PIPELINE (Chapter 2) by Daniel Kuttner

Phil set down the sheaf of audit papers, neatly starting a fourth stack.

When he’d first arrived, an old coot in baggy dungarees had collared him, insisting on touring job sites. Phil had humored the man thinking him an addled panhandler. Far from it. He had inside knowledge of fake charges for equipment, labor and outright theft. The man hinted at much worse crimes, saying it was all in the open, if Phil cared to look.

Phil did care and did look. The old codger was right. The insider crimes were all over. Question was, would pipeline management appreciate his findings or were they also part of the problem?

The pipeline construction project had begun earlier in 1975. Now, only a few months later, theft was everywhere. The audit team here in Fairbanks were a bunch of buffoons. Their investigations were superficial. The supervisor stayed holed-up in her office. Most of the others had been sent here for bungling their original jobs. But why had the Dyno Oil General Auditor sent Phil here? Was it punishment for discovering the high-level crimes in LA? To get him out of the way so they could cover it all up? Or something worse?

He checked the copy room. Molly had still not shown up for work. Where had she disappeared to last night, out of her own apartment?

At 7:00PM he took a look around. He was alone, a good opportunity to make copies of all the evidence he’d found. He ran his fingers through his wavy hair and smoothed his polyester suit jacket.

Alaska’s spring mugginess overpowered the air conditioning of the nested trailers serving as the pipeline construction headquarters. Phil removed his jacket and tie and folded them on the desk.

His stomach rumbled. Time to pick up a sandwich, some chips, and a soda from the lunch room. At this hour, all that remained was tuna on white, topped with a separated white gel that no longer passed for mayonnaise. He had to settle for that, Jalapeno Cheetos, and a Mountain Dew.

Turning the corner toward the office, he almost dropped the little packs of scant nutrition. A man in jeans and a western shirt sat at Phil’s desk, his cowboy boots crossed on the blotter, his face gleaming with a too-wide smile.

“Hi Phil. Name’s Fred.” The man uncrossed his legs, stood and extended a hand.

Phil grimaced with the pain of the meat-grinder grip.

“Ya findin’ everything all right?” Fred finally let go.

Phil nursed his sore knuckles. “Do we know each other?”

“I know you, my man. Ya been finding a lot of the stuff the old guy told ya about?” Fred sat back at Phil’s chair.

Phil drew his jacket and the folder toward himself and sat facing Fred. “Yes, it’s all there, as he described. How do you ...?”

“Never mind the ‘how.’ I’m sure upper management will be grateful for the money you’ll save them.” Fred stood and extended his hand again. “I’ve gotta go. Take care of yourself, buddy.” He waved and strode out of the office.

Phil waved back with the partial tuna sandwich. He heard the front door open and shut. He chewed and looked out the window, considering the view. Even in the mid nineteen-seventies, Fairbanks was a frontier town with dirt tracks for streets. Dusty as the Old West, the main street was lined with rustic stores and western saloons. Phil had bought a cowboy hat in one of the stores, but only wore it once, in his motel room.

In line with the western motif, each parking space had a hitching post. These weren’t for horses, though. They supplied AC power for engine heaters, needed for cars parked in the winter. Without them, engine blocks would crack in a few hours. This being late Spring, the posts sat idle. An electrical cord drooped by each one.

Rustling and furtive whispering emanated from outside the window. Phil peeked through the blinds but saw no one.

He rubbed his oily hands on a napkin, then tossed it and the empty wrappers into a wastebasket. Shuffling through more time forms he found another trail of fake charges. Someone had logged themselves in at multiple sites using different names but the same ID number. Another set contained times for use of a Caterpillar Sidewinder at three sites simultaneously. A third pile contained big-dollar charges that made no sense, such as “Bathmat Convo,” “Chinese cargo,” “Big Owl,” and “Santa’s Little Helpers.”

He brought the stacks of incriminating time and equipment slips to the copy room, sliding the copies into his fattening binder. By midnight, that single binder had become two.

Last night with Molly he mentioned the high-level embezzlement he’d found back in LA. If she told anyone and they figured out his deeper purpose here, what might these crooks do to protect themselves? Phil looked over his shoulder. He shook his head at the useless gesture.

