Abby Luby

NUCLEAR ROMANCE

To environmental journalists who tackle the tough issues, and to grassroots groups who fight to change their world.

Chapter 1

Jen Elery never knew exactly what killed her young daughter. The unexplained death of her seven-year-old fed a smoldering anguish. Doctors, frustrated with their own dizzying stream of improbable causes, were sure of one thing: the girl was sick to begin with, and her frail immune system weakened her fight against a strange virus or some kind of toxic substance.

But what virus? What toxic substance? As the girl slipped into unconsciousness, Jen relentlessly grilled the doctors with questions: Figure this out, for God’s sake. Don’t let my little Kaylee die.

After the crushing loss, the bereaved mother needed to believe it wasn’t her fault. She replayed the day of Kaylee’s sudden attack and the onset of a mysterious illness that ravaged the girl’s body. Jen’s recall stopped the action at moments she could’ve intervened, the one fleeting instant she might have saved her helpless little girl. When exactly did her maternal instinct stop? Was she too laid back on that warm spring day at the riverfront beach?

Jen had piled Kaylee and her older son, Ricky, into the car. It was a sudden break from the after-school routine, and they cheerfully took the short, five-minute drive from their house to the Hudson River, a spot with a playground, picnic tables, and a beach.

That day, when they got out of the car, Jen felt a surge of relief. It was good to be here, to lose yourself in the serenity of the water, to forget everything—the barrage of phone calls, the haggling lawyers.

It was a day of quiet celebration. The divorce was final. No more high-pitched banter with Dan, her now ex-husband. She fought hard and won. It was Jen who called the shots about child visitation, the house, coveted belongings, all negotiated in a torrent of scurrilous accusations. How could he ever juggle the kids—homework, illness, baseball practice, Girl Scouts? And did he think he’d get help with the kids from his new little girlfriend? Over Jen’s dead body. The image of Dan kissing his paramour in front of her children made Jen’s blood boil. That slut.

But now it was over. Time to calm down, breathe, watch the kids let loose and imbibe the sweet river air. Waves caught the late afternoon sun, and bobbling flecks of light danced to their own song. The beach curved around the small cove, framed by a band of green grass.

The river was cool but not cold, and Jen recalled pressing her toes in the water, then deeper into the sandy loam. The air was an intoxicating mix of salt and fresh, wet earth. The breeze rippled on the river’s surface, and further out, sailboats clipped along, catching the lively current and passing the lumbering barges that trudged north toward West Point. At times a random cloud floated a solitary shadow over the sand.

The two children played tag under a weeping willow tree whose swooping, pale green branches hinted at summer. Jen ran her hands through her short, dark brown hair and squatted down to the water’s edge, her thin body a huddle of bones. She cupped her hands and brought the briny water to her face just as Ricky and Kaylee blasted past her into the water.

“Hey! Watch it!” she remembered saying.

“Sorry, Mom!”

Jen smiled at their giddiness. At least they rolled up their pants.

Throughout the embattled divorce, Ricky, ten, took on a paternal role, watching over his younger sister, consoling Jen when she couldn’t hide her tears. The sandy-haired boy was growing up too fast. But at school it was a different story. His teacher repeatedly called her, complaining that Ricky was acting out, picking fights, rebelling. Her son had become two different people: at school he was aggressive, but at home, he was the man of the house. The school psychologist said the boy was reacting to the stress of the divorce and releasing his anger at school. Perhaps he should be medicated. Not really, Jen told him. I’ll deal with him. He’ll straighten out.

Kaylee, on the other hand, became subdued and moody. At school the girl sulked and stayed by herself, even when her friends invited her to play. She was bright and kept up with her homework but never raised her hand in class. At home the two kids would often whisper to themselves in the TV room.

She reassured both kids it wasn’t their fault that Daddy left, that both she and Dan loved them no matter what. She wanted them to feel blameless and confessed that the divorce was all her fault, a plausible truth that fed her wavering guilt like a transfusion of bad blood into her veins.

During the divorce, Kaylee became seriously asthmatic, a condition that compounded the tension at home. The girl was small; her fragile frame shook uncontrollably when she wheezed and coughed. Jen would snap into action and grab one of the many medicines or inhalers off the kitchen counter. The daily routine to keep her daughter breathing normally distracted Jen from the droning, inner voice of self pity, a private lament of a single parent dealing with a sick child.

But that day at the beach, Kaylee seemed fine. They were just kids fooling around, jostling in the water. Jen recalled how she languished in their crazy laughter and wild play—was that when she should’ve pulled Kaylee out of the water? The girl had just taken her asthma medication, so everything must be okay. Right?

Ricky was cupping a handful of water and aimed it at Kaylee, purposely missing her. The blond, curly-haired girl edged away, giggling, moving further into deep water.

“Almost gotcha!” Ricky teased. “Gonna get you now!”

“No you won’t either,” Kaylee taunted back. “You’re too slow!”

Jen spread a blanket over the sand and laid down, feeling her body relax one muscle at a time, unpursing her lips, a tightening that grew out of nowhere during the embattled custody case. She softened her face. Relaxing was a new sensation, but had she relaxed a little bit too much?

It was idyllic. What could go wrong? Behind the kids the cove arched around the river, which was outlined with trees brandishing tiny, new lime-colored leaves, like small feathers gracing the dark branches. Hugging the shore were bushes of wild pink roses, reflected in the water like an impressionist painting. It was a setting that even softened the two domes of the power plant across the way.

Ricky was getting into it, tossing more water at Kaylee, now up to his knees. Each slug of water got closer and closer to the girl, barely missing her. The splashing escalated, and the kids got carried away, getting in up to their waists. Ricky must have tapped into some suppressed aggression and bailed water straight at Kaylee’s face. The girl screamed—out of delight or fear? She couldn’t pull her arms out of the water fast enough to splash back. Then, with two hands, Ricky hauled a torrent of water again. And again. Kaylee’s arms worked like a sluggish pinwheel, and she fell backwards in the water, submerged briefly, then ejected up, gasping for air. Ricky was poised to douse her again but waited. Was she okay? Or was she faking it to get the upper hand?

The harrowing sound of her attempt to inhale—the heavy, deep-throated whistle—was unforgettable. The girl gasped, struggling to get air. Her face contorted as she fell backward, a slow-motion clip before she disappeared completely underwater. Ricky lunged in after his sister and pulled her up by her shirt, her head awkwardly cocked back.

“What the hell are you doing to her?” Jen yelled, standing up. “Get her out of the water! Now! Oh my God!”

Jen bolted from the blanket toward the water, her feet making quick, deep gouges in the sand. The girl’s face was drained of color, and Jen pulled her from Ricky and half carried her out of the water onto the beach. Kaylee, drenched and limp, was buckling under the weight of her wet clothes.

“You’re okay, honey. Lean against me. You’re okay.”

Jen settled Kaylee down on the blanket and tried to calm her and slow the wheezing. Ricky stood there, stunned.

“She’s okay, Ricky. You were probably a little too rough, but she’ll be fine.”

Suddenly Kaylee started to gag, like she was going to vomit. Jen’s own stomach tightened. This wasn’t just an asthma attack. Then the girl started to convulse. Ricky stared at his sister, his eyes wide.

“Mom—what’s the matter with her?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. Get me her inhaler from the car.”

The boy’s eyes welled up. “Mom… I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

“Shut up. Just get me her medicine now. Then we’re going home.”

At home, it took hours for Kaylee to stop gagging and coughing. Jen switched between inhalers and allergy medication, haphazardly guessing at the dosages. She sponged the girl down the best she could, and finally Kaylee calmed and drifted into a restless sleep.

It was dark when Jen hung the kid’s soggy and slightly fishy-smelling clothes out on the line. Then the intense recriminations: How did this happen? Why wasn’t she watching her kids more closely? Maybe the kids would be fine if Dan were here. He’d be in control, keeping everyone in line, sticking to a routine.

She tried to snap out of it and threw some sandwiches on the table for supper.

When she called Ricky to come and eat, she got no response. She peeked in the kid’s shared bedroom and saw the boy sitting in a rocking chair besides Kaylee’s bed.

“Honey, come have something to eat.”

“She’s really sick, Mom. She’s not right.”

She gently took his arm and led him to the kitchen. They sat down at the table and ate in silence, their movements slow. Then Ricky looked up. Kaylee stood quietly behind Jen, like a ghost. Jen whirled around.

“Kaylee—Sweetie—are you hungry? Want to try to eat a little food?”

The girl was ashen faced, and, thinking back, Jen cursed herself for not realizing soon enough how sick she really was. She should’ve taken her directly from the beach to the hospital. Maybe that might have saved her.

But the girl seemed hungry, and that was a good sign. She sat down and mutely pointed to a bowl of potato salad, one of her favorite foods. Jen scooped a small amount on a dish, added a few pieces of chicken salad and placed it in front of her. After one or two forkfuls, Kaylee stopped eating, dazedly stood up, and went back to bed.

It was after midnight when Jen heard Kaylee vomiting. She rushed into the bedroom. Ricky was holding a wastepaper basket under Kaylee’s mouth.

“She’s really sick, Mom.”

The heat from Kaylee’s head and cheeks seemed to burn Jen’s palms.

“Oh baby, you’re burning up. Help me get her up, Ricky. We’re taking her to the emergency room.”

They eased her up to sitting and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Jen tried to lift her. Dan would be able to carry her, the voice of guilt rambled. They managed to stand Kaylee up and shuffle her through the kitchen, where she heaved again on the floor.

“We’ll get it later. Come on. Let’s keep her moving.”

The scene was compressed into short, popping flashbacks: reaching the car, putting Kaylee in the back seat that was still wet from the river-soaked clothes, Ricky holding Kaylee’s head on his lap. Jen’s hands shook as she started the car and peeled out of the driveway, holding the cell phone in one hand and steering the car with the other. The hospital’s number was on speed dial. They needed to know they were coming.

“Yes. She can’t breathe, vomiting, burning up. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Ricky was whispering to Kaylee who stared blankly. “You’ll be okay, Kaylee. You’ll be okay.”

When they pulled up to the emergency room, Jen barreled out of the car, ran inside and blurted out to no one in particular.

“My little girl—she’s—”

Jen gestured to her car just outside the automatic doors. A gurney was pushed out to the car, and four strong arms lifted Kaylee out. Inside a voice over a loudspeaker called for a doctor. Sprawled on her back, Kaylee’s body hung like a rag doll as they rolled her into a room that had a glass window facing out into the hall. Cables were hooked up to monitors, an IV stuck in her tiny arm, oxygen tubes crackled out of a plastic bag and were inserted in Kaylee’s nose, her dulled eyes vaguely watching the medical drill. Jen and Ricky, transfixed, peered in through the window. A doctor rushed past them into the room, a space that seemed to be sucking the life out of the little girl. In a muted pantomime, the doctor snapped out questions, took the girl’s pulse, checked readings on the monitors, and then stood tacitly, rolling his pencil between his fingers. He mouthed a few orders to the nurse and came out.

“Hi. I’m Richard Turner, the on-call doctor. You are?”

“Jen Elery, Kaylee’s mom. This is my son, Ricky. What’s going on with her doctor?”

He was young, with a five o’clock shadow and dark circles under his eyes. The collar of his shirt was rumpled, and he tapped the end of his stethoscope in small percussive beats against the inside of his hand.

“We don’t know yet. We took some blood, and maybe we’ll have to do other tests. Why don’t you tell me how she got sick. Was she feeling ill before this?”

Jen recounted the day: the beach, the splashing around in the water, Kaylee’s struggle to breathe, the violent vomiting. The doctor listened, expressionless, staring at Jen’s forehead as she spoke.

“What about allergies?” he asked Jen. “Could she have ingested something that didn’t agree with her?”

“She has a bunch of allergies, and her asthma can be severe, but we keep it in check. Could it be the asthma that made her lose her breath and vomit?”

“Look, we just don’t know. We’ve given her something to keep her airways open. She’ll sleep for a while, but I won’t have a clue until we get the test results. We might have to x-ray. We’ll talk later.”

He scribbled something down on a pad and walked away. Jen couldn’t find the strength to ask him more questions, so she took Ricky down the hall to a waiting area. They sat down on the couch, and the boy, still in his pajamas, curled up against her and soon nodded off. Jen closed her eyes but the hospital sounds kept her alert. She listened for Kaylee’s door to open and close.

She fell into a meditative state, drifting between sleep and consciousness. An hour later, she gently laid Ricky down and reached for her cell phone.

At the other end the phone rang several times. Finally he answered.

“Jen? What is it? It’s the middle of the night!” Dan said.

Jen pictured him cuddling with his lover, not a care in the world.

“It’s Kaylee. We’re in the hospital. Can you come?”

“What happened? Why didn’t you call sooner?”

He said he was on his way and Jen felt relieved. And nervous. She prayed he wouldn’t bring lover girl.

As she put her phone away, she could barely hear the doctor’s voice on the phone down the hall at the nurse’s station. His words were muffled but she thought she heard radiation and exposed.

Moments later he entered the waiting area and sat down opposite her on a small table. Jen unfolded herself. As he spoke, the odor of cigarettes tainted the air. A fresh coffee spill stained the sleeve of his white scrubs, and he looked even more tired and bedraggled than before. He saw Ricky sleeping and whispered quietly to Jen.

“We think your daughter may have been exposed to some sort of toxic substance. Do you live near a garbage dump? Was your house tested for radon gas or anything like that?”

Jen blinked. “Huh? Radon? No, not at all. My house is fine.”

“We’re coming up with some sort of foreign substance from the first blood test. It’s really inconclusive.”

“This is a far cry from an allergic reaction or asthma—don’t you think, Dr. Turner? Is this vague guess the best you can come up with?”

He snorted and shook his head. “Look, we just don’t know. But I think your house should be checked, just as a precaution. To rule stuff out, you know? I called the local Hazmat team to come take a look. Okay?”

“I don’t get it. What could possibly be in my home that would suddenly make my daughter so sick? She’s lived there all her life.”

“Can’t say, Mrs. Elery. It could be something that she’s been exposed to over a long period of time and has now weakened her immune system. Look, it’s almost morning, and the Hazmat folks could be there in a few hours. Can you be there to let them in? Where’s Mr. Elery?”

“On his way.” She glanced at Ricky and whispered, “I’m divorced.”

“Oh. Well let me know when you’re leaving so we can alert the Hazmat guys that you’ll be home.”

He got up and accidently scrapped the table against the tile floor, waking Ricky. The boy sat up groggily.

“Is Kaylee up, Mom?”

“Probably not, but let’s go see.”

They ambled down the hall to Kaylee’s room. Through the window the nurse motioned for them to come in. The oxygen tubes were still in Kaylee’s nose, and the IV dripped saline in her veins. A boxy apparatus, sidled with a large tubular appendage, and a bag of thick white liquid were next to her bed.

“What’s that?” Jen asked the nurse.

“In case she can’t eat. We will try to feed her through her mouth.”

“You mean force-feed her?”

The nurse nodded. “It may not be necessary. We have to see if she can keep food down.”

Ricky slowly moved closer to Kaylee. He wanted to hold her hand, but she seemed so ensconced in all the medical apparatus, he wasn’t sure. He looked at the nurse for permission, and she nodded. Ricky gently put his hand over his sister’s. The girl’s eyelids flickered, and she opened her eyes.

“Hi, Kaylee.”

“Hi, Ricky,” she said in barely a whisper. “Where am I?”

Jen moved closer so Kaylee could see her.

“You’re in the hospital. You’re sick, and the doctors here will help you. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Ricky looked up at his mother and frowned, then back to Kaylee.

“You look like a ghost, ya know. All white. Really scary.”

Jen wanted to slap him, but Kaylee smiled meekly. Just then Dan walked through the door.

“Dad!” Ricky said excitedly, and he let go of Kaylee’s hand.

Thank God he’s alone, Jen thought. Dan looked at Jen. He knew she needed a hug, but instead, he opened his arms to his son. He neared Kaylee’s bed and gently touched her arm.

“Hi, Dad. Do I look like a ghost?”

“No way, Kitten. You’ll be fine.”

She looked at her father, expressionless. She seemed lifeless but peculiarly unafraid. She asked for water, and a straw was placed at her thin lips, and she slowly sipped a few drops. Minutes later she threw up what little she had taken in.

Jen felt Dan’s fear, their mutual helplessness. She fought back tears, fought back feeling needy. When the doctor came in, Dan asked him a few questions. It was the short exchange of man talk that assumed too much and asked too little. When the doctor left, Dan turned to Jen.

“It doesn’t make sense that it’s something at the house, but let them check it out anyway, okay?”

“Why? The house is fine. Always has been.”

“Please Jen. I know this is upsetting and that you want stay here, but let the guy do the test. Take Ricky home, I’ll stay with Kaylee.”

He was consoling… almost comforting. “You both can get some rest and be there for the Hazmat guy. Okay?”

They looked at each other. It was a moment of clarity, and just one thing was important—their daughter’s health.

“Jen? You’ll be okay?”

She nodded. Her eyes filled, and she quickly turned away. “I’ll take Ricky home. Thanks, Dan.”

Jen pulled up to the small, two-story frame house. It was on a block lined with similar houses on a hill overlooking the river and the railroad tracks. The house didn’t look any different. Could there really be something here that made Kaylee sick? Was something leaking in? Some odorless, toxic substance?

Ricky dragged himself out of the car. “Mom, do I have to go to school today? I’m really tired. Can I just crash?”

“Sure, Sweetie. I’ll call the school. Let’s both get some sleep.”

Later that morning a plain white van pulled up to Jen’s house. A man got out, opened the back of the vehicle and pulled out a black case. Just inside the van’s double doors hung a pearly white Hazmat suit, replete with head and foot gear. The man grabbed the radon test kit and, as an afterthought, reached for a small Geiger counter. He switched it on low and hung it over his shoulder by a thin strap.

He knocked on the front door, but no one answered. The car was in the driveway, so he knocked again and waited. Still no one. He walked around looking for a door to a basement, where radon tests are done. He noticed a soft crackle from the Geiger counter and checked the reading: it was just normal, background radiation. He headed toward the backyard, and a boy bounded out of the porch.

“Hi. Are you the Hazmat man?” Ricky was instantly intrigued with the Geiger counter.

“I am. And who are you?”

“I’m Ricky Elery. I live here. You’re here to check the house because of my sister, right? She’s really sick.”

“Yup. That’s right. I’m Jeff Collins. I work down at the firehouse. Want to help me check for radon levels?”

“Cool. Is that a real Geiger counter hanging off your shoulder? We saw one in science class. Does it just measure radiation, or other stuff?”

“Just radiation. We use other devices to check for radon and gas leaks.”

The husky man knelt down to meet Ricky eye to eye and smiled. He grabbed the Geiger counter, explained how it worked and handed it to the boy.

“You want to hold on to this?”

“Wow. Can I really?”

“Sure. You hold the Geiger counter. Keep the sensor stick pointed out. We have to check for radon with this test kit. Can you show me to the basement?”

“There’s a door in the ground you have to lift up. Follow me!”

They walked along the side of the house on a small sidewalk lined with a single row of daffodils. At the far end was a clothesline draped with the kid’s clothes, dark and wet, still soaked with river water. As they neared the line, the crackling peaked instantly and then died down. Ricky looked up at the man.

“What made it do that?”

“Don’t know.”

The man stopped to get a fix on the sound. With the Geiger counter still hanging off Ricky’s shoulder, the man nudged the sensor toward the house, the garden, the ground, but the sound stopped.

Then he pointed it toward the clothesline, and the crackling modulated into a dense stream of white noise. He cautiously closed in to the clothes, gently pulling Ricky along.

“What the…?”

“What does it mean, Mr. Collins? Is it coming from our clothes?”

Puzzled, the man took the stick from Ricky and sketched imaginary lines around the house, the ground, and the clothesline. The crackling clearly came from the wet clothes.

“Hey Ricky. Did your mom just do the laundry or something?”

“No. No. These clothes are wet from the beach.”

“What beach?”

“The riverfront. We were horsing around in the water. That’s where Kaylee got really sick.”

The man froze. He took a few steps back and protectively put his arm in front of Ricky.

“Don’t touch anything, Ricky.”

With his eyes on the meter, he retraced lines around the pants, shirts, underwear, socks. Then he stopped.

“Why don’t we shut off the Geiger counter for now, Ricky. Know how to do that?”

The boy found the large black knob and clicked it off.

“Thanks,” Jeff said. “Is your mom home?”

Chapter 2

The high-pitched squeak of sneakers scuffling on the gym floor punctuated the shouts and jeers as the visiting team scored. It was the end of the season for the local college basketball team, and they were down forty points. Every point scored by the opposition prompted a cacophony of boos and catcalls. It was a scene Lou Padera loved, and he furiously jotted down notes in his reporter’s pad.

Lou was senior sports reporter for the Daily Suburban, a major newspaper in Westchester County, just outside New York City. At thirty-nine, Lou had been on staff for over a decade. His byline was popular; his stories were an exciting play-by-play description that read like a quick-action adventure story. Whether it was about local sports, minor or major leagues, his stories were balanced, covering the winners as much as the losers. At the games, he was in high gear, edgy, clenching his chewing gum to combat his smoking habit.

This was a play-off game, and the gym was packed, spectators revved. The players shimmied and danced to the beat of the ball, harnessing its energetic momentum. Every hard-hitting bounce and speedy pass fueled the fiery fans, who bellowed out their shouts of approval or condemnation.

Plastering the walls of the gym were ads of local businesses; most were dwarfed and sandwiched in by the large, splayed blue-and-white banners promoting ALLPower, the local electric company. The utility company not only sponsored the games, they gave hefty sports scholarships.

A kid scored a three-pointer from center court, and cameras flashed like a wave of sparklers. Lou shot out of his seat, nodded to himself, and quickly scribbled on his pad. It was that vicarious thrill that summoned his own days on the college basketball court when he charged the defense and effortlessly dunked the ball. Those years fed his dreams for a life with the pros. As a boy growing up in a poor Italian neighborhood just outside a city in New Jersey, he surprised his coaches with his talent on the court. At first his teammates made fun of his height—a mere six feet, short by basketball standards. But his solid, square frame whisked around the court, ducking and scooping the ball out from under the hands of the giants. It was a different style of playing, almost sneaky. When he earned a college scholarship, it fed the hopes of his parents, who believed a sports career would guarantee Lou a better life. But after college, the young man repeatedly tried out for the pros but never made the cut. Frustrated after each painful rejection, he slowly saw his dream fade and end.

He learned to write about sports in fits and starts. In college he interned for a local radio station as their on-air sports reporter. At first he struggled with what words to use to describe the action. He always excelled as an athlete and never had to fully focus on academics. He knew what he was saying didn’t quite catch the excitement of the game. After college, when he couldn’t get into the pros, he applied for a job as sportscaster at a local TV station close to where he grew up. If he couldn’t play the game, he could at least report on the thing he knew and loved. The camera liked Lou, with his mass of dark, wavy hair and intense blue eyes that said he knew it all. He was a natural on camera, which pleased the station management; even if Lou’s delivery was a bit awkward, he was eye candy for the viewers.

He honed his rhetoric, and he got better. But after a few years he wanted to move on. He heard of a newspaper job in Westchester, and by then, the sports lingo was second nature. He landed the job and found that the sports editor didn’t really expect great writing; he just wanted a bit about the game, the winner and loser, and who was playing next.

But now that he was writing and not speaking, Lou saw poetry in the athletes and was driven to get that into his writing. He was inspired by high-profile sports writers and eventually found his voice—the voice that echoed the heat of the game, the crushing disappointment of losing, the thrill of the win. His stories were a good read and hard to put down. His reputation as a sportswriter grew, and advertisers began asking for space next to stories by Lou Padera.

Time-out was called, and Lou looked over at the coach. Talking to the coach at mid game was strictly forbidden; it was bad form. But what the hell, a quick word or two wouldn’t hurt, would it? Coaches could say the damnedest things when they’re under pressure. Lou made his way to the bench and caught his reflection in the protective glass window guard, pausing to run his hand through his hair. He neared the floor and the bustling cheerleaders. A pom-pom brushed his face, and he lasciviously eyed the buxom girls jiggling into their routine. He smiled and winked at one of the young ladies, then made his way to the coach.

“What’s your strategy, coach?”

“Get lost, Padera. You’ve got balls bugging me right now.”

“What’s with your defense? Their game is really off—”

“Stop heckling me, Padera. I mean it. Get me when the clock stops ticking, would ya?”

Lou stood off to the side, and a minute later the scoreboard numbers flickered, favoring the opposition. Home-team fans waved their fists and rasped out boos and hisses. Lou chuckled and called over to the coach.

“Never saw the house so packed with fans, Coach. Maybe you should hear what they have to say?”

The coach ignored him. Then—

“Give me a break, Padera! These folks don’t know their ass from a jump shot—and don’t quote me. Just write that these are good-intentioned folks devoted to the team spirit. Got all that?”

Lou closed in. “You’re not telling me what to write, are you, Coach? I always make these kids look good, win or lose. You know that.”

Just then the home team scored, and applause erupted like a concert hall of kettledrums. The rush to beat the clock was on.

Later that evening Lou sat at his desk in the newsroom banging out the story. His headline read “Home team dunks a loss.”

A few other reporters were also working late, getting their stories in for the morning paper. Over the last six months the large room of wall-to-wall desks had become empty. Newspapers were struggling to beat out Internet news, watching sales and subscriptions plummet, regular advertisers pulling out ads. The upshot: reporters were being laid off.

Now, a lingering echo of a few clacking keyboards hung in the air. Tom Wilson, a heavyset reporter sat across from Lou, jerking a toothpick as he spoke.

“You gonna make deadline? The boss is chafing at the bit.”

Lou nodded and looked down at the end of the newsroom where his editor, Owen Marks, sat in a glass-enclosed office. Skinny and nervous, Owen was a young editor who also doubled as a reporter under the new austerity budget. From his desk, Lou could see Owen’s back and heard him barking into the phone.

Tom leaned over to Lou, his voice low. “He ask you to cover other stuff besides sports? The little bastard has me writing obits and the cop blotter. Sucks.”

“Nah. He’d never ask me. I’m his ace sports reporter. He’d be wasting his time trying to get me to cover other stories. He knows that.” Lou furiously typed his kicker line to end the story.

“Get real, Lou. Have you looked around here lately? See these empty desks? Newspapers are dinosaurs—only difference is no one will ever dig up our relics for posterity. We’ve lost out to the Internet. This baby could close down any day.”

“Jeez, Tom. We’re the largest daily paper outside New York City. We’ll never fold. Just going through a tough phase is all.”

Owens’s voice rasped out over Lou’s intercom.

“You got that story for me, Padera? The printer is holding up the works just for you, Lady. Why didn’t you file earlier, as soon as the game was over?”

Lou chuckled.

“Sorry Owen. Was interviewing a nice single mom of one of the players. Could make an interesting side story, you know? The struggles of a mom raising a son-athlete by herself, in a male-dominated game.”

“You’re out of control, Padera. File that story and get in here, will ya?”

Lou lost his smile.

“All in good time, boss.”

Tom shook his head. “Could be your turn now, Buddy.”

Lou tapped out a few more words and leaned back. He searched through a heap of scribbled notes where he usually jotted down story ideas to pitch to Owen, just in case he was asked to cover something else, as Tom predicted. But he came up empty-handed. Finally he sauntered down to the editor’s office, knocked on the glass door, and walked in. Owen, sunk in a canyon of folders and stacks of paper, motioned him over.

“Sit down, Lou. I need a favor.”

Lou remained standing. “I’m good. What’s up?”

Owen angled back in his worn swivel chair, and a plaintive creak sliced the air. He looked weary and older than his years.

“Look Lou, you’re one of my best reporters, and we know you can write about pretty much anything. Agreed?”

Lou nodded. His throat tightened.

“Okay. We’re spread thin, and you know that. I need you to cover another story—not sports related. Up until now, I’ve tried to spare you, but you’re the last man on the totem pole not covering other beats. Time you did what we’re all doing, Princess.”

Lou frowned. He placed his hands firmly on the back of a chair. Then he slowly sat down.

“Sports is all I know, Owen, and I’ve been taking on more, from derby bouts to the majors. I’m doing more than my share. I really object to this.”

“Wake up and smell the coffee, Your Highness. We’re all scrounging to keep our jobs. I have the paper’s owner on my ass, and the bottom line is you want to keep your job, you take more work. I’m rewriting fat-free cookie recipes, for God’s sake.”

“And when do you suggest I take on more? In the goddamn middle of the night?”

“Yes. If you’d let up on your gallivanting bachelor escapades, you’d be amazed how much extra time you have on your hands.”

Owen wrote something down on a scrap of paper and handed it to Lou. He read the note and worked his jaw.

“Who is she?”

“Jen Elery. It isn’t pretty. Just lost a young daughter to some freaky illness. The school community is grieving to the hilt. It’s emotions on steroids. They’re holding a vigil for the girl tonight. I want an exclusive interview with the mom. Do a good job, and I’ll get you front page billing. Go.”

Lou scowled at the paper and then glared at Owen. He stood up and whipped out the door.

It was mid-afternoon, and Lou sat in his car, stuck in traffic. It had been stop and go, and more than once he slammed on his brakes, just missing the tailgate of the car in front. He was miffed and not concentrating on driving. School buses were ruling the road, and traffic lurched forward a foot at a time.

How was he going to do this? Talk to a teary-eyed mom? He could grasp the loss of a basketball game, but not this. This was major, life altering. Although he didn’t have kids, he couldn’t imagine outliving your own child.

He was directly behind a school bus close to Jen’s house. The bus was letting off a young boy about ten years old. Lou watched the boy drag his backpack on the ground to his house and slump in through the front door.

Lou looked at his notes. Must be the brother. He parked at the edge of the driveway and turned off the motor. The house had a small view of the Hudson River and the commuter railroad station. Nice little spot, he thought.

Lou reached for his recorder and notepad but didn’t get out of the car. He tried to get his bearings. Leaning against the side of the house next to a few large black garbage bags was a small pink bike, it’s yellow and orange tassels, shriveled and dry, hanging off the handle bars.

He stared at the bike and bit down on the end of a stick of gum, waving it up and down before crunching the rest in his mouth. This was a bummer assignment. It meant relating emotionally, being extra sensitive—something hard for him to access.

Let’s get this over with, he thought as he quickly wadded up the gum into a piece of paper. He got out of the car and made his way to the house. He knocked and waited. A few moments later a wisp of a woman slowly opened the door. Her short brown hair was slicked back, revealing sunken brown eyes, wells framed by dark circles.

“Mrs. Elery?”

“Yes? Oh, you must be Mr. Padera. Please come in.”

He eased inside and stood in a small entry with a stairway on one side. Halfway up the stairs was the boy from the school bus.

“This is my son, Ricky,” Jen said. “Ricky, this is Mr. Padera from the newspaper. He’s writing a story about… about… Kaylee.”

Lou extended his hand to Ricky, who came down a few steps to meet him, meekly holding out his hand. “Hi, Mr. Padera. Nice to meet you.” The boy turned to his mother. “Going to do homework, Mom,” and he retreated up the steps.

Jen opened double glass doors and led Lou into a small living room. The blinds were partially closed, and thin slats of sunlight streaked the floor. Jen motioned for Lou to sit in an overstuffed chair, and she sat down close by on a small loveseat. He pulled out his pad and recorder and set them on an old trunk that served as a coffee table. Only one item occupied the table: a pewter-framed picture of Kaylee with a black ribbon woven through the latticework of the frame. Lou’s eyes were fixed on the picture. For a moment he lost his voice and fidgeted with his recorder. Jen frowned.

“Okay, Mrs. Elery. Let’s get started. Just how did your daughter get sick? Oh—and how old was she again? Just need some general background here.”

Jen stared at the recorder and then at Lou, who was poised to take notes. The room became airless.

In a low voice she said, “You know Mr. Padera, I… I don’t know if I can do this. I mean, I know you have a job to do, but really, it’s just too soon. I’m really sorry. I…”

Shit, Lou thought. He pressed her. “But you seemed willing just an hour ago on the phone, Mrs. Elery. What’s changed?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. Maybe you being right here in front of me. Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t feel… I just can’t do this.”

They sat in silence, and Lou looked down at his feet, exasperated. He thought about the girl’s bike outside. Taking a slow, inaudible breath, he picked up the recorder and his pad and tucked them in his pocket. He stood up and looked at the glass doors and back at Jen. Then he moved toward her.

“Can I sit down here?” He gestured to the small couch.

“I guess.”

He sat down, leaving as much space between them as possible. He spoke to her in a voice just above a whisper.

“Okay if we just talk off the record?”

She stiffened but gave a small nod.

“Look, just tell be about your daughter. Tell me what she was like, your favorite memories of her. I heard she won the spelling bee—she must’ve been a smarty. Let’s just chat a bit. What do you say?”

Her head suddenly fell into her hands and she began to cry. Through her muffled sobs she said, “This is what I’ve been trying to avoid! I don’t want to keep breaking down like this. What if Ricky hears me?”

She kept her head in her hands and wept silently. Lou moved to console her, but then he stopped. He let her cry and looked at the picture. He fought back his own tears.

“She looks like a great kid from her picture,” he said softly.

“Yes. She was a great kid,” Jen whispered. She raised her head and looked at Lou.

“She was the smartest kid in her class….”

An hour later Lou cranked the ignition key and pulled away from Jen’s house. It had taken him quite a while to get her to open up and talk freely. As she loosened up, he matched her sentiment, met her level of emotion. He finally convinced her she had a story to tell. She stopped, nodded, and then continued to talk. Her grief subdued her anger about Kaylee’s still inexplicable death, the dreary days of doctors shaking their heads as her little girl slipped away.

Lou pulled out his notepad and jotted down a few key phrases that would later jog his memory. Most of Kaylee’s story was in his head. If he had time, he wanted to check in with the medical community for the autopsy report. Perhaps some doctor would eventually gander a guess about the real cause of the child’s death.

He headed down the broad, winding road toward the river. The park was on the other side of the train tracks and about a mile out on a peninsula that jutted into the river. When he reached the river, he got out and started walking toward the beach area where he could hear kids splashing around in the water. When he got to the beach, he imagined Ricky and Kaylee playing here just a few weeks ago.

He took off his shoes and rolled up his pants. It was a perfect day for a swim. The distant whistle of the train pealed through the air as it headed north from the city, hauling workers home to the burbs. Lou wiggled his toes in the cool water. Without knowing exactly why, he knelt down and scooped up a glop of wet sand to smell it. Still crouched down, he held the innocuous clump of mud and looked around the cove. Maybe there was a large waste pipe, or something that might possibly taint the water. His gaze followed the curve of the cove and stopped abruptly on the two large domes of the power plant. He stood up robotically, eyes fixed on the rounded structures as the wet sand slid off his hand and into the water.

Chapter 3

A MOTHER’S TRAGIC LOSS

The strong headline ran right above the picture of Jen and Ricky on their front porch, standing next to a white wicker chair that eerily held Kaylee’s rag doll. Lou thought the picture was over the top. Just how did the photographer convince Jen to include the doll? A small inset picture of the lone pink bike also made Lou cringe; the picture pushed the emotional spin.

Lou’s insightful prose brought the girl to life. It was an unfamiliar style of writing that at first he was unsure of, a voice untapped. But when he thought about Jen’s despair, the words surfaced, hitting the page in a rush of raw grief over Kaylee’s tragic and untimely death. It was gripping.

The story touched briefly around the cryptic cause of the girl’s death. The doctors held that her weakened state as a highly allergic child with asthma compromised her immune system, and it was difficult to pinpoint exactly what killed the girl. Tissue from the autopsy was still being studied. For Lou it was too murky and slippery. It irked him that the cause of death was “inconclusive.” But he wasn’t all that invested in the story and didn’t pursue it. After all, it wasn’t his real beat.

Owen was thrilled and doled out a single compliment couched with a bit of sarcasm.

“Well looky here! A classic tear jerker. You really can write about anything, can’t you, Padera?”

The backhanded compliment became a vehicle for the young editor to press his agenda. Lou saw what was coming.

“Thanks, but don’t get any ideas. This was a one-time deal.”

Owen chuckled, shaking his head.

“Not anymore, Padera. This piece puts you smack in the arena for other stories.”

Then he added, “But I’ll go easy on you. Sports stories get priority—they’re the ones that sell.”

Just a few miles north of the news room, the Daily Suburban was spread open to Lou’s story on the large oak desk of Bob Stalinksy, the head of communications for ALLPower, the company that owned the nuclear power plant. His top-floor office in the eight-story glass tower had a panoramic view of the Hudson River. Two windows at the back looked out behind the building at the plant’s raw industrial sprawl. An opaque gunmetal window shade muted the outlines of the nuclear power domes, the generator building, and the structure that housed the fuel pool holding radioactive waste.

Bob leaned forward in his mahogany-and-leather chair and studied the picture of Kaylee, his brow furrowed. His phone intercom buzzed.

“Bob, it’s your wife. You want to take this, or should I give the usual excuse?”

He bit his lip. What did he forget this time?

“I’ll take it.” He plucked up the phone.

“Hey, Babe. What’s up?”

His wife, Morgan, cackled on the other end.

“Did you remember about the fund-raising dinner tonight? I’m the chairwoman pushing this one. It’s black tie. You do remember, don’t you?”

He looked at his desk calendar. It said “Basketball game—ALLPower Trophy.”

“Oh geez, Babe. I didn’t forget, but the boss just asked me to stand in for him tonight and award a trophy at a high school basketball game. We sponsor them, you know. It’s great for the company’s image.”

He heard the long, frustrated inhale. Then she said, “The image I have of you right now makes a gorilla shitting in the woods look appealing.”

The woman had a way with words. He winced. Here we go, he thought. He leaned back and started to rock in small, quick movements. In just another minute she would slam down the phone. Just count to ten.

Bob had been working at the plant for five years. When he started he was thirty and newly married. Now, at thirty-five his temples were peppered gray, contrasting his cropped dark brown hair. His soft stubble beard was a hint of scruff, slimming his paunchy jowls. Dark, bushy eyebrows framed his gray, squinty eyes, like gashes that sparked out from a pasty complexion. Square built, he struggled to keep his heft under control.

Bob possessed an affable charm and a winning smile. He was good at promoting the company, and his work was highly valued by the ALLPower top brass. He was rewarded with substantial yearly raises.

The science of nuclear power wasn’t exactly Bob’s forte, but he understood the basics. He reluctantly majored in Communications in college, a suggestion that came from his overbearing mother, Stella. Out of habit, he’d balked, then acquiesced. Even though she was his mother, she was usually right.

