Thicker Than Blood (22 page)

Hank had given up on the chopsticks and was making better progress with a fork. “Have it your way. But I get the distinct impression you’re leaving something out. I think it had something to do with Jason and that damn car.”

Rachel paused, food midway to her mouth, and dodged the subject with, “How well do you know Alexandra?”

“About as well as any business acquaintance.”

“That’s all?”

“You kidding? When that woman cries, chipped ice runs down her cheeks.”

When Rachel had captured the last grain of the rice with her chopsticks, Hank stood, drew her to her feet, and looked solemnly into her face. “If you don’t want to tell me what happened, fine. But give me your word you won’t take those kinds of risks again,” he said, and pulled her to him.

A tear puddled in the corner of her eye and dripped onto his collar.

The phone rang. Rachel sighed and hobbled to the phone.

“Is this Rachel Chavez?”

She agreed that it was.

“You related to a Martin Chavez?”

Her lungs stopped pumping air and her heart tried to fast-forward. “He’s my father.”

There was a pause on the line, then another voice. “Dr. Graham, County Hospital. I’m afraid your father has had an accident.”

“How bad?” The words felt like shards of glass on her tongue.

“He’s in surgery now. I’m not the attending physician. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you.”

333

Above the flimsy hospital gown, Marty’s face, what Rachel could see of it, was the color of putty, his eyes a flat blue-gray.

“Papa. What happened?”

His eyes closed. “Car’s a mess. Sorry.” The words were slurred.

“Papa?” Her eyes shot to the monitors, but she wasn’t sure how to read them. Rachel pressed the call button and a short, round woman with gray hair cut shorter than most men’s appeared.

She barely glanced at Marty before pulling the rubbery curtain until it enclosed the bed. “He needs to rest.”

“But is he all right?” Rachel asked.

The nurse raised a finger to her lips, glanced at the three other occupied beds in the ward and gestured toward the door. “He needs rest,” she said again when they reached the hall, then strode into the next room.

Before Rachel could remember the location of the elevator, the nurse emerged in the hall again and hailed her. “They’d like you to stop by the desk in the lobby on your way out.”

In the lobby, Rachel found Hank sitting in a molded-plastic chair that looked designed for discomfort, reading an eight-month-old copy of People.

“How is he?”

She shrugged and jerked her thumb toward what looked like a window at the racetrack. “I’m trying to find out. Be right back.”

When she gave her name at the desk, the man behind it—neat as a Mormon, hair shorn short, starched white shirt—punched at his keyboard. “Ah, there’s the matter of financial responsibility.” He pushed a clipboard toward her.

She was filling out the form when a police officer arrived at her side. She almost flinched at the sight of yet another uniform. She had never seen so many cops when she wasn’t trying to avoid them.

He was short, stocky, with a cheery manner, and Rachel hated him on sight. “Sorry to bother you, Miss, but we understand you own the automobile driven by Martin Chavez?”

“Yes, what happened?”

“Hit a guardrail on the Long Beach. Paramedics got to the scene before we did. The doctor hasn’t let us talk to him yet. The car’s been towed, of course. Would you be the party to pay for that?”

Rachel closed her eyes and counted to three. He hadn’t even asked if her father was okay. “Give me the number. I’ll call them tomorrow.”

He handed her a slip of paper. “And where can we find you?”

She gritted her teeth. “I don’t know where I’ll be staying.” The hospital knew her number, that was enough.

The officer thanked her and bounced off toward the exit.

She handed the clipboard to the Mormon. “Who can tell me something about my father’s condition?”

He glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid the admitting physician is off duty,” he said in the voice of a church elder. “Perhaps you could call tomorrow.”

“Look.” Rachel wanted to reach through the window and grab his perfectly knotted blue-and-red striped tie. “I want to know his condition and I want to know now.”

The man picked up the phone on the corner of his desk, dialed a few numbers, and handed it to her.

The fourth person she was transferred to told her Martin Chavez was treated for a fractured shoulder, lacerations, contusions, a suspected concussion, and a puncture wound. When she asked how serious and what sort of puncture wound, there was only silence, followed by a dial tone.

“I know why they put their desk staff behind those little windows,” she muttered to Hank as the hospital door wheezed asthmatically shut behind them.

