Introduction

Editorial Review

No editorial review at this time.

Excerpt

1

Jack could see his breath even inside the car as he dodged potholes on the Ohio interstate and maneuvered his way into Trenton City at daybreak. He blasted the heat but was getting nothing but cold air. The gun he’d bought three days earlier still felt bulky and foreign strapped to his ankle. He didn’t like keeping the gun a secret from Pam, but with Granger Meade out on parole, it was for her own good—hers and the girls’.

Wiping the moisture from the side window, he glimpsed one of the city’s sprawling industrial plants, its web of mechanical appara- tuses and smokestacks silhouetted by the dawn’s red-orange glow. He put the windows down to clear the windshield. It was below freezing outside. “Shoot!” He laughed at how cold he was and how ridiculous he must look with the windows down in the dead of winter. Cars hummed alongside his, covered with clumps of snow and ice and white stains from the rock salt on the roads.

He’d been taking the cars to Randalls’ Garage for repairs on the east side of Trenton City for years. Galen, the elderly father, and his two forty-something sons, LJ and Travis, knew cars like a cardiologist knew chest cavities.

Jack glanced at the digital clock in the dash: 7:17.

The fact that Granger had returned to Trenton City made Jack sick to his stomach—especially each morning when it was time to leave Pam and the girls. The man had come to town to track Pam down two years ago because she was the only person who had ever cared two cents about his life. She had paid for that compassion—they all had.

Jack rested a hand on his chest. His sternum had been severely cracked that night when he slammed into the guardrail. The bone had eventually healed, but his heart had not. Jack didn’t care. It was his right to despise Granger. He had zero sympathy for the man, even though Pam—the real victim—had mustered the mercy to forgive.

He recalled driving hopelessly in the dark, through sheets of torren- tial rain, in search of any sign of his wife—then spinning out of control.

Jack realized he was clamping the steering wheel like a vise. Ease up. He tried to relax his hands, his neck, his whole body.

He shook away the disturbing vignettes of that night.

At the last second he spotted the Tenth Street exit sign, shot a glance back, and veered off the interstate. When Granger got into his head, the memories possessed him. Just like that—almost missing the exit.

He looped around the exit ramp, past the new soup kitchen, which was lined with dark figures—standing, sitting, sleeping— trying to stay warm on sewage grates billowing clouds of steam. He hit green lights for several city blocks. Once past the library, thrift shop, and triple set of railroad tracks leading to the east side, he slowed along the narrow streets.

The houses were shoeboxes whose colors had faded long ago. Many were mobile homes, yet almost every one supported a mon- strous leaning antenna or satellite dish. Smoke chugged from tiny chimneys, and he imagined the warmth inside. Beater cars and

trucks were parked at all angles in the short driveways and right up against the shanties and shotgun shacks.

Jack’s phone chirped. He knew without looking that it was a reminder to attend the editorial board meeting at nine thirty. He had tons of work on his plate. He took a left on Pell Lane and a quick right at the Randalls’ place, easing the Jetta up to the large doors of the auto shop. It was a leaning, rusted silver metal building the size of a barn, sealed up tight with no windows or sign.

A hint of snow fell as Jack turned the car off. The Randalls’ one- story house was situated about fifty feet from the shop. It was faded green with a big metal awning over the back. Next to it was a rusting white propane tank that looked like a giant Tylenol capsule. Out back were a red tool shed, an ancient doghouse, and a broken-down sky-blue Ford Pinto.

The Randalls’ orange dog with the corkscrew tail was lying on the back stoop, which led to the rear entrance of the house. A cozy yellow light shone from inside. The instant the mutt saw him, it bolted upright and howled.

“Hello, Rusty.” Jack continued toward the back door. “It’s okay. I’m here to see the boys. Are they up?” Rusty quieted and sniffed at his coat.

Jack went up the steps slowly, the gun on his ankle feeling heavy. Through the screen door he could see Travis sitting hunched over an enormous plate of food at the small kitchen table. Jack knocked at the leaning screen door, and without any change in facial expression, Travis lifted a hand and motioned him inside.

Jack nudged the tightly sealed back door, scaring a gray cat away as he slipped in. “Morning, Travis.”

