Part 21 (2/2)
Wes had put his head back in the doorway. A car outside was making noise, so it wasn't obvious how much he could hear.
”I haven't been doing anything with your daughter.”
”You weren't kissing on her at the Christmas party?”
”Where did you hear that?” Karrie asked, outraged that our rendezvous on the sofa had become public knowledge.
”Never you mind, missy. You were acting like a wh.o.r.e.”
”Oh, Daddy. Grow up. This is so embarra.s.sing. Okay. So we were making out at the Christmas party. We had too much to drink. So what?”
”I can't believe you tried to cancel the committee,” Ben Arden said.
”I'll make some calls. If there's been a misunderstanding, I'll put it to rights. But I'm not going to forget about Christmas.”
Haston stepped out the front door, forcing my former father-in-law away from his listening post. After the door closed, Ben slapped his hands together several times as if he'd just cleaned up.
Karrie said, ”Sorry about that.”
”Do you?” I asked. ”Have any symptoms?”
”No.”
”Good. I hope you don't get any.”
”Thanks, Jim.”
35. GETTING SUCKED INTO THE HAY BALER.
Icalled Jane's again, but Hillburn and Dobson must have gotten through to them before I did. n.o.body would talk to me. When I asked for Gray or Stuart, I was told they would both be in meetings for the rest of the day. I called Southeast Travelers Freight in Chattanooga, but that remained a dead end. They referred me to their law firm, and from there I was asked to write a letter requesting an interview.
When we still hadn't heard from Marge DiMaggio by eleven, I said, ”Does your aunt know I'm on a timer?”
”I don't know what she knows. I'll go see her. You stay here and-”
”No way. I'm coming with you.”
Stephanie insisted on driving, but rather than squeeze into Holly's cramped Pontiac, we took the Lexus. Neither of us relaxed as we cruised up Highway 202 past lush farmland and treed hillsides, talking at length about our quest, painstakingly revisiting the details of our phone calls. I was virtually certain the source of our problems came from Jane's California Propulsion, Inc., even more so after the way Dobson and Hillburn retreated when they found out we didn't have any physical proof that their company was implicated. ”b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!” I said.
”You may be overreacting simply because you didn't like them,” Stephanie said. ”I didn't like them, either. But don't let that affect your judgment. It might not be them.”
”I'm not overreacting.”
”I'm just trying to help you do this with your reason and not your emotion.”
”Easy for you to say.”
Much like the tough-nut farmer who cuts off his trapped arm with a piece of tin to keep the hay baler from pulling his whole body in, I was developing an incredible will to survive, to beat this any way I could.
After learning we'd spoken to Charlie Drago, the Chattanooga Fire Department PIO called us and handed out the official CFD account of the Southeast Travelers incident, sounding as smooth as melting b.u.t.ter and as sharp as a stomach cramp.
Her statement, which sounded as if she were reading it verbatim off a script, was riddled with buzzwords, evasive language, and carefully sculpted commentary. Yes, they did have three casualties, but whether or not those casualties were related to the Southeast Travelers incident or even to one another was still a question to be determined by law. Yes, the families were suing the s.h.i.+pping company in ongoing separate actions.
When I prodded for an off-the-record opinion, she would only say Charlie Drago had undergone psychiatric hospitalization after the incident and the last she'd heard he was still on Prolixin and Haldol, which I knew to be antipsychotic medications. I knew right away she was giving me this information to discredit Drago, and guess what: it worked.
”You need more help besides me,” Stephanie said at one point. ”If people are going to be playing games, you should have somebody to look out for your best interests. Someone able to speak to the media, too.”
”Who would you suggest?”
”A friend. Somebody you trust.”
There was a pitiful dearth of candidates. It was bad enough to die when everyone around me was going to keep on going, but to die realizing I had no real real friends left was a patch of rough pavement I didn't need just now. Stan Beebe or Joel McCain would have been my logical choices. It would have been a perfect job for Chief Newcastle, but we were a month late. friends left was a patch of rough pavement I didn't need just now. Stan Beebe or Joel McCain would have been my logical choices. It would have been a perfect job for Chief Newcastle, but we were a month late.
Ben or Ian might watch my back, but they were both young, and I wasn't sure they could handle it.
The thought occurred to me that I might call one of the fifteen or twenty women I'd dated in the past couple of years, but I discarded that notion. I'd made a pretty good mess of all that.
As we drove, I spotted a kingfisher with a tufted crown sitting on a wire alongside the highway. The little b.a.s.t.a.r.d probably wasn't going to survive the winter, but he didn't seem to care, was intent on taking the summer minute by minute.
Maybe we could stop this syndrome; maybe we couldn't. Whatever happened, I determined not to go down in a panic. I would do this with dignity. Same as that kingfisher on the wire.
Suddenly a greater sense of calm descended on me than ever before. The one big mystery we all face-our own death-was right in front of me. My mood today was a strange mixture of detached serenity and introspective hysteria. Serenity because I finally knew my end. Hysteria because time was running low. And because I'd always been, down deep, p.r.o.ne to hysteria. Maybe that was why I'd become a firefighter, in order to confront my basic nature.
Canyon View Systems was on a tree-filled campus in Redmond, three large buildings, an artistic collage of steel and gla.s.s and neo-something-or-other architecture. It was situated on a hillside, but most of the property had been graded until it was nearly flat, three or four wooded acres, no structure older than ten years, a score of sixty- and eighty-foot Douglas firs to shade the buildings in summer and keep out the worst of the winter storms, two fountains, a pond, and a bewildered flock of Canada geese s.h.i.+tting in the parking lot.
Stephanie swung past the guard gate and parked. As we got out of the Lexus, we found ourselves pursued by a heavyset guard in uniform. I had the feeling if we'd been getting out of my pickup truck instead of a Lexus, he might have pulled his pistol.
”Guess we were supposed to stop at the gate,” I said.
”I never have before.”
A Jeep roared up behind us with two more guards. ”You been shoplifting?” I joked to Stephanie.
”This is crazy,” she snapped.
I kept quiet while Stephanie alternately chastised and argued with them. She was a doctor. Mrs. DiMaggio was her aunt. She had business here, and furthermore, if we weren't allowed inside immediately, she would make it her goal in life to ensure that all three men lost their jobs. I believed her. They must have, too, because they left us alone, though one of the men from the Jeep trailed us into the building, pretending to pick up litter on the grounds when I looked back at him.
Inside, a Muzak version of ”I Got You, Babe” spilled from hidden speakers. There was a large atrium reception and waiting area with two twelve-foot bamboo plants and a tall oak-and-bra.s.s counter with a woman behind it.
After we got past the receptionist, we went up a long open staircase and along a corridor full of offices. Although DiMaggio's door was locked, we could see through a narrow, vertical window that n.o.body was inside.
”I think I know where she might be,” Stephanie said.
I followed her to a room two doors down, paint-splattered canvas tarps on the floor, a ladder in one corner, DiMaggio standing alongside two men in coveralls, the three of them flipping through carpet samples on a metal ring.
”Stephanie!” she said. ”Stephanie, darling. What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were flying today.”
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