By the time Bob graduated college, the country was demanding green energy, favoring nuclear over the dirty coal-fired plants that spewed nasty particulates into the air. For Bob it was a no-brainer: coal was dirty, nuclear was clean and didn’t pollute the air. The nuclear industry was here to stay, an easy sell right now, and in the future. You have to believe in what you sell, right?

But a lot could go wrong at a nuclear power plant. Devastating accidents at Three Mile Island and a few years later at the Russian plant in Chernobyl shook the world and severely marred the reputation of the nuclear power industry. Panic over doomsday meltdowns fed a skittish level of fear. Movies like The China Syndrome pushed that fear to front and center, and anti-nuclear, grass-roots groups cropped up all over the country, waging a war against the dangers of nuclear power, feeding fear about the increasing accidents at aging plants.

The reputation of the nuclear power industry was seriously marred and in need of a new PR campaign.

Bob changed tactics and honed the fine art of spinning bad news into good—how ALLPower was different from other plants in the country. He would sweeten the plant’s image and reign in the skeptics, a challenge he liked.

He had had plenty of practice. ALLPower purchased the plant a year before Bob was hired. It was a risky deal because the plant was one of the oldest in the country, with faulty, aging components. The company spent millions of dollars on upgrades, but it was an endless chase to fix everything: as one new repair was crossed off the list, something else would break down. Bob became adept at issuing a press release about some malfunction at the plant that read like a straightforward information bulletin. Nothing was wrong, nothing to worry about. We are doing our job and letting everyone know what’s happening. We’re your trusty utility company selling you electricity you can’t live without.

The local newspapers and TV and radio stations reiterated Bob’s press release verbatim, no questions asked. Nuclear power was just too complicated to explain, and if the plant officials said things were okay, they must be okay. Why alarm the public if there was nothing really bad going on?

Schmoozing with local community groups made Bob feel like he was infiltrating the enemy. He ventured out to activist meetings, sometimes anonymously, just to keep tabs on their strategy, if they had one. He was undercover, spying, and even though he hoped to go unnoticed, at times someone would recognize him. On a dime, he jumped into the PR role of the paternal, well-intentioned ALLPower spokesman who was truly involved with his community. What were they were afraid of? What were their concerns? He’d reassure them, make them rest easy.

Bob would surprise the few suddenly disloyal politicians who had padded their campaigns with ALLPower dollars but were now giving lip service to shutting the plant down. He loved to pounce on these guys—in their face, working a handshake that pumped a sardonic edge, his wink more than a subtle reminder of money and political clout.

And then there was the fun, occasional flirting with the women activists. They were way too serious, and he couldn’t help joking about their fears. Did they really know how nuclear power worked and how safe it really was? It was verbal sparring that flexed the muscle of his male prowess.

Between the evening meetings and the regular workday, Bob arrived home late at night and left before dawn. At first Morgan seemed okay with it; the money was good, the sacrifice seemed worth it. She had an independent spirit and would keep busy and stay healthy. She desperately wanted to get pregnant and purposely chose a house in an up-and-coming bedroom community on the other side of the Hudson River to start a family. It was a long commute from the plant, but Bob wanted Morgan to be happy.

Making a baby started out being fun. But it wasn’t as easy as they thought it would be. After two years with an unproductive womb, Morgan became desperate. She checked in with one fertility specialist after another, cursing them for being “useless witch doctors” as successive attempts to help her conceive failed. After a few years of riding the emotional roller coaster of hope and disappointment, the couple’s enthusiasm waned. They pretended it didn’t matter, but secretly each hoped for a miracle. Bob plunged into his work and inwardly wrote off parenthood. Morgan grew unhinged and needy, and tried to balance it with volunteer work for an organization that helped disadvantaged children.

Now, sitting at his desk reading the story about young Kaylee Elery, Bob fought back a sob for the girl and her mother. How impossible parenthood must be. Maybe it was just as well he wasn’t a father. Shaking off the emotion, he checked the memo about the trophy ceremony at the local high school that evening. Secretly he was glad to go to an event that celebrated youth rather than some stuffy gala.

It was afternoon when Lou banged out a rough story about the high school game he would cover later that evening. When the game was over, he would fill in the blanks and file the story just before deadline. It would be a story parents and teachers would jump to, anxious to see a picture of their kids and their name in print. His phone rang.

“Padera here. On deadline. Can I call you back?”

“Have you figured out how that young girl really died?”

A woman’s voice.

“Who is this?”

“Check out stuff leaking from the old nuke plant. That will give you a clue.” Click.

Lou glared at the phone. He quickly punched a code to trace the call, but the number was blocked. What was that about? He returned to his story and wrote some formulaic wrap-up that he could change depending on who won the game. He leaned back, his eyes fixed on his phone, his mind picturing the two plant domes on the river’s edge.

Chapter 4

Diana Chase wiped the tears from her face. She slowly folded up the newspaper and put Jen Elery’s story out of sight. As the assistant principal of an elementary school, she mustn’t be seen crying, especially for the next ten minutes as she greets kids bouncing off the school bus and funneling through the halls to their classrooms.

She regained her composure and pulled a mirror from her desk drawer, swishing back her straight, dark auburn hair from her angular face, her features a striking composite of her Irish mother and her Asian father. Her dark brown eyes were still red and blotchy, nothing some eye drops and a quick brush of mascara wouldn’t fix.

Outside her window, Diana could see the morning procession of school buses pull up the front drive, their yellow hulks casting a golden hue over the brightly lit office. She kept the room sparse. Except for her computer, a neat stack of folders on a file cabinet, and a single shelf of books, Diana allowed herself only a few personal items: a large aquarium by the window for her box turtle and a long, colorful dragon kite arching a far corner near the door. On her desk was a small picture of her shih tzu, Lin, next to a slightly larger, years-old picture of her parents, her mom’s flaming red hair tickling the cheek of her smiling dad.

Diana stood up and did a quick yoga stretch and headed out into the reception area, where she could see directly into the office of the principal, Jane Bigley. Jane hired Diana five years ago, and the two women ran the school like clockwork. Jane was considerably older than the thirty-eight-year-old Diana, and except for butting heads a few times over school policy, they got along. Ultimately, both women were professionally committed to the students; in the great educational complex, the kids came first.

The reception area was large, with two desks for secretaries and one for a receptionist. Two of the desks were empty; one secretary was out on maternity leave and the receptionist had taken early retirement. Diana’s morning station was traffic control in the school lobby; stopping the running and pushing, saying hi to the kids she knew, checking their energy—who was excited, who was sickly, who would get in trouble that day. It was the faces of kids streaming past her each morning that inspired Diana and fueled her dedication.

“Hey, Jimmy! Remember your lunch today?”

“Sure did, Ms. Chase!”

“Don’t drop your violin, Meghan!”

“I got it, Ms. Chase.”

As the parade thinned out, Ricky Elery walked in, his gait slow, eyes to the floor. Diana fought the tears and looked away. Suddenly Jane was by her side and stepped up to the boy.

“Hi, Ricky. Are you competing in the fifth grade readathon this month?”

“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Bigley. No. I’m just not up to it this time.”

He looked at Jane and Diana, sensing their pity.

“See ya,” he said, turning toward the stairs to his second-floor classroom.

Diana turned to Jane.

“Good try. Do you think he’s okay?”

“Don’t know. Let’s keep our eye on him. Here’s a tissue.”

Diana dabbed her eyes and nodded toward the outside parking lot.

“His mom is still driving him to school every day. She sits in the parking lot for about an hour before she leaves.”

“Poor Jen Elery.”

“Can we do anything for her?”

“Don’t know. Let’s try to come up with something.”

After teaching for almost thirteen years, Diana knew that the worst emotional trauma for a school community was the loss of a fellow student. Shocked by Kaylee’s death, the PTA organized a candlelight vigil and a food campaign to deliver meals to Jen and Ricky for the next few months. But the distraught, estranged mother shunned the offer. She wanted no part of the vigil. She just wanted to be left alone.

Diana headed for her office, half listening to Jane over the PA system incant the Pledge of Allegiance and then segue into morning announcements.

Diana sprinkled some dried turtle food into the aquarium, which took up a large place on her windowsill. She looked out to the parking lot, at the bright yellow forsythia bordering the edge, which sent out a fiery glow. At the far end of the lot, Diana saw Jen sitting in her car, staring at the school. It seemed the grieving mother wanted to stay as close to her son as possible.

Diana stared at Jen’s car. After a minute, she picked up the phone and punched Jane’s extension.

“Yes, Diana?”

“What’s happening with the part-time receptionist job out in front?”

“The job’s on hold for now.”

“Could we offer it to Jen Elery?”

“Maybe. She could give it a try as a volunteer and then see…”

Two minutes later Diana was outside walking slowly toward Jen’s car. As she got closer she saw that the woman had her seat tilted back and seemed to be sleeping. Diana softly knocked on the window. Jen startled up, glaring at Diana through the closed window. Then slowly she rolled the window down.

“Hi, Mrs. Elery. Do you remember me? I’m Diana Chase, the assistant principal.”

“Oh. Yes. Hello. Do they want me to leave? I can leave. I’ll go right now.”

She gripped the steering wheel without starting the car.

“No. It’s okay to be here,” Diana soothed. “I saw Ricky a bit this morning and he seems to be getting along okay. His teacher, Mrs. Aron, says he’s quite the reader. He always wants to take about ten books out of the library.”

Jen attempted to smile. “You’re very kind to tell me this.”

“Well, it’s true. He’s a great kid. But I have an ulterior motive. I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition? What… what do you mean?”

“How would you like to volunteer for a bit in the front office? If it works out, we may be able to turn it into a part-time job. You can come in a few days a week, if you like. You can be near your son.”

Jen looked at Diana and then turned away for a moment, her hands letting go of the steering wheel. Then she opened her car door and got out.

“I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Ms. Chase, but what if I break down in front of Kaylee’s friends? I wouldn’t be much help to you in that state. I’ve become such a crybaby.”

Diana moved closer to Jen. “You could just give it a try, and if it’s too much, you can opt out.”

Jen looked at Diana and then at the school.

“When would I start?”

“How about right now?”

Jen leaned back against her car and closed her eyes. Diana moved closer and stood by her side.

“You can make your own schedule. We’re very flexible. Just give it a try. Please?”

For the first time in weeks, Jen thought about doing something other than grieve. She had taken a break from her part-time job that allowed her to work from home on her computer. It was just last night that she just packed up the last of Kaylee’s things in boxes and stored them in the attic. What do you do with your dead daughter’s party dress and spelling bee trophies?

Working at the school might ease her relentless sense of despair. A change of scene, if only a few hours a day, might be therapeutic. Also, it would be good for Ricky to see his mother active. Jen looked at Diana. It was hard to turn her down.

“Okay, Ms. Chase. I’ll give it a try. Thank you for asking me.”

Diana gently took Jen’s arm. “It will be fun, you’ll see. You’ll really love being around the kids, and you can call me Diana.”

The two women walked arm in arm into the school.

Chapter 5

Reaching out to Jen Elery was just Diana’s style. She easily made friends, and it kept her social circle wide. New people intrigued her; she called it her nosey streak.

Before moving to Westchester, Diana had worked an eight-year stint as a teacher in an inner-city grade school in a poor Bronx neighborhood. She believed that change started from the bottom up, and that education was the ticket to help minorities climb out of the vicious cycle of poverty. She always sided with the underdog. It was part of her upbringing.

As an only child of a mixed marriage—her mother was Irish and her father Japanese, she learned to accept and understand differences. Both her parents were teachers on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, a heavily diverse neighborhood, where the couple blended in and was accepted. Diana inherited a fiery Irish spirit from her mother—one that was occasionally tempered by inscrutability, a gene from her father. Her activist streak was acquired in childhood: she was led to demonstrations in Washington Square Park, where her parents and their friends protested against teacher layoffs, budget cuts, and rent hikes—not to mention unpopular wars. Her father would carry her on his shoulders as they listened to pundits running for office. They always backed the dark-horse candidates.

Being a good teacher was a built-in aspiration, even though her parents encouraged her to pursue science, her best subject. But she intuitively followed in their footsteps. As a sixth grade teacher in the Bronx school, she worked for hours on lesson plans geared to keep kids focused and learning. Her dream was to educate the poor to eventually erase class differences. Every incremental gain by her students was immensely rewarding. Her job was her life, and although she knew a lot of people, there was little time to socialize. Dating fell by the wayside; relationships took up too much time. She resigned herself to being single, but sometimes, out of loneliness, she would graciously consent to a blind date. After all, she liked men and liked to flirt, and who knew? He could be the one.

Men were seduced by her striking features: her full, pouting lips that easily broke into a smile, her thin, energetic body and shapely legs that occasionally flaunted spiked heels. When she happened to fall love, the initial rush of passion lasted a month or two before her interest waned, and the affair would come to a grinding halt. Diana had her priorities. If the choice was to either help a struggling student after school or dine by candlelight, she sided with the kid. The brief romances would end with either a broken heart or marked by indifference, but she always offered friendship in the aftermath. After all, on the emotional scale, male friends were lower maintenance than male lovers.

Teaching in the Bronx made her tough. The constant battle to get basic teaching tools from a bankrupt school district drove her to persevere. She haggled with school administrators and wrote long-winded letters to politicians demanding more funds for her school. She was always available to meet with working parents at night to talk about their kids. You had to believe in the community, the kids, and their future. What else was there?

Years of persistence and dedication didn’t go unnoticed by educators in high places, and she was rewarded with offers to work in better schools, or with more lofty positions in administration. For a time, she resisted, unable to imagine herself outside the classroom. But years of begging for blackboard chalk and pleading for used textbooks had worn thin and took their toll. When a position for assistant principal opened up in a New York City suburb, she thought twice. It was a more affluent area than the Bronx, but would she be selling out if she worked in a school district that had more resources? She argued with herself back and forth, and finally, it wasn’t without guilt that Diana acquiesced and eventually accepted the job. She often reflected on the decision with sadness even now, five years later.

She moved to a cozy cottage on a small lake, just a few miles from the elementary school. It was in one of the many one-story homes built in the 1940s as a summer escape from the city. The house had been winterized for year-round use, a trend that was accommodating a growing area, one that had been transformed from a bucolic rural community to a suburb, now part of the raw urban sprawl. The icing on the cake for Diana was that living in the burbs meant she could get a dog—a true and dedicated companion.

On the first fall day just two months after she moved out of the city, Diana was trying her hand at planting flowers, something she knew absolutely nothing about, but she was willing to experiment. She wasn’t the green-thumb type, and even though she understood the science of regeneration, she always scrunched her nose when sinking her hands in the ground, the soil blackening her fingernails. But little by little she learned to plop bulbs in a small patch outside her front door, plant a few store-bought flowers under her kitchen window and along a side path leading down to the lake. There was something magical about putting bulbs in the ground, knowing something would pop up in the spring.

Kneeling on the ground, she spotted Lin rolling in something smelly at the end of the driveway and turned the hose on to wet down the squirmy little canine. The perky dog yapped and came up on all fours, drenched. Suddenly the dog’s ears shot up as a piercing alarm drowned out all other sounds. What was that? It definitely wasn’t a fire alarm. The long, high-pitched wail was mind-numbing and went on for about two minutes. It was unsettling. When it stopped Diana called over to her neighbor, who was power washing his deck. She waved her arms to get his attention, and he turned off the washer.

“Hey, Sam, was that a special fire alarm or what?”

“What’s that you say, Diana?”

“The siren? What is it for?”

“Oh that. Probably just a test for the nuke plant is all.”

“What nuke plant? You mean a nuclear power plant?”

“Yup. Just down the way there. ALLPower. Electricity. You know.” He nodded vaguely toward the road, and Diana jerked her head in the same direction as if the plant was within site.

“Just how close are we to the plant? How often do they test the alarms?”

“Let’s see. We’re about four, five miles away. It’s down by the river a ways. Siren tests run every now and then. I dunno.”

Wasn’t she the curious one?

“So, how do you know if it’s a test or if something is really wrong at the plant?”

“It’s always a test, Diana. Don’t worry your pretty head. The plant is fine. Always has been.”

She shook her head.

“If it’s fine, why do they have the sirens?”

But her neighbor was picking up the power motor and ducking inside his garage. Oh well, Diana thought. I guess it’s no big deal.

She had forgotten about the plant except for the annoying, monthly scream of the sirens. It was troubling, but she shrugged it off and got on with her day, just like everyone else. Occasionally she noticed ALLPower’s name in the newspaper, especially their brightly colored, full page ads that said “Your Community Power Plant: Safe, Essential, Local.” Articles about ALLPower were usually about monies the company donated to local sports programs and to students who excelled at their game. Sometimes, at the very bottom of the story was a brief, unremarkable report concerning some technical item at the plant.

It was at an Earth Day celebration at the riverfront park that Diana found out why the sirens were tested every month. A woman approached her with a petition to close down ALLPower, pointing at the two domes just to the north.

“Close the plant? Why?” Diana asked.

“Oh my God. You don’t know? How long have you lived here?”

“Less than a year. Just moved up from the city. What’s the big deal?”

“Read this.”

The woman thrust a folded pamphlet into Diana’s hand. On the front, a sketch of the two domes fell under bold letters that read “Profits Before Safety!” Inside was a bulleted list of problems plaguing the aging plant, from the cracked containment domes to leaky pipes and a faulty safety record.

“ALLPower has a dismal track record for safety,” said the woman excitedly.

“But I never hear anything about this? Are you sure of your facts?”

The woman glared at her. “Of course you don’t hear about it. The company controls the press, girl. No one really finds out anything unless they go digging for the info like I do.”

The woman seemed a bit fanatic. Diana reluctantly looked over the pamphlet.

“And you think they should close? What about our electricity? Where would we get power?”

“There’s plenty of electricity we can get from other, safer plants as well as solar, wind, hydro. And no one is pushing folks to conserve energy. It’s a damn shame,” the woman shook her head continuing her rant. “Believe me. This plant is one of the oldest in the country! Bad stuff is happening there all the time. You should call the Nuclear Regulatory Commission in Washington—the NRC—the feds. Just know that they’re in bed with the industry, believe me.”

“In bed with the—what on earth are you talking about?” The woman was weaving riddles. Was there any truth to what she was saying?

“Oh boy. So much you don’t know. It’s a charade. The NRC—they’re supposed to protect us from the unsafe nukes, but it’s a joke. They have to keep the plants open. Figure it out. If the nukes close, the NRC wouldn’t have any plants to regulate. The NRC would be out of a job. Get it?”

“You mean if a plant is really dangerous, they’d keep it open regardless? I find that a bit hard to believe.”

“Think again. Think Chernobyl, Three Mile Island. Stuff goes wrong at these places all the time.”

The woman fumbled around in a large brown duffle bag stuffed with dog-eared petitions, buttons, bumper stickers. Finally she unearthed a business card of someone at the Nuclear Regulatory Commission.

“Here. Call this guy at the NRC and get on their e-mail list for accident reports. But brace yourself. After you read this stuff you won’t sleep nights.”

At first she was reluctant to pursue information about the plant. Like a toe tap on the surface of the water, Diana timidly took the pulse of a few neighbors: Were they worried or afraid something could go wrong at the plant? She got everything from uncertain shrugs to “too scary. I just don’t want to know about it.”

Yes, the plant had problems, but ALLPower paid a chunk of taxes, unburdening many residents who couldn’t really afford to live in one of the richest counties in the country. Yes, maybe there was an occasional accident, but wasn’t the NRC overseeing all that?

Diana tried to track down past news stories, but each one left her with more questions. Suddenly, she was on a mission, just like chasing after new textbooks. What about the NRC guy? Could she ask him a simple question and get a simple answer? She procrastinated but finally, driven to get clear answers, she called the name on the business card: Dick Isling, the NRC press person.

She made lists of the things she didn’t understand. In the end it all came down to one basic question: Was the plant safe?

“Yeah, the plant is safe,” said Isling. “It’s old, but we see the plant operating within code. Did you know that there are three reactors? One is already closed.”

His tactic: overwhelm her. Throw her a tome of detailed history laced with technical jargon. She wouldn’t know what hit her. After ten minutes, knee deep in more than she asked for, Diana lost her focus.

“Wait, Mr. Isling. What is background radiation again? And just what is inside a reactor that could rupture?”

He launched into a series of explanations. Diana furiously scribbled notes, the phone pressed hard into her ear. Mutely, she shook her head.

“Look, Mr. Isling, can you please slow down? I’m really a little slow with all this.”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry. I’m used to talking to the press. They usually have a basic knowledge about nuclear power. I’ll backtrack a little.”

He rattled off more information. Yes ALLPower had some problems, but they were being monitored. If the public’s health and safety were in any way compromised, the NRC would take action.

“What kind of action?” Diana asked.

“We would give them a warning. Maybe a fine. Something like that.”

“What if something really dangerous happened, like at Three Mile Island. Or Chernobyl?”

“No, no, no. Those plants are a different design. Listen, I got to jump off the phone, but feel free to call or e-mail when you have more questions.”

Diana was exasperated. A nuclear power plant was complicated, and it seemed as if a myriad of problems could quickly become a dangerous situation—if she understood him right. Maybe she didn’t quite get what Isling was talking about. Maybe she should let it go for a spell.

The plant and its problems stewed around in her head for weeks, like a dull headache. It ran a parallel course with her everyday existence, a course that eventually collided, unexpectedly, with the innocent faces of her young students. What was in store for them? Why should tons of lethal radioactive waste that lasted several hundreds of years be their problem?

She plunged in again and decided to have social gatherings at her house specifically to talk about the plant. Whether it was an evening coffee klatch or a lawn party, Diana found herself pressing for some kind of action. Sipping wine by the lake with Lin sitting in her lap seemed to soften the grim conversation. She gave out copies of a list she compiled enumerating accidents that happened at the plant over the last decade.

“We can organize, pressure politicians,” she suggested to her friends. Some were wary. Battling a huge corporation? A David and Goliath scenario for sure. What could they do and how would they do it? Diana knew it was a challenge, but it was imperative they get their voices heard.

She was systematic in reaching out. It was her style to be persistent and to proceed logically. Many found her convincing, and after months of “entertaining,” Diana had the help of a handful of friends who would, in turn, talk to other people, get petitions signed, call local politicians. As the circle grew, she saw the beginning of a grassroots movement to close the plant. The goal was to warn about the dangers of the plant not only to the immediate community but also to get the word down to New York City, just twenty-four miles away. If a Chernobyl-type accident happened at ALLPower and radiation spread south, the city could easily be wiped out. Tapping into the press was imperative.

Diana appealed to other environmental groups, some with the backing of famous movie stars, others aligned with rich foundations pushing for conservation. People became concerned, even angry, but Diana’s campaign never quite reached the critical mass that would loosen the utility’s grip on local government and taxpayers.

The more she learned about how nuclear power worked, the more her own inner fears deepened and crept up on her. She felt an imaginary line connecting her gut to the hulking mass of concrete, the impenetrable buildings harboring dangerous radioactive fuel that was stored precariously in the pools and in the open on the plant grounds. It played in her psyche as a formidable foe—omnipresent, a shadow that hovered over her as she moved about her community. She held fast to this connection; relinquishing its presence even for a moment would lessen her drive to close the plant down.

A fire drill at school prompted another fear. Would an accident at the plant require a special evacuation? Was there a workable plan? Diana did the legwork and found that a plan had been drawn up over thirty years ago, when the population was less than half what it was now. But what was the plan exactly, and did it explain what kids in school were supposed to do? Where to go? Not surprisingly, copies of the evacuation plan were neither at the school nor at the superintendent’s office. For the first time, she called ALLPower to see if they had a copy and ended up talking to their PR guy, Bob Stalinsky.

“Geez, Ms. Chase. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a plan,” Bob cooed into the phone. Who was this gal and why on earth was she asking about evacuation?

“Have you even heard about the plan, Mr. Stalinsky?”

“Can’t say I have. You know ALLPower has its own evacuation plan for our workers. We’re not required to have a local plan. Why don’t you try the NRC. They might have it.”

“What’s your plan like? Do workers have to get a certain distance away from the plant?”

“To tell you the truth—can I call you ‘Diana’? Well, I never really looked at ALLPower’s evacuation plan. Never had to. Never worried about it. What’s this all about—if you don’t mind my asking?”

The guy made her feel itchy. “I’m an assistant principal at a grade school, and I’m concerned about what could happen to the kids, that’s all. Listen, thanks for the information, Mr. Stalinsky. I’ll check with the NRC.”

It would be her second call to the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, and she hoped for yes or no answers from Dick Isling.

“Evacuation isn’t under our jurisdiction,” he told her. “Our oversight covers only plant components. Have you tried FEMA, the fed’s emergency management agency?” She called FEMA and waded through several staff people before getting to the right person. Yes, there was a plan, but it was probably outdated. They might be able to find a copy; it was probably archived on microfiche. Meanwhile, why doesn’t she try her state emergency office to see if they had it? She called the state and got more of the same.

Maybe she could get a straight answer from her local county legislator, who would value her as a voting constituent. But when she got him on the phone, the man had only a vague idea of what she was talking about.

It was the kind of frustration that drove Diana to obsession. Every response reeked of apathy and irresponsible government, which was so ingrained in the system, and even worse, that was accepted as if nothing was wrong. It was routine; it was just the way things were.

Finally, after months of dogged pursuit, a copy of the evacuation plan arrived in the mail from SEMO, New York State’s emergency office. Diana took the sixty-five-page manuscript typed on plain white paper and, with a cup of strong black tea, sat in her overstuffed armchair and started reading. Halfway through the report the hairs on her neck started to bristle.

Chapter 6

The deep pool of water is still. An aqua glow emanates from the bottom, where a jungle of steel racks and metal hardware are submerged like a sunken ship in a remote corner of the sea.

Forty feet down and under the weight of thousands of gallons of water, the racks are illuminated by glinty points of light that pierce the water and bounce off long, thin tubular pipes. Inside these brassy vessels are the skeletons of atomic fission, parts that once moved in an unwieldy dance of atoms building to a feverish rhythm, then to a burning heat. Heat that bears an endless energy. Now these submerged bundles of long, thin, gold-colored pipes are filled with used, irradiated fuel, fuel that still holds a raging heat to be slowly cooled in the watery tomb.

Somewhere under the pool are layers of bedrock. While solid to the touch, this stratum of the earth’s crust shifts at random, subject to a geological whim every now and then. One early spring day the bedrock layers yielded to a subtle heave and quaked slightly. Hairline cracks developed, sending fractured tendrils along arbitrary paths of least resistance, tiny tunnels that would carry water laced with toxic radioactive isotopes out to the world.

The undetectable tremor caused a brief, curious ripple on the blue, glassy surface of the nuclear plant spent-fuel pool. It might have been cause for concern had anyone seen it. But workers monitoring the pool were changing shifts, and the subtle vibration went unnoticed. Luckily, the vessels of used fuel were left intact. But deep below the sunken tubes, a weak spot in the pool wall cracked, and a new conduit connected to the veins in the bedrock. Contaminated water slowly seeped out into the ground and into the river. Eventually it would wash up on the sands of a popular recreational beach.

It was just after dinner break at the plant. Larry Hines packed up his lunch box and headed to the control room, the plant’s central nervous system, the hub. A year ago, Larry quit his job as control-room foreman after manning the helm for ten years. He loved every minute of it, until things started to break down. ALLPower executives were surprised when he asked for a transfer. What stress? Wasn’t he making top dollar? What more could he want?

Larry was reluctant to spell it out for them; surely they saw the writing on the wall. How the number of unfixed repairs fed the growing potential for dangerous accidents. It wasn’t only loyalty that kept Larry working at ALLPower; the plant was like his baby. He knew every nook and cranny, the vulnerable spots and places for likely slipups.

He became an inspection manager, a job that meant looking over everyone’s shoulder and spending extra time with workers at various stations. He would pour over checklists for accuracy, chew the fat, hang out. Many plant employees were Larry’s friends—some, more like his family. He’d rather be at the plant than go home to an empty house with his kids grown and gone and painful reminders of his wife who succumbed to breast cancer years ago.

Larry was in his midfifties, a short, stocky man with rimless glasses and red hair now fading to gray. A permanent crease bridged his brows, an unswerving stamp of worry and the focal point of his ruddy complexion. He sweated a lot, even in the winter.

Among the plant’s one thousand employees, Larry had the reputation of being reliable, trustworthy, and easygoing. Spending time with plant workers was his way of making sure everyone was handling the work load—especially the security guards, who tended to drift off at night. It was his version of personal oversight. He fretted about how much could go wrong, and he wanted to make sure the plant was running as smoothly as possible.

This particular evening he was working the late shift. With only three hours to go and time to kill, Larry headed to the control room. He walked through the turbine room and was dwarfed by the giant beige-painted turbines that loomed some forty-five feet high. The thunderous roar forced him to put on his ear plugs, which hung off his neck with the rest of his “nuclear jewelry”—identification badge and safety goggles. Pinned to his collar was the ominous dosimeter that measured radiation exposure. A white hard hat topped his head.

He rang the security buzzer outside the control room and looked through the door’s small window. His stomach squirmed. One of the men looked up and buzzed the door open. Larry poked his head in the door, cautious not to fully step inside. He could easily slip into the old role, the commander, the scolder. If he looked hard enough he would find something amiss, for sure.

Five men sat with their backs to the door in a semicircle, manning the giant cockpit of monitors spaced between an electronic landscape of color-coded buttons, knobs, and toggle switches. Periodically, buzzes and beeps honked out a staccato beat, a counterpoint to the flashing green numbers and flickering screens, the busy terrain of the control panel. A small shelf held two old-style rotary dial telephones, one black and one red, for the infrequent but dreaded calls to management or the NRC.

“Everything cool in here?” Larry called out. The men nodded robotically. One turned to face him.

“How’s it going Larry? Want your old gig back?”

“No way,” he grunted, eyeing a monitor that showed the inside of the containment dome, the core, where man’s triumph over harnessing nuclear fission was an everyday occurrence. It was here that enriched uranium atoms were split in a lightening chain reaction producing tremendous heat, heat that was used to boil water and create high-pressured steam. The steam drove the turbines that generated electricity.

Larry’s cursory glance from screens to numbers told him things were under control.

“Keep up the good work, you guys. See ya!”

He exited back through the turbine room, fidgeting with his ear plugs, and then headed to one of the lounges where Larry’s friend Jason was bound to be taking a break. When Jason wasn’t working his regular shift monitoring the spent-fuel pool, he was on the special crew that swapped out the used, spent fuel, replacing it with new fuel, an extremely dangerous job.

Extracting the used fuel was mostly done underwater. The radioactive uranium pellets worked their nuclear magic inside the long rods that were bundled together in “fuel assemblies.”

When the uranium became unstable and more radioactive, it had to be removed. The entire process was called a “fuel outage,” a routine job done every five months that lasted for weeks. The used fuel bundles were submerged in the forty-foot pool to cool down, a process that took years.

Larry found Jason in the lounge gulping down a soda and packing up his gear to go back to work.

“How’s it going, Jason?”

“Not so bad. How’s by you?”

“Same old, same old. You working the outage?”

“Yup.”

Jason looked haggard. Larry remembered the last time Jason worked the special crew, and it triggered a deep mental twinge. The men and women were always tired, trying to beat out the exhaustion brought on by arduous twelve-hour shifts. Larry nagged the foreman to hire more workers and shorten the work shifts, but he got a shrug and some excuse about cheap management.

Larry looked at Jason. “You look tired. How are you holding up?”

“Not bad. My shift is over in a few hours. Heading home to bed.”

“You working the ten-hour shift?”

“Twelve.”

“Yikes, Jason. They still have you go that long?”

“We’re under the gun, Larry. They need us to do this quickly so we can finish up the repair backlog. The feds and management are breathing down our necks.”

“I’ve been hearing that, but twelve hours?”

“Hey—it’s a living.”

The young man got up and walked toward the locker room to start the time-consuming process of suiting up in protective gear. The white, crinkly full-body suit, or “rad suit” is impenetrable to radiation, covering every inch of skin, topped with a white helmet replete with a walkie-talkie inside. Attached on both sleeves are two steely dosimeters. One beeps when radiation exposure is dangerous, the other tracks workers by serial number and how much radiation they’ve been exposed to in a year. At the end of the shift, the tags are checked, levels logged in, and the suits discarded.

Larry grimaced. He was irked about the long hours.

“Did you get a bit of shut-eye on your break?”

Jason, just out the door, called over his shoulder, “You worry too much. I’m fine,” and he disappeared.

Larry dreaded the mental fatigue that many plant workers experienced. It was the kind of exhaustion that gained on you without your realizing it. When he worked long shifts in the control room, Larry fought the urge to drift off, even on his breaks, when he didn’t trust himself to fully wake up and go back to work. His concentration weakened, and he got nervous that he would mess up reading meters and gauges, readings that had to be exact, with no margin for error.

After years, the work became grueling, and he’d had it. He didn’t want to take anymore chances, no matter how good the money was. With less stress, he figured he might live longer.

Chapter 7

Lou eyed the women on the screen, then the men, the couples. He clicked on a list of locations to meet up. One place was in Pennsylvania, not too far from his home just outside New York City. Set back off the street, the sex house seemed an ordinary suburban home. But inside the spicy bedrooms varied; some were large enough for a romping orgy, others brandished apparatus for the athletically overzealous. Lou had never been to a place quite like this, and he imagined feeling right at home—but only if he was there with someone.

Downstairs, there was a small intimate restaurant, a bar, and a patch of a dance floor. The written reviews were more subdued than usual: instead of “hot, hot, hot,” or “met my every need,” the lingo was “discreet,” “tasteful,” “private.”

Lou discovered the cyber meet-up world out of desperation. He was suffering the end of a two-year relationship with a woman he almost married. He loved her deeply, but her demands that he change pushed him away, made him bitter. As time went on, Lou realized she really didn’t love him, Lou Padera. She loved someone who Lou could be, a different, mythical Lou. He was devastated and became depressed. Everything was flat, and he lost the ability to be affectionate and, eventually, lacked any sexual urge—a frightening state for someone who was easily stimulated and always ready to have sex. In the aftermath of the break up, a friend suggested he check out some meet-up sites online, and a whole new world of possibilities opened up.

As he perused the list of couples on the monitor, he slipped into one of his erotic fantasies, only to be interrupted by his watch alarm. The game at the high school would start in less than half an hour. It was trophy night, and he needed to catch interviews with the kids and their parents. He took one last look at the sex house and the number of people on the list who were available to meet. His preference would be to find a gal—one he at least liked—who would be into a kinky adventure as much as he was.

When he got to the high school, throngs of kids and parents had crammed into the gym. The popular team was one of the best in the area and promised an exciting game to a hyped crowd. Lou found the staff photographer who would later shoot a picture of the kids getting awards, an image that later would be ubiquitously cut out of the paper and framed by several proud parents.

As he watched the first half of the game, his eye kept drifting to the ads for ALLPower. In two-foot-high letters their motto screamed out, “Your Power Plant: Safe, Essential, Local.” Lou thought about the cryptic phone call from the unnamed woman who insinuated that Kaylee’s death might have something to do with the plant.

At halftime, when the awards were announced, Lou barreled over to the small makeshift platform to interview the lucky kids and their parents. Holding two gold trophies was a beaming Bob Stalinsky. He leaned into the microphone and sharply cleared his throat, a signal for fans to hush.

“Aren’t these kids the greatest?” he sang out.

Applause. Cheers.

“We at ALLPower think they should be awarded with these!” Bob waved shiny gold trophies in the air. More applause.

“And although these are pretty to look at, these kids also need the green stuff to get them to college!”

He handed the two players the trophies and pulled two checks out of his suit pocket. The crowd loved it.

Lou edged in to interview the kids and their parents, who were thrilled to claim their minute of fame. When he was done, Bob sidled over to him.

“Hi. I’m Bob Stalinsky with ALLPower. Great that you’re covering this, Mr. Padera. These kids are the best, aren’t they?”

“They are. Can I ask you a few questions, Mr. Stalinsky?”

“Hey, call me Bob.”

“How long has ALLPower been giving these awards and how much do you actually give each kid?”

“We’ve been doing this for years. Can’t really say when it started—it was way before I began working for the company. It’s our way of appreciating the community and being a good neighbor.”

“Yeah. And how much do the kids get?”

Bob pulled a tiny bottle of antibiotic hand gel out of his pocket, and a sharp whiff of lemon stung the air.

“Altogether, we give students tens of thousands every year. ALLPower is a very generous company, Mr. Padera.”

“Right. But how much were the checks you gave out tonight?”

“Oh.” Bob scratched his chin. “Well, those were small awards compared to what we usually give.”

“How much?”

“A thousand. Each.”

Lou jotted a few notes down. A question lurked, not about the trophies. Before Lou could switch gears and muster a question about the plant, Bob leaned in to him.

“By the way, that was some story you wrote about the little girl. Touching piece. Really. Got my heartstrings. Poor thing.”

“Oh, thanks. Actually, can I ask you something about the plant, Bob?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Is there any chance that something leaked into the river that could have made that little girl sick?”

Bob’s smile faded as if he had peeled off a mask. He assumed his corporate role, primping for an earnest-sounding answer.

“Absolutely not. We’re monitoring the plant all the time. You should come and take a tour of the place, see how safe it is.”

Bob reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card and handed it to Lou.

“I can set up a special plant tour for you any time. Just give me a call, Mr. Padera.

“I just may do that. And you can call me Lou.”

Chapter 8

It looked like a small stream bubbling up from underground. Six construction workers peered down at the small, unexpected geyser that gushed out right after a backhoe accidentally gauged out a chunk of earth. Hurriedly a phone call was made, and an NRC inspector was on his way.

From the muddied ditch, the foreman looked up at the pristine, ALLPower glass tower, hoping the pause in ground activity wouldn’t be noticed by a random executive surveying from the comfort of an air-conditioned office.

The men had been working for the better part of the day, digging down into the ground to shore up the foundation of the transformer building. The dig wasn’t anywhere near the vast infrastructure of thousands of underground pipes. So where was this water coming from? And was it radioactive?

Two hours later Bob Stalinsky was staring woefully down at the pit. The inspector said there was a good chance the leak was radioactive, but just how much? Tests would be run to make sure. Worse, the source of the leak was unknown. Bob dragged back to his office. There were a few ways he could play this thing.

As the group dispersed, Larry Hines lingered at the far end of the ditch. He pretty much knew every inch of the intricate underground network, which pipes were the oldest, which ones couldn’t be reached or monitored. Some might be rusted, and you’d never know it. His eye ran an imaginary line from the ditch to where he estimated the old fuel pool was, where spent fuel was stored for the oldest reactor that had been closed for decades. That’s the culprit, I bet, he thought. But tracing it would be difficult, time consuming, and expensive. Because it could get worse, Larry felt obligated to share his thoughts with the powers that be. He would urge them to check out every possibility.

