Hap shrugged. “Just what I heard.”
“Did you hear if the cleanup recovered the contaminants?”
“Ahh…ever try to put the toothpaste back in the tube?”
“No I have not. What happened to the contaminants?”
Hap folded back the white linen tablecloth, gathering our attention. He reached for his water glass. The glass was cobalt blue and it was impossible to tell how much water it held. Hap tipped it over. Not much water, it turned out, but enough to find its preferred path in the wood grain and channel to the table’s edge and trickle down to the carpet, where it was absorbed into the deep blue pile.
I stared.
Hap righted his glass. “Water moves. And if nuclides get into the water, they move. Tritium darn near does the backstroke. Mr. Plutonium hitches a ride on clay particles and jess rafts away.”
I went cold. “You’re saying they got down into the water table?”
Hap nodded.
“At what concentration?”
Ballinger answered. “Below regulatory concern, missy.”
“Oh?” I regarded Milt Ballinger. I didn’t know if he could be found criminally negligent in the death of Sheila Cook. In the contamination of the water. What I did know was that this cocky little man was a moral pygmy. “So, if it’s below X number of parts-per-million, then everything’s copacetic? Above that line and somebody’s going to have to get upset about it?”
Ballinger’s sharp chin tilted. “Didn’t crap up anybody.”
“Ahhh,” Hap said, “we don’t rightly know that yet.” He put a finger in the little stream on the table, then touched his tongue. He made a face. “Thing is, plants take up the water from the aquifer and animals eat the plants and drink the water, and then people drink the water and eat the plants and animals. And in the process of moving up the food chain, the clides get concentrated and us apex feeders get a richer dose.” He eyed the snake on Soliano’s fork.
Soliano set down his fork.
“Fact, some of those other leaks Milt mentioned got connected to cancer clusters.”
I watched the water find its way over the table’s edge. “Cancer again.”
“Ain’t it a bitch? Everything gives you cancer these days.”
“Let us confine ourselves to this leak,” Soliano said. “Which appears to parallel the contamination of Mr. Jardine’s sister, yes? One more grievance to lay at Mr. Ballinger’s door?”
“Well he didn’t threaten me,” Ballinger said, “he threatened the priceless, remember? So why don’t we friggin drop this leak crapola?”
“Why don’t we follow the evidence,” Walter said, “and see where it leads.”
I ached, suddenly, muscles sprung from slouching through a tunnel in a sixty-pound bug suit in pursuit of mud on a cask. But I’d do it again tomorrow if I thought I’d get the evidence. Because Walter’s right, that’s what’s going to get us to Roy Jardine and I wanted that sick bastard got. As Walter taught me back when I was learning the ropes at his bench, a crime does not happen without leaving its mark. One of the golden rules of forensic geology says that whenever two objects come into contact, there is a transfer of material. The methods of detection may not be exquisite enough to find it, but nonetheless the transfer has taken place. That means if you don’t find it the first time, you hold it up to the light and look again. And you keep looking until you see what was hidden. Like a flash of mica in granite that suddenly catches the sun. And if your evidence soils are stolen and you have to start all over again, you suck it up and keep looking. Because that’s what you signed up for. Because a sick bastard has got hold of lethal shit and is playing god with it. Because I don’t want him crapping up anything, priceless or pricey or overlooked or underprotected or just plain unlucky. I had a bad taste in my mouth, redolent of rattlesnake and canned air. I said, “We’ll find the place, Hector.”
“I await. Meanwhile, let us consider the priceless, which he threatens to contaminate. What is it? Where might it be? What can we extrapolate from his choice of locations so far? His cask-swapping setup is in Death Valley. His first attack comes in Death Valley. Death Valley appears to be his chosen venue. Thoughts, Mr. Ballinger?”
“Christ on a crutch,” Ballinger said, “I…don’t…know. Figure it out yourself. Or ask somebody else for a change.” He turned to Hap. “Like Mr. Know-it-all here.”
“Very well,” Soliano said. “Thoughts, Mr. Miller?”
Hap cocked his head. “You asking me to speculate, Hector?”
“I am asking what attracts Mr. Jardine to Death Valley. Yes, do speculate. It may help if you use his perspective.”
I thought, that role-playing thing again, like Soliano used with Ballinger in the talc tunnel. Very effective.
Hap chuckled. “Should get me a Roy mask. Anyhoo, let’s see. I’m Roy, with a shitload of hot resins. What I have to do is find a worthy place to threaten. Think I’ll call it the priceless. Nice ring to it, and it’ll sure grab everybody’s attention.”
“Where, Mr. Miller, is this worthy place?”
“Well it sure ain’t the dump.” Hap sat back and laced his hands behind his head. “Sooo, what else could I contaminate? There’s the Nevada Test Site down the road — that’s where Uncle Sam buries his waste. That’s been contaminated since the atomic tests.” Hap glanced at me.
I met his look. Go ahead.
“Anybody gonna notice if I crap up NTS? Nah. Over the hill from the dump is Yucca Mountain, which is where they keep changing their minds about if they’re gonna put the spent fuel rods, if they ever quit bitching about earthquake faults. Anybody care if I crap up Yucca? Nah. Well then, how about Death Valley? Compared to the neighbors she’s a downright virgin. And if I crap up a virgin — long as she’s called a national park — I’ll get somebody to sit up and pay attention.”
“And why do you wish attention?” Soliano asked.
“Remember, I have a grudge or two against Milt. Sooo, attention’s going to come back around to Milt — like it’s doing right now — and the old news is going to leak out. Then John Q Public’s going to read about it with his morning coffee and have a cow. Holy hell, all them nuclides in the water table, that’s where I dug my well! And here’s where John Q is going to ask what Milt’s plutonium is doing in John’s coffee.”
“As you phrased it yesterday morning at the dump.”
“As Hap phrased it. When Buttercup here asked what happens if the resins get loose in the environment.” Hap shrugged. “But I’m still playing Roy, right? Sooo, once I get all this attention, with John Q screaming and all, I figure the Nuke Regulating Commission is going to have to step in again, get tougher. And then Milt’s going to get his radioactive materials license yanked, or get fired, or get drawn and quartered.” Hap unlaced his hands and folded his arms, decapitating Homer Simpson. “So whaddya think? That why Roy chose Death Valley?”
“It is plausible.” Soliano considered. “And yet, Death Valley is a very large target.”
“Anywhere in the virgin’s gonna turn the trick.” Hap grinned. “So to speak.”
I thought, suddenly, we’re asking the wrong question. Forget the where for a moment — what about how? I watched, electrified, as the last drops of water plinked down from the table into the carpet. I saw Walter scratching his ear, looking where I was looking.
Ballinger said, “Well I think you’re full of it, Hap.”
“Well thanks, Milt.” Hap’s cave-pool eyes darkened. “Because Hector asked for my help and I just tried to give it. Because, you know, it’s my ass too. It’s all our asses, because dog knows how Roy’s fixing to unleash his stockpile. So you might be a little more forthcoming, Milt.”