Hot Water (23 page)

The deputies began to haul Liam out the door, but he dug in his heels and looked over his shoulder at me. “AJ, we need to talk. Come to the station. It’s important.”

Wow, three complete sentences. At once. It must be important. I took a step to follow him when Grandel grabbed my arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

I shook free, tired of his attitude. “Home. My work here is over.”

He didn’t acknowledge my words and continued, “We have a media event to arrange. Now that we’ve demonstrated the efficiency of our decontamination response and the danger of Vincent’s protestors, it’s time to quiet the rest of the public’s fears. And Hermes is giving us the perfect opportunity.”

“Hermes? The hurricane?”

“It’s going to hit in about twelve hours, give or take.”

“Here? But I thought we weren’t even in its path.”

“Wind shear forced it to change course. Now we’re smack dab in the bull’s eye. And they’re saying it’s going to be at least a Category Four storm when it does hit. You and I are going to make sure the public sees exactly how safe this plant is, even under the most drastic conditions.”

“How are we going to do that?”

He looked surprised. “It was your idea, AJ. We’re going to invite a film crew inside and ride out the storm right here.”

Ty had tried to call David’s mom but hadn’t been able to reach her. So after he talked with the judge—on speakerphone so David could hear it as well—he’d had to let the lawyer guy take him.

David spent the trip sulking in the back seat. Lawyer guy didn’t seem to mind—he never even bothered to introduce himself, much less try to make conversation. They’d stopped at the summerhouse and David had grabbed his crutches and shoved a change of clothes into his backpack, then they’d driven straight to Mr. Masterson’s house.

Well, not really a house. More like a mansion. There were iron gates at the front that you had to drive through after being buzzed in, which was kind of silly because the brick walls they were attached to stopped as soon as they hit the forest a few yards away. It was all just for show.

Once inside, a maid had shown David to his room. “Mr. Masterson is working from home today and will be joining you for dinner,” she said after David refused to let her unpack his bag for him. “He suggested that you might want to take a nap beforehand.”

A nap? He hadn’t taken a nap since he was, well, a baby. Jeez.

She left him alone and he was free to explore. The room was huge—as big as the entire summerhouse but without any walls except between the closet and bathroom. The bathroom was wheelchair accessible, which was nice. And besides the big bed and matching dresser there was a whole living room area with a wide-screen TV, gaming console, huge leather couch, his own refrigerator and snack bar, even a microwave to make popcorn in.

Okay, impressive. But David knew Mr. Masterson was trying to show off. Just like with the fancy gates out front. Instead of this fancy could-be-a-hotel type room, David would have much preferred a smaller room filled with his dad’s old stuff. That way he could get to know him better, at least know what he was like when he was a kid growing up here.

“You settling in okay, son?” Mr. Masterson startled David. He was always doing that, walking in without knocking. And calling David “son” but never using his name—maybe he had a hard time remembering it?

Probably not. Not when he was running a company the size of Masterson Mining. David pivoted his chair around to face his grandfather.

“Thank you for having me, sir,” he said, even though he’d rather have stayed with Ty or at the hospital with Flora.

Masterson nodded, seemed pleased with David’s response. “You’re welcome. If things work out the way I plan, you’ll be spending a lot more time here. Won’t that be nice?”

No, not really. But David didn’t want to be rude. “Yes sir. Thank you.”

They stared at each other across the vast open space of the room. David could tell that Mr. Masterson didn’t know what to say either. He tried to think of common ground. “Do you think maybe I could see some of my dad’s stuff? I’d love to learn more about him.”

Wrong thing to say. Masterson’s face drooped like a cloud blocking the sun, and his hands balled into fists like he wanted to hit someone. Not David. Maybe his mom. David figured Mr. Masterson still blamed her for Cole’s death.

“It’s all packed away.” Masterson’s voice came out in a rush, like the words tasted bad. “Why don’t you get some rest now? I’ll see you at dinner.”

He left and closed the door behind him. David stared at it. What did Mr. Masterson want from him? Didn’t he understand that David missed Cole as well? Maybe more so since he’d never gotten a chance to really know his dad?

Grownups. Sometimes they got all caught up in their own little worlds and never thought about anyone else.

Instead of napping or playing video games, David grabbed his crutches and hauled himself out of his chair. He needed to practice using them and felt cooped up after being in his chair all day.

During his last checkup at Children’s, his doctors had tried a new medicine for the spasticity in his legs—the main reason why he had to use his chair—and it was really helping. He still sometimes got all tight and they’d scissor out of control, especially if he was tired or nervous. But the more he used the crutches, the fewer spasms and the stronger he got.

It was hard work, but to be free of his chair? Totally worth it.

He opened the French doors leading out onto his own private terrace and went for a stroll.

Halfway around the house he encountered another set of French doors and tall windows, all open to the afternoon breeze. It was shady on this side of the house and he was hot, so he leaned against the wall and took a break. A large planter with some kind of evergreen in it blocked most of his view inside the room, but he knew from his previous visits that it was Mr. Masterson’s study.

He really didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but when Masterson walked into the study and sat down at his desk, his back to David, David wasn’t sure how to leave without making a scene. His crutches made too much noise on the brick pavers for him to just slip away. Plus, he had to admit, he was curious about how a man got to be as rich as Mr. Masterson—what better way to learn than watching him work?

Mr. Masterson made a strange sound, not the kind you’d expect from a rich businessman—it sounded more like the grunt a caveman might make when he lost the tug-o-war with a pterodactyl over dinner. Not that cavemen and pterodactyls coexisted in real life and if they did it would be the caveman who was dinner . . .

Flinging his stray imaginings aside, David concentrated on staying as quiet and still as possible. Not easy to do with his crutches jammed into his sides and his legs twitching with fatigue.

