Story code: ST-000620
Part 2: The Knock and Talk
Arthur’s thumb dug hard into the tendons of Leo’s wrist, pressing down directly over his frantic pulse. The thick gold of Arthur’s wedding band bit into Leo’s skin, cold and unyielding. For a terrifying second, Leo thought his father was going to stand up, point a finger, and shout the truth to the entire room. He braced himself for the roar, for the ultimate betrayal in front of the congregation.
Instead, Arthur leaned closer. The scent of stale black coffee and wintergreen mints temporarily masked the overwhelming smell of damp wool and cheap cologne.
“Get up,” Arthur breathed, his voice a jagged rasp that barely reached Leo’s ears.
Leo swallowed, his throat feeling as though it were coated in dry ash. “Dad-”
“Get up, or so help me God, I will drag you.”
Leo stood. His knees felt like water, threatening to buckle with every shift in his weight. Arthur kept his vise-like grip locked on Leo’s wrist, steering him forcefully out of the third pew. In the front row, Mrs. Gable looked up from her aggressive fanning, her brow furrowed at the sudden interruption.
“Stomach bug,” Arthur muttered to her, his face a rigid, practiced mask of paternal concern. “Getting him out to the air.”
They moved down the center aisle. Every step felt like a march to the gallows. The heavy oak doors of the sanctuary shut behind them, abruptly cutting off Pastor Miller’s booming voice, and Arthur immediately shoved Leo across the vestibule. They burst out into the freezing Sunday morning air.
The gravel of the church parking lot crunched loudly under Arthur’s heavy steel-toed boots. He didn’t stop marching until they reached his battered Ford F-150. He spun Leo around and slammed him hard against the truck’s frosted passenger door. The impact knocked the wind out of Leo’s lungs in a sharp puff of white vapor.
“Show me your hands,” Arthur demanded.
Leo kept his fists shoved deep into his oversized coat pockets, his heart hammering against his ribs. “Dad, it’s not what you think. I tore those jeans weeks ago on a nail in the shed-”
“Do not lie to me!” Arthur hissed, his eyes darting frantically over his shoulder to ensure the parking lot was completely empty. “Show me your damn hands, Leo.”
Trembling, Leo pulled his hands from his pockets. He slowly uncurled his fingers. The harsh morning sunlight offered no mercy, illuminating exactly what Leo had been trying to hide. The dark, viscous lines of hydraulic fluid were wedged deeply beneath his cuticles, staining the heavy calluses of his palms a sickly, unwashed blackish-brown.
All the air seemed to rush out of Arthur’s lungs in one deflating gasp. He stumbled back a half-step, staring at Leo’s hands as if they were covered in fresh blood. The righteous anger in his father’s eyes was instantly swallowed by a crushing, panicked despair.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Arthur asked, his voice cracking under the weight of the realization. “It’s a federal offense, Leo. They’ll lock you in a penitentiary for twenty years. And when they find out you live under my roof? They’ll say I helped you. They’ll take my pension. They’ll take the house. Everything our family has built here, gone overnight.”
“They were bypassing the environmental protocols, Dad!” Leo pleaded, keeping his voice to an urgent whisper. “The new corporate owners were going to dump the chemical runoff straight into the town’s aquifer to save a few bucks. I had to-”
“You had to destroy our lives?” Arthur grabbed the lapels of Leo’s suit coat, shaking him once. “Where are the jeans?”
“In my closet,” Leo choked out. “Shoved in the very back under some old winter blankets.”
Arthur released him, yanking the driver’s side door open. “Get in. We are driving home, we are burning those pants in the barrel out back, and you are going to pack a duffel bag and leave for your uncle’s place in Ohio. Today.”
Leo scrambled into the passenger seat, the cold leather sending a shock up his spine. He reached for his seatbelt just as the heavy crunch of tires on gravel echoed across the lot.
A county sheriff’s cruiser pulled into the entrance, its lightbar flashing a silent, blinding blue. It rolled to a stop directly behind Arthur’s truck, effectively blocking them into the parking space.
Leo’s stomach plummeted into a freefall. He shoved his stained hands violently under his thighs, squeezing his eyes shut for a fraction of a second.
Sheriff Davies stepped out of the cruiser. He was in full uniform, his gold star catching the glare of the sun. He looked exhausted, deep purple bags hanging under his eyes, his heavy boots caked in the same thick, rust-colored mud that lined the pipeline’s service trails.
“Arthur,” Davies called out, walking at a brisk pace toward the driver’s side window. “Sorry to pull you out of Sunday service. I saw your truck out here.”
Arthur rolled down his window. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were bone-white. “Morning, Tom. Was just taking Leo home. Boy caught a nasty stomach bug, throwing up all morning.”
Davies leaned down, peering into the cab. His sharp, calculating eyes rested on Leo for a long, agonizing second. Leo forced himself to look back, keeping his breathing shallow, praying the sheriff couldn’t smell the metallic tang of fear and hydraulic grease radiating off him.
“Sorry to hear that, son. You do look awful pale,” Davies said, his tone sympathetic but clipped. He turned his attention back to Arthur. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an absolute emergency, Art. The corporate engineers don’t know what they’re doing out there. The bypass line is buckling under the stress. If we don’t manually bleed the pressure off the secondary valves, the whole eastern node is going to blow by noon.”
“I need to get my boy home, Tom-”
“I need you at the site, Arthur. Right now,” Davies interrupted, his tone shifting from friendly neighbor to absolute, unyielding authority. “You’re the only one left in town who knows the old pipe specs. And bring Leo. We need every able-bodied man to help sandbag the containment berms before it breaches.”
Arthur swallowed hard, a drop of sweat forming at his temple. “Tom, please. Let me run him home first. It’s a five-minute detour.”
“I can’t let you do that. We are out of time,” Davies said, resting his hand heavily on the door frame. “Actually, I’m glad I caught you both here. I’ve got deputies rolling through the employee housing tracts right now, doing voluntary knock-and-talks. Trying to find a match for that denim Miller’s holding in there. Figured we’d start with your block, seeing as you’re a senior supervisor.”
Leo felt the blood drain entirely from his face. The truck cabin suddenly felt as small as a coffin.
“Deputy Vance is waiting on your porch right now,” Davies continued, completely oblivious to the suffocating silence in the truck cab. “If you hand me your house keys, I’ll have Vance do a quick walk-through of your place while we head to the site. Just to set an example for the rest of the neighborhood. Show ’em the supervisors have absolutely nothing to hide. You don’t mind, do you, Art?”