When the sheriff returned, his expression seemed different, less suspicious and more perplexed. Hank watched him go around and inspect the front of the car. As he leaned over, the sheriff asked casually, “Surveyor, eh?”
It caught Hank off guard. No one had spoken for several minutes. “Uh, that’s right.”
“What are you doing out here?” The sheriff stood and came back around to look in the driver’s window again.
“Out here to do some mapping of the Egg Rock Basin.”
“Oil company?”
“Excuse me?”
The sheriff pulled his head out of the window and looked back over his shoulder at Hank. “You work for an oil company?”
“Oh, no sir, I’m out here on a project for the University of Tennessee. Taking measurements for the geology department.” Hank smiled and looked over at the pile of broken equipment. “I was only planning on a few days, but it looks like my plans have changed.”
The sheriff smiled. “You don’t sound like you’re from Tennessee.”
“Grew up in Brooklyn. But I work in Knoxville now.” Hank nodded as he said it and hoped like hell the sheriff didn’t have family there.
“That’s gotta be quite a change.”
“Oh, it is. But houses are cheaper and the traffic’s better. Quality of life, you know how it is.”
“Sure. Lots of folks leave the big city for the quiet life. Happens every day.” The sheriff stood and wiped his hands together, as if trying to get dust off of them, then put his hands on his hips and smiled. “Well, there ain’t much we can do tonight. Everyone’s gone home or gotten drunk by now.” The sheriff turned to the deputy, who’d been standing in one spot for five solid minutes. “Billy, get yourself some gloves and a plastic bag and fish that leg outta there. Goddamned scavengers will have it gone by morning.”
Billy hesitated a second, as if debating whether the sheriff was serious, and then ran off toward the Suburban. The sheriff stuck out his hand. “Sheriff Mickey O’Reilly.”
“Hank Norton.” Hank stuck out his hand, telling himself the sheriff didn’t look Irish. They shook and the sheriff looked over at the pile of gear.
“Well, looks like you need a ride into town.” Mickey raised his eyebrows and smiled, “We got us a real nice new motel.”
VI
Doctor Theodore Ross looked exactly like a scientist.
Victor watched him fidget in his chair as people filed into the conference room and waited for the meeting to begin. In his brown pants, white shirt, and yellow tie, with his hair gelled solidly in place and his glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose, Victor imagined that Ted Ross had been transported to Southern Petroleum from an early 60s high school science film as a result of some bizarre experiment gone awry. That they were there to talk about radiation made the image all the more appropriate. Victor smiled and gave Tom Crossly an elbow.
“What?” Tom turned and looked down at Victor’s elbow.
Victor whispered, “Check out this Ross guy.”
“What do you mean?”
Kevin Marshall, the Chief Operating Officer of Southern Petroleum, came in with three note-taking assistants before Victor could answer, and the room clamored to silence. Marshall took his seat at the head of the conference table, drummed his fingers on the table a couple of times, and watched the last few stragglers fumble with notepads and laptops and briefcases. When the room was completely quiet, Marshall looked over at the head of research and development and nodded. “We ready?”
The head of R&D stood up, looking nervous, like he never had to deal with people normally, let alone speak to an entire room full of them. “Uh, yes, thanks for coming everyone.”
Victor rolled his eyes and leaned over to whisper to Tom, “Like we’re doing this guy a favor.”
“As I’m sure you all know,” the head of R&D went on, “we believe we have a minor leak in one of our lines.” A projector threw an image on a screen representing Southern Petroleum’s various pipelines and collection points. It covered much of Southern California with an array of lines on the map radiating outward from the Long Beach refinery. The man stood in front of the map with a long pointer, the image from the projector covering his body. He pointed at the map with the pointer.
“Now we first noticed the problem at the collection point here, just outside of Rancho Cucamonga. This center represents the intersection of three lines: the Coachella line, which starts in Indio; the Bakersfield line; and