At The Edge

10

"I hate to lose five hundred thousand." Jeb Otran sat with one arm braced straight against the library table. They were in the conference room at the Hutchin firm with Patty McCafferty on the speaker phone. "As for the compound in the woods, that's really the business of those who own it-unless they have our money. I just wonder if what you saw was on Amada or Metco."

"We couldn't tell, although I believe it was at least near Amada land, because we were in the upper end of the forest," Maria said. She sat with Dan on one side of the table, Jeb and Hutchin on the other.

"If you tell the police about this locked room and this threatening conversation or whatever it was, I would suppose you'll have to tell them about the money," Jeb said.

"Oh, this is great," Patty McCafferty groaned over the speaker box.

"We could ask the sheriff not to publicize it. After all, there's no particular reason they should. We don't have to officially report the theft."

"So we just ignore the fact that we were assaulted and robbed with a deadly weapon? That we were shot at? That someone tried to kill us?"

"Maria, you're right. It's tough to remain silent," Patty said. "And perhaps even dangerous. On the other hand, at the moment it seems you're safe. We also need to worry about what they're really doing out there. If they are doing something illegal, it could be dangerous."

"If they broke in and stole the photos, they damn well know you've figured out they're up to something weird," said Hutchin. "They'll have some explanation for all that stuff if the police go out there."

"Of course," Jeb said, and looked at Dan, "they may have come and taken those pictures for purely business reasons. You may have engaged in an act of industrial espionage without realizing it."

"You mean we stole their property," Maria said.

"One wonders if we're dealing in both cases with the same people. And that is perhaps the best reason for reporting it. The violence, I mean," Otran said. "What's going on in the woods may be somebody's legitimate business. It's private property. But, of course, breaking into your house, if it was them, makes it illegitimate."

''But, Jeb, you've got to be concerned about what's going on out there…," Patty began.

"Curious is a better word. Like I said, it's private property."

"For the forty years we've known each other, you've been obsessed with a person's right to screw up the world on his own land."

"Relax," Otran said, "I didn't say we wouldn't find out. I was about to say I didn't want our lawyer or, for that matter, your lawyer out breaking the law anymore-subject to the proviso that we need to get the money back legally."

"Well, it seems to me-"

"Patty, if you'll just let me finish…"

Dan stared at Maria, who was also trying to conceal her shock. This strange conversation indicated a level of familiarity between Jeb Otran and Patty McCafferty that they never would have guessed at.

Now that Otran was telling them to cease and desist in their investigation of the compound in the woods-except as it might pertain to getting the money-Dan decided he would say nothing in front of the others about the photographs in his camera. Still, for personal reasons, Dan felt compelled to tell Otran privately after the meeting. Maria appeared to be staying quiet on the issue as well.

"We are still left with the theft of the money and the shooting. I think it should be reported," Jeb said.

"And I do too," Patty agreed.

"I can claim attorney-client privilege as to the source of the money," Dan said. "I don't think I have to disclose it. Just that it was taken, that we gave chase, that we were shot at in our car."

"What about the break-in at your home?"

"I wouldn't bring it up. After all, we took something from them and we don't know what it means," Maria said.

"Leave it out," Dan said.

"That's it, then," Hutchin agreed. "We won't do a thing, Jeb, except for Dan and Maria telling their story about the theft of the money, the chase, and getting shot off the road."

"I'll make a call to Amada and Metco," Jeb said.

"Once again, I'm sorry about this delivery and the way it turned out," Hutchin said.

"I can't imagine how anybody found out about the briefcase," Dan said.

"Well, I can't, either," Jeb said. "We'll be talking. And, Patty, try not to sue me this month, will you?"

"I haven't sued you in a year, and that was only because you got your back up and wouldn't listen to reason."

"You mean I wouldn't bow to your threats."

"Have a nice day, Jeb."

"You too."

Jeb rose and Hutchin followed, leaving Maria and Dan alone in the library.

"We neglected to mention the photos," she said.

"Uh-huh. I noticed."

"What do you think we should do?"

"Well, I have my own score to settle with these people. They invaded my home. That's personal. Now if you're in this thing, I think we should take the photos to a university and find out what some of the science means. Even if it's just routine chemistry, we might discover what sort of routine chemistry they're into."

