Authors: Creston Mapes
“We would have to look into that.” Dorchester scribbled on his pad. “I can write down their names and do some research.”
Another stall.
“The reason I ask is because a former reporter for the
Dispatch
, Amy Sheets, interviewed them. They said they came to you for compensation for medical issues and, getting none, they went to the media with their story.”
The only sounds were pens tapping and chairs squeaking.
The bodyguard looked at Bendickson as if waiting for the order to boot Jack out on his can.
“Do any of you know Amy Sheets?” Jack probed.
Bendickson stuck his elbows on the table and craned his neck, as if his collar was too tight.
Devon spoke up. “Our PR people dealt with Miss Sheets on things like those minor infractions we talked about earlier. I don’t know about the Doyles …”
“What we learned,” Jack said, “is that the Doyles told Amy Sheets about their issues with Demler-Vargus, but then they suddenly came into some money. They moved to a house in Charleston.”
Bendickson sighed loudly. “Jack, what else do you want to talk about? Really. This is not what we want to do—”
“Let’s leave it at that.” Dorchester was leaning fully on the table now. “Time’s about up.”
August backed up his chair.
The bodyguard raised his eyebrows toward Bendickson, who leaned back and started to rise.
Jack remained seated like a spoiled child. “I would like to know if Demler-Vargus has ever paid anyone—the Doyles or anyone else—to help defray the costs of their illnesses.”
Bendickson stood, shooting daggers at Jack with his eyes. The others paused in their chairs, searching one another’s faces.
Bad-dude August decided to be the fall guy. “No, we have not.”
Before they could get up, Jack pushed on, reading directly from his notes, feeling as if the bodyguard might descend on him any second. “Can you confirm for me that Oliver Geddy, an attorney and the son of former Demler-Vargus employee Merv Geddy, was in the process of filing a lawsuit against your company for the wrongful death of his father? As you may know, Merv Geddy died of lymphoma …”
Jack was light-headed. The room spun for a second. He could feel his pulse in his temple.
The bodyguard glared at him directly now.
Devon rubbed his hands, his mouth sealed.
Bendickson raised his eyebrows at the attorneys as if to say
Speak up!
“No, we can’t confirm that.” August stood. “Now we’re
done.”
“Not yet.” Arms straight out, Bendickson set both palms on the table. “Sit down, Eli. I want to hear what else Mr. Crittendon wants to know.”
Right there, in that slow-motion moment, something about Bendickson changed, as if huge tumblers shifted and slammed into place.
The towering man suddenly
looked
different.
What was it?
A callousness darkened his features.
“Go ahead.” Bendickson playfully wound a hand toward Jack. “What else do you want to know, Mr. Crittendon?” His courtesy was gone.
Jack’s stomach flopped, as if he’d just flown over the peak of a roller coaster.
He was dead meat.
Bendickson wanted to know all the dirt Jack had on Demler-Vargus; he wanted to know every person who was a leak—so he and his henchmen could snuff them.
But Jack had a secret weapon, a supernatural power, that he was certain Bendickson did
not
have. God was there, moving on his behalf, and Jack was convinced he could get one of the Demler-Vargus thugs to crack—on tape.
He checked the recorder to make sure it was still rolling.
“What happened to Spivey Brinkman?”
It looked like a small current went through Bendickson’s body. His head dropped, then he glared stiffly out the window, gripping the top of the chair as if he was going to rip the stuffing out of it.
August’s nostrils flared. “No. Comment.”
The bodyguard sneered at Jack.
“Why did you poison Galen Randall and ransack his home?”
Bendickson shoved his chair and stomped to the window, looking out over his sinister empire. The bodyguard took several steps toward the CEO, who jabbed a hand at him, telling him to go back to his spot.
No one said a word, and their clenched jaws indicated they weren’t going to.
Jack’s heart banged. “Are you paying or have you ever paid Amy Sheets, Cecil Barton, or anyone else at
The Dispatch
to suppress negative stories about Demler-Vargus?”
All eyes turned to Bendickson, who remained frozen, staring out the window, arms crossed.
“Sir?” Dorchester looked as if he was about to cry or laugh or dash from the room.
“See. Him.
Out.”
Bendickson did not turn around.
The bodyguard came for Jack like a Rottweiler after meat. “You are so dead,” he whispered.
August stood and leaned way over the table, a finger in Jack’s face. “Whatever you’re planning to do, you better get your facts right, because if you don’t, we’ll sue you for malice, libel, defamation … we’ll sue you so hard it’ll make your great-grandchildren hurt.”
The bodyguard squeezed the back of Jack’s neck like a vise, lifting him out of his chair.
When they got to the door, Bendickson shouted, “Wait.”
The bodyguard jerked Jack around so he could see the CEO, whose black eyes burned through him like lasers.
“You made a big mistake coming here, sticking your nose into our business. Do your family a favor. Make sure your affairs are in order.” Bendickson turned away, peering out at his empire again. “That’s it. Get him away from here.”
Chapter 30
Pamela and Margaret arrived home from Trenton City just in time to get the car in the garage and walk down the driveway to greet Rebecca and Faye. The girls scampered home from the bus stop, bundled up like Eskimos, eating snow, and stomping in the slush.
After they changed out of their school clothes, the girls cozied up to the kitchen table for milk and cookies while they did their homework. Faye actually didn’t have homework, but she liked to color and pretend she was a big girl like Rebecca.
Pamela checked the fridge, thinking about what she would serve the girls and Margaret for dinner while she and Jack went out. Margaret was from the old school, when meat and vegetables were a must at every meal.
She heard her mom humming away in another room. It had been a good decision for her to stay with them. The girls brought her a lot of joy and were a needed distraction from home and the memories of Benjamin.
