The Professor (3 page)

4

As the phone rang in the work trailer, Jack Willistone leaned over his desk and grimaced at the words “Ultron Gasoline” flickering across the caller ID. He knew he would have to handle this call with care. Dispatch had already told him about the accident, and he had two messages to call the local television station for comment.
First things first
, he thought as the phone rang a second time. Then a third. Jack coughed and lit a cigarette, glancing down at his metal desk, where the signed merger agreement still lay open to the section entitled “Terms of the Agreement.” After close to a year of negotiations, Fleet Atlantic, the largest trucking company in North America, had agreed to buy out Willistone Trucking Company, the biggest freight hauler in the South. The sum to be paid Willistone was marked with a yellow highlighter, and Jack gazed at it with satisfaction and pride.

Two hundred million dollars.

Four rings.

The deal was not yet forty-eight hours old, the ink on the signatures almost wet enough to smear. It was set to close in six months.
That is if nothing fucks it up
, Jack thought, fixing his eyes on the phone and feeling a pang of anxiety as he thought of the accident.

Five rings.

Finally, Jack answered the phone.

“Yeah,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the desk.

“Jack, I assume you’ve heard.” The voice of Buck Bulyard, manager of the Ultron Gasoline plant in Tuscaloosa, blared into the receiver, hoarse and tired.

“Accidents are like shit, Buck. They happen. I’m sure this isn’t Ultron’s first rodeo.”

“It’s not, Jack, but we got a problem. Newton didn’t leave the plant until 10:00 a.m. We got two employees that remember it and a bill of lading that has the time stamped on it. Nine goddamn fifty-seven. Due at the first filling station by eleven. There’s no way your boy can make it to Montgomery by eleven without speeding.”

Silence filled the line as Jack waited for more.

“It’s a bad accident, Jack,” Buck continued, his voice high and panicky. “Real bad. Young family. The press will be all over it, and the Alabama Bureau of Investigation has already called, wanting a meeting.”

Jack closed his eyes, knowing that the Alabama Bureau of Investigation investigated all traffic fatalities. “When do the ABI boys want to meet?” he asked.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Buck said. “They’ll be here at eight in the morning. Jack, what if they—?”

“Just hold on to your panties, Buck,” Jack interrupted, opening his eyes. “What are the names of the two employees?”

“Willard Carmichael and Dick Morris. Dick goes by ‘Mule.’ They loaded the trailer, so they would know.”

“Anybody talk to ’em besides you?”

“Hell no. You think I was born yesterday?”

Jack forced himself to laugh. “You sure there’s no one or nothing else?” Jack asked, his tone serious again.

“That’s it. All we got is the bill of lading and what Willard and Mule remember. But, Jack, you know as well as I do that this has been going on for a while. If the ABI folks start digging tomorrow—”

“What?” Jack asked, his skin turning cold. “Buck, surely to God you don’t stamp the fucking time on all your bills?”

“We have to, Jack. Our corporate office requires it,” Buck said, the words hitting Jack like a slap in the face. “All bills contain the time of pickup and the time the gas is supposed to be delivered to the station.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jack asked. “Buck, you know how we operate. We make more deliveries, so your customers are happy, but there is a way we do it, and you know damn well what it is. Are you telling me you have created a
fucking paper trail
?
Hell, man, if the ABI boys compare those bills to my driver’s logs, we could all go to jail for a long time.”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, Jack,” Buck said, but his voice shook with fear. “If—”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Buck,” Jack interrupted. “You know what we do and you know how we do it. And you damn well know what’s at stake here.”

There was silence as Buck didn’t respond. Jack took a drag from his cigarette and pressed his fingers into his temples, working the problem in his mind.

When the ABI investigators came to Buck’s office in the morning, they would see the bills of lading, which would show that Jack put his drivers on a schedule that forced them to speed—a violation of the federal motor carrier regulations. Worse, if they compared the bills to Jack’s driver’s logs, the documents would not match. The logs would inevitably show a Willistone driver certifying that he was in the sleeper berth or off duty when one of Ultron’s bills would show, for the same day and time, that driver making a delivery for Ultron. The ABI would alert the Office of Inspector General of the United States Department of Transportation, and the Office of Inspector General would have grounds to launch a full-scale investigation of Willistone Trucking Company and Ultron, Inc. The US Attorney’s Office might then prosecute Jack and all Willistone drivers for falsification of driver’s logs, a felony carrying a penalty of up to five years in prison per violation. Ultron, and specifically Buck Bulyard, could be charged, along with Jack, for conspiracy to violate federal motor carrier regulations, also a felony. Though the relationship with Ultron was fairly young, Willistone had still probably made hundreds of deliveries for Ultron. Which meant hundreds of possible violations, and hundreds of possible counts in the various indictments. Which collectively meant . . .

