LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      “A turtle?” Jack laughed. “What put that idea into your head?”

      “There was a show on turtles last night. Did you know they can live a hundred years?”

      “Well, the big ones can, like the ones they have at the zoo, but we’re not getting one of those.”

      “So we can get a small one?”

      “We’ll talk about it when I get home, okay?”

      “Okay. I love you, Daddy.”

      “I love you too, punkin.”

      The line then went dead. With a smile, Jack Hayden replaced the phone in his pocket and forged through the woods until he finally came to what was clearly the continuation of the old road he had lost earlier, illuminated by a shaft of light that bled through the treetops. “All it takes is a beam of pure sunshine to light the way,” he said, thinking more about his daughter’s golden face, which was lovely, despite the prominent crimp on her upper lip, than of the sun itself.

      Jack was encouraged by the fact that Robynn remained unaffected by the scar on her face, which was the result of an operation for a severely cleft palate when she was less than a year old. He hoped it would always be that way, but in his heart he knew that would not be the case. Someday, confronted by the cruelty of other children or society in general, Robynn would be forced to accept the fact that her face was, in the eyes of the world, blemished. The thought of that impending kept him awake some nights. He tried to push it out of his mind now.

      The loud crunching sounds Jack’s steps made as he trudged up the nearly overgrown dirt and gravel road were the only sounds around him. He was beginning to wonder whether or not he would be able to find his way back to his truck when he spotted the ruins of some kind of structure. Jack jogged up to it, his breath now coming in visible spouts. Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out the small microcassette on which he recorded all his notes, impressions and figurings, which were then later transcribed onto paper back in the office. He knew from looking at the original plans for the layout Wood City that this building would be residential, and even a cursory examination of this structure told him occupancy would be impossible. “Residential structure number one, single storey,” he said into the tape recorder, “roof missing, chimney collapsed. Doors missing, glass missing, completely out of square and noticeably listing to one side.” Carefully, he crept to the open windows and peered in. “Interior walls open, studs revealed,” he recorded, as he shined a flashlight beam over the walls. “Construction is very cheap. There appears to be more than two feet distance between some of the studs. Overall, the structure looks unsafe for entry. If you’re listening in, Marcus, nobody in their right mind would inhabit this dump.”

      Shining the light around, he saw nothing of value inside, except for a stack of wood that was obviously for the fire, and a white object on the floor. Training his light on it, Jack saw that it was a ruined child’s doll, a baby figure dressed in a filthy, ragged cloth nightgown. Had it been in better shape, he might have rescued it, cleaned it up and had it appraised. It was not everyday that one stumbled over a 1930s era toy. But this one was in such a state of decay that it could not possibly have any value. Jack’s thoughts shifted to the doll’s original owner, whoever she was. Living in this glorified lumber camp couldn’t have been easy for a kid.

      After circling the house and dictating a few more notes, Jack Hayden slipped the microcassette back in his jacket pocket and from another one pulled out his digital camera, and photographed the place from each side. He had sat in on only one client meeting with the unsmiling wealth monkeys from Resort Partners, LLC, the Las Vegas firm that was committed to the notion of turning the ghost town of Wood City into a new getaway resort, but it was enough to know that they would never believe that the existing buildings could not be salvaged without photographic proof.

      Once finished, he slid the camera back into his pocket (and even though people had been bugging him to get a camera phone, which took up much less pocket space, Jack preferred a separate camera) and went off in search of the other buildings. What he found were mostly footprints and artifacts, a collapsed fireplace here, a foundation block there, even a small sink at one site. Five cabin-sized houses still retained walls though their roofs had fallen in. For all his diligence in trudging through the dirt and pushing through tangles of brush, Jack had come upon nothing that was salvageable for future use. Nothing. The entire site would have to be razed.

      His phone rang again, and this time he answered it immediately, fearing that it might be Elley calling to tell him that Robynn’s spots were not simply hives.

      “Hi, Jack, it’s Yolanda.”

      Damn. “Hey, Yoli, what’s up? Or do I want to know?”

      Yolanda Valdera was Marcus Broarty’s personal secretary. She was a pleasant, professional, and highly competent young woman with the patience of a horse and the kind of beauty that stopped traffic, even in L.A.. The latter, Jack knew, was the primary reason she was hired, despite her efficiency as a worker and ability to get along with anyone inside Crane Commercial Building Engineering, even assholes like Marcus. Jack sometimes wondered if it was not really Yolanda who kept the company running.

      “I have Mr. Broarty for you.”

      “My empty life is now complete,” Jack said, and at the other end of the line was the sharp snort that meant Yolanda was stifling a laugh.

      “I’ll put him through,” she said.

      You can put him through the sewer line to clean it, Jack thought.

      Marcus Broarty’s voice came on the line. “I’m a busy man, Jack, so don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me what you’re finding up there in our central coast paradise.”

      “Not much, I’m afraid.”

      “Those are discouraging words, Jack. I don’t want to hear any negativity.”

      Christ. “I know, but believe me, Marc, it isn’t good.” Jack Hayden gave his boss a rundown of the notes he had recorded. When he was done, Broarty asked: “Can’t anything be fixed up?”

      “When I get back to the motel, I’ll email you the pictures and you can see for yourself.”

      “And you inspected each building, right?”

      “I haven’t found the commercial area of the town yet, but the residential structures can’t even be called buildings anymore.”

      “Shit. Those are what Emac was most hoping to rehabilitate.”

      Emac was Egon McMenamin, the director of expansion for Resort Partners, and the man who was responsible for Jack’s firm being brought in on the project. That nickname was what McMenamin insisted with forced joviality that all his acquaintances call him. If Jack’s parents had been so sadistic as to saddle him with a name like Egon, he’d probably be insisting on a pseudonym too.

      “These are wood structures, Marc, and they don’t look like they were made very well to begin with. They’ve been exposed to the elements for more than seventy years, so you can’t expect them to hold up. Emac has to understand that.”

      “That kind of attitude is not being helpful, Jack.”

      Jack closed his eyes, feeling a headache coming on. “I’m not giving you attitude, Marc, I’m giving you the truth. I’m standing here looking at unsafe, unsound ruins. I wish I could change that fact, but I can’t.”

      “Well, then, Jacko, I guess you’d better start thinking about how you’re going to break the news to Emac.”

      “How I’m going to break the news?” Jack said, a little more sharply than he had intended.

      “You’re the one who’s seeing the conditions of these buildings, not me. You’re the one with the first-hand knowledge.”

      Right, and if someone has to take a hit for telling the truth, it’s certainly not going to be Mr. MBA, which within the company stood for Marcus Broarty, Asshole. “All right,” Jack sighed. Right now, all

Скачать книгу