Back up in his office, Bob worked on his PR game plan and talking points for his boss, Mike O’Brien. Public officials would have to be alerted and a press conference called, soon—maybe within twenty-four hours. The company had to sound responsible, honest, and upfront. Bob would make sure Mike had the key words down—words of assurance—that the leak was contained, and there was nothing to worry about.

He tried to keep O’Brien’s comments short and easy to remember. The man’s true passion was out on the fairway with a five-iron, and when it came to speaking to the press, he was known for rattling off plausible facts that were difficult to substantiate. For now, the leak would be played down. The NRC would issue a press release late on Friday, a time that newsrooms were winding down or closed for the weekend. The report would be lost at the bottom of the pile by Monday.

Although they were the federal oversight agency, Bob knew the NRC wouldn’t nag the company about the leak. In fact, the federal agency was more friend than foe. No matter what went wrong at the plant, the NRC would issue its own public statement acknowledging the situation. If it was something really bad, they might slap ALLPower with a fine. But the fines were minimal, never over $50,000, which hardly made a dent in the multibillion-dollar corporation’s revenue base.

In fact, the feds were more an asset and less a regulator. The NRC was autonomous, and the only way to change their lofty status was by a vote in Congress, a process that takes years and the right political climate.

Right now, everything was very cozy. If ALLPower failed an inspection, the NRC would lower their safety rating a notch and demand they get their act together. The company, wise to this charade, promised timely repairs, adding exponentially to the backlogged fix-it list. Bob would diligently issue press releases, dumbing down a complicated problem and reiterating that the plant was a safe, reliable source of much-needed electricity.

It was all about keeping the business looking good and the shareholders happy. The two working reactors on the shores of the Hudson River raked in over one million dollars a day from selling electricity. It would be a big loss if the plant was ever forced to shut down.

Chapter 9

Every newsroom has a “day book” that lists daily events, from stumping politicians to town board meetings. Owen was ruminating over the book that held the hard-copy announcements faxed or e-mailed in that day. He flipped through the pages hoping for a filler story, something that would run a few hundred words. He needed it to take the place of an ad just pulled by a client, an unfortunate but common occurrence these days, one that made the publisher scowl. Owen paused momentarily at the ALLPower press conference, then turned the page. Not much happening. He thumbed quickly through the book for the third time and, shaking his head, glanced around the newsroom. Who could he pluck for a quick write up?

Ah yes, Lou Padera—the guy who could write about anything, but who might need some arm twisting. Owen leered, poised to dish out the assignment.

“Padera? Get over here and check out the day book, will ya?”

Lou looked up and grimaced.

“Any sports stuff in there?” Silly question he thought, as he grudgingly stood up and walked past five empty desks to where Owen was standing.

“This should be a no-brainer, so don’t give me guff,” the editor said. “Pick something and hack out a brief story. Pick anything you can freshen up with a quick phoner. Something easy.”

The editor slinked away toward his office. Over his shoulder he said, “And let me know what you’ve chosen. Make it snappy so I can put it in the layout.”

Lou’s eyes glazed over as he started to page through the book. The plant’s evening press conference jumped out at him. A leak? He was curious but didn’t want to commit. It was his night off with no games scheduled, and he wanted to live it up, check out some topless bars or hang with an old girlfriend. The usual.

What else could he write about? The school budget meeting? The blood pressure training session at the hospital?

“How ’bout it Padera? You choose or I’ll choose!” Owen rasped from his office cave.

Ugggh. Lou hated indecisiveness, especially his own. If he went as a news reporter, he’d be forfeiting his macho sportswriter persona. He knew nothing about nuclear power; asking the right questions would be tough without sounding stupid. They knew he was a sportswriter, so they would snow him every chance they got. But then there was that nagging question from the mysterious lady caller. It still haunted him.

Suddenly Owen was at his side.

“It can’t be that hard, Padera. Do what’s easy, that’s all.”

“No sports stuff here, Owen. I was hoping—”

“We’ve been through this. Now pick.”

Lou quickly turned the pages and then stopped.

“I’ll check out the ALLPower press conference tonight and file when it’s over. Okay?”

Owen blinked a few times. “You’re kidding. Never thought you’d go for that. Just remember, this is not investigative reporting, just get the facts, a few quotes, write it up. Short—remember, it’s just a brief.”

It was dusk as Lou drove north along the two-lane state road to the community center where ALLPower was holding the press conference. His mind wandered back to the sex house website: could he ever muster the guts to check this one out? It seemed an easy, meet-up place full of promise. The ideal would be to go there with an open-minded chick to engage in anything—a fun ménage à trois, or who knows what?

Lou intentionally arrived early to get in some interviews before the meeting, to get a handle on what was going on. The only person he knew was Bob Stalinsky, the rest of the players were local politicians and inspectors. He approached Bob, who was hovering over another man.

“Hey, Bob. Good to see you again.”

“Lou? Nice to see you. You covering this for the paper? I’m surprised.”

“Just checking it out. No big deal.”

“Oh. Well, this is my boss, Mike O’Brien. Mike, this is Lou, the sports reporter for the Daily Suburban.”

“Sports?” Mike was confused.

Lou ignored him and pumped his first question.

“So how bad is the leak?”

“Seems it’s just a small one, Lou. I’m not really worried. We’re waiting for a full report from our own inspectors and then the one from the NRC.”

Lou noticed Bob stiffen as his boss spoke.

“What’s the worst case scenario?”

“Could be slightly tainted is all.”

“Tainted? With what?” Lou cursed himself for not reading up more about leaks at nuclear power plants.

“Radiation—”

Bob quickly butted in. “We expect the amount to be minute, no more than what you’d get from an X-ray. Mike, I think we’re ready to start.”

Bob guided the man toward the podium where Mike looked out at a packed room. In the back stood a small group of anti-nuclear activists with raised, handmade posters that demanded the plant be closed. A few other news reporters sat in the front row, and the local cable TV cameraman was doing a wide pan of the room.

Lou took the end seat in the front row and got out his pad and audio recorder. Just as O’Brien stepped up to the microphone, a tall, attractive woman swept into the room and marched up to the front. The hem of her flowered skirt brushed Lou’s arm as she passed him. He couldn’t see her face, but he saw her slender back and dark, straight hair that fell to her chin line.

“There was a minor accident at the plant yesterday, but the public’s health and safety has not been threatened in any way,” said a nervous Mike O’Brien to the crowd. “It is an underground leak we discovered near the transformer building. We are constantly monitoring it, and we are working with the NRC to find out where it is coming from.”

Just as a reporter next to him raised his hand to question O’Brien, Lou heard a woman’s voice blurt out.

“What are the radiation levels? Surely you checked that first thing?”

Lou turned to get a better look at the woman and saw it was the same one in the flowered skirt, now standing, her arm outstretched, pointing at O’Brien. A flashbulb went off, the light illuminating the woman’s tawny complexion and lighting up her intense, dark eyes.

Lou jotted down some notes about the woman and waited for O’Brien to respond.

“We are proceeding cautiously, Ms. Chase,” Mike said to her. Diana had become a familiar face at these meetings. “We don’t want to make the leak worse than it already is. It will take time to figure it out.”

“Have you checked that maze of underground piping yet?” she scolded. She turned to the small group of politicians standing behind O’Brien. “And what do our local politicians have to say? You ought to be ashamed of letting a multibillion dollar company lead you around by the nose just because they pay a chunk of taxes and pad your campaigns. That plant is dangerous. It needs to be closed down, and you know it!”

For a wisp of a woman, Lou saw she was confident and had no trouble speaking her mind. He wouldn’t want to be playing against this lady, that’s for sure.

Bob grabbed the mic. “I’m sure there are a lot of questions, and we will answer them after everyone has spoken.”

O’Brien, not to be overshadowed by Bob, grabbed back the mic. He couldn’t let this brazen, outspoken woman have the last word.

“We know there are problems at the plant, but we are working on them,” said the ALLPower VP. “We just spent about $15 million upgrading major parts of the facility. The plant will be as good as new and will run smoothly without an incident for the next twenty years.”

The woman held her ground. “No it won’t, and you know it,” she shot out. “That plant was built to last only forty years, and it’s almost that old right now. That’s why things are breaking down, and it’s unsafe. The government should shut it down.”

A clamor broke out. Suddenly workers from the plant wearing ALLPower T-shirts and caps jeered at Diana, yelling out that the plant was a safe place to work, that a thousand employees wouldn’t work there if it was dangerous.

Someone blurted into the microphone and asked for quiet. A man wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with “Shut it Down!” suddenly stood on a chair holding a large poster that said “ALLPower: Profits Before Safety!”

A few security guards moved toward the man, and he quickly got off the chair. Things quieted down.

A plant inspector gave some details about an initial investigation and fielded questions from the public. Reporters had a few more queries, and then, after about an hour, the meeting was over. Guards started ushering people out, calmly saying “time to head home now, folks.”

Bob stayed close to his boss’s side. He saw Lou circling in and stepped out in front of Mike.

“Hey, Lou. You need any other information, you talk to me, okay?”

Lou ignored him and angled over to Mike. “What about those pipes the woman mentioned. Any possibility they’re broken?”

Before Mike could answer, Bob blurted out, “We are preparing an in-depth statement that will answer all your questions, Lou. It will include the inspector’s report.”

It wasn’t an answer, which stumped and confused Lou. Folks never put him off, here or in the sports world.

“Does that mean you just don’t know at this time?” He was feeding Bob the answers for chrissakes.

“You’ll just have to wait for the press release. We’ll e-mail it to you first thing.”

Lou glared at the two men. Then he turned on his heel and headed for the Chase woman, who was being interviewed by the local TV. A large video light electrified her face. She looked anything but threatening, but her words were strong and articulate. When she finished, the TV camera sought out one of the many politicians hungry to get on the nightly news.

Lou approached Diana. “Excuse me. Ms. Chase, is it?”

“Please, call me Diana. And you are?”

“Lou Padera from the Daily Suburban. Can I ask you a few questions?

“Yes. We can walk and talk.” She briskly grabbed a worn shopping bag overflowing with anti-nuclear flyers, pamphlets, pens, and bumper stickers. Some of it cascaded out onto the floor, and as she gracefully swooped down to retrieve the paraphernalia, Lou saw her hair part like a satin curtain at her neck, revealing a small birth mark. His lips parted. She stood up and caught him checking her out.

“Padera. Padera. Oh yes, the sportswriter. Didn’t you write that terribly sad story about the little girl who died? She was a student in my school. Tragic, so tragic.” She shook her head.

There was something vaguely familiar about her voice. Could he have interviewed her at a school game?

“It was a hard story to write,” he told her. “Not at all like covering sports. Can I ask why you are so vehemently opposed to the plant?” They walked through the thinning crowd and toward the door. When they got outside, they headed down the steps to the sidewalk. She faced him.

“The plant is an accident waiting to happen,” she said firmly. “It’s run on a shoestring, and now that it’s old, things are breaking. There are accidents, many of which go unreported.”

“What about ALLPower’s commitment to fix the place up. Fifteen million dollars isn’t exactly a shoestring.”

“It ought to be eighty million. That’s what it would take to make the plant safer than it is. They’ll only fix stuff if the NRC tells them to. And then the repairs are just small Band-Aids on large, gaping wounds. What about building a safe place to store the tons of spent, radioactive fuel? Or replacing old cables that are known fire hazards?”

The lady knew her stuff. Lou asked about the NRC: Wouldn’t they shut it down if it wasn’t safe?

“Yeah. Right. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission. They act the part and tell us things are okay, but things aren’t okay. If there is a Chernobyl-type accident here, a serious radioactive plume would contaminate several hundred miles of air and water. New York City would be uninhabitable. If it were today, they’d never build this plant here. Too densely populated.”

He felt the pulse of her words, the restless energy of someone impassioned. She spoke in clear sound bites, easy words to jot down and remember. In the heft of her rant, the timbre of her voice would notch up a pitch, and she would flush slightly. He rolled along with her words, like tapping his foot to a song, forgoing his usual impatience and the impulse to interrupt.

“I like how you talk to these guys. Gutsy,” he said.

“Oh, I learned that voice from my mother. She was—and still is—a hell-raiser in the city. It works well on the suits.”

“The suits?”

“It’s what I call guys in the nuke industry.”

Lou chuckled. He jotted down her quotes in his quick, reliable shorthand. He stood close to her, not wanting to miss a word she said. She was exotic, standing slightly taller than him, slim in her tight-fitting black blouse and her flowing skirt. He felt the urge to flirt, to break out of the newsman role.

“Who are you?” he said. “How come we haven’t met before?”

Flattered, she laughed.

“Well, I’m not sure. Honestly, I don’t go to the high school games, not even to see my former elementary school students. Not my cup of tea, really.”

She told Lou that over the last few years she made regular appearances at the NRC and ALLPower meetings. They had come to know her and seemed to cringe at her vocal wrath but always treated her with respect. He listened with one half of his brain while the other half took her in. She wore a small jade ring on her pinky.

But his deadline was fast approaching, and he already knew the story would be anything but brief. It was always harder to write short.

“Can I call you for names of people in your group?” he asked, signaling the end of the interview although it was hard to break away. He could talk to this lady forever.

“Sure. Anytime.” She quickly got a card out of her skirt pocket, handed it to him and extended her slender hand. Her grip was firm, and he held her hand without shaking it.

“Nice to meet you, Diana. Hope we speak again. Soon.”

As they parted Diana smiled to herself. Not a bad guy, even though he was undressing me with his eyes.

Chapter 10

“This isn’t a brief!” Owen chastised Lou when he filed his ALLPower story. “I didn’t need a full news story, just a tiny mention. Revise it. Pronto!”

The two men were the only ones working late in the newsroom.

“Just what do you expect me to cut?” said Lou.

“Cut the Chase woman. We don’t need her whining.”

Lou flinched. “Her voice balances the article. She stays in.”

Owen squinted. “Balance? How ethical! But not now, not for a quickie brief. Tomorrow’s paper is full. This is a filler, get it? If you can’t cut it by half, I’ll do it.”

“This is news, Owen. You can make it fit, and you know it.”

“You’re not listening. I have all the news I need. Besides, from what I understand, it’s just a small leak—no biggy. Don’t play hero.”

“Fine,” Lou spat out.

Owen stomped away. Lou reached for a Styrofoam cup that held the cold dregs of his morning coffee and slurped it down. Reluctantly he started chipping away at the copy, grumbling to himself for getting involved in a story where he had no business. What did he really care about the damn plant anyway?

He kept in one quote by O’Brien and one from the NRC inspector. He was already over the allotted four hundred words. He cut Diana entirely, felt guilty, reworked her in as an entrée to get together, deleted her again. What’s the problem here? Finally, he kept her short sound bite as the kicker, the walk-away quote that cautioned radioactivity was leaking into the river. Seeing her name in print should put a smile on the lady’s lovely face, he thought.

Chapter 11

MYSTERIOUS NUKE LEAKS

The headline editor got carried away, and the large, bold letters dwarfed Lou’s three-paragraph story, which curiously found its way to the lower right-hand corner of the front page, an unusual place for a brief.

Furious, Bob gripped the paper, his knuckles white. How could a wimpy little sportswriter dare to write such rubbish! He’d get his.

Hours later Lou’s story was picked up by the Associated Press, who called Bob and pummeled him with questions. As an international newswire, any story the AP ran was scooped up by news outlets worldwide. In hours, the story of the ALLPower leak hit a broad band of media, including the Internet.

Who was this Padera guy? Bob searched the Internet and got some background. Oh yes. A poor boy, ace basketball player, didn’t quite make the cut for the big leagues. Luckily, it wasn’t ALLPower who gave him a scholarship. Could his failure to make the big time give him ammunition for some kind of misplaced vendetta? And now he was retaliating by attacking a utility company? Or just corporate America in general?

For days the stress mounted. Bob came in to work early and stayed late to catch the press calls as they came in, staying on top of things, in control. O’Brien got sick of Bob running in and out of his office, priming him for on-camera TV interviews, feeding him upbeat answers to live-radio talk-show hosts on the phone.

It was exhausting. Bob requested updates from the inspectors twice a day. Was the leak radioactive? Where was it coming from?

At the end of the day, weary and haggard, Bob would drive home, dreading another spat with Morgan, who was anything but sympathetic.

“You’re spending too much time at work, Bob,” she’d say without looking up from the TV.

“Have you watched the news? Don’t you know what’s going on?”

“You don’t have to be there 24/7. Get an assistant to do some of the work.”

“I’m the key guy when we have a big-time problem like this, Honey.”

“The big time problem is here, at home. You’re not married to me; you’re married to that plant.”

“That plant is the reason you’re living in the style you wanted. Now lay off. Cut me some slack.”

“Cut you some slack? Let me tell you something, Mr. ALLPower, this house isn’t a pit stop where you eat, sleep, dress, and leave. This keeps up, I’m outta here.”

Another empty threat he shrugged off like all the rest. He usually gulped down the cold dinner without heating it in the microwave. He’d crawl into the king-size bed and hug the edge. When was the last time he even desired her? Was she thinking divorce? No way, he thought.

He always woke before dawn to sneak out, avoiding Morgan’s recriminating glares. If he was lucky she’d still be asleep and he could skip the obligatory kiss good-bye. For Morgan, waking up in an empty bed started the day with rejection, followed by anger. She and Bob were more like roommates than a couple married for five years. She refused to touch stuff on his dresser or in his home office. If he forgot a cup of coffee near his computer, she’d leave it there to grow its skuzzy mold. His absences made her crankier and insecure, and she repeatedly called his office. She became a nuisance to Bob’s staff, especially when they were in crisis mode. His pat answer when she called: “Take a message.”

As frenzied as work was, the plant was a place of solace for Bob, an orderly run office with no room for emotional outbursts.

The final blow was the forgotten fifth wedding anniversary. The day passed unremarked. Morgan knew it was time to move on.

It was a Friday night when Bob pulled up to a darkened house. He opened the door to stark emptiness punctuated only by his sleek-lined reclining chair in the shadowy living room. A note from his wife was taped on the wall in the entryway, it said: “Hope you and your nuclear bride have a radiating honeymoon. See you in court.”

He stared at the note stoically. “You won’t see me anytime too soon, Babe.”

He surveyed the stripped-down space, vaguely aware of the distant hum of the refrigerator. He sauntered down the hall to the kitchen where flatware for a single place setting sat eerily on the counter. He moved past empty walls into the bedroom, trying to conjure up memories of fun, passion. Weren’t they in love at one time? Wasn’t it forever, no matter what happened?

Something deep down begged for an emotional catharsis, a burst of sorrow. He waited for it to surface, but… nothing. He reenvisioned a candlelight dinner in the now-empty dining room, when they toasted their first meal that christened the new custom-made table, their first piece of furniture.

There must be something he could be nostalgic about. Still nothing. He didn’t understand the vacuous sense of numbness. Why didn’t he feel anything? Was he in shock? Morgan just bailed—shouldn’t he try to find her? The bed was gone. He saw only the dim outline of a lone dresser in the curtain-less bedroom. His jaw firm, Bob emptied the drawers and closets and methodically threw his clothes into a suitcase. He shuffled out, leaving Morgan’s terse denouement stuck to the wall. It floated to the floor when he slammed the front door shut.

Where should he go? Tooling around the neighborhood, he found himself looking for his wife’s car at the home of her various friends. Even if he found her, then what? He needed to think this through. What he really needed was a good stiff drink.

Bob found himself in a local bar where he could safely lose himself in the noisy drinking crowd glued to large, blaring TV screens. He focused on the sports, not wanting to see the overplayed aerial footage of the ALLPower domes by the river. He ordered a double scotch on the rocks.

Yeah. Let’s down a few. Was he drowning his sorrows, sulking in his cups? Or was he celebrating a new freedom? The woman was gone, out of his life, good riddance to her and her demands for a full-time husband, her nagging angst about infertility. Was it his fault they were childless? Maybe she’d have better luck with another guy.

He ordered another drink and contemplated his next move. Should he find a motel? What about his mother’s place?

Stella Stalinsky lived just twenty minutes from the plant in a two-bedroom apartment. He could probably crash there, if he could deal with the barrage of questions about his failed marriage. Bob downed his second drink, feeling a mellow buzz that made the phone call easy.

“Hello Ma? Yeah, it’s me, Bob. Did I wake you? No? Watching who? Oh yeah, the news. Listen, Ma…”

He blubbered something about an empty house, trouble with Morgan and hung up. After one more for the road, he barreled into his car and headed back across the river. Hopefully his mother wouldn’t wait up for him, but he knew better. He’d have to supply some kind of brief explanation that would satisfy her.

He could see her in front of the TV with her feet up, reading the newspaper at the same time. Stella had a big appetite for information. She was an avid news junkie and subscribed to the local paper, the New York Times, and a bunch of weekly magazines. She read the newspapers from cover to cover by lunchtime, then buzzed around in her flowered muumuu, straightening stacks of magazines with pages bent in half, marking stories she hadn’t yet finished. A shock of wavy black hair peppered with startling gray streaks and thick eyebrows set off her light-olive complexion. Her dark, piercing eyes were unforgiving, the eyes Bob would avoid as a teen when he came home stoned.

When the front door opened Stella was shocked. Laden down with a suitcase and a bunch of suits draped over his arm, and smelling of liquor, her son provided every clue for her to quickly size up the situation.

“What happened, Robbie? She leave you? Or you ended it? You look all in.”

He flinched when he heard “Robbie,” his grade school nickname.

“Not now, Ma. I need to crash. I’m beat.”

“Okay. Okay. Go get some sleep. Get your spunk back.”

Bob squeezed past her and headed for the spare bedroom where his parents’ old double bed took up most of the space. He remembered helping his father move the bed from his childhood house to the apartment, a place easier for his parents to maintain. It was a move dictated by his father’s terminal illness, a time when Bob felt the need to connect with the dying man, to engage him with lighthearted talk. He recalled helping his father angle the mattress through the bedroom door, how he fumbled to say something humorous.

“So, Dad. Is this the bed I was conceived in?”

Without looking at him, his father said, “What makes you think you were conceived in a bed?”

Oh boy.

Bob could never match the quick wit of either his father or his mother. His parents shared the same lingo, their thought patterns seemed to emanate from a similar hemisphere in their brains. They finished each other’s sentences and took the conversation to the next level. Stella’s sense of humor had a sarcastic edge that eluded Bob most of the time, and he was dumbstruck by her quick retorts to his simple questions, his father chuckling heartily in the background.

In truth, Stella was only too glad to have her son move in, even if it was temporary. Since her husband died a few years ago, the empty nest was more like a vacant lot.

As she brewed a pot of coffee for Bob the next morning she vowed to go easy on him, to relinquish her ready-made cynicism and try to be consoling. She got out the frying pan to make an omelet as Bob padded into the kitchen. He filled his cup and sat down.

“So what happened with Morgan?”

“Honestly, Ma. Not before my coffee. Please.”

“Oh. Sorry. How did you sleep?”

“So-so.”

She waited as long as she could while he sipped his coffee.

“Was it because you guys couldn’t get pregnant?”

He put down his cup and stared at it.

“Look, Ma,” he said firmly, “my marriage started out pretty good. It just took a bad turn. I don’t want to talk about Morgan. It’s over. She’s out of my life.”

“I’m sorry, Robbie. Really. Can’t you try to patch things up? She’s a good person.”

He was expressionless.

Quickly she said, “How about a yummy salsa omelet—your favorite. With cheese?”

She fluttered around the kitchen, giving him some mental space. Before Bob was born, Stella was a professional fund-raiser for a national, nonprofit medical organization specializing in cancer research. She was college educated, well-read, and the job suited her. Her gregarious nature made raising millions fun and easy. For years she consistently brought in sizable donations. But after a while, something was missing. She wanted a mate, a lover, maybe to marry and have children. When she met and married Bob’s father, she quit her job without looking back. It was time to become a full-time wife and mother.

As it happened, Stella would only have one child. After giving birth to Bob, her reproductive organs turned down a repeat performance. But Stella persevered in her maternal role, and raising Bob was her priority. The kid was bright, but didn’t inherit the gene with her sparky wit. She made up for it by always expressing herself, doling out humorous critiques about his teachers, the news, whatever was on her mind. Surely he would absorb a bit of clever lingo if he kept hearing it.

By the time Bob was in high school, he started to pull away. Home life became embattled, fraught with bickering and power plays between mother and son. His father would always withdraw mumbling something like, “Oy. Clash of the Titans.”

When she lost her husband a few years ago, Stella was in her early sixties and toyed with the idea of going back to work. But the workplace had changed, and with the new, fast-paced technology, she was unsure of her learning curve. Since her husband’s pension was enough to live on, she volunteered to fund-raise for small, local organizations. It was a way to keep her hand in, to meet people without the strain of performing on the job and learning new skills.

Now, with her adult son taking up residency, she knew only too well that it wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. Their stormy past left its mark, and embattled remnants always managed to surface, especially when it came to politics and ethics. Spats ended abruptly with long, hard silences. Stella was strongly opinionated, and Bob would counter, more out of the habit of standing up to her and wanting to have the last word. He still sought his own voice, one that was different from hers.

He never allowed himself to miss a beat when proving her wrong, even if it meant playing devil’s advocate. How far would she go? Who would call truce first, if at all? Unwittingly it was great training for a job in public relations.

When Bob finished college and joined the workforce, the stormy relationship cooled. When he got married, Stella liked Morgan and thought she would be good for her son. She quietly waited for grandchildren.

Now, here they were. As Bob slowly ate his omelet, Stella thought talking about his job might be good for starters. The stories about the leak seemed incomplete, leaving her wanting more information. Perhaps her Robbie could fill her in.

“So what’s with this leak business?”

“It’s just a leak. They’re checking it out.”

“It’s getting a lot of attention. Must be keeping you busy.”

“Yup.”

“Is anyone at the plant freaking out? I mean, is it dangerous because it’s radioactive?”

“It’s not dangerous at all. Nuke plants leak, that’s all. Hopefully this one will be stopped. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

She poured herself a second cup of coffee. She wanted to get cozy.

“But Robbie, I can’t get over how they do it—make electricity, I mean. Splitting an atom to make steam to run turbines for power. It’s a hell of a way to boil water!” She giggled.

He stopped eating and sighed.

“I’m impressed, Ma. You’ve become an expert on nuclear power overnight. Well, well, well.”

She asked for it. He was in no mood to defend the plant right now. Her efforts to make small talk rebounded with the message to lay off. Stella sipped her coffee silently and wondered if her son had plans to look for a new apartment.

Chapter 12

The inspector’s report wasn’t good. The water was highly radioactive, over the allowable level for drinking water, a level set by the Environmental Protection Agency. The good news was that it was contained and hadn’t contaminated the drinking water, a fact Bob capitalized on in his press release.

“Wanna follow this up, Lou?” Owen asked, waving the release in front of him.

The college basketball game schedule was at its peak, and Lou was backed up on his story list. Another nuke story would totally jeopardize his popular byline. Besides, a story about a radiation leak meant hours on the phone just to get the facts right. The only incentive was an excuse to call Diana Chase as a way to connect, maybe in a different way, not work related.

But he had written about her once, which made her off-limits in the world of journalism. The golden rule was not to fraternize with people you write about. But it had been a long time since he was strongly attracted to a woman. He liked how it felt. If he stopped writing about her, the rule wouldn’t apply, and maybe they could become better acquainted.

Lou glanced over the press release. “Nah, Owen. I’m gonna pass. I’m too booked.”

“Right-o. I’ll give it the new intern. He’ll chase it down.”

Lou winced. Interns were free labor and everything they wrote was fluff, as opposed to a good in-depth story. Sometimes the kids cheated and just rewrote the press release with their byline. Oh well. His thoughts returned to Diana. Perhaps e-mailing her wouldn’t really break any rules. And the nuke plant wasn’t his real beat, so why not? Who would know, or care? He found her card and tapped open a blank e-mail.

Hey Diana. Nice meeting you the other night. Perhaps we can chat soon about nonnuclear stuff. By the way, here’s a heads up from the newsroom. ALLPower announced the leak is highly radioactive. Talk soon. Lou

From her school computer, Diana’s eyes widened. She immediately e-mailed Lou back.

Thanks for the nuke info. Are you covering the story?

He looked at the screen. Huh? That’s all she wants to know? He typed back a simple no.

Diana stared, puzzled, at the one word. It’s me he’s interested in and not the story? She shrugged. It was lunchtime and the outer office was empty except for Jen, who was preparing the principal’s announcements for the next day. The woman had proved to be a great asset, coming in almost every day for two hours and taking on more and more tasks. The full-time secretary was thrilled to have someone to manage the front office minutiae and, along with Diana, was hoping Jen would be formally hired for the part-time job.

“Jen? I need to make a bunch of calls. Can you take my calls for a while?”

“Sure. Everything okay?”

“No. Not really. It’s about the nuke plant. You know I’m involved with it, don’t you? They just found out that last week’s leak is highly radioactive. I need to organize a rally of some kind.”

Jen knew Diana stayed after school to copy information for her anti-nuke group. Curious, she recently asked Diana what was so wrong with the plant. It was a teaching moment Diana couldn’t pass it up. At the first quiet moment she motioned Jen to come in her office. In her hands was a large, thick folder.

“It took me a long time to get this document. It’s a copy of the evacuation plan for schools. It’s a bit daunting, to say the least.”

“Evacuation for what?” Jen had no idea what Diana was talking about.

“Evacuating the area in case something happens at the plant. Or for any other emergency disaster.”

“Uh… can you talk me through this CliffsNotes style?”

Diana bit her lip for a second, then flipped through the pages thoughtfully and found the one she was looking for.

“There is a section here that spells out what happens to the kids in school if there is an emergency. Basically, buses are supposed to take students to reception centers where presumably they will be safe.”

Jen looked alarmed. “What do you mean ‘take them’? Wouldn’t we just come get our kids and take them home?”

“Apparently not. If parents do that, police have the right to stop them.”

Jen stared at her. “You’re kidding, right? Parents forbidden to get their kids during an emergency? What would the cops do—stop us at gunpoint?”

“Yes. They have the right to do that. It’s right here in the plan.”

The surreal scenario raced through Jen’s head.

“There’s another thing,” said Diana. “Teachers are mandated to go with the kids on the buses taking them out of the emergency zone to the reception centers. That’s where the parents have to go to get them.”

“What’s a reception center?”

“For us, it’s a high school twenty miles away—the next town over.”

“And just how long are they supposed to stay there?”

“It depends if the kids have been contaminated or not.”

“Contaminated? How? With what?”

“If there’s a radioactive release at the plant, they would be exposed to radioactive isotopes. Carcinogens.”

Jen didn’t want to hear this; it was something she would worry about over and over. It had the potential to feed a growing paranoia. Could an accident of that proportion really happen? She had to know more.

“What do they do with the kids if they are contaminated?”

Diana paused. She could see Jen getting worked up.

“The plan spells out a decontamination routine. They make them strip off their clothes and then they spray them down with a special solution that supposedly lifts off anything toxic.”

Jen closed her eyes and pictured Ricky fighting off strange hands trying to undress him. No way would he willingly take his clothes off. Ditto for the older kids whose modesty was paramount. And who would be forcing the kids to do this? Teachers? Doctors? Emergency workers?

Jen looked at Diana with dread in her eyes.

“And this is why you want to shut down the plant? Will that make all the dangerous radiation go away?”

Diana took a deep breath.

“Not quite. The plant will always store radioactive spent fuel. But if it wasn’t running, eventually the site would have to be cleaned up. Then it will be safe.”

“How many years after they shut it down until it’s safe?”

“Maybe sixty or seventy. Hard to say.”

Diana saw Jen’s look of disbelief, a look she had seen before when spelling out the dire truth about the plant to folks who hadn’t a clue. She leaned over to the young mother and in low voice she said, “Jen? Have you ever wondered if Kaylee’s death had something to do with the plant?”

Jen blinked and slowly shook her head no. She waited for Diana to explain.

“Think about where you were when she got sick. How close the beach is to the plant, the flow of the river water that might have carried radioactive particles—particles Kaylee could have ingested. And if she did, her frail body wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Jen stood up abruptly and ran her hands through her hair, tears streaming down her face.

“We don’t know that—you don’t know that, Diana. It was a complicated death. That’s all. There’s nothing we can do about it now.”

Diana rose and put her arms around Jen.

“Okay, okay. I didn’t mean to upset you. But I’m not the only one thinking like this. I’ve talked to some medical experts. It is a possibility. And by the way, there is something we can do about it.”

“Whatever it is, leave me out of it.”

Jen stepped away from Diana, and a buzzer rang signaling the end of the lunch period. In the hall, kids rushed back to their classrooms, and hoping to spot Ricky, Jen looked at the children. In the course of her conversation with Diana, the youngsters had innocently acquired a new vulnerability.

With the news Lou had just given her, Diana got busy. She wanted a rally to happen soon. Could they organize and make it happen in two days down at the riverfront? A perfect place for a photo op with the ALLPower plant clearly in view. She wrote up a press release and e-mailed it out en masse to local papers and radio and TV stations. She had become media savvy, right down to rehearsing sound bites for reporters craving simple explanations. She wanted to be the one they sought out.

She sent Lou a personal e-mail about the rally. If he wasn’t writing up the leak, would he consider covering the rally?

He read her e-mail late that night from home, after filing his sports story. He hit Reply.

Not sure about the rally. But are you free afterward to go for a ride?

Ride? She wrote back:

Rally first, then ride? The rally will be a great story.

Lou snorted at the screen. The woman was pushy—he didn’t make deals, especially swapping press coverage for the company of a pretty gal. He would stall.

I’ll check with my editor and see what I can do. Where would you like to go after the rally?

It was that kind of unresolved sparring that made her cranky and grit her teeth. He was being cagey and flattering at the same time. But she wouldn’t give up. She waited ten minutes before e-mailing him back.

I know your editor will want you to write this up, and after we could check out a wonderful Japanese garden just up the road.

Chapter 13

Chrissy Dolan saw the crowd gathering around the podium at the riverfront park. She reached in her bag and pulled out a small camera and a reporter’s pad and made her way over to the group. A few years ago she’d graduated from college with a degree in journalism, a profession that now seemed to be in flux. After a few years of trying to find any kind of news work, she was lucky to get an internship at a local weekly paper in Westchester called the Register.

Her editor, Al Areva, liked her even though she was green. He wasn’t really sure what she had learned in college; she hadn’t figured out the shortcuts and it took her a long time to crank out a story. But she worked hard and always made deadline, and he saw potential. He liked Chrissy, and after her first summer he put her on staff, part-time. She was smart and attractive, and people liked to talk to her, a plus in the news business.

Al assigned Chrissy the dreaded school-board and town meetings. For a while he watched her work, shaking his head. Chrissy took notes on a large yellow legal pad, her scrawl plastering the page from top to bottom. She played and replayed the audio recordings from meetings or interviews, typing every word before she decided what to keep in the story. One day Al said to her, “You know, Chrissy, you’re a reporter, not a secretary.”

“What do you mean?” She brushed her long, light brown hair away from her hazel eyes.

“You’re taking down everything, not telling me in your own words what happened.”

She stared at him, her eyes widening.

“Look, Chrissy. What are you writing about right now?”

“Town board meeting.”

“Okay. Look at me and just tell me what happened at the meeting—as much as you can remember.”

She started to look at her notes, but Al came over and covered the dizzying scrawl with his hand.

“Just what you remember. Tell me.”

“Well, they want to fire the police chief. There was a whole to-do about that.”

“What else?”

“Let’s see. Um. The board wants a pay raise, but they didn’t vote on it.”

“And?”

“Some Boy Scout got a town medal for… something. I can’t remember. It’s here on tape.”

“Okay. Do you know what your story is here?”

“I’m just writing about what happened at the meeting, from soup to nuts. Aren’t I?”

“No. Your story is the police chief getting axed. That’s big. That’s a headline story. You should have left right after that and written it up immediately. Who was angry? Who was upset, what was said? Make sense?”

She stared at him. A lightbulb went off.

“What about the other stuff?”

“We’ll get the other stuff eventually,” Al told her. “Listen, reporters aren’t stenographers. I know this sounds corny, but think of us as foot soldiers of democracy. Sure, it’s a bit altruistic, but your job is to look, listen, take it all in, and then write it as you see it. Our readers don’t want the minutes; they want your take on what happened.”

It was a floodgate opening. Reporting suddenly took on a different meaning. Her particular view of an event was important, something that never before occurred to her. The idea was empowering.

“And another thing,” Al said. “Get rid of that damn legal pad and use what we all use.” He threw a package of small reporter pads on her desk.

In just a few weeks, Al saw an instant change in the way Chrissy worked. When he got ALLPower’s press release about the leak’s real danger, he assigned the story to her. Plant stuff was never too newsy, but this time it seemed to be a front page story.

As she left the office for the rally, Al called out to her, “Don’t spin your wheels on this one. Our readers don’t really think the plant is a problem, and besides, as a news story, it isn’t that sexy.”

When she got to the riverfront green, Chrissy could see speakers gathering at the podium, jockeying around, and rustling their papers. Signs popping out over people’s heads read “Leaks Kill the Hudson Fish!” and “ALLPower = Doomsday.” Someone started to speak: it was Diana Chase introducing herself to the crowd. Chrissy recognized her name from the press release about the rally.

“Welcome everyone! We are here because we live in the shadow of a nuclear power plant that is a safety risk of unimaginable proportions!”

Suddenly a bus pulled up and two dozen people poured out wearing new white-and-blue T-shirts with block letters spelling “ALLPower.” Some wore hard hats, others wore ALLPower baseball caps. The last to get off was Bob Stalinsky, who leaned against the bus and watched the workers approach the crowd. When they reached the perimeter of the group, the workers stood behind them and fanned out, almost like a barricade. Chrissy hurried over and turned her camera on. Working for a small paper meant that she was both writer and photographer.

Diana paused. “We also welcome workers from ALLPower. We are glad you can join us.”

“We wouldn’t miss this for the world, Lady!” a worker in a hard hat yelled. His cohorts jeered, angering the anti-nuke group. Fending off a possible shouting match, Diana projected her voice strongly into the mic.

“I’m sure ALLPower workers are curious just how dangerous the plant is. We are living in an age where power plant accidents at Three Mile Island and Chernobyl have changed the way we think about nuclear power forever. We are demanding to know if our immediate safety is at risk as well as the safety of millions of others just south of us in New York City.”

