Part 12 (1/2)
”Britney? Don't-” But she was already out of the room.
The razor I shaved with every morning had been my father's. I hadn't thought about that in a long while. Yesterday's visit had shaken loose a lot of ancient feelings.
He'd been a hard disciplinarian in my early years. Punishment had rained down on me w.i.l.l.y-nilly, even though as a child I'd bought into the Sixth Element of the Saints of Christ hook, line, and sinker. For years I believed I was headed for heaven and that if I died prematurely, I would meet Jesus Christ at the pearly gates. For years I'd taken a whack on the bottom for every little infraction.
The crack in my faith began the week my mother vanished, the week my father told me it was my fault.
Later, one night on a drive home from a Saints sojourn in Oregon, my mother asleep, my father and me listening to show tunes on some funky Oregon Public Radio channel-I was twelve and my mother had returned by then-I asked about his p.r.o.nouncement four years earlier that my mother's departure had been my fault, since by this time she'd confirmed I'd had nothing to do with her leaving.
He swore he'd never said any such thing.
When I insisted he had, that he'd said it more than once, he dismissed my sputtering objections as absurd, yet I knew what he'd said. It hadn't been out of my mind for a day.
He said I'd been young and emotionally distraught after my mother's departure and that my memory was a child's and faulty. I didn't buy it. I'd memorized thousands of Bible verses without being accused of having a faulty memory. Although we never spoke of it again, his denial haunted me, had in fact been the linchpin in my decision to run away from Six Points.
”Morning, Mr. Swope.”
”Morning, Morgan. I hope you don't mind; I'm going to be home today, but I'll be running errands and making phone calls. I would appreciate it if you could be with us while I'm doing that.”
She blushed. ”I'd love to.” Britney began bouncing up and down and squealing. Allyson took it a little more calmly, though I saw her exchange a meaningful glance with Morgan.
We had breakfast together, the girls and I. Morgan, who was as skinny as six o'clock, claimed she'd already had breakfast at home, though I doubted she had. The girls babbled, while I pondered the end of my life and, for all intents and purposes, the end of theirs as they knew it.
Before we were done, Mayor Haston phoned. ”Jim. The King County Executive wants to have a meeting today at the mayor's office. Twelve noon. Can you be there?”
”Absolutely.” I was delighted things were moving so quickly. We were going to whip this rabid dog before he bit anyone else.
”I talked to Brashears last night. He'll be there. And one of McCain's doctors is coming.”
”You've been busy.”
”I'm worried.”
”Good. I am, too.”
We drove to the fire station, the four of us shoulder-to-shoulder in my pickup. The engine was in, but the medics were out, which left three people on duty. Ben Arden was working in Ian's spot, along with Karrie and a volunteer. In the event of a fire, more volunteers would pop out of the woodwork to help. At least that was the plan. They were all on pagers.
I went into the office and looked up the fire report Chief Newcastle had written for the truck accident last February. The report said the chicken truck was owned by Alsace Poultry, based in Kent, Was.h.i.+ngton. I already knew Holly had driven for Continental Freightways a.s.sociated, a company out of Seattle.
When I called Continental Freightways, I was connected to a harried-sounding man who answered, ”Continental.” After I began to explain who I was and what I wanted, he interrupted. ”Last winter? What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”
”We have someone here who's sick, and we think it's from that accident. We're just trying to figure out what the product is that's making our people sick.”
”Hey, look. I'm busy here. Hazardous materials are not our gig. Why don't you go down the street to Consolidated? They might know something.”
”It was your company's truck. Holly Riggs was driving.”
”Just goes to show they shouldn't be letting girls behind the wheel.” He laughed. ”Call Consolidated.”
The line went dead.
”b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
”Daddy, you said a bad word.” Having led the charge through the fire station, Allyson was behind me now, trailed by Britney and Morgan, who was trying to keep her cool, although it was clear she was overpowered by both the hardware and the stark immediacy of my profession. You could still smell smoke in the station from a fire we'd had three days ago.
