BAD DEEDS: A Dylan Hunter Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers) (16 page)

Then he remembered the cat.

No, that didn’t make sense. They wouldn’t leave without the cat.

The place was dark. He didn’t think anyone was inside—how could they be?—but he approached and circled it cautiously, just in case. He reached the window on the right side and peeked in. Seeing nothing, he risked flicking on the flashlight.

The boxes and bags he’d seen on the floor three nights ago were gone. He played the beam across the floor and walls. The place was completely empty.

But how?

The angle made it impossible to see the cabin door from the side window, so he continued around to the back. Then stopped and stared, disbelieving, at the sight of a rectangle of plywood nailed in place across the lower broken half of the window.

He stood on tiptoes, barely managing to peer over the plywood. He aimed the flashlight beam into the room through the upper unbroken panes, toward the spot above the door.

“Holy shit, Zak!” Rusty exclaimed when he entered the truck. “You looked totally spooked.”

He sagged in the car seat. His head, jaw, and hand were throbbing again. He closed his eyes.

“The cabin,” he muttered. “It’s completely cleaned out. Like nobody had ever been in there.”

“But … what about—”

A flash of fury tore through him. His eyes snapped open and he whipped around to face him.

“The bomb is gone, Rusty!
Gone.
Don’t ask me how—I don’t know! I don’t know how they possibly could have avoided setting it off. But it’s
gone
—and so are they.”

He flopped back against the seat, closing his eyes again. Rusty fell silent, leaving him alone with the dull rumble of the idling engine, the steady rushing noise of the heater’s blower, and an image floating in his mind: the cold, savage face of a red-bearded guy named Brad.

The man had looked and fought like a demon. Now, impossibly, he had survived and vanished, like a ghost …

As if reading his thoughts, Rusty said, “No wonder you look spooked.”

“Thanks for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” Hunter said to the three people facing him across the conference table.

“We’re used to dealing with newspaper deadlines,” Gavin Lockwood said. “And we’re delighted that the
Inquirer
is interested in the results of our new study. By the way, I hope you enjoyed the tour of our offices by our receptionist.”

“It certainly was interesting,” Hunter said, his eyes wandering around the glassed-in conference room to the space outside. “Sunlight pouring in through all these windows and skylights. Plants in every cubicle. And your lobby display—I’ve never seen a work of art consisting of ivy growing up an interior office wall.”

Lockwood’s easy grin made him look even more boyish, despite his white hair. “We at Nature Legal Advocacy like to be reminded constantly about our mission—about what is most important to us. That’s why bringing in a lot of green from the outside has been a priority.”

“Well, you’ve certainly been successful at doing
that
,” Hunter replied. He saw Lockwood’s grin waver, so he offered his own and continued. “Nature Legal Advocacy is widely regarded to be the single most effective environmental organization in Washington.”

Lockwood smiled again, relaxing. “Environmental litigation, lobbying, media outreach, congressional testimony, publishing research reports and scientific studies—yes, we do it all.”

Hunter glanced down at his notepad. “Let me see if I have the basic facts right. I understand that you have an annual budget of over one hundred million dollars, about forty percent of which is devoted to energy issues.”

“That’s right. We’re actively fighting the infrastructure that supports production and use of fossil fuels. That’s why we litigate and lobby against such things as environmentally intrusive pipelines, refineries, coal mining, and shale drilling for oil and natural gas.”

“To do all that, you maintain a staff of—what?—three hundred lawyers, scientists, media people, and other specialists, in offices all around the country.”

“Also true. And our staff is the best.” Lockwood nodded at the two people flanking him at the table. “Lars and Wendy are stellar examples of the kind of talent we attract.”

As the man began to summarize their backgrounds, Hunter studied each of them more closely.

No one would mistake Gavin Lockwood for anything other than a slick denizen of Capitol Hill. His impeccably tailored charcoal designer suit, expensive red repp tie, and silky manner, just faintly condescending, presented the perfect portrait of the Beltway patrician.