People started waving their signs and chanting “Shut it down! Shut it down!” Plant workers bellowed out, “ALLPower means jobs! Keep our jobs!”

The shouting match increased. Suddenly Diana unclipped the wireless mic from the stand and stepped down into the audience and walked directly up to one of the plant workers. The crowd silenced, and she spoke into the mic.

“Can we just talk? Can you tell me your name?”

The plant worker looked at her in disgust.

“Ain’t tellin’ you nothin,’ Lady.”

She ignored him. “Did you know if they shut down the plant you would still have a job?”

“You don’t know anything about it, Sweetheart!” the worker barked out. “The plant is safe, and we should know because we work there every day. There’s no reason to close it, so call off your tree huggers!”

“Did anyone even explain what happens when they close down a plant?” Her voice was amplified, and she took advantage of it. “It takes about twenty years to close down and decommission a nuke plant, and workers stay there, but in a different capacity. Did you know that?”

The ALLPower worker eyed her suspiciously. Then he turned his head and spit on the ground. Off to the side, a camera flashed.

“What are you talking about? A closed plant is a closed plant,” the man seethed. “And we do lose our jobs. Then what?”

He stormed away. Diana realized she was surrounded by plant workers. She looked at them and lowered the mic.

“You know we can agree to disagree, but we can also sit down and have a dialogue about this at some point. Anyone here willing to do that?”

No one moved.

Slowly she walked backward and then turned toward the podium. For a brief moment she was blocked by two workers. She looked them in the eye, holding her own. They belligerently scuffled aside and let her pass. When she got to the podium she passed the mic to the next speaker.

Lou watched from the back of the crowd. Gal has backbone, he thought.

He had showed up without committing to write the story. It was research, wasn’t it? As a local politician took the podium to speak, Lou walked over to Bob who looked like he was holding up the bus. The PR man stared straight ahead, still pissed off about Lou’s front page story about the plant leaks.

“Hey, Bob. Who organized the ALLPower hecklers?”

Bob shook his head no and kept his eyes on the podium.

“Hey, they’re hardly ‘hecklers,’ Lou. These guys got worked up all by themselves and wanted to come. They are looking out for their jobs. We just made it easy for them to get here in the company bus.”

“Are they on company time? Are they getting paid to come here and disrupt a public demonstration?”

“They’re here because they want to be.”

“Are you paying them?”

“Can’t say. Payroll is not my department anyway. How come you’re not at a game, making some poor coach miserable?”

“Just thought I’d check this out. No big deal. We may not even write it up, so calm down, okay?”

Lou noticed a young woman standing behind Bob. He looked at her curiously as she put her hand on Bob’s arm.

“Mr. Stalinsky? I’m Chrissy Dolan with the Register. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Bob beamed. It would be pleasure to talk to this charming young thing.

“Certainly. Shall we sit down over at that picnic table?” he said, steering her away from Lou.

Lou walked toward some of the information tables.

“Excuse me.”

A black man was at his elbow, and Lou whisked around.

“Hey. How are you?”

The man reached inside a folder and held out a piece of paper.

“Listen, you’d understand this.”

Lou read the sheet.

“Let me get this straight. You’re with a group of African Americans who are pro nuclear power? How come?”

“You know how many blacks have asthma? It’s from the coal-fired plants making electricity. They dirty up the air so much our kids can’t hardly breathe. But nukes are clean. We got to make sure they stay open.”

“Hmm. Never thought about it,” Lou admitted.

“You work around here?” asked the man.

“Yeah. I’m a news reporter.”

“Really? You’ll write about us, won’t you?”

“Maybe. I really cover local sports, but give me your contact information, and I’ll pass it on to my editor. You never know.”

The man handed Lou a slick-looking packet filled with news articles, medical reports, and a list of board members.

“Thanks. I’ll look this over.”

“Cool. Appreciate it.”

It was an odd liaison. Lou assumed most blacks had more pressing issues than the environment. There were still vast inequities between whites and blacks, not to mention other minorities, where it was a constant battle to be heard and stay vocal. Lou flipped through the pamphlet and ran down the list of members. On the bottom of the list was ALLPower.

Interesting.

He checked out other tables and picked up some basic information about power plants, promising himself to read it all later. Better yet, he could ask Diana to explain it all. He ignored the nagging issue of mixing socially with people from your stories. Wasn’t it worth never writing about nuclear power again if he could get to know this woman?

He looked her way, and Diana spotted him from the side of the podium. He nodded at her. The speakers were finishing up, and the crowd started to move about. Lou was about to walk over to Diana when Chrissy Dolan suddenly was at her side, pen in hand. Lou slowed and watched the young woman work. He would have to check out her article when the weekly paper came out in another day or two. You never know what a rookie reporter could come up with.

After a minute, and feeling a bit competitive, Lou walked over and interrupted the two.

“Hi, Ms. Chase. I’m Lou Padera from the Daily Suburban. When you’re finished with Ms. Dolan here, can I ask you a few questions?” His eyes twinkled, hoping she enjoyed the pantomime, but she held her cool, professional stance.

“Sure, Mr. Padera.”

He stood by and listened to Chrissy’s questions. The girl had done the kind of homework he had refused to do. She asked Diana about other possible dangers that lurked at the plant, the spent-fuel pool, the history of leaks. When they finished, Chrissy took a picture of Diana with the two domes in the background. The girl thanked her and left. Diana turned to Lou.

“Well, I’m ready for your questions. Where is your pad?”

“It all goes in here,” Lou tapped his head.

Diana was wary. “Oh really? Meaning you’re not here to cover the story, right?”

“No, not really. Although I had an interesting talk with Mr. Stalinsky that could be a story at some point. Sorry. You very disappointed?”

“Yes. Very.”

Tight-lipped, she collected mounds of paper and petitions while Lou waited. He had to make good, somehow. Was she really put off because he didn’t cover the rally? Would she change her mind about the ride? Maybe she was a bit too stoical for him. But still, there was some kind of simmering attraction at work here.

Out of nowhere, a plant worker clad in a white ALLPower T-shirt tapped Diana on her back.

“Here’s my name and number,” he said, quickly looking around. “We need to talk.”

He was gone in a flash and disappeared inside the ALLPower bus. Diana looked at the scrap of paper. On it was scribbled Larry Hines, ALLPower engineer. 524-3828.

“Who was that?” asked Lou.

“Not sure. Could be the whistle-blower we’ve been hoping for.”

He closed in and looked at the man’s name. He was mildly intrigued.

“Whistle-blower?”

“Yes. An informant from inside the plant who could tell us what’s really going on.”

“Hmm. Can you tell me more on our ride? We are still going to your garden, aren’t we Ms. Chase? Or are you punishing me for just wanting to enjoy your company?”

She looked at him and forced back a smile. Admittedly she liked him—the solid feel of him standing so close—but she didn’t want to suddenly relinquish her anger. On the other hand, maybe a bit later, she could convince him to change his mind and write about the rally.

“I’m not mad… well, maybe a little. Let’s forget it and go to the garden. It’s a place I truly love. I think you’ll like it as well.”

Probably not, thought Lou, but I’ll give it a shot. It’s the lady I like, not a bunch of flowers.

They walked to his car and got in and drove right past Chrissy. Diana waved at her and smiled. Chrissy looked at them together in the car. Now that’s an interesting couple, she thought.

They sped up the highway, talking about everything except nuclear power. He wanted to know more about Diana’s passion for education and her strong feelings for environmental issues. She was different. Classy. From another world, open-minded, and easy to talk to.

“So, you live alone?” he asked, guessing.

“Nope. Gotta dog. And you?”

“No dog. Just me. Never been married—well almost was. It didn’t work out.”

“Sorry. I’ve never been married either.”

“That’s hard to believe—a beautiful woman like you? Just never found the right guy?”

“Or he never found me.”

When they arrived at the garden she seemed to relax and forget about the story issue. It was a place her father had told her about, and she had visited it only once. For Lou, the air was somehow intoxicating. He felt light-headed and mildly euphoric, a mental state he usually got after imbibing a few shots or from that first drag on a cigarette. He had never been to a place like this and actually found it to be lovely—the large pond graced with a red wooden bridge, arching over to a small Japanese teahouse. Even the bonsai were cute.

They chatted on the drive back. He shared stories of his youth: being raised in a poor, working class family meant constant struggles, and college was an unreachable dream that, because of his athletic talent, became a miraculous reality. He was the first one in his family to attend college, and his sense of pride touched Diana; it was reminiscent of the young students she had helped in the Bronx.

When they got to her house, in one seamless motion he pulled in the driveway, squeezed the brake, and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

“Thank you for showing me a great new place,” he said.

She smiled. She wasn’t ready to say good-bye.

“There’s still some light; want to see my tiny garden? It’s a little bit of a hodgepodge; I’m still learning this green thumb stuff.”

He turned off the car and followed her down a path lined with budding azaleas. A patch of primroses was just coming up near a spread of white crocus.

“I tried planting these for the first time last year,” said Diana, pointing to the stand of peach-colored tulips, whose stately pods had just bloomed.

“Nice,” said Lou. “I never got into gardening—too messy. But this looks nice.”

“It’s a start. More will come up in the next few months.”

“Maybe I’ll get to see them.”

When they got to a small patio overlooking the lake, Diana heard Lin barking and saw her peering out the glass patio doors. Diana let her out, and the dog rushed up to Lou, barking and growling, checking him out.

“Hey Killer,” he said, kneeling down and offering his hand, careful not to pet her until she gave the signal. A few quick sniffs and the dog was licking his fingers and wagging her tail.

That will get him points, thought Diana.

The dog rolled over, her belly up, the ultimate acceptance of a new person. Lou chuckled, noticing how Diana studied the interaction. After a minute he stood up and slowly reached his arm around her waist.

“Okay to do this?” he asked.

“I guess.”

It felt more than good, but she wouldn’t let on. After all, she barely knew the man.

He let his arm rest gently, feeling the curve of her back.

“This was a nice day, but I’m afraid I have to run. Gotta catch an evening game. Wanna come along?”

“Not really,” she said, chuckling. “And I’m not going to ask for a rain check, okay?”

They both laughed. Yes, she was different, but they did seem to enjoy one another. The chemistry was good.

“So, really no story about today? Even with the hostile plant workers?” she asked in a last ditch effort.

“Um, probably not. I’m actually taking a chance being with you now.”

“What do you mean—‘taking a chance’?”

“The rule is no dating beautiful women you’ve written about.”

“How about ugly women? Does the same rule apply?”

He chuckled and took her hands in his. It felt like a perfect fit.

“It’s just not considered good form, but you’re hard to resist. If we see each other again, we would have to be discreet.”

She let her hands relax.

“Am I the reason you’re not writing about the rally?”

“Not altogether. I’m really a sportswriter and don’t know a hill of beans about nukes.”

“But it would be a shame to be scooped by Chrissy Dolan from the Register.”

“True. And you never know. My editor might need a small filler about the rally. I’ll e-mail you either way.”

He leaned in, kissed her lightly on the lips, and left.

Later that evening he kept his promise, and there was indeed an e-mail from him. The subject line read “Flowers.” She was disappointed that it didn’t say “Tomorrow’s story.”

I loved the flowers that grow in your garden. They are quite exquisite. I especially love the light peach ones with the dark brown stamens, stiffly tickling the air at one end while anchored in the deep, moist fulcrum of petals, whose concentrated energy seems to explode, fanning an organic glow.

“Whew!” said Diana out loud, smiling. “Aren’t we bold?”

Her eyes went back to the words “dark brown stamens,” and she mentally inhaled the sound of his voice saying these words. She leaned back and felt a sensation from deep inside, a desire long dormant.

Her fantasy was to call him and continue in this vein, talking him into a frenzied parlay of phone sex. But wait—was she really the kind of woman who would let herself become excited by a few lines of erotica? No. She’d never make a call like that, no matter how turned on she was.

Yet, his e-mail touched the flirty Diana, a part of her she had long forgotten. Somehow, she couldn’t pass up a response; it would be too much fun. She opened a reply page and stared at the blank, white electronic surface. Could she do it with the same poetic intensity? How many sexual metaphors could she come up with? And would they excite him as much as his did her? Finally she hit the keypad and titled the subject line “Horti-erotica.”

Dear Lou,

Flowers and gardening seem to be my new passion. The spring is especially wonderful—how things thrust up through the ground. The tulips are bursting from their hard, dormant bulbs, emerging to grow high, arching their wide, plump leaves, spreading apart for the sturdy tall stalk that will bear the soft, luscious petals. A flower whose folds and curves will soon reveal a deep, dark, silky center, accepting the sun’s penetrating rays, feeding the ecstasy of those who first caressed the bulbs to sleep in the fall.

She pressed Send, and then waited.

Chapter 14

Chrissy made a splash with her story, especially since it scooped the Daily Suburban, a rarity for a local weekly paper. Al couldn’t believe it. When the Daily Suburban came out the day after the rally, there wasn’t even a mention. Al plastered Chrissy’s story on the front page of the Register, now two days after the event.

Plant workers scuffle with activists

Owen was miserable. He messed up. He remembered getting a press release about the rally from that crazy activist lady, Diana Chase. But he didn’t think it was worth covering. They just didn’t have the space for every lunatic cause. Besides, how many folks would really show up?

Not only did the story make front page on the little local weekly, but cable TV kept showing a clip of the angry workers over and over. Owen dragged Chrissy’s article over to Lou who cringed slightly.

“Sonofabitch,” Lou said. “You didn’t send anyone?” A strong tug of guilt made Lou avert his eyes while he scanned Chrissy’s story. He had no intention of telling Owen he was there. It was lying by omission. There was a picture of Diana talking to the angry ALLPower worker. It was a good shot, for a writer.

“Didn’t think it was a real story, dammit. The announcement was from that crazed Chase woman—an activist, for God’s sake. Boss not gonna like it one bit. We’ll have to make up for it somehow. Can you chase down another plant story? Soon?”

“Maybe. I’ll see what I can dig up, but no promises.”

“Thanks, Lou. Really appreciate it.”

It was one of the few times the editor was humbled, but Lou didn’t even notice. He was consumed with the impossible task at hand. What on earth could he write about the plant? And did it mean giving up his connection to Diana? Lou rummaged around and found the pamphlets and information he got from the rally. Like it or not, he started reading.

Chrissy’s story inspired Al to do a follow up about the plant. As long as they were scooping the big paper, why not go for it. Could the rookie pull it off? He had a story idea.

“What about profiling all the key players in the debate over the plant—if they think it should keep running or be shut down. Check in with ALLPower, the activists, elected officials, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. Think you can do it?”

Chrissy jumped at the chance and did some quick research online. She was pretty much in the dark about how a nuclear reactor really worked, and after a few hours of research, she felt like she took a graduate course in physics without taking basic science first. As long as she could ask intelligent questions she would be okay.

Now that ALLPower had invested a bunch of money, there was a lot of interest in what was new and improved at the plant. How much more had to be fixed? Were they updating components before they got approval for a new operating license? She dialed the first name on the list.

“It’s the lovely Chrissy Dolan, ace reporter,” drawled Bob Stalinsky when he heard her voice. “Good job on that rally story. It’s right here on my desk.”

“Oh. Why thanks, Bob. But the reason I called is I’m writing up profiles of people involved with the plant. Can you tell me a bit about yourself? When you started working at ALLPower as a PR person?”

“Aw—is that what you really want to talk about? Little old me? How about an interview over lunch?”

“Uh, sounds great, thanks. But I’m on deadline. Can I take a rain check for lunch and do the interview now?”

“I guess. Promise about lunch?”

Yikes. Why does the guy have to be a creep? she thought. “Sure, Bob. I’d love it.”

He gave her the shortened version of his life, leaving out the personal stuff. It was still too painful to go public with a pending divorce. The PR man soaked up the attention and the chance to talk about himself. His campaigns were quite creative, slogans and all. And his sincere concern about the community…

As his ego churned into overdrive, Chrissy interrupted.

“What’s it like working at the plant? Do you ever leave your office and rub elbows with the workers?”

“All the time. You know, this is a great company, Chrissy. They really care about their employees and about the people living in the area. We honestly do.”

“Tell me about how the company is spending money at the plant?”

“You know, Chrissy, the list is so long, I just couldn’t get into it now. How about doing this part of the interview over lunch?”

“How about starting the list now?”

“Let’s see. Oh yeah, we’ve been working on the emergency alert system—there’s a scoop for you—we haven’t come out with anything about that yet. You know the sirens you hear once a month? We’re updating those big time.”

He rattled off a bunch of general PR facts he knew by heart: the updated components, the new training programs for the staff. He steered her away from the leak. She already knew about that, didn’t she?

“Hope you can continue to cover the plant, Chrissy. You full-time at the Register?”

“Not yet, still part-time. Listen, thanks for the interview.”

“Sure thing. Looking forward to lunch.”

The Nuclear Regulatory Commission was next. She was nervous as she dialed up Dick Isling.

“Never heard of your paper. How long has it been around?” Isling snapped into the phone.

“About ten years. Can I ask you some questions about the ALLPower plant?”

“How long you been writing for them? What’s the name of the paper again?”

“The Register. It’s a weekly and I’m just starting—”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Chrissy—”

“Oh yeah, Dolan.”

His profile was easy enough: a civil servant who climbed the ladder and ended up as the spokesperson for the NRC’s Northeast region.

“Do you know how the NRC operates?” he asked her.

“Um, not really. Why don’t you fill me in?”

“Okay. We are the oversight guys for all nuclear power plants in the country. We require them to be current on all the crosscutting standards.”

Crosscutting? What the hell is that?

“Is ALLPower up to date right now?”

“Right now they are. We have two on-site inspectors making sure they meet their cornerstones.”

Cornerstones?

“How often does the plant get reviewed?”

“Every three months.”

He backtracked to some NRC history, how the commissioners were appointed, not elected, how the NRC is independent, meaning they don’t answer to Congress or any elected representatives. The buck stopped with them as far as nuclear power safety.

“Anything else you want to know?”

“What about the leaks?”

“Leak. So far there is only one.”

“That you know of.”

“Yes.”

“Are you inspecting the fuel pool?” she blurted out, wanting to keep the upper hand should he pontificate with a new, encyclopedic explanation.

“Not us. ALLPower should be sending divers into the pool. It’s a big deal. Suiting up in protective gear takes quite a while.”

“How long can they stay in there?”

“Hard to tell. They could spend weeks looking for cracks that might be the actual leak. The divers had to go in a half an hour at a clip—can’t get over exposed. An inspection report will be out in a month or so.”

“Is the pool airtight?”

“Just about. There’s a door to get the fuel in and out. It has hinges and an inflatable seal.”

“Anything ever go wrong with the door?”

Isling didn’t answer.

“Mr. Isling? You there?”

“Yup. Well, let’s see. It’s rare, but if the door’s seals go bad, water leaks out. But that really never happens.”

Isling quickly segued into an oversight check list, and Chrissy zoned out, imagining mummy-like divers immersed in forty feet of blue, radiated water.

“Do you know about that?” he suddenly asked her.

Whoops. “Know what?”

“How a steam generator works.”

“I… uh—not really. Can you tell me next time we talk?”

“I guess.”

“Thanks, Mr. Isling. Oh—just one more thing. Has any contaminated water gone into the Hudson River?”

“Don’t know. We don’t monitor that. That’s checked by the Environmental Protection Agency or the state’s conservation folks. Either way, if contaminated water got in the river, it wouldn’t really matter.”

“I don’t get that. Why wouldn’t it matter?”

“The river is huge and always moving. We have a saying: ‘dilution is the solution to pollution.’”

You’re kidding, thought Chrissy.

“Dilution is… what?”

He repeated the phrase.

“The river’s billions and billions of gallons of moving water dilutes whatever goes in it. It’s impossible to pollute.”

Chrissy pondered the slogan and scribbled it down.

“You know, Carra—”

“It’s Chrissy. Chrissy Dolan.”

“Oh. Chrissy. I’ll send you some studies we did on groundwater radioactivity. Then we can talk again. Don’t mean to put you off, but I have a meeting that I have to get to.”

They quickly exchanged e-mail addresses and hung up. Nuclear power had become a mystery that needed to be solved: the more she learned, the more she was driven to understand it and make it palpable to the readers. Chrissy reviewed her notes. Isling gave her enough information for other stories, stories about the plant that would keep her byline on the front page. Maybe then Al would hire her full-time.

Chapter 15

Owen was livid. For the second consecutive week the Register ran a story on ALLPower. The spin was very clever; he had to hand it to the editor. Chrissy’s story, “Nuke pros and foes,” read like a short Who’s Who that clearly sorted out where people stood on the seminal issues.

A copy of the weekly was tossed on Lou’s desk.

“We are really behind the eight ball on this one, Padera. Do you have a nuke plant story yet?”

Lou looked dismally at the Register. He had stalled. He couldn’t find anything to sink his teeth into. Everything was just so technical.

“This is a hard one, Owen. I don’t know squat about nuclear power.”

“Neither did she!” Owen hammered his finger on Chrissy’s story.

“The girl’s right out of school, and she did her homework. I need something from you by the end of the week.”

Ten minutes later Lou was in his car. He needed to get out of the office. How about calling Diana for a story suggestion? Nah. That wouldn’t fly. She was formally off-limits since he was ordered to write another nuke story. He started driving north and found himself at the riverfront park. He got out and walked down to the beach, the spot he had checked after interviewing Jen Elery. He looked at the water lapping up on the shore and thought about the young girl laughing in the water a few weeks before she died. He had never really followed up on the cause of her death….

The water. What was it the mystery woman caller said? As he recalled the sound of the woman’s voice, he suddenly realized that it was Diana—but he had to know for sure. He needed to see her face to face. Connecting the plant with the girl’s death—it would be a lot of legwork and hard to prove, but what a story. He dialed Diana’s cell, hoping she wouldn’t mind getting a call at work. She picked up on the second ring.

“Diana Chase. Can I help you?”

“Hi. It’s Lou. Sorry to call you at work. Can you talk?”

She was surprised to hear his voice. Their last communication was a brief prelude to cybersex. He never responded to her suggestive e-mail, and it left her confused, cautious.

“For just a bit. What’s up, Lou?”

“When do you take your lunch break? Is it okay if I come over for a quick minute?”

“Um, I guess. Can you tell me what this is about?”

“It’s about the Elery kid. But it would be good to talk to you in person.” Then he chided her. “Of course I’d like to see you for more reasons than one.”

“Did you get my e-mail?” Diana said, miffed that he never responded.

“Of course. I loved it.”

“It would have been nice to know that. But whatever. Lunch is in about forty minutes. See you when you get here.”

She quickly hung up, and he thought, what did I do?

Maybe this was a sign to back off. If he did write a story connecting Kaylee Elery’s death with the plant, he would have to steer clear from Diana anyway.

As soon as she hung up, Diana thought she sounded too prissy. Maybe he’d change his mind and wouldn’t come over. She was confused. She realized she wanted to see him—figure out how she was really feeling about this man.

Usually Jen and Diana would go into the lounge for lunch and eat with the other teachers. The lounge was the inner sanctum where the stressed teachers could vent about their students or the last contentious union meeting. But with the possibility of Lou coming to visit, Diana took her sandwich into a private side kitchen off the reception area and invited Jen to join her.

“No lounge today?” asked Jen.

“Not today. I’m expecting a visitor. Remember Lou Padera?”

Jen looked puzzled. “Why is he coming here? I really don’t want to talk to him anymore…”

“You won’t have to. I’m not altogether sure when or if he’ll be here, but I think he wants to talk to me. Not sure why he’s coming, really. But we’ll find out.”

They got out their bagged lunches and started to eat. Twenty minutes later Lou arrived, signed in at the front desk, and was pointed in the direction of Diana’s office. He followed the women’s voices to the small back kitchen.

“Good afternoon, Ladies. Sorry to interrupt your lunch.”

Jen quickly wrapped up her bag and closed her thermos.

“Hi, Mrs. Elery. Nice to see you again.”

“Hi, Mr. Padera,” she said, trying to smile.

“How do you like working here?” he asked gently. “I heard Diana’s a real slave driver? Is it true?” he kidded, hoping for a smile in return.

“Oh, no,” Jen said cautiously. “She’s really wonderful. This was all her idea. Working here is very therapeutic.” She remembered how sensitive he was in the interview, but he was still a reporter, nosing around. She stood up and squeezed by him. It was clear she didn’t want to talk.

“Let’s go into my office,” Diana said, standing up and leading the way. When they got in her office she stepped behind her desk and sat down. Lou looked around.

“Nice kite. Who’s your decorator?”

“Me. I call it minimal fantasy.”

“Who lives in the glass box?”

“My turtle. Why are you here, Lou?”

“What’s the turtle’s name?”

“Why are you here?”

“I need to ask you something, Diana, and you have to tell me the truth, okay?”

“Okay. I’ve been known to tell the truth on occasion.” She managed a brief smile.

“Please, this is serious. Were you the anonymous caller after the Kaylee story came out?”

Her smile faded and she nodded. The turtle roused and poked his head out of his shell. Diana put her finger to her lips and motioned Lou to close the door. He followed her gaze to Jen, shut the door, and sat down opposite her.

“I need to know why you said what you said to me on the phone,” he whispered. “Do you have any proof that Kaylee’s death was caused by something from the plant, something that leached into the water? Some type of radiation?”

“I have experts who are speculating. I can give you their names.” She opened a small closet and pulled a thick folder from a large box from the floor.

“Let’s walk outside, okay?” she gestured to the door, tucking the folder under her arm.

When they were at his car, she gave him the folder.

“There’s a list of experts in here, and some of them believe there’s a good chance Kaylee ingested some type of isotope that eventually killed her. Are you working on this for a story?”

“Maybe. It depends what I come up with. I’m a fish out of water with this one. May need your help.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’m at your disposal. It’s a story that hasn’t been told. Ever.”

He ran his finger lightly along her arm. “Nice e-mail, Pretty Lady. Busy this weekend?”

“I thought I was off-limits.”

“You are, but you’re hard to resist. You’re worth breaking a few silly rules.”

His touch made her flush, and she glanced toward the school, checking for spies. She reached for his hand and pulled him to her. It was a long, deep kiss that surprised them both. He wrapped his strong, swarthy arms around her and slowly moved his hands down her back, resting on her hips. She melted; he had tapped her juices.

She broke away and looked back at the school.

“Why don’t you come over for dinner Friday night? And if you want, bring your toothbrush.”

“I want.”

When she walked back to the school, Diana was glowing. She motioned for Jen to come in her office.

“Wow,” Jen said. “What happened out there? You’re all dreamy.”

“Yes, I know. He kissed me. Or rather I kissed him.”

“Is that what he came for? A kiss?”

The two women chuckled and sat down on two chairs in front of Diana’s desk. Then Diana got serious.

“He’s looking into how Kaylee died.”

Jen shook her head.

“Why? Can’t he leave well enough alone?”

“He can’t, Jen, nor should he. I know this must be painful, but wouldn’t you and Ricky want to know also?”

“Why are you doing this, Diana? I thought we were friends. Now this. You’re using Kaylee’s death to close the plant.”

Diana became startled at the accusation.

“Please, Jen. If there is something in the water where kids are swimming, as a mom, wouldn’t you want to know what it is?”

The tears came, and Jen looked away. Diana took her hands and held them in her own.

“Look, we’ll deal with this together. You don’t have to talk to Lou if you don’t want to. Let’s just see what he comes up with.”

Jen, silent, set her jaw and pulled her hands from Diana.

“I can’t deal with this right now,” Jen whispered. “You understand, don’t you?”

“Sure. I do understand and will respect where you are on this. But, please Jen, don’t close the door on this. It’s way too important.”

Lou gritted his teeth and jumped right in. He would do this. Get to the bottom of things, even if his byline ended up confusing people. Yes, he was a sportswriter, but he was versatile and could write about other stuff.

He studied the information from Diana. Where to start?

The experts included a member of the Union of Concerned Scientists, a medical consultant with the Nuclear Information Resource System, and someone from the Environmental Protection Agency. They were all surprisingly easy to talk to.

“What’s strontium 90?” Lou asked the medical person with NIRS.

“It’s a radioactive particulate that can leach out of a nuclear power plant into the rivers near to where they are located.”

“Could the girl have ingested this and gotten really sick?”

“Sure. The younger and weaker you are, the more lethal strontium is.”

“Could it have killed her?”

“Yes. Especially if she was a sick kid to begin with.”

“Would strontium show up in a blood test? Or X-ray?”

“It’s absorbed into the bloodstream, and then attaches to the bone surfaces. We find it in baby teeth of children who live near nuclear power plants.”

“What else could’ve killed her?”

“Tritium. It is part hydrogen, so it is part of the water. Tritium leaks from aging nukes all the time. Repeated exposure causes cancer.”

“Are either of these routinely checked for in blood tests?”

“Hospital labs don’t usually check for radioactive isotopes, unless someone specifically asks for it.”

Lou would ask for it. The next call was to the hospital and the young Dr. Turner.

“Let’s see. Kaylee Elery. Oh yes, very sad. As much as we tried, the girl just slipped through our fingers, poor thing. We ran a bunch of blood tests. Would have to check the results.”

“Can you get back to me about the blood tests?”

Ten minutes later Turner called him back.

“Looks like there was some tritium in her blood. We knew there was something toxic, but we weren’t looking for anything like that. It also came up in the autopsy.”

“Did you report it?”

“Report it? To whom?”

“To the authorities? The county health department for starters?”

“Why?”

“A kid dying from a foreign substance, downstream from a nuclear power plant? That didn’t merit an official report?”

“Uh… I don’t think that’s what killed her. She was a pretty sick kid, you know.”

“Can I quote you about the blood test and the autopsy?”

“I’ll need permission from our press office to formally go on the record. They like to control what information goes out about the hospital.”

“Yeah. Sure. Call me when you get it.”

“Will do.”

Sure you will—when the Dodgers come back to Brooklyn.

“Oh, and Mr. Padera? I seem to recall sending a Hazmat guy over to the house. Not sure why we did that….”

“What Hazmat guy?”

“Local guy, checks for radon and gas leaks. Stuff like that.”

“What was he checking for? Did he send in a report?”

“I don’t remember.”

Lou called the local firehouse in Jen’s neighborhood and was steered to Jeff Collins. “Oh yes. How sad that all was,” said Collins. “You’re story was great, Mr. Padera.”

“Thanks. I’m trying to follow up. You checked their house for radon, didn’t you?”

“Yes. But that’s not what I found. Is this for a story?”

“It could be. Depends on what you found.”

“I don’t know, but something in the clothes set off the Geiger counter. It was wild. Seems they were soaked with river water.”

“Were the clothes analyzed?”

“Not sure. I wrapped them up, and they were sent to the county health lab.”

It was a long way down this rabbit hole; the thread of questions multiplied. The story took on a life of its own. Why couldn’t anyone at the lab track down the kid’s clothes? How come records showed the clothes were checked, but no tests were done? It was a question that could end Lou’s story, leave people wondering.

Surprisingly, Dr. Turner called back. Yes, Lou could quote him about the tritium, but everything else was off the record. Lou shot him another bunch of questions before getting off the phone. He couldn’t get enough information, and there were so many possibilities, so many tangential stories. In a strange way, it was starting to feel like his passion for sportswriting, the obsession to find the words to make the story real.

His story started to take shape. Thankfully, Diana wouldn’t have to be quoted. He was relieved; it meant he wouldn’t be breaking any rules if he wanted to see her.

Implicating ALLPower in Kaylee’s death demanded a company response. People needed to hear both sides. Lou visualized himself playing defense on the court, a trick he learned in order to gear up for a contentious interview. As he reached for the phone he knew putting Bob Stalinsky in the hot seat was sure to be unpleasant.

“You’re writing about what?” Bob sat up straight in his chair and spun around to look at the low, gray clouds darkening the Hudson. He put Lou on speaker phone as he chomped on one of Stella’s homemade sandwiches.

“Tritium in the water? From the plant? What’s this all about, Lou?”

“The girl’s death. They found tritium in her blood.”

“First I’ve heard of it.”

“Do you want to give me a formal response?”

“To what? Are you suggesting its tritium from the plant?”

“People have suggested just that.”

“What people?”

“Union of Concerned Scientists, NIRS.”

“Oh, yeah. Well they would be saying stuff like that. They’re always hard on nuke plants. That’s their whole existence.”

“Can you give me a quote, Bob?”

“You know, Lou. You really should stick to sports. It’s simpler than nuclear power, easier to grasp.”

You hard ass. “Let me run down a list of facts for you, Bob. A seven-year-old girl died when she ingested river water. Her blood showed tritium. The closest place that could emit tritium is the plant, right across the cove from the beach. It’s a good chance the water poisoned the girl, Bob. Now do you want to say something?”

“Yeah. No comment.”

“Fine. No comment it is.”

“Wait. You can’t print a story like this. You don’t have any evidence.”

“The girl’s blood test.”

“It’s speculation, and you know it.”

“Yup. I do know it. Good-bye, Bob.”

He jammed down the phone, suddenly regretting it. What the hell. He got out his notes and started typing up the story.

“Wow. This is big, Lou,” Owen said, reading the story off his screen. “Only one problem.”

“What?”

“You have to change the tone. You can’t allege ALLPower had anything to do with the girl without a decent comment from Stalinksy.”

“I’m not alleging—I’m suggesting. For God’s sake, Owen, where else would radioactive particles come from? The kid’s lollipop?”

“Look, Lou. It’s a great story, and you’ve done a great job. But ALLPower is a big advertiser with us; it’s our revenue base. In a way, they pay our salaries—your salary. Get a better response from Stalinsky to keep it balanced, okay?”

“Listen to yourself, Owen. I thought editorial and advertising were separate. Now and always. It’s how newspapers are supposed to run. Where’s your goddamn spine?”

Owen slumped back in his chair. “If we lose them as advertisers we could fold, get it?”

“How do you know we’d fold? We’d get other ads, for Chrissakes.”

Owen turned away from Lou and looked at his computer screen. Lou stood there. He wouldn’t move until Owen said something. They would wait each other out, they’ve done it before. In the newsroom reporters knew sparks were flying.

“Call Stalinksy and then revise. And don’t kid yourself. I’m sharpening my editing sword.”

“And I’m shaking in my boots.” Lou tore out of the office. Feckless little bastard, he thought, and he headed straight for the kid interning with the paper.

“Hey, Paul. You got a smoke?”

“Sure. But didn’t you quit?”

“Who are you? My mother?”

The kid fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. “Need matches?”

“Yeah. Sorry about snapping.”

He headed out the side door and lit up. It had been months since he smoked. The first long drag shot deep, sating his lungs and easing his misery. He needed nicotine, especially if he had to call Bob back, begging for a better response, like a dog with his tail between his legs. He smoked the cigarette down to the filter, stubbed it out, and made the call.

“Sorry, Mr. Padera, Bob just stepped out. Can I take a message?”

“Yes. Ask him to please reconsider his comment and call me back by deadline. That’s in an hour.”

When she hung up, Bob’s secretary poked her head in his office.

“It was him, Bob. He wants another statement.”

“I’ll bet he does. Let the guy stew. He ain’t getting nothin’ from me.”

Chapter 16

NUKE TAINTS RIVER

The headline dominated the morning’s paper, but the eye-catcher was the subhead:

Girl’s death linked

Stella gasped when she picked up the paper outside her front door. Bob was straightening his tie in the bedroom, and when he walked into the kitchen the paper was on the table.

“Read it. It’s not pretty.”

“Must I?”

“How could you say ‘no comment’? That’s like pleading guilty! What were you thinking?”

“Guy has no evidence. It’s a bogus article, I can tell you that right now, Ma.”

“He’s talking about lethal radiation getting into water that kids swim in. And cancer! Anyone at the plant got cancer?”

“You’re making too much out of this. No one is getting sick, either at the plant or living nearby.”

“There are other studies. Look at the list in the sidebar next to the story. This Padera is a decent news reporter. Easy to understand.”

“Yeah—don’t kid yourself. He has an agenda and is treading on thin ice,” Bob blurted out.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s this ‘poor boy done good,’ failed athlete, now heady with the power of the press. He’s after white, corporate America, and he’s targeting ALLPower. Surprise, surprise.”

Stella’s eyes popped out of her head. She took a full, deep breath and ended up exhaling a torrent of words.

“Oh my God—what am I hearing? How do you think your father and I started out? Your grandparents ran a laundromat in the South Bronx, and we all worked our way through school so our children—you—wouldn’t have to struggle like that. You are biased and way off base, Robert. I seriously doubt this reporter has an agenda to bring down a powerful utility corporation.”

“This guy insinuates all sorts of crazy, damaging stuff about us. We could snuff him out if we wanted to.”

“Snuff him out? What the hell are you talking about? Is there a nuclear power mafia? Did they replace concrete shoes with a drink spiked with tritium?” Horrified, she whispered, “Are you really my son?”

“Come on, Ma. ALLPower is a multibillion dollar corporation. This guy is just one reporter. We can’t let him run amuck, influence people and politicians, and make us look bad.”

“Oy.”

“You could be a little more compassionate about your son’s job, Ma. I work hard and bring in good money.”

“Yeah. Money without morals. It’s not only kids who swim in that river, there’s a million fish there? What about them?”

It was like the old battles. Mother and son plunged right back into a verbal skirmish, just what Stella hoped to avoid. She tried to cool it and take a step back.

“Look, this is getting us nowhere. At least let me worry about all this—I’m so good at it.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Okay, okay. Perhaps I’m jumping to some unfounded conclusions. I’ll try to keep an open mind.”

“You? An open mind?” her son said scornfully. “This should be interesting.”

He found his briefcase and veered toward the front door.

“By the way, I think I’ve found an apartment in White Plains. I’ll keep you posted.”

He should’ve read it by now, thought Owen. The publisher, Charlie Finch, usually read the entire paper by 8 a.m. It was now nine, and no call. Lou was waiting for a bomb to drop as well. He rewrote the story. It was tight, each part interconnecting with the other. Owen would find it hard to slice up. When he saw it the next morning, the story had changed very little.

So far, there were no complaints from “upstairs.”

“Everything okay, Boss?” Lou asked Owen, trying to show some allegiance.

“So far, everything’s peachy. I think we’re cool.”

“Great. By the way, I got the night off. The kid will turn in a brief about the high school lacrosse game.”

“Gotcha.”

It was Friday, and primping was in order, especially since she told him to bring a toothbrush.

“Is there anything else I can bring besides my toothbrush?” he asked her, just to make sure the offer was still good.

“How about a nice bottle of wine and some flowers?”

“Uh, I was going to bring those anyway. What else?”

“Oh. Well how about bringing your very wonderful self. By the way, my anti-nuke group is buzzing about your story. I assume you are still gainfully employed?”