The kitchen was small and toasty warm, permeated with the smell of cigarettes and dotted with NASCAR posters, hats, and paraphernalia.

“Jack.” Travis nodded casually, as if Jack lived there and had just meandered in for breakfast. He sat with his right leg crossed and his right foot gently bouncing. He was distinctly bony, like a caveman, from his large hands and sinewy arms to his long, sculpted face. His fork tapped and cut and diced its way into a pile of yoke-smothered eggs, bacon, grits, grilled potatoes, biscuits, and white gravy.

“Could it be any colder?” Jack took his gloves off.

Travis continued to work on his breakfast, his elbows resting on the Formica table. “I guess it could, but I wouldn’t want it to be.” He chuckled at his own joke. “What’s the word at the Dispatch? Any new scandals? You can wipe your feet right there on that rug.”

“Nothing earth-shattering.” Jack wiped his feet.

“You still doin’ the city-hall beat?” Travis spoke slowly, in a deep voice. He wore faded jeans with a small rip above one knee, a soft brown T-shirt, and thick gray socks.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “And I’m the features editor now, so I’ve been doing some personality profile stuff. We ran a story about a neighbor of yours recently—Jenness Brinkman.”

“They live right ’round back, I think. Jenness is the handi- capped girl, right?”

“Yep. Top of her class at East High. Got a full ride to Yale to study criminal law. Wants to work with the FBI in Washington.”

“I’ll be,” Travis said. “I missed that one.” “The features usually run on Sundays.”

“Well, that answers that. Bo’s always runnin’ off with the Sunday paper. Uses it to clean car windows. You hear he’s detailin’ cars now?” Bo was Travis’s seventeen-year-old nephew, who was always

into something new.

“No, I hadn’t.” Jack heard a sound from the other room. “Yup. Ask him ’bout it. He’s startin’ off really cheap.”

“I might do that.”

“You want somethin’ to eat? Biscuit? I got some a’ Daddy’s homemade sawmill gravy over there. A little go-joe?”

It all sounded good, but he’d had fruit and eggs with Pam. “No, thanks. I appreciate it, though.”

The smell of a freshly lit cigarette wafted in from the next room, but Travis didn’t seem to notice.

“What brings you out this mornin’?” Travis scratched his dark sparse beard, which was peppered with gray.

“I’ve got my ’98 Jetta out there. The fan is barely working, and there’s no heat. Plus the muffler’s sagging.”

Just then LJ rounded the corner from the dark room, a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, the usual black eye patch covering his left eye. He wore dark blue jeans, a white T-shirt, an unbuttoned blue and red flannel shirt, and white socks. “You want the good ol’ boy fix on the muffler, Jack, or you want me to get the parts from Volkswagen?”

“Hey, LJ,” Jack said. “The good ol’ boy fix, if you can.”

“What you doin’, boy?” Travis suddenly came to life. “Sneakin’ round here in the dark.” He looked at Jack. “He’s been doin’ that since we was boys. Ears like radar. Stickin’ that crooked nose into other peo- ple’s beeswax. Ain’t no such thing as a private conversation ’round here.”

LJ smirked as he stirred some grilled potatoes in a frying pan above a blue flame. With the cigarette pinched at the end of two fin- gers, he took a heaping mouthful. “Momma used to call me Ghosty. Remember, Trav?”

The most prominent feature on LJ, besides the eye patch, was his Adam’s apple, which protruded an inch from his long skinny neck. He was about six foot four and balding. The brown hair he did have on top was long and thin; on the sides it was full and flowing.

“Momma had your number,” Travis said. “Remember how she got on you for spying on Daddy’s customers? Hey, don’t smoke around the food!”

“How long ago did your mother pass away?” Jack asked.

LJ ran his cigarette under water, threw it away, and got into the eggs, eating right out of the pan. “Two thousand and seven,” he said with a mouthful. “These need salt. Want some grub, Jack?”

“I already asked him … but now that you’ve gone and stuck your grea-zee grubs into everythin’ … Sorry, Jack. LJ, mind your manners.”

“Same thing’s gonna kill Daddy that killed Momma.” LJ shook the big spoon toward the window as he spewed the words: “Demler-Vargus.”

