Unreasonable Risk

Unreasonable Risk

A Hannah Morrison Mystery

By Karen Hall

Copyright 2011 Karen Hall

Published by Karen Hall Books at Smashwords

Hardcover First edition published 2006

by ArcheBooks Publishing, Inc. Las Vegas, NV

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Ruth and Howard Hall

Unreasonable Risk

Chapter 1

Thursday, November 10

Hannah Morrison narrowed her eyes and shook her head.

Not again. She tapped her pen against the schematic that covered her desktop, then reached for a red highlighter. She circled the symbol labeled oxygen analyzer and noted in the margin:

This is an environmental analyzer. It belongs in the heater STACK, not the convection section. Please DO NOT INSTALL without contacting H. Morrison, Environmental Engineering.

Hannah rolled the drawing with several others, checked her watch, and considered a quick lunch before the next meeting—a discussion of air quality monitoring, the upcoming stack tests and, of all things, how to keep deer out of stormwater basins. At least she had Volunteer Emergency Response Squad—VERSE—training later today where she could use her body as well as her mind. Until then, like most days, it would be a yawner.

As she slid a rubber band onto the roll of drawings, a tremor shook beneath her feet. Hannah sat bolt upright, heart pounding.

An earthquake? Not in Minnesota.

Had she imagined it? No. She heard the faint whump following and knew what it meant. The small hairs at the nape of her neck prickled.

She turned to look at the oil refinery beyond her office windows. Nearly 150,000 barrels of crude oil entered the process every day and emerged as gasoline, diesel fuel, asphalt and other products. Each part of the whole was inextricably tied to others, an integrated system with complexity rivaling that of the human body. Some of its parts were in trouble.

There! A thin column of black smoke rose above the mass of piping, towers and vessels. Near the back of the plant, she thought, across nearly a mile of densely packed processing equipment. She grabbed her hardhat and sprinted down the hall toward the bank of cafeteria windows. She ignored the crowded lunchroom, catching only snippets of conversation as she slipped between tables to the glass.

A second thump, sharper this time.

People paused, looked out at the plant, and the room lapsed into unnatural silence.

Whump.

Outside, the safety flares, tall, thin towers dormant except in emergencies, lit like roman candles, flames rocketing a hundred feet into the sky.

The room erupted with noise and activity as people abandoned their lunches and scattered. Emergency sirens clamored from every direction, three repeated bursts, echoing down every hallway. After one last glimpse of the black smoke, wider, thicker now, Hannah turned to run.

She pushed out the back door, following the river of people into the plant, and ran for the fire barn, heart pounding.

It’s real this time. Not a drill. All the training, all the practice. You can do this, she told herself.

Hey, Hannah! Get a move on! Another rookie firefighter sprinted past her.

She picked up her pace, swung around the corner of the massive fire barn garage doors and shouldered through the crowd of firefighters to her locker. Spill’s big—no way to stop it. It’s heading for 8V-22—gotta get foam in there now! The voice on the plant’s emergency channel barely disguised panic, and Hannah felt the blood drain from her face. The hydrotreater. V-22. She knew that unit, understood how bad life could get if that vessel went up. Trying to keep her fear under control, she clambered into heavy fire-retardant overalls and coat, slid into thick rubber boots, hung a facemask around her neck and tied her hair up under her fire hat.

Ready, partner?

She jumped at Marv Calick’s voice behind her. Ready as I’m ever gonna be. Her voice shook. She patted her pockets to be sure she had her gloves.

Marv pulled her around a bank of lockers and cornered her there. Now, listen. I know this is your first time out for real. He spoke quickly, but his tone was relaxed. You don’t have to be a hero. Just do as you’re told, okay? I’ll be beside you all the way. Think about the training. Pretend it’s an exercise.

Okay. She checked her pockets for earplugs.

If you can’t remember, or you want to get out, shake your head ‘no’ and I’ll understand. We’ll go. Got that?

Yes, sir. She took a deep breath, felt the carotids hammer in her throat.

He smiled and whacked her hat. Okay, let’s go.

Marv? she said to his retreating back.

He turned. What?

