BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (9 page)

At the end of the table near the fireplace their other guest attacked a thick slab of rare steak. For someone with such a prominent reputation in his profession, Dr. Adam Silva was surprisingly young. A graduate of the University of Maryland program in toxicology, he looked to be barely in his early forties.

“A few other people, including my daughter and her family, will be stopping by in about half an hour for dessert,” Adair said. “But I wanted you to have a little time with Adam first. He does contract work all over the country, so we’re lucky that he lives so close by, in Warren.”

Hunter said, “Dan tells me you’ve reached some surprising conclusions about that Nature Legal Advocacy report.”

Silva’s eyes twinkled behind his squarish glasses as he finished chewing and swallowing a piece of steak. “‘Surprising.’ Well, I suppose that’s one word you might use.”

“What word would you use?”

Silva set down his fork. “How about ‘criminal’?”

Hunter leaned forward. “Tell me.”

For a moment, Boggs got nervous when he saw the Honda SUV parked near the cabin. He moved slowly up to the vehicle and looked inside. It was packed with household items. Which confirmed what Rusty heard at the diner: They were moving out.

He also remembered what Dawn said: that while he was unconscious at the diner, they had driven off in a red Toyota Camry. A different car—which wasn’t here, now. And he could see no lights on inside the cabin through the front window.

Maybe he was in luck.

Shivering in the sub-freezing cold, he crept toward the front door, stepping gingerly over twigs and dry leaves that might make noise. Then paused at the bottom of the old wooden porch steps, realizing that they were likely to creak. He stood in shadow, pressed against the rough log wall under the window, thinking it through.

The Honda was locked. He didn’t know how to break into a car without leaving evidence. And the particular pipe bombs he brought with him weren’t powerful enough to do much damage to those inside if he rigged them to explode underneath.

He considered the porch area. To enter, they would come up the steps to the front door. But the porch was bare and exposed. Hard to hide a bomb out here.

Next, they would open the screen door. Then the inner front door. He could easily rig one to go off when they opened the screen door …

He shivered again. His fingertips felt numb from the cold, even through the gloves. And he’d have to take them off in this freezing air in order to work. Not good—not when you are rigging explosives.

He stared at the screen door, then back along the driveway. No, if they arrived home within the next few minutes he would be seen out here. Besides, it was too damned cold. Better to rig the bomb inside … set it to go off when they opened the front door.

He tip-toed around the side of the cabin, hugging the heavy bag to his chest. Ducked low as he reached a window. Stood slowly to peek inside.

No one visible within the big, dark, single-room interior; it looked empty, except for a few cardboard boxes and paper bags scattered on the floor. He relaxed. They were probably out having dinner. He looked back toward the front of the house and realized that this spot could be seen from where they parked their cars, though. No good.

He continued around to the rear of the cabin and found another window. He took a flashlight from a big pocket in his field jacket and examined the frame and glass. No alarms, as he figured, but the window’s inner latch was locked. Stowing the flashlight, he unzipped the bag, pulled out a small crowbar, and used it to smash one of the panes. Reaching in carefully around the jagged shards, he flipped the latch, then used the crowbar to lever the window up.

He reached inside and lowered the bag and crowbar to the floor, hearing the soft crackle of glass fragments under them. The next bit was harder. Boggs was no athlete, and climbing in through the window wearing the bulky jacket proved to be an ordeal. But he managed, though awkwardly, almost falling onto the broken glass.

Once again he fished out his flashlight and clicked it on to look around.

Out of the darkness, two yellow-green eyes flashed back at him.

For the next ten minutes, Silva summarized the results of tests he’d conducted on samples collected from the site and area water wells. The low-level radioactivity, he said, came not from naturally occurring underground radium, but from medical wastes—probably material stolen from a hospital—which someone had then mixed into the waste water taken from the fracking site’s retaining pond. The fracking chemicals were then added in proportions completely unrelated to the mixtures used in fracking.

“Another dead giveaway of a hoax,” Silva concluded, “is that whoever did this added in a chemical that they found on the site, but which had nothing to do with the fracking process. It was a cleaning solvent.”

