proudest achievements as a public servant.
Soon, lawyers discovered Dorn’s bill permitted a number of facilities in every state to take a self-policing approach to many regulations. Savings on environmental control equipment and improved profits soon followed. Right behind them were political contributions, access to corporate jets, and luxurious vacations for Representative and Mrs. Dorn. Encouraged, he had begun to give speeches on the topics of individual and economic liberty—ideas more powerful than any fanatical religious or totalitarian movements, he liked to remind his audiences.
His timing had been good. The public, fed up with an over-governed, politically correct economy, had responded to his demands for lower corporate taxes and a rollback in government. And too much government was a problem worldwide. Others had taken up the call. The Liberty Agenda, as the movement he championed had become known, was gaining international traction. The plant was the perfect symbol of all that.
Not only that, his aides had learned that by happy circumstance the next week represented the tenth anniversary of the plant’s groundbreaking. Given that he was responsible for its existence and that it was about to be the lynchpin of his effort to achieve higher office, Dorn did not find it at all surprising when his consultants reported that the good folks at the plant had been happy to integrate their celebration with the congressman’s effort—quickly agreeing to erect a stage in front of the facility’s least unattractive side and to shut the entire operation for an hour the following Monday so every worker on the day shift could leave to attend as happy, dedicated workers, the whole tableau a picture of progress.
The news media had already risen to the bait. CNN was dangling the possibility of live coverage in exchange for an exclusive interview with the congressman following the event.
But, as always, there was the unexpected. Folding chairs, flags, red, white and blue bunting—even long tables to display his campaign literature—all had been reserved for the upcoming River Days celebration. Replacements had to be trucked in from Charleston and Cincinnati.
While ultimately accommodating, management had been unusually greedy during discussions about how long and how prominently the company logo would be displayed during the campaign commercial. Vince Bludhorn, the plant attorney, had insisted on at least one-eighth of the screen for a minimum total of six seconds during the thirty-second spot. The campaign’s ad agency, which had scrambled a top-flight production crew on short notice, agreed in principle but insisted on final creative control. Dorn had been forced to end the discussion in a way that satisfied no one—telling the agency that he, not the agency, had creative control and telling the folks at the plant, as he had learned to do so artfully on the Hill, that he was personally committed to their point of view and that he would do his very best but could make no promises.
Now, the problem was that there weren’t enough blacks employed at the plant, at least on the day shift, to reflect the new ideal of a racially diverse America. Women were adequately represented and so were Hispanics. But not the blacks.
Most of his aides, he believed, were competent. Manipulative, backstabbing, self-promoting, certainly. But competent. He couldn’t say the same for Richey who had once mistakenly handed him a copy of a press release about his speech instead of a copy of the speech itself, leading Dorn to give a talk in which he ended a stirring sentence by saying, “Congressman Harry Dorn declared today,” in effect quoting himself. The fact that Richey’s chief interest was using his business card to impress the district’s women had never been an issue before. Now, all the aide’s shortcomings were becoming glaring liabilities.
The sound of Clendenin’s heels on the wooden front porch interrupted Dorn’s thoughts.
“The crowd problem’s handled,” he said. “The plant’s promoting a black guy and a black woman from the night shift to the day shift. When the camera shoots the crowd from over your shoulder, they’ll be front and center.”
“What about the big crowd shots?” Dorn asked.
“We’re busing in the whole congregation of the Tabernacle Church of the Cross in Charleston.”
What’s in it for them?”
“New church bus.”
“You’re amazing.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Dorn stared at a bend in the river. The wind had picked up, creating little wavelets that made the Ohio look like it was flowing upstream, against its natural current. “We need to dump Richey. He’s bad news.”
Allison opened the sliding glass door. The fog of the previous evening had thickened into a heavy mist that wet the patio bricks outside her condo. She could smell the river. She waited. Still no Hippocrates.
She had been unable to sleep for the second straight night. She was worried about Katie and disappointed not to have heard from Josh after the trip to Columbus. She had had no luck finding her x-ray patients. And there was still no sign of her missing cat. It was as if they had all been transported to some other world, a place maddeningly beyond her reach.
She arrived at the clinic just as Coretha was accepting a package from an overnight delivery service. “Good news,” she announced. “Replacement x-ray film. The supplier’s looking at the old stuff to see if it caused the problem. You’re early, even for you.”
“Any call-backs?”
“Only Wanda Faggart, the lady with the toe. She’s coming in later this morning. Pringle’s moved. No forwarding address. Cloninger listed a post office box for her address. She doesn’t have a land line, at least in her name. None of ’em are on Facebook.”
“Cloninger probably hangs with that abuser, Darryl, whoever he is.”
“Ricky Scruggs lives out in Blood Run. I left a message on his phone. I haven’t heard back but I also sent registered letters to everyone except Pringle. They should get them today.”
“If they’re around to receive them. Let me know as soon as you reach anyone else. Keep the afternoon clear.” Allison poured herself coffee. “Any word from Josh Gibbs?”
“Nothing from him either.”
Josh had arrived at the newspaper knowing he had to finish as much of the week’s edition as possible, given the uncertainties ahead. The chance to escape the torture of imagining every outcome for Katie had been a pleasant prospect, a much-needed distraction from worry.
But it was still work. He had ripped through the filings from the community stringers, each of whom earned ten dollars weekly for sending in reports from their hamlets—births, hospitalizations, even news of out-of-town visitors (weddings and deaths got separate treatment)—and hurriedly updated the Little League standings. He had dashed off an innocuous editorial urging readers to support the local farmer’s market and reluctantly selected a photo of the police department’s new rifle range for the front page. It wasn’t much of a news picture but Chief Holt was extremely proud of the facility and had been badgering Josh for coverage for days.
He had been about to finish page design when the phone interrupted. He was hoping for a call from Dr. Pepper with the results of Katie’s tests. But he had specified that the doctor call his cell phone, which he had kept at the ready 24/7 since leaving Columbus. This wasn’t that call and he didn’t need an interruption.