333

A short, rotund figure was pacing unsteadily back and forth at the corner when Rachel and Hank got back to the garage.

“That looks like Bruno,” Rachel said. “I introduced you at the bar. Remember? I wonder what’s wrong.”

“You want me to stay?”

“No. I’m fine. Really. He’s a good friend.” She got out of the car and waved at the figure.

Hank shook his head, put the Mustang in gear, and drove off.

“Bruno,” Rachel called, and limped toward the figure. “What’s going on?”

He looked slightly forlorn and smelled of scotch. “Hope I didn’t scare you, kiddo.”

“Not a lot left that could,” she replied, and told him about Marty.

Swaying a little, Bruno blinked owlishly and made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Jesus. What next?”

They made their way through the empty garage. In the elevator’s bright light, he stared at her bruises. “What are these marks?” He threw out his chest and brought up a fist. “I swear to God if some bastard—”

“No, no. Nothing like that. Just a sort of accident. I’m fine.”

“You sure don’t look fine, kiddo.”

“You need some coffee,” she said pointedly, as she unlocked the apartment. “You aren’t driving home tonight, are you?

“Got to start work at three.” Bruno’s eyes had a hollow look of shock about them.

“If you left now, you’d barely be home by three.” She selected two mugs from the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and gave them a hurried scrub. “What are you going to do for sleep?”

He resumed the pacing he had been doing on the sidewalk. “What you’re really saying, sweetheart, is you think I shouldn’t drive.”

Rachel shrugged and decided to stop mincing words and play it straight. “Okay. You shouldn’t drive.”

Bruno shrugged. “I’ve done it in a lot worse shape than this.” He paced some more, on slightly unsteady feet.

When the coffee was ready, she set both cups on the counter, moved the stools apart, and sat down, carefully distant, a little wave of guilt lapping at her conscience. “So what’s up? What’s driven you to drink?”

His eyes wandered aimlessly about the room, then came to rest on her upturned face. “I tell you the truth, kiddo, it may not matter a tinker’s poop whether I get to work tomorrow.”

Her grandfather had once commented, admiringly, that if Bruno had broken both legs and all his ribs, he would still be up at three to work the packing shed.

“Can’t be that bad,” she said lightly, trying to drain the mounting tension from the air. “What happened? The wind take your farm and set it down at the North Pole?”

Bruno’s shoulder’s sagged. He took a sip of coffee, but didn’t sit down. Wrapping his short arms around his barrel chest, he said dully, “Could be the wind might just as well do that.”

“Enough riddles.” A rising sense of alarm gave her voice an edge. “What’s up?”

“I got a lot of land. A lot.”

“I know that. Something like ten square miles, isn’t it?”

“All but maybe ten percent has hardpan under it.”

“That’s not exactly news. You’ve always had to be careful about salt buildup.” Hardpan, a sort of clay, prevented water from draining all the way through the soil.

“We should have been careful about the buildup of something else.”

“What are you talking about?”

Bruno dropped his arms and heaved a sigh. “Selenium.”

Rachel’s jaw dropped and it was several moments before she found her voice. Then words rushed out like steam from a pressure cooker. “What the hell does selenium have to do with anything?”

“Well, you see, sweetie, the terrible monster farmers irrigate their fields. Irrigation is water. When it runs back off the land into the ditch, it carries selenium with it, along with other trace elements and salts from the soil. After that water has run by enough farms, it is just chock full of selenium, among other things. And where do you think that water goes?”

“To shallow ponds somewhere so it can evaporate.”

Bruno dipped his head slowly in agreement. “That’s the only thing you can do with it when the land is on hardpan—unless you run a pipe all the way to the ocean to dump it.”

He paused and took another sip of coffee. “So there’s stuff in the water. And yeah, some of it’s selenium. And it gets soaked up by the plants and insects and fish, and then some ducks and frogs come along and eat those plants and insects and fish.…”

Rachel was staring at him intently. Her mouth began to form into an O and the voice that came out of it was faint. “Those ponds that were on the news? Where they found the wildlife problems?”

Bruno nodded, tottering a little on his feet. “Full story’s not out yet, but already the reporters are on us like a pack of dogs. I swear to God that water couldn’t wash that much selenium out of the soil. It’s flat-out impossible. But they’ll make so much noise about the poor little birds, people will be spitting on us in the streets.”