“Seems so.”

The night before he told Diana that the story could anger ALLPower enough for them to pull their advertising, and that he had locked horns with his boss.

“Everyone hating the nukes loves you. Hope you’ll keep up the good reporting.”

“Thanks. But this isn’t my beat. Really.”

“You may be mistaken about that, Mr. Padera. Looking forward to seeing you this evening.”

A few hours later when he got out of his car, Lou could hear Diana’s dog, Lin, barking. The frisky little dog guarded the house from the outside stoop. She scurried over and sniffed his feet.

“Hey Killer.”

The dog’s tiny tail wagged like a motor had turned on. Lin rolled over for a belly pat.

“She really likes you. Interesting.”

Diana held the front door open. She was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a soft peach-colored T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back, accentuating her smiling eyes.

“You look lovely. And why is it ‘interesting’ that your dog likes me?”

He leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips.

“Subconsciously, I think I trained her to dislike men. But you…”

“Yeah, dogs and babies—they all love me. I’m just your all-around guy.”

He handed her the wine and an elegant bouquet with a dark, purple tulip in the center.

“This is exquisite. Very tasteful.”

“A florist down the street from my apartment is more artist than a flower arranger. Glad you like it.”

She invited him to sit at the eat-in counter that separated the kitchen from the combination dining-living room. He opened the wine and filled two goblets. After a few sips, he came around into the kitchen and offered to help. He stood next to her while she was chopping vegetables.

“You like to cook much?” he said.

“Not much. I know two or three dishes without the cookbook.”

“And what are we cooking tonight?”

“Curried tofu. Hope you like Indian food, or are you strictly a meat and potatoes man?”

“Oh come on. A gal like you wouldn’t be caught dead with a simple meat and potatoes man, would you?” he winked at her.

“Oh, I don’t know. Meat and potatoes can get pretty complicated.”

She giggled, and he asked “How can I help?”

“Let’s see. How about beating an egg for the rice dish?”

He held the egg in his right hand and deftly cracked it with a swift press of his thumb and his index finger, the yoke cascading in the bowl.

“Wow. Am I standing next to a gourmet chef?”

“Nah, not me. I learned the one-handed egg crack ’cause it gets points with the women.”

“Well, I guess it worked.” She looked at him sideways, smiling.

“Glad to hear it. I’ll take as many points as I can.”

They stood side by side at the counter as if they had been cooking together for years. She felt pulled to him, like a magnet, and as he beat the egg, she stepped behind him and wrapped herself around him and pressed into his back, her fingers running along his strong, solid arms. She pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades. He paused, feeling her breathing.

“I was brought up on corn beef and cabbage and sushi,” she said suddenly, pulling away and getting the flatware out.

“Sounds a lot more interesting than pasta fagioli and chicken cacciatore.”

“No way. I love Italian food. Maybe you’ll cook dinner for me sometime.”

“Absolutely. I’m planning the menu right now. You like spicy?”

“Sometimes. Except for curry and wasabi, my palate has been hiding out in the world of bland.”

“Too bad. If you hang out with me, you might become more adventurous.”

“With food?”

“With anything. Why limit it to food?”

Damn. Cool it with the sex stuff. We haven’t even gotten in bed.

She lit some candles on the round, hardwood dining table that took up most of the space in the cozy dining nook. They sat down and she extended her hands to him, and he graciously took hold.

“Thank you for having dinner at my modest table. Bon appétit.”

He wanted to know everything about her—where she grew up and what her parents were like, why she chose teaching and how she ended up in Westchester. Who were her friends? And… when was her last love affair?

“Last affair? Who knows? I never remember stuff like that,” she shrugged. “You?”

“It’s been quite a while since anything serious.”

“How come?”

“I was—how do they say?—left at the altar? I guess I have a few trust issues.”

“Yeah. I hear you.”

“But some of my guy friends say the real issue is keeping things alive after two years.”

“Two years? Is that some kind of male bewitching hour? The testosterone switch turns off?”

“I guess. They say that’s when everything gets ho-hum, routine, no sex.”

“Sounds like some weird setup—having a relationship by the clock. Is that your cut-off point?”

“I… I don’t know. Maybe—I mean, actually, I never really got to the two-year point.”

“Hmm. How is the curry?”

“Oh, really, really good. You’ll have to give me the recipe.”

He had stopped eating during the brief cross-examination about relationships, so she switched gears.

“How did you learn to write so well about sports?”

“Does this mean you are reading my sports stories? I’m flattered, Ms. Chase.”

“I am. And I must say I’m gaining some appreciation for sports—just because of the author.”

Now in his comfort zone, he told her about his love for “the game,” how his deep sense of failure after rejection by the pros made him persevere to write about sports as a way to stay in the arena, even if on the sidelines.

“Words can never replicate what it’s like on the court, but I was determined to make it work.”

“And you’ve truly succeeded. You have a special talent, Lou.”

They chatted, ate, and sipped wine, and when their plates were clear and the wine bottle empty, he stood up and nodded to the love seat across the room.

“Shall we?”

She nodded, smiling. But before she rose, he reached down and held her face in his hands and gently kissed her. When he pulled her up to him, she didn’t hold back. It was a timeless kiss, and her lips parted slightly as he skirted his tongue on her lower lip and suddenly found her tongue entwined in his.

In bed, she became another woman—unleashed, lust driven, aching to be sated. He was attentive and wanted to explore every part of her body. He kissed her neck and breasts, brushing her nipples, sucking them longingly, playfully teasing her. Soon she was begging to have him in her, but he resisted and pleasured her with his fingers. Her mouth found his hard shaft and he fell back in ecstasy, trying not to lose control, until he took her head in his hands and pulled her up to him, looking deeply into her wild, dark eyes. They couldn’t get enough of each other, and they both rode wave after wave of pleasure.

Their afterglow was luxurious. They folded into each other, cuddled, dozed, he rolled over, kissing her ears before tumbling back into a light sleep. He awoke again to feel her touch him lightly, building to arousal. They made love again, just as the sun was rising.

“You are wonderful,” he said dreamily.

“As are you, Mr. Padera. I think I lost a few inhibitions since dinner. Do you have this affect on all of your women?”

“Oh yeah, all of my women. They’re standing in line….”

She lay on her stomach, languid. His fingers traced down her spine to her soft, full buttocks.

“Diana?”

“Yes?”

“Ever do a threesome?”

“A what? Oh—you mean with a guy and another woman?”

“Yeah. Or two guys. You know. A group sex thing—a ménage à trois.”

“Uh-uh. No. I’ve never done that. Why? Is that something you like?”

“I think I’d like it. Yes.”

She turned over on her back. “But have you actually done it? With two women? Or…”

“No. I haven’t, but—look, I’m just mentioning it. You never know what turns people on.”

“Does group sex turn you on?”

“The idea does. Sure. Why not?”

She sat up and pulled the sheet up around her.

“Every man’s dream—to have two women at his beck and call.”

The afterglow bubble had burst, and she wasn’t ready to hear his fantasies. She needed to know what was going on.

“Tell me now if I’m not enough for you sexually, if this was a one-night stand.”

He sat up, moved behind her, and cradled her between his legs. He whispered to her, his breath warm on the back of her neck.

“You are very special to me, Diana. You truly are. I would never force you to do something you’re not comfortable with. Now and then I think about having some different and fun sexual encounters, that’s all.”

“Sexual encounters? I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

“Okay. I won’t talk about it. Right now, you’re plenty of woman for me, and you’re all I want. That’s the truth.”

Right now?

She felt his warm body line her back. Slowly she tried to relax into him. She would want more of his passionate lovemaking, and he certainly knew how to please her. And if he turned out to be kinky? She’d take the good with the bad. For now.

Chapter 17

It always starts the same way: clear sky, a crisp breeze, children playing on the school playground. Suddenly Jen hears a deafening siren, cars screech into the parking lot, people are screaming, children crying. Jen runs into the two-story school building to find Ricky, but all the classrooms are empty. Panicked mothers are stampeding down halls, into the gym, the cafeteria—shoving, pushing—desperate to find their kids.

Where is he?

A gush of wind moves the empty swings in the playground. A distorted voice, like a muffled trombone blasts out over the loudspeaker. She can’t quite understand the words, but somehow she knows what the voice is saying.

The kids are someplace else. Some kind of center. Suddenly Jen is in her car, but traffic is at a complete standstill. Some drivers honk while others have abandoned their cars altogether. Jen is trapped. She turns off the car. Her cell phone doesn’t work, and even if it did, who would she call?

Then she sees Ricky far away, sitting on the floor of a long hallway crowded with children. He looks terrified. At the end of the hall there is a piercing sound of hissing steam coming from an ice-blue room of high-pressure showers. The room where Ricky is being led. Jen can see faceless workers dressed in white Hazmat suits, breathing through respirators, quickly undressing the children. Clothes are yanked off and flung into large metal containers. To be sterilized, then burned?

It’s Ricky’s turn, and he struggles to stay dressed. Jen can’t get to him and yells, “Don’t let them do it! I’ll be right there!” He doesn’t hear her as she wades waist deep through children to get to him. She passes a little girl crushed near the wall, burying her head. Oh my God—it’s Kaylee! She tries to call to the girl, hoping she will raise her head and recognize her mommy. “Kaylee? It’s me, Sweetie. Look up, its Mommy!” But the girl doesn’t hear her. She keeps trying to get Kaylee’s attention, but she knows at the same time Ricky is now naked from the waist up. He is losing his battle to the ghostly Hazmat people. I have to get to him… why the hell am I so far away?

And then it comes, the creeping, dull awareness. A small voice, her own voice, straining to tell her it’s a bad dream. She should wake up. Now.

She tries to jump out of her skin, to break free of the nightmare, but it’s like pushing against a tsunami. Losing, always losing. She tries to pinch her limbs out of numbness.

She jerks awake, gasping, her pajamas soaked. She tumbles out of bed and quickly patters across the hall into Ricky’s bedroom. His thin frame is haphazard across the bed, his breathing light but steady. Jen collapses on the floor and cries softly.

Chapter 18

As soon as he punched his time card, Larry Hines knew something was wrong. He had some sort of paranormal radar for trouble that came in loud and clear.

Larry was working the late shift until midnight. He made a beeline to the control room, and through the glass window he could see large red electronic letters flashing CODE RED. He poked his head in.

“What’s going on? Why Code Red?”

All five men kept their eyes glued to the monitors.

“Leak. Bad one this time,” one man rasped out. “A pipe in the containment dome ruptured. It’s a mess. We’re trying to head off a massive radioactive plume from getting airborne.”

For the first time in a year, Larry entered the control room. The men knew what he was thinking: Lucky this didn’t happen on my watch.

Larry, on the other hand, knew an accident of this magnitude would never have happened on his watch.

On the video screen it looked like a full-blown hurricane inside the containment dome. Water jettisoned out of the split pipe like a high velocity fire hose gone wild. Paint and insulation from the dome’s interior was peeling off and plummeting down in large clumps near the reactor; the debris was clogging the pumps that supply coolant water to the overheated reactor core.

Meltdown. It was the first thing on everyone’s mind. Just as dangerous was the radioactive steam that was about to be released outside to the lower Hudson Valley. Fixing the leak meant shutting down the reactor. Soon.

“Oh my God,” Larry uttered. “What about the backup pumps?”

“No good. Clogged with too much debris.”

Great, Larry thought. The expert critics warned us of this. Now all hell will break lose.

The men stared at the monitors. Someone said, “They want a team inside the dome, but we have to wait to shut down the reactor, and that takes a few hours. Until then, we can only standby.”

Larry swallowed dry and loosened his damp collar. He watched the jagged clumps tear off like shavings of molten lead peeling off a bombed-out building. He started to panic. What about the radiation?

“Weather report?” he asked one of the engineers.

“Winds are about ten miles an hour still out of the west. Enough to carry the plume over Westchester. If it shifts south it could hit the city, but that’s the worst case scenario.”

They’re doing what they’ve been taught: to think defensively, as if they are in control. Larry knew the psychological drill all too well, how the plant culture inexplicably adopts a false sense of security because of the sheer, physical enormity of the reactor. With a structure this immense, how could anything go wrong?

“Who’s been notified?” he asked.

“We’re calling county officials within the hour. Meanwhile we’ll start tracking any steam release if it happens.”

Why aren’t they calling now? People need to be warned about a possible meltdown and the spread of radiation.

“I’m going to get an update on the water levels and pump statistics,” Larry said. “I’ll be right back.” He hurdled his way through the deafening roar of the turbine room, neglecting to put on his ear plugs. His mind was racing.

He thought about Diana Chase. They had spoken only once, after he gave her his number at the rally. The woman had too many questions, and he got cold feet. He told her if anything suspicious happened, he’d let her know. He asked that she not try to call him, that he would call her first.

But shouldn’t she know about this? Jesus—was he really thinking that? He had her number on his cell phone but calling her meant drawing a permanent line in the sand, whistle-blower against the plant, against his buddies. Not for nothing, he could lose his job.

It was about two o’clock in the morning when Diana’s cell phone rang. She groped for the phone in the dark.

“Ms. Chase? It’s Larry Hines from the plant. Sorry for calling in the middle of the night, but it’s urgent.”

“Oh… Mr. Hines. That’s okay. What’s going on?”

The man spoke rapidly, and at first she wasn’t sure what he was saying.

“Wait, Mr. Hines, slow down. When did it happen? Have they alerted the county? Have they notified first responders? No—I haven’t heard anything. No—please don’t hang up—can we speak later… yes, okay. Mr. Hines?”

She scribbled a number down and stared at her phone. How amazing that a small device could transmit such a powerful doomsday message. She got up and looked out her window, half expecting to see some sort of sign in the dark. Should she call him?

When he answered he was half asleep. “Don’t tell me you want to try some phone sex now, my love,” he said sleepily into the phone.

“Lou—no. Be serious. I just got a very scary call from Larry Hines, you know the guy from the plant? There’s been a terrible accident, and they’re not telling anyone about it.”

His eyes worked themselves open. He sat up.

“The guy you think is a whistle-blower? What did he say?”

“Something about a pipe rupture in the containment dome. It could be a meltdown. Radioactive steam can get out—if it hasn’t already. This guy took a chance calling me, but he’s worried about getting the word out. He says the plant honchos are waiting until the last moment to alert officials.”

Lou sprung out of bed. “You’re kidding! The bastards are covering up a meltdown? Give me Hines’s number.”

“Lou, you can’t call him or even expose him. He’s risking his job, and we have to protect him. He took a chance calling me, and he’s really scared.”

“Look, I need his number just to confirm a few things and get the inside scoop. I won’t say where I got the information; he’ll be an anonymous source. Promise.”

“But he’ll know you got his number from me, and he’ll never trust me again. He’s a connection I really need. Besides, there’s more at risk here.”

“Such as?”

“The fact that we’re a… a couple. It’s a piece of juicy information that nobody should know, right?”

“We’ve kept it a secret for a good three weeks, Diana. Besides, I’m sick of playing that game,” he blurt out. “It’s nobody’s business what we do on our own time. Fuck ’em.”

“Oh really? Owen won’t mind that you’re shacking up with an anti-nuke activist who might influence your articles about ALLPower? And what about ALLPower? Don’t you think they could discredit you if they knew we were sleeping together?”

“They’ll never know. Promise.”

She was trying to believe him and knew they had been careful. He had taken her voice out of his stories, but her voice was too well known in the battle to close the plant.

“Look, Diana, I really need to talk to this guy—he’s key. He won’t give a damn that we know each other. Really.”

He waited, pen poised for writing Larry’s number.

“Okay,” she finally said. “It’s a pay phone. He’ll be there in one hour.”

Chapter 19

The bus rolled up to the front of Jen’s house at the usual time. She lightly patted Ricky on the back, an affection he readily shrugged off. He was too embarrassed to be touched by his mom in front of friends. He hopped up the steps and was swallowed up by the closing doors. A week ago he refused to be driven to school in the morning or be picked up after school, and Jen, who still felt somewhat needy, reluctantly agreed.

She worried about him. At home, he was spending too much time playing video games, and these games were more violent than the games he played with Kaylee. Ghoulish, super–action heroes wielded gigantic weapons, blasting away in horrifying scenarios replete with blood-curdling screams. Jen tried to limit his game time, but he tended to ignore her and played on. Sometimes she put her foot down and yanked him away from the monitor and demanded they both go for a hike. He begrudgingly dragged himself out of the room and mutely trailed after her. They never ventured down to the riverfront beach.

That day, after he got on the bus, she had a few hours to kill before heading over to school. She tackled the playroom, now the video room, still finding tiny reminders of Kaylee. Ricky had hidden a bunch of candy wrappers and empty soda bottles under the bookshelf, his own response to Jen’s fight against eating too much sugar.

She rinsed off a few dishes in the brightly lit kitchen, the largest room in the house, where the dining table doubled as her office and the clutter of papers was hard to control. As she checked the refrigerator for supper possibilities, her cell phone rang.

“Jen, its Diana. Listen to me carefully.”

“Diana? Is everything okay? Is Ricky okay?”

“Look, Jen, there’s been an accident at the plant, and they are going to start evacuating the school. You may have trouble getting here as the word gets out.”

It was the dream again, wasn’t it?

“Jen—are you there?”

“This isn’t really happening, is it, Diana. It’s some kind of joke, right?”

“Jesus Christ, Jen! Are you listening to me? This is very, very real. The schools were called a half an hour ago and told to evacuate.”

“Will they take the kids to the reception centers?”

“Yes. If the buses get here before the parents. Turn the radio on; you’ll hear for yourself. There was a radioactive release, and they can’t contain it. It’s very likely airborne. If you’re headed over, just be careful.

“Wait!”

But Diana was gone. Jen stared at the phone. She grabbed her bag. No, take your emergency “go bag.” Where is it? Do I have everything? Are the batteries charged? No—just go. No—get the bag. Get Ricky’s teddy—one of Kaylee’s favorites. No—just get him. Go. Now.

She whisked around in a panic, found her pocketbook, ran out the door, and tumbled into the car. Jen lived about five miles from school, which was reachable by a two-lane road. She tore out of the driveway and turned the radio on.

It was all over the airwaves.

“ALLPower executives are saying the plume is not a threat, but just to be safe, people within ten miles of the plant need to evacuate or shut their doors and windows and stay home.”

A radio reporter was interviewing Bob, who tried to sound like an expert nuclear physicist.

“We believe the release will escape in a column of steam and then simply dissipate. No one should be alarmed. The evacuation is just a precaution.”

“But what about the wind? Won’t that spread the radioactive steam to different places?” the news person quizzed him.

“We really don’t know, but we think the steam will shoot up, oh, maybe a thousand feet and not be affected by the wind at all. We are keeping an eye on it.”

“Really? Okay. Well, folks, let’s hear from our meteorologist about that wind,” said the announcer.

The radio voices pounded a verbal duet with Jen’s inner panic. Was this her dreaded nightmare come true? What if I can’t get Ricky out of that school?

Get a grip. You’re doing okay, said her sane voice.

She took a deep breath and realized she had been riding the brakes more and more. Traffic was slowing to a crawl.

Diana looked at the principal’s list of teachers. Jane would check in with the first floor teachers who taught the youngest kids, and Diana would do the same on the second floor for the older classes. Students and teachers had to be ready for the evacuation buses. When she got upstairs, Diana knocked on the door of a fourth grade class and walked in.

“Hi, Tammy. I’m here to make sure all your kids will be ready to get on the bus once they arrive, okay?”

“Is it really too dangerous to go outside?” the teacher asked in a low voice, facing away from the children.

“They don’t really know. The evacuation may just be a precaution. You will need to be with them on the bus and in the reception center. You okay with that?”

“Sure. I guess so. What happens at the reception center?”

“It’s just a safe holding place. You’ll be fine.”

That’s not altogether true, thought Diana. She slipped out the door and headed for Gail Aron’s fifth-grade room—Ricky’s class.

She opened the door and saw the kids reading quietly. Sitting at her desk in the front of the room was a very pregnant Mrs. Aron. Her face taut, the teacher glared at Diana anxiously. She got up and headed over to her, blocking Diana’s entry.

“I’ve got to speak to you, Diana,” she said, easing out to the hall and closing the door behind her.

“I can’t go with these kids on the bus. They can’t make me. I have to get out of here, get to my husband. Can you go with my class on the bus for me?”

Her hands held her large belly, fingers splayed as if fortifying the protective wall between the now toxic, outside world and her unborn child.

“Take it easy, Gail. I know this is upsetting, but it may only be a precaution.”

It troubled Diana to keep saying this, with the rest of the day a great unknown. The teacher shook her head.

“I won’t go. I won’t. There is nothing in my teacher’s contract that says I have to go, and you know that.”

“Yes, I do know that. But these kids need you now. They know you, trust you, and they need to be with you until the buses come. Won’t you go with them? Please?”

“What about the radiation out there, Diana? You known as well as I do that being pregnant puts me at high risk. Puts my baby at high risk. I read about you in the news and your involvement with the anti-nuke movement. Please, I just want to get out of here, protect my baby. I want to drive far away from here with my husband.”

Her voice had worked up to a shrill, and she started to sob.

“Please, Diana… please take my class for me?”

Diana took a deep breath. It was true. If there was radiation out there, the baby might be born with any one of a number of birth defects. Studies showed a rise in breast cancer in women, and thyroid cancer in an area around the plant. As far as she knew, no research had been done on fetuses.

“Let me see what I can do. I can’t promise anything, and it wouldn’t be fair to the other teachers. I have to finish checking the other classes on this floor. Don’t leave until I come back—promise?”

The young teacher put her arms around Diana.

“Thank you. I’ll never forget this!”

Diana smiled at her and watched her put on her teacher face and go back to her students.

As she made her rounds, Diana found that the rest of the teachers were just as scared, but they were committed to be with their students on the bus and in the reception centers. Diana wasn’t sure just how Mrs. Aron was going to exit the building without being seen by the other teachers.

“This is the principal,” Jane’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

“Teachers, if you haven’t closed all your windows, please do so now. We expect the buses shortly, so make sure you and your students have all their things so they can exit the building quickly.”

Diana glanced out the window, wondering where Jen was and if traffic was getting bogged down. There had to be panic out there. Would the buses even get here in time? Worse, would the buses get here at all?

Police car sirens could be heard from a distance. Diana’s heart sank. She walked out of her office and poked her head out the front door. Two patrol cars were already parked behind police barricades, blocking the school’s driveway. Another patrol car pulled up. Two cops approached the school.

What are they doing? Are they going to stop parents from getting their kids?

The officers came into the office and asked for Jane, who waved Diana to join her.

“What’s happening out there, officers?” Jane was always official but friendly.

“We have to barricade the school, Mrs. Bigley. According to the evacuation plan, our orders are to see that the children get on the buses that will take then safely to the reception center.

“What if the parents get here first?”

“They need to be directed to the reception centers to get their kids. We’re just following the plan.”

Diana couldn’t hold back. “The plan is ridiculous—what if your kid was in this school, would you let him or her go twenty miles away if you could take them with you?”

“Diana. Please. They’re just doing their job. But she does have a point, officer. What if parents get here before the bus and demand to take their children? How does the plan suggest you actually stop them?”

“I guess if worse came to worst, we’d use force.”

The two women stared at the two men.

“I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that,” Jane said.

“I don’t think it will, Mrs. Bigley.”

The officers left and took up their station right outside the doors.

“Jane, we have to do something. I’m sure a mob of parents are on their way. It could get ugly.”

“There’s nothing we can do except to hope the evacuation is called off. That’s all I can think of.”

There was a five-minute lull before all hell broke loose. Diana heard car doors slam and horns honking from the end of the school driveway. She picked up her cell phone and hit speed dial.

“Padera here.”

“Lou, its Diana. You won’t believe this. The police set up barricades to the school. I think they may stop parents from getting their kids.”

“Whoa. It may be the only way the kids can get out of there.”

“What do you mean?”

“We just got word the bus drivers are refusing to drive into the emergency zone. They don’t want to get exposed.”

“They have to come. What are they—crazy?”

“Would you do it if you didn’t have to?”

No, she thought. But I am thinking of accompanying Gail Aron’s class on the bus. “Look, there are massive traffic jams all over the place. The best way to get around is by foot.”

“Wait. What have you heard about the plume?”

“The release has already happened, but they’re not saying much about it. Can you get out of there?”

“I can’t. I promised a teacher I would take her class to the reception center. She’s pregnant and freaking out.”

“You’re a good one.”

An awkward silence.

“Lou?”

“Still here.”

“Don’t do anything crazy, okay—like run around outside? God knows what’s in the air.”

He was tongue tied. “You’re sweet to care—not a sentiment I’m used to hearing really. But aren’t you the one who is in the thick of it? Give me a shout later, okay? Gotta run.”

Chapter 20

Jen felt like tearing her hair out. She raced through one scenario after the next to rescue her son. She finally called Diana.

“I’m about half a mile from the school but the traffic is completely stopped. What should I do? What should I do?”

“You have to walk here, Jen. The police are here already. When you get here, tell them you work here, show them your ID. They should let you in.”

“Police? Why?”

“Just come. And be careful.”

Jen pulled off the road on to the shoulder. Some cars behind her inched up while other drivers also pulled on to the shoulder and set off on foot. Jen started walking past the line of cars and toward the residential neighborhood that abutted the school playground. As she passed one car she heard short beeps. She turned around and saw a man leaning across his front seat, his head out the passenger window.

“Jen Elery? Is that you?”

It took her a minute to recognize him. It was Ralph Merkin. His daughter Julie was in Ricky’s class, and the two kids sometimes studied together at the girl’s house after school. Jen would occasionally chat with Ralph when she picked up Ricky. Ralph seemed a solitary and quiet man. His sad, deep-set eyes spoke of some kind of pain, and as they got friendly, he told Jen later about the tragic loss of his wife in a car accident.

Jen stared at him and for a minute didn’t recognize him.

“Jen—it’s me. Ralph. Are you okay?”

Her eyes welled up, and she shook her head.

“Jen—here, let me pull over. Try not to panic, okay?”

He pulled his car off the road and got out.

“Please don’t think I’m crazy, Ralph, but is this real? I’ve been having nightmares about this very scenario over and over.”

“Yes, Jen, unfortunately it’s real.”

“I know. I know. I need to get Ricky out of there.”

“Yes. Let’s go together and get both kids. I guess the best way is to walk.”

“We have to deal with the cops.”

“What?”

“I found out from Diana Chase.”

“The police? Why?”

She told him what was going on at school as they walked quickly, single file along the road. They headed for the neighborhood where the backyards bordered a slim swath of forest. A path through the woods would lead them to the school playground.

“How dangerous do you think it is to be out here?” Jen asked.

“It’s hard to know. Radiation is tricky, you can’t see it or smell it. To tell you the truth, the real danger might be a showdown between the parents and the cops. That’s what’s scaring me right now.”

“We must get the kids before they get on those buses and end up at the reception center. Can you imagine little Julie at a place like that?”

He had no idea what a reception center was, but he noticed she was trembling. As they walked down the sidewalk, they looked for a way to get to the forest and then to the school.

“What happens when we get to school?” he asked.

“We get our kids—that’s all.”

Ralph stopped.

“I don’t know about this. What about the other kids? The kids whose parents are stuck at work in the city or caught in traffic? If they see us taking our kids, they could freak out. And how could we just take our kids?”

“If another parent was in our shoes, would they take our kids with them, Ralph?”

“I don’t care what another parent would or wouldn’t do. It shouldn’t matter. If you’re a parent, you watch out for all the kids, you don’t just stop short and do only for your own….”

They stood on the sidewalk face to face. The honking from the main road seemed to be getting louder. Jen was getting anxious.

“Let’s just get closer, and I’ll call Diana and see what the situation is, okay?”

He shrugged, shaking his head. They could see the woods just beyond one of the homes that didn’t have a fenced-in backyard. They had to chance trespassing on someone’s property without troubling the owner or rousing a watchdog. They quickly cut over the lawn of one house to the path where the ground was wet and swampy and partially under water. They stumbled and splashed through, drenching their shoes. At the edge of the forest they could see the two-story brick building. Ralph stopped.

“Call her,” he said.

Jen yanked her phone out and called Diana. She waited, but the call wasn’t connecting.

“I can’t get through. Shit. What’s going on?”

“I bet the whole world is using their cells, and the lines are overloaded. Keep trying,” said Ralph.

For ten minutes Jen kept hitting Redial.

“Nothing! Nothing! I’m just going in!” She was getting hysterical. “No one can keep me from my kid.”

Ralph timidly put his hand on her arm, but she yanked it away.

“Jen. Wait. Let’s talk this through. How are we going to do this?”

“They have to let me in—I’m a school employee. They just have to.”

“You’re kidding. They’re not going to let anyone in—even you. We have to come up with another plan.”

Just then her cell phone rang. It was Diana.

“Thank God. We couldn’t get through, and we are right here in the woods…”

“What do you mean ‘we,’ Jen?”

“I’m with Ralph Merkin; he wants to get his daughter Julie. She’s in Ricky’s class. It’s okay, isn’t it, Diana?”

“You and I aren’t having this conversation, Jen. All I know is you won’t be able to get in the front door.”

“Then just how the hell are we going to get in, Diana? Jesus Christ!”

The woman was losing it.

“Jen. Let me talk to Ralph.”

Jen handed the phone to Ralph.

“Hi, Ms. Chase. Thanks for telling us what’s going on at school. Is there any way we can get in the building to rescue our kids?”

“Look, we never spoke, get it? I can try to unlock the back door in the next ten minutes, but no promises. I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

“Thanks, Ms. Chase. Your secret is safe.”

He gave Jen back her phone. “She’s a good one, that Ms. Chase. We should have no problem if she can unlock the back door.”

“Then what?”

Ralph didn’t answer. He hadn’t considered where they would go, or even a safe place to go. Could they get to their cars and drive far away from the plume? And where exactly was the radiation at that point? If the roads stayed as jammed as they are now, where would a safe place be within walking distance?

“I don’t know, Jen. We’ll cross that bridge….”

Chapter 21

The policemen spread out, trying to cover a wider area in front of the school doors. One pressed a walkie-talkie to his ear.

“Can’t get through,” he said.

“What are we supposed to do?” asked a younger cop.

Earlier, when the police were sent to the school, they had strict orders not to allow parents to go inside. It was the law, and they had to maintain order.

But in the last fifteen minutes, a mob of angry parents had marched down the driveway and closed in on the cops who were trying to hold the line in front of the school. If they let them inside, it would be pandemonium, something they were explicitly told to avoid. Why couldn’t parents just drive to the reception center to get their kids?

They needed some direction but couldn’t get through to their lieutenant. Cut off from the outside world meant they didn’t have a clue what was going on. For now, they would just have to hold their ground, no matter what.

Diana had just finished her rounds, checking in with all the second-floor teachers, making sure they were ready to spring onto the evacuation buses, even if their arrival was questionable. She went downstairs and navigated through the hallways toward the back door to the playground.

“Diana?”

She reeled around and saw Jane walking out of the teacher’s lounge.

“Oh, Jane. Everything seems to be okay upstairs.”

“Good. Let’s head back to the office. There are more parents outside, and they are getting out of control. The cops are outnumbered.”

“Maybe we can speak to the parents, calm them down about the kids…”

“What would we say?”

“Assure them their kids are alright.”

“It could work. Maybe if they see us and we say something, they won’t be so crazy.”

I have to get to the back door….

“Oh gee, Jane. I forgot to check on Mrs. Aron. She’s a little upset with the prospect of going on the bus—you know—she’s very pregnant and doesn’t want to chance exposure. Let me just run up and reassure her, okay?”

“Okay. But hurry back.”

Diana whisked down the hall, refusing to deal with the number of lies she would be telling before the end of the day. She got to the back door, turned the bolt open, and quickly dashed away, reaching for her cell phone. When she finally got through, Jen answered.

“Diana?”

“Jen. The door’s unlocked.”

Click.

“Diana? Hello? Are you there?”

Jen and Ralph sprinted out to the playground and reached the back door. When they got inside, they saw the Diana retreating down the hall. She glanced back at them and disappeared.

Ralph and Jen bounded up the stairs to Mrs. Aron’s classroom.

“And what do we tell Mrs. Aron when we get there?” said Ralph.

“We tell her we want our kids. What else?”

They got to the top of the stairs and looked down the hall. It was empty, but they could hear the echo of children’s voices from the classrooms with the doors open. “Wait,” said Ralph. “Maybe we can knock on the door and get her attention first, without the kids seeing us.”

“Then what?”

“We can try to convince her, but Jen, I don’t think she’ll give us a hard time. She’s about to be a parent herself, and I think she would understand.”

“Let’s hope.”

They refined their strategy and then checked the hallway. As they walked down the hall, one of the teachers saw Jen through her door. Jen waved and kept walking, relieved that the teacher just nodded, but didn’t get up.

When they got to Mrs. Aron’s room, the door was closed. Just then, Diana came jogging down the hall.

“I’m glad I caught you,” she said, breathless. “Can you take Mrs. Aron with you? She doesn’t want to go on the bus, and I have to stay with her kids.”

Jen and Ralph nodded. Diana said, “Let’s make this fast.”

Diana knocked on the door and walked in. The teacher immediately stood up and grabbed her bag and a satchel of books.

Diana faced the students.

“Hi, kids. I will be with you on the bus because Mrs. Aron has to leave. I want you to all be ready when Mrs. Bigley calls us to get on the buses, okay?”

Some of the kids shifted in their seats and looked from Diana to Mrs. Aron. Diana nodded to the teacher who brusquely moved toward the door, but she stopped and faced her class.

“You will be fine with Ms. Chase, and I will see you tomorrow. Don’t forget your homework and your study sheet for the test on Friday.”

Diana looked at Ricky and Julie. Here goes. She held the door open for the teacher, and, as if she almost forgot something, she said, “Oh, and Ricky and Julie, can you come here?”

Confused, the two kids gathered their stuff and followed the teacher out the door. They were surprised to see their parents. Jen held her finger to her lips and pulled them out of view of the rest of the classroom.

From inside the class a kid raised his hand and didn’t wait to be called on.

“Where are they going?”

“They need to go on a different bus,” Diana said. That must be lie number 400. She propped the door open with her foot so the students would see her and stay in their seats. She turned to the teacher who started to walk down the hall.

“Wait, Mrs. Aron. Please come back,” Diana spoke just above a whisper.

“Why?” the teacher inched back to her.

“I think you may want to go with Jen and Ralph. They are leaving out the back.”

“What do you mean? Why can’t I go out the front and to my car?”

“You can try, but you’re going to have a problem,” Diana said, glancing in to the students. “The police are here, and they’ll give you a hard time. Besides, if the other teachers see you leaving, it could cause more trouble. They’d see you abandoning ship.”

“But they know that I’m pregnant. They would understand, wouldn’t they?”

Diana gently placed her hand on the young teacher’s shoulder.

“Folks aren’t too understanding right about now, Gail. You will attract the least attention if you went with these folks. Please go, and here.”

Diana pulled a small bottle of pills out of her pocket and gave them to Ralph.

“Here, take these pills, directions on the bottle.”

“What are they?” asked Ralph.

“K-I pills. Potassium iodide. It prevents thyroid cancer. All of you should take it. Now go!”

Jane’s voice came booming through the speakers.

“Attention all teachers: we just heard that the buses will be here in about ten minutes, so make sure you and your students are ready. Again, we are evacuating the building so each teacher needs to be with her students. We will call classes one at a time to board the buses when they arrive. That’s all for now. Everything is under control.”

Right, Diana thought.

The five hustled away through the hall and bounded down the stairs. When they got to the first floor they paused and listened. The back door was at the end of an adjacent hall. Surprisingly no one was in the hallway, and they quickly walked past the long line of classrooms. Luckily all the classroom doors were closed.

They slowed as they got to the end of the hall, and Ralph peeked around the corner down to the back door. Many teachers had their doors open, which was against security rules, but this wasn’t your ordinary school day, was it?

“Okay kids. Let’s just walk regular—like we’re not in a rush,” said Ralph.

As they headed toward the back door, the hall seemed to get longer. One teacher looked at them from her desk and started to get up, but Jen nodded at her and kept going.

“Just keep walking like you’re doing,” Jen whispered.

Finally they got to the door and quickly stepped outside.

“Our cars are a little less than a mile away,” said Ralph. “Can you walk that far Mrs. Aron?”

“I’ll try.”

“Okay. Let us know if you need to stop.”

Chapter 22

From the TV news helicopter the five-mile gridlock looked like a giant mass of metal. The raging horns, the futile blare of chaos, had died down. An occasional beep echoed in the sprawl. People jumped out of their cars and fanned out, frantic to get to their kids or to the safety of their homes. Cars were locked and left on the shoulder and on the road, which added exponentially to the expanding traffic jam.

At the newspaper, reporters were at a standstill, and they huddled in front of the TV. They needed to jump on this story, talk to folks who were stuck. But how? Cell phone connections were intermittent, unreliable. Forget driving anywhere.

The ire of bus drivers attempting to rescue students was growing; getting stuck in traffic was their worst nightmare. Fearing exposure to radiation, they tightly shut all the bus windows and sat in a tomb of airless heat.

A TV newsperson in the helicopter somehow got through to the bus company. Could he talk to one of the drivers via a walkie-talkie? Cell phone? He lucked out; a connection was made, and in minutes the helicopter hovered over a school bus while broadcasting a live interview with the driver.

“Can you get out of the bus so we can see you?” the reporter yelled over the roaring helicopter.

“No way. I ain’t getting cancer from stuff out there,” said the driver. “I’ve got a good mind to turn around and head back—if I only could. We want to get the kids, but honestly, we’re crazy to be out here. We’re not even required to do emergency rescues.”

“If you could turn back, would you? And leave the students?”

“Let’s put it this way. By the time I get there, the kids will be long gone. The parents are already there, most likely. That’s what all this traffic is—parents and folks trying to escape the radiated zone.”

The driver’s words were heard by millions watching TV or listening to the radio. The emergency evacuation was making live news up and down the Northeast coast.

Reports about the wind changed every fifteen minutes. Westerly winds that could push the plume out to the Atlantic Ocean were now heading north. People living in the city to the south of the plant breathed a sigh of relief. Phone interviews with scientists and meteorologists were little more than a guessing game; everyone was uncertain how the radioactive steam cloud would behave.

At Diana’s school, a throng of parents had stomped over the wooden barricades and closed in on the four policemen, now a weakening line of defense.

“You’re holding our kids against our wishes. Let us in!” one mother screamed.

Parents taunted the police, and one father belligerently headed to the side of the building, screaming out his child’s name toward the windows on the second floor.

