Silent Justice (18 page)

“And your actual practice?”

Harris glanced quickly at Blaylock, then back at Colby. “Our practice has always been to conform with our official policy.”

“Good,” Colby managed to say, without the slightest trace of irony. “I’m glad to hear that. So there’s nothing dangerous or contaminated on the grounds behind the plant.”

“Absolutely not.”

“No trace of TCE or perc in the ravine or groundwater.”

“Of course not.”

“Then you won’t object to letting the plaintiffs" attorney examine the grounds.”

“What’s this?” Blaylock rolled forward in his chair. “I don’t want attorneys running all over my plant. We’ve got work to do, damn it! Has he asked for an inspection?”

“Not yet. But he will. You can count on it. He’ll bring experts with him. Geologists, toxicologists—”

“That’s going to cost them a pretty penny.”

“The plaintiffs are playing for big stakes. They’ll be willing to spend a few dollars.”

“Who’s going to pay for all this? Those plaintiffs can’t afford to play ball in our court.”

“I don’t know the answer to that question, Myron. But I’m working on it.”

“Maybe we should see if we can run up the bill. These jerkwater clowns might lose their fervor for litigation.”

“That defense strategy is not exactly unknown, Myron. Of course, we wouldn’t want to do anything unethical.”

Blaylock snorted. “No, of course not. Is the tape recorder on?”

Colby smiled thinly. “I’ll delay whenever possible. But the inspection will happen. So be ready for it.” He scanned the rows of eyes on both sides of the table. “Prepare.”

“What exactly are we allowed to do?” another vice president asked.

“Well, of course, you can’t hide any evidence. But you can continue with your normal practices. And since your normal practice is to dispose of chemicals in drums and have the drums transported elsewhere, I suggest you do that. In a big way.”

The vice president nodded. “I think I got you. I’ll take care of it.”

“Damn right you will,” Blaylock added. “Every last drop.”

Colby continued. “Now I’ve already sent each of you a memo regarding the production of relevant documents. I assume that work is already in progress.”

“The photocopiers are working double time,” Steinhart answered.

“I should also warn you,” Colby continued, “that it’s possible the plaintiffs" attorney or his representative might attempt to talk with you or your employees at any time. Under no circumstances should you talk with them. No matter what they say. No matter how simple it seems. If Kincaid wants to talk to us, make him go through me. Make him go through official channels. Trust me—it will be better for us all. Okay?”

Everyone in the room nodded their consent.

“Good. That about covers it, then. Of course, I’ll see you again and prepare each of you before your deposition is taken. We’ll review documents, discuss potential answers. Refresh your memory, if necessary.”

“I have a question,” Blaylock said. “About the production of documents.”

“Yes?”

“Does that include our own … internal documents?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“Even things we just wrote … just for our own use?”

“Even that.”

Blaylock shifted what little weight he had. “Charlton, you may remember a report I once sent you. In a dark-blue folder.”

“I distinctly recall it.”

“We don’t have to produce that, do we? "Cause if we do—”

Colby cut him off. “As I recall, I instructed you to include me on the report’s circulation list.”

“Correct.” Blaylock removed a slim blue folder from his briefcase. He checked the first page. “There you are. CC to Charlton Colby.”

“Good. Since I was included in the distribution list, the report was, at least in part, prepared for my benefit. Therefore, I believe we have a tenable claim that it is covered by the attorney-client privilege and therefore should not be produced.”

“And what if your esteemed colleague disputes your claim and wants the document?”

Colby answered the question with a question. “How can he request a document he doesn’t know exists?”

“Mmm. Good point.”

Mark leaned close to Colby. “I’ll prepare a claim of privilege form, sir.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mark.”

“It’s traditional—”

“But not required.” Colby’s expression barely changed, but he nonetheless managed to give Mark a look that told him to back off in no uncertain terms. “There is no rule that expressly requires me to identify documents that have been withheld under a claim of privilege. I’m a member of the bar. I can determine in good faith whether a document should be produced.”

Mark buttoned his lip.

“I think that covers everything,” Colby said, gracefully rising to his feet. “Please don’t hesitate to call if I can be of service.”

