by Reed Arvin
In five minutes Brown had cleared the dirt away from the fitting and was working hard with his wrench. This connection was tougher, and even after a good deal of grunting the pipe held fast. At last he stood precariously on the wrench and bounced, balancing his weight unsteadily with his hands on the side of the hole. After several tries there was a sudden jerk and Brown disappeared into the darkness with a thud. The fitting had come loose all at once, unsettling Brown from his perch on the wrench and tumbling him into the oily dirt.
“John!” Amanda called, scrambling to the edge of the hole and pointing her flashlight downward. She could see him crumpled up at the bottom. A flow of black oil spilled out of the opened pipe and was collecting over his legs.
“I’m okay,” he called out. He came unsteadily to his feet and tested his weight on his left leg. The spilling oil was filling the small hole, and had already climbed halfway to his knees. He was covered in black fluid. “God, what a mess.”
Henry shone his light on Brown’s face. He appeared unhurt, and Henry said, “I guess we owe you for some clothes.”
Brown bent over, disappearing again into the hole. “Hand me a flashlight,” he called. Henry handed his flashlight carefully down into Brown’s hand.
“What’s it look like?” he asked.
“Like oil. But there’s no doubt about it. This pipe has crude running through it. The back-pressure alone tells me that it’s not just sitting in the pipe.” He handed the light back to Henry, and reached up for a hand. “Coming up,” he said. Henry took the hand, and black goo squeezed between their fingers. With a hard pull Brown scrambled out of the hole. Amanda shone her light on him; he was covered with streaks of oil from head to toe.
“Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” Brown muttered. He sat on the ground, breathing heavily, oblivious to the dirt.
“I’ve got a suggestion,” Henry said after a moment. “It’s weak, probably, but it’s the only thing I can think of.”
Brown looked up. “I’m listening.”
“You say the pump can’t be doing what it’s doing, because there shouldn’t be any oil in this rock to pump. But the truth is, it only seems impossible. There is a clear test to end this once and for all.”
“I’d like to know what it is,” Brown said with irritation.
“It’s going to sound obvious, I suppose. But my idea is to open one side of the pipes and start the well again.”
There was a short silence, which Amanda broke. “Exactly! We turn it on and watch it do the impossible. Whatever it’s doing, we’ll have to see it.”
“Such is my plan,” Henry said with a soft smile. “What do you think, John?”
Brown was already on his feet and walking back to the containing tank. “If you want one side open, I’ll close the one aboveground.” He nodded toward the hole. “Whatever the secret is must be in the buried pipe.”
“Right,” Henry said. He helped Brown pull the pipes back together, and John tightened the fitting once again.
“Okay,” Brown said. “So the system is intact, except the underground pipe is open. Let’s do it.” He walked back to the wellhead. After a couple of minutes, the well rumbled back to life. The huge arms began plunging up and down, gradually picking up speed. Brown moved back over to the open hole; Amanda and Henry were training their flashlights into the darkness.
Nothing happened for a long moment. Suddenly, however, oil sprayed through one side of the pipes. “Well, now,” Brown said, blinking.
Henry stared at the spurting oil. “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?”
“Yeah,” Brown said. “It’s oil, and it’s flowing in the wrong direction.”
“Explain,” Amanda demanded.
“The oil should flow from the well to the tank, obviously,” Brown answered. “But unfortunately, it doesn’t.”
Amanda stared. “My God, you’re right. It’s flowing from the tank to the well. But why? Why would anybody pump oil into a well?”
Brown stared at the flowing oil for a long time. Nobody spoke. Suddenly, his face cleared. “I see it now,” he said. “It’s a closed system. This isn’t different oil at all, not fresh from underground. They’re just pumping the same oil in a circle over and over again.” He gestured toward the well. “Aboveground the oil flows to the holding tank, and on the way it gets metered. That’s why when we checked the flow it looked correct. But the same oil is going back to the well in the underground pipe. This well has been pumping the same oil for twenty-five years. It leaks a little, but they could just top it off. No problem.”
“So the production never drops,” Henry said. “It’s the same oil, year after year. But anybody can come out here and check production to his heart’s content and it will always look right.”
“Yeah,” Brown said. “The one thing they couldn’t control was the wellhead pressure gauge. Since the system’s closed, the pressure can’t drop when the pump starts.”
“Couldn’t they just remove it?” Henry asked.
“The gauge is required by law. Removing it would have attracted too much attention. No, this was the lower risk. Very few people would check the pressure change like we just did. Nobody would unless he already suspected a problem.”
The three watched the oil for a few moments, and Amanda said, “We’ve got to shut it off, John. Any more and we won’t be able to reattach the fitting.”
“Right,” Brown answered, jogging to the wellhead. He got the pump stopped as quickly as possible, returned to the hole, and muttered, “I guess I’m elected to get back down there. No sense in either one of you doing it.”
Neither Henry nor Amanda protested; seeing John’s clothes drip black onto the ground was more than enough reason to let him have his way. Brown clambered back down into the hole. The oil was over the pipe now, and he had to work blind in the crude. But he got the pipe reconnected quickly, and soon he had climbed out of the hole. The wet oil had collected a layer of dirt and he was even filthier, if possible.
