Remember Me (42 page)

“Explosion?” I mumbled into the phone.

“Damn!” Tom yelled into the phone, “Amy wasn’t even

supposed to be there. I talked to her at five, and she said she was on her way out the door. Stebben always sticks around.

If she’d left when she said she would, she wouldn’t be in the hospital.”

In all of my cloudiness, I still heard the conspiratorial tone in Tom’s voice. (Amy wasn’t supposed to have been there.) Was that a statement of impending knowledge or just true anger at the coincidence? My mind quickly turned sharp and refocused, “What is the perception of loss at this point?” I asked, my voice conveying a business-like tenor to it.

“Nearly total,” Tom responded. “Much of the equipment

will have to be written off as a total loss. The WDFD hasn’t issued any statements, but I did manage to talk with the Fire Marshall. He seems to believe that an underground gas leak in conjunction with the old boiler system is what probably caused the explosion and the ensuing fire. There will be an extensive investigation before anything can be ruled in or out.”

“How did Stebben and Amy get out?” I asked.

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“Amy said that she was in the parking lot when the explosion threw her to the pavement. She knew Stebben was inside and ran to the front entrance to try and help. She could see him lying on the floor near the front reception area. She had to play hero and went into the building with all of the smoke and fire around her. She pulled him out before collapsing from breathing in the smoke. The fire department was quickly on the scene as was the ambulance that took both of them to Mercy Hospital.”

“Is she and…” I almost said baby, but quickly added,

“Stebben going to be ok?”

“The doctor said Amy is fine, or will be, but nothing yet on Stebben.”

“Ok. I’ll head back right away and drive to the hospital first. It will be late when I get there. I have to drop Emma off at the house in Des Moines first. See if you can’t get the Fire Marshall to let me into the building as soon as it’s cleared, hopefully by tomorrow morning.”

“I already asked,” Tom was quick to reply, “No go. He said it would be a couple of days before anyone other than the investigators would be allowed inside.”

“I’ll have to see about that!” I replied with my best get it done attitude. I was less than thrilled at the idea of waiting. My reasoning was more than just concern for the building and all of the equipment. I wanted to know if the chip was still there or gone. Even though it didn’t matter in the long run, I needed to find out if the explosion was deliberate. We always shut the chip up in the safe at four-thirty, the normal quitting time.

Stebben would hang out and do a systems check before leaving by five-fifteen to five-thirty. The warehouse would open up in the morning with Mark and Samuel, who were generally there by six. The rest of the employees would come in at eight. I might not be able to get into the warehouse, but I S 317 S

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could hopefully get inside the old trailer, which was still my unofficial office. In the past year, it had been moved around back and used infrequently. It did what it was now supposed to do, besides looking obsolete.

Only Stebben and I knew it had been strategically placed over an old underground pit. A cement wall had been constructed as a foundation to hold the trailer. It kept what was underneath out of the view of prying eyes. The pit had once been used to hold chemical drums. It had been made water-proof and accessible through a cleverly concealed trap door in the floor of the trailer. The secondary back-up security system was run from its location in the underground pit. Video footage was stored there. It did dual purpose as it logged footage from two special cameras monitoring the safe and the tech development room in the warehouse and from the nightly

transfer of footage from the warehouse’s own internal security system.

I hung up the phone and said, “Sorry girl,” to Emma. I sat down on the arm of the couch and watched as my company was discussed on the television. “It will be a major set-back for one of the leading companies in the production of computer chips.

Peter Warren has not been reached for public comment as of this time. An investigation will continue over the next several days…” I had already started to tune it out. My thoughts were directed towards a more sinister direction. I dearly hoped I was wrong, but my instincts and gut told me otherwise. The groceries were still in the sacks so I carried them back out to the car. I shut off all the lights in the house except for the one by the garage entrance. Before we left, I picked up the phone in the kitchen and called my parents.

My mom answered on the first ring, “Andrew is that you?”

“Yes Mom. I believe it is time for you and Dad to initiate your hide-a-way plan.”