She shrugged slightly, flushed. Thanks.

You’ll be fine, kiddo. He winked at her. Time to strut your stuff."

I hope I remember it all. She took a deep breath.

You will. He puffed out his chest. Have confidence—you were taught by the best.

God, she said as they hurried past banks of lockers. Could your ego get any bigger? He actually laughed as they rounded a corner into the barn itself, and Hannah felt herself relax just a little.

The first engine had already left. They climbed onto the second, hooking elbows through the bars as the truck pulled out, its siren deafening. Hannah, steeling her arm, felt her body swing wide as they took the first corner. She snugged herself up tight behind Marv—her partner, her friend, her anchor—and stared at his broad, protective back as they barreled through the refinery toward the billowing smoke. Hundred-foot towers, steel gray heaters and vessels flashed past like fence posts. People ran, shouted, everywhere. The acrid smell of smoke, sharpening as they careened into the heart of the plant, told her they were close.

God help us. This is real.

She closed her eyes, rehearsed the training drills, tried to shut out the noise, the flames, the adrenaline. Impossible to do, of course—they were firefighters, sweating already, hearts pounding, on the truck, headed for the real thing.

* * * * *

By the time Hannah finally took her turn on the hose half an hour later, her head already ached. The fire thundered, deafened them all. Despite the November chill, inside her heavy firefighting gear a rivulet of sweat trickled down her back, a souvenir of the fire’s astonishing heat. Her face shield fogged up, though she tried all the tricks to keep it clear. Not that she could see much anyway. She hung onto the hose, aligning the nozzle with what she assumed was the base of the flames. All that water, and she couldn’t even tell where it was going. Punctuated with the flicker of flame, thick smoke blackened the sky, a frightening illusion that turned noon into night.

This part of the plant, a spaghetti mass of faded institutional green piping and equipment, was jammed tight together, almost like city row houses. The difference—everything here would burn. Or explode. She stood in a slick, shallow pool of oil, sandwiched in a tight space between tall, narrow vessels. The oil clung everywhere, coating boots, hose, gear and hardware. Firefighters’ foam blanketed the stuff so it wouldn’t vaporize and burn, but it wasn’t much comfort, that thin skin of purple bubbles between safety and incineration. There in the dark. In a place that sounded and felt like hell itself.

God. What am I doing here?

Marv’s tap on her shoulder interrupted her thoughts, finally signaling mandatory rotation on the hose. No cowboys—or cowgirls—allowed. Her hands were cramped and she was glad to relinquish the heavy nozzle. Go back to the Warm Zone and get a fresh air pack. Sit for a minute. Defog her face shield. Find out what the hell was going on.

She prepped for the transfer, spreading her feet, broadening her base of support. Another firefighter stepped immediately in front of her as she pushed the nozzle forward under the man’s right armpit. She felt his arm clamp onto the hose and his heavily gloved hands close around the nozzle. She withdrew slowly, as she’d been taught, to be sure her replacement had complete control before she let go. Hannah stepped away and glanced back for Marv. For an instant, the isolation of the mask made her shiver. Her senses heightened, she heard her own labored breath sounds on the edge of the fire’s thunder, smelled the rubber of her facemask. Where the hell is Marv?

Contact. She felt his hand on her air tank.

They backed away from the fire as a unit, carefully, checking for equipment and structures as they went. Five feet. Ten feet. Still black. Still thunderous. Her tank whistled, telling her she had five minutes to get back to the Warm Zone before she ran out of air. Not a problem—on the way. They skirted a bank of heat exchangers, heading left away from the fire, never turning their backs to it. When you did that, fire would reach out and grab you, Marv had said. It had happened to too many good people over the years—his friends, some disfigured, some now dead, consumed by flames that didn’t care about fuel type, flames that needed something, anything, to feed their hunger.

Hannah tried to think about something else.

They had begun to move as partners, each with an idea of what the other was thinking, but it surprised her when Marv pushed her to a stop from behind. She began to turn, questioning, when she felt her neck stiffen. The fire was supposed to be on her right.

A second fire. Big. On the left.

