River Rules Page 19

  “Bingo.” Tomassi pointed to an empty vodka bottle. Peter shook his head after probing it with his shoe. “Yeah, no—leave it. Broken glass like that’s a hazard. Gotta get the litter guys down here. Tomassi looked around and lowered his voice. “Based on the ME report, the perp wore gloves. We got jack for evidence and no witnesses. It’s a clusterfuck.”

  “Jesus. What about forensics from the burned tent?”

  “An accelerant. Nothing useful.”

  “So that’s it?” Peter grabbed Tomassi’s arm. “We gotta get justice for Sherry.”

  “It’s an open case; I’ll never let it go cold.” Tomassi disengaged and put an empty potato chip bag in Peter’s hand. “Do something useful for a change. Look, her picture, description, location, and, you know, the usual ‘if you have information about this case, please contact the Bridgeville Police Department at blah blah blah,’ is gonna be on the website front and center. Maybe we’ll catch a break.”

  “Fuckers who did this.”

  “Never say never. We only need someone who saw something to come forward. But don’t kid yourself, this isn’t someone stupid like Skippy Lafford. This feels professional.”

  “It’s all tied up in the Consortium and Eautopia. It’s about the damn water.” Peter put himself nose to nose with Tomassi. “You know deep in your gut, you felt it, John.”

  “Stay out of it.” Tomassi stepped backward into some mud and very deliberately wiped his shoes off on a rocky outcropping. “You called in the tent, you done good. It’s strictly by the book going forward. Goddam Vic’s really got his head up someone’s ass to get intel like that, never mind share it with Ian.”

  “They’re buds now. The dynamic duo. But what’s with the cloak and dagger bullshit. You can’t call me or be seen with me?” They had resumed strolling along the leafy path.

  “It’s not all public yet. And yeah, I got a reputation to protect. Plus, phone records and text messages can be subpoenaed. And don’t you go posting any trash talk on social media.”

  “Wow. I’m speechless.”

  “That’s a first.” Tomassi looked at his watch. “Geez, Donna’s gonna think I got something on the side.” Peter had to crack a smile. Tomassi loved being a married family man more than anything in the world. “What? I’m never late for dinner.”

  CHAPTER 50

  “HISTORY IS WRITTEN BY THE WINNERS, NANCY.”

  “We need team players. Trust is easy to lose, Nancy.”

  Right on cue, each corporate hologram addressed Nancy as though she had the mental capacity of a snail. Nancy looked dully from man to man. They sat in a basement office in the Alcon Building. As she stared at them loopily through her painkillers that she’d injected through the PICC line in her arm, she saw they were clones, possibly even robots. Mid-forties, minimally moussed brown hair parted on the left, navy blue suits, crisp white shirts, majestically red ties, and gleaming black loafers.

  Nancy had broken just about every kind of important rule laid down by the visiting nurses by leaving her house and driving to this meeting. Even the stairs were off-limits right after pain meds. Somehow, she drove to the office, but only after being told that her job depended on this meeting.

  “We’d like to hear your version of events, Nancy. We come from a place of concern. You can tell us,” said the first man whose name sounded like Biff Glasscock. Nancy decided that she would identify Biff by his meaty earlobes.

  The other man, Woody Buffington, had very short fingers. Or maybe the first man was Woody Glasscock and the second one was Biff Buffington. Nancy truly couldn’t puzzle it out, but she didn’t really care. Although, she reminded herself, their names sounded oddly close to a drinking game she had played in college where a person created a porn star name by answering three questions: your first pet’s name, the name of the street you lived on as a child, and she forgot the third one.

  “Nancy? Have you forgotten why you’re here?”

  Nancy roused herself. Her still-open wound leaked through the gauze pad she’d taped over the drain in her abdomen and seeped unpleasantly down her underpants. She could smell her body rotting.

  “You said this is an urgent meeting because you want to discuss my performance. But I don’t understand how I work for you. I work for Joe Evans. At Alcon. Like I explained over the phone, HR knows all about my situation and why I’m on short-term disability.”

  Just then, Brock Saunders flung open the door and loomed over her. “Not any more. And your division reports to us.”