“The real question is why?” Amanda said after a moment. “Why would anybody pump the same oil to themselves for twenty-five years?”
“Look, I know nothing about oil, but I know a lot about money,” Henry said. “In theory this could be a pretty good money-laundering setup. You pump oil, it shows up in your books, you pretend to sell it to a distributor. You say the government checks your pumps from time to time. Everything looks fine, so the system keeps right on working. Money changes hands, but there’s no product. You could wash dollar for dollar for every drop of oil you pumped. It’s beautiful. But in this case it doesn’t make sense, naturally.”
“What’s the problem?” Amanda asked.
“Why would Crandall or Durand need to wash money?” Henry answered. “That’s urban crime. What are we saying, that they were running drugs? Anyway, there’s not enough dollars to make it worth the trouble. I’ve seen Ty Crandall’s bank records going back for years. Depending on the price of crude, these wells only bring in about thirty-five thousand dollars a year total. It’s an absurdly elaborate setup for that kind of money, especially if this underground arrangement is duplicated on all the working wells.”
“It has to be,” Brown stated. “If those wells are pumping anything, it has to be like this.”
“Okay,” Henry said. “Then we’re still missing something.” As they stood thinking, the moon appeared, rising from the west and casting a pale, yellowish-white light over the range. The breeze had cooled with the evening, and it spoke quietly, rustling the high grass around their legs.
“Something tragic did happen, at least,” Amanda said, suddenly thoughtful. “Someone died here.”
Sweat shone in the moonlight off Brown’s face. “I didn’t know that,” he said.
“It was an accident,” Henry said, nodding. “A field hand bought it when this place was first drilled.” He was about to continue, but the evening’s silence was broken by the sound of an opening car door. “Raymond,” he said, spinning around. “He’s
been so quiet, I forgot all about him.”
Raymond Boyd stepped out of the car into the night air about thirty yards away from the well. He moved briskly away from the vehicle, his eyes on the sky. He opened his mouth, and called out to the Alpha and the Omega in a loud, anguished voice.
“He had another episode.” Henry had returned to Council Grove, and was speaking into his cell phone. It was nearly ten o’clock at night, but Harris had given him his home phone number. Henry filled in Harris on what they had discovered at the well, and winced when he got to the part where Boyd came unglued. “I got him back into the car okay, but it wasn’t as easy as last time. For a second I thought he was going to really resist me.”
Harris’ voice was full of concern. “Where is he now?” he asked.
“At the park,” Henry answered. “He bolted back to his bench when we got back. I didn’t have a chance to explain anything to him.”
“Explain what?”
“Raymond doesn’t know about the trial yet. I need time to sit down with him and try to get him to understand what’s going to happen.”
“It would have been better to have tried that before hauling him out to those oil wells,” Harris said. “I’m beginning to wonder about this whole arrangement. If he were in the hospital we could control things so much better.”
“It doesn’t do any good to second-guess now,” Henry said. “Amanda can’t go on the Crandall property without him, and I made the decision it was worth the risk.”
“I’m not sure you’re in a position to do that.”
“It paid off. Thanks to her and Brown, we know those wells are about as normal as Raymond is. And there was another reason to bring Raymond. Seeing his reaction to them confirms that they’re the center of the storm.”
There was a pause, and Harris said, “My concern is Raymond, not oil wells. Look, I’m not going to rake you over the coals. But that doesn’t make me less concerned about his condition. He should have leveled off a little by now. He’s still taking his medication?”
“No problem.”
“You’re watching him swallow it?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Look, I’m going to come out there in the morning and have another talk with him. In the meantime, let’s give him some air. Don’t talk to him about the trial until after I examine him. I want to let him recover from the trip out to the wells.”
“All right. Can you meet us at the Trailside tomorrow afternoon?”
“Make it sooner. I’ll be there by noon.”
Early the next morning Henry and Amanda walked down Pawnee, heading toward the square. “I need a place to work,” Henry said. “And it’s not just space I need. I can’t even make copies right now.”
Amanda nodded. “You can’t do business at the Trailside.”
“And the motel doesn’t even have a fax. Hard beds and four television channels for forty-seven bucks a night.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m thinking of something, and it’s either completely brilliant or the worst idea I ever had in my life.” They turned the corner onto Chautauqua and Henry pulled Amanda to a stop. The square opened before them, a collection of storefronts surrounding the courthouse. Wooden doors opened onto the streets: Jenny’s Quilts and Things, Melba’s Shoe Center, the bank, the diner, a barbershop. Henry pointed across the square at an empty office with large picture windows. “My father’s old office.”
“And you’re thinking of reopening it?” she asked soberly.
“Just for the trial,” he answered. “Definitely not long-term. But it makes sense, in a way. He drafted the original will, you know.”
“Yes. And you love irony.”
“Opening up that place would be one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”
“Is there anything inside?”
“Empty filing cabinets, a couple of desks. I could have had them hauled off, but the agency thought it would be easier to rent if it wasn’t so empty-looking. They were wrong, apparently.” They stepped off the curb and crossed the street, dodging a couple of trucks that were circling the square.
