David Rosenfelt - Airtight

So at seven thirty, he said his good-byes, pretending that he wished he could stay longer. He knew it would be the last time he would ever see these people, but he certainly didn’t tell them so. They would likely be lifers at Hanson, while his time there was coming to an end.

Once out the door, he went to find his rental car in the parking lot. For a few moments he forgot which car was his, but rather than figuring it out, he just pressed the button on the key that unlocked the door. It also caused the rear lights to flash on and off, providing an easy way to identify the car.

Oliver trotted to the car; he hadn’t left that much time to get to the airport, and was not about to miss that flight.

He got in, turned the key, and ended his life. The explosion took out three cars on either side of him, and brought everyone in the restaurant running outside to see what had happened.

His colleagues were afraid that his was the car that blew up, but there was no way to know, because it would take an army of forensics people to find any sign of what used to be Michael Oliver.

I heard about the latest violence on the way to meet Julie.

The explosion was followed by a second explosion, this one in the media. It firmly put Brayton onto the national map, in a way that hadn’t happened before. Edward Holland had been on some TV shows making his case, but it hadn’t really registered on anything but a local level.

That was then.

The main difference was that this act, unlike the guesthouse destruction, took a life. In fact, the purpose of it was to take a life. Michael Oliver was not collateral damage; he was the target. It was an execution, pure and simple, an act of domestic terrorism.

Moreover, it was a sophisticated act. The perpetrator knew who Oliver was, even though he was an obscure part of the process. That is not to say he was an unimportant player; the reports were crediting him with making the determination that the land contained natural gas in amounts worth literally billions of dollars.

But he was barely known; he was not the head of Hanson Oil and Gas, nor a public spokesman for them. He was actually based in Tulsa, and was simply in town for meetings. For the killers to have known that, and to have isolated him as a target, represented a level of planning and calculation that was as impressive as it was ominous.

There were signs that this was going to trigger a national debate about fracking itself. It was an incredibly important factor in the energy landscape, and had already prompted countless lawsuits. Yet it had stayed somewhat below the radar, a place where it would never reside again.

The various players in the drama were already reacting in an expected manner. Carlton issued a vehement condemnation of the “terrorists,” and Hanson’s spokesman did the same. They said that they would not back down in the face of the unlawful acts and would take additional steps to beef up security, in order to ensure the safety of their employees. Nothing would stop Hanson from pursuing their goal of providing affordable energy to the American people.

Alex Hutchinson, the de facto leader of the protesting townspeople, also condemned the action, and claimed that neither she nor anyone in her group had anything to do with it.

Edward Holland, trying to remain above the fray, added his strong disapproval of any violence, and pleaded for calmer heads to prevail. He talked of his own anger at what was happening to his town, and the need to protect the children, but added that this was not the way to go about it.

Holland went on to remind everyone that he had asked for preemptive state and Federal intervention to cool things off, but that his requests went unfulfilled. He once again renewed those requests publicly, and media reports were very favorable to him.

“How does all this help Bryan?” were Julie’s first words when she saw me.

I had been thinking about it, and wasn’t pleased with my own point of view. “I don’t think it does,” I said. “At least not much.”

She seemed surprised. “Why?”

“Well, first of all, keep in mind that the entire jury here is composed of Chris Gallagher. And the fact that there has been some violence is not a surprise to him; he already knew that Emmit and I were targeted to be killed.”

“So, if he’s a jury, treat him like one, Luke. Make a persuasive argument; make him understand. Put the facts out there in a clear, concise manner; that’s what is done for juries. Let me do it; I’ll convince him.”

“I’ve been trying, Julie. And I’d be happy for you to try. But there’s a logical flaw in our argument.”

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Our focus, Gallagher’s focus, is on the Brennan murder. Brennan was considered pro-Brayton, or at least more pro-Brayton than Judge Dembeck. So the side that might have had any interest in killing him would have been the company side, not the town.”

She had to know where I was going with this, but I spelled it out. “This new violence is being committed against the company, most logically by people who would have wanted Brennan to take the seat. The people that killed Michael Oliver would have placed Brennan in a protective cocoon if they could have.”

“And Gallagher is smart enough to see that?” she asked.

“Without a doubt.”

She seemed lost in thought for a few minutes. I had no idea what she was thinking. I had known Julie for almost seven years, and this made the seventh consecutive year that I had no idea what she was thinking.

“I did something you’re not going to like.” She said it in a challenging way, as if she was comfortable with what she did, and not worried about my reaction.

“I already don’t like that sentence.”

“I hired Lou Rodriguez to find Gallagher.”

“Shit, Julie … what do you mean ‘find’?”

“He’s not going to do anything, just keep track of where he is.”

“Keep track of where he is? He’s been following me. He’s probably at the bar in the next room right now.”

“Then Lou’s on the stool next to him,” she said, obviously annoyed by my attitude.

“Great. So the bad guys are following me, Gallagher’s following them, and Rodriguez is following Gallagher. I’m leading a procession. I’m like the goddamn Grand Marshal of the Rose Bowl Parade.”

“Maybe he’ll lead Rodriguez to Bryan. Probably not. But he’s not going to walk away from this, Luke. No matter how it turns out. I wouldn’t be doing my job if he did. Nor would you. He’s a kidnapper, at a minimum.”

She didn’t say what the maximum was, but she didn’t have to. She was right, of course, but on some level it didn’t sit well with me, and she could see it.

“What’s your problem with this, Luke? That he’ll make Rodriguez, and take it out on Bryan?”

“No, he couldn’t care less who’s following him, or why.”

“Then what?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure how to answer that, but my mouth seemed to make the decision for my brain, and started talking without permission. “I killed his brother, Julie. I guess on some deep level I understand what he’s feeling. I don’t know what I’d do in his shoes, but it wouldn’t be pretty.”

She spoke in a much softer voice, trying to keep herself from crying. “You might find yourself in his shoes.”

I nodded. “And then I’d feel completely different. Then I’d find him and kill him. And on some level he’d understand that completely, and he’d be fine with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think he’s decided that his life is over, one way or the other.”

“If he hurts Bryan,” she said, “it will be.”

Got your e-mail too late … you’ve already had your dinner. Not much for me to say to Julie, anyway. Just tell her not to feel guilty about this; she had nothing to do with it.