  Nancy flinched at the sight of him, her stomach, or what remained of it, spasming. Her vaginal muscles tensed wretchedly into a knot.

  “Nancy Yates. You have been spun off,” Brock boomed. His cologne filled the room. Biff and Woody pulled up a chair for him. “I’ll stand. This,” he said, gesturing at Nancy as though she were an inanimate object, “shouldn’t take too long.”

  “What is happening here?” Nancy croaked. Before any of the men could speak, she cut them off, her strength rallying. “I’ve had serious complications from my surgery. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your department at the Alcon Group was spun off to the Consortium’s Financial Services Division. We have important issues to discuss.” Biff took the reins and steered the conversation to somewhere Nancy hadn’t anticipated.

  Woody spoke up as Brock’s eyes bored holes in Nancy’s body. “Nancy, your performance review which, importantly, your previous managers filed prior to your surgery is a disaster. Work flow stagnation, deficiencies, errors, lack of timely communication, inappropriate communication, ethical lapses; all are duly noted with dates.” He circled something on his legal pad.

  “Now then,” Biff continued, sounding very rehearsed. “Unless we can come to some kind of understanding, your place in the new paradigm is at risk. Is this the outcome you want?”

  Nancy looked from Biff to Woody, deliberately ignoring Brock’s presence. “I don’t understand this negative performance review. There were no problems at all.”

  “Not according to this document. What happens today is crucial for your future at the Consortium.” Both men stared at her without blinking. Brock cracked his knuckles loudly, over and over. “Nothing less than full cooperation is acceptable.”

  “OK, sure.” Nancy’s dripping armpits drenched her shirt. She shifted uncomfortably, wiping her palms on her loose pants.

  “Good. Let’s start with your explanation of how you came to view documents stolen from our new corporate partner, Eautopia.”

  “What? What do you mean?” Nancy sputtered in shock, her heart plummeting. “I was in the hospital, the ICU. I’ve had serious complications.”

  Glasscock cleared a phlegmy blockage in his throat. Brock filled the temporary void. “You committed big violations of corporate security laws.”

  “You should know,” Nancy shot back.

  “Touché. I faced my consequences. Are you ready for yours?”

  Brock motioned for Biff to show Nancy some papers.

  “Think hard. These should help.” Biff slowly and deliberately arranged some photographs on the table.

  Nancy gasped at the pictures of Peter holding the envelope containing the documents and flash drive. He was photographed entering and leaving her house. The two of them were silhouetted at her kitchen table looking over the papers. In a sequence of time-and date-stamped photos, Nancy held the flash drive and inserted it into her laptop.

  A very powerful zoom lens showed the 9 x 12 envelope and the documents on her table. Clearly visible were the words: Property of the New England Consortium Council.

  Tears, make-up and sweat ran down Nancy’s face. “Do I need a lawyer?” She tried to get up and leave but her legs buckled. She clutched the table tightly.

  The men stared at her coldly, Brock’s expression terrifying although Nancy tried to avoid looking at him.

  “What were you doing?” Brock moved his chair closer to her, near enough so she could see the grey peeking through
the apricot hue of his hair.

  “How dare you spy on me. Wait,” she said, her head spinning. “Have you been following Peter since the Zenergy thing?”

  “Russo’s history. We can put him away. Here’s a short video you might enjoy.”

  Brock pushed a button and a screen descended from the ceiling. She watched, mesmerized. The video showed Peter leaving the dam and heading to her house. Peter rang her doorbell and held the envelope. The last few seconds showed him, envelope tucked under his arm, pulling the door shut and checking twice before he drove away.

  “Oh my God, he did shut it. You bastards, how dare you?”

  Brock smirked and pushed another button. The next short video showed Peter and Ian hiking at the reservoir. Nancy could dimly make out a woman talking to them.

  “Is that—no it can’t be. Is that Sherry Nicholas?”

  “Here’s what you’re going to do, Nancy. Save yourself. Tell us where he hid our property. Tell us everything about Russo’s activities.” Woody or Biff spoke to her while Brock leaned back in his chair and watched her closely.