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“Are you certain?”

“It’s what my insides are telling me. I’m not sure of anything until I can get a look at the video, but the timing and certain comments I’ve heard makes it seem too pertinent to be coincidental. You need to make sure that Andrew, Tami and the kids are safe too. You know the drill… Call Stacy as soon as you hang up and tell her to put her action plan into phase two. I need to head back to Des Moines; I just arrived here at the acreage.”

“Oh Andrew, be very careful, don’t put yourself in jeopardy. Let the police handle it.”

“The police can be bought fairly easily, when you know

how,” I said with belligerency. “Anyway, I’m not concerned about the local authorities, but the higher-ups. I can’t comment on anything until after I get a chance to see what’s what.”

My mother spoke in a low whisper, “Are you in any danger in going back?”

“You never know, but I don’t think so. I think they were after the chip, and I’m guessing they got it.” I had never told my mom about the chip being a dummy, and just in case anyone was listening, I wanted to make sure they knew it was the only chip—even if it truly wasn’t. If by chance, they did steal it and the explosion was a massive cover-up; then ultimately, it might make my life simpler. My role in the technology race had put me in the public eye. I would greatly relish the opportunity to get out of the spotlight.

I wouldn’t let revenge rule my plans, but there are some things you don’t let go. I hoped like hell I was wrong about Tom, but I had plenty of reasons to be suspicious. He did seem to be earnest in his comments about Amy not supposing to be there. It might have been him being concerned or maybe it was all just window dressing for something more sinister. More than likely it was both. I shut the door behind me and loaded S 319 S

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Emma back into the car. I would have plenty of time to think on my three-hour drive back to Des Moines.

It was after midnight when I made it to the warehouse site.

My drive down had not provided me with any more conclusions. If anything, it left me with more questions and concerns.

It seemed like Stebben had been targeted. It made sense…

take out the lead developer and E.M.J. wouldn’t be able to compete. I was apprehensive of doing anything, anything at all! One wrong move and many more people’s lives could be in danger. I had no choice. My first priority was to watch the surveillance video before I let the shadows run away with my thoughts.

I made a brief appearance at the hospital, after dropping Emma off at my Des Moines’ home. As much as I wanted to

check in on Amy, I made Stebben my first stop. He was in the intensive care wing, and I couldn’t get within fifty feet of him.

It took me nearly twenty minutes to track down anyone with an answer. Finally, a very concerned nurse filled me in with all the details she felt she could give me. It wasn’t good, and I cursed under my breath. In my mind, I had already linked Tom with Winslow. I blamed them both...and I blamed me!

Tom wasn’t anywhere around Amy’s room, and after asking a few questions of the night nurse, I found out he had left nearly two hours ago. It was way past visiting hours, and the best they would let me do was to write Amy a note. It came with a promise that they would give it to her in the morning. I knew what I wanted to say in the note, but I couldn’t write it.

I ended up writing, “I’m so sorry.” That was it, nothing more. I didn’t even sign it, didn’t put, “Tom was in on it,” didn’t write how much I loved her and how I didn’t care if she was the younger version of my Amy. I looked at my words one more time, and then I tossed it in the nearest trash can. I asked the nurse to tell her that Peter had stopped by too late to see her, S 320 S

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and I’d be back in the morning. She didn’t bother to write it down, and before I could say anything else her phone rang, drawing her attention away from me. I took it as my cue to leave. I headed down the hall towards the exit. I drove as fast as I could to the ruins of E.M.J.

There was a WDPD squad car parked in the entrance drive

to E.M.J. It faced the perfect angle to watch the warehouse and the most obvious points of entry onto the premises. It was good and bad. Good; from the standpoint that they were keeping an eye on the warehouse so looters or other unsavory characters couldn’t sift through the destruction. It was bad because it made my being here harder to explain. I pulled up to the entry drive. Instantly the driver’s side door of the squad car opened. The police officer’s left hand went to the snap on his gun holster, undoing it. He turned his high-beam flashlight on and stood in the middle of the entrance to block my car. The officer pointed the beam straight towards my eyes. I slowed the car to a crawl and stopped it inches away from him. I rolled down the window and prepared for the onslaught.

