Midnight Haul (17 page)

Patrick was in his shirt-sleeves with a dark blue tie, and slacks and face about the same color gray. He stood on the other side of the turnstile that separated the reception area and hallway, keeping it between him and Crane.

“What do you want?” he said. His voice seemed strained. The eyes behind the wire frames blinked.

Crane stood. He put on a small smile. “Just want to talk, Patrick.”

“We talked last night.”

“Patrick. Please. I came to apologize, in a way. Could we go to your office?”

Patrick studied Crane for what seemed like a long time. The smile made Crane’s face hurt, but he kept it on.

Finally Patrick motioned at him to come on, nodding at the receptionist that it was okay. Crane went through the turnstile and followed Patrick down the long, rather wide hall.

Patrick told his secretary to hold all calls and closed the door behind Crane and himself. He sat behind his desk. Folded his hands. Crane took a chair and sat across from him, not bothering to smile anymore, but keeping a neutral expression.

“I’ll go to the police,” Patrick said.

“What are you talking about, Patrick?”

“I’m just someone trying to make a living, trying to raise a son. I can’t take this harassment. I won’t be harassed, Crane!”

“Patrick. I told you. I came to apologize.”

“Right.”

“I mean it. I’ve been out of line. Finding out what happened to Boone threw me out of whack. You can understand that.”

Patrick nodded, slowly, still not quite buying it.

“Surely, you admit some strange things have been happening,” Crane said.

“Yes. I admit that.”

“Like the fire. Like the suicides.”

“I told you last night, the police and fire department agreed that there was no evidence of arson.”

“I know you did. But you can understand why I can’t get too worked up over the opinions of Greenwood’s Finest.”

Patrick shrugged. “Crane, if I believed that that had been arson, I’d be the first to complain.”

“Well, sure. I can see how you’d want to do that. I can see where a complaint might be in order.”

Patrick shifted in his swivel chair, studying Crane, looking for sarcasm, not quite finding it.

Crane said, “I came here to tell you I’m leaving Greenwood.”

“You are?”

“That’s right. I’ll send you my address and phone number, in Iowa City. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me posted, where Boone’s concerned.”

Patrick lifted his eyebrows. “Well, of course. Why not.”

“I know it must’ve been a blow to Boone to lose all her research materials. To have her entire manuscript, months of work, go up in smoke.”

He nodded. “She was devastated. As I told you last night, I’m convinced that’s why she did what she did.”

“Took those pills.”

“Yes.”

“At least there’s one encouraging note.”

“Yes?”

“When we spoke, you and I, five weeks ago, you said Kemco itself was concerned about some of Boone’s findings… the high incidence of certain illnesses among employees and their families, for example. You said Kemco would be doing its own study into the matter.”

“That’s right.”

“How’s it coming along?”

“Well. It’s in the beginning stages. The home office in St. Louis is putting it in motion, I’m told.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Then you’re really going, Crane?”

“Yes. There’s nothing for me, here. I have to get back to Iowa and hit the old books.”

Patrick rose. “Well, then. I’ll show you out.”

Crane smiled again. “No need. I know the way.” He extended his hand to Patrick. “Sorry about our misunderstandings, Patrick. They shook hands across the desk.

Patrick smiled and said, “We might’ve been friends, under different circumstances.”

Crane kept the smile going. “Who knows?” he said.

He left Patrick’s office. He glanced back and saw Patrick had followed him out in the hall, watching him. Crane waved, smiled, went into the room marked
MEN
.

He went into one of the stalls and sat; he kept his pants up. He sat and looked at his watch. When five minutes had passed he left the stall. He peeked out in the hall. No Patrick.

Down the Hall from Patrick’s office was a door that said
PLANT MANAGER
.

Crane opened it.

The secretary looked up, a woman in her late thirties with short dark hair and glasses and a nice smile. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Johnson?”

“I don’t need one,” Crane said, and opened the door, at the left, which said
WALTER JOHNSON, PLANT MANAGER
.

Johnson was a thickset man about fifty, with wiry brown hair going gray, a mustache, wire-rim glasses. He was in his shirt-sleeves and a red-and-blue striped tie, with some work on his desk and a phone receiver to his ear.

