Hot Water (8 page)

He hung up, sputtering in fury. “Someone leaked it that I’d gone to hire a PR firm to solve our problems instead of staying here to fix them.” He slammed his fist against the dash. “Now the board wants my head. Why can’t they understand that there are no real problems at the plant? Our only problems are these crackpots who are too ignorant to see the good of what we’re doing.”

I hoped none of the “crackpots” could hear him through the car doors. The driver said nothing, simply edged us past them carefully. Grandel calmed down to merely fuming and I hazarded a question. “What do they want?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what do they want? I saw at least three different factions out there. Some anti-nuclear—they won’t be happy until the plant is closed, no matter how safe it is. And nothing I find or say will help that. Others seemed religious—”

“Goddamn holy rollers. They think the plant means the end of the world is coming. Their leader, Richard Vincent, runs a nightly revival and revs them all up, sending them to convert us ‘damned heathens’ before the rapture or some such malarkey. The man’s a charlatan but his followers don’t care.”

“Okay. Probably not going to sway them. Plus, it sounds like their leader is using you as an easy target, so he probably doesn’t want the plant to close—but he’ll also enjoy the additional sense of fear that any mishap at the plant, no matter how minor, contributes to his message.”

He slit his eyes at me. “You don’t know the half of it. Vincent is a greedy sonofabitch, that’s for sure. Go on.”

“Seems to me, your biggest problem is the last group. Those moms and the other locals who truly believe their homes and families are at risk. They’re the ones we need to convince.”

“And how do we do that?”

“Like I said when we began. Give me access to everything and let me verify the safety record and safeguards, then we’ll talk with them.”

“You mean like invite them to coffee? I don’t think so.”

“When you approached the government for funding, how did you do it?”

“I went to D.C., scheduled some meetings, then followed up with a few dinners and—”

“Exactly. You treated them with respect because they had something you needed. Now we do the same with the community.”

“So what? You want me to go door to door, kissing babies?”

“How about if you start with appreciating the fact that these are the hard-working people who keep your plant going? And stop with the wisecracks—they aren’t nuts or crackpots or idiots. They’re moms and dads concerned about their livelihoods and their families’ safety.”

He made a little noise as he sank back into the leather seat, one hand twisting the platinum ring he wore on his pinky. “So, just talking? Simple as that?”

“A little respect goes a long way, in my experience.”

He said nothing, but nodded as if he was already convinced. I knew it couldn’t be that easy. Plus, I first had to prove that the plant was safe—and everyone knows it’s impossible to prove a negative.

Hunter didn’t answer Elizabeth. Rather he simply stood there, looking. She had to fight an all-too-familiar urge to squirm and glance down, break eye contact. It didn’t help that he was so much taller than her. Or that he wore Saville Row while she’d changed into khakis and a sleeveless cotton blouse since she was on her way to David’s.

But somehow she found the strength to meet his superior, smug, smarmy smirk. As he raised an eyebrow, taking in her attire and surroundings, she remembered why she’d left him. Funny how much harder it was to remember why she’d ever loved him.

“So. This is the bustling practice that seduced you away from Philadelphia. Charming.”

“What do you want, Hunter?”

“Thought I’d serve this in person.” He handed her a sheaf of legal papers. “Notice of appearance.”

She skimmed them as he sauntered to the porch swing and took a seat, making himself at home.

“Masterson hired you? But why?”

“Maybe he was impatient about how slowly things were moving with his hometown team.” He shrugged, the fabric of his jacket falling flawlessly back into place, and stretched his legs out. “Or maybe he cares enough about his grandson to hire the very best, no matter the cost.”

“The whole case is ridiculous and you know it. Look at the precedents on grandparents seeking visitation.
Troxel v. Granville
, for starters.”

“There’s no West Virginia precedent. And won’t it be fun setting one?” He slipped his Gucci sunglasses on and stood in one fluid motion. “Just like old times, right, Elizabeth?”

She stared at him, her stomach churning in a familiar rumba of anxiety. It took everything she had not to flinch when he bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

“See you in court. Judge Mabry wants us there ten o’clock tomorrow.”

He sauntered to his Mercedes and was gone. Still she stared after him, speechless—without any idea of how the hell she was going to defeat him in court. Because the only time Hunter Holcombe had ever lost a fight was when she’d walked out on him.

And she knew damn well that he wasn’t going to let that go unpunished.

NINE

Once past the protestors we stopped at a security checkpoint. Beyond it was a parking lot surrounded by a twelve-foot-high fence topped with razor wire. We were waved through and continued to follow the road as it wound around the outside of the parking lot and continued to follow the river, only now the view to the water was a bit obscured by the security fencing.

The zigzagging road itself was also a security measure, artfully disguised. Much nicer than a gamut of concrete barriers.

I spotted another alligator lounging in the mud against the other side of the fence, as well as several beautifully graceful birds. Herons, cranes, egrets—I wasn’t sure. They all had long legs, slim necks, and carried themselves like ballet dancers, seemingly unafraid of the gators as they waltzed through the water. We passed beneath some trees, rounded a curve, and stopped at the second security post at the inner perimeter fence, where I caught my first glimpse of the plant.