But she wondered how Margaret would do without the alcohol. Would the withdrawal symptoms be nasty? Did she have a bottle hidden away somewhere?
“Honey?” Margaret called. “I’ve got an idea.”
Pamela walked into the family room. Her mom was standing in the foyer. “I’ve got the measurements for these side windows.”
Here we go again.
“Just a little sheer is all you need. I know just what I’m looking for—something thin, but thick enough that people can’t see in; because right now, look, these side windows are wide open.”
Patience.
“That’s fine, Mom. We’ll do it while you’re here.”
“Do you have Farley’s down here?”
“Yeah, we do.” Ironically, the closest one was next door to Crafts Galore, where Granger supposedly worked.
“They’ll have exactly what I want; they even have the little brackets,” Margaret said. “I was thinking, what if we were to run over there now and maybe bring home some dinner for the girls and me on the way? My treat.”
Pamela sighed and checked the clock in the family room.
“We could get a pizza or something, and I could make a salad,” Margaret said.
Jack wouldn’t be home from work for another couple of hours, so it was a long time before their date. Going to Farley’s would help make the evening come faster.
Pamela wandered into the kitchen. “Girls, are you about done with your homework?”
“I’ve got one, two, three more vocab words, and that’ll be it,” Rebecca said, with her arms up in the air.
“And I’ve got one, two, three more colors to add to this picture, and that’ll be it,” Faye said, copying her sister’s gesture.
“Okay, well, wrap it up. We’re going to run to Farley’s with MawMaw and then we’re going to get a pizza to bring home for your supper while Mommy and Daddy go out. How does that sound?”
“Yay!” Rebecca said. “Campolo’s? Campolo’s?”
“Yeah, Campolo’s!” said Faye. “But not the kitchen sink pizza.”
“I believe Campolo’s might just have a carry-out deal.” Pamela got the coupon folder out of a drawer. “Yep, here it is. Monday through Thursday, large one-item pizza pie, ten bucks. Can’t beat that.”
The girls cheered.
“Hurry up and finish, Faye.” Rebecca instructed her little sister every chance she got.
Margaret walked into the kitchen, rubbed Rebecca’s head, kissed Faye, and came over to Pamela. “This has been a great day,” she said. “Thanks. Thanks for having me. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
Pamela looked into her mom’s eyes. “You’re welcome. I wouldn’t want you anyplace else right now.”
“Your home is so … light; it’s so much fun,” Margaret said. “I want to think our home was that way, but I know it wasn’t.” Her head dropped.
Pamela could only muster a broken smile.
“It must have been hard for you,” Margaret said, “growing up with me like that.”
It was!
Pamela wanted to scream, it was so difficult. And it had been so very hard to overcome.
But that was simply how it was. It was the hand she’d been dealt.
But, with time, God had made it okay. He had restored Pamela.
And perhaps now He was at work in her mom.
Pamela smiled. “You gave Dad fits, I know that.”
“Oh, tell me about it. That man had the patience of Job.”
Pamela made sure the back door was locked and clapped her hands. “All right. As Daddy likes to say, let’s get this show on the road!”
“Let’s do it!” Rebecca pumped a fist in the air.
They all headed for their winter coats.
“Bundle up and pile in,” Pamela called. “I’m going to leave a note for Daddy—just in case he gets home first.”
* * *
By the time Travis and Claire got Galen back to the house it was late afternoon, almost dark, and the temperature was dropping. The compressor moaned out in the garage, and light shone from around the edge of the metal door; LJ and Bo were still at work. Snow flurries swirled as Claire took one of Galen’s arms and Travis the other, and they guided him up the steps into the toasty house.
“What about it, Pops? You ready to head for the sack?” Travis helped him get his coat and hat off.
“Heck no, we ain’t even had supper yet,” Galen said. “Just help me into my chair for now.”
“It’s kinda early for supper, ain’t it?”
“What would you like to eat, Mr. Randall?” said Claire, as they got him into the TV room.
Travis rolled his eyes at her.
“Young lady”—he dropped into the recliner—“you need to start callin’ me Galen.”
She laughed. “All righty, Galen, I’ll do that. Is there something we can get you?”
“You ever have breakfast for dinner, Claire?”
“Yes, my mom and I have done that before, every once in a while.”
“Well, I got some of the best sawmill gravy you’re ever gonna taste. Travis, we got any of that sausage left over?”
Travis was on his way to the kitchen. “Sure do. I’ll git it goin’. I guess I’m a bit hungry myself.”
As Travis raided the fridge for leftovers, his heart warmed to hear Claire and Daddy going back and forth. He felt like the luckiest man alive. Having Claire around was … well, it was just beyond any feeling Travis had ever known. He ducked back into the TV room. “You guys want me to put some go-joe on?”
“I’d drink some coffee,” Daddy said.
Claire was still kneeling beside him. “Won’t that keep you awake?”
“Once I hit the hay, Claire, I usually don’t flinch till the cock crows, unless one a’ them coughing spells rouses me.”
The phone rang.
Travis headed for the wall phone in the kitchen, which had LJ’s grimy fingerprints all over it, darn him.
“Yell-o,” Travis answered, trying to be funny for Claire.
“Travis?”
“Yessir, speaking.”
“It’s Jack. Are you guys okay?”
“Sure. We just got Daddy home from the hospital. They wanted him to stay for more tests, but I promised—”
“Travis, listen to me.” Jack sounded out of breath. “I just met with the Bendicksons and their attorneys. I think you’re in trouble. I think we all are—everyone who’s a threat to Demler-Vargus. Your family, mine, Derrick …”