Page 111 of The List


Font Size:

WALKER, BRIAN—DROWNING.

Dear God.

No.

1:30P.M.

BRENT STARED DOWN AT HIS DESK.

He’d sat quietly for a few minutes, his stomach still flip-flopping, like he’d just taken three trips on a roller coaster. He thought back to that summer day, almost two years ago, when the call came fromhis mother to Atlanta, telling him that his father had drowned in Brooks Creek.

He hit his head and went into the water early this morning.

He’d just talked to his father the day before. He was planning a trip to Concord in a couple of weekends and they’d agreed to a Saturday of fishing. But dead? He remembered wondering how that was possible. Now he knew. His father had been murdered. A victim of a systematic, methodical elimination of select people simply for the realization of profit.

A Priority. In a Priority program. A name on a list.

He glared back at the computer screen, his father’s entry bleakly staring back. He grabbed hold of himself and reached for the envelope, finding the sheet that indicated it should be read last.

He popped the tape holding the folds shut.

You’re most likely filled with emotions that range from shock to hatred. Who could blame you? As you now most likely know, your father was murdered. I thought you had a right to that information. I also thought it might motivate you. To help in that fight, the microcassette is of a recent conversation among Lee, Hughes, and myself. The discussion is extremely incriminating and should be of value to the authorities. With regard to my will, the lawyer who drew the document is Mark Durham. His office is in Atlanta. Durham knows nothing of any of this. He simply knows that I changed certain provisions of my will and he’s expecting your call. He can help in setting the trust into motion, but remember only you know its actual purpose. One final thing. What I have set in motion is unfair to you. I know that. But it is necessary. Lee, Hughes, and De Florio will act. They will have no choice. When they do, catch them. You have a distinct advantage, as I noted in the narrative. You know they are coming. Use that wisely.

Christopher Bozin

Stay in control. Get hold of yourself.

He kept repeating those words over and over.

This couldn’t be happening. Could he really now be the target of Jon De Florio and two hired killers? Should he go to the police? No. Obviously what happened through the years had left no evidence to track. But he had the narrative. That offered some corroboration. Surely, though, any trace of it was now long gone from the company servers. Which meant Lee and Hughes could simply brand the whole thing a figment of an old man’s imagination, lay low for a while, then start again, with him, or worse, his family, their next Priority.

That wasn’t the smart move.

Could he go to the press? They might run the story, but then again they might not. He was seasoned enough to know theConcord Recordand the other community newspapers in the area wouldn’t touch it, aware Southern Republic kept a standing account for constant advertising, tacitly ensuring favorable treatment on any story related to the company. The Atlanta and Savannah papers, though, might be a different story. They were big enough not to be susceptible to financial pressure, but they’d want verification to protect from a charge of libel.

And right now, he did not possess enough of that commodity.

He needed a hard copy of the narrative, so he punched the appropriate buttons and instructed the laser printer in the outer office to work. He then closed the file and stuffed everything back in the envelope. He hustled out and retrieved the pages from the printer before anyone paid them any attention. Luckily, because of Bozin’s death, only one woman sat at her desk and she was preoccupied. With the hard copies in hand he retreated into his office, closed the door, and reached for the phone.

He’d dialed three of the seven digits when it hit him what Bozin had warned about. De Florio has the capability to maintain constant physical and electronic surveillance of your activities (phones, offices, and homes). He’s probably already doing just that. Deliberately, he misdialed the remaining numbers andthe recording, which any other time would have been annoying, announced, “We’re sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed.”

He hung up and calmly left his office, walking down the hall to the plant’s safety office. If De Florio was monitoring phones, that was most likely confined to the general counsel’s area. From his days as a DA he knew that electronic surveillance was actually cumbersome and time consuming. There were literally hundreds of phones in the mill and, according to what Bozin had said, De Florio employed only himself and two helpers. Out of necessity they’d have to limit the number of extensions they could reasonably watch. So he hoped the phones in the safety office were untapped. He borrowed one and called Hank’s house, but no one answered. He walked back to his office, mind still reeling.

He recalled the microcassette.

So he closed the door and listened to the entire conversation three times. He then switched the recorder off and dropped everything back inside the envelope.

Where was Hank?

He decided to take a gamble and see if he was possibly at S. Lou Greene’s office. If their relationship was anything like his and Hank’s used to be, Hank should hang out there a lot, particularly during negotiation time.

He stuffed the folded envelope in his inside jacket pocket. Then he grabbed a couple of expanded folders and headed out of the building, informing the sole assistant he was going to meet with Greene in an attempt to settle a couple of pending workers’ comp files. He didn’t know if or when he would be back. He walked slowly and deliberately, cautioning himself to stay in control, maintain the pretense of his position, do nothing that, if noticed, would arouse suspicions. But keeping up that appearance was hard, his guts a volatile combination of rage, anger, sorrow, and fear.

He left Building B and nonchalantly strolled to the parking lot. Along the way he waved at a couple of friends and even stopped a moment to chat with a few people about Bozin’s death. He finallyclimbed into the Jeep and drove from the mill toward town. He kept a leisurely pace, but checked his rearview mirrors more often than usual. Southern Republic Boulevard was filled with cars, several that stayed behind him, difficult to tell if any were actually following.

He crossed the railroad tracks of the Southern Republic Line and entered downtown. He parked on the street east of Greene’s granite-faced office. Hank had told him the story of the flag and, climbing out of the Jeep, he glanced up and saw the yellow banner swaying in the light afternoon breeze. He carried his files down the sidewalk, passing a couple of people he knew. Finally, he excused himself and leisurely entered the office through a glass door. A bronze plaque affixed to the granite announcedLAW OFFICE OF S. LOU GREENE. Inside, he resisted the temptation to look back and kept going into the lobby where a woman sat pounding a word processor.

“Brent Walker to see Mr. Greene.”