“Is something wrong with Galen?” Jack asked.

“He’s in the hospital.” LJ tossed the spoon in the sink. “They’s callin’ it emphysema, and maybe it is, but we know what caused it.” He jabbed a finger toward the window. “That plant. It killed Momma, and it’s killed others. But nobody wants to listen to us poor east-siders. We got no voice in this town.”

Travis calmly tapped and scraped at the remains on his plate.

Jack knew that Demler-Vargus, the massive fiberglass manu- facturing plant that employed half of Trenton City, had been the recipient of complaints in the past for emitting hazardous pollutants. But as far as he knew, the corporate giant had only received several slaps on the wrist from the EPA.

“How bad is he?” Jack said.

“He’s gonna be okay.” Travis didn’t look up. “Passed out the other night. Wasn’t gettin’ enough oxygen to the brain. Scared the starch out of us.”

“I thought he was dead.” LJ came over and stood by Travis. “He was purple. Sprawled out yonder in the TV room.”

“Lucky there was no brain damage, they said.” Travis picked at his teeth with his upside-down fork. “It’s my day at the hospital, so LJ will be takin’ care of your car.” He looked up at his brother. “You hear all his Jetta needs when you was listenin’ in?”

“I heard. I gotta take care of the fuel filter on that Volvo first, then I got that little day-care bus out back, door’s busted—”

“But you gonna get to it today, right?” Travis said. “I might could. But it might be tomorrow.”

Travis craned his neck toward Jack. “That okay?” “That’s fine.”

“You need a ride to the paper?” Travis stood and took his dish to the sink.

“That would be great.” Jack put his gloves on. “You know, we just ran a feature story about the CEO of Demler-Vargus. He was voted Trenton City’s Person of the—”

“That is the biggest load of horse manure.” LJ scowled and pulled at his thick brown mustache that reached to the bottom of his chin.

“Don’t get me started, Jack. That man is nothing but a murderer, plain and simple.”

“No, please don’t git him started.” Travis finished rinsing his things and put them in the dishwasher. “I can take you to the paper on my way to the hospital.”

“Great.” Jack guessed LJ was frustrated and looking for someone to blame for his parents’ struggles, but his own curiosity was piqued. He’d come away from his interview with Leonard Bendickson III thinking the fiberglass CEO was intelligent, cocky, and filthy rich. “Why are you so sure Demler-Vargus is hurting people?” he asked. “What do you know?”

“Whatever that plant is spewing, it’s killing people,” LJ said. “It’s in the air and the water. I’ve heard plenty.”

“Like what, specifically?”

“Uh oh,” Travis said. “Here we go.”

“You know what fiberglass is, Jack?” LJ whirled around like a raging pirate, with his arching brown eyebrows and long crooked nose. “It’s tiny slivers of actual glass. We breathe it in day in and day out in this crummy neighborhood. Momma and Daddy been breathin’ it in they whole lives. Some days we can see it on the cars and houses. You know what that does to your innards? That plant shouldn’t be anywhere close to any neighborhood.”

“What did your mom die from?” Jack said.

“Lymphoma, eventually,” Travis said as he hoisted on a heavy blue- and-yellow parka. “But she had respiratory problems the last three years.” LJ slammed some dishes in the sink. “Her mouth was covered

with sores.” He stopped, gripped the sink, and stared out the win- dow. “She had a sore throat for years. Used an oxygen tank.”

“Did she smoke?”

“All her life,” Travis said.

“That ain’t the point!” LJ kicked away the gray cat that was pok- ing around the dishwasher. “Smokin’ don’t make you twitch and break into hives till you itch yerself raw!”

Travis snatched his keys from a wooden board. “We know people who work in there whose health is broken down somethin’ miserable. They’s some horror stories, how it affects the central nervous system.”

“Big joke at the plant is, none of ’em collect on their retirement

’cause they all dead shortly after they retire,” LJ said. “If they last that

long.”

“I’ve heard things from time to time at the paper,” Jack said. “But it always sounded to me like when there was any wrongdoing, Demler-Vargus complied and cleaned things up.”