The man slouching beside him was a visual cliché, too, but of the asocial think-tank researcher. Dr. Lars Sunstrom wore round wire-rim glasses, a baggy navy sweater over wrinkled brown cords, and scuffed, thick-soled black shoes. Almost completely bald, his scalp’s gray-brown fringe merged into matching beard stubble. Despite the dressed-down appearance, with his arms folded, chin lifted, and eyes half-shut, he managed to project an aura of bored arrogance. Lockwood touted Sunstrom as a national authority on radiation and toxic chemicals. He also was the lead scientific author of the NLA’s report,
On Shaky Grounds: Fracking’s Risks to Our Children’s Health
.

The other participant—a pretty, blue-eyed blonde lawyer, introduced as Wendy Hathaway—wore a cool blue suit and hot red lipstick. She appeared to be in her late twenties, barely out of law school. She also looked eager and guileless. Lockwood explained, to everyone’s amusement, that her main contribution to the report had been to transform Sunstrom’s excruciatingly arcane technical language “into something that human beings would want to read.”

“Obviously she succeeded,” Dylan said, looking at her. Her face went slightly pink, and dimples showed as she lit up a dazzling smile. “I downloaded the report from your website and read it. I can see why it has caused such a nationwide commotion. It certainly presents a disturbing picture of hydraulic fracturing.”

Sunstrom tried not to look smug, and failed. Lockwood leaned forward; he clearly anticipated another media score for the organization.

Hunter reached down into the battered old briefcase he’d brought with him, retrieving a couple of file folders. “Here it is. I scribbled some notes in the margins.” He offered them a sheepish look. “I hope you’ll be kind enough to clarify a few things for a non-scientist. And if Dr. Sunstrom starts to go over my head, perhaps Miss Hathaway will be kind enough to translate for me.”

They laughed. Good. All nice and relaxed, now.

“But before I get into those specifics, let me begin with this.” Hunter slipped the executive summary of Adam Silva’s report from a file folder and slid it across the table to Lockwood. “I wondered if you all might share with me your opinion of this document.”

Still smiling, Lockwood held it so that the others could lean in and read it, too.

Hunter settled back in his chair. Crossed his legs and folded his hands. Watched their expressions as they began to read.

Sunstrom was the first to react, apparently at the sight of Silva’s name atop the document. His sleepy eyes widened comically, and he leaned in closer, his eyes scanning down the page. Lockwood’s placid features changed more slowly. First, the ever-present hint of his smile evaporated; then his lips tightened; then he shot a look at Hunter and blinked; then his eyes dashed back to the page. Wendy Hathaway’s faintly puzzled look morphed into utter bewilderment.

Sunstrom remained hunched as his dark eyes found Hunter’s. “Just what the hell
is
this?” he snapped.

Lockwood’s own expression had lost its warmth, too; but as a Hill veteran, he was practiced enough to maintain his composure.

“Easy, Lars,” he said, laying a neatly manicured hand on Sunstrom’s wrist. “Mr. Hunter, you have caught us at a bit of a loss. None of us has seen this before. May I ask how you obtained it?”

Hunter shrugged. “Why, certainly. From its author.”

He shut up and counted the seconds to see who would respond next, and how.

“I don’t understand.” Wendy was blinking rapidly, as if that might clear her brain of its confusion.

“
I
do,” Sunstrom stated loudly. “This is an ambush interview.”

Hunter shook his head. “Not at all. I heard that Dr. Silva was going to challenge your report at an EPA hearing. So, after I spoke with him, I thought I would share it—with his permission, of course—and then invite you to respond.”

“But … he’s claiming that the water samples we tested were
planted
by somebody,” Wendy said, astonished. “And what’s all this about an EPA hearing?”

“Gee. You don’t know?” Hunter asked.

“No!
What
hearing?” Her glance flitted from Lockwood to Sunstrom.

Lockwood placed his other steadying hand on her wrist. “It’s all right, Wendy. We thought Adair might withdraw his challenge to our report; so we didn’t want to alarm you needlessly until we were sure there would actually
be
a hearing. But it’s scheduled for the 27th.”

Hunter saw shock, incredulity, and anxiety in the girl’s expression. He felt sorry for her. Just another naïve idealist, head crammed with years of propaganda and pseudo-science, heart inflated with the thrill of doing important things with Washington big shots to save the planet.

