The Dirty Secret (34 page)

CHAPTER 74

WEST VIRGINIA STATE CAPITOL
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 4, 8:00 P.M.

“So what’s the verdict?” Tyson Vasquez asked.

Bowen stood alone on the State Capitol’s steps, facing the Kanawha River. Clutching his phone to his ear, he puffed on a cigarette. “Down for the count. Despite threats, promises, horse-trading and ass-kissing, there will be no special session.”

Vasquez swore. “You predicted that, but I hoped you’d find a way to ram it through.”

“I gave it hell. Governor Vincent will issue a statement tomorrow at ten, thanking the legislators who supported the idea but admitting we’ll have to wait and deal with it in January.”

“Do me a favor and have Luke call Senator Wilson tonight to personally advise her of this decision. She’ll appreciate hearing it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”

Bowen threw his cigarette butt down and stomped it with his shoe. “Consider it done. And unless you have something up your sleeve I don’t know about, we’re about out of cards.”

Vasquez paused. “We’re exploring some options. Nothing you need to worry about right now, plus things are changing by the hour. If I think you can help, I’ll let you know.”

Bowen gritted his teeth. He hated not being in the loop, but that was politics: In one day, out the next. “Well, give me a ring if you need
anything
. The thought of coming this far only to fall short makes me want to scream. Or puke. Or get shit-faced beyond recognition.”

“That feeling is pretty widespread around here.”

SUNNYVALE, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2:00 P.M.

Well,
this
is unusual. And where in the hell is St. Marys, West Virginia, anyway?

He plugged in the woman’s name and noted she had an account with the Internet service provider who employed him. So his first means to disregard such requests was unavailable.

Next, he examined the language describing
what types
of information were requested. One look caused him to scowl:

Please provide me with copies of all “documents” pertaining or related to this account. “Document” means every writing or record of every type and description that is or has been in your possession, custody, or control or of which you have knowledge, including but not limited to correspondence, memoranda, tapes, computer files, facsimiles, voice recordings, or any other reported or graphic material in whatever form, including copies, drafts, and reproductions. “Document” also refers to any other data compilations from which information can be obtained, and translated, if necessary, by you through computers or detection devices into reasonably usable form.

Finally, he pored over the authorizing document enclosed with the request to see if there were any limitations that might justify rejecting the request for information:

That I, Tabatha McCallen, do hereby make, constitute and appoint my husband, Jackson P. “Jack” McCallen as my true and lawful attorney-in-fact, for me and in my name and stead, to…

14.  Generally act as my attorney or agent in relation to all the foregoing and as to any and all other matters in which I may be interested or concerned; on my behalf execute all such instruments, and
do all such acts and things as fully and effectually in all respects as I myself could do if personally present…

Rats!

Begrudgingly, he burned a DVD copy of all the requested files currently stored on the company’s servers. With a click of the mouse, he generated a ‘please find enclosed’ letter and dropped it into an envelope with the DVD. Clicking the mouse again, he printed one of the ISP’s standard “verifications of authenticity.”

With a sigh, he walked across the hall and handed the verification to a secretary. “I need you to notarize this for me.”

“Wow,” she said, with raised eyebrows. “Somebody found a golden ticket, huh?”

He grimaced. “Sometimes, you can’t find a reason to tell them to go away.”

The woman signed and stamped the verification. “Oh, well. Better luck next time.”

CHAPTER 75

PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 6, 4:45 A.M.

Jack sat at his brother’s kitchen table with a plate of scrambled eggs and a cup of black coffee. “The one thing I hate about hunting is you have to wake up so damn early.”

His brother, Bart, grinned at him. “It’s worth it, though.”

Jack smiled back. “I can’t deny that. Between everything at work and the election crap, I didn’t think I’d get out in the woods at all this year.”

Bart shook his head in amazement. “That’s why I said you could keep that damn oil company. I’ll stick with farmin’. There’s no way some
job
would keep me from deer hunting.”