LJ closed the dishwasher with a bang. “Jack, this is dirty, filthy politics and greed and cover-up. Nobody wants to do nothin’ about it ’cause Demler-Vargus employs the whole town. It would cripple the entire city if they got shut down. That’s yer bottom line.”

“Daddy got us a big-shot lawyer.” Travis knelt to pet the cat. “Says we’re gonna pursue it hot an’ heavy. Lawyer says we got a good shot at winning some big moolah.”

“Other people have gotten payoffs from Demler-Vargus, but you wouldn’t know about that down at the Dispatch,” LJ said. “Prob’ly wouldn’t write about it even if you did.”

“Sure we would.”

LJ shook his head like a spoiled child. “No sir. I’m tellin’ you, Jack, this here is a can a’ worms. The Dispatch don’t cover it, and

neither does AM 550; Demler-Vargus is too powerful. They’re Goliath. No one’s got the guts to call ’em out and say what’s really goin’ on.”

“That’s enough, LJ.” Travis headed for the door. “Jack’s gotta get to work, and I gotta get over to see Daddy. Oh, that’s right …” Travis rattled around in a drawer until he found a brown bag. “I told him I’d bring him some biscuits.” He dropped three in the bag and wrung it closed. “That’ll do it. You ready?”

“Yep.” Jack followed him to the door. “Look, I’m not promising anything, but if I can get my editor to agree, would you guys be willing to give me names and details?”

“Shoot, yeah. Daddy’s got all the facts. You need to talk to him.” LJ stretched his long arms and touched the low ceiling, then ran his fingers through his thin hair and snapped the elastic band that held the eye patch in place. “But I bet you a six-pack you won’t do nothin’—beverage of your choice.”

Jack reached his hand out, and it was engulfed by LJ’s massive calloused paw, clean except for the dirt beneath his fingernails.

“You’re on.”

2

It was getting light and snowing when Travis dropped Jack out front of the big Dispatch building downtown. From there, Travis rocked and rolled his dark green Jeep Wrangler through Trenton City slush puddles and backstreets, on over to visitor parking at Cook County Hospital.

Up on the modern fourth floor, he quietly entered the dark sterile-smelling room. Daddy was upright in bed, sleeping. Travis set the bag of biscuits down, then went to the window and pulled up the blind, knowing his father would want to see out when he awoke. His color looked better, more ruddy, like usual.

Travis ducked back out into the hallway, keeping the door open with his foot. “Excuse me—Candace, is it?” He addressed a plump young nurse in aqua scrubs, whose shiny brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

“Yes?” Her eyes shifted and cheeks reddened, as if she was sur- prised he knew her name.

Shoot, we’ve been here how many days now?

“Has Galen Randall eaten breakfast yet? Right here in 411?”

She looked at her watch. “It should be coming soon. You’re one of the sons, right?”

“Travis.” He nodded. “I know I asked this before, but can he have waffles ’stead of eggs?”

“They should know that by now in the kitchen.”

Travis smiled and went back into the room, doubting they would get the order right. People didn’t care about their jobs anymore. Not like Daddy had taught LJ and him—to do your job well, respect others, please the customer, go the extra mile.

Travis sat himself down in the green vinyl chair. His father was fit as a fiddle for seventy-eight. He stood only about five foot nine, but he was lean and stubbornly strong. His forearms were thick, and his hands were small and tough as metal. He could reach unreach- able places on an engine, unscrew things, bend, clamp, tighten, and manipulate a motor with his hands like most people couldn’t do with a full set of tools. And nothing ever seemed to hurt those hands, or him—until now.

His father’s face was full of gray beard stubble. He looked older. Of course he had to be fatigued from all this hospital business. They still had the oxygen tube stuck up his nose, but it looked like they had reduced his IVs from two bags of fluid to one. Good.

Travis just hoped he could get Daddy home soon, because that house and that garage and that piece of property were his life, espe- cially since Momma died. Daddy’d been going to church quite a bit since then too, and that seemed to give him a lot of comfort, which was fine with Travis. Daddy even managed to get LJ and him to church once in a while, when he promised to take them to Ryan’s afterward for the all-you-can-eat buffet.

It wasn’t like Daddy to sleep late, but he was probably still drugged up. Travis stood, took his parka off, and laid it over the

chair so Daddy would see it when he awoke. Then he set out to get a paper and some of the vending machine coffee he “loved” so much.