  “This is blackmail. I want—”

  Nancy suddenly started having powerful bowel contractions. An occasional side effect of her surgery, she’d never had them this urgently. She scurried out to the hallway, clutching her belly and farting. She almost made it to the door of the handicapped stall before she lost control. The stinking mess combined with her cell-level horror at Brock’s evil intentions sent her off the deep end. Crying, huddled in the corner, she wadded toilet paper into a sponge and cleaned off as best she could. Haltingly, she rose to her feet and tried to text Peter but there was no reception.

  Nancy knew she had to get out of there somehow, some way. Opening the restroom door cautiously, she stepped into the waiting coven of Brock and his henchmen.

  “Here you are,” Buffington purred.

  “You made me shit myself, you fucking bastards. Let me go.”

  “We’re not done, Nancy.” Brock pressed a white handkerchief to his nose.

  “I’ll call the cops, I’ll sue you for harassment.”

  “Actually, you’re just about to be arrested for theft and espionage. Felonies.”

  Nancy stared at them weakly, unsteady on her feet. “What do you want from me?”

  “We want Russo. We almost have him, but we need you to make it stick. You give us Russo, and nothing happens to you. It’s simple. You get to keep your job and benefits. Health care, retirement.” Biff looked at her expectantly.

  “No.”

  “You for Russo.”

  “No. I need time. I’m sick.”

  “Well, if you didn’t become such a fucking fat pig,” Brock suddenly whispered in her ear, his breath horrifying. “Work on saying no like you mean it, bitch.”

  Straightening up, he gave an almost imperceptible nod to his cronies. “You have an hour. Plenty of time to clean the shit off.”

  “We have eyes on you. No contact with Russo or anybody else.” Woody and Biff finished each other’s words.

  “It’s prison if you miss the deadline,” Brock showed her his teeth and smiled as her face quivered. “Super max for Russo.”

  CHAPTER 51

  THE CONSORTIUM AND EAUTOPIA CALLED A BIG NEWS conference to reveal their water bottling venture. The deal made headlines in the business world. Locally, the governor and state legislators practically pummeled each other like MMA fighters to get in front of the TV cameras. Brock Saunders gave interview after interview, pronouncing himself humbled at the chance to do some good. The giant facility neared completion as crews worked 24/7.

  “I asked the good Lord for forgiveness and guidance. Things happen for a reason. I’m so grateful that our great metropolitan region can be an engine for growth.” Brock had toned back the spray-tan and hair spray. “I want to thank all the people who made this possible.”

  “Brock brought home the bacon for whoever put him on the Water Board. They’re laughing all the way to the bank.” Lori said when she called Peter to give him her take on what just went down.

  “I’m so mad I can’t even see straight,” Peter fumed. “I can’t tell you how upset Jeff is. He’s talking to some other people who got burned by Pioneer to see if they can take down Brock.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that. Are you OK? I feel awful that I didn’t help you more when you came to me asking about the Consortium. I’m really sorry, Peter.”

  “I can’t talk about it, Lor. Too upset.”

  But out of the spotlight, fault lines fissured. Stone-faced Town Council members up for re-election kept their profiles low. The citizens of Bridgeville burned with fury and outrage. Taking the pulse of public opinion, the Consortium all but disappeared from view, letting emissaries from Eautopia make the rounds to donate cases of water, tout the new job opportunities and promise peaceful co-existence. Brock Saunders limited his appearances to radio.

  The college kids back home in Bridgeville for the summer weren’t having it.

  “Bridgeville is ours,” they chanted in front of the reinforced chain link fence denying access to the site. “B-I-O; Bridgeville is ours.”

  While their elders railed against the lack of transparency in meetings conducted according to Robert’s Rules of Order, the millennials named names and created a social action hashtag: #myBIO. Tweeting and retweeting, posting and reposting, podcasting and streaming, they created a firestorm. They even held a widely covered funeral for the reservoir, complete with remembrances and eulogies. Still, the Eautopia water plant neared completion. Job applicants interviewed off-site undeterred by the controversy.

  Peter blasted Nancy, Ian, and Andre. “Who knew? We did. And we fucking blew it.”

