Authors: Creston Mapes
“Granger Meade.” Jack leaned way back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.
“What about him?”
“She insists on keeping tabs on him. Evan McDaniel helped him find a job. Big deal.”
“Hmm. Where?”
“Crafts Galore. Mount Camden.”
Derrick blew out through lips that formed an O, as if he was about to whistle. “I can see the rub. At least when you guys argue, it’s about something. Zenia and I argue about nothing, all the time.”
“Well, I got news. It doesn’t get any better when you walk down the aisle. Over time, all the little stuff gets magnified.”
Jack had met Zenia at the Public Safety Director’s office at City Hall, where she worked, and had introduced her to Derrick at a Christmas party several years ago. The two formed an immediate bond. When they were on, they sizzled. But when they were off, they were like bickering siblings.
“Dude, you’re killin’
me. What are you trying to do, scare me out of it?”
“No, man, I’m just being real. Marriage is
tough.
You gotta give, give, give—and not expect a whole lot back. And then when you have kids … look out.”
Jack knew he had it good. Pam was special and beautiful. She still struggled with fear and paranoia handed down from her mother, but she was generous and compassionate. She did for others, all the time. She was a true gift from God.
“Man, I’ll be honest,” said Derrick in a rare serious moment. He glanced around with those big brown eyes and shiny black retro glasses, making sure no one else was listening. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m ready, if I have the maturity—not only to be a good husband, but a good dad. I’m one selfish dog.”
“Dude, that’s half the battle right there, realizing you’re selfish. We all are. At least you know it and can work on it.”
“That doesn’t come easy for me—or Z.”
Jack was about to “say something Christian,” but he stopped before he made a hypocrite of himself. After all, where was the Spirit five minutes ago when he belittled Pam for caring about the well-being of a mixed-up individual whose rotten misdeeds she was willing to overlook in hopes that he might find God?
“Me either,” Jack said. “We’re all a work in progress … And speaking of work, I gotta get busy.”
As Derrick hung his coat and began unloading his bag, Jack bent over, elbows on knees, staring at the gray carpet beneath his desk. At one time in his life, he would have taken a minute to pray, but as fast as that thought came, it went, run over by a freight train of revulsion toward Granger and apprehension about his family’s safety.
He had a problem.
But that was just how it was—he was powerless against it.
Or had he made a calculated decision to deny God’s way? Was it really his pride that had convinced him this was his right—to harbor bitterness toward the demon who had invaded their lives?
But he
was
right to be cautious—and vigilant. It was his job as husband and father to protect his family.
That’s why he’d bought the gun the day Granger got out.
For protection.
Who could blame him?
But Pam still doesn’t know.
And that was another problem: it was getting easier and easier to lie.
Chapter 4
A gob of money must have gone into furnishing the plush waiting area near ICU, where Travis sat on a hard, shiny leather chair, squinting at his worn-out notepad, making calls to clients. He gave the same explanation to each: his father was out of commission; there’d be a delay in getting their vehicles fixed.
His nephew, Bo, was slumped on a big comfy couch, blasting away at some shoot-’em-up game on his handheld, black earbuds stuffed in his ears. At seventeen he was tall and lanky, had shaved his black hair to the scalp, wore low-riding baggy jeans, silver chain, the works. LJ, who should have been curbing his son’s time on that idiot box, stood staring out the window at the end of the hall.
Travis figured that the hospital made the ICU area extra cozy because the people who were waiting there were nervous and worried, suffering, probably doing some grieving. A large old woman across the room looked sick with sorrow.
He licked his fingers and leafed through the little notepad till he found Jack Crittendon’s cell number.
“Jack, I’m real sorry, but your Jetta ain’t gonna be ready till tomorrow or the next day. Daddy took a turn for the worse today. Me and LJ and Bo’s all at the hospital.”
“No worries about the car. What’s going on with Galen?” Jack said.
It still didn’t seem real to Travis. “It’s a long story. He’s stable now, but all we know is he was poisoned.”
“Poisoned? You mean food poisoning?”
“I wish. He was drugged on purpose, through his IV.”
“
What
? By who? What kind of poison?”
“I saw a man leave his room. The police got here right away. They’re working with hospital security, checking all the video cameras. Only a trace made it into Daddy’s system, but the doctor said whatever they gave him would have made his whole respiratory system shut down in another couple minutes.”
“Who would do this, Travis? Did you recognize the guy from anywhere?”
“No sir. And I got a clear look at him at one point, in the waiting room. And I can assure you of this—I ain’t gonna forget that face.”
The only long-shot idea Travis had was that LJ had got vengeance on the posse that carved his eye out, and this was some sort of payback. He’d be asking his brother about that in one minute flat.
“But he’s going to make it?” Jack said.
“Yeah, yeah.” Travis sighed, feeling like a slow-leaking tire. “They gave him an IV with some medicine that counters the effects of the bad drug. He vomited twice from it, but he’s resting good now. We’re hoping he gets back to a private room by tonight.”
“I’m going to try to get over there to see you guys.”
“You don’t have to, Jack. Besides, you ain’t got no car, remember? Sorry to leave you stranded.”
“Don’t worry about it. Pam can get me.”
Bo had managed to unfold his lazy bones from the couch and made his way over to Travis. “Can I have some coin for the snack machine?” he whispered. “I’m starving.”
“Hold on a minute, Jack.” Travis looked up at Bo with a snarled face and covered the phone. “Did you ask yer daddy?”
“He ain’t gonna give me nothin’.”
Travis was a darn softy. “In a minute,” he whispered.
Bo nodded and meandered away.
“Jack, sorry. I guess that’ll do it. I’ll let you know when your car’s ready.”
