stream of reporters, mikes in hand, began converging upon Mark. Then Low saw Doreen come running up behind him.
“That’s Chip Logan!” she shouted as she grabbed Mark, helping him to stand. Her voice was picked up by a dozen microphones.
“He almost got me with that thing!” Mark replied, glad it was over, “I mean, he came so close.”
“Let’s leave, now,” Doreen said, but the reporters blocked them on all sides. Lou chuckled as he watched; the idea of Doreen allowing any one of them to stick their nose in her scoop of the year was very humorous!
“Fat Chance, suckers!” He said aloud, looking around to see if anyone outside his office had overheard.
Agents with hands outstretched moved the crowd aside to thank Mark for preventing more serious injury and possible death for them and their prisoner. Hicks began drawing reporters away by answering questions.
“Now, Mark!” Hicks said.
Taking Doreen by the arm, Mark led her nonstop into the building. Officers delayed their most tenacious pursuers while they walked to reach the other side where they had parked their car earlier, a good move, because no one was waiting for them as they left the building.
Randle Ted Gangley had been attacked by an “unknown” assailant, all other papers reported; a man wielding a chain-saw. Only the Chronicle ran a story–one among many exclusives–enabling the public to know and understand the cowardly, blackmailing car thief named, Chip Logan, an erstwhile mental patient, who “claimed” to have watched his parents killed in the same manner by the very men arrested with Randle Gangley, but he failed to lift a finger to save them.
“Desperately needing to vindicate his soul,” Doreen wrote, “in one moment of courageous rage, he attempted to settle the score.” The ironic thing was: had it not been for Mark Houser, he might have succeeded!
He might have succeeded in ending the life of the man who had ordered the Logan’s deaths, and that of a sweet redhead named, Nancy, but was foiled in the attempt. Now, it would fall to the state of Texas, perhaps its electric chair, to finish the job.

Epilogue

Mark remembered the promise to Doug:
“A six-pack won’t be enough,” Doug had said, “but a standing dinner invitation including a minimum of half-a-dozen of Doreen’s margaritas might get me moving today.”
“Done!” Mark had said.
“Done!” Doug had agreed.
Tonight, Mark kept his promise. Doug was over for dinner, and Doreen’s margaritas were flowing.
“Doreen, I have to say, no one makes them like you do.” Doug remarked, squeezing half a lime into his glass.
“Well thank you, Doug. We love them, so I get a great deal of practice.”
“The candied ham, sweet potatoes, and sweet peas are all my favorites.”
“That’s why I made them. I asked Mark, and he told me what you like.”
“You know how to lay out a spread.”
They sat sipping the cool drinks, reflecting about the accomplishments at the Convention Center site, the incredible arrest of the corruption ring, the attempt on Gangley’s life by Chip Logan, and the furor afterward that had rocked Houston.
“Things have a way of working themselves out, don’t they?” Doug observed.
“It gave me peace,” Doreen said, “I think it also gave others peace: Nancy’s family, Detective Evans, Chip Logan, in spite of himself; there’s no telling how many we’re unaware of. We set a new record for sales of the Chronicle, and circulation’s up. Lou and I received the credit. It was Metro all the way. Bard resigned during the roil.”
“Doreen scooped everyone with personal knowledge and the tips they gave her.” Mark added.
They sat, watching Patricia chase Tim around the back yard, as the sun sent long shadows creeping across the deck. Doreen knew Gangley wouldn’t attempt any reprisals for the revealing articles she’d written. His highest principle was loyalty, and Mark saving his life was a debt he couldn’t repay. There probably would be some reprisals ordered from the inside, but they wouldn’t be against the Houser family.
“Everyone seems to have gotten what they deserved.” Doug said. “Merrill’s sharp, but he’ll never be mayor.”
“Sharon will finally have her husband to herself, after all.” Doreen said, folding her enamoring, brown locks into the helmet. “Chip will be back on the street, a lot healthier, once he harmonizes his new self-image with the past.”
Finishing their drinks, they strolled to the curb, where two new Harley-Davidson Dynawide Glides awaited them, glistening in the late afternoon sun.
“Jess couldn’t be happier,” Doug said, “Delta’s backlog is through the roof, you know I’m on top of the world, now that we both have Dynawides, and can finally ride together.” He climbed on proudly. “I love the ox-blood red you chose, Mark, but it doesn’t fit my personality.”
“That Black Beauty looks great, with you in the saddle, Doug!” Doreen reassured him, “We just won’t leave from the 50's Diner!” Genuine laughter felt good to the three of them.
“Why not? It might be enthralling; no telling whom we’d meet!” Doug said, as they laughed.
“I love the smell of new leather,” Mark said, swinging his leg over the long, low seat, “Let’s see how yours performs alongside mine.” Doreen swung on behind him.
“Patricia, you two stay out of trouble,” she said, plugging her helmet headphones into the stereo, “We’ll be back later.”
“We will!” She yelled. The children stood wide-eyed and motionless as the two thunder machines electrified the air around them.
As they rolled smoothly along the road out of Woods, accompanied by Willie Nelson’s On the Road Again, Doreen reveled in the breeze massaging her face. The margaritas they enjoyed before the ride had been well-chilled; it was nice to feel cool in Houston. Opening up on the freeway, they quickly faded into the horizon, enveloped in the bruising thunder only Harley owners can fully appreciate.
_____________


Copyright 2008, by Michael M. Hobby
All Rights Reserved.