Gray Mountain (35 page)

“They’re not very good are they?” Adam whispered to Samantha. “I think they’re great,” she replied.

The Girl Scouts marched by, followed by the Boy Scouts. A float carried some disabled vets in wheelchairs, all happy to be alive and enjoying another Christmas. The star was Mr. Arnold Potter, age ninety-one, a survivor of D-day, sixty-four years ago. He was the county’s greatest living hero. The Shriners zipped about on their mini-motorcycles, stealing the show as always. The Rotary Club’s float was a Nativity scene with real sheep and goats, all behaving for the moment. A large float pulled by a late-model Ford
pickup was packed with the children’s choir from the First Baptist Church. The kids were dressed in white robes and their angelic voices sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem” in near-perfect pitch. The mayor rode in a 1958 convertible Thunderbird. He waved and smiled a lot but no one seemed to care. There were some more police cars, a fire truck from a volunteer brigade, and another float with a bluegrass band picking and strumming a rowdy interpretation of “Jingle Bells.” A riding club trotted by on a herd of quarter-horses, all garbed up in rodeo splendor, humans and animals. Roy Rogers and Trigger would have been proud. The local gas jobber had a shiny new truck with a ten-thousand-gallon tank, and someone thought it would be a nice addition to the parade. For fun, the driver, a black guy, was blasting non-holiday rap with the windows down.

Finally, the reason for the season appeared in his sleigh. Old Saint Nick waved to the boys and girls and tossed candy at their feet. Through a loudspeaker he chanted, “Ho, Ho, Ho,” but nothing else.

When the parade was out of sight, most of the spectators moved toward the courthouse and gathered in the park beside it. The mayor welcomed everyone and prattled on too long. Another children’s choir sang “O Holy Night.” Miss Noland County, a beautiful redhead, was singing “Sweet Little Jesus Boy” when Samantha felt someone touch her right elbow. It was Jeff, with a cap and eyeglasses she had never seen before. She backed away from Kim and Adam, eased through the crowd and away from it to a dark place near the war memorial. They had stood there last Monday night, looking at Bozo and Jimmy in the distance.

“Are you free tomorrow?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

“It’s Saturday; of course I have nothing to do.”

“Let’s go hiking.”

She hesitated and watched as the mayor flipped a switch and the official Christmas tree lit up. “Where?”

He slipped a piece of folded paper into her hand and said, “Directions. See you in the morning.” He pecked her on the cheek and disappeared.

S
he drove to the town of Knox in Curry County and parked in the library lot a block off Main Street. If she had been followed, she was not aware of it. She walked nonchalantly to Main, west for three blocks, and into the Knox Market, a café and coffee shop. She asked about a restroom and was pointed toward the rear. She found a door that led to an alley that led to Fifth Street. As directed, she walked two blocks away from downtown and saw the river. As she approached Larry’s Trout Dock under the bridge, Jeff appeared from the bait shop and pointed to a twenty-foot johnboat.

Without a word, both got in the boat; Samantha in the front bundled against the cold, and Jeff in the back where he started the outboard. He guided the boat away from the dock and eased down on the throttle. They were in the center of the Curry River, and the town was quickly disappearing. They passed under another bridge and civilization seemed to end. For miles, or however one measures distance on a crooked river—Samantha had no idea—they glided over the dark, still water. The Curry was a narrow, deep river with no rocks or rapids. It wiggled through the mountains, hidden from the sun by soaring cliffs that almost touched one another above the water. They passed a boat, a lone fisherman staring forlornly at his line, oblivious to them. They passed a small settlement near a sandbar, a collection of floating shacks and boats. “River rats,” Jeff would later call them. They went deeper and deeper into the canyon, and around each bend the Curry grew narrower and darker.

The loud hum of the outboard prevented conversation, not that either had much to say. It was obvious he was taking her to a place she had never been, but she was not afraid, not hesitant in the least. In spite of his complications, his anger, his current emotional instability, and his recklessness, she trusted him. Or at least she trusted him enough to go hiking, or whatever he had in mind for the day.

Jeff eased off the throttle and the boat drifted toward the right. An old sign said, “Curry Cut-Off,” and a concrete ramp came into view. Jeff swung the boat around and it skidded onto a sandbar.
“Hop out here,” he said, and she stepped out of the boat. He chained it to a metal rack near the ramp and stopped for a moment to stretch his legs. They had been in the boat for almost an hour.

“Well, good morning to you, sir,” she said.

He smiled and said, “And to you. Thanks for coming.”

“As if I had a choice. Where, exactly, are we?”

“We’re lost in Curry County. Follow me.”

“Whatever you say.”

They left the sandbar, stepped into thick woods, and began climbing an unmarked trail that only someone like Jeff could follow. Or Donovan. As it grew steeper he seemed to pick up the pace. Just as her thighs and calves were beginning to scream, he stopped suddenly in a small clearing and grabbed some cedar branches. He shoved them out of the way, and, of course, there was a Honda four-wheeler just waiting for a ride.

“Boys and their toys,” she said.

“Ever been on one?” he asked.

“I live in Manhattan.”

“Hop on.” She did. There was a sliver of a seat behind him. She locked her arms around his waist as he cranked the engine and let it roar. “Hold on,” he said, and they were off, tearing along the same trail that, seconds earlier, had been barely wide enough for humans. It led to a gravel road, which Jeff attacked like a stunt driver. “Hold on!” he yelled again as he popped a wheelie and they were practically airborne. Samantha wanted to ask if he could slow down, but instead just squeezed harder and closed her eyes. The ride was thrilling and terrifying, but she knew he would not endanger her. From the gravel road, they turned onto another dirt trail, one that rose at a steep angle. The trees were too thick for stunt work, so Jeff became more cautious. Still, the ride was harrowing and dangerous. After half an hour on the four-wheeler, Samantha was having fond memories of the johnboat.