We could all go to jail for the rest of our lives
,
Jack knew.

Then there was the merger. Jack’s eyes shot down to the terms of the agreement. He flipped over to the section entitled “Termination” and furiously read the words, pausing on the last line of the paragraph, which was printed in bold and underlined:

If, at any time prior to closing, Willistone Trucking Company comes under any type of investigation for violating federal motor carrier regulations or if a lawsuit is filed against it that could leave the company insolvent, Fleet Atlantic can terminate or stay the agreement pending the conclusion of the investigation or lawsuit.

“Shit,”
Jack whispered.
This could ruin everything
, he knew.
Everything I’ve worked for my whole life
 . . .

“Jack, what—?”

“Shut up, Buck,” Jack said, slowly looking up from the contract. He took a last drag on the cigarette and crushed it out, knowing there was only one way to handle this mess.

“Buck, if someone were to start digging, where would the gold be?” he asked.

“Here,” Buck said.

“And where is ‘here’?”

“The office. You know, the same place we signed the contract.”

“You mean you’re still in that old warehouse?”

“Yeah. Faith keeps the current documents—the last six months or so—in a filing cabinet in her office and the rest are in a storage room down the hall. Jack, what should—?”

“I assume the warehouse is insured in case of certain catastrophes,” Jack interrupted. “Like—I don’t know—wind, rain . . . fire?”

“Of course,” Buck said. “Why do you . . . ?” Then Buck got it. “Jack, oh God, no. That’s crazy. We can’t—”

“Good.”

“Jack—”

“Buck, just keep your mouth shut. Don’t talk to anyone, especially not the press. I’ll deal with them. And . . . I’d stay away from the office tonight if I were you.”

“Jack, you can’t. This is your problem, not mine. Your truck and your driver.”

“Wrong, Buck. If the ABI ever gets wind of those bills, you’ll probably end up in the jail cell next to mine. This is
our
problem. But don’t you worry. I’m gonna handle it.”

“The hell you are. You can’t—”

“I can and I will. And if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, Faith and the boys are gonna find out what you like to do in your spare time.” Jack paused. “Michael’s bar on Saturday nights. I know all about it, Buck. I even know what kind of K-Y Jelly you like to lube up with, so don’t fuck with me.”

“Whh . . . whhhat?”
Buck said, barely getting the words out. “How could . . . how could you possibly . . . ?”

“Money talks, Buck. I don’t ever go into a deal without covering my ass. I got video. I got photographs. I got you sucking cock and whistling Dixie at the same time.” Jack paused. “This conversation never happened, do you understand?”

Nothing but heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

“Say you understand,” Jack ordered.

More silence.

“Say you understand, Buck, or everyone in Tuscaloosa is gonna know you bat for the other team.”

“I understand,” Buck finally said, his voice just above a whisper.

“Good,” Jack said, hanging up the phone.

Buck Bulyard felt his bladder give and the warmth spread down his leg. As the phone clicked dead, he dropped it, unable to steady his shaking hand. He looked at the pictures on his desk. Faith, his wife of twenty years. Sons, Buck Jr. and Danny.
What have I done?
Buck sat down, his backside damp. The smell of urine permeated the room, but Buck barely noticed, thinking of his last trip to Michael’s and the young man he’d spent an hour with afterwards.

The accident. His job. Dealing with the press and the ABI. All were an afterthought now.

“What have I done?” he said out loud, gazing straight ahead but not seeing anything.

