“Did you get a bit of shut-eye on your break?”
Jason, just out the door, called over his shoulder, “You worry too much. I’m fine,” and he disappeared.
Larry dreaded the mental fatigue that many plant workers experienced. It was the kind of exhaustion that gained on you without your realizing it. When he worked long shifts in the control room, Larry fought the urge to drift off, even on his breaks, when he didn’t trust himself to fully wake up and go back to work. His concentration weakened, and he got nervous that he would mess up reading meters and gauges, readings that had to be exact, with no margin for error.
After years, the work became grueling, and he’d had it. He didn’t want to take anymore chances, no matter how good the money was. With less stress, he figured he might live longer.
Chapter 7
Lou eyed the women on the screen, then the men, the couples. He clicked on a list of locations to meet up. One place was in Pennsylvania, not too far from his home just outside New York City. Set back off the street, the sex house seemed an ordinary suburban home. But inside the spicy bedrooms varied; some were large enough for a romping orgy, others brandished apparatus for the athletically overzealous. Lou had never been to a place quite like this, and he imagined feeling right at home—but only if he was there with someone.
Downstairs, there was a small intimate restaurant, a bar, and a patch of a dance floor. The written reviews were more subdued than usuaclass="underline" instead of “hot, hot, hot,” or “met my every need,” the lingo was “discreet,” “tasteful,” “private.”
Lou discovered the cyber meet-up world out of desperation. He was suffering the end of a two-year relationship with a woman he almost married. He loved her deeply, but her demands that he change pushed him away, made him bitter. As time went on, Lou realized she really didn’t love him, Lou Padera. She loved someone who Lou could be, a different, mythical Lou. He was devastated and became depressed. Everything was flat, and he lost the ability to be affectionate and, eventually, lacked any sexual urge—a frightening state for someone who was easily stimulated and always ready to have sex. In the aftermath of the break up, a friend suggested he check out some meet-up sites online, and a whole new world of possibilities opened up.
As he perused the list of couples on the monitor, he slipped into one of his erotic fantasies, only to be interrupted by his watch alarm. The game at the high school would start in less than half an hour. It was trophy night, and he needed to catch interviews with the kids and their parents. He took one last look at the sex house and the number of people on the list who were available to meet. His preference would be to find a gal—one he at least liked—who would be into a kinky adventure as much as he was.
When he got to the high school, throngs of kids and parents had crammed into the gym. The popular team was one of the best in the area and promised an exciting game to a hyped crowd. Lou found the staff photographer who would later shoot a picture of the kids getting awards, an image that later would be ubiquitously cut out of the paper and framed by several proud parents.
As he watched the first half of the game, his eye kept drifting to the ads for ALLPower. In two-foot-high letters their motto screamed out, “Your Power Plant: Safe, Essential, Local.” Lou thought about the cryptic phone call from the unnamed woman who insinuated that Kaylee’s death might have something to do with the plant.
At halftime, when the awards were announced, Lou barreled over to the small makeshift platform to interview the lucky kids and their parents. Holding two gold trophies was a beaming Bob Stalinsky. He leaned into the microphone and sharply cleared his throat, a signal for fans to hush.
“Aren’t these kids the greatest?” he sang out.
Applause. Cheers.
“We at ALLPower think they should be awarded with these!” Bob waved shiny gold trophies in the air. More applause.
“And although these are pretty to look at, these kids also need the green stuff to get them to college!”
He handed the two players the trophies and pulled two checks out of his suit pocket. The crowd loved it.
Lou edged in to interview the kids and their parents, who were thrilled to claim their minute of fame. When he was done, Bob sidled over to him.
“Hi. I’m Bob Stalinsky with ALLPower. Great that you’re covering this, Mr. Padera. These kids are the best, aren’t they?”
“They are. Can I ask you a few questions, Mr. Stalinsky?”
“Hey, call me Bob.”
“How long has ALLPower been giving these awards and how much do you actually give each kid?”
“We’ve been doing this for years. Can’t really say when it started—it was way before I began working for the company. It’s our way of appreciating the community and being a good neighbor.”
“Yeah. And how much do the kids get?”
Bob pulled a tiny bottle of antibiotic hand gel out of his pocket, and a sharp whiff of lemon stung the air.
“Altogether, we give students tens of thousands every year. ALLPower is a very generous company, Mr. Padera.”
“Right. But how much were the checks you gave out tonight?”
“Oh.” Bob scratched his chin. “Well, those were small awards compared to what we usually give.”
“How much?”
“A thousand. Each.”
Lou jotted a few notes down. A question lurked, not about the trophies. Before Lou could switch gears and muster a question about the plant, Bob leaned in to him.
“By the way, that was some story you wrote about the little girl. Touching piece. Really. Got my heartstrings. Poor thing.”
“Oh, thanks. Actually, can I ask you something about the plant, Bob?”
“Sure. Anything.”
“Is there any chance that something leaked into the river that could have made that little girl sick?”
Bob’s smile faded as if he had peeled off a mask. He assumed his corporate role, primping for an earnest-sounding answer.
“Absolutely not. We’re monitoring the plant all the time. You should come and take a tour of the place, see how safe it is.”
Bob reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to Lou.
“I can set up a special plant tour for you any time. Just give me a call, Mr. Padera.
“I just may do that. And you can call me Lou.”
Chapter 8
It looked like a small stream bubbling up from underground. Six construction workers peered down at the small, unexpected geyser that gushed out right after a backhoe accidentally gauged out a chunk of earth. Hurriedly a phone call was made, and an NRC inspector was on his way.
From the muddied ditch, the foreman looked up at the pristine, ALLPower glass tower, hoping the pause in ground activity wouldn’t be noticed by a random executive surveying from the comfort of an air-conditioned office.
The men had been working for the better part of the day, digging down into the ground to shore up the foundation of the transformer building. The dig wasn’t anywhere near the vast infrastructure of thousands of underground pipes. So where was this water coming from? And was it radioactive?
Two hours later Bob Stalinsky was staring woefully down at the pit. The inspector said there was a good chance the leak was radioactive, but just how much? Tests would be run to make sure. Worse, the source of the leak was unknown. Bob dragged back to his office. There were a few ways he could play this thing.
As the group dispersed, Larry Hines lingered at the far end of the ditch. He pretty much knew every inch of the intricate underground network, which pipes were the oldest, which ones couldn’t be reached or monitored. Some might be rusted, and you’d never know it. His eye ran an imaginary line from the ditch to where he estimated the old fuel pool was, where spent fuel was stored for the oldest reactor that had been closed for decades. That’s the culprit, I bet, he thought. But tracing it would be difficult, time consuming, and expensive. Because it could get worse, Larry felt obligated to share his thoughts with the powers that be. He would urge them to check out every possibility.