Poisoned by Gilt (36 page)

wouldn't be the ticket for you. Just let your heart heal. See

how this feels in another day, then a week, then a month.

Give yourself a chance to gain some perspective."

I took a deep breath and let it out. "I can do that."

"Good. So are you okay to drive? You can come here.

I can make you some comfort food. Chicken soup. Hot

chocolate, maybe?"

I hesitated. The phrase "the last straw" kept ringing in

my ears, and now a strange image came to my mind's eye.

I kept seeing the reveal in Burke's wall, showing the straw

bales. All those broken and bent pieces--were they really

just the result of the shifting foundation? Maybe it was

just a coincidence, or a product of my utter confusion,

but something nagged at me.

"Thanks, but I don't think so."

"What are you going to do instead?"

"Go to the shooting range. Aim at any targets that remind me of Sullivan."

She laughed. "Now, there's a plan."

I couldn't muster a smile, but at least I was breathing.

And talking. Maybe even thinking. Things could be

worse. "On another subject entirely, when the police investigated the scene of the shooting at Burke's house, you

didn't find any loose pieces of straw, did you?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Why?"

"It's just . . . he's got construction problems, with the

concrete in his foundation. The shifting could be causing problems with his straw-bale walls."

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"So the house could be . . . leaking straw?"

"I'm just thinking out loud. Anyway, thanks so much

for your advice. I feel a little better now."

"Any time. And, Erin, Jimmy and I were talking about

having you over for dinner. Tonight's a little hectic, but

what about tomorrow? I don't get off till late, but . . ." She

was obviously making this up as she went along.

"I'd love to. Thanks. But why don't we try for next

week, okay?"

"That'd probably work even better. So. Are you going

to be all right?"

"Eventually. I'll give you a call tomorrow or the day after."

"Take care, Erin. And don't do anything rash."

"Now, when do I ever do anything rash?"

She chuckled and we said good-bye and hung up.

I repaired my makeup as best I could, then backed out

of my parking space. Linda would be furious with me,

but a growing suspicion was starting to get a stranglehold

on me. I couldn't get the image of all those damaged

straws in Burke's wall reveal out of my mind.

There was a simple way of finding out if anything strange

was going on at Burke's house. Many months ago he'd

shown us where he hid the key to his front door, for times

when we needed to let our crews into his home while he was

at work. As long as Burke was at work right now, it would be

simple enough for me to let myself in, remove the screws

holding the glass in place, and investigate to see if the straws

were getting mangled by Burke--or maybe Jeremy--using

that access into his thick walls as a hiding space.

I arrived at Burke's house and peered through his

garage window. His car was gone. Good. It would only

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take me five or ten minutes to prove or disprove my latest

shot-in-the-dark theory, and then I could scoot out of

here with no one the wiser. If, God forbid, Burke caught

me red-handed, I could tell him I was afraid that the

shifting straws could indicate that his house was becoming even more unsafe and that I wanted to take a second

look before calling the structural engineer again. It was a

weak story, but then again, I had red, puffy eyes; every

man I'd ever met hated to belabor any point made by a

woman who'd recently been crying. Men were always

afraid emotions would get stuck to them like white cat

hairs on black velvet.

I stuck a screwdriver in my pocket, raced up Burke's

porch steps, and removed the cap from his lamp. I could

hear his spare key clink inside as I did so. I slid the false

bottom out of the cap, retrieved the key, and set the lamp

cap in the middle of the porch where I couldn't possibly

overlook it. This was undoubtedly a wild-goose chase--a

by-product of my inability to think straight--and the last

thing I wanted to do was accidentally run off with Burke's

key.

I let myself inside, locked the deadbolt behind me,

and entered the living room. The warm air smelled of

cinnamon toast. Burke must have only recently left home

for work after eating breakfast. "Burke?" I called, just to

be cautious, though the jig would have pretty much been

up already if he'd answered.

The desk had been removed from the front porch, I

suddenly realized. Was it in his bedroom, or had the police taken it for fingerprint evidence?

"Focus!" I commanded myself.

I strode boldly into the kitchen and to the reveal on

the east wall next to Burke's table and chairs. I got a sink-P o i s o n e d b y G i l t
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ing feeling of futility as I looked at it. What had I been

thinking? This was straw. Of course the pieces would get

broken along the wall! It was pressed right up against the

glass, after all.

Then again, I thought, unscrewing the fasteners, it

was only the lower third of the visible straws that appeared to be pressed downward, as though something

had been jammed between them and the drywall. Plus,

this spot was in full view of anyone who happened to be

standing near the glass back door. Which was very likely

where Walter Emory had been when he made his unannounced inspection of the property, in the final moments

of his life.

A chill ran up my spine as I continued working to remove the eight screws that held the frame for the window

in place, my mind racing. This would make such an inconvenient--and small--hiding spot. Yet Burke had

been excessively concerned about privacy these past few

months. He'd complained to me before the open house

about how nosy strangers could be--always poking into

his closets and cabinets. That thought alone had almost

driven him to withdraw from the contest. If he'd wanted

to keep some papers well hidden in his house, this would

do the trick.

I finally removed the last screw and removed the

glass--frame and all--from the wall. Sure enough, the

lower portion of the frame had hidden the top half inch

of what looked like a bright yellow plastic folder, which

had been jammed between the straw bale and the

Sheetrock. I cursed at the sight.