“Good evening Sir! I’m sorry, but the premises are off limits, you’ll have to turn around.”

“I know officer, I’m Peter Warren, the owner. I was out

of town and just returned.” I handed him my wallet with my driver’s license facing him before he even asked.

He flinched at my movement. I watched him instinctively

reach for his gun. “Keep your hands on the wheel, please.” He shone the flashlight, now without mercy, directly into my face.

“Officer,” I began, “I just got off the phone with Judge Arthur Brenton. He assured me that I would have no problem accessing the trailer at the rear of the warehouse.” This was a marginally true statement, though Brenton had said I would have wait until after tomorrow morning’s survey by the police department. Judge Brenton was one of the people S 321 S

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who I’d been candid with about J.W. Winslow. He didn’t even complain when I called him after eleven p.m. I was banking on his name and mine to finesse my way past the duty officer.

I said directly into the spotlight, “his personal number is (555) 724-6254. Judge Brenton said I should pass on his number to anyone who had any concerns. He would be willing to take their call.” I made sure to state this last comment with as much cynicism as I could.

The officer lowered the flashlight. He asked for my wallet.

I let go of the steering wheel and handed it to him. I noticed he hadn’t yet re-snapped his holster. He checked the driver’s license and placed the light once again on my face. He did this a couple of more times. I had to give him credit for efficiency and his attention to detail. The officer and I both knew that Judge Brenton was pushing seventy, and he was both tough on his adversaries and a stickler for protocol. We also both knew it would be highly unlikely that the officer would call to confirm my statement. It was already after midnight, and the judge could be utterly vicious if woken up from his sleep. I was doing my best to play a part, just like a scene from a movie. I hoped the officer stayed on script and played his role as written. I worried more about him taking a stance of resistance, throwing his own power play back at me, or even worse, calling his department to confer on what to do. That would put me in a tighter spot than him calling the judge. I knew Judge Brenton would collaborate my story. He wouldn’t be happy, but he’d go along.

“Mr. Warren, I’m sorry about the loss of your business and for my brashness,” he stated this matter-of-factly. “I have to follow police procedures.”

“I understand you were just doing your duty officer,” I said.

My god, could it have sounded anymore like a cliché uttered in every television cop series.

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“Thank you sir,” he responded. His voice was no longer

menacing sounding. “The name is Patrick Farnshegen.”

“Nice to meet you Patrick,” I returned in equal friendliness. “Has anyone else been out from the company…say, in the last couple of hours?”

“Mr. Powell was here a little over an hour ago. I turned him away. I can tell you he wasn’t happy about it, but he left with a few choice words for me on his way out.”

I chuckled. Tom had stopped out here after leaving from

the hospital. He was also not a happy camper! “I wonder why,” I silently thought to myself. Returning to the scene of the crime perhaps? Coming back to get a little something he forgot? It didn’t matter; he wasn’t my current focal point. I just needed to get into the trailer and grab the two back-up video tapes. I asked the officer if the power was on or off.

“Off…precautions in case of another gas build-up.” He

said this more cautiously and with less forcefulness than he had his other statements. I caught the minor inflection in his voice and decided to push him.

“I take it that the Fire Marshall has reason to believe it may not have been an accident?”

It was a dark night and the lights from my headlight did little to stab the darkness, but I could still sense the unease in Patrick as he stood mostly silhouetted by the night. He shifted from his front foot to his back foot as he pondered my question.

“Can’t say, nothing’s for certain, however…what I can

tell you is that Captain Sutton has some grave concerns about where the explosion originated.

“Thank you for your candor, Patrick. I greatly appreciate it. I learned more in what he didn’t say than what he could have told me. “If it’s alright with you, I just need to drive around back to the trailer. There are some important papers inside that I might need to have when I talk to the insurance S 323 S