“What does that mean?”

“It just may mean that if I don’t get to work tomorrow, it ain’t going to matter. My land may be worthless. It just may mean that after thirty-two years of hard labor, I am about to go on welfare, kiddo.”

Chapter Thirty-six

Charlotte Emerson gathered up the papers on her desk, placed them neatly in a folder, and put on her jacket. The trim rose-colored suit added a pale blush to her cheeks.

She closed the door and stepped across the wide hall. Today would be part of her legacy.

Yesterday, the board of directors had become a platoon of fools. She had almost lost sight of her own priorities. But with all the board members focused on finding someone to blame for the disaster in the water quality lab, with everyone tossing about the word “responsibility,” it had turned out to be almost simple.

If there was an afterlife, she would consider thanking that frightful creature Hunsinger.

She left her office and walked briskly to the board room.

It was as grand as the U.S. Senate chamber and already filled with milling bodies, including the mayors of several cities. Fifty-five high-back swivel chairs were arranged behind tables in a three-tiered horseshoe. Microphone arms rose from the tables like poised snakes. Three enormous flags, for nation, state, and district, were draped behind the chairman’s seat at the center of the highest tier.

Charlotte was almost giddy with the knowledge that this bastion of right-wing white males was about to announce the appointment of a black general manager.

Andrew’s wife, Jackie, was at his side, smiling and gracious in a simple dress of cobalt blue, a beautiful woman whose features recalled some sultry isle in the Caribbean.

Charlotte shook hands until her jaw was stiff from smiling. Someone touched her elbow and she turned to find Alexandra’s warm eyes on her.

“Interesting choice,” Alexandra said with impeccable charm. “When can we talk? It’s important.”

“Of course,” Charlotte nodded. I’m sure it is. “Soon. I’ll ask Janet to set it up.”

She left Alexandra chatting animatedly with Andrew and drifted up the steps, past the small desks, reminding herself that Andrew was a virgin in politics. She would have to help him.

Bruno Calabrese caught her eye and she nodded to him. Poor Bruno. The press was hammering the farmers unmercifully. She swiveled the chairman’s seat toward her and sat down.

Alexandra made her way to the first row of seats and sat down next to Bruno. She was thinking it was a shame that the reporter from the Chronicle had singled him out as the arch villain. Alexandra had little fondness for agriculture, but as Central Valley farmers went, Bruno was the best of the lot. She put her hand on his arm and murmured, “Is Charlotte out of her mind making this Andrew Greer general manager? A personnel director, yet! He can’t possibly know the business.”

Bruno squeezed her hand. “Charlotte doesn’t make many mistakes,” he said carefully. All the same, he was feeling betrayed. And how could a beautiful woman like Alexandra, who should be home having babies, be destroying him?

Alexandra settled back in her seat. “I hear things are rough up your way.”

“We give you free land, free water, you should be happy. Instead you boil it up and toss us poor farmers in it like poached eggs.”

“The land was no good for farming, you know that. And you didn’t give us water, you gave us drain water. You had to get rid of that anyway.”

“We built the damn ponds for you, the ditches to bring the water. You think we get our jollies hurting ducks? What do you want? I know. Don’t tell me. You want us to be dead ducks.”

“It’s your own drain water you’ll drown in,” Alexandra said sweetly.

“No way in hell that drain water could have washed enough of it out of the soil and into those ponds. Not even in decades. And you know it.”

“Why don’t you just give us the delta and we won’t bother you again.”

“Sure, I’ll have the papers drawn up. How would you like it? By the acre or the farm?” Bruno masked his uneasiness with a laugh. Jason gone and this Andrew…an unknown, like a joker in the deck. Andrew Greer had no power base. What did he know about politics, enviro nuts, or farming? The sharks would gut him by the end of the year. Unless.…

Bruno’s eyes again roved over the crowd. He reined them in and forced them to focus on the flags behind the board’s tables.

Andrew’s fingers were cold. He’d shaken a hundred hands in the past hour, each time with a twinge of embarrassment that his were so cold. Some of those who had congratulated him did not make a habit of touching black hands. Now they would think all blacks had icy fingers.