LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (11 page)

“Sure,” she said, sounding innocent, not like the jaded older man talking to her.

“If you can't do it, I understand, but I'm looking to talk to someone in the movement.”

“Someone in particular?”

I looked around, made sure no one else was within earshot. “Curt Chesak. The guy heading the Nuclear Freedom Front.”

She folded her arms and rubbed at her elbows for a moment. “Curt? Why do you want to talk to Curt?”

“Because I'm a magazine writer,” I said, not quite allowing myself to call what I do journalism. “I want to know what's going on, what's driving people, and maybe why things are happening. Curt is sort of a bogeyman to the law enforcement folks out there. He's under suspicion for a lot of criminal activities but hasn't been caught yet.”

“Yet,” she said, “and that's because he's a very secretive man, Lewis. He has to be, for what he does. He runs the NFF, and he has the regular antinuclear folks against him, not to mention the cops, the utilities and the unions. That's why he always wears a mask when he speaks in public. Hell, some of us don't even think Curt Chesak is his real name.”

“But could you help me? At least get word to somebody that might know somebody?”

Her happy face at seeing me earlier had been replaced by something a bit more troubled. “I … I guess I could try.”

“That'd be great.” I reached into my wallet and pulled out my
Shoreline
business card. Before passing it over I had to dig out my cell phone and look up my own number—what can I say, I know cell phones are a necessary evil, but I still don't like them that much—and scribble it down.

“My home number and cell phone number are there,” I said, handing her the card. “Have somebody call me at any time. I don't mind.”

She looked at the card for a moment before slipping it into her coat pocket. “Okay, I guess.”

Then I thought it through one more time and said, “No, it's not okay. Give me the card back.”

“Why?”

“Because I'm not being fair to you,” I said. “I'm using your thanks for the other night in hoping that you'll pass this card on to somebody, and that's not fair. If I'm going to do this, I'm going to do this on my own. So give me the card back.”

Haleigh put her hand back into the coat pocket, paused for a second, and shook her head. “No.”

“Yes,” I said. “Please.”

She shook her head again. “No. I don't mind doing it. I know some people … and I know you, Lewis. I know I can trust you. You're not a cop, you won't reveal anything, and you'll do what you say you'll do, right? You want to interview him, nothing more.”

I looked at that innocent young college-aged face, decided I could go along with that, and said, “That's right. I want to interview him. Ask him some questions. Nothing more than that.”

Haleigh smiled and said, “I'll do what I can do—but no promises, okay?”

“I understand, no promises.”

She made to go back to her companions, then said, “Oh. I should have asked you earlier. How's your friend doing, the reporter who was standing next to Bronson when he got shot?”

What to say? So I decided to make it quick. “She's out of the hospital.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said. “You know, Lewis, it's a cliché but it's true. Violence never solved anything.”

I didn't know what to say about that, either, for as a cliché, it was a stupid one. Violence might not have solved anything, but in wars and conflicts and battles all across history, and continuing into the future—unless some dramatic changes occurred—violence often settled things. Permanently.

So instead of discussing philosophy with the young lady, I waved at her and got back into my Ford.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

It sounds funny that at a time when there were thousands of protesters trying to break into the Falconer nuclear power plant, I had no problems gaining access, but that's where a bit of ingenuity and modern technology came into play. Off Route 1 there were two main entrances to the power plant, and these entrances were named—in a bit of utility imagination—the North Gate and the South Gate. Both gates were closed to visitors and most everyone else, but still, the protesters and media types milled about, talking to one another and passing the time.

There were also a handful of smaller service entrances, though, like the one Paula and I had used the other day, and all I had to do was call the plant spokesman, Ron Shelton, and explain that I wanted to come into the plant site, and he'd give me a time. Which is what I did, and I drove down Stony Creek Road as before and got to the gate, where two security officers from the power plant allowed me in. By the fence were six or seven protesters, and when they saw the gate open up, they started chanting, “No nukes, no nukes.” After a minute or two of driving, I didn't hear them anymore.