"Maybe we should each take a few days off to figure this out. I'm checking into the Palmer Inn," Maria said.

"So formal."

"What's that mean?"

"It means for casual comfort, good home-cooked meals, you should stay at my place."

"You're sweet. But I think we need some separation between good and industry here."

"Listen, men and women have lived in the same house and fought for millennia."

Not surprisingly, she had no response for that.

Dan and Maria waited at the Wintoon County Sheriff's Office for Sheriff Robert McNiel to receive their complaint personally.

A big man with a round pleasant face, a large, droopy mustache, khaki trousers and western riding boots, the sheriff looked the part.

"I understand you want to report a theft."

"I do," Maria said. "Five hundred thousand in cash."

"What were you doing with that kind of money?"

"Accepting it for my clients."

''OK, let's start from the beginning. Aren't you the lawyer for the environmental movement?"

"One of them."

"You don't mind if we tape-record your statement."

"Not at all."

''Give me your full legal name." And so the sheriff began a litany of questions until finally Maria had told the entire story of the theft, commencing with her exit from the tavern. In lawyerly fashion she provided all the details except those she and Dan had agreed not to disclose.

When she finished, the sheriff began asking her follow-up questions.''So you were at the Amada compound because you thought you were chasing the money because of the electronic signal and the helicopter over the trees."

"That's right."

"And somebody is giving the environmental movement five hundred thousand in cash?" The sheriff looked pointedly at Dan.

"I didn't say that. I didn't say who was to receive the money. You asked me if I was a lawyer for the environmental movement, and I said I was,'' Maria replied. ''It was a legal transfer of money, but we are bound by the attorney-client privilege not to disclose the parties to the transfer."

''A crime was committed here. So we need to know the facts-"

"Sheriff, I think you'll find that in most of the precedent-setting attorney-client-privilege cases a crime had been committed," Dan cut in. "Respectfully, you don't need to know any more."

"I see, we're going to get this attorney-client-privilege mumbo jumbo all the way through this."

"There is a little of that," Maria said.

"Are you suggesting that Amada took the money?" the sheriff asked.

"We just don't know," Dan said. "But somebody took the money and tried to kill us when we followed."

"We could look into this a lot better if we knew more facts. Like the facts surrounding the money."

"We can't disclose more."

"You know it's pretty damn strange you two even being together in the same room."

"Well, that's just an anomaly that will take some getting used to."

"For all of us," Maria added.

''Will you keep us updated on your progress?'' Dan asked.

"Yes, we will."

When they rose to leave, the sheriff added, "As much as it pisses me off, I understand about the attorney-client privilege. What I don't understand is why your clients are more interested in their secrets than in bringing armed robbers to justice."

"Maybe there isn't a whole lot more to tell, and knowing it wouldn't help you that much," Dan suggested.

"It's our job to be the judge of that."

When they left the building Dan noticed a dark-haired man, probably in his early thirties, with a slicked-back pony-tail. He was slender but strong-looking except in the face, which although symmetrical and handsome seemed passive-as evidenced by a lack of character lines. Neither smiles nor frowns had molded his visage. Approaching Maria, he pointedly ignored Dan. When the man went to kiss her, Dan noticed a slight awkwardness between them and she offered him a cheek.

"Dan, I'd like you to meet Ross," Maria said.

"It's a pleasure," Dan said, trying to smile.

"I'll take you back to the hotel." Ross cut off all other conversation.

Maria hesitated.

"Don't worry about the clothes," Dan said. "You can bring them on your next visit."

"I'll mail them." Maria took Ross's arm.

As Dan watched them leave, the argument that seemed just beneath the surface was obviously taking place between them.

Corey's home had two workrooms, one off the garage, the other off her bedroom. Certain jobs were undertaken only in the room by the garage. When feasible, she liked to work in the room off her bedroom because it was conducive to middle-of-the-night naps during intense and lengthy projects.

On this occasion she was working in the more rugged of the two work spaces, the one by the garage. A functional set of double sinks was on one wall. To either side of the sinks stood a hardwood bench that continued around to the back wall. In the middle of the room was a simple but strong granite-topped worktable on which sat her telephone and, at the moment, her propped feet. The walls were adorned with wilderness photos that featured rock outcroppings and old-growth redwood. A single window afforded a view of the forest behind her house.

