slate-green eyes. Tom’s eyes were coffee bean brown. Don, once an outstanding athlete, limped from the ravages of his disease. Tom still ran the Chevron Houston Marathon. They were identifiably brothers in three areas: their personalities, drinking Miller Lite beer, and male pattern balding. Once back at the house, Tom brought Don’s bag in and took it to the guest bedroom.
Don surveyed the inside of the house for the second time. “Unbelievable place.”
He was more impressed than on his first trip. The foyer opened to a large living room fronting a modern kitchen. Plate glass windows faced the small airstrip, with pine and oak straddling the far side of the runway. The stone fireplace rose starkly between the windows, ending at the cathedral ceiling. The dining room, a small game room, and the master bedroom and bath occupied the west end of the house. Two guest bedrooms sandwiching a shared bath formed the east end. Upstairs, another guestroom and small bath joined a bonus room.
Tom grilled steaks on the concrete patio while Susie finished making salad and potatoes in the kitchen. Don limped to a cushioned wrought-iron chair, affording him a ringside seat to sunset. The sun fell beneath the horizon, a glowing ember marking the waning breath of another day.
“Damn pretty out here.” He popped the tops on two beer cans, kept one, and set the other on the serving tray next to Tom.
Tom looked up from his duties and nodded affirmatively. “Yeah, sure is,” he added while turning the steaks, “and the taxes in Grimes County are half of what you’d pay in Montgomery County.”
Don asked, “Have things settled down since Alvin?” referring to the incident in which Tom killed a man, accused a prominent lawyer of murder, and caused general mayhem in Houston a couple of years before.
Tom answered somewhat reflectively. “Yeah, pretty much. I’ll still get a look or two when I’m in Houston or Conroe, but most people don’t know me from Adam.” He sliced a small piece of sirloin and offered it to Don.
Don took a bite; the hot steak almost seared off the roof of his mouth. He blew several short breaths of hot air, trying to cool the sirloin. Still, it was delicious. “Mmm… thith ith ath good ath it geth.”
As Don savored the taste of the beef, Tom added, “The good news is that my business has exploded since then. I was prepared to slowly fade into the woodwork; for the first time since I hung my shingle out, I’ve had to turn cases down.”
Don finished his western hors d’oeuvres. He asked, “Whatever happened to the bitch?”
More curiosity than contempt defined Don’s question. Tom’s confrontation with Elizabeth Harker, former Houston district attorney, and his revealing—at least to his family and to her—her immoral actions in the most sensational murder case in years forced her out of Texas, the practice of law, and the quest for political power. The trial served as the catalyst for Tom’s rise to being the most sought-after expert witness in Texas.
The question fed uncomfortably into Tom’s mind. He reflected on past history before answering. An unshakable mix of hatred and fear laced his brain. “Harker? Don’t really know. She returned to the East as soon as she could. I hope she just slithered off the face of the planet.” Tom visualized his last encounter with her. “One sorry person. She’s gone from Houston and that’s all that matters.” He turned the steaks one last time. “These puppies are done.”
Three
Monday Evening,
December 28
Broken Wing Ranch
After dinner, Tom put a college basketball game on television and took two beers from the refrigerator. The men used the time between the commentary and the slam dunks for Don to describe the extraction system to Tom. Tom’s more than three decades as an on-the-board mechanical engineer for NASA’s Johnson Space Center rendered him quite capable of handling a little design improvement problem for his brother.
“OK, Don. I get the narrative. Let’s see your oil doodad on paper.”
“It’s our Jet Extraction Technology System. We call it JETS.”
Don unrolled a rough drawing onto the coffee table, holding the top down with his beer and the bottom with a ceramic coaster. The drawing depicted a neat, not-to-scale outline of a long, slender device, inside which two pipes were placed extending the entire length of the drawing. At the bottom was a sketch of the critical oil-gathering section. The section consisted of a cylindrical portion with perforations and a bottom chamber with some sort of ball valve attached to it. Tom immediately understood the basics of how the system was to work, but he wanted to hear the specifics from his brother.
“Here’s what we’re working with.” Don pointed to the top of the paper. “We’ve got an upper system and a lower system. We use the existing well casing and place two smaller steel tubes down the well.” He then pointed to the bottom of the page. “At the bottom we have the chamber area, which connects to both pipes. Actually, the tubes are attached to the chamber before we put it down the hole. I’ll explain the specifics in a minute. We’re using J55 steel pipe for the tubing.”
Tom already knew the specifics.
Don took his beer, holding the edge of paper with his left hand. He took a healthy swallow and replaced the can before continuing. “The two pipes—one’s the gas line where we send compressed air down, and the other’s the product line that handles slugs of oil that are captured. They get pushed out of the top of the well.” He gazed up at his brother. “You with me so far?”
“So far.”
“I thought so.” With growing enthusiasm and a need for approval, Don continued. “Now for the down-hole chamber.”
Susie sat down in a plush leather chair. She took the remote and switched away from the basketball game.
“Each tube is attached to the chamber. Once it’s in place, oil seeps through the perforations at the bottom of the JETS and into the pump chamber through the hole with the ball valve.” Don grinned and asked, “Still with me?”
“Still with you.”
“OK. What happens next is that we have a sensor that can tell when the chamber is full. At that point the compressor is turned on, and air pressure forces the oil back out of the bottom of the chamber. But, under pressure, the ball valve seats into the opening. The oil can’t escape, and since the pressure continues to build from the air compressor, it has no place to go but up the product line and out the top of the well to a holding tank.” Don, similar to the immortal Charlie Chan, solved another mystery.
Don grabbed his beer again, this time allowing the moisture on the paper to keep it attached to the table, and sat back. He swallowed and asked, “Is this sweet or what?”
Tom sat back as well. Resting against the couch cushions, he rolled his head toward Don. “It’s sweet. Real sweet.”
Don knew Tom too well. Tom had seen some things.
“OK, what’s wrong with it?”
Tom smiled and finished off his beer. “No, really, I think it’s solid in concept. I do have some questions.” He pointed to a specific portion of the drawing and asked, “What do you do for structural integrity of the two lines, the metal tubes?”
Don smiled again, but it was more a smile of guilt than of victory. “You got me on that one. Our biggest problem has been lowering both of the steel tubes down with the chamber without them getting all wrapped around each other. We get caught trying to push a rope. It’s a bitch.”
“No problem. I’ve got some ideas.” Tom stretched his legs out on the afghan rug. “Now let’s talk about the sensor.”
The phone rang. Susie got up