He had the route down pat—out the door, turn right, down the hall, around the nurses’ station. He admired nurses and doctors— people who helped people. Maybe they didn’t make them like they used to, but most were still compassionate and good at comforting those who were hurting in all kinds of ways.

The cramped sitting room was bordered by red chairs. Only one was occupied, by a middle-aged man with blond hair and a cleft lip that had been surgically repaired—and poorly at that. He wore a black overcoat and sat hunched, elbows on his knees, cell phone glued to his ear. Several coffee tables were strewn with newspapers and magazines. A TV in the corner blared Good Morning America. The vending machines were in a nook off to one side.

The seated man didn’t acknowledge Travis, which he considered rude. But the man looked like he was in a pretty intense discussion— who knew, his wife or momma or daddy might be on their deathbed.

Travis put his money in the machine and hit dark roast. It was as weak as the coffee they served at Daddy’s church, but he needed some go-joe. He picked up the steaming cup from the machine and turned around, and the blond man was gone. Good. Travis plopped down on the edge of a chair and went through the reading materials.

Wouldn’t you know it … smack-dab on top was a recent Sunday edition of the Trenton City Dispatch, featuring a huge color picture of Leonard Bendickson III, CEO of Demler-Vargus. And sure enough, it was written by none other than their buddy Jack Crittendon, who had just ridden in Travis’s Jeep!

How do you like them apples?

Bendickson’s picture had been taken as he stood inside the plant in an expensive-looking suit with a roll of blueprints under one arm, a hard hat and goggles on his head, and one shiny shoe perched on the edge of a fancy fiberglass boat. Behind him was a massive puzzle of heavy-duty machinery—tanks, air ducts, con- veyor belts, tubes, scaffolding, drums, gauges, and a giant furnace throwing flames and sparks. Travis dropped back in the chair and began to read.

Trenton City’s Person of the Year— Leonard Bendickson III

Mastermind of the Fiberglass Universe

By Jack Crittendon

As one might guess from his formal name and expensive taste in clothes, Leonard Lee Spalding Bendickson III, known as Lenny B to his yacht-club pals, was reared in a wealthy Virginia home, attended Ivy League univer- sities, and never wanted for anything.

And he doesn’t plan to.

Since taking the helm as CEO of Demler-Vargus thirteen years ago, Bendickson has steered the Fortune

500 company to unfathomable heights. The $7.9 bil- lion corporation has consistently surpassed Wall Street expectations on its way to becoming one of the world’s most prolific manufacturers of fiberglass—all kinds of fiberglass.

“When I was asked to take over as CEO, the Demler Corporation mainly produced fiberglass insu- lation. I knew that was just the tip of the iceberg,” Bendickson said.

It didn’t take him long to make waves. Within eight months of his arrival, the Demler Corporation had acquired Vargus International, a huge player in the fiberglass arena, based in Brussels and with plants around the globe. Over the next five years the com- panies consolidated nine plants into five. Since then, each has become a perennial powerhouse in the world of fiberglass manufacturing.

Travis let the paper crumple in his lap. He had never met Bendickson, though he’d seen him once at the bank on the square downtown. He wondered what the truth was. Could LJ be right? Were pollutants from Demler-Vargus hurting employees and neigh- bors? Were they what killed his mother and made his father sick?

The Demler-Vargus plant on Winchester Boulevard on Trenton City’s east side is the largest of all, churning out dozens of kinds of fiberglass, which is then shipped to manufacturers worldwide and used to produce boats, car parts, buildings, sporting goods, windmills, insula- tion, fabric, bulletproof vests, and more.

“We hit our stride when we purchased the old Trenton City refinery and its 225 acres,” Bendickson said. “We built the new plant, and that was the turning

point for Demler-Vargus. We’ve never looked back. We are always exploring new ideas, techniques, and venues for our products.”

Although Demler-Vargus has been the subject of complaints about air pollution from Trenton City neigh- bors over the years, Bendickson insists the company has worked diligently to comply with the Occupational Safety and Health Administration and with the Environmental Protection Agency.