“All I can say is, ‘Thank God for small miracles,’” Jack said. “Today’s the last day of rifle season, and with any luck, I’ll finally break my dry spell.”

“What’s it been now … three years?”

Jack scowled. “Four.”

Bart leaned back and stroked his beard. “Well, brother, I think today’s your lucky day. You’re due for some luck, and now that you’re finally getting rid of that anchor you’ve been married to all these years, I think your luck’s about to change.”

Jack tensed. “Now, Bart. I haven’t made up my mind about that just yet.”

“Ha! Tell that to somebody who didn’t grow up with you! You can tell yourself that if it makes you feel better. Hell, you may even
believe
it. But once you’re in the woods, surrounded by silence and at peace with the world, you’ll see divorcing her ass is the right thing to do.”

Jack’s gaze narrowed. “Ya think?”

Bart nodded with certainty. “Trust me.”

Jack sipped his coffee, glancing at the clock. “All right, Ann Landers. We need to head out so we’re in our tree stands before daylight.”

Bart stood and stretched. “Since I’ve already got two this year, Jack, I’m gonna help you break your dry spell. I’ll circle around the back side of the ridge and run a few bucks towards you from that pine thicket they like to bed down in.”

Jack smiled widely. “You’re a hell of a man, Bart.”

“What are brothers for?”

Fifteen minutes later, wearing their cold weather gear and blaze orange, their rifles were slung over their shoulders and they were walking downhill from Bart’s farmhouse toward the open field where they hunted as boys with their dad. Bart tapped Jack on the shoulder and silently motioned he was breaking away to circle widely around the deer’s typical sleeping area.

Jack waved and continued easing downhill toward his tree stand. A thin layer of snow that fell the afternoon before had frozen overnight and crunched softly beneath his footsteps. The crisp morning air filled his lungs and he found himself energized with growing anticipation.

Deer were drawn to a small creek that ran along the back side of Bart’s meadow, and the acorns that fell from old oak trees lining the field’s perimeter offered the animals plentiful food. Fresh tracks Bart spotted in the wet ground the previous evening told them deer had crossed here recently, further heightening their confidence.

Reaching the same oak tree at the far right corner of the field where he had hunted for forty years, Jack smiled and nodded contentedly. He quietly ascended the old tree, using two-by-four boards nailed into the trunk as rungs, until he finally climbed into his portable tree stand about 15 feet above the ground. Unlimbering his rifle, Jack tried to get comfortable and settled in to await the break of dawn.

Over the course of the next hour, stars slowly faded from the pitch black sky and the first faint whispers of light began filtering into the woods, allowing Jack to be on guard for signs of motion around him. Against the white backdrop of the fresh snow, Jack knew he soon should be able to pick up movement of deer from several hundred yards away, once the sky grew brighter. Remaining as motionless as possible, Jack was enveloped by silence and smiled peacefully.

Everything will be okay
, he thought with a smile.
Finally
.

As much as he loved Tabatha, Jack knew he could not spend another night under the same roof with her. She had borne him two wonderful sons, and he would always love her for that.
But if I don’t walk away now, I’ll end up killing her. And I can’t let my boys go through something that horrible. As hard as a divorce will be for them, it will be better in the long run if Tabatha and I go our separate ways.

As the darkness continued to fade, Jack saw the first signs of life emerging around him: The swaying shadows of trees and brief glimpses of squirrels hopping playfully along the ground beneath him. With every passing minute, Jack’s view of the meadow grew clearer, though it remained partially obscured by intermittent banks of fog floating above the ground.

Just as the world around him was almost fully lit, Jack heard something rustling in the trees lining the far side of the meadow. If Bart had driven the deer from their thicket, they would be expected to emerge in that area. Steeling his body, he focused on the trees. Then a muscular ten-point buck ambled his way through the ghostly wisps of fog and into the meadow.

Filling his lungs with the crisp morning air, Jack eased his rifle onto his right shoulder and smiled from ear-to-ear. Peering through the scope, he watched the buck slowly stride toward the middle of the fog-shrouded field about a hundred yards away.

