Ballinger nodded.
“You gave the order to hasten the disposal?”
Ballinger started to speak, and then just nodded.
“This was CTC policy?”
Now he spoke. “Policy is avoid delays and make a profit. Safety first, and all.”
“Did CTC bear liability for Ms. Cook’s contamination?”
“Paid workers comp till she recovered.”
“And later? The leukemia?”
“No proof that one-time incident caused it. Lotsa things cause cancer.”
“I will wish to contact Sheila Cook.”
Ballinger wiped his skull. “She’s dead.”
I recoiled, as though I hadn’t expected that.
“She died….when?”
“That would be, uh, two years ago.”
“And you learned of her death…how?”
“Grapevine.”
Soliano squatted in front of Ballinger. “And Mr. Jardine? When did he come to work for you?”
“That would be, um, three years ago. Same year she left. You know, when she got, uh, sick.”
“So their employment overlapped?”
“No, he came later in the year.”
“Then Mr. Jardine would not have encountered her?”
“Not at the dump.”
“Meaning what? He encountered her outside the work place?”
“Girlfriend, I’m thinking,” Hap said.
Ballinger looked at his shoes. “Sister.”
Soliano cursed softly in Spanish.
I cursed silently, in English.
“Mr. Ballinger.” Soliano gathered himself. “You did not recall a grievance he might hold against you, in regard to his sister?”
“Just found out she was. She’s listed as his emergency contact on the new hire form. Sheila Cook. Sister. Guess it was her married name.” Ballinger wiped his oiled face. “And I guess after she died, Roy never bothered to change his info. Point is, I didn’t know. I mean, who reads that stuff anyway — unless you need it?”
Soliano said, precise, “I read that stuff.”
“Okay, see, I looked it over before I gave it to you and it kinda broadsided me — her being his sister. So I, uh, deleted it.” Ballinger took on a tight unwilling look. “Didn’t see any point in the FBI digging up ancient history. I mean, what difference does it make now?”
Soliano said, icy, “Motive.”
“So he’s got a bone to pick.”
“Two bones, Mr. Ballinger. Let us not forget the prank that scarred his face. He might, perhaps, blame you for a…culture of lax management?”
“Well he never complained to me about it.”
Hap looked pained. “Uh, what if he’s sending a message now, Milt? You know — boron, control rods, chain reaction? And we’re at the wrong end of a chain reaction. Let’s see, nuke plant shuts down, got no more use for all the gear but you can’t sell the gear on eBay because the gear’s crapped up, so the gear gets shipped to the dump, but the paperwork’s effed up and the backhoe driver’s hung over and then poor Ms. Cook steps in and gets contaminated and wins the cancer lottery. Then brother Roy gets a feather up his and decides to put it to you, brother Roy’s got access to all those rads — and brother Roy’s gonna pull the rods and let that chain reaction go critical. Metaphorically speaking.”
“Christ,” Scotty said, “so that diagram he drew on the truck — skull and bones, guy running away? That’s you, Milt?”
I stared. My stick figure?
Ballinger said, “That’s a buncha crapola.”
“No Milt,” Walter snapped, “that’s revenge.”
My thoughts took off along the chain of events. Brother Roy takes a job at the radwaste dump where his sister got crapped up. Maybe he’s looking to gather evidence of mismanagement — a lawsuit. Then his sister dies. And the prank is just one more grievance. So he settles upon revenge. He plans the swap. He enlists Chickie and her talc, or he just steals it. He enlists the truck driver; maybe he sells the plan as extortion, offering a cut. The pothead buys it. They siphon off radwaste for who knows how long. Then something goes wrong. Maybe Ryan Beltzman finds out Jardine’s real motive and wants no part of it. And there’s the fight, the chase, the crash, the shooting. And that changes things…how? Where does the chain reaction go from there? Metaphorically speaking.
If the running figure is Milt, he’s not running alone any longer. We’re right there with him.
Soliano moved to me and Walter. He looked haggard, his face more bony than aristocratic. “This mud on the cask — this could be from his depot?”
I nodded.
“Go get it.”
“Which one of you?” Scotty asked, rummaging through the suits.
Walter started to speak but I clamped his arm. “I’m smaller, and stronger.”
Walter shook me off and headed for the suits.
I followed and said, low, “And I’m healthy.”
He shot me a look I would not like to see again.
I pulled him aside and said, brutal, “You’re flushed. Try wearing one of those bug suits. Get halfway into the tunnel and pass out. Somebody has to come in after you. Go ahead and push yourself real hard and see if you can bring on another stroke. Then you’ll be in the hospital and I’ll be here doing this job without you and that’s goddamned unfair.”
Walter looked at the others. They hadn’t heard, or pretended not to. He gave me a brusque nod.
Feeling like the biggest shit in the world, I went to Scotty. “It’ll be me.”
Scotty had offered to go back in himself and scrape some mud but I needed to see it, undisturbed, in situ. Read the pattern of deposition before ruining it to take a sample.
So now it became my show.
Scotty opened an ice chest, pulled out a plastic vest filled with something that looked like blue ice, and then wrapped it like a gift around my baked husk. I had a moment to enjoy that and then Scotty worked me into the rubberized suit out of hell. I asked, “How much does this bug suit weigh?”
He said, stern, “I call it a bug suit because I’ve worn it more times than I can count.” He packed me into the air tank and harness assembly. “You’re gonna call it a fully-encapsulated suit with self-contained breathing apparatus because I don’t want you to forget why you’re wearing it.”
Hardly likely.
“Weighs about sixty pounds.”
I would have said a hundred.
“I already metered for background radiation,” Scotty said. “We’re at eleven micro-Roentgens per hour. That’s what we’d expect around here, so no worry. You know, rads from rocks and…” He dimpled. “Well, rocks, that’s your department. Right-O?”
“Right-O.” There’s some uranium and thorium in most rocks and soils, but around here it’d be down to point oh-oh parts per million. No worry. About the rocks.
Scotty rummaged in his box of meters and brought out a Geiger counter. “This one’s for you. See the rate chart? Tells you rads based on clicks per second — alpha, beta, gamma. You get inside the tunnel, should sound about like this.” He snapped his fingers, paused, snapped again. “When you reach the fork, your reading’s gonna pick up a little.” He snapped a little faster. “When you see the cask, should sound about like this.” Faster. “Don’t get any closer than you need — Lucy’s making you a tool. And you wanna limit your time. Just grab your dirt and go, real fast. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Your Geiger sounds like a machine-gun, you make that Titanic face and get the hell out.”
I swallowed. “Got it.”
Lucy came over with the tool. It was the type of telescoping wand the woman at the dump had used to meter the cask at a respectable distance. Scotty had, I assumed, used it in the adit here, to similar purpose. Now it was my turn. Lucy had duct-taped a small scoop to the end of the wand. Very clever. She made a fist and after a moment I understood and balled my free hand and we bumped fists. Very cool.