Saltwater in the Bluegrass (8 page)

Dusty blew the horn and waved Thomas down at the São Paulo Airport. He then helped Thomas with his luggage. They threw the bag into the truck, and soon the two of them were through the gates of the airport and on their way to the mines, five and a half hours away.

“Hello, Tommy,”
Dusty said.

“Dusty, how you doing? How are the kids?” Tommy asked.

“Good, the kids are good, growing, eating me out of house and home.”

“Kids will do that, and Kate?” Thomas asked, as he suddenly yawned, shaking his head, twisting his neck from the long trip. He then moved one side to the other, trying to stretch out his upper body in the front seat, as they drove through the airport exit. “How is she?”

“Kate is good, keeping busy with the family. So how was the flight?”

“The flight? Mind numbing. The same way all flights are, especially those from one country to the next. They’re long, uncomfortable, no leg room, bad food, screaming kids, and terrible service.”

“Isn’t that the truth?”

“No one should have to fly commercial these days. So, bring me up to speed on the recovery efforts. How are things going? How many teams do you have working the situation?”

“Four teams, twelve men each, around the clock, exhausted, no one’s sleeping, everyone’s in a panic; it’s been maddening around the mine.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“That’s what’s so frustrating. The towns around the area are in an uproar; the local news stations are on our backs for answers. Beat reporters are starting to run out of things to print.”

“They usually do.”

“They’re starting to make up stuff. They’re asking all sorts of questions, putting blame on this and that, wondering how this could have happened.”

“To tell you the truth, I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. Have you given any formal statements?”

“No yet. All of my time has been spent on the rescue. I’m just trying to stay positive.”

“That’s good.”

“Other than that, hope remains high with the recovery effort. We’ve had a lot of volunteers, people praying and helping where they can.”

“And equipment?” Thomas nodded, anticipating his response, waiting for a reply.

“Dumpers, cradles, earthmovers, trucks, backhoes, everything we can get our hands on is being used. The core-drillers have been running nonstop since the explosion; ventilation hoses have reached the shaft in three separate caverns. In less than a day, we’ve secured ninety-seven feet.”

“Any news on survivors?” Tommy asked.

“Not much. When the explosion occurred, it sealed off the main artery to number two, three, six, and eight.” Dusty paused. “Assessing the structural damage will be critical. Still, there’s hope that the main arteries are in tact, and the debris is easier to remove than expected, but then again, it should be.”

“How do you figure?” Thomas asked.

“Simple logic: it was an explosion, not a cave-in. The force of the blast caused everything to blow out and disperse instead of being collected and absorbed. Simple physics.”

“That makes sense.”

“There are several possible scenarios that could account for what happen inside the mine.”

“Like what?”

“The possibility of an employee making a mistake, a misunderstood order that was given, not paying attention, faulty equipment, maybe one of the employees just screwed the hell up.”

“That still wouldn’t explain the release of the gas and the explosion inside the mine.”

“Maybe it wasn’t an accident.”

“How’s that?” Tommy asked.

“Maybe it was intentional against the company, another employee, or possibly even against Mr. Ingram.”

“Possible? Still, if it was against Lamar or the company, it still wouldn’t explain why he was down here.”

“That’s true.”

“Why he had come down here alone and didn’t tell anyone about it before he left. Something had to have brought him down here, or someone. There’s no reason, yet there has to be a reason. It’s simply logic.”

“Again with the logic,” Tommy said.

“That’s what we need to find out. When we get back to the mine, I want you to tear that office apart. Go through everything, every file, ask questions.”

“Yes sir.”

“So, how many confirmed dead?”

“The death toll stands at five, but there are still seven men unaccounted for.”

“Seven.”

“Thank goodness the day shift hadn’t already started. It was early morning when it happened. It was still dark outside. Thirty minutes later and we could have had thirty additional men trapped or killed.”

“Did anybody see anything?”

“No. Then again, if they did, nobody is talking.”

“We need to talk with everyone,” Thomas said.

On the way to the
Ingram Mines, Dusty tried his best to explain to Thomas that things just were not adding up to the fact that there had been an explosion.

Procedures and safety measures were standard operation, and they had always been followed while he was in charge or on duty. There was no time that he could ever remember seeing propane tanks near the entrance of the mines. Dusty also wondered why Joseph Bowen, the plant operations manager, had not come into work the day after the explosion, and to his knowledge, no one had seen him since the day of the explosion. It was like he had just vanished without explanation.

Inside the heavily-guarded gates of the number two mine, four large earthmovers, two digging cats, and a crane worked their way back and forth across the entrance. Employees, family members, medical technicians, and consultants were standing around looking and anticipating the time that the mine would be cleared so they could get inside and bring out the dead.

It had now been two full days since the explosion, and temperaments and emotions were reaching the breaking point. Faster and faster the machines worked. Over and over the large machines reappeared in the daylight to load what they had brought out of the darkened tunnel into the earthmovers to be carried off. Time and time again the workers and the families watched as truck after truck appeared and then vanished once again, not to reappear for ten minutes.

On the sixty-first hour of searching following the explosion, the bodies were finally found. One by one the dead men were carried out, identified, and then placed in body bags. One by one, as if the grief would end, but it did not, as man after man was brought up. Each man had a loved one, a friend or a family member, who was there crying. It was a scene that would continue to mark Thomas and pull at his soul for days.