It took quite a bit of effort, but millimeter by millimeter I managed to pry the thin folder from behind the wall.

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I sent up a quick prayer that its contents would be innocent in nature--stock certificates or savings bonds.

My hands shook as I unfastened the clasp on the

folder and emptied it onto the kitchen counter. Two

items were inside the folder--a photograph and a dozen

or so typed pages stapled together. The photograph

showed Burke holding a beautiful towheaded boy as they

both beamed into the camera. At once the portrait

tugged at my tear ducts and filled me with fear. The implications of why he'd stashed the picture in a hiding

place with what appeared to be a scientific report were

dreadful.

I scanned the report about data findings for an airpurification system called the CleenAir 2000 System.

The document had been compiled by Dr. Burke Stratton

and listed the results of various airborne particles, which

I recognized as carcinogens. According to the time

stamps and the graphics, the particle counts had increased, rather than decreased, as the samples were

taken.

"Damn it, Erin," a quiet voice behind me said.

I gasped and whirled around. I tried to speak, but I was

too frightened. No words would come.

Burke had managed to unlock the front door and tiptoe inside without my hearing a sound.

He shook his head. "I knew I was in trouble when I

saw the Sullivan and Gilbert van in my driveway. I was

hoping it would be Steve."

He aimed a gun straight at me.

c h a p t e r
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Ididn't want to do it, Erin," Burke said. He looked to be

on the verge of tears, and the hand holding the gun

shook. "I save lives. I don't take them. But . . . Thayers

killed my son. That idiot invention of his not only didn't

work, it made the air quality worse! Caleb was breathing

in more carcinogens. And I'd put my son's life in his

hands."

Now he was openly crying. His face was the picture of

a man in agony. "My wife was against it all along. She

wanted to keep Caleb in the hospital in the final stages of

his chemo. It wipes out the patient's immune system. But

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Richard promised me his air purifier was as good as anything they could do at the hospital."

Burke's eyes were staring into mine desperately, as if

begging for my understanding. His plaintive demeanor,

when combined with the gun aimed at my chest, made a

physical oxymoron that was both surreal and terrifying.

I'd trusted him! I'd fought with Sullivan over him, insisted on his innocence! He was guilty all along!

"I believed Richard," he went on. "I had to. There was

no time for more testing. We would be able to keep

Caleb home, you see? In his own bedroom. Patients do

better there. Especially when they've got skilled caregivers. It's a proven fact. I told my wife I knew best, as a

doctor."

Burke was openly sobbing. He'd lowered the gun, but

kept it trained on me. The irony of the situation hit me

full force. I was going to die, all because I'd believed in

Burke and refused to listen to Sullivan. Just two days ago,

Steve warned me that Burke could have boody-trapped

his own desk to make himself look innocent.

"That decision took months off my son's life, Erin,"

Burke continued. "It turned me into an accomplice in

my own little boy's death. I tried so hard to live with that.

But I couldn't. Richard Thayers took everything from

me. My son. My self-image as a healer. My wife. My

home, because I couldn't stand to live in that house after

Caleb was gone. My job."

"Because you went into research?"

He shook his head. "I was fired months ago. I was putting too much time into my own research on that

damned CleenAir flimflam contraption that killed my

son."

"I'm so sorry, Burke."

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He nodded and said in a cracked voice. "I know you

are. And it's . . . there's no justice in this world. This is a

place where beautiful, innocent little children get sick

and die. And it doesn't matter how well they're loved.

But, Erin, it shouldn't also be a place where a father who

loves his son more than anything else gets conned into

having a hand in hastening his child's death. That's just

too much."

"It was still wrong, what you did, Burke," I said in a

near whisper, my throat too swollen with pent-up emotion to speak.

He made a derisive noise. "I should have sued, right?

Brought Thayers to court on charges of criminal negligence and so on?"

I managed a small nod.

"I didn't want a dollar figure attached to Caleb's life.

To have judges and lawyers and doctors calculating how

much money parents deserve for some bastard shortening their dying son's life. Besides, Richard made it clear

that the product was still in Beta testing. Though he also

claimed that it was this state-of-the-art product that would

eventually revolutionize air quality in the home. I was

the one who wanted to partner with him--turn it into a

legitimate business that could allow patients with weak

autoimmune systems to convalesce at home. If I had sued

Thayers, I would've been publicly humiliating myself.

The press would have played me as the arrogant doctor

who tried to play God. The fool who defied prevailing

wisdom about patient care and trusted the snake-oil salesman with his own son's life."

Not knowing if it would help or hurt my cause of getting out of here alive, I decided I had to at least go down

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fighting. I said sternly, "So you took revenge instead and

tricked Richard into poisoning himself."

"Yes."

"Did it make you feel any better? Did it restore your

sense of justice in any way?"

"No. No, Erin, it didn't." He swiped at his tears, then

pointed the gun at me again. "I rented lab space by myself at a private facility. When I began the research on

CleenAir, I expected only to find that his product was ineffective. Once I found out that the damned filtering material was emitting more harmful particles into the

environment, I had no choice. I could not let that man

continue to live."

"He didn't do it intentionally, though. I can't believe

he knew how bad his system was and still sold it to you."

"That's irrelevant, Erin! It was his responsibility to do

the kind of testing that I did myself! My own work was