Airtight (5 page)

But it was small comfort.

He was a prisoner.

It was three very long hours before the door opened and his captor walked in. He was a large man, at least three inches and thirty pounds bigger than Bryan. He gave off an air of physicality and toughness, even though he had a smile on his face that in other situations might seem disarming.

“You’re up,” the man said. “How are you feeling?”

“Who are you, and what the hell am I doing here?”

“My name is Chris Gallagher. You’re here because I kidnapped you. You feeling OK? I hit you harder than I should have, and then I injected you with Sodium Pentothal. You probably don’t remember any of it.”

“Let me ask this again; why the hell am I here?” He tried to have his tone reflect his outrage, but the fear took the sting out of it.

“Your brother Luke killed my brother; his name was Steven Gallagher. So you have become what is commonly known as an innocent victim. Collateral damage, as it were. As was Steven.”

Bryan’s memory was coming back to him, and he asked, “Is this about the Brennan murder?”

Chris nodded. “That seems to be what your brother thought, but he was wrong. So he didn’t ask any questions; he just went in firing. And then he went on television to brag about it. The conquering goddamn hero.”

“This has nothing to do with me.”

“It does now.”

“What are you hoping to accomplish?”

“I’m going to be talking to Luke, and I’ll instruct him to do things. If he does them, and does them well, then you’ve got a chance. If not, you’re going to die.”

He said it in a matter-of-fact, sincere way that left Bryan with no doubt that he was telling the truth. His mind was racing for something to say that might change this man’s mind. “You think that killing one innocent person makes up for the killing of another?”

Chris shrugged. “It’s the only system of justice I’ve got.”

“And in the meantime?”

“You’ll stay here, as you are now. You’re fifteen feet underground, so there’s no one to hear you, and no way out. But I guess you’ll want to find that out for yourself, if you haven’t already. There’s a seven-day air supply. Seven and a half if you’re lucky.”

“What happens when it runs out?”

“You won’t be able to breathe.”

Bryan totally understood what was happening, but it still was somehow confusing. It was all just too surreal. “Come on, you can’t do this. Please.”

“We both know that I can,” Chris said.

“People will be looking for me. What if they catch you?”

“They won’t.”

“They might. What if they do?”

Chris shook his head. “Nobody catches me if I don’t want to be caught. But your brother won’t even try.”

“Why not?”

“Because he wants you to live.” Chris laughed and said, “He does, right?”

“I don’t deserve this. You seem like a smart guy, a decent guy. You’ve got to know that.”

“Don’t try to play me, OK? It won’t get you anywhere, and you don’t want me pissed off at you. Here’s what I know; the world is one big stick, and you just got the short end of it. So your role in this is to just hang out and wait to see what happens.”

Chris walked to the desk and unlocked the drawer. “There’s a computer in here; e-mail service will be connected as of noon tomorrow.”

He turned to leave but stopped, reached into his pocket, and put a very small plastic bag on the table; in it were two pills. “These are poison; if you start to run out of air, you’ll feel light-headed. It’ll be downhill fast from there. If I were you I’d take the pills; it’s a much better way to die.”

The panic Bryan was feeling was overwhelming, but he tried to keep himself under control in front of his captor. “Thanks a lot.”

Chris laughed. “Hey, I could get in trouble for giving you those. But it’s OK; I kept a couple for myself.”

I wouldn’t say that Bryan and I were close.

That seems an almost irrelevant way to describe our relationship. I would instead say we were brothers, which is a giant step past close. It has nothing to do with how much time we spent together, or how often we talked. Having a brother, being a brother, is in a category of its own.

Our mother, Cynthia Shuster Somers, died when I was seven and Bryan was three. Our father, Cal Somers, was not exactly the talkative type, as evidenced by the fact that I was seventeen before I learned that Mom’s death was from smoking-induced lung cancer. My aunt Martha spilled the beans about that one.

I don’t remember my mother much at all, so I’m certain that Bryan would have no recollection of her. But I certainly remember my father, a police captain who wanted nothing more than to have his children follow him on to the force.

I did that, of course, and I never felt coerced by his goal for me. It seemed like a natural progression, and I can’t say that I remember making a conscious career decision. I also can’t say that I regret where I wound up.

Bryan took a different route, and I’ve sometimes wondered what he would have done if our father lived past forty-one. Bryan was seventeen when Cal died of the heart attack, his third, sitting at the kitchen table.

There were no longer live footsteps to follow, and Bryan went his own way. He was always about fifty times smarter than me, and he parlayed those brains into a scholarship to Penn, followed by an MBA from the University of Virginia. From there he went into investment banking, which in my mind means he brings a basket to the office, so he can cart home money every day.

Money was always very, very important to Bryan, and that only increased when he met Julie. While he didn’t follow our father’s career path, he always thought he was destined to mirror his lack of longevity.

“Obsession” might be too strong a word, so I’ll say that he became very focused on making sure his family was well provided for after he was gone. Bryan had to have had more life insurance than anyone, anywhere. He used to joke that his death would bring the insurance industry to its knees.

The irony was that Julie cares about money less than almost anyone I know and she would wage a constant battle to get Bryan to lighten up and try to enjoy life more.

He would say that he was working fourteen-hour days, and earning money hand over fist, so that he could retire a young man. I certainly didn’t believe him, and I can’t imagine that Julie did, either. His identity seemed to be his success, which is one of the ways we were very different.

There was never any doubt that Bryan would settle down and get married, just like there was never any real chance that I would. I’m not sure why things turned out that way; maybe our parents only had one commitment gene and they gave it to him. Or dumped it on him, depending on your perspective.

The revelation that Julie and I had slept together, even though it was before they were married, would be a crusher for him. I knew that, but there was nothing I could do about it, other than sincerely apologize.