We could look into the chickens if Stephanie found a cause for it, but until further notice, I was going to concentrate on whatever product or combination of products had been inside Holly's truck. I found it much more credible that a chemical had caused our problem than chickens. Our reports hadn't included a copy of the manifest for either truck. There had been no reason for it. I remembered a few things about the contents of Holly's rig and had been wracking my brain all day yesterday and last night trying to recall a specific logo I'd seen on one of the boxes. I knew I'd read about the company in the Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal just a day or two after the wreck, so it had stuck in my mind. The logo consisted of a winged lion inside a black circle. Today, without further thought, the name of the company popped into my head. Jane's California Propulsion. I looked it up on the Internet and found my memory was dead-on-Jane's California Propulsion, Inc. In San Jose. just a day or two after the wreck, so it had stuck in my mind. The logo consisted of a winged lion inside a black circle. Today, without further thought, the name of the company popped into my head. Jane's California Propulsion. I looked it up on the Internet and found my memory was dead-on-Jane's California Propulsion, Inc. In San Jose.
Dialing one of the phone numbers provided on their Web page, I found myself getting shuffled from office to office. After explaining my problem to several individuals and then waiting for almost ten minutes while the earpiece spewed out easy-listening rock, I finally managed to get connected to a Mr. Stuart in their safety division.
”Mr. Stuart? I'm Lieutenant James Swope with the North Bend Fire and Rescue in Was.h.i.+ngton State. Some of our people are having health problems we've connected to a truck accident last February outside of town here.”
”That's too bad, Lieutenant, but I don't see how that has anything to do with us. We work with rocket propulsion systems.”
”There was a box on the truck with your company's logo on it. At least, I'm pretty sure there was. It was a big accident, and we know quite a few of the packages on board were damaged. Some of them were leaking. We're trying to ascertain what sorts of products you might have been s.h.i.+pping.”
”Well, the first thing you need to recognize is that we weren't s.h.i.+pping anything last February. Most all of our trans-state s.h.i.+pping takes place during the warmer months.”
”You sure?”
”Positive. All of that goes through our office here. Sorry we couldn't be more helpful.”
”Sorry to bother you.”
So much for slap-shot, hit-or-miss technique. I'd do the rest of this by the book. One step at a time. Making sure of my facts before I wasted any more time.
”Come on, guys,” I said to the girls, who were still in the room. ”We're going to take a little drive.”
Seattle was thirty miles away. These days with all the new housing developments infringing on the green hills above Snoqualmie and Issaquah and with the traffic feeding off Highway 18, I-90 was a mess. Still, it wasn't until Mercer Island that we found ourselves stuck behind a mile of vehicles, the cab of my truck filling up with the odor of exhaust. My headache was worse than ever.
So this was it.
The last week of my life.
Sitting in a traffic jam. Terrific.
23. ALL THE CHICKEN STRANGLERS.
Continental was located in a dusty industrial section of town several miles south of Seattle's core, just off of East Marginal Way on Colorado Avenue, gray, dingy buildings and storage yards for blocks in either direction. We heard the nearby toot of a train whistle, and while I parked in the lot, Allyson and Britney watched a 727 coming in low for a landing at nearby Boeing Field.
I left the girls in the truck and went into a narrow building, where two men were sorting paperwork and slapping staplers at a long wooden counter. A woman sat at a desk on the far wall. n.o.body looked up.
”North Bend Fire and Rescue. I called earlier?”
The man who spoke was maybe forty, husky, with thickset shoulders, knuckles like new potatoes, a wide face, and blue Steve McQueen eyes a susceptible woman might fall into. His curly hair was a faded rust color. He wore jeans and a plaid work s.h.i.+rt. His name was Cleve according to his name tag, and he didn't look at me. Not once. Not until I started in on him.
”What can we do for you?” he asked.
”I need to see a manifest for one of your trucks that was involved in a wreck outside North Bend last February.”