She shivered, a tight frisson of fear, and her pulse ratcheted higher yet. The fire pounded, beat on the bottom, up the sides of a huge vessel, ate at a pool of oil in the diked area under its legs.

The rubber odor inside her mask was gone, replaced by the sour smell of her own fear. Too much. She tapped Marv’s shoulder and shook her head no. Pointed. Let’s get out of here. He shook his head, raised one finger. She pointed to her low-pressure alarm, raised two fingers. Almost out of air. They both knew, though—she had a five-minute emergency pack, too.

His eyes searched. What was he looking for? Then she understood. Every piece of equipment in the refinery was designated by unique identifier—process unit, letter, number. This one would be 39V—something. The numbers were painted in several places on vessels this big, should be easy to find. She nodded and started forward.

Marv held a hand up, palm out. She saw it in his eyes: caution. Or was it fear? She stopped. Her pulse pounded, the sour smell sharpening. As he moved closer to the vessel, Hannah tried to control her breathing, conserve her air.

While she watched, she thought about the fire’s danger to this enormous vessel. Heat vaporized whatever was in there, and if pressure inside exceeded the strength of the walls—BOOM! Like an overfilled birthday balloon, but it wouldn’t be shreds of latex, just a little hot air. Not by a long shot.

Closer to the vessel, Marv pointed, gave her a thumbs up sign. He must have found the number. They knew enough now to get a team out here with foam and hoses.

Marv swung around, backing away from both parts of the fire, heading upwind toward Hannah. away from the black smoke, from the heat, away to where the air was breathable.

So they both saw it when it happened, almost like slow motion. Hannah screamed in the isolation of her mask. She ran toward Marv as the side of the vessel ripped open, shoved by the hot liquids and gases inside, pushed out like water through a split in a garden hose.

Too late. Too late to wish she hadn’t done it. Too late to say, No way. Fighting fires? Not my kind of deal.

Too late for a lot of things.

The force of it knocked Marv down, coated him with steaming green oil. So slippery, so hot, so much. She waded in as Marv tried to crawl. She pulled at him, wasn’t strong enough to get him to his feet, even with adrenaline slowing things down and pumping her full of strength. Too waxy. He slipped again and grabbed for her. As the pool widened, she dragged him through the oil until her own tank emptied.

No air!

Her lungs sucked at nothing.

She had to let go of him. While she fumbled for the valve to her emergency air pack, the growing lake overlapped the vessel’s curb. The two pools touched and flames swept toward them. She took her first breath of emergency air as fire jumped onto Marv. It blanketed his body, reaching for every surface, every seam, every crease containing oil.

She grabbed him again as he struggled, slipped, fell. She yanked him out of the lake of flames, rolled him on the concrete, beat him with her coat to put them out. She looked through his face shield once, couldn’t bear the pain and terror there, kept smothering, beating at the fire. It took a long time.

Sobbing, Hannah dragged his dead weight all the way to the edge of the Hot Zone, where others took over. Paramedics. She ran out of emergency air, ripped off her facemask, threw it down, and sprinted to the field command vehicle, screaming about the second fire. By the time she got back, the ambulance was gone.

She collapsed, burying her head in her hands. Why hadn’t she valved to the emergency pack sooner? She knew she was almost out of air. She might have pulled him out.

Stupid mistake, even for a rookie.

People stared. Nobody came to help her as she knelt, dripping oil on the concrete. She had let her partner burn.

Chapter 2

Thursday, November 10

Hannah tried to help with cleanup once the fires were out, volunteered to work a HAZMAT detail, but they sent her away. In the locker room, she stripped off her gear and heaped it in the laundry bin.

These boots are ruined, she thought. I’ll have to get new ones. Maybe like Marv’s.

She slumped onto the bench, remembering—just last week she’d ridden him unmercifully about his new Doc Martens, telling him they were for teenagers.

Get off it, Hannah, he said. They’re comfortable.

Your daughter’ll love ’em, she taunted, the worst possible insult.

He smiled as he said, Screw you and your sister.

And now he was burned.