''We could make it worth your while if you could recover the film," the caller said.

"How in the hell could I do that if they've dropped it off at a photo shop?'' Corey twirled the phone cord around her finger and stared at the terrarium on the table in front of her. She listened to the now-familiar but unknown voice that never deviated from the calm, persuasive tones that had become all at once so irritating and attractive.

"You've always been resourceful in the past."

"I'm good at monkey-wrenching. My first theft didn't go so well. Stealing is a different trade."

Inside the terrarium a white laboratory mouse moved in some straw. The terrarium had been fitted with a flat plastic lid that she put briefly in place and then removed. With the lid, the glass enclosure was nearly airtight.

"This would be worth a lot of money to us."

"So what's on this film?"

"We don't know. But we're worried there might be a picture of the car."

"They were in her rental car. He didn't carry any camera that I saw."

Next to her chair was a five-gallon steel container with a top that had a four-way-locking mechanism. Four grab hooks fit under the lip of the can and each was attached to a snap-over metal finger that could be lifted and pushed to the center of the top of the can to hold the lid tight. When all four of the snaps were locked down, the lid was airtight and secure. On the outside of the can was a white paper label that went the full height of the can. It said sodium cyanide with skull and crossbones and the words toxic and poison written around the top and bottom of the can.

"Better to be safe than sorry. We noticed that first thing this morning Dan Young went off to a photo place and delivered some film. We don't think it was a coincidence."

''So you don't even know for sure that they took a picture of anything to do with the theft of their money. We might have pictures of some Little League game."

"True. But we can't take that chance."

"How much if I get you the negatives and the photos?"

"Twenty thousand."

On the corner of her table sat a bottle of sulfuric acid. She picked it up, removed the lid, and half-filled a tiny metal cup a little larger than a thimble.

"My, my, you are lustin' after those pictures. And why me? Why all that money?"

"We've got nobody else."

Next she undid each of the four snaps on the five-gallon drum and donned rubber gloves.

"Cut the crap. If I get caught, you can deny you know me, and I've got a built-in motive. I'm the crazy-ass enviro who already stole their money. The cops would think I was worried they had pictures of me or the car or my sidekick.''

"We don't think you'll get caught."

"What if I don't believe you're telling me everything?"

"There's still the twenty thousand. Believe that."

"How do I know you'll pay?"

"You know we value the relationship."

The five-gallon can was lined with heavy plastic and inside it was a white powder. Using a small scooper that would hold about a quarter teaspoon, she scooped up the powder.

"I'll think about it."

"Just get us the film. We don't care what's on it. You'll get the twenty grand."

"Call me back in three hours."

Corey hung up, knowing they were holding out on her. But stealing those pictures would give her the chance to find out what was on them. That alone might make it worth it. She had to find out who owned the calm, somewhat detached voice on the phone. Maybe something in the pictures would give her a clue. They sure wanted them badly enough.

She set the scoop of powder on her desk and carefully closed the canister and shoved it in the corner. In a few minutes she would take it back to the outbuilding where she stored it. She was saving it for something big, but at the moment she wanted to reassure herself of its potency.

On the table was a small metal ball. It was comprised of two half spheres the bottom of which was solid and the top of which was filled with little holes. It was used to make tea.

She opened the window of her workroom and placed a large fan in it, turned it on, and created an air current flowing to the out-of-doors. Next she put food pellets in a feeder at one end of the terrarium. Immediately the mouse began eating. Placing the white powder in the solid portion of the ball, she set it at the end of the terrarium opposite the feeder. After opening the ball, she placed a small cupped piece of plastic over the white powder, then placed several drops of sulfuric acid on the plastic. Quickly she placed the plastic lid on the terrarium and stepped back to the doorway of the workroom. It took only seconds for the acid to eat through the plastic and hit the white powder.

Gases, like smoke from a Marlboro, drifted into the terrarium. Within seconds the mouse was stone dead. She stepped out, closed the door to the room, and stuffed a towel under the door. She would wait twenty-four hours for the room to clear of any residual gases.