At first he smiled, just hearing the door open, not looking at Crane, assuming it was his secretary or someone with something important his secretary had sent on in; but the smile was momentary, turning to confusion on seeing someone he didn’t know barge in, turning to irritation that would’ve turned to anger if Crane hadn’t slammed a fist on the man’s desk, upsetting papers, spilling a half a cup of coffee, rattling the desk itself, turning Johnson’s expression to one of fear.

“Hang up the fucking phone,” Crane said.

Johnson said, “Excuse me,” into the receiver, softly, hung up.

The secretary was behind Crane, having come in on his heels, and Johnson motioned to her to leave and she did.

“Who are you?” Johnson said.

“Crane.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“I think so.”

“Well it doesn’t.”

“How about Anne Boone? Does that mean anything?” He then listed the other “suicides”: Woll, Meyer, Price, Mary Beth.

Johnson said, “I know those names. All of them worked for us, except Mrs. Boone. And Mrs. Boone’s husband is in our employ.”

“I know all about Patrick being in your employ. And I know all about what you people have been up to. Everything from dumping hazardous wastes in household dumps to unsafe working conditions at the plant; I know about your arson, I know about your phony suicides, which is to say murder.”

Johnson said nothing. He was looking Crane over, nervously, possibly wondering if Crane had a gun.

Crane pointed a finger at him. “I know. I know all about everything. Burning Boone’s book won’t stop a goddamn thing. I’m going to have your corporate asses. I’m taking what I have to the Hazardous Waste Strike Force, and to the media and…”

The door opened behind him. Two armed security guards, one of them a woman, came in.

“Hold him!” Johnson shouted. He was standing behind the desk, now, shaking, furious, not quite over being afraid. “Hold him while I call the police.”

Patrick came in the room. He looked briefly dismayed, then was all business.

“Walt,” he said. “Let me have a word with you.”

The guards escorted Crane into the outer office. They stood. He sat. Voices within Johnson’s office argued.

A few minutes later Patrick came back out.

“Do you have a car here?” Patrick asked Crane.

“No,” Crane said.

“I’ll drive you.”

“What about the police?”

“I’ve convinced Mr. Johnson not to bring them in. Next time, don’t expect me to bail you out, Crane.”

“What would I do without you.”

“Are you going to cause any more trouble?”

“Not today.”

For the first ten minutes of the ride back to Greenwood, Patrick said nothing; he just drove, quietly fuming, like the Kemco plant.

Then he laughed; it sounded harsh. “I believed you,” he said.

“Don’t be bitter,” Crane said. “I’ve fallen for your bullshit, on occasion.”

“What was the purpose of all that back there, Crane?”

Crane shrugged.

“Are you flipping, or what?”

Crane didn’t say anything.

Patrick shoved an Eagles tape into his dash and turned it up loud. At least it wasn’t Willie Nelson, Crane thought. He found Patrick’s little sports car comfortable enough. He settled back.

When Patrick pulled up at the motel, he said, “You better do what you said you were going to do: leave town.”

“Thanks for the lift,” Crane said. He got out.

Patrick shook his head and drove off.

In his motel room, Crane made some phone calls. Then he walked to the pizza place downtown and ate. By the time he finished, it was dark. A light snow was falling. He walked to Boone’s house. Patrick’s car, the MGB, was in front. So was Boone’s Datsun, still covered with snow. No one had touched it since her “suicide attempt,” he’d bet.

There was no one around; the street light was still out. He felt fairly safe going over to the Datsun and seeing if it was locked. It wasn’t.

He opened the glove compartment. Reached his hand in. Felt the coldness: the gun was still in there.

He put it in his belt, shut the door of the Datsun and walked back to the motel room.

Kids were bundled in their winter clothes as they left the grade school, walking into the blowing snow. Some of them got onto the waiting buses; other paused impatiently till the crossing guards let them trudge homeward. None of them were playing or fooling around, today: the wind had teeth and they wanted to get away from it.

Crane liked the way it felt on his face, the wind, the snow. There was some ice mixed in with it, and it whipped him, like a sandstorm. He stood in the playground shivering, hands in the pockets of his light summer jacket.