The odor clung to her hair, the smell of burning oil, burning flesh. She couldn’t wait to get into the shower. As the steaming water sluiced through her hair, across her body and down her legs, a rainbow ribbon of oil curled into the drain. She dialed the hot water higher until all the oil was gone, her skin was raw and she felt almost burned herself.

The hospital’s off limits, the VERSE commander had told her when she asked if he’d heard anything. They won’t let you see him, anyway. Just family. They’ll call when they know something. And no, you can’t talk to Marv’s wife, either. She’s in there with him. He paused. Besides, management will want to talk to you.

As Hannah stepped into her red Nomex coveralls and spare boots, she bit back her anxiety and tried to prepare herself to meet with the safety manager. He wanted to know, of course, exactly what had happened. Although she gathered her damp copper-red hair into a ponytail, a few recalcitrant strands escaped to curl softly around her face. She tucked them behind an ear, squared her shoulders and inspected her image. Tall and lean, she looked fit. There was a hollow look to her face, though, and her blue-gray eyes wore a sadness she knew would be with her for a long time.

Drawing a deep breath, she found the safety manager in his office. She told him the story, gave him details, blinking hard to keep her eyes from tearing.

You don’t know how long the second fire had been burning, then, the safety manager said.

No. She picked at the edge of the conference room table. We had to detour through the 39 Unit because they were deploying more equipment along the regular evacuation route. Nobody else went that way. We were the first ones there.

Why was Marv near the vessel and you weren’t?

I told you, she tried to keep her voice steady, he was looking for its number and signaled me to stay where I was.

So you did.

The safety manager stared at her. Over his shoulder, she glanced at his boss, the stocky refinery manager, Bruce McMullin, who was leaning on his elbows at the other end of the table, watching and listening.

Yes. She looked from one to the other and suspected they would blame her for Marv’s accident. That’s the way things worked—find someone to blame. It didn’t help that she already blamed herself. He always knew what he was doing, so I did what he said. She stared down at the table, took a deep breath, had to ask: Have you heard anything? How is he?

Still listed as critical.

Later, alone in her office, Hannah tried to work, but a jumble of images kept intruding—the pain in Marv’s face as she beat the flames, the panic in his fingers as he grabbed her coat sleeve. The horrific smells. She jumped at the knock on her office door.

Come in. She braced herself.

Hannah? How’re you doing? John Kittleson came in and closed the door. Tall, tan and rangy, John was one of those lucky guys with a metabolism to die for. Hannah had watched him eat many a whole pizza while she picked at a single slice.

I’m okay, I guess. She pulled her fingers through the drying tangles of red hair, curling a strand around her index finger.

I just stopped by to say I’m sorry about Marv. I know how hard it must be. He settled into her spare chair.

Thanks.

You shouldn’t be here, you know.

She sighed. They tried to send me home, but it’s easier to keep busy.

Yeah, I know. He avoided her eyes. Have you heard anything new?

About Marv? No. You’re the first person I’ve talked to outside the Environmental Department. And the safety guys, of course. But they didn’t know much except what I told them.

His head snapped up. Oh, man. Then you don’t know.

What?

Is he dead? She couldn’t make herself ask.

I can’t believe they didn’t tell you. Those assholes. The ambulance guys called as soon as they got Marv into the burn unit. He insisted they tell everybody it wasn’t your fault. It was his. ‘Tell Hannah she did good. She saved my life.’ That’s what he said.

And nobody had bothered to tell her. She ground her teeth, shoved her anger down, forced her thoughts away from herself and back to Marv.

He’s conscious? Then he’s going to be okay? She knew, though. She had seen his burns.

No. John shook his head. It’s…bad. But you need to remember, Hannah, it wasn’t your fault.

She couldn’t look at him. How can it be so bad if he’s lucid, telling people what happened?

That’s how burns work. You don’t even feel it for a while, think things are okay. But… John shrugged.

Hannah had to change the subject. Does anybody know how it started?

Not yet. Probably a pipe split or a valve failed at the bottom of the hydrotreater reactor. The stuff just flashed when it hit the air. Boom. That’s my theory, anyway. Kittleson, a process engineer, had been around for more than fifteen years. He’d designed at least one process unit, had optimized operation of many others. His theories were usually borne out as fact. Fire must have backed up the process sewer from the hydrotreater, and burning oil shoved out the drain under that vessel. I’ll check the sewer drawings.