She had gotten the stuff two years earlier at a metal-plating plant where one of her cousins worked. Although she had not been exactly certain what she was looking at when she first saw the five-gallon canisters, she had a fairly good idea. A few minutes' research at the library told her that by mixing the stuff with ordinary sulfuric acid she could create hydrogen cyanide.

Entering her den, she stopped to study a drawing on the wall. It was a set of plans to the courthouse given to her by a disgruntled, former maintenance man. He had been fired from his job because he had been working on the roof with some tar and caused an unfortunate accident. It seemed that there was a rectangular-shaped cavern in the roof about ten feet deep. On the wall of this chamber, there were louvers that allowed air to enter a mechanical room inside the building. It was the air intake for one of the air conditioners and heating units and it fed the courtrooms on the west side of the building.

Working down in this ventilator well, he was spreading hot tar and didn't think to close off the air intakes. People in the courtroom began instantly choking on the stink. One angry judge demanded somebody's job. Corey had sympathized with the man and said she would consider hiring him a lawyer if he would get drawings that depicted what had taken place. She never got the lawyer hired but did keep the drawings.

Corey looked out the window of her den. Through a break in the overcast, a shaft of sunlight beamed through the shadows. Looking down at her glass-topped desk, she saw that both the sun and the clouds were reflected there, in an interplay of gray and gold. She sat and closed her eyes.

The sea, the sun, the dolphins, appear, but this time the sound of waves crashing on rocks in a steady, rolling rhythm. She sits in her forest, alongside the rocks. Soon the rhythm becomes insistent, taking over her body. And she becomes the rhythm, relaxing, reveling in it. Like sex. Leaving her forest, she swims. Her hands pulling against the glass-smooth surface, the rhythmic sound of her breath, the bracing smell of salt in the air, the silken sensation of the water's passage under her outstretched arms.

When she woke, she felt suddenly angry, as though she had been in a fight. Sitting back in the oak chair, the straightness of it feeling good against her twisted back, she focused her anger and sorted out her plan. Photographs. The pharmacy on Fourteenth in Palmer would receive a visit.

Getting the film was almost effortless: No one really expected someone to break into the film section of the pharmacy. It was only the narcotics they kept locked up in a safe inside a heavy metal cage. A simple electrical fire that she had ignited in just under five minutes would further confuse the issue. She realized she was getting good at this stuff and mostly because she was calm and just thought her way through it.

On her way home she decided to stop at the courthouse. The irony did not escape her. Much of the epic struggle between mainline environmental groups and the timber industry over the redwoods took place at the county courthouse in Palmer. Often these court battles were attended by twenty or so environmental activists and one industry lawyer.

On occasion, however, the troops for both sides turned out in mass. It was this eventuality that Corey had in mind.

She entered the building by the front door and headed for a narrow staircase next to the main elevators. Running up the concrete stairs for five flights felt like exercise in a mausoleum. The stairwell was encased in rectangular concrete and painted light cocoa in a column that rose to the fifth floor.

On the fifth floor were various, smaller county offices, like the office of the public guardian, and a small section of the county assessors group. There the main stairwell ended at the door to the fifth-floor main hallway. Doubling back from that door, there was a narrow hallway leading to another door. This door had a small 8" x 8" window and opened onto more stairs that went up to the roof.

The stairway to the roof was not a fire exit and was kept locked at all times, but the window in the door could be easily broken with a heavy metal object. There was no alarm.

When she opened the door to the fifth-floor hallway, she observed only one man in the hall, dressed in a suit, looking lost and with a leather satchel under his arm. Entering the main fifth-floor hall, she walked north and then westerly to the equipment rooms that bordered the west wall. Everything appeared as the roofer had described. But she wasn't taking any chances.

Returning to the door to the roof, she slammed the small window with a flying kick. It was well-placed and easily broke out the window. She reached through and opened the door, then went up on the roof. It took only seconds to find the sunken rectangular hole that was the air intake for the west-side courtrooms.

Her confidence was building. She would take a chance that nothing major had changed in the three years since her informant had worked here.

On her way back through the door to the roof, she encountered a man in overalls carrying a tool box.

"Were you up on the roof?" he asked.

"Just for a smoke. I'm sorry, the window was broken out and I just went on up." She favored him with a rare smile. "I hope I didn't do anything wrong."