  Nancy knew Brock had eyes on her; she felt them. She tried to be invisible, saying nothing to Peter and shunning contact with him. The luxury of his outrage about the Consortium and Eautopia drove her to fury. In their only phone conversation after Brock’s ambush, she let him have it. “Leave me alone. I don’t need your melodrama; I’m done with all the bullshit.”

  “With pleasure,” Peter said angrily. He didn’t call again.

  Nancy didn’t dare allow Peter to see her. In one look, he’d know she’d somehow sold her soul to the devil. But he wouldn’t guess that he was her free pass, her getout-of-jail ticket. Nancy needed to play both Brock and Peter. One, a cruel and powerful sadist, had her trapped in a vise; the other, a selfish jerk, had brought ruin to her doorstep. After taking the last klonopin she’d hoarded for a really bad day, she dreamed she was a highly poisonous coral snake, lithe, pert and sexy like an old-time Hollywood ingenue, talking to Peter as she lay on his deck.

  PETER: You’re so beautiful, but what’s up with the big hat and sunglasses? It’s almost night, Nancy Snake, no one will see you.

  NANCY: I’m being blackmailed, terrible people want to destroy me.

  PETER: I’m picking up very weird vibes. You’re probably hungry. I might have some frozen mice in the freezer; I know how much you love a yummy snack.

  NANCY (slithering closer): I’m so scared, but I’m not going down in flames. I can’t save both of us.

  PETER: I’m gonna chalk it up to your complications, but, wow—you are not yourself.

  NANCY: I’ve never been more myself. If it’s you or me, I choose me. You have only yourself to blame for what’s coming from Brock and the Consortium. I fucking hate you. And, I’m sorry.

  CHAPTER 52

  IAN LEFT FOR AN EXTENDED WEEKEND AT THE RETREAT, “I need to atone. We had some clues—we are complicit.” He fasted for days and toiled until his fingers bled.

  “This is some fucking dystopian shit,” Andre said, working out with Peter. They put on the heavy boxing gloves and pounded the heavy bag, switching to the speedbag and back again.

  “But it’s real,” Peter panted. “We, especially me, were such pussies. We had it in our hands. And now look.”

  Although Peter didn’t include John Tomassi in his indictment, Tomassi shouldered so
me of the blame in a late-night conversation by the ferry. This time, Sean was the emissary. Jeff, working late with Rachel, let it be known that he felt guilty, too.

  “Pete, sometimes, you’re right,” Tomassi said. “Actually, hardly ever – but this time you had the goods. It never even crossed my mind that the Consortium could pimp our water.”

  “We’re guilty. At least I am. After Ian couldn’t break the password and when Sherry got killed, I lost my focus.”

  “Nobody would’ve believed you. People would’ve looked at you like Chicken Little running around yelling the sky was falling.”

  “You really think?”

  “Hell, yeah. You’re a loudmouth loose cannon half the time.” Tomassi tapped his knuckles gently on Peter’s head before Peter shook him off.

  “At least I give a damn.”

  Peter called Lori with an idea. “Maybe we’ve still got a shot at stopping production. I’ve still got the documents. Maybe we can get it shut down.”

  “No. Face facts, Peter. It sucks, but it is what it is.”

  “I’m not giving up.”

  Two days later, Peter had just about finished deadheading the marigolds lining his front steps when Tomassi showed up unannounced, looking for all the world like his head ached more than any amount of Tylenol could soothe.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s bad. You’re fucked.” Tomassi spoke urgently as he exited his car.

  “Don’t be such a drama queen—what’re you talking about?” Peter stood by his front steps and waited. “What now? I thought you couldn’t be seen with me. Hey, you gotta taste one of these peaches I just picked, they’re delicious.”

  “Too much is moving too fast. It got ahead of me.” Tomassi suddenly spoke in jagged bursts. His shortness of breath scared Peter.

  “What did? Jesus, just breathe—oh shit. You better not be having a heart attack.” Peter pushed the pile of desiccated orange blossoms off the step and moved Tomassi like he weighed less than a kitten. “Sit.”