Big shots
, he thought, studying the men. He’d encountered plenty of their type in Princeton’s Woodrow Wilson School: brimming with sanctimonious intellectual arrogance, lusting to manage and manipulate others—including kids like Wendy. He wanted to lean across the table and slap their faces. Instead, he put on his most cheerful grin.

“So, would you care to respond for the piece I’m preparing about this controversy?”

“It’s garbage!” Sunstrom shouted, raising his back and chin. “Those samples were
not
faked. I’m a scientific expert in this field, and believe me, I would know.”

“Actually”—Hunter kept his tone even and his grin in place—“I’ve read some challenges of your credentials to do this particular research, Dr. Sunstrom. Your field of expertise is physics—not radiation or chemistry, isn’t that correct?”

“That’s not—”

“And I gather that a decade ago, while you were an independent consultant to other groups, at least two scientific bodies publicly criticized a couple of previous laboratory studies you did—for, quote, ‘cherry-picking data and the absence of proper procedural controls.’”

Sunstrom was about to explode, so Lockwood intervened. “It’s not fair to expect Dr. Sunstrom to defend himself like this, unprepared. What I can assure you is that the methodology he used to produce
On Shaky Grounds
passed a stringent peer-review process.”

Hunter was ready for that. “Was it submitted to an independent scientific journal before you released it to the media?”

“Well, no. What we did was submit it to a committee of scientific experts in the related disciplines. And they—”

“Weren’t those ‘experts’ all hand-picked from among your organization’s own scientific advisers?”

“Are you saying they weren’t
objective?
” Sunstrom demanded.

“You sent your report only to NLA’s official list of scientific sympathizers. To people already predisposed to agree with your point of view, and who have a vested interest in promoting NLA. Do you call
that
‘objective’?”

It shut up Sunstrom, but now Lockwood looked angry.

“Mr. Hunter, you asked for our response. But this”—he shook Silva’s document—“just makes a bunch of wild, unsupported claims. By contrast, Dr. Sunstrom’s study offers plenty of facts and data. So, until this Silva fellow, whoever he is, does the same, then I think we are justified in dismissing his contentions as a pack of arbitrary assertions by a hired gun for the fracking industry.”

“Actually, I agree with you,” Hunter said. “As you see, that’s just the executive summary to his forthcoming report. He told me he’s still in the process of writing the actual report itself. If he doesn’t offer any proof of these claims, then of course you are in the clear.” Hunter paused. Spread his hands. “On the other hand, if he
does …
”

He let the sentence fragment hang in the silence.

“That will be for the EPA to decide,” Lockwood said, his voice chilly.

“Which reminds me,” Hunter said, looking at his watch, “I have an appointment scheduled with Jonathan Weaver, the EPA administrator, at two this afternoon. I thought he might wish to see Dr. Silva’s executive summary, too. So, if you don’t mind …” He extended his open palm toward Lockwood.

“I’m done here!” Sunstrom launched himself from his chair and stormed out of the room, his heavy shoes drumming across the tiles.

Lockwood pushed the document back across the table to Hunter. “I believe all of us are done here,” he said, rising. He stared at Hunter, unblinking. “I do hope that you will exercise prudence and caution in reporting on this controversy, Mr. Hunter.”

“Prudence? Always.” Hunter rose, again grinning. “As for caution …” He stared back, also refusing to blink. “Why, Mr. Lockwood. What could I possibly have to fear?”

Lockwood blinked first.

“I’ll let Wendy show you out.” He nodded and left.

Hunter turned to the girl. She looked stricken.

She walked beside him toward the elevator bay, not saying a word.

“Wendy,” he began, keeping his voice down. “I want you to know that I’ll keep your name out of the paper. This isn’t about you. It’s about them.”

She wouldn’t look at him.

“I know you think that by working here, you’re doing the right thing,” he continued. “It’s always hard to challenge your basic assumptions. But facts—no matter how uncomfortable—are never your enemy.” He considered, then added: “I’ve learned, the hard way, that it’s always best to face reality without lies and deception.”

They reached the elevators. A moment passed; she seemed to want to say something. But she couldn’t find the words—or perhaps the courage to utter them.

He watched her walk away.

Avery Trammel felt the beginning of a headache coming on. Its cause was the brief phone chat he’d had moments ago, as his limo arrived at Dulles International.