As they approached the office, Amanda asked, “Who owns it now?”
“I’m not sure, at this point,” Henry replied. “I heard it was sold, but I didn’t follow up to whom. It wasn’t worth coming all the way back for the cabinets. Besides, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go back in there.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the yellowed envelope he had retrieved before leaving Chicago. “I don’t know why I’ve kept this,” he said quietly. “It should have been sent back long ago. Bringing it was just an impulse. Lately I find I don’t resist that kind of thing in my life too well. And now here I am, standing in front of this door.”
Amanda looked at the envelope. “What is it?”
Henry tore open the envelope and pulled out a key. “I’m betting these locks were never changed,” he said. “Strictly speaking, I suppose we’re trespassing. But what the hell.”
Henry put the key in the lock and turned it; the door popped open slightly as the lock released. He pushed the door open, and it creaked from disuse. Light from the street fell into the large front room through the open door and the large picture windows.
Henry walked slowly into the office, Amanda following behind. The front room was twenty-five by twenty, and, as Henry had described, nearly empty. A single desk was parked at an odd angle against a wall, and a couple of tall wooden file cabinets were pushed off to the other side. “Slightly creepy,” Amanda said softly.
Henry walked past her, crazy rectangles of light from the windows glancing across his legs. “This is all that’s left of twenty years of legal practice,” he said. “A couple of empty rooms. Every day he came in here and worked, and look at this place. It’s like none of it ever happened.” He walked over to a light switch and absently flicked it. To his surprise, he heard a humming above him. A scattering of long fluorescent lights above him came to life, eventually bathing the room in an uneven white glare. “Two of the four lights work,” Henry said. “That seems appropriate.”
Amanda walked to the desk and pulled on the center drawer. It slid open easily, and she looked inside. “There’s still some pens and stuff in here,” she said with surprise. “These are from your father’s days?”
“A lot happens when you lose both your parents at one time,” Henry said. “There was no one to go through anything. His secretary moved out of state after the accident. She refused to ever come in here again. I was no better, frankly. I had someone come in and clean up as best they could.”
“So you haven’t been through that door since then.”
“No.”
Henry looked at her, pausing momentarily on the edge of an emotional scar. “It’s a symbol of the futility of my father’s life, and that makes me angry,” he said. “It also makes me miss him like hell.” He looked around the gloom. “Who knows, maybe I could redeem this place by coming in and kicking Durand’s and Hesston’s ass.”
“You’ve got my full support on that. I know it’s not my business, but maybe you should do this. It feels right.”
“All right. If I can figure out who owns this dump, we’ll reopen tomorrow. If they’re not afraid of Crandalls, that is.”
“Need any help?” Amanda asked, and he saw a trace of red suffuse through her cheeks. He liked it; she was so competent, he found her capacity for shyness an attractive surprise.
“Yes, and you can give yourself any title you like.”
“Queen of the world will do.”
“What about your job?”
She raised an eyebrow. “There’s rejoicing in the office when I don’t show up.”
Henry nodded. “I still need some equipment. Any ideas?”
“You can use my fax and printer.”
“Can you get me a small copy machine?”
“Not from my office, but I can do that.”
“Thanks,” he said gratefully. “Meanwhile I’
m going over to the bank and see if I can find out who owns this place.”
The discovery that Henry’s father’s office was the property of the Cottonwood Valley Bank gave Henry a momentary sense of awe; if his destiny was finding him, it was running, for the moment, on rails. He had bumped into Frank Walters coming out of the bank and asked him if he had any information on the place, and Walters had lit up like a headlight. “I own it,” he said, “or rather the bank does. And if you know a buyer I’ll pay you a nice finder’s fee.”
“I had something more temporary in mind,” Henry said. “I’d like to use the office for a while.”
Walters gave him an interested look. “That so?” he asked. “What you got in mind?”
“Bringing the dead back to life,” Henry said. “At least the office anyway. I need a place to set up shop for a while.”
“I heard you left town in a hurry.”
“I’m back. Roger Crandall’s contesting the will, and it goes to court Thursday. I’m representing Raymond.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Roger was never going to be satisfied with anything less.”
Walters nodded. “Well, you can have the office. It’s been empty for so long I’d like to see somebody in it. Anyway, I already told you how I feel about Crandalls.”
“I’m not sure it’s Crandalls I’m fighting.”
Walters’ face lit up. “Who, then?”
“Another level up the food chain, I think. I’ll be moving some stuff in there in the morning.”
Walters smiled. “You let me know if I can help. Anything at all.”
Henry’s second prayer was as short as his first. He turned to cross Main and slowed, spontaneously, at the curb. He didn’t close his eyes or even look down. He merely paused between steps and said, “Thank you.”
Setting up the office was an exercise in emotional self-restraint. Henry came to terms with the place in stages, pushing through barriers of nostalgia. He arranged the sparse furniture, turned to pick up a box, and caught his breath; he had, unconsciously, put each piece exactly where it had been in his father’s day. It was as though the first pieces of a jigsaw puzzle had been placed, and if a cutout of his father and the remaining file cabinets and pictures could be pressed into the scene, time would have been stopped six years earlier.