Steady. Just a few more feet and this dry spell will be history.

As Jack disengaged the safety switch and prepared to pull the trigger, serenity washed over him. After four years without bagging a buck, he had no doubt his luck had changed.

The laws of physics are immutable and uncaring. The muzzle velocity of a bullet fired from a typical hunting rifle is about 2,800 feet per second. By comparison, sound waves creep along at 1,129 feet per second. The difference between the two speeds explains why State Senator Jack McCallen never heard the gunshot that propelled a bullet through his skull, scrambled his brains and ended his life.

CHAPTER 76

PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE
ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1:05 P.M.

“They say it was probably an accident,” Martha said softly.

Rikki silently stared at her secretary. A bottle of Visine and a box of tissues sat nearby. “Well, we haven’t had a murder here in thirty years, so that would make sense. But still …”

“I know. Jack calls you on Friday saying his deal with that company had fallen through
and
he was meeting with a lawyer in Parkersburg to get divorce papers drafted …”

“And the next day he’s dead,” Rikki added. “What are the odds of that happening?”

Martha nodded. “What are you going to do?”

Rikki shrugged. “The Sheriff’s Department is investigating. They’ll call us once the ballistics tests are back.”

Martha folded her arms across her chest. “And where was Tabatha Saturday morning?”

Rikki’s face soured. “Bart heard the gunshot go off about 7:30. At that time, Tabatha was cooking breakfast for their two boys
and
talking on the phone to her friend, Betsy. We may have to send her phone company a subpoena to confirm her story, of course.”

“Of course,” Martha agreed. “Speaking of which …” She leaned into her office and grabbed a padded envelope from her desk. “This was in the P.O. box at lunch.”

Addressed to “Jack McCallen c/o Sarika D. Gudivada, Esq,” Rikki noted it came from Tabatha’s email provider. She opened the envelope and extracted a jewel case with a disc, along with two pieces of paper. “This DVD supposedly has all the documents and files we asked for.”

“Good God!” Martha exclaimed. “How long will it take to go through that stuff?”

“No idea, but shut the door and hold my calls. I’m looking for a needle in a haystack.”

WEST VIRGINIA ROUTE 2
BELMONT, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, DECEMBER 8, 4:50 P.M.

“Thanks for picking me up at the airport, Dad,” Dave said.

The older man nodded but kept facing forward, both hands on the wheel. “Your mom would have divorced me if I didn’t. And with dinner almost ready, I didn’t want to tick her off.”

Dave chuckled. “Well, I appreciate it. Traffic was a nightmare between D.C. and the little airport where I house the plane. And I forgot to call and give you my ETA until I was in the air, so I had to wait until I landed in Parkersburg. Sorry.”

“Save the apologies for your mom, son: She’s the one who was scrambling to get dinner ready on a moment’s notice. If you weren’t flying in for Jack’s funeral, I’m sure I’d be eating something from McDonald’s tonight.”

“Glad I could help out,” Dave quipped, grinning and shaking his head in amusement.

As the car motored north on Route 2, they approached the hulking Willow Island Station, a coal-fired power plant on the Ohio River. With the sky darkening behind the plant, white lights blinked atop the plant’s smokestacks and cooling towers.

“Every time I drive past here, I think about The Accident,” Dave said.

His father nodded. “51 men died in the blink of an eye when the scaffolding on that cooling tower collapsed. Just goes to show how fleeting and fragile life truly is.”

“Yeah, and it’s the same thing with Jack. I mean, I just watched the game with him a week ago and now he’s dead. Unbelievable.”

“Speaking of which,” his dad said. “I got a call from the guys at the Lodge today. They need warm bodies to give Jack a Masonic funeral, and they hoped you and I could help out.”

Dave grimaced. “It’s been ages since I did one of those. Hell, I can hardly remember the last time I sat in a Blue Lodge meeting.”

“Well, the Lodge is aging, Dave. There are less Masons around than there used to be. You may be rusty, but you have a good memory. You’ll be fine with a little practice.”