Cobra Strike (7 page)

“Wh-hat does your d-dad d-do here?” I asked Waymen as we walked past the splashing fountain.

“Back in Lexington,” Waymen said, “he worked as a mechanic for a small service station. Here, he supervises all of the mechanics who work on the company vehicles.”

I whistled. That would be some job. Between the company cars and the trucks they used in the coalfields, there was a lot to take care of. He probably had a lot of people working for him too.

“His office is somewhere in there,” Waymen said. “Maybe later, we can visit.”

“If y-you w-want, go ahead,” I said. I didn't want Waymen watching as I tried to talk to strangers. “We can m-meet back here in h-half an hour.”

Waymen looked at me and smiled. “I think I'd rather stay with you. I'm curious about what you're doing here.”

The security guard at the front desk was curious too. Behind him the building split into two hallways. It was quiet with the hushed kind of whispers an expensive air conditioner makes.

“What is your business here?” the guard asked. He was tall and broad shouldered and
very serious in his uniform. “Do you have an appointment with someone?”

Waymen looked at me. I did my best to answer.

“I w-want to t-talk to someone about m-m-maps,” I said.

“Maps?”

“C-coal m-m-ine m-maps,” I said, hating how my stutter worsened with his stern look.

“The Johns Corporation is not a public company,” the guard said. “The information on those maps is not available to just anyone who walks in off the street.”

“I j-j-just w-w-want t-to t-talk—”

“There is nothing to talk about,” he snapped, impatient with my slow speech.

“Sir,” Waymen said, “I know this is an unusual request. It's more of a school project. We go to Johnstown High School. This is Roy Linden, and my name is Waymen Whitley. We—”

“Whalin' Waymen Whitley?” the guard said. He stared at Waymen. “I should have recognized you from the newspaper. Your old man works here, don't he?”

The guard snapped his fingers. “And Roy Linden. I know that name. You scored three touchdowns! I wish I could have seen the game last Friday. But being as it was out of town, I couldn't. What do you think about this upcoming game against the Cougars? From what I hear they're an even better team than they were last year. If you guys can beat them, this whole side of the state is going to have to sit up and take notice. I mean, you guys could have a shot at the league title.”

Waymen grinned. “League? Let's talk state. Put Roy here in a pair of Nikes and he can run down a deer. A fella doesn't have to be much of a quarterback with someone like him as a target.”

Waymen talked football with the guard for a few more minutes, long enough to make him happy. When the conversation got around to our “school” project again, the guard lifted his phone to call ahead for us.

“Sign in,” the guard instructed. He handed us a clipboard. There was a place for our names and the time of our arrival. There
was another space to mark the time when we left.

“Down the hall to the first turn, then go right,” the guard said. “Look for door 128.”

“Thank you, sir,” Waymen said.

We walked away.

“This
is
a school project,” Waymen said, “right?”

“N-now it is,” I answered. I'd write this up as part of a report for science. It made me wonder why I hadn't thought of it before. “B-biology.”

“Then count me in on it,” Waymen said. “I can use some extra credit in biology.”

“D-deal,” I said.

A minute later it looked like we didn't have much of a deal, after all. That's how long it took the guy in office number 128 to throw us out.

Before the guy could grab my shirt and push me out the door, though, we'd had to get past his secretary to see him.

“Waymen Whitley, ma'am,” Waymen said to the woman behind the desk who was facing a computer monitor. She was middle-aged, with a round face and a sweet smile. “And my friend, Roy Linden. I believe the security guard just called about our arrival.”

“Yes, he did.” She gave us more of her sweet smile. “You can go on in. Mr. Webber is expecting you.”

She pointed at the open door behind her. The room was bright from the sunshine streaming through the window. I led the way.

Mr. Webber's desk, shiny and dark brown, filled half the office. Shelves covered with books lined one wall. A photo of him with a woman and two kids sat on top of one of the shelves.

Just like in the photo, he was a large man, wearing a dark suit. His dark hair was neatly cut. He wore wide glasses that rested on a big nose.

