“Surely, you admit some strange things have been happening,” Crane said.
“Yes. I admit that.”
“Like the fire. Like the suicides.”
“I told you last night, the police and fire department agreed that there was no evidence of arson.”
“I know you did. But you can understand why I can’t get too worked up over the opinions of Greenwood’s Finest.”
Patrick shrugged. “Crane, if I believed that that had been arson, I’d be the first to complain.”
“Well, sure. I can see how you’d want to do that. I can see where a complaint might be in order.”
Patrick shifted in his swivel chair, studying Crane, looking for sarcasm, not quite finding it.
Crane said, “I came here to tell you I’m leaving Greenwood.”
“You are?”
“That’s right. I’ll send you my address and phone number, in Iowa City. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me posted, where Boone’s concerned.”
Patrick lifted his eyebrows. “Well, of course. Why not.”
“I know it must’ve been a blow to Boone to lose all her research materials. To have her entire manuscript, months of work, go up in smoke.”
He nodded. “She was devastated. As I told you last night, I’m convinced that’s why she did what she did.”
“Took those pills.”
“Yes.”
“At least there’s one encouraging note.”
“Yes?”
“When we spoke, you and I, five weeks ago, you said Kemco itself was concerned about some of Boone’s findings... the high incidence of certain illnesses among employees and their families, for example. You said Kemco would be doing its own study into the matter.”
“That’s right.”
“How’s it coming along?”
“Well. It’s in the beginning stages. The home office in St. Louis is putting it in motion, I’m told.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Then you’re really going, Crane?”
“Yes. There’s nothing for me, here. I have to get back to Iowa and hit the old books.”
Patrick rose. “Well, then. I’ll show you out.”
Crane smiled again. “No need. I know the way.” He extended his hand to Patrick. “Sorry about our misunderstandings, Patrick. They shook hands across the desk.
Patrick smiled and said, “We might’ve been friends, under different circumstances.”
Crane kept the smile going. “Who knows?” he said.
He left Patrick’s office. He glanced back and saw Patrick had followed him out in the hall, watching him. Crane waved, smiled, went into the room marked MEN.
He went into one of the stalls and sat; he kept his pants up. He sat and looked at his watch. When five minutes had passed he left the stall. He peeked out in the hall. No Patrick.
Down the Hall from Patrick’s office was a door that said PLANT MANAGER.
Crane opened it.
The secretary looked up, a woman in her late thirties with short dark hair and glasses and a nice smile. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Johnson?”
“I don’t need one,” Crane said, and opened the door, at the left, which said WALTER JOHNSON, PLANT MANAGER.
Johnson was a thickset man about fifty, with wiry brown hair going gray, a mustache, wire-rim glasses. He was in his shirt-sleeves and a red-and-blue striped tie, with some work on his desk and a phone receiver to his ear.
At first he smiled, just hearing the door open, not looking at Crane, assuming it was his secretary or someone with something important his secretary had sent on in; but the smile was momentary, turning to confusion on seeing someone he didn’t know barge in, turning to irritation that would’ve turned to anger if Crane hadn’t slammed a fist on the man’s desk, upsetting papers, spilling a half a cup of coffee, rattling the desk itself, turning Johnson’s expression to one of fear.
“Hang up the fucking phone,” Crane said.
Johnson said, “Excuse me,” into the receiver, softly, hung up.
The secretary was behind Crane, having come in on his heels, and Johnson motioned to her to leave and she did.
“Who are you?” Johnson said.
“Crane.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“I think so.”
“Well it doesn’t.”
“How about Anne Boone? Does that mean anything?” He then listed the other “suicides”: Woll, Meyer, Price, Mary Beth.
Johnson said, “I know those names. All of them worked for us, except Mrs. Boone. And Mrs. Boone’s husband is in our employ.”
“I know all about Patrick being in your employ. And I know all about what you people have been up to. Everything from dumping hazardous wastes in household dumps to unsafe working conditions at the plant; I know about your arson, I know about your phony suicides, which is to say murder.”
Johnson said nothing. He was looking Crane over, nervously, possibly wondering if Crane had a gun.
Crane pointed a finger at him. “I know. I know all about everything. Burning Boone’s book won’t stop a goddamn thing. I’m going to have your corporate asses. I’m taking what I have to the Hazardous Waste Strike Force, and to the media and...”
The door opened behind him. Two armed security guards, one of them a woman, came in.
“Hold him!” Johnson shouted. He was standing behind the desk, now, shaking, furious, not quite over being afraid. “Hold him while I call the police.”
Patrick came in the room. He looked briefly dismayed, then was all business.
“Walt,” he said. “Let me have a word with you.”
The guards escorted Crane into the outer office. They stood. He sat. Voices within Johnson’s office argued.
A few minutes later Patrick came back out.
“Do you have a car here?” Patrick asked Crane.
“No,” Crane said.
“I’ll drive you.”
“What about the police?”
“I’ve convinced Mr. Johnson not to bring them in. Next time, don’t expect me to bail you out, Crane.”
“What would I do without you.”
“Are you going to cause any more trouble?”
“Not today.”
For the first ten minutes of the ride back to Greenwood, Patrick said nothing; he just drove, quietly fuming, like the Kemco plant.
Then he laughed; it sounded harsh. “I believed you,” he said.
“Don’t be bitter,” Crane said. “I’ve fallen for your bullshit, on occasion.”
“What was the purpose of all that back there, Crane?”
Crane shrugged.
“Are you flipping, or what?”
Crane didn’t say anything.
Patrick shoved an Eagles tape into his dash and turned it up loud. At least it wasn’t Willie Nelson, Crane thought. He found Patrick’s little sports car comfortable enough. He settled back.
When Patrick pulled up at the motel, he said, “You better do what you said you were going to do: leave town.”
“Thanks for the lift,” Crane said. He got out.
Patrick shook his head and drove off.
In his motel room, Crane made some phone calls. Then he walked to the pizza place downtown and ate. By the time he finished, it was dark. A light snow was falling. He walked to Boone’s house. Patrick’s car, the MGB, was in front. So was Boone’s Datsun, still covered with snow. No one had touched it since her “suicide attempt,” he’d bet.
There was no one around; the street light was still out. He felt fairly safe going over to the Datsun and seeing if it was locked. It wasn’t.
He opened the glove compartment. Reached his hand in. Felt the coldness: the gun was still in there.
He put it in his belt, shut the door of the Datsun and walked back to the motel room.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kids were bundled in their winter clothes as they left the grade school, walking into the blowing snow. Some of them got onto the waiting buses; other paused impatiently till the crossing guards let them trudge homeward. None of them were playing or fooling around, today: the wind had teeth and they wanted to get away from it.