Hot Water (7 page)

Branding, it was all branding. Just like Coca-Cola or Campbell’s soup.

The man on the other end of the line didn’t appreciate such subtleties—although he did appreciate Hutton’s unique talents.

“It’s time,” he said. “When can you get here?”

“Good afternoon, Kyle,” Hutton replied, hoping his use of Masterson’s first name would agitate him as much as having a peaceful afternoon of fishing interrupted.

Usually Hutton picked the time and place for his jobs, but this one was different. More of a long-term contingency planning type of thing. Didn’t matter; he knew the subject and was good to go. “So we’re finally moving forward?”

“Things have changed. I need to get my grandson out of that environment before it’s too late.”

Masterson was always yammering on about his precious grandson and what a terrible mother the kid had. “You want me to move on the mom, then?”

“No. I’ll tell you what I need when you get here.”

“You know that’s not how I work.” Hutton leaned back against the gunwale, tracing the progress of a hawk circling overhead with his finger, taking imaginary aim.

“It is when you work for me.”

Hutton bristled at Masterson’s imperative tone but held his silence. Far better to let men like Masterson think they were in charge. Didn’t matter. Hutton knew who really held the power in this relationship.

“I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“Come prepared to travel.”

Great, he’d have to burn a vehicle—just like with phones and aliases, he never used a vehicle more than once. “Travel costs extra—more risks.”

“Like I give a good goddamn. Haul your ass up here, time is short.” Masterson hung up, obviously assuming that Hutton wouldn’t hesitate to obey his orders.

Hutton packed his gear and headed back to his small cottage. He hated leaving the river with its peace and quiet behind, but even when working with a client as odious and lacking in finesse as Kyle Masterson, he had to admit, he loved his job.

Already adrenalin hummed through his veins at the thought of how he would once again outwit, outsmart, and outmaneuver anyone who stood in his way.

Not that there would be much competition, not in a tiny backwater mountain town like Scotia, West Virginia. It’d been a long time since he’d been there—and, if he did his job right, no one except Masterson would ever know he’d been back.

Hutton was a ghost—and he liked it that way.

SEVEN

The inside of the jet was smaller than I’d expected—of course, what did I know about private jets? It was also noisier. There was a table with seats facing it on both sides. No flight attendant. But the flight was short, Grandel reassured me, as he ushered me into a window seat on one side of the table and took the seat beside me.

Once we took off, he spread out the plans of the plant on the table and I studied them. “Show me where each of the incidents took place.”

He pointed out the leaky drain pipe, the area where the contaminated tool had been used, and the stuck valve.

“Nothing in common,” he finished. “I know what you’re thinking—sabotage. But the government eliminated that idea.”

“How?”

“For one thing, the only people with access to all three areas are myself and Morris.”

“Morris?”

“My older brother. He’s my plant manager.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Plus, the company who made those pipe seals has had problems in the past—out of several thousand seals used in a project this size, having one leak isn’t unheard of. And the worker admitted that he laid the tool down while unpacking a crate—it simply got mixed in with the packing materials he was disposing of.”

“And the stuck valve?”

He shrugged. “Wrong place, wrong time. Just about any other location and we would have had an alert sounded before any damage was done. Of course, now we’ve gone back and added additional sensors even to noncritical areas. Despite the fact that the DOE and NRC don’t require them. Make sure you tell folks about that.”

“What other safety measures have you installed?”

He jabbed his finger at the plans. “Two levels of outer perimeter security, both secured by armed guards, as well as large volume sodium iodine detectors—state of the art. If anything, they’re a little too sensitive. Once inside the plant we have two more layers of security plus portal detectors for anyone entering or leaving the operational area. We go above and beyond all regulations,” he finished with pride. “Colleton Landing is my life’s work. I’m not going to let anything tarnish the reputation of my plant. Especially not a few badly timed minor mishaps.”

He turned to me, staring into my face as if judging me. “Besides, those aren’t the real problem. It’s these damn protestors and blog-gers and everyone in the community trying to destroy us. They need to understand that if I go under, the entire town will as well.”

Gee, paranoia and narcissism combined. Grandel’s grandiose beliefs explained why he’d waited so long to reach out for help—probably thought it would all go away if he just wished hard enough.

The pilot announced our descent into Savannah. After stowing the plans and buckling his seatbelt, Grandel pointed out the window where the blue band that was the Atlantic could be seen past yellow and green marshland. “I thought you might want to stay at our executive suite on Hilton Head Island. I’ll have a driver pick you up in the morning.”

“How far is it from the plant?”

“Forty minutes.”

“I’d rather be near to the plant. And have a car. Surely there are accommodations closer? I don’t need much. I won’t be spending a lot of time in my room.”

He frowned. Elizabeth would have been proud—I almost reminded him that I wasn’t here as his paid spokesperson to trot out whenever it suited, but I held my tongue.

“I suppose we can arrange something,” he muttered.

Grandel’s driver met us in a black Yukon and hauled our bags into the back while Grandel waited inside the air conditioning and I stood outside on the tarmac, trying to readjust my eyes to the bright sunshine, unfiltered by trees or the shadows of mountains. Of course, I’d forgotten my sunglasses.

Flat, it was so flat. My gaze kept roaming farther and farther, nothing to stop it except for the Gulfstream building beside us and the Savannah Airport terminal at the other end of the runway. A commuter jet rumbled past as it landed and taxied to the terminal.

It was hotter here than back home, muggy with no breeze, although beneath the smell of aviation fuel I thought I detected a whiff of ocean. Maybe that was wishful thinking since the only trees I could see were palm trees and a few seagulls circled overhead.