Masterson unlocked a desk drawer, pulled out a small cell phone, and lay it on the center of his desk blotter. All he did was stare at it.

Just take the damn thing and go, David thought, trying to ignore an itch between his shoulder blades. If he shrugged or moved to make it go away he’d make a noise, but the more he tried to ignore it, the stronger it got.

Finally, Masterson blew his breath out and pulled the phone to him. He dialed, put it on speaker, and set a small recorder alongside it.

“Hutton.” The man who answered sounded young and mean. Like he didn’t want to be bothered.

“Masterson here. It’s a go. Time to finish what you started.”

“I’m ready. But I still need her exact location.”

“I just got it. Colleton Landing, South Carolina. The Landing Motel. Room Eight.”

“Told you travel costs extra. Fifty thousand.”

A long pause. David’s itch had vanished, replaced by a trickle of sweat and an icy finger of fear.

Mr. X. That’s who Mr. Masterson was talking to. And he was going after his mother next. The man on the phone was going to kill his mother.

“Deal,” David’s grandfather answered. “It has to be finished before three o’clock tomorrow. She can’t make it to that courtroom. Do you understand?”

“I understand. Consider it done.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Before I could tell Grandel he was crazy—something Elizabeth would probably frown upon anyway—Morris bounced in. “I used the spare keys to get your stuff from the SUV.” He beamed at me as he handed me my bag. “Now you can change into real clothes.”

“Thanks, Morris. That’s very thoughtful.”

He flushed and bobbed. Grandel rolled his eyes at his older brother—I wanted to slap the superior look off his face, but restrained myself. Not for Elizabeth this time, but because Morris so adored his brother.

“I’m going to change now.” I left them for the locker room next door that Morris directed me to and returned a few minutes later dressed in another pair of jeans and a Hardy & Palladino polo—my second to last one. On my feet I wore the pair of old tennis shoes I’d thrown in for emergencies or in case I ever actually did make it to the beach.

Morris was gone but Grandel was still there waiting impatiently. He frowned at my choice of ensemble. “Come on, we’ve got a lot of planning to do. We need to take the focus of the story off you and put it back on me and the plant.”

“If you want, I can leave. Let you take the spotlight.” I hoped he’d take that option, for I was really feeling like I needed to get home. Fast.

I wasn’t certain if it was a mother’s intuition or just the feeling that I’d already pushed my luck as far as it could go down here. After wrestling a rabid alligator, I wasn’t sure if I was up to riding out a hurricane while stuck inside a nuclear reactor.

Grandel’s secretary caught up to us just as we cleared the portal monitor and made it upstairs to the office level. “The front gate just called. They have Reverend Vincent and his people there. They’d like to speak with you. In person.”

Grandel’s face darkened. “Tell them—”

This time I was the one who took his arm. “Tell them to send them in. Thank you.”

The secretary glanced at Grandel for confirmation. He opened his mouth, then closed it and jerked his chin into a nod. We arrived at his office. As soon as the door was shut he spun on me. “What the hell?”

“This is your chance. You and Vincent need to come to some kind of arrangement—and this storm gives both of you a perfect way to save face.”

“How so?”

“It’s an act of God, right? Use it.”

He shook his head hard and fast as if shuddering down a revolting mouthful of some exotic dish that he was too polite to spit out. “That man wants to destroy my company. I’ll be damned if—”

The door opened again and the secretary ushered in Vincent, Yancey, and Vincent’s assistant, Paul.

“Be careful there, Owen,” Vincent said. “I wouldn’t tempt God any more than you already have.”

“Hah. You’re one to talk. What do you want?” Grandel marched behind his desk and stood with both hands flat, pressed against it, leaning forward.

“Paul, please wait outside for me,” Vincent ordered. Paul frowned but then nodded and left to return to the secretary’s antechamber. Vincent ignored Grandel’s posturing and sank into one of the leather chairs, stretching his legs as if it were a beach chaise lounge. “You know what I want. A seat on the board. And 10 percent. I think that’s fair.”

“Fair? Is that what you call it? I call it blackmail, you sonofa—”

Yancey stepped into the fray. “Gentlemen, gentlemen.”

I hoped that I was the only one who heard the undercurrent of self-satisfied sarcasm in his tone. If he could get Vincent what he wanted, then Yancey was in for a big payday. I couldn’t really complain—stopping Vincent’s protestors would go a long way to my getting paid as well.

Most important, it would allow the plant to succeed, which would mean more jobs and money flowing to the people of Colleton Landing.

“May I suggest a compromise?” Yancey said.

Both men were engaged in a staring match and neither seemed to hear him. Or neither wanted to acknowledge the possibility of compromise first.

“It’s quite simple, really,” Yancey continued. “We work a contingency deal. After all, no one wants to pay good money without results.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Grandel snapped.

“He means you guarantee me a seat on the board and I’ll guarantee my people stand down.”

“I think we can do better than that, sir,” Yancey put in. “Use this hurricane to our advantage?”

“That’s what she said,” Grandel nodded to me.

“Yancey’s right,” the words practically choked me. Me and Yancey thinking along the same lines? Frightening. “The hurricane is an act of God, a sign from God, so to speak. Once the plant weathers the storm, Vincent can use that to convince his followers that the plant has been, I don’t know, cleansed or something—”

“Purified by the wrath of God!” Vincent sang out in his tent-preaching voice. “It’s good, I like it.”

“You think that’s worth a spot on my board?”

“I do. And once I help you convince the Japanese to invest, you’ll sweeten the pot with a 10 percent finder’s fee—payable in stock options.”

Grandel slit his eyes as he thought. “Five percent. What about the other protestors?”