He stood up and smiled a greeting at both of us as he extended his hand.

“M-m-my name is Roy L-l-inden,” I said. “I w-w-was h-hoping you c-could h-help m-me with c-coal m-mine m-m-maps.”

His face darkened instantly into an angry frown. Faster than I could have believed possible for such a big man, he came around his desk.

That's when he grabbed my shirt and dragged me back through the doorway, past the secretary's desk on his way to the hallway. He was such a big man and I was so surprised, I didn't even try to fight.

Waymen followed, his mouth wide with shock.

“Mr. Webber!” the secretary said. “Mr. Webber! What is going on?”

Mr. Webber paused, his strong hands still squeezing my shirt tight against me.

“N-n-n-nobody w-w-w-walks into m-m-my office and m-m-m-makes fun of m-m-m-me!” he said to her. “I don't h-h-have to p-p-put up with it!”

“B-b-b-b-b-b...” I was too flustered to get out what I was trying to say. “B-b-b-but y-you d-d-d-d—”

I just made him angrier.

“Th-th-that's enough!” he yelled. “G-g-g-get out you p-p-p-punk!”

“Sir! Sir!” Waymen shouted, moving in front of us and waving to get his attention. “Sir!”

Mr. Webber glared at him.

“He's not making fun of you, sir,” Waymen said. “He—”

Waymen lost it. He started to giggle. His giggle became laughter.

“He—” Waymen could hardly speak, he was laughing so hard.

It gave me a chance to work a few words out.

“I s-s-s-tutter t-t-oo,” I said. “R-r-r-really.”

“R-r-r-really?” Mr. Webber asked.

“R-r-r-really,” I said.

Hearing the two of us stutter back and forth just made Waymen laugh harder. I could tell he wasn't laughing at me or Mr. Webber, but at the situation. I never wanted people to feel sorry or embarrassed for me because of my stutter. I was glad Waymen could laugh about it. Because it was funny.

I started to laugh too.

Finally Mr. Webber joined us. He laughed so hard he had to lean against his secretary's desk.

Every time either one of us tried to speak, our stutters made us all howl louder.

It got so bad that people from other offices stuck their heads in the door to see what was so funny. That, of course, just made us laugh even more. Mr. Webber had to wave them away as he wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

It took ten minutes for us to settle down. Mr. Webber apologized and said he'd had a bad morning, and he was sorry for getting so mad so quickly.

I told him I didn't mind because I understood how frustrating it could get.

As it turned out, I couldn't have asked for a better introduction to the one man at the Johns Corporation who could give me the most answers. He felt so bad about how he'd reacted that he helped me a lot more than he should have. He gave me stuff the public never sees.

When Waymen and I left his office, we had maps of all the mine shafts—old and new—that the Johns Corporation had dug near Gram's cabin.

And those maps gave me the information I wanted.

The next day I knew I would have to wait until after practice to drive up into the hills to Gram's cabin. As usual my day at school was full and passed quickly. My mind wasn't on what my teachers were saying, however. It kept wandering to caves and underground rivers.

Kentucky is famous for its caves. About eighty-five miles west of Louisville is the Mammoth Cave, a tourist attraction. It's
actually a bunch of connected caves—more than three hundred miles' worth at five different levels.

The caves were made when limestone—Kentucky is full of it—was dissolved by water. Underground rivers cut beneath many of the mountains in the area. The Mammoth Cave formed when a number of underground rivers and streams flowed through, including the Echo River, which comes to the surface and eventually flows into the Green River.

Around our town, according to the Johns Corporation maps, an underground river fed the creek near Gram's cabin. And, according to the maps, that same underground river passed near an inactive coal mining shaft. It looked like the shaft had been closed for years.

If there was something toxic in that shaft, maybe it had leaked into the underground river and been carried into Gram's pond. That might explain why small animals were dying on Gram's property.

All of the pieces were nearly together for me. Except, of course, for discovering what the shaft held and how it got there.