I joined Grandel inside the Yukon. He was on his cell making arrangements for a car for me and a room close to the plant.

“You’re going to wish you’d listened to me and stayed in Hilton Head,” he said once he hung up. “Our place there is second row, has an ocean view, only a few feet from the beach.”

“Thanks, but I’m here to work.” Although I had a feeling he was right. A fleeting image of me walking on the beach, blissfully alone, dolphins frolicking in the surf, warm sand between my toes, sped through my brain. I’ve never taken a vacation—not a real one. The only times since David was born that I’d been without work weren’t exactly voluntary.

He shrugged. “Okay. I had to put you up in the Landing. It’s a motel, caters to families of Marines at Parris Island who can’t afford to stay in Beaufort. Some of our people stay there as well. Pretty much a dive, but it’s the closest to the plant.”

“I’ve stayed in worse.”

“Suit yourself. The car will be dropped off later.”

“Can we see the plant now?”

He looked irritated. Clearly a man who liked to set his own pace and call the shots. “Of course,” he said, but his voice didn’t hold the cordiality it had earlier when he was busy trying to charm Elizabeth. “Whatever you want.”

I had the feeling what he really wanted to say was: We’ll do whatever
I
want.

Almost wished Elizabeth was here so I could tell her “I told you so.”

Elizabeth drove AJ’s SUV back home and began packing. She sighed, carefully selecting and folding her planned wardrobe for the rest of the week into her suitcase.

She’d never lived alone until she left Hunter, but since then she’d surprised herself by how much she enjoyed it. The peace and quiet. No one moving her things around. Everything in its place, where it should be.

She liked that stability—maybe security was a better word? Whatever it was, it felt comfortable. She didn’t need to worry about what anyone else thought or wanted or was doing. It was her space to do with as she pleased.

Now that she had her father’s house all to herself, that feeling had intensified to the point where she was actually dreading giving up her freedom to spend a few days with David.

And she liked David. As kids went, he was by far the easiest she’d ever encountered. Old enough to take care of himself and carry on an intelligent conversation, young enough to listen to her and do what she asked him to do.

She stopped at her bureau, comb and hairbrush in hand, eyes caught by a photo of herself and her parents when she was about David’s age. In the photo, there was a definite physical divide between her and her parents—as well as between themselves. If they hadn’t all been captured in the same frame, you would have never assumed that the three were family. The photo was taken just a few months before her parents divorced, so that made sense. Except the distance between parents and child had never improved.

Good thing she and Hunter never had kids, that was for sure.

She added the comb and brush to her toiletry bag. The doorbell rang. She dropped the bag into her suitcase and dashed down the steps to answer it. It rang a second time before she could get to it.

Nobody local, then. They’d all wait before leaning on the bell again so soon.

She opened the door. A man stood on her porch, half turned away, poised to leave, as if the eight seconds it’d taken her to reach the door was too long to wait. He was tall, six-three, with sleek dark hair, wearing an expensive tailored suit just a shade lighter than his hair. He held a black leather attaché case in one hand.

As he turned to her, his features chiseled out a smile that revealed perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth in a perfectly formed face.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said in a friendly drawl that made her skin cringe.

“Hunter.” She resisted the urge to slam the door in his face. “What the hell are you doing here?”

EIGHT

We drove up I-95 for a short while, then turned onto a four-lane highway that seemed almost as crowded as the interstate. Tourists going to Hilton Head, Grandel told me. But they kept going straight while we turned onto a secondary road that was marked Parris Island/Beaufort.

It was a pretty drive from there. Out my window we passed a few farms surrounded by white picket fences, horses grazing in the fields. There were also gnarled, sprawling trees dripping Spanish moss, palm trees, tarpaper shacks leaning away from the wind coming off the sound, rusted cars parked in front lawns, and people rocking on porches, their bodies the nearest thing to a straight vertical line to be seen.

My eyes were still trying to adjust to the lack of a horizontal horizon. There were plenty of curves—graceful, genteel undulations, not the hairpin mountain switchbacks I was used to—but no hills. Occasionally we’d get to an especially flat area where water, gleaming blue and gold as it reflected the afternoon sky and yellow marsh grass, crept right up to the edge of the road. Once, I saw an alligator in the mud between the road and the water, shaded by one of the thick-trunked trees that Grandel told me were called live oaks.

I didn’t like the look of the alligator. Even though his posture was relaxed, his attitude seemed superior, arrogant, as if he knew I was just a visitor and a potentially tasty one at that. I decided I wouldn’t be doing much walking while down here.

We crossed a small bridge over an inlet of shimmering bright blue water, passed a Quonset hut labeled “Marina” surrounded by pickup trucks and a few empty, sagging docks, and then turned onto a two-lane road before reaching a paved lane that seemed barely wide enough for one-way traffic. The trucks and cars parked along the shoulder didn’t help any.

“They’re at it again,” the driver muttered, the first words I’d heard him say.

“Idiots,” Grandel replied.

We rounded a curve and I saw that the lane was choked with protesters. A few in tie-dye shirts carrying “NO NUKES!” signs, others more conservatively dressed as if for church, reading from Bibles. Still more in work clothes, looking worried, including several women carrying babies and trailing toddlers tugging at balloons reading “Children First, Safety First, Profits Last.” Others carried crosses and shouted “Repent!” A strangely mixed bunch.

And my problem to solve. Along with the media—although thankfully there didn’t seem to be any reporters here today. Maybe they’d lost interest. That would make my job easier.

Grandel’s phone rang. “Yes.” His face grew even more livid. “I don’t know how the hell they knew. No, that’s not the answer. Tell the board to calm down. We’ll smooth things over before the Japanese get here.”