It would take a while for him to get over it, but eventually he would.

That’s what brothers do.

Bryan Somers slept for about two hours,

only because of the leftover effects of the drug Chris had administered. It was just enough to make him forget where he was, which led to the renewed horrible realization when he woke up.

He went straight to the computer and turned it on. It sprang to life, but did not have an Internet connection. Chris had said it would be online at noon, and Bryan would have to wait until then. He searched the drawer, and then the rest of the “apartment,” but he could not find a power cord. He would have only the amount of power in the battery, so he quickly turned the machine off; no sense wasting power when he couldn’t use the Internet.

Bryan hoped the computer would allow him to send e-mail, and expected it would, since that’s what Chris had said without prompting. It was a good news, bad news situation; Chris would allow him to be in contact with the outside world, but the reason he would was because Bryan would have no way to identify his location.

There were three pens and a pad of paper in the apartment, and Bryan decided to write out his e-mails in advance, with the computer off, so that he would not waste power while composing them.

He saw no reason to write to Julie. Though he was still in love with her, their marriage was effectively over the moment she revealed the betrayal. The truth was that it had probably been over well before that, but he had been oblivious to it.

The person he would contact would be his brother, Luke. If Chris was as efficient as Bryan believed, he would soon be telling Luke what had happened. How Luke reacted to that news would likely determine whether Bryan would live or die.

He would not be wasting time and power writing about Julie, and her affair with Luke. As horrible as that was, it took a distant backseat right now.

There would be time to hash that out later.

Or not.

It wasn’t the way Edward Holland had charted his career.

The plan had been to go to a top law school, join a big New York law firm, become very powerful, and make a fortune.

And for a while everything seemed on track. Holland went to NYU, for both undergraduate and law school, and finished in the top quarter of his class. Big law firms came calling, as they are wont to do at the better schools, and Holland had no trouble getting placed at one of the biggest and best.

The beginning of his work career was less than auspicious, though predictably so. Like every other newcomer to large firms, he worked like a dog, sometimes logging sixteen-hour days. And it was grunt work, behind-the-scenes research so that the partners could look good and well prepared, and so clients could hide their wealth from US taxes in financially friendly countries. But in terms of power, Holland couldn’t imagine having less.

He was an indentured servant, albeit a well-paid one. But even though the pay was very good by normal standards, New York was an expensive place to live, and Holland was certainly not getting rich.

After the fourth year, he took stock of his future, and wasn’t crazy about what he saw. There was the possibility, perhaps even the likelihood, that he would make partner after eight or nine years. That would provide him with an excellent income, though he would never be mega-wealthy. And while he would be respected, he would not be powerful. That was basically reserved for the clients, at least some of them.

So he made a career move that was outside the box, way outside. The Mayor of Brayton, New York, Holland’s hometown, was retiring after serving eleven three-year terms. Over drinks one night, a high school buddy, active in town politics, suggested that Holland could have the job for the asking.

So he asked. He talked to the local power players, who were impressed with his résumé, and he secured a slot on the ballot. The fact that he ran unopposed reduced the number of election promises he had to make, and within eight months of the drinks in the bar Edward Holland was the Mayor of Brayton.

He took a seventy-five percent pay cut from his previous job, not the typical path to the
Forbes
list of wealthiest Americans. But the mayoralty was not going to be the highest rung he hit on the political ladder, and you could count the number of successful, but poor, national politicians on very few fingers.

In terms of power, that would come down the road, but even now they were calling him “Your Honor,” which had a nice ring to it. And he was confident that before long the power would grow greater; there was no reason they wouldn’t someday be calling him “Mr. President.”

The responsibilities of the Mayor of Brayton are not exactly awesome. There’s no 3 AM phone call requiring momentous decisions, and very little crisis management. Deciding whether to install a traffic light a block from the grammar school is more typical of the day-to-day crises the Mayor must confront.

And then, suddenly, a serious and very significant issue dropped into his lap.

Carlton Auto Parts was by far the largest employer in the town. Richard Carlton represented the fourth generation of leadership in the family-owned manufacturing company and wholesaler, but to that point he had presided over, if not a debacle, then a gradual decline in fortunes.

Facing daunting competition from larger US companies, and even larger foreign ones, Carlton had not weathered the recession well. Profits were down, and layoffs followed, as they inevitably do. But the town was getting by, and for the most part people were employed.

Carlton was not only the largest employer; it was also the largest landowner. Brayton was a large community geographically, and Carlton owned a lot of it. Additionally, it had recently purchased huge tracts of land from the town of Brayton. It was land that was adjacent to the town but so far mostly unoccupied, and its assessed value was reflected in the very low price that Carlton paid.

And then, suddenly, the discovery of enormous pockets of shale on the land changed everything. A process called fracking might be able to extract natural gas from the shale, depending on the type and formation of the rock. Natural gas was starting to be seen as the key to America’s energy independence, and if fracking could be used on the Carlton land, the financial rewards would be mind-boggling.

But it seems as if energy development always comes with an environmental price, and fracking was the rule, rather than the exception. There were very serious concerns about its effects on nearby water supply, as well as air quality. Lawsuits were springing up around the country, with aggrieved citizens pointing to examples, some substantive and some anecdotal, of disease clusters that they felt were the result of the fracking residue.

It was a perfect opportunity for Holland. Not only could he rally the townspeople and get significant publicity throughout the state in his role as the Mayor, but he also was able to parley his legal stature into even greater prominence. Rather than forcing the impoverished town to hire outside counsel, he took on the job himself.

Win or lose, it would be a win for Holland. He could play up the heroic nature of the situation, putting it all on the line for the sake of the town. He would get great publicity, an invaluable boost to his political future.