“I love the natural beauty of our land, lakes, rivers, and seas; that’s one of the reasons I studied environmental engineering at Rutgers,” Bendickson said.

“Being a good environmental steward and a leader in green initiatives is one of my passions. When it comes to educating and properly fitting our employees with the safest, most state-of-the-art equipment and resources, we lead the way. And when it comes to reducing overall hazardous air pol- lutants in our community, Demler-Vargus is at the cutting edge. You won’t find a more conscientious corporation.”

Travis couldn’t take any more in one sitting. He glanced at the elevators outside the waiting area and noticed a boy in an Ohio State ski cap pushing his gray grandpa in a wheelchair. If LJ saw the story, he would go directly to the moon, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. But if Demler-Vargus was dirty, wouldn’t OSHA

and the EPA have caught on and stopped them? Was Bendickson lying, or was he running a clean shop?

Jack was a good writer. Travis wondered if he would really pur- sue a story about Demler-Vargus. He took the paper and coffee and went back around the nurses’ station.

“Good morning,” said an attractive brunette nurse from behind the counter.

Travis glanced behind him and, seeing no one there, concluded she was speaking to him. “Hello. How is the morning treating you?” “Very well.” Her name tag read Meredith. “Can I help you with

anything?”

“Ahh …” Travis wanted to keep the conversation going. “I’m Galen Randall’s son. He’s in room 411. I was wonderin’, is he gonna get to go home today?”

She flipped through pages on a clipboard and paused. “His doctor is supposed to come by this morning and give him a look. He has definitely shown improvement. It shouldn’t be too much longer.”

“Very good, then.” Travis tapped the counter, wishing there was more to talk about. “By the way, my name’s Travis—Travis Randall.” Meredith lost her pretty smile for a split second. She shot a glance at another nurse seated behind the counter, who made eye contact and then looked back down at some paperwork. Meredith gave Travis a sealed-mouth smile. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Randall.

I hope your father gets to go home soon.”

Mr. Randall. See how she immediately shut him down? Slammed the door right in his uneducated, country-bumpkin face.

“Thank you.” Travis headed back toward his father’s room.

He was forty-two. His folks had married in their twenties; they were together over fifty years. They’d had their two sons, built a busi- ness, taken care of each other and their neighbors—that was living.

Travis was sick and tired of being alone. It frustrated him that his life was half over and he had no one. The problem was, he never had any opportunities to meet nice women. He didn’t hang out in the bars. Most of the clients at the garage were men or housewives. Daddy told him he needed to go to the singles’ class at church, and he was half tempted to try it. What did he have to lose? But he’d probably only embarrass himself there too.

’Course LJ was in the same boat as Travis, but his brother hung out at the Twisted Tavern and the East End Grill now and again, so he had a bigger pool of ladies to draw from—if you wanted to call them that.

LJ had been married once, to Roxanne. They were the proud parents of Bo. When LJ got a tip Roxanne might be seeing somebody on the sly, he went after the fella in the Big Lots parking lot—tore him limb from limb. But then the man sent a posse after LJ one night, and they carved him up so badly he lost his left eye. After the divorce, LJ got shared custody of Bo.

Rounding the corner and walking back down the long hallway, Travis said hey to nurse Candace, who was typing something at a workstation in the hallway. ’Course she didn’t mention nothing about Daddy’s waffles.

Looking down the long hallway toward his father’s room, Travis suddenly saw the man in the black overcoat pop into the hallway. The man glanced both ways, held his eyes on Travis for a second, and whipped off in the opposite direction.

That’s odd.

The man practically ran out of there.

Travis picked up the pace. He’d take a look into the room the man had come from. He walked faster. Then his heart kicked up a notch.

Wait a minute …

It hit him like a bomb.

The man had not been near his father’s room—he’d been in it! Travis burst through the heavy door, past the bathroom, hoping

to turn the corner to see a nurse doting over Daddy, hoping to see his father awake with his glasses on, eating his waffle, looking out the window, complaining about how much longer he would have to stay.

Travis jammed on the brakes at the foot of the bed. The room was still. Everything was fine.

Daddy slept.

The breakfast tray had been delivered; it sat on the swinging table next to the bed, but the food hadn’t been touched. Nothing was beeping on the monitors. Travis stared at Daddy’s chest until he saw movement.