“Stop!” called out one cop. “Stop right now. Please.”

The man kept going, yelling for his kid.

“Look Mister, you have to stop!”

“What are you gonna do? Shoot me?” the man didn’t even look back.

The cop pulled his gun from his holster and aimed it to the sky. The man kept walking, his back to the cop. A shot thundered out. Parents froze. The man stopped walking and didn’t move.

From upstairs, Diana heard the shot and broke into a sweat. The children looked at her. Some went to look out the window.

“Get away from that window. Now.” Diana demanded.

“Was that a real gun?” asked one boy.

“Not sure. Lets all stay calm.”

A few boys in the class jokingly pointed their fingers at each other in a make-believe gunfight.

Diana had to find out what was going on downstairs. Her cell phone showed a small signal and she chanced a call to Lou. Miraculously she got through.

“Diana, what’s going on? Are you still at the school?”

“Oh yes. And, I think the police have lost it. A gun just went off, and I can’t see what’s going on. We’re all on edge, especially the kids. We’re still waiting for the buses.”

“Forget the buses, Diana. They’re stuck in the biggest traffic jam of the century. We’re watching it on TV.”

“My God.”

“They just interviewed a driver and he wants to turn back. I’m sure he’s not the only one.”

Diana could hear screams from the front of the building. Maybe the riotous parents had forced their way inside. How long could four cops keep parents from their kids anyway?

“Any reports about radiation levels?” she strained into a crackling signal.

“Nothing yet. You might be safer staying inside until it blows over, or at least until they know where the plume is headed.”

Diana looked at the kids. They had become silent and were listening to her talk to Lou. Suddenly she heard glass shattering from somewhere downstairs.

“Gotta go. Will call you later.”

“What’s happening, Diana?”

“It’s glass. Broken glass. Call you later.”

She faced the kids and said, “Everyone, get your stuff. We’re going downstairs.”

Without a sound they stuffed their backpacks and followed Diana out to the hall and down the steps. With twelve kids following her, she headed to her office. Jane would have to know the truth about Mrs. Aron.

When she got into the reception area, she saw the door to her office was open, and from where she stood she could feel a strange breeze. A few kids followed her as she walked inside. They were stunned. The entire windows had been smashed with a brick, and glass fragments had sprayed on the floor. Slivers and sharp, angular fragments covered her desk, a wild, disjointed mosaic of glass. A large shard, like a dagger, catapulted into the box turtle’s aquarium and jutted out the top. Diana sprang over to look at the turtle. The glass just missed him. She reached in and held him up and his legs started to wiggle. Lucky, this one. She extracted the glass from the tank and put the reptile back.

“Wow, Ms. Chase. Why did this window get smashed?” a girl asked.

A few kids gingerly stepped around the room, glass splinters snapping under their feet. The break in the window was large enough for a person to get through.

“Someone wanted to get in real badly,” she said, dazedly.

“Where have you been?” Jane stood in the doorway looking ragged. “Who are these kids? Where is their teacher?”

“I can explain, Jane, but why don’t we all get out of here before someone gets hurt.”

They moved out to reception area, and the kids crowded in wherever they could.

“What’s going on, Diana. Where have you been? There’s a full-scale riot going on outside!”

“Yes, I can see that. Listen, Jane. The buses aren’t coming—the drivers are either too afraid or they can’t get through the traffic. They’re stuck in a major gridlock.”

“How do you know this?”

“I got through to someone who is… well, a friend who heard a news report.”

“What should we do?

Through the broken window they could hear yelling from outside.

“We have to let the parents in.”

“It will be crazy, they will trample each other.”

“Not if we do it systematically. The police can help us with that.”

“And just how will we convince the police to let the parents in?”

“Leave it to me.”

Diana headed toward the front doors, and when she got there, she saw the backs of the police spread out in front of the doors. Their hands were on their holsters. Just a few feet beyond, angry, hysterical parents were jeering, shaking their fists. Surprisingly, one door was unlocked and she slipped outside.

“Excuse me. Officers?”

One turned around and said “You shouldn’t be out here. Are you a teacher?”

“I’m Diana Chase, the assistant principal. I think you should know that the bus drivers can’t get here because there’s a huge traffic jam. It was just on TV. Many of the drivers want to turn back, but probably won’t get too far. Traffic is at a complete standstill.”

The crowd got quiet and tried to hear what she was saying. The cops looked at Diana and then at one another.

“Do you understand? No buses are coming.”

“No buses?” one of the cops said. “How come we haven’t heard this?” He looked at the other cops.

“What should we do?”

“Phone lines are jammed as well,” said Diana. “It might be a good idea to let the kids go home with their parents. Many have parked their cars to walk up here, and it’s probably those cars that are blocking traffic. If they left with their kids now, things could get moving, don’t you think?”

Parents edged in to hear her speak. One father suddenly yelled out, “No buses! You gotta let us take our kids!”

One cop pulled out his cell phone and tried to make a call. The parents closed in.

“We’re going in to get our children! Let’s go!”

In a riotous push parents stampeded past the cops and funneled in through the one open door. Soon all the doors were unlocked from the inside. Diana pressed against the wall just inside the front lobby. Jane’s fear was coming true. With the wall at her back she inched along until she got to the stairway and quickly raced to Mrs. Aron’s room and put a note on the door that said “Mrs. Aron’s class is in the front office.”

About half a mile away, Jen, Ralph, Mrs. Aron, and the two children neared the road. Several cars were already abandoned but some drivers hung out on their car roof or on the ground. When they finally reached Jen’s car she found a few bottles of water and juice and she quickly fumbled to open the bottle of KI pills. She popped two in her mouth and gave one to Ricky. She held out the bottle to Ralph who shrugged, took two, and gave one to Julie.

“How do we know if this will ever help?” he asked.

“We don’t. It’s just a precaution.”

They stood there in shock, like survivors on a battle field.

“What do we do now?” she said to Ralph.

“I guess we wait. What else is there to do?”

Panting, Mrs. Aron had crawled into Jen’s backseat to lie down. Perspiration had soaked her hair.

Jen moved closer to Ralph and whispered, “She doesn’t look so good.”

Ralph looked over at the teacher now clutching her belly. He took the bottle of KI pills and walked over to her. Her eyes were shut tight, her face twisted in discomfort.

“Mrs. Aron? You okay?” he said to her. “Do you want to take this pill for the radiation?”

“I want my husband. I want him here.”

“I know. We’ll try to reach him, but there are problems with cell phones just now. Does the baby feel okay?”

“I don’t know.”

Her hands carefully moved around her bulbous belly, like a human stethoscope seeking a pulse, a heartbeat, anything. Then her hands moved quicker, jerking from one side to the other.

She pushed herself up and looked at Ralph. “I don’t feel the baby. She’s not moving!”

Jen heard the woman’s strained voice and walked over to her.

“Not feeling the baby is okay, Mrs. Aron. It doesn’t mean anything is wrong.”

“No. No. There is something wrong. I just know it. I want my husband. Can’t you try to call him? Now?”

“Yes. We will. What’s his number?”

Ralph motioned Jen out of ear shot from the teacher.

“What happens if she goes into labor?” he whispered. “Have you ever delivered a baby?”

“No. Just did the pushing, not the pulling.”

Suddenly the teacher moaned. The two kids startled and looked toward the car. Jen and Ralph rushed over.

“My water broke! I have to get to the hospital! Oh my God!”

“Stay with her,” Ralph said to Jen. “We have to find help.”

He raced down the road, poking his head into windows of cars that weren’t yet abandoned. Someone here had to know how to deliver a baby, or at least have a working cell phone.

Finally a young woman sitting on the hood of her car brandished a working cell phone.

“Are you getting through to anyone? We have a woman in labor a few cars back, and we need help,” Ralph said to her.

The girl automatically handed the phone to Ralph.

“Thanks, but do you mind calling the hospital or 9-1-1 and see if they can even get someone here? We’re about ten cars back. I’m gotta try to find someone who can deliver a baby.”

Back at the car, Jen held Mrs. Aron’s hand and tried to calm the frenzied teacher.

“I don’t want my baby born in this poisonous radiation!”

“We don’t know for sure if there even is any radiation that’s airborne. Please try to breathe.”

“No! I can’t, I won’t give birth here! Please!”

“We are trying to find someone who can help us,” Jen said. “Take slow, deep breaths. Try to focus on the baby, on giving birth. The baby will be fine.”

Ricky and Julie leaned over the front seat, looking wide-eyed at the teacher.

“You guys wait outside the car, okay?” Jen told them.

The teacher’s contractions were coming closer together. Jen started to panic. Could she do it? Deliver a baby?

Suddenly Ralph appeared with a woman by his side.

“This is Leslie—she’s a retired nurse—used to be an RN at the hospital. She may be able to help us.”

The woman craned her neck into the back seat. She touched Mrs. Aron gently on her arm.

“Can I see how much you are dilated?”

The teacher glared. “Who are you?”

“My name is Leslie, I’m a nurse, and I think we are going to have a baby.” Her eyes twinkled, and she helped re-situate the teacher in the back seat to examine her. Jen smiled and looked at Ralph.

“How did you find her?”

“About fifty cars up. Someone was bound to be in the business.”

The nurse eased into the back seat and held Mrs. Aron’s hand, coaching her to breathe.

Ralph walked over to Julie and Ricky to make sure they were okay. Jen followed him.

“Looks like we’re stuck. No moving her now, even if we could,” she said. “Do you want to walk home with the kids or wait it out?”

“Could. My house is closer,” he said. “It should take less than an hour if we hoof it.”

“I think it’s safer than staying on the road. God knows where the radiation is, or if it’s even reached a danger level.”

Ralph nodded and turned to the kids. “You guys want to hike back to the house?”

Ricky looked at Jen. “What about you, Mom? Are you coming too?”

“I’m going to stay with Mrs. Aron, and when traffic starts up I can take her to the hospital. I think you should go to Julie’s house and get off the road. The sooner you get there, the safer you’ll be.”

“But you’ll be here breathing the radiation, won’t you, Mom? You might get just as sick as Kaylee. I want to stay here with you.”

The boy stood his ground.

“Look,” Jen said. “I will be fine. I’m a healthy adult. But you’re a kid and not strong enough to fight off the contamination, if that even happens. Go with Julie to her house. I want you to be as safe as you can be. Okay?”

She hugged the boy, something he would normally deflect, but not now. This was different. Jen looked over at Ralph.

“Ricky, it would really be great if you came with us. It would make Julie feel less afraid. Can you help me out?”

He must be a great dad, Jen thought.

Ricky frowned. “You’ll be with Julie, Mr. Merkin, so why would she be afraid? I’m no superhero. I can’t protect anyone. We all might die no matter where we are. Right?”

“You don’t have to be a superhero to make someone feel safe, Ricky,” Ralph said. “You’re Julie’s friend and buddy, not her dad. Getting to our house is taking a risk, sure, but once we’re there, the odds are we’ll be safer. How about it?”

Ricky looked at his mom. He begrudgingly picked up his backpack.

“How long will you be here, Mom?”

“Hard to say. You’ll be fine. Go ahead now.”

“You’ll come over as soon as you can?”

“You bet.”

As she watched the three trek off, passing the endless line of cars, tears filled her eyes and she began to shake. They would be okay…. They would be fine….

She walked back to her car, now a birthing room on wheels.

Mrs. Aron’s contractions intensified, and the two women braced themselves. It wouldn’t be the first time a baby was born in the backseat of a car.

Chapter 23

NUKE DISASTER PARALYZES WESTCHESTER

Radioactive cloud causes major panic

The thick block letters blackened the front page. Owen pressed the competitive edge and left no doubt that for this story, the Daily Suburban was the paper of record.

It was every bit a real-life thriller. Lou put the reader right at the scene. He captured the hysteria of the failed evacuation, drivers immobilized on the road for over eighteen hours, the mob scene at the schools, the drama of Mrs. Aron’s labor and delivery in the backseat of a car. All under the fear of an airborne radioactive plume. To Owen’s delight, Lou scooped all other news sources with a vivid account of the frantic control room inside the plant, with information quoted from an anonymous source.

The subhead of Lou’s story read “Meltdown narrowly avoided.” Owen had the story start on the front page and continue on page two. Page three was a spread of pictures that was unprecedented for the paper. By midmorning, the Daily Suburban had sold out.

Lou was the man of the hour. Overnight the sportswriter assumed the lofty role of “investigative and environmental reporter.” Compliments from colleagues and staff went to his head. He sat at his desk rereading his story, noting that Owen hadn’t changed a word—an editor’s ultimate compliment.

Exhausted workers at the plant barely managed to avoid a meltdown. Along with the others, Larry worked all night, driven by mounting fear. It took hours to safely shut down the reactor and allow the suited-up workers get inside to fix the pipe and clean up the debris.

What happened to the plume depended on who you talked to. Some experts contended that the strong westerly winds swept the radiation out to the ocean. Others claimed the release reached a high altitude and dissipated altogether. It was impossible for doctors to predict if the radiation would affect future cancer rates or other serious illnesses. They could point to Chernobyl as the worst case scenario.

Westchester and the communities within miles of the plant were still in shock, a shock that reverberated to New York City. Radio and TV talk-show hosts cashed in on the panic. Did anyone really know if there was lingering radiation and what the long-term effects would be? Could it happen again? Would the winds carry radioactivity south, forcing the evacuation of over eight million people? Could they even safely evacuate? It was a doomsday scenario the media would milk forever.

ALLPower and the NRC were circling their wagons. It was a big break for the anti-nuke movement, and politicians would start demanding answers. ALLPower had to play it right or it could be the demise of the entire industry. The key was to sell the accident as a rare, one-time incident. And time was on their side. It took years to see if radioactive exposure resulted in any kind of cancer or leukemia.

Schools were closed for several days, even though the county was urging school administrators to open as soon as possible and get back to a normal routine. But it would take a while to revamp. Diana’s building wasn’t the only one that was ransacked by angry parents. It took over twelve hours for some parents to be reunited with their kids. Like Jen, many walked miles to their kids’ school. Others eventually found the youngsters sitting on a bus just a mile or two from their school, stuck in traffic. Everyone was shaken, scared, and trying to make sense of the panic.

The very next day after the accident Diana ventured into school to survey the damage. The heavy glass front door had been broken off its hinges, and her office looked like a construction site. The janitor nailed a piece of plywood over the large broken window, a shelf was knocked over, and there was debris covering her desk. What a mess. She didn’t know where to begin, so she picked up her cell phone.

Lou was sitting smugly at his desk when his phone rang. It was Diana.

“Diana? Are you okay? Did you survive the panic?”

“Yes. Barely. I’m a little ruffled here at school. It’s a real deluge. By the way, congratulations on a great story. ALLPower must be seething.”

“We’ll see. Nothing’s come down from the powers that be here at the paper. What’s it like at school?”

She ran through the film-strip version of the damages.

“Miraculously the turtle is still alive.”

His voice dropped down. “You home tonight?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You have no idea how much you turn me on, Ms. Chase. I’ve been writing about us, about you. I’ve even waxed poetic about how we move—you’re my muse, you know.”

“So, you might need more inspiration?”

“Inspire me all you want. Later then?”

“Can’t wait.”

Lou had hoped Diana had forgotten about their little talk about a threesome. The message from her was clear: she wasn’t interested. Perhaps he would try to talk to her again, when they were more intimate and there was more trust.

For Diana, the day of panic tapped her activist agenda. A plan was brewing. Now was the time to organize, while the fear was still real. She plotted a systematic outreach to people, organizations, politicians. It would be what she’d always done, this time on a bigger scale. There would be meetings, meetings, and more meetings. It was now or never for the big push to close down that nasty plant, once and for all. She got on the Internet and blasted out e-mails. Let the battle against ALLPower and the nuclear industry begin.

Then she called Jen. She wanted to make sure she and Ricky were okay. And what of Mrs. Aron?

“Jen? Are you okay?”

“Yes. We’re both fine. We finally got home sometime in the middle of the night. Ricky was at Ralph’s house, and he had dinner for me. Such a nice guy.”

“Good to hear. And Mrs. Aron?”

“Guess what? She had the baby in my car! She finally got to the hospital, and she and the baby seem to be doing okay. Well… they think the baby is okay. They are keeping her for a few tests just to make sure.”

“Make sure…?”

“She wasn’t exposed… to… you know—radiation.”

Jen vividly recalled the birth, how the young teacher’s labor became intense, and they knew she would never make it to the hospital. Jen took direction from the nurse who seemed to know what she was doing.

“You got a pillow by any chance? It’s for under her hips.”

“I’ll check.”

Luckily, there was a small pillow in the trunk. Just as she was about to close it, she saw the edge of Kaylee’s orange beach towel in the far corner. How could she have missed that? Was it still contaminated? She dismissed the worry. It was her daughter saying hello from heaven.

Jen offered to support the teacher’s back as the nurse guided her to breathe, to push, and breathe again. It was a timeless labor, and when the teacher gave the final push, Jen was oblivious to the cars inching forward, horns honking. For that moment, there were a bunch of reasons to celebrate. The birth was truly a miracle. Secretly, Jen hoped that a piece of Kaylee’s soul had woven itself into the new child.

“They’re smart to check for radiation,” Diana said to her on the phone. “Listen Jen, I need your help. Would you be a dear and come into school for a bit and help me clean up?”

“You’re in school? It must be a mess! I suppose I could come over, but can I bring Ricky along? He’s still rattled. Actually we’re both a little clingy with each other.”

“I guess. He’d have to be careful, though. Bring work gloves.”

Diana had an ulterior motive to talk to Jen, and it had to be in person.

When she arrived, Jen took one look at where the large window had been.

“Oh my God! What happened?”

“A hysterical parent had the bright idea to create a new entryway. Doesn’t quite fit in with my sense of decor.”

Ricky found a seat in the front and pulled out his Game Boy. Diana motioned Jen to her desk.

“We’re organizing a bunch of meetings because the time is right to close the plant. Do you want to be involved? You could be a key person,” Diana said to her, treading carefully.

“Me? A key person?”

“Because of Kaylee.”

“What about Kaylee? They never proved anything—never connected her death to the plant….”

Diana looked at Jen. “You really want to talk about this? About Kaylee, children, or babies with weak immune systems, how sick they get when exposed to radiation?”

“There were other complications with Kaylee,” Jen said. “And Mrs. Aron’s baby will be fine.”

“I certainly hope you’re right. But, if strontium 90 or any other radioactive isotope was released in the air, it could wreak havoc with a baby’s undeveloped immune system.”

“We’ve already talked about this. Kaylee didn’t die of leukemia. Or bone cancer.”

“They never said what she really died of, did they, Jen? The fact of the matter is we don’t really know, do we?”

Jen was uncertain about putting her dead daughter out there as a poster child for the anti-nuke movement. Could she do it? Would it adversely affect Ricky? Then there were the kids still swimming at the river beach….

“What… what would I have to do?”

“You would have to talk about Kaylee. About her death.”

“How? Where?”

“Here’s how it will work. We will organize meetings, rallies, right now on the heels of yesterday’s terrible accident. The media will be all over us like white on rice, I’ll make sure of that. They might put you on the spot about Kaylee’s unsolved death. You’d have to be ready for their questions. Think you could do that?”

“I’m still not sure. What would I say?”

Diana smiled. “Use your own words, words from your heart. You and I will work on a sound bite or two, ones you feel comfortable about. I promise.”

Chapter 24

Stella didn’t realize how hard she was gripping the paper. She glared at the headline and felt her stomach churn. In her fantasy she was beating on Bob’s bedroom door, thrusting the paper in his face.

This was bad. Yesterday she and her neighbors were paralyzed in their homes. Every hour the emergency officials sent out prerecorded phone messages urging everyone to stay inside and keep their windows closed. And why? Because of the behemoth power plant spewing poisonous steam. The place where her son not only worked for a living, but promoted the industry as a modern-day necessity.

Bob’s bedroom door creaked open. He walked out fully dressed.

“Don’t even talk to me, Ma.”

“What. Don’t you even want to try out today’s sound bites on me about the accident?”

He walked past her and pulled a raincoat out of the front closet.

“I don’t have to talk to you about this. It’s been a long night, and I already know what you’re going to say.”

He reached the front door and flinched when he saw the newspaper’s screaming headline.

With a fleeting moment of remorse he said, “I know this shouldn’t have happened, but you know what? I’m not the power plant, Ma. I really wish you could respect me for the job I’m doing and not blame all this stuff on me.”

Unexpectedly she softened, but he hastily opened the door and was gone. Flushed and teary, she thought that maybe he was right. Maybe it was all hype and they’ll find out the release wasn’t so bad. Maybe she shouldn’t be so hard on her son.

Bob got busy. A week after the accident he had built a campaign guaranteed to keep ALLPower in business. He stepped into the conference room and surveyed the long pristine table with pads and pens laid out for all twelve board members. At the head of the table was a marble ashtray for ALLPower’s CEO, Harry Halby, whom everyone called Hal. The ashtray was a resting place for the cigar that he would light up during a meeting, puff once for show, then let it die a long and smelly death.

Bob called his publicity agenda “ALLPower: Moving Forward and Securing Our Future.” He waited for everyone to get seated to talk them through it and show them the PowerPoint presentation. He had to sell them on the big ticket idea that was guaranteed to keep the company in a positive light, especially after the accident.

Bob’s boss Mike walked in looking haggard and sunk in.

“I’m sick of talking to reporters. They’re slimy, and they misrepresent themselves. First they’re your pals; the next thing you know you’re misquoted. The newspaper guys are the worst. And did you catch me on TV? I look like I’ve been exposed to a lethal dose. Ya think they’re using special affects to make me look green?”

“Not funny, Mike. Relax. Hal and the others will be here any minute.”

It would be a huge PR campaign with ads on the giant scoreboards at sports stadiums in New York City and New Jersey. Television and radio commercials would run on the hour; full-page ads would be placed in widely read newspapers and magazines circulated throughout the Northeast. Make people feel safe, secure. The real message: where would everyone be without the electricity made by ALLPower?

Bob was set to hire Dingham and Brown, the largest ad agency in New York City—if not the world. They were known for their work with the first Bush administration in selling the first Mideast war. From oil spills to nuclear accidents, Dingham and Brown specialized in tidying up a company’s image and burying the demons that threatened to lower the value of shareholder stock.

To land the ALLPower account, Dingham and Brown prepared a glitzy PowerPoint outlining an upbeat campaign, and when it finished, everyone nodded enthusiastically. Bob and Mike looked anxiously at Hal fingering his acrid stub.

“The price tag on this, Stalinsky?” he barked out.

“Looking at twenty-five mil.”

The board shifted in their seats. Bob was official.

“We make that in two weeks selling electricity, Hal.”

Hal gazed off as if calculating numbers. Then he stood up abruptly and looked across the table at Bob. He slowly nodded.

“Okay. But this better work. The whole industry hinges on how we remake ourselves after this accident. Tell the world they would be back in the Dark Ages without our electricity. Play up the drama—subways wouldn’t move, people would broil from the summer heat, there would be life-threatening blackouts. Ratchet it up another notch each week. You know the drill.”

Hal barreled out of the room, board members trailing after. Bob exhaled. Too bad his mother couldn’t be proud of his latest coup.

Chapter 25

Chrissy Dolan was meticulous in her story about the near meltdown, steam release, and evacuation. Now working full time at the Register, she had found her voice. She portrayed the plant’s reactors as a force to be reckoned with, not just a sprawling electricity factory silently droning on in a vacuum. This was a living entity with an immediate impact on three hundred thousand people living in the area. Her editor, Al, saw the spark and encouraged her to follow up.

“Talk to the teacher who gave birth in the car, her students who were with her,” he advised her.

The more follow-up stories the better. Also, he suggested she check in with Stalinsky. He would bend her ear, no doubt.

“And read the stuff the Padera guy wrote,” he suggested. “That’s good, high-end reporting you can learn from.”

She had the lingo down, her brain was like a sponge, “inquisitiveness” her middle name. Sometimes she couldn’t get answers fast enough. Her confidence grew. She got an e-mail from Bob Stalinsky the day after the botched evacuation, reminding of her promise for lunch.

A few days later she drove down to a diner just a few miles away from the plant. The sky was clear, and traffic was moving normally, but there were still a few random cars parked off the road, abandoned in the massive gridlock. Inside the diner she spotted Bob in a booth and sat down.

“So, Bob, have they figured out how the pipes ruptured?”

“Nice to see you, Chrissy. You want to talk shop so soon? Why don’t we order lunch—it’s on me.”

Perks for news writers were usually there for the asking, but they had their price: usually the promise of good press and more of it. Al reminded her to pay for her own lunch.

“I’ll just have coffee, thanks.”

She took out her notebook and her recorder.

“Lou Padera’s story intimated that there is a whistle-blower at the plant. Got any idea who it is?”

“Lou Padera doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Not even a little suspicious about who disclosed the panic in the control room?”

“There was no panic, Chrissy. These guys are professionals, trained to be calm no matter what.”

He watched her jot some notes down. He liked her energy, her drive. What could be better than having this young, pretty, impressionable journalist on his side? It was reporters like Lou Padera he hated.

She continued. “Doesn’t it seem odd that there were no warning signs about pipe ruptures or any other vulnerable points in the containment dome?”

“You’re a really smart reporter, Chrissy. Why aren’t you writing for a bigger newspaper?”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“Yes. I am.” He leaned back and laughed.

“No, really. With your skills you should be writing for a big daily, don’t you think?”

“We all have to start somewhere, Bob. I’ll work my way up, don’t worry.”

“You should have Padera’s job. You’re much more—well, more even handed. We have a pretty strong in with the editor at the Daily Suburban, Chrissy. If that job ever opened up, we could help you get it.”

She instantly bought into the fantasy.

“Is that so? Are you trying to bribe me, Bob?” Not meaning to, she smiled. What am I doing?

“Trust me. We could do it. It’s just a matter of time.”

He sensed she had some scruples, but they could be easily overshadowed by raw ambition. The offer made her nervous, and she tried to tuck it away and focus on her questions.

“The rupture? Do you know about it or not?”

“You have to speak with the inspectors. I’ll get you in touch with them.”

“Tell me what ALLPower is doing to prevent other accidents?”

It was the redemption question, the answer that would put ALLPower back in the good graces of the public. He shot her some dollar amounts, how they plan to increase the budget for maintenance programs, hire more staff for more around-the-clock safety inspections.

“Padera would never ask us these questions, Chrissy. I really appreciate you writing a balanced article. Especially now.”

She squinted her eyes. “Why do you dislike him so much?”

Shades of his mother’s accusations forced him to answer cautiously.

“I don’t know exactly. Something about the way he writes,” he said. “I honestly get the feeling that he’s after us, that we’re the big bad corporation trying to get away with murder. It’s subtle, but it’s there, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.”

She thought about the friendship between Lou and Diana. Should she share that with Bob now? What did she have to lose? If he really had pull with the Daily Suburban, it would be information that might bump Lou out, leaving an opening for her. It seemed a little far-fetched, but the idea mildly excited her.

She felt wobbly. “I have a little Lou Padera tidbit you might be interested in—but note that it’s unconfirmed.” I’m covering my tracks just in case none of this is true.

Bob cocked one eyebrow.

“It seems Ms. Diana Chase—you know the school lady who is an anti-nuke activist? She and Mr. Padera have something going,”

“Really? How do you know?”

“I saw them together. It seemed to be something more than an interview. It may be worth keeping an eye on, especially if it colors the way he writes about ALLPower.”

“My, my. That is interesting. I tell you what—you come up with some evidence, and I’m a happy camper.”

“Well, we’ll see.”

On the way back to the office she battled her conscience. The prospect of a liaison with Bob Stalinsky felt a little slippery. Was all this necessary to get ahead? Well, she hadn’t sold out a fellow journalist. Yet.

Chapter 26

The politicians and environmental pundits were coming out of the woodwork. The governor and the district attorney declared vendettas against ALLPower, vowing to close the plant within a year. Diana was thrilled. Internet LISTSERVs sprang up, and rallies, meetings, and protests were being organized.

A massive gathering would soon be held in a theater big enough to accommodate over a thousand people. The media was given ample notice. Everyone from political hopefuls to industry shills was craving the exposure.

It was a huge effort, and Diana was caught up in every detail. The only time she stopped to take a breath was at night; after responding to calls and e-mails, she saved the best for last: e-mails from Lou.

Although Lou always reassured her of his feelings, he gently coaxed her into more explicit cyber sex. Their love affair was relatively new, and his penchant for erotica made Diana feel prudish. Sex any other place but in bed had never occurred to her.

At first she found his words embarrassing—his descriptions of her body, the way he waxed poetic about her breasts, the soft inner skin of her thighs, her innermost folds. But it was not without a lascivious sense of fun. He would sprinkle the erotica with crazy innuendos, sometimes introducing other characters. His stories intrigued her, and although she looked forward to them, there was a part of her that was resistant to the whole idea. Why did he like writing and talking about sex? When he expanded his stories to include multiple partners, she wondered if he was teasing out his fantasies and trying to get her to accept them. Or was he really writing from experience, something about their first night together when he told her they were just fantasies—was it true?

At one point he suggested they both co-write stories about fictional sexual interludes. He initiated a chapter and invited her to add to it and continue the story. She wasn’t overly enthusiastic.

Uggh. Put your intimate self out there with words?

But maybe this was a way to free her hidden wild side? To own it. She’d give it a try. In the beginning, she was unsure of her own sexual voice and would write brief obligatory add-ons, bland by comparison to his more flowery, descriptive stories.

But he always encouraged her to do more. After a few exchanges, she surprised herself and summoned up her own, long-hidden fantasies, her untapped, inner desires.

The steamy epistles drew them closer, feeding a special intimacy. She learned to trust him in a way she hadn’t let herself trust a lover in the past.

One night he e-mailed her a new story casting her as the main character. She found herself at a type of hotel with a restaurant and a bar with a small dance floor. Upstairs there were rooms that weren’t just bedrooms. She was alone and meeting a man named David. Why was he introducing her to another man? Would that mean that there could be another woman? She decidedly wrote the next chapter to include Lou as another new man she liked better than David. Would she have to choose between them? She was rewriting how they met—this time in a sex house. He smiled. Wait ’til she really sees this place….

Chapter 27

The auditorium in the county building was crowded. Environmental groups and anti-nukes manned tables and worked the crowd, a bazaar of information, petitions, and free paraphernalia.

Diana flitted around the room, lining up spokespersons, making sure the press was up front. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lou walk in, quickly followed by Chrissy Dolan. Minutes later, Bob haplessly wandered in and lurked in the back, keeping a low profile.

Diana climbed on stage and tapped the microphone.

“Good evening, everyone. We have a heavy lineup this evening, so let’s get started. I’m Diana Chase. Many of you know me because I’m against the nuclear power industry, specifically ALLPower. This evening we are formally announcing a brand new group, a strong coalition of groups who want the same thing: to close ALLPower down!”

Applause broke out and signs popped up saying “Hell No! We Won’t Glow!” and “Evacuate Where?”

Chrissy looked around to get a head count and came up with roughly five hundred people. In the far back she thought she saw Bob. That little spy…

A scientist from the Union of Concerned Scientists, a watchdog group critical of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, slammed the NRC for being lax on enforcing safety regulations and changing the regulations as plants age so they could keep operating. Was the NRC really protecting the public’s health and safety?

A candidate for Congress railed, crafting his rhetoric for the riled-up crowd, repeatedly pausing for applause. Every vote counted, and campaign promises could mean a win in November.

“The only thing that will ever make a difference in Washington, D.C., is taking away the NRC’s power. The NRC doesn’t have to answer to anyone! That means they can be in bed with the nukes, and we can’t do anything about it! I will push for a constitutional amendment to change that as soon as I get into Congress as your new elected representative. That’s a promise!”

Stella sat in the second row, wearing a kerchief tightly around her head as camouflage. She knew Bob was there, she could feel it. She wanted to be part of the movement but her gut churned knowing that her son worked for ALLPower, the “enemy.” Somehow she felt like a traitor to both her son and to the people around her.

Projected behind the speakers were large images of the plant. Several showed the plant exterior from the river. An aerial shot showed the proximity of the plant to the riverfront beach and the two-lane road, the so-called workable evacuation route. There were pictures of the inside of the reactor along with simple illustrations of how it worked.

From the back corner Bob watched the crowd, shaking his head. These folks didn’t have a clue of how ineffectual they really were. They would never close the plant; it was all a lot of noise. Let them have their fun. The high-end, targeted PR campaign would drown them all out.

From a seat on stage, Jen slowly approached the microphone, every bone in her body shaking. The crowd hushed. They knew her; she had been quoted a few times on TV and was profiled in a local woman’s magazine. Her throat dry, she took a deep breath, and saw Ralph in the second row. He smiled and nodded at her. You can do this.

“Hi everyone. I’m Jen Elery. Some of you may know me as the mother of a young girl who died after swimming in the river, swimming at a beach just downstream of the plant. I’m here because I believe the plant is leaking dangerous, radioactive chemicals into the air and water. No one ever told me exactly what killed my daughter, but don’t you think we need a study to see just what is coming out of that plant and into our river?”

Stella started to cry quietly. Others dabbed their eyes. A man was moved so much he stood up and yelled, “You get ’em Jen!”

Unnerved, Jen quickly glanced back at Diana, who smiled. Jen nodded and turned to the audience. “We need your help to get this study started. Please sign the petitions before you leave. Thanks.”

Suddenly pictures on the screen showed the ruptured pipes in the containment dome wreckage. Bob froze. How the hell? He looked over at the TV cameras zooming in on the pictures, flashbulbs went off, reporters furiously jabbed away at their laptops. Bob’s jaw clenched. Gotta find this damn whistle-blower. Now. Before he causes more damage.

Each picture revealed a new level of destruction, and the scientist on the panel explained just how the radioactive steam was accidentally released. One shot showed the inside of the control room, red lights flashing, the stunned, confused men. It was a photograph similar to the one in Lou’s story.

It was the public’s chance to be heard. A long line formed at a microphone in the center aisle.

“Were we exposed to a lot of radiation or not?” one man yelled out.

“Where can we buy Geiger counters?”

“The police barricaded my kid’s school. We couldn’t get them out during the accident! Was that legal?”

“How does this affect the value of my house?”

“Where do you get K-I pills? Who sells emergency evacuation bags, radiation suits?”

Various experts and lawmakers responded to questions, but the crowd was anything but appeased.

“What about the evacuation plan? We all know it doesn’t work. Don’t they have to have a working evacuation plan to keep the plant running?”

“Yes. That’s right,” Diana said. “Now that we’ve proved it’s impossible to safely evacuate the area, our representatives can use that to close the plant. ALLPower can’t stay open without a workable evacuation plan. That’s the law.”

In a final flurry, TV cameras dashed around shining harsh lights into the eyes of anyone who wanted to make a statement. Chrissy saw Lou, pad in hand, sidle up to Diana. Was he really interviewing her? They looked too cozy to be serious.

Chrissy watched them momentarily, and then caught sight of Jen and a man making their way toward a side exit. She chased after her.

“Mrs. Elery? Can I ask you some questions? I’m Chrissy Dolan with the Register. I’ll be quick.”

Jen and Ralph paused.

“Just one question,” said Jen. “I really need to get home to my son.”

“Yes. Yes—of course. Was there ever any formal investigation about your daughter’s death? And are you still looking into it?

“I can’t look into it anymore. It was so inconclusive and very frustrating. Quite frankly, I’m not sure who to turn to.” Jen paused, and then said, “Why don’t you investigate it? It would make a good story, don’t you think? Maybe they’d give you some straight answers. I never got any.”

“Oh. That’s a good idea. But were you really trying to implicate the plant in your public statement?”

Jen took a breath, a tactic Diana suggested when speaking to the press about Kaylee’s death.

“I never implicated the plant. I’m just suggesting the water be studied. That’s all I have to say.”

With Ralph close behind her, Jen quickly stepped past Chrissy to the outside and headed to the parking lot.

“Are you telling parents to stay away from the beach?” Chrissy yelled after her, but Jen kept walking.

Back inside the auditorium Chrissy saw a few politicians hamming it up with TV reporters. The more zealous people milled around, hoping to be interviewed. Suddenly Bob was behind her.

“Hello Miss Ace Reporter,” he said in a low voice. She whirled around.

“Bob! Can I get your response to this powwow?”

“Gladly. You are certainly ahead of the game! My statement is exclusive for you—Padera didn’t even spot me, so I’m all yours. Shall we go somewhere less exposed?”

Bob took her elbow and steered her outside to a darkened corner of the parking lot. She could faintly smell his cologne and somehow found it appealing. He turned and faced her, smiling.

“Okay, here’s what you can print. These folks have every right to be scared and ask a ton of questions. But they don’t understand the complexity of nuclear power. That’s why we are planning an educational campaign to clear up any misconceptions about how the plant works. It’s not at all surprising that the anti-nuke folks, like Ms. Chase and her ilk, are cashing in and making a big thing out of this rare, one-time accident. I just wish they wouldn’t spread so many lies.” He smiled. “It that good?”

“What about the pictures of the rupture inside the dome. Who took those?”

“Um, not sure, Chrissy. Could be our busy little whistle-blower, but he won’t be busy for long.”

“When you find him—or her—will you tell me who it is? Give me an exclusive?”

He chuckled. “Maybe. We’ll see. How about grabbing a cup of coffee, or a drink maybe?”

“Oh, gee. I’d love to, but I have to file my story. Rain check?”

“Ouch.”

She turned to a clean page on her pad and looked around for any last interview opportunities.

“By the way,” Bob said. “Any stolen glances between our lovebirds?”

“Not really. If they are involved, they seem to be good at covering it up. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“Good girl. Why an attractive lady would go for a jock reporter like that…. Well, see you.”

He took off, skirting the unlit perimeter of the parking lot and dissolved into the darkness.

A jock reporter? For a second Chrissy forgot that Lou was primarily a sportswriter. His stories on nuclear power were so well-crafted. She got into her car, a small silvery compact, and jotted down some last minute notes. Just then she saw Lou getting into an SUV that was a metallic, burnt-orange color. That wouldn’t be hard to follow, she half chuckled to herself.

Just as she put the key in the ignition, Diana came whisking out of the building and headed toward Lou’s car, quickly looking around before she got in.

Here we go again, thought Chrissy. Wonder where they’re headed?

Chapter 28

“File your story?” Diana asked Lou as she got into the car.

“Just e-mailing it in now.”

“Did you hear that stupid politician? ALLPower is one of his main campaign contributors. I’m sure Stalinksy made a note of that. Did you see him lurking there in the back?”

“No. No I didn’t.

Does he want to talk about the meeting? About his story?