5

Ruth Ann Wilcox sat in the waiting room of the ER.
Jeannie is a fighter
, she kept telling herself. When her mind drifted toward Nicole and Bob, she forced it back to Jeannie.
Jeannie is still alive. She will fight
 . . .
she will not
 . . .
The two double doors opened in front of her and a woman on a gurney was pushed to the back. Coming out of the doors toward Ruth Ann was a small man holding a chart.
The doctor.
Ruth Ann wanted to get up but she felt paralyzed.
She’s alive right now. I believe she’s alive. If he tells me
 . . .

“Ms. Wilcox?” He was standing over her now. He wore green scrubs and was taking latex gloves off his hands.

“Yes.” Her voice was soft, and her eyes pleaded with the doctor’s.
Let her be OK. Let her make it.

“Please come with me.” He turned and she followed. She had to remind herself to breathe.

She followed him through the two double doors and then he stopped.

“Ms. Wilcox, I’m Dr. Merth. Your daughter suffered massive internal injuries in the crash. We tried to stabilize her, but . . .” He must’ve seen the look in Ruth Ann’s eyes because he stopped himself.

“I’m a big girl, Doc.” She held his gaze, trying to steel herself for what came next.

“I’m so very sorry.”

6

God forgive me
,
Buck Bulyard prayed as he parked in front of the burning warehouse. He had driven up and down McFarland Boulevard all night, knowing what was about to happen. When he saw the smoke begin to rise over the warehouse, he turned into the lot and cut his lights. He knew there was only one way out. Jack Willistone would never let him off the hook. If Buck threatened to pull the contract, Jack would come back with the same threats: If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, Faith and the boys are gonna find out what you like to do in your spare time.

Buck sighed. If it were just Faith, he could probably live with it.
But the boys
. . .

Junior was sixteen and Danny was fourteen. They both played ball, had girlfriends, and were popular at school.
It would destroy them.
Kids that age were mean. Vicious. The taunting would never end.
Your daddy’s a queer, a cocksucker, a faggot.

Buck shook his head and wiped his eyes.
I won’t put them through that. Better dead than that.

Buck got out of the car on shaky legs and looked at the inferno in front of him. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one emergency.”

“Yeah, this is Buck Bulyard, president of Ultron Gas!” Buck screamed, trying to sound hysterical. “Our office is on fire. Need a fire truck out here on the double. I’ve got an extinguisher. I’m going in to see if I can stop it.”

“Mr. Bulyard, no. Don’t—”

But Buck had already pressed the End button. He took out the fire extinguisher and looked one last time at the pictures of Danny and Junior that he had always kept next to the odometer behind the steering wheel, placing his hand on both photographs.
I’m so sorry, boys.

Buck moaned, forcing himself to move away from the car and leaving the door open for show. Then, closing his eyes and gripping the fire extinguisher tight, he barreled into the blaze.

7

Jack Willistone could see the flames from his house overlooking McFarland. “You covered your tracks?” Jack asked, turning to the man standing beside him at the window.

“Like a bloodhound,” the man said.

“I’m not fucking around, Bone. Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent sure, boss.”

“Bone, when I was twelve years old I whacked off for the first time. After I did it, I was a hundred percent sure I’d do it again. I ain’t been a hundred percent sure of anything since. You’re telling me you covered your tracks?”

“As sure as the gizz on your twelve-year-old hand. Yes, sir. The Bone knows how to start a fire and make it look like an accident.”

Jack glared at him, taking a slow sip of his bourbon and water. Then he bared his teeth, smiling. “You get the files?”

“Right here.” He handed over two manila folders, one labeled “Willard Carmichael” and the other “Dick Morris.”

Jack took the folders and flipped through them quickly. “They on the team yet?”

“Oh, yeah. They took the deal in a heartbeat. Five thousand dollars cash to each and instant amnesia. They can’t remember jack shit. Just a routine morning. No hiccups, no rush, just your average everyday pickup. Easy as pie.”

Jack put the folders down on the table behind him and pulled out two cigars from his jacket pocket.

“So no one will ever know,” Jack said. A statement, not a question.

“Not a soul.”

They lit their cigars and turned back to the window. As the warehouse next to the Ultron Gasoline plant burned below, along with all the documents inside, Jack felt relief wash over him.
Money talks and bullshit walks.
It was one of the two rules he lived by, the other one being just as simple.
Always cover your ass.
Watching as the smoke rose above McFarland Boulevard, Jack Willistone was confident he had done so.

No one will ever know.