Lamar had been a kind man to the workers of this community, a friend in their eyes who had brought a better way of life and a better spirit to the town. He would be forever missed by the people of this area and would stay in their hearts and prayers for years to come. The people of Porto Alegre would always remember Senhor Ingram.
Thomas climbed
the five steps of the company jet. From above he watched as the casket was loaded underneath and then went inside and sat down.

Reports on the mine explosion were still vague. All twelve bodies had been brought to the surface and were now accounted for. A small party of workers had shown up at the airport, at their own expense, to pay last respects to Senhor Ingram. Thomas studied their eyes; he studied their faces. These were people who truly felt sorrow. Lamar had brought a sense of pride to the region along with economic stability.

The jet had sat at the São Paulo terminal where Lamar left it five days earlier. It was now serviced, and flight plans had been approved by the tower. Runway 3A would be used. It was time for The Paper Boy to fly home. It was time to deliver Lamar’s body back to the family waiting in Louisville.

Boarded and prepared, the jet raced down the runway of the tarmac and lifted its nose into the southern sky of Brazil. It then turned north as it climbed to thirty thousand feet and started its long journey back home to the United States.

Thomas leaned back in his chair. He was exhausted. There would be plenty of time to rest. There would be plenty of time on the flight for Thomas to recount the past, to remember the moments and savor the times that Lamar and he had spent together.

Now he was alone.

He was sitting in the back of the jet, his best friend sealed in a casket below.

They were heading home.

The two of them, life long friends, together one last time, for one last flight.

This is where I come in.
My name is J.C. Stringer, Jimmy Chase to friends and family. I am a private investigator, or P.I. to all you Ferrari-driving wannabes with colored mustaches, good looks, and dark tans. For now, just sit back, sink what’s left of your good teeth into the real world, and maybe if you’re lucky you can hang on. It was a beautiful Sunday morning in the southern part of Florida. It was quiet, and I was at peace with the world.

Well, almost.

Everything in my head was still spinning from the day before. It was pretty much still a big blur. I had returned home late Saturday afternoon, and by earlier evening had called it quits and crawled into bed. Sleep for the most part had been sporadic at best. Now, with that said, something had to quickly change. Either that, or the rest of the day was going to turn out to be a complete waste.

Outside it was already getting hot, somewhat sticky in the marina, and the humidity was on the rise. There was little if any wind to cause unsettling, or comfort. As for norms, or averages, it was a cloudless, sunny day, and the sky was working hard at becoming deep blue in color.

Again, it was nothing uncommon for this time of year. Inside it was still comfortable. Considering the fact that it was early, the air condition was working overtime and shadows from the palm tree-lined inlet were still hitting the starboard side of the
Brenda
Kay II
.

As for the harbor, it was crystal clear. The sea was virtually calm. The sparkling lights of the sunrise moved steadily through the rolls of anchored sailboats, schooners, open water power and small cabin cruisers, yachts, weekend pleasure craft, and runabouts that lined the harbor.

It was a postcard in the making.

The sounds of a bustling marina, drifting voices, bilge pumps, and seagulls circling above had helped me to awaken. Harbor traffic off in the distance was picking up. Around these parts, weekends were the busiest. The noises outside had helped me navigate through my shortterm memory loss and find my way back to this point. I needed to get up and get going, to do something. Like I said, it was Sunday, and life on the outside still affected what went on from the inside.

Still, my thoughts of being energetic were again being sabotaged. Routine instead of passion caused my rolling over a few more times before eventually taking a final stretch. If nothing else, I thought I might at least throw on some shorts, climb to the sundeck barefoot, and then quietly slouch behind the wheel with my feet propped atop the instrument panel for a few hours. Being lazy amidst a BlueAtlantic mystery of the moment was, for all intents and purposes, about the extent of my ambition.

It felt good being at home. It felt good being in bed with the shutters drawn, especially after returning to Pompano Beach from a quick one-day road trip up the coastline to Jacksonville and back. I had closed the office and gone up the coast to pick up one of my cars, a 1963 Corvette. I had put her in the shop a few months back to have her restored, some body work and a new paint job. I caught a ride from Pompano Beach up to Jacksonville with Jeff Mabry.

Jeff is a long time cruising buddy from back in high school. He now lives in Stone Island Key, just north of Avalon Point, just south of Sun Bite Key, sorry to say, with a wife who never quite understood friendships from his darkened past. Even so, this is another story for another time, and I would digress by talking about it. My needing a ride and Jeff heading north through Jacksonville was an opportunity too good to pass up, so I took it without ever thinking, and that’s what brings me to this point.

My plans, once Jeff dropped me off
at Hadley Motors and I had picked up my classic, was to take my time driving back home. Spend the day heading south down Highway A1A, have some lunch, maybe stop a few times, take a swim, maybe even hit a few yard sales along the way if the mood hit and the junk looked promising from the road. Jeff and I had left Pompano Beach long before dawn, arriving in Jacksonville on Saturday morning around eight a.m., just as the sky was brightening and sidewalk cafés and pastry shops were opening. About the time high tide was making its way back out to sea and vacationers were getting up to stretch life and their own limits out on another day.

Summer tourist season was in full swing.

Every year, they came by the thousands, in all shapes and sizes, most with attitudes. People were crossing the street at every corner. Several pathetic morons crossed the road in front of us, without ever looking to see if cars were coming.

Along the beach, bright colored umbrellas were popping up, lawn chairs were being scattered, mopeds and wave runners were being unloaded, and gift shops were opening—all the blissful excesses of life.