One Good Reason (Boston Love #3)(37)

With my virus, I can see emails. Inter-office chat windows.

Live communications between Lancaster and whoever he’s doing business with.

Almost a week after we went sailing, I’m eating peanut butter cups while I scroll rapid-fire through LC emails so boring they make episodes of Seventh Heaven seem dramatic, searching for anything that’ll help prove financial misconduct, when my eyes catch on something interesting.

An email from Robert Lancaster to his Head of Security.

Linus,

The workers from the Lynn factory are striking outside the corporate offices tomorrow. Press will be all over it. Make sure there’s adequate coverage for staff to enter and exit, but don’t interfere. They can chant until they lose their voices, wave their little picket signs until their arms fall off; it won’t change my mind. I’m not re-opening.

That said, did you handle the clean-up we discussed at the factory site?

Did the final transfer go smoothly with Birkin?

Let me know. The last thing we need is to give the f*ckers grounds for a class action suit.

Bert

Okay, first of all, what self-respecting CEO goes by Bert? That’s just wrong. And secondly, besides the fact that he’s a total dick-wad for not giving a crap about his former employees, there’s clearly something else going on with the Lynn factory closing down. Something more than just budget cuts or moving jobs overseas to save some company cash.

“I’m going to find out exactly what,” I mutter, hitting a button to print out a copy of his email. “And use it to pin you to the wall, Bert.”





9





The Discovery




New England is known for many things — big lobsters, good clam chowder, bad accents, great movies, old Pilgrims, fantastic sports teams, terrible drivers.

It is not, however, known for its predictable weather.

So, when I step off the commuter rail in downtown Lynn the next morning and find it’s nearly sixty-five degrees only a handful of days before Christmas, I’m pleasantly surprised but certainly not shocked.

I strip off my bulky sweater and tuck it into my bag as I make my way across a busy four-lane highway toward the waterfront. This area could be — should be — beautiful. A long stretch of coastline just north of Boston, Lynn abuts some of the wealthiest towns in the entire state. And yet, corporate greed and shortsighted planning turned paradise into parking lots and factories. There are no boardwalks or beaches, here. Instead, the waterfront is jammed with row after row of industrial warehouses, used car lots, tattoo parlors, fast food joints, and bowling alleys.

Lynn, Lynn, city of sin, you’ll never get out the way you came in.

Everyone raised around here knows the anthem. And it’s true — not just when it comes to driving routes, either. Living here changes people. Makes them a little more bleary-eyed when they look at the world and its possibilities. I don’t know if it’s the gangs or the drugs or the total lack of aesthetics, but the entire town is corroding like a metal lawn chair left out in the rain.

It doesn’t surprise me in the least to know one of the factories here belongs to Richard Lancaster. He’s exactly the type to take something beautiful and turn it to trash, just for the sake of lining his own pockets.

I cut down a side street, leaving behind the steady rush of commuters, and find myself abruptly alone. One block from the highway, there are no signs of life at all besides the occasional seagull waddling on webbed feet across the cracked asphalt. I’ve never been here before, so I’m not sure exactly where I’m headed, but I walk steadily toward the water, knowing I’ll bump into the factory eventually.

Out of nowhere, I feel a chill go up my spine — a razor-edged awareness that makes all the hairs on the back of my neck stand erect as soldiers preparing for battle. There’s no sound, no movement, nothing to indicate I’m being followed… but I can’t help myself from turning around to check anyway. My breathing resumes when I see there’s nothing trailing me except my shadow, elongated in the afternoon light.

You’re being ridiculous, Zoe. Who would bother to follow you all the way out here?

I shake off the strange sensation and keep going. A few minutes later, when I pass a sleeping homeless man curled on a concrete bench, I reach silently into my bag, so as not to disturb him, pull out all the bills in my wallet and shove them into his cup. I don’t bother to count them. He needs groceries more than I do this week.

I know from experience.

I’m breathing a bit heavier by the time I reach the water, warm from my quick-paced walk and the unusual weather. Craning my neck, I take in the sight of the closed LC factory, sitting like an aging beauty queen on the edge of the sound, her paint chipping in the elements, her front walkway riddled with trash. Most of the windows are boarded up. The parking lot is empty. It looks like it’s been closed far longer than three weeks.

I turn in a circle, surveying the entire property. There’s just… nothing here. The only movement is a plastic bag blowing in the wind, the only sound the faint whisper of waves crashing against nearby rocks. It looks desolate. Almost post-apocalyptic.

If the zombie apocalypse breaks out tomorrow, this will be ground f*cking zero.

I try the front door and find — surprise, surprise — it’s bolted firmly. And it’s solid metal; there’s no way I’m getting in. A quick walk around the perimeter leads me past the rocky water’s edge, where garbage floats next to dead birds in the polluted water. All the windows I pass by are either too high to climb through or so thoroughly boarded up, I’d need a crow-bar to gain access.