I followed the security pickup truck back to the plant site proper, and when we stopped at an intersection, one of the officers came back to me. I lowered the window, and he said, “Sorry, sir, but Mr. Shelton contacted us. He'd like to meet you at his office, if that's all right with you.”

“That'd be fine,” I said, and I kept on following the pickup truck. We drove down the main access road within the plant—past a huge billboard on one corner that read:
SAFETY PAYS OFF, EVERY DAY
. After about a quarter mile of driving, we made a left at a wooden sign that read:
FALCONER VISITORS' CENTER
. We went down a pleasant little paved lane, which opened up to a large parking lot that was filled with police cruisers from a variety of departments in the area and a half dozen or so National Guard Humvees.

I parked in an open spot as the security pickup truck drove away, then went up a sidewalk flanked by hedge work that led to an odd triangular-shaped wooden building that announced it was the plant's visitors' center. Inside there was a curved counter packed with phones, and also packed with New Hampshire State Police officers and other cops in a variety of uniforms using the phones, talking, and eating from a buffet-style table set up on the other side of the lobby.

A tired-looking Ron Shelton came from around the counter, shook my hand, and said, “Lewis Cole, from
Shoreline,
right? Thanks for coming over.”

I followed him past the counter, down a hallway, to an office at the end. There was a desk and bookcases and comfortable chairs, and a large window that overlooked the rear of the visitors' center and something called the Nature Trail. Ron had on Top-Siders khaki slacks, a button-down blue shirt, and a red necktie, and though he was smiling, his eyes were red-rimmed and there were worry lines up there.

“I know you're friends with Paula Quinn, from the
Chronicle,
” he said, leaning back a bit in his chair. “I just wanted to know how she's doing.”

“She got out of the hospital yesterday, I know that,” I said, “and I know that being next to Bronson Toles when he got shot … that was one hell of a shock.”

“Were you there, too?”

“I was.”

“Holy crap,” Ron said, shaking his head. “Paula and I have butted heads a few times over news coverage, but in the end she's always been fair. I hope she gets better. If you see her, let her know I was asking about her, okay?”

“Sure,” I said. His phone started ringing, but he ignored it, then rubbed at his eyes. “You heard about the special demonstration later today.”

“I did.”

“Laura Toles and her son, Vic, are going to be leading a march blaming us for her husband's death.”

“Really?”

Ron looked at me and said, “Look, can … can we just have a normal conversation here for a couple of minutes, just a couple of guys? Not a plant spokesman or a magazine writer.”

“You mean, off the record.”

“If that's all right with you.”

I paused, then said, “All right. If you say something particularly juicy, how about I ask you about it, and if it's okay, I attribute it to an unnamed utility official?”

He smiled. “You know, a week or so ago, when I was getting you signed up for access, I talked to Paula and said I didn't recognize your name, and she said you were just a columnist and were fairly new with this breaking news business—but you seem to know your way around.”

I took out my notebook and pen. “I've learned from the best.”

Another smile. “I'm sure she'd love to hear that. Sure. You hear anything earth-shattering that you want to use, I'll see what I can do. Other than that, we're off the record. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said.

He let out a breath. “Not that I'm promising anything earth-shattering, but sometimes it's just nice to talk like a normal human being. Like the protest this afternoon. Guaranteed that Mrs. Toles and her son are going to blame us for the murder of her husband. If it wasn't for this evil power plant and all the emotions it brings out in people, Bronson Toles would still be alive, working on a new eggplant Parmesan recipe and signing up the next great breakout folk band for the Stone Chapel. Guaranteed.”

“Why do you say that?”

He put his hands behind his head. “Why not? We're blamed for most everything else. Birth defects among the local population, the death of migratory birds, the lack of fish because of our cooling tunnel intakes … hell, when they started building this place more than thirty years ago, they recovered the skeletons of some Native Americans. The utility went to great efforts to rebury the remains with the assistance of local Native American groups, and to this day, we're still blamed for building this place on an Indian burial ground.”