“So, it was planted, then. Are you absolutely sure?”

Silva gave him a wry look. “Is the Pope a Catholic? Whoever did this was an idiot. He or she knows nothing about chemistry.”

“Or hydraulic fracturing,” Adair added.

“What’s your next step, then, Dan?”

“Two weeks ago, I filed a letter with the EPA requesting the opportunity to submit our own report to their Science Advisory Board's hydraulic fracturing panel. Those scientists advise the Agency about pending regulations. I didn’t give them many specifics, only that a toxicologist I hired—I didn't say who—had scientific proof that the evidence in the NLA report about our fracking operations had been faked. I just heard back from them yesterday. They agreed to let us present our case at a hearing scheduled for the end of the month.”

“That sounds encouraging,” Hunter said. He turned back to Silva. “Will you be submitting just the report, or your physical samples, too? I assume those are critical to make your case.”

“Which is why they are under lock-and-key in my home lab. Yes, the samples along with the report. I haven’t even begun to write it yet; I’ll get to that next week. But I did draft an executive summary.” He reached into the inside pocket of his corduroy sports jacket and came out with an envelope. “Here. I figured you might like a copy.”

“Thanks,” Hunter said, reaching across the table for it. He paused a moment, tapping the edge of the envelope on the table top. “Dan, you’ve been getting hammered in the media. Wouldn’t it be helpful to go on the offensive?”

“What do you mean? How?”

“Well, my editor at the
Inquirer
has been sending me daily text messages, begging for a story.” He gestured with the envelope. “This really looks big. Based on what is going on up here, I could file a preliminary piece, perhaps quoting from this executive summary. But I might have to identify Dr. Silva by name, in the article and to people I interview. Would that be all right? And Dr. Silva, could you also give me a sneak peek when your full report is ready?”

The two men exchanged glances. “Fine by me,” Adair said.

“I have no problem with any of that,” Silva added.

“Since all that is settled now, let me get the dessert ready,” Nan said, rising. “The others will be arriving any minute.”

Boggs gasped and nearly dropped the flashlight before he saw that it was only a cat.

“Goddamn!” he muttered, training the beam on the animal, which half-closed its eyes in the glare. “You scared the hell out of me.” He saw that it was a mottled black-and-white, with a dark patch of fur around one eye. It hunched on the floor, looking nervous at his intrusion.

A complication.

Boggs peeled off his ski mask and jammed it in a pocket of the field jacket. He stood near the open window, wondering what to do.

For all his rhetoric, he actually felt little personal attachment to animals. He accepted and advocated animal rights, but as a philosophical position rather than a sentimental one—one he had derived from the works of the great German idealist philosophers. Even though this particular animal meant nothing to him, as an
animal-in-itself
it possessed inherent value—and an intrinsic right to its own life. These people had no moral right to keep this creature enslaved, as their “pet.”

But he had no right to harm a sentient creature, either. When his bomb went off, the shrapnel and nails packed inside would harm not only the humans, but probably this animal, too. Morally, they deserved to die; the creature did not.

However, if he turned this helpless, domesticated animal loose here in the wild, it surely would die—although at least it would die as a free creature, in harmony with the natural ecological order.

Boggs tried to analyze the competing moral claims and counter-claims, growing anxious because the clock was ticking down, and he really didn’t have time for this. But the ethical dilemma here was a real one. Moral absolutes either
mattered
at times like these, or they meant nothing at all. And above all, he prided himself for being a man of principle.

In the end, he chose the only proper moral course.

He didn’t approach the cat. Instead, not moving from the window, he knelt and slipped off his gloves. The cat eyed him warily.

“Here, kitty,” he said, extending his hand …

He wheeled around at the sudden screeching.

Dan Adair was hauling his two small grandchildren into the dining room, one under each arm. The platinum-haired twins squealed with delight.

Hunter relaxed. His right hand came away empty from beneath the tail of his sports jacket, where he carried his Sig P228 in a small-of-the-back concealment holster. He tried to cover the abrupt movement by extending his arms into a feigned stretch.