We updated ’em last year, Hannah said. New EPA regs. Remember back when people were calling me the Sewer Queen? Anyway, they connect to the same trunk line.

The silence lengthened, then John said, There was ash-fall again, all over Bryn Mawr Heights. Probably have to repaint a bunch of cars.

Hannah didn’t care.

The press is all over the mess out there, John continued. There were five or six helicopters up over the plant during the fire. We had to call FAA to clear airspace.

Hannah shook her head in disbelief. Since the refinery heated and cooled many materials in miles of piping and a multitude of vessels, it made its own microclimate, complete with strong up- and downdrafts. She had learned about them the hard way herself as she circled the plant, a passenger in a small helicopter a couple years earlier, to take overhead photos for an environmental project. She’d panicked as they lurched and dropped about a hundred feet, sucked her breath in hard before she could stop herself, a small reverse scream, and took a lot of crap for it. Stuff your emotions, she thought. Bravado. Word of the day.

Media people. She rubbed her forehead. They can be such jerks. She didn’t want to think about a media feeding frenzy, though she knew there would be one. She just wanted Marv to be okay, to go see him and tell him she was sorry.

They’re setting up right now, John said, just outside the door in the parking lot. Want to go watch?

Hannah shook her head.

Come on. You need to get out of the office. You can’t sit in here forever.

She looked at him.

I know. He shrugged. It’s hard. But you have to go out there sometime.

You’re right. She reached for her hardhat. Let’s get it over with.

* * * * *

As she followed John outside, Hannah thought about the evening Marv had invited her to join the fire brigade. It’s about time we had a woman out there, Hannah, he had said. You’re in good shape. Want to give it a try?

Sure. She’d been so cocky about it that night at the dinner table. She should have paid attention when Marv’s wife, Mary, had needled her about wanting to prove she could do everything the men could.

Touché.

They stopped at the back of the crowd gathered in the parking lot, but Hannah couldn’t make herself pay attention.

Who broke the news to Mary, I wonder? Do the kids know yet?

Hannah. Hannah Morrison. Can you come up here, please?

The words slowly penetrated. She turned toward the platform, where the new public relations manager, Jerry Hofmeier, short, round and bald, motioned for her to join him. What? Oh, no.

He’s in trouble, John Kittleson whispered, pushing her lightly from behind. It’s environmental. Go help him out.

I can’t. Not today. Besides, McMullin’d kill me.

McMullin’s not here. That’s the problem. It’s gotta be you. He pushed her again.

The crowd of reporters and photographers assembled in front of the administration building parted to let her through as Jerry continued. Hannah’s one of our environmental engineers. She’s been here a lot longer than I have—what? five or six years now?—and can probably answer any questions you have about the effects of the fire on the neighborhood.

She climbed up the steps and managed a small smile at the crowd, putting on her company face.

Ms. Morrison, a size-two blonde in a leather coat spoke up. Wasn’t today’s fire just another example of irresponsible pollution by the oil industry?

Hannah gathered herself for just a beat, her own media training reflexively kicking in. Here at NAmCO we do our absolute best to keep pollution to a minimum. You all know what our record’s been over the last several years—our production numbers have risen dramatically, but we’ve reduced the amount of pollution we produce, and reduced it signifi—

You released a lot of pollution today, though, the blonde broke in. What can you tell us about the effects of this fire on the environment?

Her questions set tone for the whole press conference.

Behind the makeshift podium, Hannah’s hands fidgeted as, again and again, she tried to deflect insinuations and answer thinly disguised accusations with fact.

After several questions, Hannah glanced at Jerry, but he simply smiled at her, saying nothing, letting her field them.

After the last environmental question, Hannah thanked the reporters and had just stepped away from the microphone when the blonde’s hand went up again. Ms. Morrison, is there any chance the fire might have been sabotage?

What? Hannah’s head snapped around and her eyes widened as she moved back to the podium. Of course not. Security at NAmCO is tight. New employees are rigorously screened before they’re hired, access is carefully controlled, and we conduct random drug tests and car searches. She paused.