“You sound like one frustrated spokesman, Ron,” I said.

“Oh, some days,” he said, still leaning back in his chair. “You know, if we'd stop shouting at each other and stop the protests, most people would be surprised to find out how much the people who work here and the people out there demonstrating have in common.”

“Like what?”

“Like we both believe in conservation, for example. Better fuel efficiency for engines and vehicles. Research into alternative energy. Reduction of our dependence on foreign oil. We both believe in that—but we're also too busy fitting into our assigned roles. The ignorant unwashed versus the corporate evildoers. Here,” he said, letting his chair come forward and spinning a framed photo around on his desk, among a couple of other framed photographs. “Does that look like a corporate evildoer who clubs baby seals on his vacation?”

I took the frame in hand. It was a color photo of Ron wearing hiking boots, khaki shorts, and a T-shirt, holding a shovel, on a wooded trail, with two attractive young women dressed similarly and also holding shovels. “Nice pic,” I said. “Where was it taken?”

“Up in the White Mountains, volunteering with the Appalachian Mountain Club, doing trail maintenance. Spent a glorious week up there … working hard, sleeping great, and appreciating the sights.”

“Including the female ones?”

He grinned. “Especially the female ones. I've always spent a lot of time outdoors, hiking, hunting, fishing, and when I was in college, getting my environmental sciences degree, I spent weeks up there in the White Mountains, doing research on acid rain. You know where the acid rain comes from, that kills some of our mountain lakes and ponds?”

“Coal-fired plants out in the Midwest.”

“Yeah,” he said sourly, “but are the protest groups out in Ohio or Illinois trying to shut them down? Nope. They're here. Trying to shut down a power plant source that doesn't add one molecule to the problems of acid rain or global warming.”

He rotated slightly in his chair and said, “Not to mention adding the Russians to the mix. Christ. Decades after Chernobyl, you'd think they'd know how to run those obsolete graphite reactors. Hell, they should be shut down, but they need power so bad over there—and here? Still stuck in the 1970s. You know, most of the people out there holding the banners and flags probably think that Japan and France are the height of civilized life, with wonderful health care and employment security, but you know what?”

“They don't mind nuclear power,” I said.

“You better believe it. In France, nearly eighty percent of their electricity comes from nuclear, and in Japan—which has a reason to fear the splitting of the atom—more than thirty percent comes from nuclear. And here? The so-called leader of the so-called Free World? Less than twenty percent—and we were about to kick that number up a notch when the Kursk disaster happened.” He paused, shook his head. “Fucking Russians.”

I looked at him and said, “Still off the record?”

“Hunh?”

“What you just said there, about the fucking Russians,” I said. “That'd make a great quote, don't you think?”

Ron laughed. “What, you want me to get fired?”

“Not particularly,” I said.

He rocked in the chair again for a moment and said, “Tell you what. If you can keep a secret, you can attribute that quote to an unnamed New England utility official: ‘The American nuclear industry is now being crippled not because of any problem that it caused, but because of those fucking Russians.' That way, I can get a quote out in the media that all of us here believe in, and I also get to keep my job.”

I scribbled the words in my open notebook. “Sounds good to me.”

“Fine.” He moved the photo around on his desk, and I noted one photograph of Ron wearing a coat and tie, standing next to an attractive woman wearing a black cocktail dress. I gestured to the photo and said, “One of your trailmates from your AMC volunteering?”

That got me a laugh. “Clara? Only in some rural areas of the country. No, that's my younger sister.”

“She into the outdoors and science?”

“Not hardly,” Ron said. “Clara's been into music and singing since she turned twelve. Did a lot of gigs at local clubs and music halls. Came close a couple of times to breaking out and making a career out of it, but it never happened. Poor sweetie.”