“Of course it’s okay,” she said. “What about your team? Are they fully prepped?”
“Yes, boss.”
“All the equipment’s in order, ready to roll?”
“Yes, boss.”
“The boats, too, since we’ll probably need them?”
“Yes, boss.”
She grinned. “You’ve really got them in line, haven’t you?” When he didn’t respond, she added, “They must be scared of you.”
“They’re scared of you,” he said, suddenly animated.
“Oh, no, please don’t say that.”
He grinned back, revealing startlingly white teeth. “No, they’re not. They love you to death. Who in this town doesn’t?”
“I’m sure there are some.”
“No, there aren’t.”
“Mm-hmm…”
Sarah pulled over the laptop to check for new email. There were six, two of which were obvious spam. Once she was done with them, she modulated to another screen — a photograph of a freshly built single-story municipal building that was mostly huge panes of greenish glass and a long, flat roof. The latter jutted out at the front on four marble columns, with the words EDGAR G. REDMOND COMMUNITY CENTER set into the facade in simple capital letters.
“They did such a great job with it,” she said.
“Absolutely.”
“They were so appreciative of Dad.”
“They were.”
She looked adoringly at the image for a few more moments, then jumped as if poked with a hot iron.
“My speech for the opening ceremony!” She reached down and pulled a leather portfolio out of the bag at her feet. “I don’t think — oh, no, I think I left the pages—”
“Easy…” Emilio said, one hand up to forestall her panic. “Easy there.” From his back pocket he produced a vertically folded sheaf of papers, college ruled, with ragged edges where they’d been ripped from a spiral-bound notebook. Both sides of every page were covered in Sarah’s inflated but legible script.
Taking the papers, she smiled like a delighted child. “How did you—”
“They were sitting in your office by the fax machine when we left last night. I figured you’d want them, so I grabbed them on the way out.”
“What would I do without you?”
They came together in an unhurried kiss that went through several stages.
When they finally parted, Emilio said sheepishly, “Later on, do you think we could—”
Three things happened at once — STORM UPDATE reappeared on the TV screen, the iPhone lit up with another text message, and an email dropped into her inbox with a musical bing! Sarah noticed all of this and went for the phone first.
“Hold that thought,” she said.
“Of course.”
“Okay… they think they’re going to have to upgrade the storm from just a ‘gale’ to a ‘severe gale,’” she said, reading the text alert from the National Weather Service. “That means winds over seventy miles per hour. The next step after that is a hurricane. We haven’t had a storm like that here in more than a century. We could get a foot of rain. Shit…”
She closed the laptop and iPad while Emilio wiped his mouth and cleared the plates.
“Let’s get going,” she said.
“Right behind you.”
3
“Marla Hollis?”
Corwin came forward with his hand extended and a smile that almost reached his ears. He looked exactly as he did in the few photos she’d been able to find online — handsome, preppyish, and with a fair retention of collegiate youthfulness despite the flecks of gray that had settled around the sides of his otherwise light brown hair. She hadn’t been able to determine his birthdate, but judged him to be in his early to midforties. He wore the standard Ivy League uniform of khaki pants, white button-down shirt, and navy blazer, the latter replete with gold buttons. There was a matching gold watch — a Rolex, and not a fake — on his right wrist, which suggested that he was left-handed. Everything about him spoke of money, privilege, and entitlement, which only served to fortify her already stout emotional defenses.
“Yes,” Marla said flatly. She accepted his hand, gave it a single proper shake, and let go.
“It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“You, too.”
“You haven’t been waiting long, have you?” He checked the Rolex. “We said nine thirty, right?”
“I’ve only been here a few minutes.”
“Robin has kept you company?” He glanced at the woman behind the circular desk, who looked young enough to be his daughter. She smiled back.
“As I said,” Marla told him, “I’ve only been here a few minutes.” It had been enough time to scrutinize every inch of the sunlit reception area. There were matted black-and-white photos of the plant’s original construction, in 1974; a large, brightly colored diagram of how nuclear energy was produced; and a chunk of uranium ore displayed inside a Lucite case.
A little plaque attached to the latter read, “Over 99 percent of the ore-grade uranium found in nature is of the isotope U-238, which has a half-life of more than four billion years. But don’t worry — it’s generally harmless in its unrefined state. The piece you see here was unearthed in one of our mines in Canada.”
Leather couches were arranged around a thick rug; a selection of trade publications littered the coffee and end tables. Marla thought of the space as the “Rah-Rah Room,” and as dangerously disarming as her host.
“Well,” he said, “I’m glad you weren’t left waiting too long. Let’s go back to my office so we can talk.”
He led her down a brief hallway lined with numerous awards and other citations, all hanging at eye level. Marla spotted several large potted plants that, she couldn’t help noticing, were artificial. Then they entered a surprisingly modest workspace: bare white walls, a few shelves, a battered filing cabinet, a basic L-desk with a computer and a few family photos, and piles of paper everywhere.
Corwin lifted one particularly large stack from the single guest chair and said, “Please, have a seat.” Cradling the papers in the crook of his arm, he searched for a place to set them down before finally deciding on a spot on the floor by the mini fridge. Wiping his hands together, he settled into the simple swivel chair behind his desk. The smile resurfaced.
“I apologize for the mess. It’s been hectic lately and I haven’t had the chance to get organized.”
“You’ve been very busy,” she said.
Her declaratory tone — a statement rather than a question — clearly puzzled Corwin. “Yes,” he replied with an affable chuckle, “yes I have. We’re trying to—”
“Dinner with Lawrence Navarro, one of the six members of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, at Barty’s Alehouse, which, perhaps most notably, is roughly at the geographic center point between here and Navarro’s office in D.C. Unless the food is the best in the world, I’m guessing the location was chosen because there was a good chance neither of you would be recognized there.
“Three days before that,” she went on, “Tamra Wilson, assistant secretary of our wonderful state of Pennsylvania and a close friend of the governor, dropped by your home at ten thirty P.M. — and in her own car at that — and stayed for more than three hours. And the previous week, you spent a full morning with four of the top executives at Pendleton Investments, following which a new revolving credit line was opened in the name of Corwin Energies, infused with more than twenty million dollars in cash.
“Even the dumbest person in the world could connect those dots, Mr. Corwin. So when do you begin building the new plant? And more to the point, when were you going to tell the public about it? Or is public concern for the manifold dangers of nuclear power still at the bottom of your priority list?”