“Don’t call him too often,” Blaylock grumbled. “He bills by the second.”

“Please remember what I said, though. Loose lips sink ships.”

“And lose overpaid executives their jobs,” Blaylock added.

The men in the room rose to their feet. Not a one of them was laughing at Blaylock’s little joke. Not so much as a smile.

T
HE OUTSIDER WAS A
creature of unspeakable horror. He had no body in the traditional sense, only a fluid gelatinous ooze that slithered out at the monster’s whim. He had no features as such; only careful examination revealed two large eyeballs, veined and protruding, unlidded, and a hideous mouth—a gaping, slavering maw with two fanglike tusks jutting out, each of them sharpened to a deadly point.

Scout did not know exactly where the Outsider was, but he knew the beast was somewhere in this dense thicket, and he knew the beast was looking for him. Hunting him.

The Outsider was not an intelligent creature, not in the sense that he could think, reason, plan ahead. But he was a creature of unrelenting instinct, a natural born predator. He hunted humans. He fed on them, devouring them, starting with the eyeballs, which the monster considered a great delicacy. His hunger was intense and unyielding. Once he caught the spoor of prey, he became an unyielding killing machine. He did not tire. He did not reconsider. He did not quit. So long as his prey lived, the hunt would continue.

Scout swerved his bicycle between two tall trees on the side of the dirt road. Good thing he’d talked his dad into buying this mountain bike for Christmas; that old green Schwinn he’d had before could never have handled this kind of punishment. His only chance of escaping the Outsider would be to cut across the thicket, then make a northwest shortcut across the Reinholtz farm property. He could duck into the ravine at the far side; its higher wall might protect him from view long enough to allow him to make his escape.

Pedaling with all his might, Scout crossed the farmland and tumbled down into the ravine. He didn’t think he’d been spotted, but he was certain the Outsider was nearby, his instinctual telepathy primed for any signs of his prey. It was like a sixth sense, an indelible intuition, intangible, but no less certain for it.

Scout had to keep moving. That was his only hope.

He had moved north less than ten feet when he heard the sound. He whirled around, his eyes wide with anticipation. Where was it? Why was the creature toying with him like this?

Pedaling as fast as he could, Scout raced down the ravine. Barely a second later, he heard the unmistakable growl of the Outsider. It was above him, nestled in the branches of a nearby tree. Before Scout had a chance to move, the monster plunged down on top of him, knocking him off his bike. Scout and the Outsider rolled onto the muddy ground.

Scout fought with all his might, but the monster was stronger than he was. Before long, the creature was on top of him, pinning him down. Scout was unable to resist. He knew now that the hunt was over. The prey had been caught. He was finished.

“Gotcha!”

Scout’s friend Jim rolled backward, laughing with glee.

Scout sat up. “I think you broke my neck.”

Jim did not seem particularly repentant. “Man, you should’ve seen your face when I came flying out of that tree. I’ve never seen anyone look so scared. I bet you peed your pants!”

“I did not,” Scout said angrily. At any rate, he hoped he hadn’t. That would make it even more embarrassing.

Scout liked Jim—sort of. Since Scout and his family had moved to Blackwood, he’d been Scout’s best friend. You needed a friend, when you were a nine-year-old kid who’d just moved to some podunk town you’d never heard of before. Jim was kind of rough-and-tumble, but he had a good imagination. He played the Outsider game better than anyone, even if he did tend to bend the rules around.

“Who said you could climb up into trees, anyway?”

“All’s fair when you’re the Outsider,” Jim replied. “I nailed your butt but good. Gimme five.”

They went through the whole routine—high five, low five, on the side five.…

“All right,” Jim said, still ebullient. “Your turn to be the Outsider.”

“Great.” Scout examined his clothes, which were torn in two places and covered with mud. “I look like a monster.”

“Agreed.” Jim laughed. “Ready to go again?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.” Scout was always ready. He loved this game—even if Jim did always manage to beat him. Scout’s father wouldn’t play it with him; he said Scout was too old for this nonsense, too old to be pretending about monsters. But it was Scout’s favorite thing—good scary fun. Even better than the movies.