I hoped I would not have to find that out the hard way.

After practice ended, I showered and changed as quickly as I could. When Waymen asked if I wanted to head out with a couple of the guys for a milk shake, I told him I needed to visit my grandmother.

He gave me his all-star grin and told me to watch out for the Big Bad Wolf.

I was still smiling about that as I left the high school.

I was still smiling as I practiced my Shakespeare quotes into my tape recorder during the drive.

I stopped smiling a mile later when I noticed a black car behind me. It stayed with me, even after I had taken two or three turns. The car was maybe a quarter of a mile back with smoked-glass windows.

Normally, I wouldn't have noticed. But after the weirdness with the county health inspector and the newspaper reporter, and with my mind on underground rivers and
possible pollution from a big coal-mining company, the black car made me nervous.

I shut my tape recorder off. I turned left at the next corner, turned left again a block later, and finally made another left back onto the same street I had started on. The black car stayed with me the entire time.

It was following me.

I didn't know what to do.

Would the driver try something crazy once I was on the lonely road up in the hills?

I grabbed my tape recorder again. This time, however, I didn't practice Shakespeare. Instead I said, “F-f-five-th-thirty-f-five PM.” I was so nervous my stutter made it hard to talk. “A c-c-ar is f-following. B-black. L-late model F-f-ord, probably a C-crown Vict-t-t-toria. I w-will k-keep rec-c-ord of events.”

I felt stupid, as if I was in some sort of movie. But if something did happen—like the black car stopping me and the driver trying something—I would report as much as I could before hiding the tape recorder under the seat. Whoever found it later would at least know what had happened.

As I drove, I had another idea.

The car kept following me as I made two more turns, right to the parking lot of the sheriff's office. Two squad cars sat in front. I stopped beside them and got out of the truck.

Hands on my hips, I waited for the black car to approach.

It slowed at the entrance to the parking lot, but then it kept going. I could not see inside the dark windows. I had no idea what the driver looked like. Or if there were any passengers.

At the next corner, the car's taillights blinked red and the black car turned.

I waited a few minutes. The car did not come back.

I got back in my truck and began driving again. I kept a close eye on my rearview mirror. I did not see the car again, and I made it safely to Gram's cabin.

When I arrived, I discovered the Johns Corporation had beaten me to her.

“Th-three-quarters of a m-million dollars?” I asked. I wasn't sure if I trusted my ears with all the insects buzzing in the woods around us.

Gram and I sat in the rockers on her front porch, watching the last of the day's light. Fireflies glowed on and off around bushes in front of the cabin. It would have been a postcard-perfect moment of peace. Except for what Gram had just told me.

“Yes, sir,” she said, “a feller in a black car drove up the lane this very morning and said he was from the Johns Corporation and—”

I put up my hands as if trying to hold back a stampede.

“B-black car?”

“Roy, you seem particular hard of hearing today. Was it that you got banged in the head playing football? Tell me you've been wearing a helmet in practice.”

She laughed at her joke. I did not.

Black car. Johns Corporation. Where I had been yesterday. Where I had signed in and out with the security guard, leaving my name for anyone to read. It made sense. They knew what I was looking into. And in another way, it didn't make any sense.

“Roy?” Gram was asking. “I said, tell me you've been wearing a helmet in practice.”

I nodded. “Th-this fellow...”

“I tell you I smelled him for a polecat the minute he got out of that car. Wearing those shiny leather shoes, stepping light as if he were scared to get mud on them. Some weasel-faced guy with a missing tooth. He had
a lemon-sucking grin across his face, and he flat out offered me half a million dollars for my cabin and land.”

“B-but you just t-told me th-three-quarters of a m-million.”

“Sure, I did.” Gram gave me a lemon-sucking grin of her own. “He started at half a million. I kept bumping him up to see how high he'd go. Just ‘cause I'm old, don't mean my brains have leaked out of my head.”

I grinned. “What d-did you t-tell him? I m-m-mean with that kind of m-money, you could b-buy a lot of b-bottled water.”