“Okay. We’re flexible.”
“All righty then. I gotta make some more calls—one to that big-shot lawyer I told you about.”
“The one helping you with Demler-Vargus? What’s his name?”
“Ralston Coon.” Travis chuckled. “How could you forgit that one, right?”
“Do you know how often your dad has met with him?”
“Only once I know of. I drove him downtown to Coon’s office—it’s only a couple blocks from the
Dispatch
, in the Flat Iron Building. You shoulda seen that place. Whew-golly, it was polished.”
“Did you meet Coon yourself?” Jack said.
“Yeah. I went in with Daddy to make sure he got up to the office okay. Coon came out, and we said hey. I left Daddy there to tell Coon all the stuff he knew, and I ran errands.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Daddy keeps notes—dates when we can actually see pink fiberglass all over the neighborhood. Names of neighbors who’s ailing from it. Names of employees who had the inside dope on what really goes on in the plant.”
“And your dad shared all that with the lawyer?”
“Yeah. Coon made copies of his notes. Daddy felt real good about the whole thing.”
There was a long pause.
“What’s wrong, Jack? Daddy felt like we was finally gonna get some justice. You think we did wrong?”
“Not if Coon’s honest. How did Galen hear about him?”
“His best buddy, Charlie Snellinger, recommended him.”
“And is that the only time they met?”
“They’ve talked on the phone a couple times, but I’m pretty sure that’s it. We keep pretty close tabs on Daddy. He’s been strugglin’ with rememberin’ things lately, like where he put his keys and his chewing tobacca.”
“Has he mentioned that to a doctor? They have patches you put on your skin now to slow down memory loss.”
The gimmicks people don’t fall for these days.
“We might look into that,” Travis fibbed.
“Do you recall when it was your dad met with Coon at his office?”
“Second Tuesday of the month,” Travis said. “You know how I remember that so quick? ’Cause down at Gebralter’s Grocery, Mr. Gebralter makes his homemade sausage the first Tuesday every month. That’s where I went after I dropped Daddy.”
“Travis, I talked to my editor today about doing an investigative piece on Demler-Vargus.”
“You get the green light?”
“He gave it to another reporter, a good friend of mine, Derrick Whittaker.”
“Hmm.”
“But I’m going to see if I might be able to work with him on it. Do you have those notes your dad kept?”
“They’re in Momma’s old desk in the kitchen. You was standin’ right by it this mornin’.”
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to see those notes.”
“Sure, sure. How ’bout when you come by to get the Jetta?”
“Yeah. I might want to see them before that. I’d like to talk with Coon, but I want to know what’s in those notes first.”
“Good idea,” Travis said.
“Is anybody around the house—if I were to get a ride over there?”
“Shoot, it’s open, Jack. Just go on in, same way you came in this mornin’. Daddy’s notes is in the drawer on the far left, in one a’ them manila folders. It’s got D-V written on it. Can’t miss it.”
“Okay then. I might have Derrick run me over there.”
“Jack, you think Demler-Vargus did this to Daddy?”
Jack exhaled loudly. “I can’t imagine that. It would be very sloppy.”
“Well,
someone
poisoned him.” Travis stood. “And whoever did it is gonna face the wrath of the Randall clan—and that ain’t gonna be purty.”
Chapter 5
Jack was jealous of the heat blasting in Derrick’s maroon Toyota FJ Cruiser, which had him sweating within minutes as they drove to the Randalls’ place. He felt quite hip riding shotgun in the Cruiser, which Derrick had decked out with the all-terrain package: rock rails, fog lights, side steps, roof rack, tow kit, and black wheels.
As they rolled through slushy backstreets beneath a dreary winter sky, Jack explained all he knew about the Randalls’ accusations against Demler-Vargus and Galen’s apparent poisoning.
“That is crazy,” Derrick said. “They’re sure he was poisoned?”
“Yep. I got a feeling about this one,” Jack said.
“Barton’s gonna lose his marbles when he finds out we’re both working on this thing.”
“Look, he told Pete to give you the story, and for me to give you my leads. That’s what we’re doing. Finding Galen’s folder will get you started. You can take it from there.” But Jack wanted to be more involved—and had a hunch he would be.
“You believe how these people live over here?” Derrick scanned the drab, impoverished landscape. “Never fails to remind me of Detroit.”
“That’s right, you’re a Motor City kid.”
“Lower east side. Mostly single-parent homes. Food stamps. Drugs. Gangs.”
“You had both parents, didn’t you?”
Derrick nodded and tugged at his black leather gloves as he drove. “We were the exception. Had a lot of love between my folks and my three sisters. All my buddies wanted to hang at my house. It always amazed them—how calm things were, when right outside the door there was gunfire and all kinds of chaos.”
“Where’d your dad work?”
“GM. Mom, too. We got out of that neighborhood eventually.”
“Turn left here, and that’s it on the right.” Jack pointed.
Jack’s Jetta and several other vehicles sat covered in a dusting of snow in front of the large metal garage. Derrick pulled into the driveway over some tire tracks and footprints that were fading with the new snow.
“I can’t believe they just leave it open.” Derrick parked, yanked the brake, and turned off the car.
“If you knew them, you’d understand. Very simple people.” Jack opened his door. “Brrr.”
Rusty, stationed on the back porch, howled with such zeal that he came off his front paws.
“Hey. I don’t do attack dogs.” Derrick got out of the Cruiser slowly and stood behind his open door. He tugged his green ski cap low over his forehead and remained there.
“He’s harmless.” Jack trudged toward the steps. “I was just here this morning and walked right past him. Come on.”