that's not up to us to decide."
"That'd be right!" said Meyer at last. "Dump it all in my lap. As soon as things start to get...."
"Jerry wasn't referring to you, Les," cut in Del. "He was meaning the police."
"Police!!" Meyer caught hold of Presswood's arm and turned him; then he was gripping both arms tightly above the elbows. "Why do we need to bring the police into this?"
Del looked down poignantly at Meyer's hands. The fingers opened slowly and they fell away. Del brought his eyes up to focus on the Company man's face. "Because they don't like people solving their own murder cases, Les, not even Company Drilling Superintendents."
5
Del eventually made it to his room. Typical of the conditions under which they all worked, it was without trimmings and purely functional. In the early days, he had tried adding personal touches such as photos and the odd ornament in the hopes of creating a more homely atmosphere, but they had merely served as constant reminders of the place he would rather be. Then, when things had started getting strained between him and Sal, the mementos had become weeping sores he hadn't the time or the expertise to cure, so he'd packed them away and had attempted to lose himself in the job. Now he had come full circle and was wishing he had something of Liz's to remind him that not everything in his life had been a total disaster.
It was probably just as well there was only the letter. It was one thing he definitely wouldn't be sticking on the wall or leaving around for some inquisitive bastard to find and talk about. If there was nothing to suggest otherwise, the crew would tend to regard him as a cold son-of-a-bitch who felt more for his job than he did for anything else in the world. If they thought that, they might leave him alone to sort out whatever mess had been dumped on him.
He was still pretty much in the dark about that. Apart from refreshing his unfortunate acquaintance with Les Meyer, he hadn't spoken to anyone in depth about anything. There hadn't even been time to follow up on Doug Bromley's suggestive warnings. Now that the recent events seemed to confirm his predecessor's suspicions that something weird was going on, he figured the smartest game he could play was solitaire. Perhaps after an hour or so of his own company, something might start to make sense.
The outer room was merely an office, furnished with filing cabinets, desks and other more specialised equipment. Being only small, it was a work-jungle and wasn't helping his frame of mind. He passed through to the sleeping quarters which he knew would be smaller still, but might, at least be conducive to relaxation, after a fashion.
The smell hit him the instant he walked in. Del screwed up his nose at the lingering must of stale tobacco smoke which rose to meet him. He would have to try to ignore it. At least Doug hadn't smoked a pipe. Del caught himself wondering about Bromley's taste in pickles and gave himself a sharp reprimand: "It's finished," he growled and tossed his luggage onto the bed.
Three strides and he was at the door on the far side of the bedroom. He peered in. It was just the usual mini-bathroom, except there was no bath. There never was when he felt in need of a good soak. He went to the wash basin instead and splashed water on his face. Then he looked up, saw the reflection of his battered countenance in the mirror, sighed and went in search of a towel.
He knew that stretching out on the bed was the wrong thing to do, but he had only intended to take the weight off his feet for five minutes. He awoke with a start when he heard a man's voice. There was a shape hovering in the doorway. He blinked at it. "What? Who's that?"
"Jack Pierce," mumbled the visitor awkwardly. "Look, I shouldn't have disturbed you. I'm sorry." His head disappeared and Del could hear footsteps crossing the office.
"Jack, wait!" he called. "It's okay." He swung his legs off the bed and lumbered, still half asleep, towards the door. Pierce had stopped and turned in his direction. "What did you want?"
Jack shook his head. "It can wait. It wasn't important."
"Stay anyway," said Del. Pierce looked nervous. "Really, I mean it. You did me a favour. I never intended to doze off. Pull up a chair." Del was attempting to push his shirt-tail back into his pants when the material ripped. "Oh, great!"
"I suppose there's someone at home who can fix that for you?" It should have been an ice-breaker, a casual note to begin on, but for some reason he had the feeling he had touched one of Presswood's sore points. The toolpusher had become suddenly moody. "Sorry, I didn't mean it to sound as if I was prying."
Del waved off the apology. "You weren't." He went back into the bedroom. When he returned, he was buttoning a fresh shirt. He turned a chair to face Pierce and sat down. "Now, what shall we talk about?"
Jack leaned his elbows on his knees and stared vacantly at the floor. "You're not going to make it easy for me, are you?"
Del frowned. "Come again."
"You might as well say what you're here to say and get it over with." Jack rolled with the pent-up emotions: it was preferable to fighting them. "Don't waste your time with prolonged investigations. I can tell you what you need to know - why he died, how he died. I've already resigned, you know, so there's no point in threatening me with losing my job. Then again, you'll probably want to take it further, get your pound of flesh in court."
Del's hands were up, trying to halt the babbling, self-flagellation. "I don't know who you think I am, Jack, but I sure as hell don't take confessions. And what's all this with the investigations? What investigations? Is this something else I should know about and nobody thought to tell me?" Del leaned back and folded his arms. "Let's get one thing straight, Jack - I transferred for personal reasons. I didn't choose Olympian: it was just available. At least, I thought that was the case. Now I'm beginning to wonder. I feel like I'm being manipulated, and I don't like it."
"I thought...." Jack mumbled himself into silence. Presswood was waiting. What did he give him - the whole truth, or just enough? What was enough? He didn't know. Jack looked up. "You're not here because of Eddie, then?"
"I didn't even know this was Eddie's rig until I met Doug Bromley on the chopper pad. He suggested I talk to you and I was going to get round to it. You seem to have got in first."
The intercom buzzed. Presswood answered it. "Les here," echoed the speaker. "Can I see you in my office? We've got a problem with the kelly."
Del glanced at Pierce. The diving super had started to rise. He appeared relieved by Meyer's interruption, but Del had the feeling that he could never be at peace until he had unloaded whatever problems were troubling him. "I'm tied up right now, Les. Sam should be able to handle it. I'll be there as soon I can." He waved at Pierce to sit down again.
"Five minutes, Del. This is important!"
"Everything is with you, Les. I said I'll be there when I'm ready!" There was a slight sneer on Del's lips as he walked away.
Pierce said: "Eddie was right."
"About what?"
"About you. He said you were hard-nosed, that you'd only take so much stick before you started throwing it back with interest."
Del shrugged. "I just do what I have to. I don't always enjoy it. If people respect me, I'll do the same for them."
"Does Meyer know that?"
"He knows. Les and I go back a way. He was just an irritation
