Page 110 of The Deadly Shallows

“And how did you dispose of it?” Caleb asked.

“We used an EPA-approved company to dispose of it at the hazardous waste site up in Leland.”

Austin made a note in her phone. Yet another place to check on.

“Mind giving us a quick tour of the plant?” Caleb asked.

“Sure,” Len said. “Let’s grab you some hard hats.”

“Hard hats?” Austin arched her brows.

“Safety protocol,” Len said. “We’ve got a new safety-assurance gal, and she’s implemented a number of precautionary procedures.”

Gal? Austin let that one go. Maybe he hadn’t meant anything by it, but his tone certainly hadn’t sounded flattering.

Len led them into the plant, where a pungent smell filled the air. Part strong chemical, part . . . Whatever it was, it was definitely unique.

“What kind of products do you specialize in?” Caleb asked.

“Car seats, shoe linings, mattress and pillow filling, along with a number of items for the medical market.”

“Medical?” Austin asked as they followed Len deeper into the plant and past blue scaffolding with gigantic rolls of foam nearly touching the thirty-foot-high warehouse ceiling. They entered another set of gray double doors, and the odor intensified, saws whirred, and black ooze slithered down a large chute.

“Put these on.” Len handed them both protective eye gear.

The last time Austin had worn a pair was in high school chemistry.

“Running,” a man called from the machine’s control panel.

A high-pitched whirring sounded as a yellow light circled on the scaffolding overhead. Len scooted them along. What looked like a combination of lava mixed with bright blue liquid poured down the chute in front of them, the liquid thickening into foam by the time it reached the end of the shaft.

Austin had never seen foam made. It was interesting. But far more so were the off-limits sections Len claimed were too dangerous to enter without the proper training and gear.

A half hour later, they thanked Len for the tour and for answering their questions, then exited the plant.

“I didn’t see anything that stuck out as a concern,” Caleb said, opening his car door for Austin. “But I think we better follow up on the disposal of TCEP—see if what they have to say matches up with what Len said.”

“Agreed.”

FIFTY-FOUR

“Hopefully we’ll have better luck here,” Noah said, opening the glass door of Lance’s Logo Supplies for Brooke. The first logo shop had been a bust.

“Thanks,” she said, stepping inside as a bell jangled overhead.

A man approached the other side of the roughhewn wooden counter in a plaid shirt and faded blue jeans. “How you folks doing today?”

“Fine, thanks,” Noah said, lifting his badge on the chain around his neck. “Special Agent Noah Rowley.”

“Jim Larson,” the man said, shaking Noah’s extended hand.

“This is Miss Kesler,” Noah said.

“Miss.” Jim gave a nod.

“We’re hoping you might be able to help us out,” Noah said.

“Oh?” Jim leaned forward, planting his palms on the counter. “What kind of help?”