Standing close to him, Annie noticed. She leaned in and whispered: “Think it through. If you shoot the kids, they won’t let us stay for dessert.”

“Good point.”

Adair deposited the children on their feet and began to help them off with their winter coats.

“Grampa Dan, I wanna sit by you!” pleaded the little boy.

“No! Me!” shouted the girl.

“Well. Timmy, you sit here, on this side of me. And Kellyanne, you sit on the other side, between me and Nana Nan.”

“I get to sit beside Nananan!” she taunted her brother, who scowled back at her.

Nan led in the new arrivals and performed the introductions. First, the children’s mother, Kaitlin Bell—a tall, slim blonde in her mid-twenties, and Dan’s daughter by his first marriage. Kaitlin’s husband, Tom Bell, was an affable-looking, brown-haired man with a firm handshake and direct gaze; he owned a small construction firm in Warren. The last guest was a short, beefy man in his late forties, Don DeLuca.

Over pie and coffee, Adair explained their presence.

“Dylan, I mentioned that something funny is going on around here. It’s more than just trying to shut down fracking operations. I wanted you to meet Don and Tom because they have stories to tell.” He nodded first at DeLuca. “Don used to cut here in the Forest and supply logs to a sawmill out of Kane.”

DeLuca explained how he used to drive a “skidder,” dragging logs out of the Allegheny Forest for a small logging company, and later took over the firm when his boss retired.

“I busted my ass to stay in business,” he said. “We were squeaking by, barely, till 1997. Then the goddamn greenies sued the feds over logging in the Forest. In two years, timber sales nosedived, and then I was in the red. The last straw came in ’99. The feds claimed they found this ‘endangered species’ in the Forest—the ‘Indiana bat’—and they shut down all logging here for six months. Well, like lots of the other small loggers, I couldn’t keep up payments on my equipment … Can you believe? We were all unemployed because of some goddamn
bat!”

Hunter noticed the man’s fists had clenched; even after a decade, the wound was still raw.

“I had a wife and two young kids to support,” DeLuca went on, “and we damned near lost our house and everything. I had to take all kinds of odd jobs, doing carpentry and stuff. My wife was working part-time in a convenience store in Tionesta. We were at a dead end. I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do with the rest of my life.” His gaze shifted to Adair. “Till about three years ago, when I saw this ad in the paper for entry jobs in the natural gas industry.”

Adair said, “Don was one of my first local hires, and he’s still one of my best.”

Hunter saw gratitude in DeLuca’s eyes as he looked at Adair. But also a hint of wistfulness. The look of a once-proud independent businessman, now forced to work for somebody else.

“So, environmentalists have been making trouble for you folks for a long time, then,” Annie said.

Employer and employee exchanged bitter smiles. “You have no idea,” said DeLuca. “Wait till you hear what’s been happening over the last few months.”

Boggs had seen Dawn play with cats enough times to know that if you make a sudden move, they retreat; but if you talk to them softly and arouse their curiosity, they’ll come to you. He held his extended hand a few feet away from the cat.

“Come on,” he coaxed quietly. “I’m not going to hurt you … That’s right … All I want to do is pet you … There you are.”

The animal approached cautiously, sniffed his fingertips, and now let itself be stroked. Within a few seconds, it was weaving back and forth under Boggs’s hand. After another minute, it had relaxed enough that he was able to put his other hand on it.

Then grabbed it and picked it up.

The cat began to squirm ferociously in his arms. Boggs smothered it against the thick field jacket and turned. As he started to dump it through the open window, the cat twisted and bit him on the back of his bare left hand.

“Ahhhh!”
he cried out and let go. The cat flipped in mid-air, landing on its feet on the ground outside, then quickly disappeared from view.

The two children, now thoroughly bored, began to fuss, interrupting DeLuca’s narrative. Kaitlin shepherded them to the den to watch TV while Nan began to clear the table.

“Our house is on Grange Hall Road,” DeLuca continued. “You know where that is?”

“I know where that is,” Hunter replied.