As Lou pulled out of the parking lot she tried to hide her nervousness about where they were headed. He joked about some kind of “sexual adventure?” Was it at the hotel type of place to which he’d alluded in his writings? She wanted to please him, be a fun mate into adventures and not play the prude. But was she ready for this?

A few weeks ago Lou started another erotic story about a couple who liked group sex, either a threesome or with another couple. Diana held back, confused. What did he really want from her? Did he really imagine her with another man while he looked on? Or he with another woman, while she looked on? Deep down she knew intimacy between two people could never be replaced by recreational sex.

He treaded carefully, and noting her hesitation, he stopped writing the story. He talked about it a bit after they made love, gently pressing his intent, coaxing her into the scenario: What would you want him to do to you? What could both of us do? It can be the ménage à trois of your dreams, Diana. Imagine, enjoy.

He encouraged her to live out her fantasies through words and see how it felt. She still wasn’t keen on the idea, so he didn’t press her and, again, let it slide. Would she write some more of her wonderful horti-erotica? She was flattered, and yes, she would love to do that—that was different, more like poetry. Every few days she sent him a short verse inspired by her few little dabblings in the garden and likened it on some level to their lovemaking; both were passionate and sensuous. He readily responded, praising her for words that moved him.

One night Diana reread Lou’s story about a group-sex encounter at a sex house. Could she write about it and perhaps consent to the experiment? The man was persistent, and she wondered what happened to the sense of adventure she had when she was younger. So why not now? If she agreed, it would be with a man she knew and trusted, someone she was falling in love with. She poured herself a large glass of red wine and started to compose a scenario of a woman with two men. She sent him her first paragraph. It was all he needed. He added on to the story with another paragraph, matching her mood and tone, trying not to be too explicit. Diana reciprocated. The co-authorship became fun.

Meanwhile, Lou did his research. He logged onto the “Bearded Iris” website to search for people looking for provocative sexual encounters, and who would show some sensitivity to novices like Diana.

He searched for couples, single men, single women. A man named David responded, and they exchanged e-mails for a few weeks before they spoke on the phone. They would meet for a drink at the Bearded Iris, giving Lou a chance to get a feel for the man and for the place. If Diana accepted a ménage à trois with two men, perhaps one day she would go for a three-way with Lou and another woman.

Finally, satisfied that David was savvy and could handle the “surprise” rendezvous, they agreed to meet and take it from there. Diana and Lou’s erotic story was about to become reality.

As he headed to the highway he was vaguely aware of a small silver car in his rear window, turning when he turned, stopping when he stopped. Now’s not the time to be paranoid, he thought. After a few miles, right before he approached the bridge, the same silver car lagged behind. He slowed, hoping the car would pass him, but the car directly in back passed him instead and the silver car was at his tail. He didn’t say anything to Diana; it would ruin the mood. He intermittently checked his rear view mirror. Sometimes the car slipped back, then it would catch up.

Why would anyone want to tail him? Thugs hired by ALLPower? Stalinsky? Catching him with Diana could be fodder for all sorts of blackmail, for both of them.

A school administrator with a guy at a sex house? A guy who’s a newspaper reporter?

It could jeopardize their jobs, their credibility. The works. If I have any sense I should just turn around now and stop thinking with my gonads. He saw a sign for a rest stop.

“Hey honey. Let’s stop for a quick cup of coffee, okay? I need a little hit of caffeine.”

“Sure. We’re in no rush. Right?”

They pulled off at the rest stop, and the silver car pulled in also, but it kept a safe distance behind. Lou pulled around the far side of the parking lot and backed in a parking space facing out. Where the hell was he?

“Lou? We getting out?”

“You know, Diana, let’s skip it. The coffee can wait. Just got a second wind.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Lou pretended to look for a bottle of water in the back seat, stalling for time. He surveyed the parking lot again. The driver might be waiting at the entrance ramp where he won’t miss us. He coasted toward the ramp but didn’t see the car. He hit the gas like he was kickboxing, and the car lurched forward.

“Hey—where’s the race?”

“Just want to get where we’re going, Sweetie Pie. Hold on.”

He cut out onto the highway and swerved into the fast lane. No car. He lost them. Whoever it was…

Chrissy never planned to follow Lou very far, but once she started it was hard to turn back. Her curiosity got the better of her. Wasn’t being a journalist like a detective? Spying on another reporter wasn’t quite the same, and her sense of ethics was gaining, but not enough to make her quit the pursuit.

When she followed Lou to the rest stop, she debated her next move. She pulled around to the gas station and parked to the side with the exit ramp in view. Suddenly she caught the glinty orange car racing past her onto the highway. Leaving her scruples in the dust, she started her car, lurched around a slow moving van and sped onto the highway. For a while she was sure she had lost him and was about to give up. It was dark and harder to see the shiny SUV. Harder, but not impossible. I’ve come this far….

Lou and Diana were just about a mile from the exit for the Bearded Iris.

“I really wish you would slow down, Lou.” Diana thought his urgency was about her ambiguity and because he feared she might change her mind about a new sexual encounter.

“Sorry, Babe. I’m a little anxious. Didn’t mean to drive with a heavy foot.”

“I’m anxious, too. You know that, right? But let’s get wherever we are going in one piece. The way you’re driving, you’d think we were being followed.”

The lady had a sixth sense about her. Or she has eyes in the back of her head.

Keeping her distance, Chrissy followed them and saw the car pull into a driveway of a large house perched on a small hill with a line of shrubs in the front. An old stone wall ran around the yard, and there was a wrought iron gate that opened to a few stone stairs. A small illuminated sign was next to the front door in the center of a wraparound porch.

Chrissy could see Lou and Diana walk up to the front door. Well, well. What do you know, Ms. Diana Chase, schoolmarm, shacking up in a bed-and-breakfast with Lou Padera.

When the two had been in the house for a few minutes, Chrissy walked slowly up to the front door to read the name of the hotel. In elegantly cursive letters the small sign said “The Bearded Iris.”

Chapter 29

The first thing Diana saw was a long, curved wooden bar with fancy cushioned stools that swirled around. Some R&B music played from a dance floor to the right of the bar, and a few couples moved to the beat. Diana smiled. It all felt vaguely familiar.

“So this is a real place,” she glanced sideways at Lou. “You’ve been scheming a bit?”

A man was leaning with his back against the bar, sipping a drink. He was medium height with light brown hair. Lou walked over to him.

“David? Nice to see you again. I’d like you to meet Diana.”

The man smiled. “Nice to see you, Lou.”

His soft brown eyes settled on Diana. “And this is the lovely Diana?”

The two briefly shook hands. Then, looking in her eyes, he brought her hand to his lips. She stiffened slightly, realizing David was a key character in their jointly written erotic story.

“What are you drinking? You like white wine, don’t you Diana?”

She laughed nervously. “White wine is perfect.”

In the story, David and Lou each dance with Diana, have dinner and find their way to a large bedroom upstairs. Recalling the scenario, Diana took a long, full sip of wine and tried to relax. Lou slid his hand around her waist. “Dance?”

As they swayed to the music, he put his lips to her ear.

“Look, Diana. You don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. David is cool, and neither one of us will be disappointed if you opt out. Well, maybe I’ll be a little sad. But it’s not worth it if you can’t enjoy yourself. Okay?”

“You mean we could have dinner and go home?”

“Yup. If that’s what you want.”

Like a kid who was just told she didn’t have to do her homework, Diana became giddy and relaxed. Then she thought, But what about the story? Hadn’t it become a script for the evening? Wasn’t it meant to be followed?

“I’m not sure what I want yet, Lou. Can we get to know him a bit more before I decide?”

“Sure thing.”

They returned to the bar and sat down next to David.

“You two look good on the dance floor. When you’re ready, and if you want to, Diana, would you dance with me?”

She emptied her glass and said, “Sure. Let’s give it a try.”

They danced and he took cues from her on how close she wanted him to be. He was light on his feet and she was beginning to feel comfortable with him.

From the bar, Lou ordered more wine and watched them. His stomach gurgled.

Their dinner together was a long, relaxed meal where she knew she was dinking far too much. But she wanted to loosen up. She sat between the two men in a round booth and at one point David slipped his arm around her while Lou stroked her inner thigh under the table. It made her giggle. Suddenly there was a bottle of champagne on the table.

“My favorite,” she said, realizing her inhibitions were about to slip away. Fingers swept the back of her neck, played with her hair. She melted.

When the champagne was half gone, Lou felt the time was right.

“Do we want to check out our room?” he suggested in a low voice. She looked at them both, laughed softly and nodded. Why not?

With bottle and glasses in hand they found their room and opened the door. It was a softly lit bedroom with what seemed to be a swing at the far end. The three looked in.

“After you, Diana,” Lou said and nodded at David.

Diana and David stepped inside to survey the room. Still standing in the door, Lou thought the two looked oddly out of place. Something didn’t feel right. Was he taking advantage of Diana, who was too tipsy to know what she was doing? But didn’t she agree to the idea when she was sober? And was she going along with his fantasy just to make him happy? Slowly, he stepped inside, working to erase his frown.

Diana plopped down on the bed with a loud sigh and splayed her limbs. The two men started to undress her slowly, kissing her, telling her how beautiful she was. She pulled Lou down to her and pressed her mouth to his while fumbling with his shirt buttons. He hadn’t thought about being naked in front of another guy; it was the idea of three people, mainly he and two women who would have sex, that excited him.

“Don’t worry about me, Baby,” he whispered to Diana, stopping her from unzipping his pants. “We’ll all be in our birthday suits before long. There’s plenty of time.”

He looked down at the end of the bed and saw David, already stark naked, start to massage and lick Diana’s toes. Lou sat up and slowly took off his shirt, then his pants, leaving on his briefs. He just wanted to look at his lady, who was thoroughly enjoying herself.

For Diana, it was ecstasy beyond belief, two men at her beck and call. She let herself go, slipping into her fictional character, pleasure her only goal.

“How about the swing?” David gestured toward the velvet-lined swing hanging from the ceiling.

“Oh yes,” Diana said, sitting up and holding out her hands for the two men. They led her to the cushiony swing at the end of the room. If the first grade teachers could only see me now!

The seat softly cupped her body allowing her to lean back and comfortably spread her legs. David kneeled down and swayed her slowly a few inches to and fro, stopping momentarily for her to feel his warm breath, taking in her juices, then pushing her toward Lou, who sat behind her, sweeping his fingers lightly across her breasts. He could see how excited she was, and he loved it. But part of him felt like he was someone else.

“What about you guys?” she murmured. “Shouldn’t I be turning you both on?”

The idea that she would be pleasing David while he would… what… watch? But he wasn’t going to let his hang-ups stop her pleasure.

“Don’t worry about us, Baby, just let go,” Lou whispered to her. “We’re here to make you happy.”

She thought Lou was extraordinary. Wanting her to experience ecstasy and excitement with another man, a man he picked out for her. Lou was truly selfless, giving.

As he watched her soak up the pleasure from another man’s touch, Lou grew more distant. Somehow he had to make himself go through the motions, hoping that he’d get in the mood. Wasn’t this the furtive, naughty scenario he created and had written about? So what’s wrong? Get into it, man.

But excitement and stimulation eluded him. Was he guilty for corrupting Diana and testing her belief that sex was a unique, intimate act between two people? He angled around to see her face, and as their eyes locked, he forced a smile.

It was just long enough for her to realize something was wrong. She touched David’s arm and said, “I’m sorry, David, but could you leave us for a minute?”

“Sure,” he said, hiding his disappointment.

“And Diana,” he quickly added, “even though this was just an introduction, it’s been wonderful. If you want to continue a little later, just say the word. I’ll be at the bar.”

As David pulled on his clothes and left the room, Lou had no compunction to stop him. He looked questioningly at Diana as she took his hand and led him back to the bed.

“Why don’t you just hold me a bit,” she said.

Chapter 30

Larry Hines slipped the small digital camera out of his pocket and hid it in his locker. Things were quieting down at the plant, and repairs to the ruptured pipe were well under way. He walked over to the office building and took the elevator to the personnel office. He had an appointment to check out his benefits and retirement package, a visit he had put off too long, but now one that had a sense of urgency to it. He may just have to move out of the area.

When the elevator door opened, he was face to face with Bob Stalinsky.

“It’s the one and only Mr. Hines! What are you doing up here in the stratosphere?”

Larry stepped out of the elevator quickly, hoping Bob would jump in and be gone, but Bob held the door open with his hand.

“I’m here to see how you big guys live,” Larry chided. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll be sitting at your desk some day.”

“Always like seeing folks climb the ladder. Got a minute?”

Bob let the elevator door close.

“Sure. What’s up?” It would mean being late for his appointment but he had no choice. Bob led him to his office and Larry gazed out the large window at the two domes on either side of the transformer building that blended in with the steely grey Hudson River.

“Take a seat. I need to bend your ear, but what I’m going to say doesn’t go beyond this room, okay?”

“Okay.” Larry’s stomach did a flip-flop.

Bob’s oversized mahogany desk was like a football field between the two men. Larry noticed his seat was low, forcing him to look up to Bob.

“You know all the guys here pretty well, don’t you, Larry? I mean you’ve been here for as long as I can remember. Who do you think would want to rat on us? Any guesses?”

“Hmm. I’m drawing a blank, Bob. You got a pretty dedicated staff here, and frankly, I don’t think anyone here would chance losing their job. Maybe someone is infiltrating from the outside.”

Bob stared at Larry, an aggressive silence.

Finally Larry said, “I’ll keep on my radar, okay?”

Bob suddenly clenched his fists on the desk as if he were a child ready to throw a tantrum.

“Look—we have a whistle-blower here, Larry. A spy. Broadcasting in-house memos to the press, taking classified pictures. Do you know what that means? He’s giving the public something to panic about. We got to get him. Soon. Or we’ll all be out of a job.”

Larry nodded and visualized the office door open, beckoning his exit.

“I hear you, Bob. I’ll check around with people I trust to see if they know anything.”

He stood up, now looking down at Bob. “We’ll catch him, don’t worry.”

Bob’s face was hard and he glared at Larry, waiting. Larry quickly looked away and headed for the door.

“Larry?”

“Yeah?”

He turned and looked over his shoulder, his hand on the doorknob.

“We find this squealer, his life is over. He’s breaking every rule in the book. He’ll end up in jail. Got that?”

Chapter 31

Dear Diana,

I’m not sure what happened at the sex house. Maybe the whole idea was silly. If you were disappointed, you didn’t show it. You are wonderful, understanding, and very hot. Someone whose body, mind, and spirit I still want to explore. I dream about your sweet, moist skin, your heat, your face in ecstasy….

By the way, Larry Hines agreed to talk to me about stuff at the plant. Will keep you posted.

Dear Lou,

What happened in that bedroom was an experiment. We don’t have to figure it out. It certainly was stimulating and different. But what’s important is that we still want to be with each other. Some fantasies are better off staying in your head.

You may want to ask Hines about the overworked security guards who get exhausted, how they protect the plant.

Dear Diana,

You haven’t been sending me your horti-erotica. I love it and need more. More! Please? When I read it, I think of you naked, in bed, waiting for me.

Oh—and thanks for the tip for the Hines interview. We’re meeting Friday night at some out-of-the-way diner. You home after that?

Dear Lou,

Yes. Please come over after the Hines interview. I want to hear all about it. I’ve heard security guards are hired and fired too quickly. Also too many quit and leave knowing classified information about the plant. Oh yes. Horti-erotica is on its way.

Chapter 32

“We need more sports stories, Lou,” Owen yelled out from his office. “I want you off this nuke thing for a while. It’s game one of minor league baseball. Get over there and cover it, will ya?”

“I’m not a goddamn yo-yo!” Lou shot back. “Why don’t you throw a bone to our young intern and let him cover the game? He’s been dying to play sportswriter.”

Lou was hooked on the plant and had a list of potential stories waiting to be written. It had been almost a month since the accident and evacuation, and Lou decided to contact Larry Hines for a second time, to see if he’d heard anything new. That first interview was difficult at first, but Lou was able to gain the man’s trust by promising anonymity.

Larry agreed to a second interview on plant safety. Lou found the nervous plant worker in a back booth of a diner, miles outside White Plains. Larry wore dark sunglasses and a hat. The interview would be quick. It was an earful.

ALLPower had skimped on their training program and lowered their standards. The firing ranges they set up for practice were a joke: a kid could hit the target with a slingshot. Guards were overweight, out of shape. They could barely chase down a beach ball. Guards would fumble for guns and other weapons that were crammed into lockers that were too small. Yes, the turnover was high, and yes, guards left knowing classified information about the plant.

Minutes after the clandestine interview with Larry, Lou raced over to Diana’s house to share the scary stories. Plant news became part of the couple’s daily discourse, each offering a new fact they had heard or read. The horti-erotica e-mails were slowly being replaced with complex information about the industry. After the night at the sex house, he pondered how he—not she—got cold feet. How he didn’t want to share her with anyone, even if it was just for fun. It scared him and challenged him: Was he less allergic to monogamy?

Owen came out of his office and sidled over to Lou.

“You’re getting way too comfy with your new beat. Don’t you miss making those basketball coaches miserable?”

Owen laughed at his own joke and glanced over at Lou’s computer, something already in progress.

“Working another story? Let me guess.”

“This is hot, Owen. Anonymous whistle-blower is spilling his guts, and we’ve got an exclusive. Let me work on this and send the kid to the game, okay?”

“We’ve run enough nuke stories. Let’s give it a rest.”

“Just this one. I promise it will be the last story. At least for a while.”

“You’re too hooked, too emotionally involved. I smell trouble. Get your ass to the game.”

“Look, Owen, ALLPower has guys working ten-to twelve-hour shifts. These aren’t the guys sweeping the floor, these are the guys working with radioactive fuel. Exhaustion and working with lethal green-glow stuff? Not a great combo.”

“Hmm. Who’s your guy?”

“Who? You’re asking me to divulge my source?”

“Bet your buns. I’m your boss, don’t forget. Who is it?”

“He’s risking his job. If they catch him, ALLPower will sue the pants off him. He can’t afford the kind of lawyer to fight the company’s high-powered attorneys. He says he’d end up in jail.”

“Tell me, dammit. Won’t leave my lips—promise.”

Chapter 33

NUKE PLANT SAFETY COMPROMISED

The headline fell just beneath the fold on the front page, the second-most important spot. Owen purposefully didn’t put it on top because he didn’t want the Daily Suburban to be a “one-story” paper.

Lou verified Larry’s accounts with retired plant workers who were safe from any ALLPower retaliation. The retirees were only too glad to be quoted in the popular newspaper. As they told it, most of the staff was encouraged to work long hours and get a bigger paycheck. The company preferred that to hiring more workers who would require pricey benefits. Mishaps had happened, most notably, the main security guard fell asleep outside the reactor gates, one of the most vulnerable spots where security had to be impenetrable, especially from terrorists.

Bob’s response to the allegations was short and sweet.

“Are plant workers overworked to the point where it might sabotage the security of the plant?” Lou asked.

“I’m not going to answer that, Lou,” Bob said, gritting his teeth. “You should know better than to believe everything you hear.”

“So, ALLPower has no comment?”

“Damn straight. Not for a stupid story like that. You’re not really gonna run it, are you?”

“Damn straight I am. Thanks, Bob.”

The story ran the next day, the same day Larry Hines called in sick. He was beefing up his resume and checking the job market in Ohio, where his brother lived. Larry also called a real estate agent. He’d put his house on the market even though prospects were slim to sell his two-bedroom home just a mile from the plant. Since the accidental steam release, values in Larry’s neighborhood quickly plummeted and For Sale signs popped up like dandelions.

When Bob saw the story he sucked in his breath and chomped his lip. Whistle-blower or not, it was time to put pressure on the newspaper. He banged the side of his hand on the intercom.

“Get me Owen Marks at the Daily Suburban.”

Chapter 34

Bob glared at Lou, who was seated opposite him at the table in the Daily Suburban’s conference room. ALLPower demanded an editorial meeting with Owen to dispute Lou’s story about overworked employees and the impact on plant safety. The protocol for news editorial meetings was for reporters to be present, but not to comment unless asked by their editor. It was all up to Owen.

Bob’s boss, Mike O’Brien, was sitting next to him, wondering how long this would take, if he could tee off at the first hole before noon. Lou beamed at Bob. Time for a showdown.

“How could you write such crap?” Bob lashed out at Lou.

“Wait a minute, Bob,” Owen said. “Let’s look at what we’ve got here. Lou has testimonials from retirees, and from one person who works at the plant who will remain anonymous. You had no comment.”

Mike spun around to Bob. “What? You had no comment? You couldn’t think of anything to say?”

Bob ignored him. Incredibly, his boss hadn’t even read the damn article.

“We want a retraction. Tomorrow. On the front page.”

“We run retractions on the editorial page. It’s policy.” Owen knew Lou was itching to defend himself but Owen laid down the law with him before the meeting, promising serious blowback if Lou uttered a word.

Bob was simmering. “Who the hell is he, Padera? Who’s the whistle-blower?”

Lou smirked. Owen could just imagine what he was thinking.

“We don’t divulge our sources, Bob,” said Owen. “You know that.”

“That’s bullshit. When we find the idiot, he’s finished. And so are you. You’ll go down with him! The whole paper will go down.”

“Bob, calm down,” said Mike. He turned to Owen.

“We just don’t want the public to freak out or worry that the plant is being run by a sleep-deprived staff. It’s not that way at all. Can’t you write an editorial putting it all into perspective? Citing all the other things we are doing to keep the plant safe? Like that Dolan girl did in her paper?”

Owen winced. The publisher had, not for the first time, reminded him how ALLPower’s advertising was vital to the paper. Now, as more newspapers faced bankruptcy, the dividing lines between advertising and reporting became blurred.

“Why don’t you guys write it, Mike?” Owen offered. “It will be featured as an ALLPower guest column, and you can say whatever you want. We won’t cut a word and you can have as much space as you like. What do you say?”

Mike looked over at Bob, still shooting imaginary bullets into Lou’s gut. Bob shook his head.

“I want a retraction, dammit. I want an admission of guilt from this piece of shit.” He jabbed his jaw toward Lou.

“We can’t do that, Bob,” Owen said quickly. “Please consider my offer.”

“A guest column is not enough. It would take a weekly series explaining how safe the plant is,” Bob sneered.

“A short cartoon strip would probably do it,” Lou scoffed, unable to keep his mouth shut. Owen rolled his eyes, silently reprimanding him.

Bob jumped out of his seat. “You can’t even report a balanced story that gives us the benefit of the doubt!”

Before Owen could stop him, Lou calmly said, “The story was based on what people told me, and their stories all corroborated. You chose to be silent. Not my problem.”

“Bullshit. This is your problem. You have an agenda—you want to shut us down. Admit it!”

Owen stood up to meet Bob eye to eye. “You can put that perspective in your column, Bob,” he said.

Bob reeled and pushed his chair back.

“You want to know something about your precious little sports reporter, Owen? How about this for a news flash: he’s screwing that activist school lady, and they hang out at those sicko sex houses. She’s a walking advertisement to shut us down. Did you know that?”

Owen tried to hide his surprise. He would deal with Lou later.

“That’s Lou’s personal business. We don’t care what our reporters do on their own time.”

Lou stood up, speechless.

“Let’s get out of here, Bob,” Mike said softly. “We’ll write the column, Owen. You’ll have it later today. Can you print it tomorrow?”

Mike nudged Bob toward the door. Just before leaving Bob turned and looked hard at Lou.

“You better watch your back.”

The door closed, and Owen looked dully at Lou.

“What lady is he talking about?”

“He’s full of shit. Doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Besides, I thought our personal life was private. Don’t fall for this crap, Owen.”

“I don’t like the way Stalinsky talks. But mostly, I can’t afford to get leaned on by our profit-hungry publisher who doesn’t want to jeopardize ALLPower’s advertising. You get that, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I get it.”

Owen started for the door, then turned around.

“Quite frankly, if you’re really getting it on with this gal, I think you’re out of your mind. Being hooked up with an activist is stupid for a newsman like you. The implications—if anyone finds out?” He shook his head.

“If it were true, it shouldn’t matter,” Lou countered. “It wouldn’t affect my reporting. That’s what matters.”

“Maybe. But if your credibility takes a nosedive, the big guy upstairs could yank you out so fast—I wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.”

His hand on the doorknob, Owen needed to dish out one last dig.

“What ever happened to the occasional fling with the girls from the topless bar? That’s more your style, isn’t it?”

Chapter 35

Chrissy was the first reporter allowed into the plant since the accident, which had happened over a month ago. Bob was planning a media blitz that invited major papers and news outlets to tour the plant and to see how safe everything was and the latest repairs that were near completion.

Chrissy earned the privilege in exchange for her juicy tidbit about Lou and Diana. The night she followed the two, she researched the rather camouflaged hotel and got the real scoop. When she told Bob it was really a sex house, he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. She did good.

Chrissy drove up to the main security gate, the only entry point between high fences topped with barbed wire. It was like a military checkpoint, with soldiers holding semiautomatic weapons. She parked near the glass office building and was surprised to see just how close the plant was to the river. Bob met her in the lobby and handed her a hard hat.

“Nice to see you, Chrissy. Ready for Nuclear Power 101?”

“Of course. I hope I can keep up. It’s complicated, isn’t it?”

“Nah. You’re a smarty. You’ll get the picture. We’ll start over at the reactor.”

They put on the bright orange hard hats and walked down a dirt road and into the long, rectangular turbine building. The noise was deafening.

“Oh—I forgot the ear plugs! Sorry!” Bob screamed out.

“What?” Chrissy yelled.

He quickly ushered her into the control room and shut the heavy steel door.

“Forgot the ear plugs. Just wasn’t thinking. Sorry.”

“How often do you get down to this building? Is this really your turf?”

“The whole plant is my turf, Chrissy. The entire three hundred acres. I know every inch.”

Workers in the control room briefly acknowledged the visitors. One of the monitors was turned off. Chrissy looked at the men, trying to see if they looked tired, something her editor suggested after reading Lou’s article. As far as she could tell, they looked a bit haggard, but they seemed alert.

Bob pointed out a few monitors showing the inside of the reactor dome. Chrissy pointed to the screen that was off.

“Would that show us the reactor that is being repaired?”

“Not sure. Could be. Let’s get you your radiation detection badges and take a look at the spent-fuel pool. Come on.”

He led her out of the control room past the turbines and a long, wide open canal filled with water that ran from inside the building to outside and directly into the river. A few small fish in the canal were moving lethargically, as if they were drugged.

“What is this?” she asked.

“The canal. The cooling water gets flushed out into the river.”

“Is it radioactive?”

Bob laughed. “No. Of course not! Its water we flush out after it cools the reactors. It’s harmless.”

She vaguely recalled Diana telling her about thermal pollution and how the water returned to the Hudson from the plant was too hot for the fish, causing small fish and some aquatic life to die.

In a few minutes they were in the spent-fuel pool building, where a woman gave her safety goggles and pinned a small dosimeter to her collar.

“Just in case,” said the woman.

“In case what?”

Bob interjected. “We have to measure the radiation every time we go into the spent-fuel pool area. Then we log it for the record. It’s required by the NRC. You won’t be in there long enough to be in any danger.”

They walked through a booth that scanned the body for a radiation level. A number was noted down that would be compared to the reading taken at the end of her visit.

He carefully led her on a wire catwalk with a metal railing that crossed over the spent fuel pool.

“You wouldn’t want to take a dip in that water,” Bob laughed.

“Uh-huh.”

The pool was bigger than she imagined, and the bottom was a jungle of metal cages.

“How do you actually get the spent fuel out of the reactor and into the pool?”

“Very carefully,” Bob chuckled again.

“No. Really.”

Bob explained how the assemblies were carefully lifted out of the reactor and moved through a transfer canal that is temporarily flooded to get the assemblies into the pool.

“It all has to be done underwater. When the spent fuel gets to the pool, a wall swings open, and the fuel is moved inside and stored on the metal racks.”

“Have you sent in divers to look for cracks that might be leaking?” she asked.

“Planning to do that next week. You ready for lunch?”

They ate in the ALLPower cafeteria, and then he waltzed her up to the executive offices where he introduced her to Mike and a few other vice presidents and directors. As they walked past one office Chrissy noticed a large illustration propped up on an easel showing the plant over a cross-section of layered bedrock. Chrissy slowed down and took a closer look. It was something she hadn’t seen before.

Two expanses of blue were penciled in below the plant and looked like large ponds of water. She poked her head into the office and saw a man writing at a desk at the far end of a windowless room.

“Hi. I’m Chrissy Dolan from the Register. Do you have a minute?”

Bob followed her in. “Hi Dan. Chrissy has been covering the plant for the local paper. Chrissy, this is Dan Lipsey. He’s head of special projects.”

The heavyset man lumbered over to shake her hand. Chrissy nodded toward the illustration. “So is this a special project?”

“Yup. It’s about our research on the leaks.”

“The leaks from the spent-fuel pools?” She edged closer to the picture. “What’s all this blue?”

“We think a leak is going into these blue areas. We call them plumes.”

“Just how big are these… plumes?”

“I’d say they’re each about a thousand square feet, more or less.”

Chrissy stared at the picture.

“How deep are we talking about?”

“It varies because of the formation of the bedrock. The deepest could be about thirty or forty feet deep.”

“Really?” Chrissy focused in. “Why are you calling these ‘plumes’? Aren’t they more like… lakes?”

Bob edged in. “We really should go, Chrissy. Dan is a busy man.” He lightly nudged her toward the door. She unhinged him.

“It’s just sitting there? How radioactive is the water?”

The man leaned back against the wall, fingering the outline of a pack of cigarettes in his front pocket. He was enjoying the attention from this pretty young reporter, and it was a rare chance to speak directly to the press without being censored by Bob.

“Oh, I’d say it’s pretty loaded,” he told her. “We’re pretty sure it’s contaminated water from the spent-fuel pool.”

“Will it eventually end up in the river?”

“This type of bedrock is known as Inwood marble. It’s structurally sound and has a low permeability to groundwater, which means the water will have a hard time getting through the bedrock and into the river.”

“So it will just sit there? Is there any plan to drain it? And can it be done safely?”

Bob moved uneasily over to Dan.

“We don’t really have all the details on this, Chrissy, do we Dan? Can we get back to you on all this?”

She knew her time was up.

“Do you have a card, Dan?”

“Sure do.”

He was cocky as he whisked one from the cardholder on his desk, smiling smugly over at Bob. He never liked the little twerp.

“Here’s my card, too,” said Chrissy. “Nice meeting you, Dan.”

Chapter 36

“I need to see you, Diana.”

“Sure thing, darlin’, Everything okay?”

“No. Folks seem to know about us.”

“What folks?”

“Look, I’ll tell you when I see you. I have to cover a game tonight. Can I drop by right before it starts?”

When she got home she didn’t see Lou’s car in the driveway, but a light was on in the living room. She opened the front door and saw Lou sitting on the couch balancing his laptop on his knees, clacking away.

“Hey, Sweetie. Where’s your car? I wasn’t sure you were here.”

“Car’s down the block. Parking in front of your house may not be a good idea.”

He stood up, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and guided her to the couch.

“So guess what?” He smiled as if he were telling a joke. “We’re being spied on.”

“Spied on? You’re kidding, right?”

“Afraid not.”

“Why would anyone spy on us?”

“Because I’m a high profile reporter who’s sleeping with an anti-nuke activist. It’s all very suspicious. You, dear lady, have the ear of a newsman and can influence my stories. And, if that were the case, my byline and stories are mud, my credibility is zilch.”

“But your reporting is always very balanced. You make sure of that.”

“It’s who the writer is and what we bring to the story. The reporter’s personal life, his or her back story, always interests readers, sometimes more than what they write. The fact that we’ve been a couple for a while… well… for some, that’s a saucy little piece of gossip.”

She squinted at him.

“And just who knows about us and how did they find out?”

He told her about Bob Stalinsky’s outburst at the meeting.

“It wasn’t pretty. He lost his cool, blurted it out. Said he had proof that you and I were shacking up. It was all rather pitiful.”

“Will the paper… will Owen stand by you?”

“Maybe. ALLPower is a heavy advertiser, and I’m just one reporter who has pissed them off. And I’m dispensable.”

“But we’ve been so careful, haven’t we?”

“We haven’t been that careful, Baby, but it’s not that bad. To tell you the truth, I like that we are clandestine—it’s a bit of a turn on. You’re the forbidden fruit.”

His eyes twinkled and he tapped her nose with his finger. She tried to smile, but couldn’t.

“There’s something else,” he said, taking her hands in his.

“Remember the night we drove to the Bearded Iris and I was driving fast? A car was following us. I thought I lost him. But I guess not.”

She withdrew her hands and glared at him.

“Someone knows we went to the sex house? Oh God.”

She was stunned. She got up and moved away from him to the dining table where stubs of melted candles from their last dinner stood like crumbling statues. She slumped down in a chair.

He came over and stood behind her, leaned down and softly kissed the top of her head. She whirled around.

“Why didn’t you say something? We could’ve turned back! What if the school finds out?”

Diana racked her brain, trying to remember if anyone at school saw Lou when he visited her. She couldn’t think of anyone except for Jen. Oh, wait. The front-door sign-in desk. He signed in.

“Easy, Babe,” he said, sitting down, watching her process it all. “I don’t care if we’re found out—it’s worth it. I truly care about you, you know that, right? And that night? I realized something about myself. About us. You and I are special. All I want is to be with you, and… not share you with anyone.”

Lou told himself to just shut up.

Diana pursed her lips. She was still rummaging around at the school, the field day her colleagues would have at the expense of her private life. And Jane—Diana had been the brunt of her anger before, and it wasn’t pleasant. Had the sex adventure gotten out of hand? Even if it was just that one time?

“Diana. Are you hearing me?”

She shook her head yes, then no.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me we were being followed. I just can’t believe it!”

“It’s just that we were so caught up in our wild adventure. I didn’t want to turn back and risk disappointing you. Honestly? I thought I lost the guy by the time we got off the freeway.”

“We never should have gone. What was I thinking?”

He looked at his watch and stood up slowly.

“Look, I’m sorry about all of this, and we can talk about it later. But right now I have to go be a sportswriter. Don’t suppose you want to come along,” he teased, “now that we’ve come out.”

“That’s not funny.”

“Okay. Okay. I’m just trying to lighten up a bit, Honey.”

“Lighten up? This is serious, and you want to laugh it away?”

Chapter 37

It was late afternoon when Chrissy left the plant and headed home. The story of the underground plumes, or lakes, raced through her head.

This could be big. Maybe too big for a small local paper like the Register.

She took out her notes and booted up her computer. She jotted some numbers down on a piece of paper, Googled the words “Central Park Reservoir” and checked how much water the popular reservoir actually held. The volume was comparable. She made one more phone call to Dan Lipsey to double-check her facts.

An hour later she had crafted a story about the underground lakes. When she read through it, she felt nervous.

A pile of newspapers lay on the floor, most of them from New York City. She had been checking them out, considering her next opportunist move as a journalist. She had really become a professional, shouldn’t she move on? Could she pitch this to the New York Times? Hmm. Probably not.

She flipped though one of the major tabloids, a daily paper called the Metro Record and paused at a full page ad by ALLPower. Didn’t she take a writer’s workshop with one of the editors who worked at the Metro Record? She looked through some files and found a roster of speakers. Soon she found the name she was looking for.

Why not? She asked herself. What do I have to lose? Go for it, Girl.

The editor’s phone number and e-mail was on the list. She was surprised to actually get him on the phone.

“Greg Thurston, Metro Record.”

“Hi Greg. It’s Chrissy Dolan. We met briefly at the media conference last year. I have a story for you about the nuke plant up here. Are you interested?”

“We’re about to put the paper to bed, but sure, I’ll take a look at it. Is it about the ALLPower plant?”

“Yes. Can I shoot this over to you now?”

“Okay. But we don’t usually run stories about the plant; the big accident was a one-time thing. It’s really not New York City–centric.”

“I think you might be interested in this one.”

“Okay. I’ll take a look at it. No promises.”

The phone clicked off abruptly. She looked at her screen and hit Send. About twenty minutes later, her phone rang.

“Greg here at the Metro Record. Is this really true? Poisonous lakes the size of the Central Park Reservoir under the nuke plant?”

“Yes. That’s what the plant people are telling me.”

“Wow. But did they make the comparison to the Central Park Reservoir? Or is that your own take?”

Of course it was my own take. I’m a professional reporter, aren’t I?

“My own take,” she said. “I did the math. The cubic volume of water in the underground lakes is close to the amount of water in the reservoir.”

“No kidding. I like the spin. Okay, look. We’ll take the story, but you have to rewrite it tabloid-style. Do you know how to do that?”

“Think so.”

He rattled off a few ideas for the lead sentence and told her to cut about three hundred words. He wanted lingo that was more charged, sensationalist. For Chrissy, it was a whole new vocabulary. If she could revise within ten minutes, it could very well land in tomorrow’s paper.

“And Chrissy—anyone else running this story up there? Or anywhere?”

Up until that point she had completely forgotten about her own paper—about Al, her boss.

“Chrissy? Hello?”

“Yes. Sorry. No. No one else has the story. It’s an exclusive for you guys.” Her confidence surprised her, but wasn’t she doing business with a top city paper. She was so very professional.

She looked at the clock and started the rewrite. She agonized over the details of the math, kept them in, then took them out. Metro Record articles were shorter than she had ever written. It was known as the picture paper and always had much more space for large photographs than for the copy. Her time was running out. She quickly scanned the story and clicked Send.

Chapter 38

Contaminated lakes under nuke plant

The story was on page seven in the upper right corner, the spot where your eye automatically landed right after turning the page. Under the headline it said “Lakes the size of Central Park Reservoir” and then “Metro Record Exclusive.”

But the byline was the best part: By Chrissy Dolan, Metro Record Writer.

The first line was completely rewritten, as was most of the story, with only some of Chrissy’s sentences left untouched. Radioactive water leaking under the ALLPower Nuclear Power plant just 24 miles from Manhattan, has grown to roughly the size of the Central Park Reservoir, plant officials told Metro Record.

Chrissy woke up early, anxious to see if the story ran online. It was there, large as life, with a picture of the sprawling plant on the river. She ran down to her corner deli and bought six copies of the Metro Record, hardly able to contain herself. When she got back, the phone was ringing.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” Al screamed over the phone.

“Hi, Al. Oh—you mean the lakes? I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t know they would really print it. I—”

“Look, Bitch, I gave you every opportunity to become a decent reporter, and what do you do? You get a story like this and sell it to another paper? You screwed me and my paper in the process! Is that your way of saying thanks?”

