Dangerous Conditions. Jenna Kernan
turned eleven. He remembered the way she’d fallen, as if she had been a marionette with all the strings cut at once. The grapefruit in her hand had rolled straight down the aisle in the produce section like a bowling ball. He’d hit his knees beside her and stared at her face. She’d looked so surprised. But she’d already been gone.
“Where is my dad now?” asked Valerie, shaking him from his dark memories. He wondered if the child meant metaphorically or physically. As he pondered how to answer, Steven cut in.
“Nobody will tell us,” said Steven. “They just say he’s in heaven. Or with God. But where is he really?”
“Do you mean his remains?”
They nodded in unison, eyes wide.
“They took your father’s body to Owen’s funeral home. They have beds there for folks who have passed. And since it was an accident, the state police need to have a look at him for clues to help them catch whoever did this.”
“And put him in jail,” said Valerie.
“Might be a him,” said Logan. “Might be a her. But we’re trying every way we know to catch them.”
“Is he cold?” asked Valerie.
“No. Definitely not.”
“I’ve only ever seen dead animals. They get all stiff and swollen,” said Steven.
“No, that won’t happen. The people at the funeral home will wash him and dress him and treat his body respectfully.”
“Why?” asked Steven. “He can’t feel anything now. Can he?”
“It’s more for the family. Rituals to take care of our dead. It’s a last act of love.”
“You ever seen a dead body?” asked the boy.
Logan had seen many, according to his military record, but he remembered only one. “My mother, when she died and then again the day of her funeral.”
“What about at war?” asked Valerie. “Dad said you were in combat and that some of the other soldiers with you died.”
He’d been awarded the Silver Star for valor after half the roof had caved in on him and his men in a building in Fallujah.
“I heard that, too. But I don’t remember any of those deaths because I got hit in the head,” he said as he pointed at the scar on his forehead as evidence.
Both the Sullivan children regarded the scar with serious concentration.
“Kids in my class say you got a metal plate in your skull and you can stick a magnet on your head and it just stays there.”
“No plate, so a magnet wouldn’t stick.”
“Steven, Valerie?” Mrs. Sullivan stood at the bottom of the stairs, holding the newel post and looking up at them with red-rimmed eyes. Their gazes met. “Mr. Lynch, I didn’t know you were here.”
He retrieved his hat and placed it over his heart as he stood. “I’m really sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sullivan. I had great respect for your husband.”
“Thank you, Logan.”
“He’ll be missed.” He descended the stairs, and she extended her hand. The circles under her eyes and the red, puffy eyelids made her look years older. He kissed her offered cheek and drew back.
“Thank you for coming. Have you had your supper? We have too much food.” She took hold of his hand and led him toward the dining room, but paused in the hallway to stare at him. “My husband was having some trouble at work this week. He told me that he was worried about something. Running helped him relax.” She spoke quickly as if she’d been bursting to share the information with the right person.
“What?”
“Anomalies. Missing samples. That’s what he said.”
Someone stepped up behind them.
Lou Reber, the plant’s head of security, moved from the living room into the hallway, and Mrs. Sullivan’s eyes widened. She spoke to Logan without looking at him.
“Go and fix a plate for yourself, Logan, and please take something back for your father.”
Reber came up to her and took her hand, expressing his condolences. Logan hesitated a moment and then stepped into the dining room where callers mingled around the overladen table in quiet conversation.
In the hallway, Reber moved toward the front door. Mrs. Sullivan glanced to Logan and then approached.
“Would you ask the sheriff to come see me tomorrow?”
“I can call him right now.”
Mrs. Sullivan glanced about the house, filled up with friends and members of the community.
“Tomorrow is soon enough.” She left him, returning to the living area through the arched opening connecting the two rooms.
Logan filled his plate and sat on a folding chair beside Donavan Bacon, a cook at the Lunch Box who had no shutoff switch when it came to alcohol. Bacon didn’t drink regularly but when he did, usually on Wednesday after his bowling league, Logan was often called to bring him home because drinking made him want to fight. Donavan greeted Logan warmly. He was such a nice man when he was sober.
After emptying his plate, Logan headed to the kitchen to deposit his glass in the sink. From the doorway he spotted Lou Reber in the hallway, heading up the stairs. He thought he’d left.
Likely to speak to the children who were sitting on the stairs, as he had done. But when Logan returned to the hall it was to see the children were not there and Lou was descending the empty staircase from the second floor.
Logan scowled, wondering why the man had gone upstairs when there was a powder room off the hallway.
“Hey, Logan. Rough day today, huh?”
“Sure was. Why were you upstairs?”
“Bathroom,” said Reber.
“There’s one down here.”
“Occupied.” He looped a thumb over his belt. “Did you know Sullivan?”
“Coached at the school with him.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Reber. “I knew that. Dangerous to run on our roads. No shoulder.”
“He was on the cutoff. Wide dirt road. Shouldn’t be any vehicles back there.”
“Hunters use it.” He glanced toward the door. “I’ve got to go. You need a lift home?”
“Got my truck.”
“That’s right. You drive now. See you around, Logan.”
Logan watched him go, unsure what bothered him about Reber’s going upstairs.
He let himself out a few minutes later, but not before one of the ladies made him a plate for his father. In his truck, the aroma of food tempting his taste buds, Logan headed back up River Street to the steep incline on Cemetery Road. Ed would be buried there, probably next Saturday.
On Main he turned toward home, knowing that just beyond lay the funeral home and Ed Sullivan’s body. The autopsy was scheduled for the morning down in Albany, New York. The county had a contract with the medical center to perform such duties, and Dr. Brock Koutier, their coroner, had ordered it be done. As a result, the funeral would not be until next Saturday, giving the county enough time to transport Sullivan to and from Albany and then back up here to Owen’s for final preparation.
He slowed before the three large maple trees that stood as sentries between the road and Paige’s mother’s home. He pulled into the driveway between his dad’s and her mom’s properties, parked and then headed toward the kitchen door, but paused to breathe the cold air and glance toward his neighbor’s place.
The