It wasn’t anything like I’d imagined, not even after looking at the schematics Grandel had shown me. Instead of the concrete bunker I’d expected, it was all chrome and glass, laid out hugging the contours of the land as the river curved behind it. The rooflines were also curved, but in an old-fashioned way like a conservatory, not jarring like Disney’s Epcot Center. There was a large central dome with branches coming off either side—one side for the turbines, I remembered from the plans, the other for the reactor coolant pumps.

The lawn surrounding it on three sides was filled with plants. A field of lavender mingled with yellow wildflowers lay to the side of the walkway leading from the parking lot, roses clustered closer to the front entrance—almost hiding the third security checkpoint—and flowering trees with bright purple, pink, and white flowers were scattered throughout.

“Welcome to Colleton Landing,” Grandel said, the pride returning to his voice. “With each fence there are radiation detectors,” he continued. “Three perimeters in total—the last at the entrance to the facility.”

I nodded appreciatively. It wasn’t often you saw security and beauty so nicely interwoven.

“Beyond the glass, the containment area is built to withstand a major earthquake, a direct hit by a jet, or even an F-5 tornado.” The driver parked the car and opened the back door for us.

“What about hurricanes?” I asked, remembering something on the news that morning about a storm meandering across the Atlantic, defying all efforts by the meteorologists to predict its course or landfall. They’d made a joke about the fallibility of weather forecasting even in this day and age of computer models, but now that I was here near the coast, it didn’t seem quite so funny anymore.

“If it wasn’t for security issues, we’d be designated a storm shelter,” Grandel said. “Safest place to be would be here.”

If I lived here and a storm hit, I think my first instinct would be to run away from the four nuclear reactors in my backyard, not toward them. Which gave me some insight into how to approach the community. “Have you told people about that? Is there a way to give them a tour of the safety features?”

“Not without compromising security.”

“Maybe just a few select community leaders who could help spread the word?”

He frowned. “Maybe. It would take some arranging, clearances and extra security.”

I understood that security was a hot topic these days, but he couldn’t expect public support without giving them some glimpse behind the scenes. “Think about it.”

We turned toward the entrance when a man came running through the doors. He was gaunt, as if he regularly forgot to eat, with the same chiseled features Grandel had except accompanied by an unruly shock of dusty brown hair and a tan that appeared genuine. He wore rumpled khaki pants and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and he clutched a leather messenger bag slung across his chest.

“Is this her? Is this her?” he asked, beaming first at Grandel, then at the driver and security guard, and finally at me.

“Yes, Morris. This is her.” Grandel managed to sigh twice in as many sentences.

“AJ Palladino.” Morris pumped my right hand in both of his. “I am most pleased to meet you.” His voice was tinged with a definite southern accent, unlike his brother’s. “Welcome to Colleton Landing.”

“Thank you.” I rescued my hand before he could mangle it. Gaunt but strong.

“I can’t wait to show you everything.” His face clouded as excitement and confusion warred. “What first? The control room or isotope retrieval or maybe the turbines, everyone always loves seeing the turbines—”

“Morris, calm down. AJ isn’t interested in the technical aspects of the plant. She just needs—”

“Oh, but I am interested,” I said—mainly to contradict Grandel. I didn’t like how he treated his brother, and Morris’s enthusiasm was definitely catching. “I’d like to see it all.”

The driver hustled around the car, holding a radio to his ear. “There’s a disturbance at the front gate,” he reported to Grandel. “A woman’s down.”

We piled back into the SUV—Morris as well. The driver didn’t take us back along the road, though; instead the guard raised a barrier blocking the path that came directly from the parking lot, without curving around beside the river. I spotted a small jitney tram sitting behind the guard shack and realized that employees must be shuttled from their cars along this path. It was as wide as a single lane of road, but not meant to be driven at the speeds our driver was using.

We bumped past the middle gate and into the parking area, then out to the first gate. The crowd of protestors had contracted into one writhing mass of humanity, their signs forgotten on the ground, an occasional head or hand raised high as they bent over someone on the ground, hidden from sight by their bodies.

The driver honked his horn, trying to scatter the crowd. I didn’t wait but hopped out of the car and began to push my way through. The heat hit me again. For a moment it felt hard to breathe, as if the air was too hot and heavy to drag into my lungs, but I ignored the sensation.

“Make a path, give her some room,” I shouted as I kicked and shoved my way past people standing around doing nothing except making things worse. To my surprise, Morris was on my heels, following me, while Grandel and the driver and security guards worked to move people back.

I made my way to the fallen woman. She wore a tight-fitting ankle-length black dress with long sleeves and a high neck buttoned up to the top. She was pale, sweaty, not moving except for one hand grasping at her throat. As I knelt beside her someone jostled me, kicking me so hard that I almost fell on top of her.

“Back off,” I snarled over my shoulder.

Gradually, the crowd receded, except for a few others dressed conservatively like the woman—they’d been the ones carrying the end of the world signs earlier. Reverend Vincent’s people, I guessed.

The woman’s pulse was fast, skipping along under my fingertips. Her skin was hot—too hot. Because of David, I knew a little more first aid than most people. This looked like the kind of heat exhaustion he used to get when he was younger. With that black dress fastened up so tight, this woman—I looked again and realized she was younger than me, this girl—might as well have been buttoned into an oven.