“May I ask where we’re going?” she said into his ear.

“Hiking, right?” The trail peaked and they raced along a ridge. He turned onto another trail and they began a descent, a treacherous journey that involved sliding from one side to the other and
dodging trees and boulders. They slowed for a second in a clearing and took in a view to their right. “Gray Mountain,” he said, nodding at the shaved and barren hill in the distance. “We’ll be on our land in just a moment.”

She hung on for the last leg, and when they splashed across Yellow Creek she saw the cabin. It was tucked into the side of a hill, a rustic square made of old timbers, with a front porch and a chimney on one end. Jeff parked beside it and said, “Welcome to our little hiding place.”

“I’m sure there’s an easier way to get here.”

“Oh, sure. There’s a county road not far away. I’ll show you later. Cool cabin, huh?”

“I guess. I’m not much on cabins. Donovan showed it to me one day, but we were a thousand feet in the air. If I remember correctly, he said there’s no plumbing, heating, or electricity.”

“You got it. If we stay tonight, we’ll sleep by the fire.”

Such a sleepover had not been discussed, but by then Samantha was not surprised. She followed him up the steps, across the porch, and into the main room of the cabin. A log was smoldering in the fireplace. “How long have you been here?” she asked.

“Got here late last night, slept by the fire. It’s really nice and cozy. You want a beer?”

She glanced at her watch: 11:45. “It’s a little early.” There was a cooler next to a small dining table. “Do you have water?”

He handed her a bottle of water and opened a beer. They sat in two wooden chairs near the fireplace. He took a swig and said, “They were here this week. Someone, not sure who, but I doubt it was the FBI because they would need to produce a search warrant. It was probably operatives working for Krull or some other outfit.”

“How do you know they were here?”

“Got ’em on video. Two months ago, Donovan and I rigged up two surveillance cameras. One is in a tree across the creek, the other is in a tree about fifty feet from the front porch. They’re activated here, at the front door. If someone opens the door, the cameras come on and run for thirty minutes. The trespassers have
no clue. Last Wednesday, at 3:21 to be exact, four goons showed up here and went through the cabin. I’m sure they were looking for the documents, hard drives, laptops, or anything else that might be of use. Interesting, though, that they did not leave a trace. Nothing. Not even the dust was disturbed, so you gotta figure these guys are pretty good. They also think I’m stupid, but now I know what they look like. I have the four faces, and when I see them I’ll be ready.”

“Are they watching now?”

“I doubt it. My truck is hidden in a place they’ll never see. This is our land, Samantha, and we know it better than anyone. You want to take a look?”

“Let’s go.”

He grabbed a backpack and she followed him out of the cabin. They trekked along Yellow Creek for half a mile and stopped in a clearing to enjoy some rare sunshine. Jeff said, “I don’t know how much Donovan told you, but this is the only part of our property that was not destroyed by the strip miners. We have about twenty acres here that was untouched. Beyond that ridge is Gray Mountain and the rest of our land, and it was all ruined.”

They hiked on, climbing the ridge until the woods opened up and they stopped to take in the devastation. It was desolate enough from a thousand feet in the air, but from ground level it was truly depressing. The mountain itself had been reduced to an ugly, pockmarked hump of rock and weeds. With great effort, they climbed to the top of it and gazed through the choked-off valleys below. For lunch, they ate sandwiches in the shade of a dilapidated trailer once used as mining headquarters. Jeff told stories about watching the destruction as a kid. He’d been nine years old when the mining began.

Samantha was curious as to why he had chosen Gray Mountain as their Saturday hiking destination. Like Donovan, he preferred not to talk about what happened there. The hiking was far from pleasant. The landscapes and views were ruined, for the most part. They were smack in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains
with thousands of miles of unspoiled trails at their disposal. The situation with Krull Mining was extremely dangerous; they could’ve been followed.

So why Gray Mountain? But she did not ask. She might later, but not right then.

As they were descending, they walked past a vine-covered waste yard of rusting machinery, obviously abandoned when Vayden Coal fled the site. Lying on its side and partially covered with weeds was a massive tire. Samantha walked closer and said, “What is this used for?”

“The haul trucks. That’s a small one, actually, only about ten feet in diameter. Nowadays they’re almost twice as big.”

“I was reading the news yesterday. Did you see the story about the Millard Break shoot-out the other night? These ecoterrorists—”

“Sure, everybody knows about them.”

She turned and stared at him with unblinking eyes. He took a step back and said, “What?”

She kept staring, and said, “Oh, nothing. It just seems to me that ecoterrorism would appeal to you and Donovan, and perhaps Vic Canzarro as well.”

“I love those guys, whoever they are. But I really don’t want to go to prison.” He was walking away as he said this. At the foot of Gray Mountain, they walked along the edge of a creek bed. There was no water; there had been none in a long time. Jeff said he and Donovan used to fish at that spot with their father, long before the valley fill destroyed the creek. He took her to their old home site and described the house where they lived, the house built by his grandfather. They stopped at the cross where Donovan found their mother, Rose, and he knelt beside it for a long time.

The sun was disappearing over the mountains; the afternoon had slipped away. The wind was sharper, a cold front was moving through and bringing a chance of flurries by morning. When they were back by Yellow Creek, he asked, “Do you want to stay here tonight or go back to Brady?”

“Let’s stay,” she said.