Billy was wearing a parka. He and two other boys passed right by Crane. Billy didn’t look at him. Crane wasn’t sure if he was being ignored or just hadn’t been seen. He did know that he had the odd urge to grab the boy, hug him, hold him to him. The feeling lasted only a moment, and Crane didn’t understand it: he genuinely disliked the kid.

Over to the left, on the same side of the street as the playground, a local cop car was parked, its motor running. The officer he’d talked to in the candy shop, five weeks ago, was sitting in it, alone, keeping an eye on the kids. Thin, dark-complected guy named, what was it? Turner. Officer Turner.

He walked over and knocked on the driver’s window and Turner rolled it down. He said, “Yes? Got a problem?” Turner’s breath was visible, like pollution.

“Just saying hello,” Crane said. “We spoke a month or so ago, about my fiancée’s death.”

“Oh, sure. Crane, isn’t it? How’s it going?”

“Not bad. How about you?”

“Can’t complain.”

“Kind of slow in Greenwood these days?”

“Yeah. Kind of. You know how it is.”

“Sure. You probably haven’t had a suicide since Thursday.”

“What?”

“Nice seeing you, officer. Keep up the good work.”

He turned his back on Turner and walked across the street and into the school. It was pretty well cleared out, very few kids, just a few teachers.

He quickly found the cafeteria. It was a big white room full of long tables with no one in it, except Mrs. Price, who was sitting drinking a cup of coffee. She looked tired; she seemed to have lost some weight. She was wearing a gray dress and little makeup and her red hair was rather mussed.

“Mr. Crane,” she said, with a perfunctory smile, getting up, sitting back down. “There’s coffee over there. Help yourself.”

He did.

He came back and sat down and sipped black coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Slipped off his wet jacket and draped it over the back of his chair.

“Well,” she said. Hands folded. “You said you wanted to see me.”

“Thank you for agreeing.”

“I didn’t think you were asking so much.”

“Mrs. Woll did. So did Mrs. Meyer.”

“Pardon?”

“I called them, too. I wanted to arrange a meeting between the four of us. Three widows of suicides, and me: the two-time loser.”

Mrs. Price winced, swallowed, said, “The other young woman… Ms. Boone… has she…?”

“Died? No. She’s still in her coma. I spent the morning with her.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crane. I don’t know how you can hold up under it.”

“I’m holding up fine. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look like you slept much last night.”

“Neither do you.”

“Well,” she said, shrugging. “I haven’t slept terribly well for over a month. Not since you came around and started me thinking.”

“Is that what I did?”

“Of course you did. You know you did. You started me thinking about George. The second George, that is. Well, and the first George, too. They both worked at Kemco. Maybe it killed them both.”

“Bet on it.”

“You seem very convinced, Mr. Crane.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know. I know I’m not sleeping. What about the other woman… Mrs. Meyer, and who?”

“Mrs. Woll. Neither of them would see me. Either alone, or in a group of the four of us. Mrs. Woll still works at Kemco, and said to get involved would be to risk her job, and after all she has a daughter to raise, and has no suspicions in particular about
her
husband’s suicide. Mrs. Meyer didn’t give me a reason: she just hung up on me. I take that to mean she’s steadfast in her loyalty to her late husband’s company.”

She shook her head. “How can they ignore it? Suicide upon suicide…”

He felt a lump growing in his throat. He sipped the coffee. The lump didn’t go away. He put the coffee down. He put a hand to his face. Tears were streaming down his face. He could feel them.

“Mr. Crane…”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

Then she was beside him, her chair pulled in beside him, and she put an arm around him; comforting him. Patting him.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Price,” he said, better now. “I… I guess it just hadn’t really hit me yet, about Boone. I’m… I’m fine. Maybe it’s that I can’t believe it, that somebody else is actually acknowledging what’s going on.”

She scooted her chair away from his a bit, just to give him room, then gave him a warm, weary smile and said, “I don’t claim to know what’s going on here. But something
is
going on.”

“If you and Mrs. Woll and Mrs. Meyer and I were to band together, and contact the Hazardous Waste Strike Force, and any other appropriate or even
goddamnit
inappropriate agencies, and if we’d tell our story to the media, then maybe, just
maybe
something,
something
, would be done.”