Fallout. Mark Ethridge

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.”

Chapter Thirteen

      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. But he could see on the caller ID that it was Allison.