It was unthinkable that Marv had been burned because someone deliberately set the fire. That it could have been prevented.

As if the question was triggered by her thoughts, a man in a purple shirt asked, Ms. Morrison, have you heard anything about the injured man?

Hannah closed her eyes and for a moment, she couldn’t make a sound. The whole day swelled inside her, and a tear she couldn’t catch spilled over.

He’s a good friend of mine. She swallowed. Her voice thickened. I don’t know the extent of his injuries, but he’s in the best burn unit in the area. They’ll do whatever they can. She turned away from the cameras as another tear followed the first.

* * * * *

Dale Hyland trained his binoculars on the refinery. What a mess. He focused on the wisps of steam still rising from the dense process equipment, checking out the heart of this alien industrial complex now dotted with people climbing, clearing, assessing damage. He was sorry it was over.

Good thing we had signs in the trunk, his companion commented. Too bad the press people didn’t stop, though.

No kidding, Hyland said. Now that the fire was out, he took a minute to check out the rest of the place. From his vantage point on the highway’s frontage road, he scanned across the front of the plant, past the huge storage tanks that squatted there like giant white mushrooms, past the bank of horizontal propane bullets, past the huge spheres of liquid butane to the plant’s largest tank. It held a million barrels, he’d read, and at forty-two gallons per barrel, that was a hell of a lot of whatever was in there. It was painted with NAmCO’s corporate watchwords: Providing Energy Products for Your Future.

He muttered softly, Not if I can help it.

What?

Nothing. Hyland turned to his friend. You’re right about the signs. But we should have a prepared statement, too, in case reporters stop on their way back out… How about something like this—‘We’re from Neighborwatch. We live near this plant, and we worry that our children’s health is suffering because of these industrial disasters. And though we call our legislators whenever these things happen, we encourage you to help us, too. If NAmCO’s smells, smoke or chemical releases affect your family, call your own legislators and complain. Complain loudly. It’s time to let the rest of our community know what’s happening out here’.

Perfect! Let’s put it in the next flyer. Tell people to keep ’em in their glove boxes and purses, so if there’s an opportunity, anybody can step up to the camera.

Good. That’s what we need—local faces, not just mine. He pulled at his lip, thinking. We’ll get these guys. We’ll shut ’em down, Hyland said. Give me another couple months, and all these plants will be a thing of the past. I know just how to do it.

* * * * *

Hannah. Don’t run away. Kittleson smiled as he warned her.

Let me go, John. After what felt like an eternity, she’d finally escaped from the podium. She shook John’s hand from her arm.

Listen a minute. He followed her around the back of the press crowd, whispering close behind her. They sense you don’t want to talk. They smell news and today, whether you like it or not, you’re it. Relax a little.

Hannah glanced around and realized that several reporters were, in fact, curiously watching her retreat. Slowing to a stroll, she let Kittleson catch her and they paused near the closest press van. She turned to him and tried a smile. Okay. I see your point. It’s like they have antennae.

He grinned. Exactly. The reporters turned back toward the podium where Jerry Hofmeier answered final questions.

Several other NAmCO employees wandered over, a group of process engineers, and Hannah stood on the perimeter, lost in thought, as they quietly dissected the day’s incident.

Can I ask you a question?

She turned toward the voice behind her. A man she didn’t recognize. Must be a press guy. She said, You just did.

His smile widened. Okay. Another one. Questions are in my blood. He held up a compact video unit. I’m a photojournalist.

Cameraman.

Used to be. But like ‘stewardess,’ that word’s frowned upon these days.

Okay, then, photojournalist, ask your question.

How come you guys all wear those ugly coveralls? Jumpsuits. Whatever you call ’em. He had a great smile, lots of laugh wrinkles around his eyes. His short, walnut-brown hair stood up straight, though it looked like he’d tried some gel to paste it down.

We just call ’em Nomex, Hannah said. They’re made of fire retardant fabric—Nomex. They protect skin for a lot longer than you’d expect.

Like how long?

Up to twelve seconds, depending on the situation. And in a fire, that’s an eternity.

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