“Okay,” Jim said, “here I go. You gotta count to a hundred before you come lookin’.”

“Right.” Scout turned away. Just before he closed his eyes, though, he noticed something unusual. It was about a hundred feet away, across the field, behind that great big plant where half the town worked, including Scouts father. “What is that, a bulldozer?”

Jim stood beside him. “Nah. It’s a Brush Hog. Looks like they’re digging something up.”

Scout peered more intently. The giant mechanical claw was hauling something out of the dirt. But what was it? Buried treasure, maybe? An Indian graveyard? “Let’s take a closer look.”

Scout started forward, but Jim grabbed his arm, holding him back. “Don’t go over there!”

Something about the look in Jim’s eyes frightened Scout. “Why not?”

“Don’t you know what that is? That’s the Blaylock plant.”

“Yeah. So?”

Jim leaned forward. His voice dropped to a hush. “My daddy says it’s poison!”

“What, the whole plant?”

“Nah. The water. But if you go onto their property, you might get some of it on you.”

“Poison water? That’s silly.”

“If my daddy says it, then it ain’t silly!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t believe it.” It was crazy; it couldn’t be true. Especially since his father went to work there every day.

“Do you remember Billy Elkins?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Oh, that’s right. It was before you came.” Jim glanced over his shoulder. “Billy was a kid at our school. He was pretty cool. But he got real sick. And then he
died.”

Scout’s eyes widened. That didn’t happen to kids their age, did it? “He died?”

“Yup. And so did a bunch of other kids in Blackwood. And it’s all because of the poison water. There’s some big lawsuit going on about it in the City. My daddy says they oughta burn the plant to the ground and execute all the men in charge.”

Scout was no Einstein, but he knew enough to realize that was unlikely. “I still don’t believe the water is poison.” Something in the field behind the plant caught his eye. “Hey, look at that.”

The Brush Hog had hauled something large and cylindrical out of the ground. It was encrusted with dirt; Scout couldn’t quite make it out. But he could see enough to know that it hadn’t grown underground naturally. Something had been buried down there. And for some reason, the men operating the Brush Hog were digging it up.

“What is that?” Jim whispered. “Looks like a big trash can.”

“Storage drum,” Scout replied, his voice hushed. “I’ve seen pictures in my dad’s office. But why would they be underground?”

“I don’t know. What do you thinks inside them?”

“Trash, maybe.”

“Oh, don’t be so boring. Maybe it’s pirate gold!”

Scout grinned. “Or maybe it’s the lost treasure of a wandering Mayan tribe.”

“Or maybe it’s the eyeless remains of the Outsider’s victims!” With that, Jim jumped on top of Scout, scaring him out of his skin and knocking him to the ground. They wrestled about in the mud, one on top, then the other, until they were both even more filthy.

They tumbled out of the ravine. Scout scrambled to his feet and started to run—when he was startled by an abrupt cracking noise.

It came from the field behind the plant, where the Brush Hog was doing its digging. One of the drums had slipped out of the claw and fallen to the hard earth below. The drum split. The contents tumbled out.

Scout gasped.

From his distance, it was impossible to tell whether it had its eyeballs or not. But it was definitely a human body that had spilled out of the drum. And the body was unmistakably dead.

M
IKE MORELLI WAS NOT
happy about the discovery of yet another corpse. He was still buried in his investigation of the brutal murder of Harvey Pendergast and his family. He felt he was making progress, even if he didn’t exactly know toward what he was progressing. When a new murder hit, though, the pressure was always on from the Chief to give it the full-court press, on the theory that most murders are solved shortly after they occur, if they are solved at all. Therefore, Mike was faced with the prospect of either adding a new unsolved murder to his workload, or relegating this one to Lieutenant Prescott. Neither possibility pleased him.

As he trudged through the muddy grounds behind the Blaylock plant, he was glad he was wearing his trademark trenchcoat. The sky was gray and overcast; for once, the coat seemed appropriate. He just wished he’d worn some old shoes as well. The ground was wet and muddy and he was getting it all over himself.

He saw Tomlinson standing just outside the huddle of activity that inevitably surrounded the corpus delicti. “Over there?” he asked, pointing.