Molly had said Phil’s predecessor snapped one day and drove off, taking a company pickup truck. Had that disappeared welder run away too? Maybe they were the smart ones.

Phil pondered his choice: report his findings or lay low? If he just played along like the other auditors up here, he could fly home in a week or two, maybe even get a bonus. If he persisted in following the evidence, then what? He could be in real danger.

Outside, the whispering returned. He dabbed at some sweat as it dripped onto the desk. What to do? In or out? Crooked safety or honest risk?

Jake, his coworker in LA, gave good advice. Although recently hired, he had caught on fast. He was a bold ex-Naval officer, trustworthy, level-headed and forthright. Jake would know what to do. Phil picked up a phone, selected an outside line, dialed, and waited. In spite of the hour, Jake answered after one ring.

“Hello, Jake? I know, sorry to bug you. Yeah, wise-ass, it’s important. Just listen for a minute...” Phil explained the situation. “What do you think I should do?”

“I’m too new. I’m taking things slow, myself. None of this is worth any high stakes. It’s a job.”

“Maybe I am taking things too seriously. No one else up here seems to care.”

“That’s your answer, then.”

“Thanks Jake.”

Phil hung up, thought for a moment, then packed his briefcase. The two binders didn't fit, so he chucked them onto the table. This info could be dangerous. Better hide it, until I decide what to do.

He stood on the table, slid aside a white ceiling tile and hid the binders atop the adjacent panel. He set the tile into place, brushed off the itchy asbestos flakes and stepped down. Now he had an insurance policy.

He gathered his other materials and briefcase. Arms full, he worked a finger free, clicked off the lights and bumped out of the doorway, emerging into the late light of the Arctic Spring.

A fresh breeze brought sounds from the forest and ponds: a chorus of birds and deep-voiced frogs. A grey swirling cloud of mosquitoes retreated, chased by a darker cloud of bats. Big eats little up here, too.

Heading for his car, the repeated whispers made him freeze. Phil listened, then chanted, “Come out, come out, whoever you are!” His voice cracked.

Damn. He had to end this. Enough with the pressure, enough with the risks, to hell with this undercover crap. Follow Jake’s advice, shred those two binders tomorrow, ignore the plundering, and act as ignorant as the other auditors. He could sign everything off, have some fun times with Molly, then head for LA and beach weather.

Phil strode toward his car. He patted the "hitching post" in front of his parking spot and smiled. Alaska, the last frontier.

Maybe he should ask Molly to come to LA with him. After last night, why not? He imagined helping her pick out a bikini at a surfing shop.

Imagining his frolic at the beach, he opened the car door. He glimpsed a foil wrapper on the seat. Rental cars, ugh.

Phil tossed his jacket and case onto the passenger seat, feeling for the wrapper to toss it. As he sat, he saw the hitching-post’s power light glowing. Its cord tied to the driver’s side of his car. He made contact with the square of foil.

As Phil’s body touched the car seat, his head sizzled with a hot blue shock. He moaned. His body shook as if struck. He smelled smoke. Semi-conscious, he saw a gloved hand pull the electrical cord from the outlet and toss it aside. A blurred figure walked up and peered through the windshield.

Phil formed the words to call out for help, but could only gurgle. Someone opened the car door. A fist stabbed a needle into his neck. A spurt of fiery fluid spread from there throughout his body. Numbness followed.

He slumped onto the passenger seat, unable to control his twitching limbs. He observed dream-like, through a veil of gauze.

A man asked, "Is he dead?"

A woman replied, "Nah. They may want us to ask him some questions. C'mon, we got work to do."

Whose voice is that? It sounds so familiar.

Phil forced open his mouth to say “Molly?” but only a gurgle came out. His tongue swollen, a lifeless slab of rubber.

The man said, “What’s he sayin’? Does he know you? I told you your cover was blown.”

“Nah. He’s babbling. Let’s go! We’ve got to work fast, before that crew shows up. You drive his car, I’ll lead with ours.”

The man pushed Phil over to the passenger seat, then started the car. With a loud stir of gravel, the two autos sped off.

A cloud of dust hung in the air behind them. The mosquitoes avoided it.

The frogs resumed their song. It sounded like a dirge.