bright spot for Hanson. Through Oliver, they had become the victims of vigilante justice. People didn’t countenance water and air pollution, but that was a somewhat less immediate and dramatic danger than bombs blowing up in parking lots.
There was a shareholders meeting coming up, and Murchison wanted it to go as smoothly as previous ones. He didn’t want angry townspeople to storm the meeting, yelling their claims that Hanson was going to be poisoning their children. Murchison was known to be a bit of a loose cannon, prone to straight talk that sometimes got him in trouble. But he didn’t want to be fighting with a bunch of panicked and angry parents on national television.
So he placed a call to Richard Carlton. The deal hadn’t officially closed yet, and the money therefore hadn’t been paid, so this was when Murchison would have the most leverage.
“You need to get that situation up there under control,” Murchison said. “My people are telling me we don’t need this aggravation.”
“I’m going to release a statement,” Carlton said.
“You’re going to release a statement? I got a dead chief engineer, people conducting a goddamn pep rally on the land I’m supposed to be drilling on, half the country sending me nasty e-mails, and you’re going to release a statement? Better be a damn good one; that had better be the goddamn statement of the year.”
“I will say that we’re going to use part of the resources from the sale to expand the auto parts business. It’ll mean a thousand more jobs for the locals.”
“You’re lying through your teeth,” Murchison pointed out. “You ain’t dumb enough to pour more money into that shit-ass company.”
The fact that Carlton was in fact lying through his teeth did not mean that Murchison’s accusations didn’t make him angry. The truth was that the auto parts company was going to close within a year and the angry people of Brayton would have something else to get angry about.
“My company has been a leader in its field for sixty years.”
“Yeah. Until you got hold of it. I’m instructing my people to not make the payment.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Watch me,” Murchison said.
“There are plenty other companies that would love to get their hands on that land.”
“Right. Every company in America wants to get their people blown up and be accused of poisoning toddlers. It’s every CEO’s dream.”
Carlton was in a panic, and he forced himself to sound conciliatory. “Randall, we don’t need to fight like this. What is it you really want?”
“You pay for security for the first year, and you announce it in your statement. Say you’re trying to protect innocent people from these vigilantes, and say that Hanson is a responsible corporate citizen who is committed to preserving clean air and water. We’ll release the same kind of statement.”
“OK. That’s fair,” Carlton said. “Done.”
It was an easy promise to make, because it would be an impossible one to keep.
In a very short time, providing security would be both unnecessary and impossible.
Chris Gallagher spent almost two hours gauging the level of security.
It wasn’t so much that he was concerned that he couldn’t handle whatever was presented. He had entered Taliban strongholds undetected; getting into Richard Carlton’s house would be a comparative piece of cake, no matter how many guards he employed to protect himself.
What Gallagher learned in two hours he could have learned in ten minutes. There was no outside security in place, other than motion detector floodlights, which he could easily elude.
The wreckage of the guesthouse had been mostly cleared away, and Gallagher could see the foundation with his night vision goggles. It just added to the question that had already formed in Gallagher’s mind; why would someone like Carlton, already the victim of violence, not have more security?
It certainly couldn’t be financial; just based on the house, and the money Carlton was getting from Hanson, he could have hired an entire army division to protect him. And with his guesthouse destroyed, and a Hanson employee already dead, surely Carlton couldn’t be oblivious to the danger.
People like Carlton did not react to physical danger well. Things like that happened to other people, not them. So they overreacted, spending whatever it might take to shield themselves from that world.
Yet Carlton didn’t even have his curtains drawn; Gallagher could see him sitting serenely in what looked like his study, on the main floor, reading.
So the question answered itself beyond any doubt in Gallagher’s mind. Carlton was not afraid, because Carlton was behind the violence. It was why he knew that he had nothing to be afraid of.
But he was about to find out otherwise.
Gallagher could only see one other person in the house; he looked like he could be a security guard, but there was no way to be sure of that. The challenge was going to be putting him out of commission while not giving Carlton enough warning or time to call 911.
So he walked up to the front door and rang the bell.
Carlton didn’t move, showing no concern whatsoever. Through the glass window at the top of the door, Gallagher could see the other man in the house walk towards the front door. As he approached, while his momentum was still going forward, Gallagher kicked in the door. It was a sudden, violent move that he had perfected long ago.
The door smashed the man in the face, probably rendering Gallagher’s blow to his head unnecessary. He was not dead, Gallagher saw no reason to go that far, but he would not be waking up for a while.
For Gallagher, it represented the final crossing of a line. His life was essentially over; he recognized that and was comfortable with it. After tonight he would either soon be dead or live on as a fugitive. But he was positive that the answer to Steven’s death was in this house, and he wasn’t leaving until he had it.
Gallagher raced to the study, just as Carlton was getting to his feet in response to the crashing noise. When he saw Gallagher coming towards him, he looked towards the phone, but even in his panicked state he knew there was no chance of that.
Gallagher grabbed him at the front of his throat and pushed him against the wall. Choking, Carlton tried to strain upwards and away, but Gallagher just pushed him higher, cutting off his air supply. But Gallagher was not there to kill; he was there to get information.
Maybe fifteen seconds before Carlton would have passed out, Gallagher released his grip and pushed him into a chair. He waited until Carlton could speak his first words: “Who are you?”
“I am Steven Gallagher’s brother.”
“Who is that?”
“He is the person you framed after you had Judge Brennan killed.”
“No, no, no.”
“You don’t know me, but I am telling you this. Right now I control you, I control your pain, and I control your life. Do not lie to me.”
“I swear, I had nothing to do with that.”
Gallagher was surprised by the statement. Carlton was petrified; there was no question about that. Gallagher would have guessed he would have caved by then; perhaps the man was tougher than he thought.
So Gallagher tried another approach.
He broke Carlton’s arm.
He did it like one would snap a twig, only arms make a louder cracking noise than twigs. Carlton screamed in agony, an appropriate response considering the circumstance, and then started to mix in sobs with the
