Into the Inferno - Earl Emerson [50]
At the fire station Ben and Karrie quickly took all three girls under their wing, while I went into the watch office and used my last few minutes before the noon meeting to glance at the shipping manifest I’d picked up at Continental.
The manifest sheets were all copies, but Cleve had handed me several other pieces of paper that were originals. I hadn’t bothered to look at any of it on the way home or at the car dealership. Some sort of procrastination thing. Trying to hold back my own demise. It’s harder to investigate your own end than you would think.
Holly’s load had originated in Chattanooga, Tennessee, where she’d made several stops to pick up merchandise. I wasn’t good at reading things like trucking manifests with all their columns and abbreviations, but I did manage to scribble down a list:
26 crated bicycles—Spears Bicycles Partners, to Seattle
44 boxes of bicycle accessories—Spears Bicycles Partners, to Seattle
32 boxes of paper towels—Bounty, to Seattle
16 boxes of hot sauce—Tamale Brothers, to Seattle
10 containers of Coca-Cola “product”—Coca-Cola, Inc., to Seattle
4 boxes books—Canyon View Systems, to Redmond
3 boxes miscellaneous—JCP, Inc., to San Jose via Seattle
3 bales comic books and assorted magazines—Spencer Publishing, to Bellevue
6 large boxes clothing—the Gap, to Seattle
8 small boxes miscellaneous—DuPont, Westinghouse, to Seattle
12 boxes assorted goods—Pacific Northwest Paint Contractors, to Tacoma
“Hey, Jim,” Ian Hjorth said, peeking into the office. “The meeting next door is about to start.”
“Sure.”
What caught my eye on the list was that three of the boxes marked miscellaneous had been shipped from Tennessee to Seattle but were ultimately destined for San Jose. The shipper was JCP, Inc., which most likely stood for Jane’s California Propulsion, Inc. But I’d already called them and they’d denied shipping anything through the Northwest last February.
“Jim?” It was Hjorth again.
“I’m coming.”
When I’d called Jane’s earlier, I’d wondered how Mr. Stuart could have been so certain without checking. People that cocksure, in my estimation, were frequently wrong.
I was now certain that our woes had originated in Holly’s rig, not the chicken truck.
Surely we wouldn’t have been the only people to contract this had our problems originated with the chicken truck. Wouldn’t we have heard about zombie chicken stranglers at the local chicken plants?
As far as I knew, all the chicken stranglers were still wrenching heads.
At five minutes before twelve, I walked next door to the city offices, where a crowd of officials had gathered. It was almost intimidating to see what I’d triggered.
I was under immense pressure to sway these folks to my viewpoint, yet I had no physical evidence to present, nothing but stories and speculation that now began to seem outlandish. I would have felt a whole lot more secure in my arguments if Stan Beebe had allowed events to unfold on their own, so that we knew what would have happened to him. It was a selfish thought.
I couldn’t help having misgivings about the outcome of this meeting. For one thing, Stephanie Riggs hadn’t shown up yet.
Also, I’d been counting on the shipping manifest to include some exotic chemical or biohazard, had been hoping the Department of Defense had been shipping germ cultures for their latest secret weapons. That would have at least given our search for an antidote some sort of direction. I could hardly claim we’d been poisoned by bicycle parts or hot sauce. I wasn’t happy that the guy at Jane’s had lied about shipping in February, but there could be other explanations for that.
I was stuck with Stan Beebe’s story, our fire department victims, and, of course, my own symptoms, which I was not planning to put forth for public review. Tell these people I was a goner, and inside of thirty minutes every busybody in town would know. Who wanted all the neighborhood biddies bringing over casseroles? People would want to pray with me. Could you imagine? The Toyota dealer would repossess the car. My phone wouldn