“I’m sorry, Al. Mea culpa—”

“Mea culpa, my ass. Clean out your desk and get out. I don’t want to ever see your face again.”

She went blank. The exhilaration of getting a story in a big city paper suddenly soured. She realized that her inflated ego and drive to make it big had blinded her, that she had shown blatant disregard for her boss, the guy who gave her a break, taught her real reporting. The guy who finally hired her full-time. All she wanted to do was get ahead. Wouldn’t other reporters for a small-time paper do the same?

Should she beg for her job back? Wouldn’t he want her, now that she had had a byline in a popular city paper? But who was she kidding? Working at a little weekly paper was like moving backward. After all, she had made it to the Metro Record. She was a real pro now and couldn’t turn back.

Chapter 38

Stella heard about the underground radiated lakes on the radio, an AM news station that picked up stories from the papers. The announcer credited the Metro Record, paraphrasing the story in three brief sentences.

It was early, and Bob wasn’t up yet. Stella threw on her clothes and scampered down a few blocks to the newsstand and scooped up the tabloid, a paper she’d never usually buy, but this was an exception. She had the New York Times delivered, formerly her paper of choice before the Daily Suburban and Lou Padera. When she got home, Bob was up, sipping coffee, still in his pajamas.

She flipped to page seven.

“See this? You guys are making the tabloids now. Impressive.”

Bob glared at the headline. “What the…?”

“First heard it on the radio. Is it true?”

Bob reddened when he saw Chrissy’s byline.

“No, no, no,” he said in disbelief. “When did she start writing for this paper?”

“Robbie, is the story true or not? Did she speak to this guy at the plant or not?”

“Yeah, she spoke to him. But she got it all wrong. There aren’t any lakes. They are plumes, not lakes.”

“What the hell is the difference? They sound like lakes to me, and not the kind you want to swim in.”

“Bitch.”

“I beg your parden?”

“Not you. Chrissy Dolan. What a bitch.”

“Looks like this little chickie has you over a barrel. Wonder how Lou Padera will write this up. Him I’ll believe.”

“He’s not getting this version, Ma. He’ll get the real story, if he gets it at all.”

“Oh yeah, Mr. Nuclear Power? Is this the scenario where you hold back information from the press?”

“Look, Ma. It’s unfathomable that Chrissy Dolan compared these plumes to the size of the Central Park Reservoir. More incredible that the Metro Record editors believed her.”

He grabbed the paper and stood up to get ready for work.

“You going to talk to Padera and dish out another ‘no comment.’”

“Don’t worry. I’ll have plenty to comment on.”

“My guess is he’s chasing after the story as we speak.”

“Keep guessing, Ma. Padera’s byline may become obsolete.”

“Oh yeah? You heading up a nuclear posse to hunt down the outlawed journalist? Or something along those lines?”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Chapter 39

Lou lounged on the bleachers under a bright sun at the county baseball park, home playing field to the local minor league. He watched the newest addition to the team, a young, sturdy pitcher who was creating a buzz. Lou was composing a hard-hitting profile of the kid in his head.

His cell phone rang. It was Owen.

“Where are you?”

“Baseball park. Need me?”

“You see the Metro Record? That little Ms. Dolan has defected to the tabloids. Get back here ASAP.”

Lou stiffened. He looked at the players getting ready for batting practice and briefly longed for the simpler days when he was just a sports reporter.

When he got back to the office, a copy of the Metro Record story was on his desk. Since when was Chrissy Dolan writing for a big city paper? He heard Owen’s footsteps coming up behind him.

“How come she got it and we didn’t?”

“I have no idea. The real question is why did she scoop her own paper? That’s if she’s still working there.”

“It doesn’t matter who she’s writing for. This is a story in our own backyard, dammit. How did we miss it?”

“It happens, Boss, you know that,” he said, sitting down calmly at his desk. “And you’ve been yanking me off the nukes for more sports stories, remember?”

“Drop the complacent crap. You need to do both—all the time. Get your act together, call ALLPower, the NRC, the experts. Push the story forward, get new information. Write something better than this tabloid shit. I want a full spread by five tonight.”

He marched back to his office and slammed the door.

Lou read Chrissy’s story. There wasn’t much to it, and there were a lot of unanswered questions, as if stuff was left out. He pulled up his contact list on the screen. He’d write a reaction piece, a response to Chrissy’s story. A weak premise, but it could work. It had to work. Just as he was about to make his first call, his phone rang.

“It’s me,” Diana said. Her tone was cool.

“Hey.”

It had been two days since they last spoke—the night he told her about being followed to the sex house. He respected her silence and hoped she would reach out to him. Her timing wasn’t great, but it was still good to hear her voice.

“I take it you’ve seen the Metro Record story by our own hometown girl Chrissy Dolan?” she said.

“Yeah. Owen’s pissed we were scooped. My batting average ain’t so good right now, all things considered.”

“Will you follow up?”

“Damn straight I will.”

“Are you okay? Want to talk later? E-mail?”

“Sure. Diana?”

“Yes?”

“Are things okay at school?” He hoped there was no blowback from their nocturnal escapade. The rumor mill at schools could be vicious.

“So far, everything’s quiet. I’ve moved past the anger, but I’m still on edge. I’m more worried about you.”

“Thanks. But listen. This stuff happens all the time. Papers get scooped but then they can write a better follow-up story. Owen’s such a lunatic. He’s stretching me thin and wants me to be in two places at the same time. It’s driving me crazy.”

“Sounds stressful.”

“Yeah. Gotta go. Can I call you later?”

He hung up and immediately punched in Bob’s number only to get his voice mail. He tried Bob’s cell phone, but no luck. He called the county executive, Al Kresch, who said he would e-mail him a prepared statement.

Lou called Dan Lipsey, the ALLPower man quoted in Chrissy’s story. The phone rang several times before he finally answered.

“Mr. Lipsey? Lou Padera here from the Daily Suburban. I have a few questions about the underground lakes.”

“That story in the Metro Record is bogus. I have no comment.”

“What do you mean, ‘bogus’? Are you saying it’s not true?”

“I have no comment.”

“Mr. Lipsey, if you’re saying the lakes don’t exist, now’s your chance to say so publicly and discount that story. The public needs to hear your voice, don’t you think?”

There was momentary silence.

“There’s no lakes. That’s it. No lakes.”

“What about the size? How did Chrissy Dolan get those measurements?”

He heard the man flip open a cigarette lighter, his voice muffled as he lit up.

“We’re really just guessing. We don’t know the real parameters of what’s leaking underground.”

“So there is leaking below the plant, you just don’t know to what extent or how much is feeding into the lakes?”

“Not lakes. Plumes.”

“What’s the difference?”

Lou heard the man blow smoke into the phone.

“The water is leaching into layers of bedrock—it’s not a large body of water, it’s more like water in and around the layers of rock.”

“Is that how you explained it to Chrissy Dolan?”

“She got it all wrong. Look, Mr. Padera. I’ve said more than I should have.”

“Wait. Can I quote everything you’ve told me?”

The phone went dead.

The NRC was no better.

“Yeah, we know about the plumes,” Dick Isling drawled into the phone. “But this is the first time I heard it called ‘lakes.’ Check with our NRC inspector who is stationed right there at the plant.”

The NRC inspector at ALLPower couldn’t verify the actual size of the lakes.

“We have rough measurements of how much water is leaking out, but nothing conclusive about the volume of water. Sorry, that’s all I know right now.”

Lou wasn’t getting any real facts. He tried Bob again,—not that he would shed any real light on the story. If he couldn’t get a quote from the bastard, he would go with Lipsey’s statement and assume it was on the record.

A few hours later Lou looked at his notes. His story didn’t add up to a pile of beans, and there wasn’t much in the way of new information. He rummaged through a pile of business cards. It would be a desperate call.

Chapter 40

An hour later Lou sat down at a table in a coffee shop on the other side of town.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” he said to Chrissy.

“No problem. What’s on your mind?”

Lou’s call caught Chrissy off guard. She was trying to regain her composure from just being fired, a secret she hoped to keep as long as possible.

Lou guessed she’d gotten the ax. One week she was headlined on the front page, and the next she’d sold a story to a big city tabloid. If she hadn’t quit, for sure she’d been fired.

Alternately, Chrissy thought Lou might be out of a job, something Bob assured her would happen when she told him about his nocturnal jaunt with Diana. Maybe Lou wanted her contact at the Metro Record.

“A few things,” he said cautiously. “First, congrats on breaking the ‘radiated lakes’ story. I like the spin. It took a lot of guts, especially since it can’t be verified.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you questioning the validity of my story? A story right under your nose you didn’t even know about?”

For a pretty girl, she looked downright ugly.

“Let’s not get off on the wrong foot here,” he said. “Yeah, I’m miffed. Worse, my job is on the line because of your story. Either everyone at ALLPower is lying to me, or they lied to you. I’m hoping it’s the latter.”

“They are backpedaling Lou, can’t you see that? They are trying to discount my story and want you to help them do it.”

“Did they show you anything? A map? Blueprints? Scientific records?”

She felt a sheer sense of power—she knew something about the power plant the great Lou Padera didn’t. Suddenly she got cocky.

“So how’s Diana?”

He froze.

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on. You love birds visit the most interesting places, especially one in Pennsylvania. The Bearded Iris, is it?”

So she was the one who was following him.

“The real question is why the hell are you following people around in the middle of the night? Is that your take on investigative reporting?” He fought to keep a lid on his anger.

“I was curious. And motivated. Not that I need the payback now.”

“Payback? Someone put you up to this for some kind of reward?”

“Maybe. But it doesn’t really matter now. I got what I wanted. A byline in the big leagues.”

You smug little bitch. “Well, if your deal was with that turd Bob Stalinsky, you’ll be happy to know he’s already squealed to my boss. I can just see him groveling at your feet, handing you a line as if you were the new high priestess of journalism, promising you anything and everything. Bet those promises are gone, now that you turned on him with your lake story. Just what were you expecting for your choice piece of gossip, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Your job.”

She sipped her coffee, eyes on him.

“Jesus. You’re way too young to be so cutthroat. I gotta tell you—your writing has come a long way, but Sweetie Pie, there’s a lot of room for improvement. A lot more.”

“Gee, you really think so? I’m writing for a big city tabloid now.”

“Yeah, a tabloid that’s known as a picture paper with copy geared for ten-year-olds. Just how much was rewritten by the editors? I’d love to see your original submission.”

Her words started before she could think.

“Don’t fuck with me. You’re just another puffed-up news guy, overconfident and oversexed. You may have years of experience over me, but that doesn’t mean you know it all. I may be young, but I’m not stupid.”

Lou leaned across the table, inches away from her face.

“There’s no reason for you to be so bitchy. Burning your bridges is ill advised in this business, but I suppose you’ll learn that eventually. As for me and Diana? No one really gives a shit.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” She started to reach for her bag, but he grabbed her arm.

“And one other thing. The best journalists have a strong sense of ethics. It separates the men from the boys, or in your case, the professionals from the sleazebags. Don’t be surprised if it gets harder to look yourself in the mirror.”

She yanked her arm away as he slapped a five-dollar bill on the table and stood up.

“Keep the change. You’re going to need it,” he said and left.

Chapter 41

Lou sat at his computer and re-read his story. It was dismal. He had run out of time. The encroaching deadline made Owen frantic. He barked into the phone while editing Aunt May’s yolk-less deviled egg recipe.

Lou slouched over to Owen’s door and was waved in.

“Where’s your story?”

“I need more time on this ALLPower lake story, Owen. I’m just not getting anything from anyone.”

“Everyone upchucking denials?”

“Pretty much. They’re saying Dolan’s story is bogus, that they’re not lakes, just layers of bedrock surrounded by water.”

“So why can’t we print that?”

“I can’t verify it with geologists or the NRC. It’s a weak story, Owen. Give me more time.”

“You gotta be kidding. You’ve had the whole day! Can’t you build on Dolan’s information? You’re the venerable journalist here, right?”

“Right. But I’m coming up with stuff I can’t substantiate. I even checked in with Dolan to see what she knew.”

“You what?”

Uh-oh. Lou knew it was a cardinal rule not to connect with reporters working for other papers considered the competition. But his story was so flimsy that meeting with Chrissy seemed like the only way to save the story. Owen didn’t need to know that it turned out to be a disaster.

“Yeah, well, she wasn’t too helpful.”

“You must’ve made her day, Lou. You—of all people—caving to desperation. You—Mr. Experienced Reporter, and she, a rookie. How embarrassing. You’re unbelievable. Get out of here.”

“What about the story, Owen?”

“Give me what you’ve got. I don’t care how you spin it, just get it to me.”

Lou returned to his desk and tried again to reach Bob.

“Let me guess,” the PR man gloated. “You want to report on the underground plumes, right? Well no one here is going to give you a quote. Sorry.”

“I already spoke to Lipsey. He gave me plenty and never said it was off the record.”

“Guess again. Everything he told you is positively off the record. It all has to be rubber-stamped by me. You print what he said, and it could be the last thing you write. Ever.”

Lou cringed. What a complete scumbag.

“Wait,” said Bob, remembering his mother’s disdain the last time Bob had “no comment.”

“I’ll give you a quote, Lou. ‘There are no lakes.’ That’s your story. That’s all we’re saying—on the record.”

“Lipsey stays in. You can’t control what I write, that’s also on the record,” Lou seethed.

“You’re right. But my quote is all you have, and if I were you, I’d take it. Seems to me you have very little choice.”

“What?”

“We’re in pretty good with your publisher. We’ve taken out enough advertising to bankroll your paper for a year. Not to mention that little item about you and your girlfriend. That should zero out your credibility if certain folks find out.”

Lou took a slow breath and imagined exhaling blackened air through the phone and shooting directly into Bob’s lungs. It was a trick Diana had showed him to expunge negative emotions from his body. He laughed at her then, but it was coming in handy now.

Chapter 42

Plant’s underground lakes questioned

Lou’s hard-hitting style was considerably watered down. He fell short on new factual information and vaguely referenced Chrissy’s story, which angered Owen, but he didn’t edit it out. Other information was pulled from older stories for fill.

The story was on the bottom of the third page, and when Bob picked up the paper at his mother’s doorstep the next morning, he smiled. He shot the paper to Stella.

“This is more like it. Padera finally got something right.”

He slipped away to get dressed, and she started reading the story.

“Reports of large radioactive lakes were unfounded,” the lead sentence started. Lou quoted a few NRC inspectors. The kicker line was Bob’s straight denial.

“What the hell is this rubbish?” Stella spat out when Bob reemerged, dressed, and ready for work.

She was furious. “What did you do, threaten the guy? I know you hate him, but this is not his story, not his writing.”

“It’s his byline, Ma. Must be his story.”

“What did you do? Hold him up by the gills and read him the ALLPower riot act?

“Now, now, mother. Those aren’t kind words for your sonny boy, are they?”

“Give me a break. I’ve never read such crap. And your quote? You might as well be pissing in the wind while citing nursery rhymes. This is pure fiction.”

She stood up and looked him in the eye.

“Are there lakes of radiated water under the plant or not?”

He faced her, and then looked away. As a teen he would lie to her all the time until she demanded he look her in the eye, making it hard to rattle off his unimaginative fabrications. He busied himself to leave.

“Yes,” he mumbled. “There are large amounts of contaminated water under the plant.”

“Is that so? You know what? You disgust me. Misleading a good reporter like Padera is unconscionable.”

“Ma, you don’t understand. This is just another story that could make people hysterical. There will be an investigation, and then we’ll give him the real story.” If the guy still has a job, Bob thought.

“You’re playing too dirty for my taste, and along with it, you’re breaking your mother’s heart.” She walked into her bedroom and waited for the front door to close. Then she buried her head in her hands.

Charlie Finch, the publisher of the Daily Suburban, held the paper taut while he crunched the edges in his hands. His mouth twisted to one side. He always enjoyed reading Lou’s sports stories; the ones about the nuclear plant seemed okay enough, but not like the sports.

Since the 1950s, Finch’s family had built the paper up from a small, weekly advertiser loaded with coupons and want ads to the popular daily paper. Early on, the leafy little advertiser started to bring in substantial revenue, so much so that it allowed Finch to bankroll the newspaper. His heart was in the news business, and over the decades, the Daily Suburban became known for its focus on both community and national news. But the most popular section was the sports. Finch was getting plenty of offers from mogul media corporations to buy him out, but the paper was his family’s legacy, and he was proud that it stayed independent for so many years.

Finch stroked his jowls. But now times were tough, and he’d do anything to keep the paper going. His biggest advertiser, ALLPower, had been making noise about this Padera fellow. He fidgeted with the paper. Padera’s ALLPower story was a poor attempt to rewrite another reporter’s story, a rookie who scooped the Daily Suburban by getting the story into a major New York City paper. Then there was the unknown whistle-blower who Padera knew and who ALLPower balked about repeatedly.

Finch also heard about a certain love interest of Lou’s that seemed rather unethical. It was all adding up to be a bit too risky for his liking, risky for his business. The paper could well do without the guy. The man tossed the paper aside and called the editor. He owned the paper. He would make demands; he’d call the shots if he had to.

Chapter 43

“Listen Diana. Bad things may be coming down. I just want you to be ready.”

“What things?”

“Imagine the worst—for me at least.”

She listened to him breathe, it was heavy, labored.

“Think they’ll fire you?”

“A single thread is pulled and the whole thing unravels. I always get the same sour gut just before the bottom falls out. I’m feeling it right now. I’ve had it since I filed that story, if you can call it a story.”

“You did the best you could.”

“I did shit. I was sabotaged, and it won’t stop there.”

“Lou, Honey. I feel so bad. Is there anything you want me to do?”

“If anyone from the paper calls and asks you about us, you need to be prepared.. You can deny everything if you want.”

“I won’t deny anything, Lou, unless you want me to.”

“I want you to do what’s comfortable for you. The real question is, are you okay with hanging out with an unemployed journalist?”

“Yes. You know how much I care for you. No matter what.”

“Yeah? Even if I get a job shoveling shit in a shit factory?” For the first time in days she chuckled. “Isn’t that what a lot of newswriting is? Shoveling shit?”

He’d been through worse. When he got to work, Owen was waiting by his desk. He had the look.

“Sorry to do this, Lou. I need your keys, and then we’ll escort you out.”

“Tell me why—or let me guess—the underground lake story perhaps?”

“It’s more than that. You’re really getting the boot from Finch, the boss. He’s the publisher, and he doesn’t have to give us a reason. Time you and me part ways.”

The two men looked at each other. They had been a good team, but Owen was following orders, doing what he needed to do to keep his own job. Lou wondered if Owen had put up a fight on his behalf.

“I see. So you want me to leave right now? Can I get stuff out of my desk?”

“Sure. Take whatever you need.”

The usual din in the newsroom came to a halt. A phone rang now and then, but computer keys stopped tapping, radios and TVs were turned down. Several reporters looked over at Lou, dreading the entire scene. A top reporter was getting axed, morale would sink even lower. Lou looked around and smiled, trying to let them know he was okay.

He turned to get stuff from his desk and pulled some folders from his file, cramming loose papers in a large envelope. He looked for his rolodex.

“Owen, where’s my Rolodex?”

“We had to take that, Lou. Company policy.”

“No shit. Since when?”

Owen nodded at a security guard that just walked into the newsroom. Owen extended his hand to Lou.

“You’re an ace reporter, Lou, wish this wasn’t happening.”

Lou reluctantly shook Owen’s hand and watched him walk back to his office. The security guard approached Lou.

“You ready to go, Mr. Padera?”

“Not just yet.”

Lou sat down at his computer and slipped in a back up drive to copy his files. The screen flashed NO HARD DRIVE.

“What the—”

Lou bounded out of his chair and sprinted toward Owen’s office. The guard chased after him.

“Mr. Padera, you can’t go there. I have to escort you out. Now.”

“The hell you do.”

Lou barged into Owen’s office.

“Give me my hard drive, Owen. Please.”

“No can do, Lou. That’s company property. It’s time for you to leave.”

Chapter 44

Jen looked at the two suitcases on the porch. She was sure she had packed everything she and Ricky needed for their mini vacation. Her phone rang.

“You about ready?”

“Yup. And Ralph…”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for doing this. For taking me and Ricky away from it all. I think the four of us will have a great time.”

“It’s my pleasure. I’ll pick you guys up in about fifteen.”

Ralph and Jen had become good friends since the horrific evacuation day. Since then, he encouraged her to speak out about the plant. Diana admired him for that, for the sensitive way he related to Jen.

It had been a long time since Jen felt comfortable with a man. Ralph was a psychologist with a practice in Katonah, just twenty minutes away. Jen especially liked how he and Ricky connected. Her son seemed to be climbing out of his grief and losing interest in the horrendous video games. He was even making a few good friends at school.

Because Ralph and Jen lived only a few miles away from each other, the kids would go to each other’s houses after school to do their homework. Jen realized that, inadvertently, Julie might be helping Ricky deal with Kaylee’s death, and Ralph agreed.

On school nights, when Ralph would arrive at Jen’s house to pick up Julie, Jen would have dinner for him and he’d linger and chat. They fell into a pattern comfortable for both of them and for the kids. One evening Ralph confided in Jen about the traumatic loss of his wife in a fatal car accident when Julie was just a toddler. As he tearfully told her about his wife, Jen comforted him with a hug. That both experienced the terrible loss of loved ones created a silent bond.

When he suggested they all go away to a kid-friendly lodge in Saratoga, Jen realized it was just what she and Ricky needed. They hadn’t left the area since Kaylee died. Ralph booked two rooms, each for parent and child, and they were off.

“Mom?” Ricky said, sitting on the third step of the staircase.

“Yes, Sweetie?”

“Am I too old to bring Kaylee’s teddy bear—the one I’ve been sleeping with since… since she died? Do you think Julie will laugh at me?”

She got as close as she could without putting her arm around him, now that hugs were again off-limits.

“Julie won’t laugh at you, and its fine to bring the teddy. Besides, you and I will be sharing a room, and you can tuck him out of site if Ralph and Julie stop by. Okay?”

“Okay. We going soon?”

“They should be here any minute. Are you excited?”

“Yeah. And Mom…”

“Uh-huh?”

“Is Ralph going to be your boyfriend?”

She smiled. “I don’t know, but I do like him. But right now, he’s just a good friend.”

“So… not like Dad?”

“Not like Dad. At least not yet. But you never know.” As they drove out of town they passed the riverfront park. Jen could see a few young children playing in the water at the beach she would forever boycott. A lifeguard watched the kids as they horsed around, ignoring the dreary domes outlining the sky.

Chapter 45

It was one of the worst nuclear power plant disasters in the world. Six reactors in Japan toppled like dominoes after an earthquake, incredulously followed by a devastating tsunami. High levels of radiation were released into the atmosphere. People within fifty miles of the plant were forced to evacuate because a core meltdown was imminent. Fear spread throughout Japan and the world. For Americans living near nuclear power plants, the question was obvious: Could it happen here?

Cashing in on the disaster was a good opportunity for Chrissy. It had been a few months since she wrote the radioactive lake story, and she was frantic for work. She sent her resume to magazines and newspapers both locally and in New York City. No one was hiring. The editor at the Metro Record put her on the stringer list as a freelance writer. It meant being on call for work that was piecemeal, and the first call she got was to cover a cop killing in the Bronx. She struggled to write up the story tabloid-style, barely made the deadline, and the next day the story was changed completely. All she really cared about was her byline.

Now, in the aftermath of Fukushima, she could sell her expertise based on her stories about ALLPower. Would Metro be interested? Not really, they told her. The Japan story needed full-time, international reporters. Sorry.

What about the Daily Suburban? She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen Lou’s byline. These days someone else was writing about ALLPower—if you could call it writing. She knew Owen Marks was still the editor. She’d give it a shot and call him.

“Yeah. I’ve seen your byline,” Owen said. “What’s up?”

“I’d like to pitch you a story comparing ALLPower to the Japanese plant disaster—you do know I have experience writing about ALLPower, don’t you?”

“Job is already filled, Ms. Dolan.”

“Any openings to write straight news?”

Owen looked over at Lou’s empty desk.

“I don’t get it. Didn’t you sell out your own paper? Don’t you write for the Metro Record now?”

“Actually, I’m just freelancing. I could really use a full-time job. I don’t suppose Bob Stalinksy ever mentioned my name to you?”

As soon as she said it, she was sorry. Paybacks and favors died with the lake story.

“No. Should he have?”

“I guess not.”

“You don’t have a clue, do you, Ms. Dolan. Your reputation as a reporter in Westchester is dismal. If I hired you, how would I know you wouldn’t screw us like you did Al Areva? Me? I wouldn’t take the chance. Have a nice day.”

The phone clicked off. Chrissy was devastated. She was too pushy for her own good. Was her brief career as a reporter totally ruined? Something Lou said began to haunt her. Something about burning her bridges.

Chapter 46

Bob sat in the posh office of the high-priced PR firm on Madison Avenue. He was heady with power—there wasn’t anything he couldn’t make happen. Two reporters dared to write lies about ALLPower, and both had been fired. But here he was, still head honcho, more empowered than ever. The new campaign had started based on what he called the Fukushima syndrome, the highly charged skepticism about nuclear power newly fueled by the Japanese disaster.

“Here are a couple of new slogans, Mr. Stalinsky.” The young ad executive projected a PowerPoint presentation on the wall. “I like this one the best.”

CLEAN, SAFE, AND CRUCIAL.

It was good, catchy. The campaign would be built on those three words: “clean,” indicating nuclear was good for the environment; “safe,” the public doesn’t have to worry about—well, anything really; and “crucial,” for generating enough electricity to homes and businesses in the area and New York City. The slogan would create a strong, new media buzz. People would forget about the accidents, the problems.

The executives at ALLPower loved it. Bob gave them his most enthusiastic spiel and talked them into spending seven figures on the ad campaign. The part he loved the best? Unlimited funds for writers and bloggers to counter the anti-nuke cyber activity and pump out pro-nuke opinion letters on a daily basis.

The ad agency needed Bob to sign off on a series of radio and TV ads that would air immediately. He reviewed them all; each brilliant spot made him feel strong, immune to anyone who might jeopardize the future of nuclear power or his job ever again.

“I like them. Run them all.”

“We’ll start to schedule these ads right away, Mr. Stalinksy. Will there be anything else?” The ad person was gathering his notes.

“Yes. Actually there is,” said Bob. “We need a press release pronto about our application to the NRC for a new operating license. One of your in-house crackerjack writers is what I want.”

ALLPower wanted to extend their operating license to keep the plant running for twenty more years. The NRC application would take at least four years, and Bob had no doubt that the opposition would rally.

They would advertise heavily, and even the slightest plant mishap would be played down in the news.

A week later, when the new young reporter Owen just hired to replace Lou opened his e-mail, he saw the ALLPower press release. He buzzed Owen and asked him if he wanted to run it.

“Sure, it’s news, right? Not just a puff story?”

Owen knew he would have to spoon-feed the young man, but the kid was working for almost nothing. He did what he was told and didn’t give Owen any guff.

“It sure is news, Mr. Marks. Should I get responses from the anti-nukers who are against keeping the plant open?”

Owen paused and thought about all the new ads ALLPower had just taken out in the paper with their flashy new slogan. “Nah. Just rewrite the release to make it sound like a news story. That should do it.”

Chapter 47

Stella peeked into Bob’s room to empty his garbage and saw his open suitcase. It was half filled. Seems her son had decided to leave. He’d had enough.

“So be it.” She glanced around the room. Stacked on the small desk were a bunch of glossy white-and-blue folders with the ALLPower logo on the front. She gingerly picked up one and opened it. It was the entire PR campaign, including cost and target audiences. A seven-page glossary listed key words to use with the press, when talking about dangerous leaks or security issues. Three additional pages labeled “Confidential” outlined how to deal with activists, and there was a spreadsheet of costs for bloggers and writers who would wage a nonstop war of words against anti-nuke groups. Stella folded the corner of the page as a marker.

Bob’s name was all over the packet. He was clearly the brains behind the entire campaign. The go-to man. Despite her feelings about her son’s employer, she was impressed. It was a comprehensive piece of work, and she wanted to read every word. She slipped the folder under her arm and went to brew herself a fresh cup of coffee.

An hour later she turned on her computer. Becoming computer literate was a process Stella initially shunned, but Bob had tutored her during the few times they were getting along. She quickly became cyber savvy, driven by her need to read more news online, another source for her news fix. Newspapers were floundering, ethics were being compromised. Writers for major newspapers frequently declined to cite their sources, something that irked her big-time. Maybe reporters online were more accurate? Maybe good writers like Lou Padera would end up as a popular cyber byline, someone who could actually write something decent.

Stella placed the ALLPower folder next to her computer. She logged on and searched for the new anti-nuclear coalition formed after the evacuation debacle. What was her name? Diana someone?

The group, Coalition for Safe Power, had a straightforward website that was easy to navigate. There was a ton of information and a comprehensive timeline of the plant’s history, including all accidents and mishaps since the plant broke ground about 40 years ago. There were clear links and a long list of contact information.

Stella reached for the phone and called one of the numbers. The phone rang three times, and finally a woman answered. Stella looked over at the white-and-blue folder. “Hi, Ms. Chase? My name is Stella. I’d like to volunteer to work for your organization. Yes. Really. And Ms. Chase. I may have something of interest to show you. Yes. I’d love to meet you whenever you can. What’s my last name? Stalinsky.”

Chapter 48

The geologist read the last page of the new study that tracked thirty years of seismic activity in and around the Hudson River. The study was researched by scientists connected with a local university, and all of them were required to sign off on the final document before making it public. He scrawled his name at the bottom of the list, picked up the phone, and called the university’s media department.

“Study is good to go,” he said.

The press person, Simon Frank, wrote up a straightforward release, stunning for its omission of the devastating disaster still crippling Japan.

The lab’s seismic study was posted to the department’s website, where it was ignored for about a week until a reporter named Lou Padera called.

“Mr. Frank? Lou Padera here. I cover nuclear power and want to write a story about your report. Can you line up a few scientists for me to interview?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Padera. You’re the first one to call.”

“You’re kidding. But this is a big story. You know that, right?”

“I guess.”

Lou had floundered for a while after he was fired from the Daily Suburban. He and Diana pondered his future, and she encouraged him to keep writing. He finally realized he could write about sports and nuclear power on the Internet. He hired someone to create his own news website called Padera’s Top News and Sports.

It was just like old times. Lou covered local games, wrote them up, and posted them before the Daily Suburban came out the next morning. Because his sports stories had been so popular in the paper, he had cultivated a following, and the site had thousands of hits each week. It was a stat that attracted advertisers, many who had placed their ads on the same page as Lou’s stories in the newspaper. Sure, they’d put ads on his website. Why not? It was cheaper than the newspaper, where their ads now were squished in between several full-blown ALLPower ads.

Lou regularly scoured the news and sought out links with information about nuclear power, not only ALLPower, but about plants in nearby states as well.

After the Japanese nuclear crisis, he especially tracked studies on seismic activity, frequently checking the websites for geological labs, especially the one studying the Hudson River area. When the study was finally completed, Lou was surprised at the bland, un-newsy press release. But he grasped the impact. After interviewing two scientists who authored the new study, Lou had a story that put a smile on his face. Let’s see Bob Stalinsky put a positive spin on this one.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he excitedly told Diana while helping her get dinner on the table at her house.

“Were you really the first reporter to call? I bet you’ll scoop everyone.” She beamed at him.

“I know. It’s amazing. Do you know what this means?”

“Another reason to shut down the plant?”

“Yes. Perhaps. If they connect the dots with the Japanese earthquake that shut down those plants. But the NRC doesn’t even look at seismic records, even when rubber-stamping a nuke’s operating license.”

His eyes penetrated hers. They saw the same roadblock.

“Yikes. That’s scary,” she said.

“Yeah. Hope everyone realizes that.”

“They will. After your story.”

It was a new kind of intimacy, discussing his stories with her over breakfast or while falling to sleep. He started spending the night at her place more and more, making up for the now solitary workday in his makeshift home office. He worried about her and the possible fallout at school, if teachers got wind of their experimental escapade. But so far, it never happened. If they knew, her friends at school were being polite and keeping quiet.

Just a few days ago Diana invited him to leave some of his clothes in her closet and in a newly emptied drawer. That evening he arrived with a backpack. She was disappointed that it wasn’t a trunk, but she understood he was testing the waters. As they set the table, he took her into his arms.

“So, that’s my trousseau there in that backpack. Is there a place to stow it for a while?”

“There’s a place to stow it for a long time, if you want. But darlin’, whatever’s in that backpack won’t make a dent in the closet. Next time bring a suitcase.”

Chapter 49

SEISMIC FAULT LINE UNDER POWER PLANT

It seems the plant was built over two active seismic zones, one running right under the ALLPower plant.

Lou’s story included the history of the plant and how, before the plant was built, small, barely noticeable tremors jarred the bedrock under the rocky cliffs that sloped down to the Hudson River. In the 1940s, a popular public park was on the very spot that was slated for the new power plant. The park was a day-trip destination for passenger ferries loaded with people escaping the city heat and spending a cool day by the river. The park was replete with pavilions for cookouts, a small stage for occasional entertainment, and a few hot dog stands. A beach for swimming was carved out at the cove where the river took a sharp bend to the north.

Years later, when the land was purchased to build a nuclear power plant, geologists cautioned about the subtle shifts in the bedrock and the possible long-range affects of regular tremors. But those warnings were ignored, and the plant was constructed, promising to make electricity “too cheap to meter.”

For years, tiny tremors went unrecorded, and as more cracks developed in the earth, hairline fractures in the great underbelly of the plant created hidden tunnels, byways for contaminated water.

The radioactive, isotope-laced water saturated the deep, gravely, porous earth and sought its own level. The water bubbled up and contaminated layers of loamy sand and leached ubiquitous contaminants into the currents of the river, some settling in the bones of baby fish and the flesh of their mothers.

Lou’s story was picked up by broadcast media, followed by some major newspapers whose reporters had rewritten it with a pro-industry spin, expressing doubts that the plant would ever succumb to an earthquake, not here in the Northeast anyway.

Owen saw Lou’s story immediately on his website. The editor checked the site a couple of times a week to see what his former reporter was up to. He was amazed at the site’s extensive advertising.

ALLPower immediately responded to what they called a “non-issue.” Bob sent Owen a press release, suggesting he not change the language if possible.

“I’ll see what I can do, Bob,” Owen glumly murmured into the phone.

“You guys are doing great. Ads and all,” Bob said, giddy with being in control.

As fast as Owen hung up he quickly dialed up Lou. God knows why I’m doing this. Maybe it had just been too long, and just maybe the guy has forgiven him.

“Lou Padera. Can I help you?”

“What’s the matter? Can’t afford a secretary?”

The voice was all too familiar.

“Hey, Owen. How’s it hanging?”

“It’s been worse, but not by much. I’m impressed with your site. I may be knocking at your door soon for a gig.”

“Oh, come on. It can’t be that bad. Although I’ve heard your staff is getting younger and younger, and the paychecks are smaller and smaller. But you’re still on the masthead—that has to account for something.”

“Yeah, it accounts for me being a writing teacher with a stopwatch. I’m rewriting the stuff these kids are passing off as news. We never get the paper out on time. Really sucks.”

“You running the power plant–earthquake story?”

“We’re running what they tell us to run. Jesus, Lou. We’ve become ALLPower whores. It really disgusts me. What’s happening to journalism the way we knew it?”

“It’s still around, Owen. It’s just a little harder to find.”

“Yeah. Maybe. It’s confusing. The bloggers write fiction masquerading as news, and who can tell the difference?”

“I write straight news. So do others. We’re here, and people will learn to recognize a good news story when they read one. You got to believe that. You used to.”

“Lou?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m really sorry how things ended up. Are you doing okay?”

“Doing great. I’m writing what I choose to write, and I have the love of a great woman. What more could a guy want?”

Before saying good-bye, each promised to keep in touch. Lou truly wanted to forgive Owen, forget past grudges, and consider him a friend. As Lou hung up, he opened ALLPower’s blue-and-white glossy folder to the page Diana had highlighted. Now there’s a story.

EPILOGUE

The horrendous nuclear disaster at Japan’s Fukushima Dai-Ichi plants in March 2011 was the worst nuclear accident since the 1986 meltdown at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station in the Ukraine. In Nuclear Romance, an accident at the Japanese nuclear plants is not fully referenced, and at the time this book was released, the effects of the disaster were still unknown.

Three of the four Dai-Ichi plants at Fukushima had core meltdowns of radioactive fuel. In the news, images of huge explosions, raging fires, and massive evacuations stunned the world. Even today, the amount of radiation that has leaked into the ground and ocean from the plant continues to astound us.

Fukushima shows us the real dangers of nuclear power and has empowered many anti-nuclear groups and environmental organizations worldwide to fight for the closure of nuclear power plants. Many countries, including Germany, Italy, and Switzerland, have heeded the warnings of a growing populace and have moved to either abolish nuclear power or cut back construction of new reactors.

In the United States in 2011, however, plans for new reactors for utility companies in Georgia and South Carolina are going forward, pending the approval of the Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC). Of the 104 nuclear reactors in the United States, 66 have had their licenses renewed, and 18 reactors are currently up for relicensing. The NRC, the federal regulatory oversight agency for nuclear power, has never turned down a request for a license renewal. The United States has taken a pro-nuclear stance; because building a new nuclear plant costs approximately $6 billion to $8 billion, the feds have proposed over $50 billion in federal loan guarantees to utility companies who want to build new reactors.

Reporters who write about nuclear power are challenged by making the complicated, inner workings of nuclear reactors easy to understand. Every story has multiple layers that, given news formats, must either be omitted or briefly mentioned. For the inquisitive mind, the question would be “what’s not being told?” In 2007, the Indian Point Nuclear Power Plant, the model for the one in this novel, applied to the NRC to stay in operation for twenty more years. The two reactors, on the banks of the Hudson River just twenty-four miles from New York City, are among the oldest plants in the country, with a long history of accidents and radioactive leaks into the Hudson River. The plant’s continued and troubled operation has had a polarizing effect on the immediate community, the industry, and local politics. New York State, along with numerous organizations, has argued against the relicensing of the plant, but the decision is ultimately that of the NRC.

Copyright

Copyright ©2011 by Abby Luby

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidences are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Armory New Media

www.armorynewmedia.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to:

Armory New Media

P.O. Box 3131

Westport, CT 06880

203-454-4454

cmpdavid@gmail.com

Original e-book edition published October 2011

ISBN: 978-1-935073-16-1

Content

Abby Luby
NUCLEAR ROMANCE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

EPILOGUE

Copyright