The girl lifted her palms. “But, I mean, which one? I’ve taken, like, thousands of pictures.”
Jon Merritt pointed to the backpack. “The envelope?” Shaw handed it to him.
“I found these in your room. I thought they might have some clues about where you and your mother might go to.”
Hannah, while obviously concerned with the direction of the conversation, continued scanning for threats. She met Shaw’s eyes and he nodded. His encouragement clearly pleased her.
Shaw helped Parker onto the couch. He and Merritt sat beside her. Merritt began flipping slowly through the stack.
In the images, Hannah tended to assume the same expressions — cynical, doubtful, wryly amused, sardonic. Similar poses too: cocked head and hip. Sometimes fingers making signs that teens would know. Her outfits were more or less the same too: stocking cap, sweats and jeans, all of dark hue. Gloves without fingertips.
She stood in front of car wrecks and buildings being demolished, over dead fish in the Kenoah, bleak winter landscapes, collapsed buildings, protests about climate change and about the decision of United Defense to back out of their plans to build in Ferrington, a street demonstration about the Tasing of a Black motorist by angry white officers, factory scenes, snide teenagers mocking a gay couple, a pickup with four hunters in the bed holding shotguns, one of them about fifty sticking his tongue out flirtatiously at her, a drunk passed out in front of a tavern.
Dozens flipped by.
“Stop,” Shaw said.
“What is it?” Parker asked. “You see something?”
As he stared at the selfie in front of them, another theory arose — and if it panned out, it might possibly reveal the why of the hit.
And when you have the why, the who is often not far behind.
Shaw considered all the moving pieces as he stared at the dingy ceiling. He asked Merritt, “You got Frank Villaine’s address from Dom Ryan?”
“That’s right. I found a work email Frank sent you, A.P. I couldn’t get a local address. Ryan did.”
Shaw said, “Now, the question is, how did I get Frank’s name?”
Parker and Merritt regarded each other. She said, “Marianne, didn’t you say?”
“She gave it to me, yes. But she was only asking your coworkers about your old friends. Did you ever tell anyone in the office about Frank and where he lived?”
Shaking her head. “No. By the time I went to HEP, Frank and I had gone our separate ways.”
And with this bit of information, hypothesis became proof.
“Where did Marianne Keller really get Frank’s name and address? From Dom Ryan.”
“But Marianne works—”
Shaw finished her sentence. “For the man who ordered the hit. Your boss, Marty Harmon.”
82
“Harmon put this all together — getting you released, forging the letter from Alli — because he couldn’t let anyone see these.”
He laid out several selfies before him. He tapped one.
The image depicted Hannah in the foreground, wearing a bulky sweatshirt and a stocking cap. Behind her was a gaping doorway, forty or so feet high, opening onto a gloomy and gray warehouse. Five men stood inside, at work. What was distinctive visually was that while the image was largely monochrome, the orange safety vests of the employees stood out boldly and formed a pentagram. It was a striking photo, well composed.
Two of the workers seemed to be looking the girl’s way. One bore a troubled expression.
Inside, in the back, were hundreds of pallets of bottled water. And several tanker trucks.
Parker was squinting and sitting forward to see. “That’s HEP. Building Three. The warehouse near the river.”
Hannah said, “I took it when I was staying after school with Mom. I was bored, so I walked around and took pictures.”
“What’re you thinking, Colter?” Parker asked.
He found another of their daughter’s selfies. Two workers in Building Three were running a large rubber hose from one of the tanker trucks parked inside the cavernous building to a drain in the floor.
Shaw asked, “Does that drain lead to the river?”
“Probably. Building Three’s over a hundred years old. Most of the drains lead to the river. I thought they were sealed. They should have been.”
“They’re open now. It’s toxic waste. Harmon’s intentionally polluting the Kenoah.”
“Why the hell?” Merritt asked.
Shaw pointed to other pictures in front of him, selfies from the same series, taken at the company. He asked Parker, “Have you ever had a radiation leak at the plant?”
“No, never.”
“Anywhere in the area? Any accidents at all?”
“No...” Then she frowned. “Well, there was a traffic crash a few miles east of there. About six weeks ago. One of our trucks taking spent fuel rods to a disposal site missed a turn and—”
Shaw said, “And went into the river.”
“A tributary, I think. But, yes. Same thing.”
“Upstream of downtown?”
“That’s right. But there was no radioactive spill.”
“How do you know?”
“Because a spill would have to be reported. Nuclear Regulatory Commission. The state too.”
“That doesn’t mean there wasn’t a spill. It just means no one reported it.”
“But...” Her voice faded.
Merritt was catching on. The former detective asked Parker, “How was the crash handled? Police called?”
“No police. No need. Single-vehicle accident. Marty took care of everything himself.” Parker frowned. “You know, one thing was odd. The driver of the truck? He quit, just after the accident. Moved out West.”
“No,” Merritt muttered. “He didn’t move anywhere.”
Hannah turned away briefly from her watchman duties. “You mean, Mr. Harmon had him... killed?”
Her father nodded. “I’m afraid so, honey.”
Shaw said, “Now look at this one.” He tapped the image in front of him. Behind Hannah in this shot were pallets of chemical drums. One set of drums was stenciled with the letters ki, the others with dtpa.
Shaw said, “The first one’s the symbol for potassium iodide.”
“My God,” Parker said. “But that’s...”
“An antidote for radiation poisoning. The second one, DTPA’s diethylenetriamine pentaacetic acid. It binds to particles of radioactive material in the bloodstream and they pass out of the body through urine.”
A look to Parker. “There was a spill when that truck went into the river and it got into the Ferrington water supply. Then Harmon polluted the river intentionally with toxins, so everybody at risk would drink the bottled water he gave them — water laced with the antidote. He couldn’t afford even the hint of a radiation leak.”
“How do you know about this stuff?” Merritt asked.
Hannah answered. “Mr. Shaw, like, knows everything. His father was a survivalist.”
Shaw, Russell and Dorion had had a hundred hours of training in toxins and antidotes, radiation included. His sister took a particular liking to all things nuclear.
Merritt scoffed. “The great benefactor of the city... Bullshit.” Then he was frowning. “But he’d do all this, just to cover his own ass?”
Parker said, “Oh, nuclear’s always controversial. We have to do everything right. The smallest accident, with any injuries? It could close down the company.”
Hannah now asked, “What do you think, Mr. Shaw? How much time till it’s dark enough to leave?”
He joined her and gazed up at the sky. “Twenty minutes.”
Merritt, his eyes on Parker, said, “Shaw, Hannah, you two keep an eye out, would you? I want a word alone with my wife.”