“Phew-wee.”

Travis hurried back into the hallway, looking for the man in black, but he was long gone. Could he be sure the man had left this room? Perhaps he’d been mistaken.

He went back in and plunked into the chair, still holding the crumpled newspaper.

He reached over and lifted the silver lid off the main breakfast plate.

Egg.

“Dang.” He dropped back into the chair.

Incompetents.

Travis was worn out already, and the day had hardly begun. He leaned back, folded the newspaper, and found his place.

Bendickson felt so strongly about Demler- Vargus’s green initiative that he appointed his son, Devon Bendickson, 28, as the company’s environ- mental liaison. Devon has degrees from Furman and Rutgers and is Bendickson’s only child, by his first wife, Patricia.

Enjoying his third marriage, this one to concert pianist Celeste Excelsior, Bendickson resides in a

15,000-square-foot solar-powered mansion in Cool Springs. The glass, metal, and stone architectural award–winning structure has indoor and outdoor pools and spas, tennis and basketball courts, and a profes- sional par-three golf hole designed by golf great and Columbus native Jack Nicklaus.

Although Trenton City residents may see Bendickson cruising around town in a silver Range Rover, his daily vehicle, the fiberglass king also has a collection of automobiles in his seven-car garage, including his prized-possession, a 1982 DeLorean. He loves boating, mainly in the Atlantic, on his 32-foot yacht, aptly named Fiberglass Slipper, which he docks at the Sea Pines Resort on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina.

Travis wasn’t interested in finishing the story. He tossed the paper aside and looked at his father. Why was he sleeping so long? The food had to be cold by now, and Daddy detested cold food.

Travis would have them heat it up when his father awoke. Until then, he decided to turn on the TV, real low.

He scanned the room for the remote.

Wait …

The silver IV stand had been moved.

It had been back toward the wall earlier.

He looked from the wheels up the silver pole to the IV bag. A pinkish solution floated with the clear liquid in the bag.

With three giant steps, Travis grabbed the pouch and followed the tube leading to Daddy’s right arm.

A sudden violent cough from his father jolted Travis, drawing his attention away from his task. In an instant, Daddy’s face was purple as a bruise. His coughing turned to choking, then to a loud, alarming screeching for air.

“Oh dear Lord.” Travis’s hands shook violently.

His father gasped, and his arms flailed. His hands moved to his throat. His brown eyes opened and searched Travis in despair.

Travis snatched Daddy’s wrist and pulled it toward him, fum- bling for the IV tube and ripping it away.

His father’s body went limp, his head grotesquely twisted to one side, and the color was draining from his face like antifreeze flushing from a radiator.

The monitor next to him pinged and flashed, pinged and flashed. “No!” Travis’s head spun.

“Mr. Randall?” came a voice from the intercom.

Travis grabbed it with trembling hands and pressed talk. “Hurry! We need a doctor! Emergency!”

Going one way, then another, uncertain what to do, Travis straightened his father’s torso and shifted his head back to a normal position, trying to make him look right. But the older man’s lips were almost as white as his now ashen face.

Travis sprinted into the hallway and yelled as loud as he could toward the nurses’ station. “Emergency. Room 411! Get a doctor!”

Seeing they were scrambling, Travis ran back in and took his father’s face in his hands. “Come on, Daddy. Hang on. Please … ”

Travis put his arms around him and hugged. “Hold on, Daddy. Hold on.” As he rocked him, Travis’s eyes fell to the dangling IV tube, dripping a steady flow of the liquid that, he was certain, had been tainted by the stranger in black. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

• Would you have had the interest and courage to snoop around the Demler-Vargus corporation like Jack did, if you suspected the company of corruption, and of poisoning people on the poor side of town? Why or why not?

• Early on in the book we find out reporter Amy Sheets has left town. Did you ever suspect Amy of wrongdoing? Why or why not?

• The Randall boys are a quirky family of characters — which did you like most and why? Which did you like least and why?

• If you were Jack’s wife, Karen, would you have been afraid for him to continue pursing the Demler-Vargus investigation?

Weblinks

»	Author Creston Mapes' web site
»	Publisher's Book Info
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