“Does any of the benzene go in the river?” asked Charles, turning back to the worker.
“Most of it is trucked away to God-knows-where. But you know those disposal companies. When the tanks get too full, we drain them into the river; it’s no problem. We do it at night and it washes right away. Goes out to the ocean. To tell you the truth…” The man leaned over as if he were telling a secret: “I think that fucking disposal company dumps it into the river, too. And they charge a goddamn fortune.”
Charles felt his jaw tighten. He could see Michelle in the hospital bed with the IV running into her arm.
“Where’s the manager?” asked Charles, suddenly displaying his anger.
“Manager?” questioned the worker. He regarded Charles curiously.
“Foreman, supervisor. Whoever’s in charge,” snapped Charles.
“You mean the super,” said the worker. “Nat Archer. He’s in his office.”
“Show me where it is,” ordered Charles.
The worker regarded Charles quizzically, then turned and retraced their route to the main room where he indicated a windowed door at the end of a metal catwalk one flight up. “Up there,” he said simply.
Ignoring the worker, Charles ran for the metal stairs. The worker watched him for a moment, then turned and picked up an in-house telephone.
Outside of the office, Charles hesitated for a moment, then tried the door. It opened easily and he entered. The office was like a soundproofed crow’s nest with windows that looked out on the whole operation. As Charles came through the door, Nat Archer twisted in his chair, then stood up smiling in obvious puzzlement.
Charles was about to shout at the man when he realized he knew him. He was the father of Steve Archer, a close friend of Jean Paul’s. The Archers were one of Shaftesbury’s few black families.
“Charles Martel!” said Nat, extending his hand. “You’re about the last person I expected to come through that door.” Nat was a friendly, outgoing man who moved in a slow, controlled fashion, like a restrained athlete.
Taken off balance in finding someone he knew, Charles stammered that he wasn’t making a social call.
“Okay,” said Nat, eyeing Charles more closely. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“I’ll stand,” said Charles. “I want to know who owns Recycle, Ltd.”
Nat hesitated. When he finally spoke he sounded wary. “Breur Chemicals of New Jersey is the parent company. Why do you ask?”
“Who’s the manager here?”
“Harold Dawson out on Covered Bridge Road. Charles, I think you should tell me what this is all about. Maybe I can save you some trouble.”
Charles examined the foreman who’d folded his arms across his chest, assuming a stiff, defensive posture in contrast to his initial friendliness.
“My daughter was diagnosed to have leukemia today.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Nat, confusion mixing with empathy.
“I’ll bet you are,” said Charles. “You people have been dumping benzene into the river. Benzene causes leukemia.”
“What are you talking about? We haven’t been dumping benzene. The stuff gets hauled away.”
“Don’t give me any of your bullshit,” snapped Charles.
“I think you’d better get your ass out of here, man.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” fumed Charles. “I’m going to see that this shithole factory gets closed down!”
“What’s the matter with you? You crazy or something? I told you we don’t dump nothing.”
“Hah! That big guy downstairs with the tattoos specifically told me you dumped benzene. So don’t try to deny it.”
Nat Archer picked up his phone. He told Wally Crab to get up to his office on the double. Dropping the receiver onto the cradle he turned back to Charles. “Man, you gotta have your head examined. Coming in here in the middle of the night, spoutin’ off about benzene. What’s the matter? Nothing good on the tube tonight? I mean I’m sorry about your kid. But really, you’re trespassing here.”
“This factory is a hazard to the whole community.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not so sure the community agrees with you.”
Wally Crab came through the door as if he expected a fire. He skidded to a halt.
“Wally, this man says you told him we dumped benzene in the river.”
“Hell no!” said Wally, out of breath. “I told him the benzene is taken away by the Draper Brothers Disposal.”
“You fucking liar!” shouted Charles.
“Nobody calls me a fucking liar,” growled Wally, starting for Charles.
“Ease off!” yelled Nat, putting a hand on Wally’s chest.
“You told me,” shouted Charles pointing an accusing finger in Wally’s angered face, “when the tanks are too full, you drain them into the river at night. That’s all I need. I’m going to shut this place down.”
“Cool it!” yelled Nat, releasing Wally and grasping Charles’s arm instead. He started walking Charles to the door.
“Get your hands off me,” Charles shouted as he pulled free. Then he shoved Nat away from him.
Nat recovered his balance and thrust Charles back against the wall of the small office.
“Don’t you ever touch me again,” said Nat.
Charles had the intuitive sense to stay still.
“Let me give you some advice,” said Nat. “Don’t cause trouble around here. You’re trespassing, and if you ever come back, you’ll be very sorry. Now get the hell out of here before we throw you out.”
For a minute Charles didn’t know if he wanted to run or fight. Then, realizing he had no choice, he turned and went thundering down the metal stairs, and through the nightmarish mechanical maze on the main floor. He strode through the office and burst outside, thankful for the cold and relatively clean air of the parking lot. Once in the car, he gunned the engine mercilessly before shooting out through the gate.
The farther he got from Recycle, Ltd., the less fear he felt and the more anger and humiliation. Pounding the steering wheel, he vowed he’d destroy the factory for Michelle’s sake no matter what it took. He tried to think of how he would go about doing it, but he was too irate to think clearly. The institute had a law firm on retainer; perhaps he’d start there.
Charles pulled off 301 into his driveway, pushing the accelerator to the floor, spinning the wheels and shooting gravel up inside the fenders. The car skidded first to one side and then the other. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the lace curtains of one of the living room windows part and Cathryn’s face come into view for a second. He skidded to a stop just beyond the back porch and turned off the ignition.
He sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel, hearing the engine cool off in the icy air. The reckless drive had calmed his emotions and gave him a chance to think. Perhaps it had been stupid to charge up to Recycle, Ltd. at that time of night, although he had to admit he’d accomplished one thing: he knew for certain where the benzene in the pond was coming from. Yet now that he thought about it, he recognized that the real issue was taking care of Michelle and making the hard decisions about treatment. As a scientist he knew that the mere presence of benzene in the pond did not constitute proof that it had caused Michelle’s leukemia. No one had yet proved that benzene caused leukemia in humans, only in animals. Besides, Charles recognized that he was using Recycle, Ltd. to divert the hostility and anger caused by Michelle’s sickness.
Slowly he got out of the car, wishing once again that he’d worked faster over the last four to five years on his own research so that now he might have something to offer his daughter. Immersed in thought, he was startled when Cathryn met him in the doorway. Her face was awash with fresh tears, her chest trembling as she fought to control her sobs.
“What’s wrong?” asked Charles with horror. His first reaction was that something had happened to Michelle.