Radio Free Vermont

by Bill McKibben

  19

  Six hours later Trance, Perry, and Vern were together again, but this time in a small motel room on the outskirts of Barre. A friend of Sylvia’s had rented the room, and lingered in the gathering dusk to hand them the key.

  “Don’t bother unpacking,” said Vern. “We’re only here a couple of hours. All we need is the computer.”

  Perry was already unpacking his MacBook Pro. “Thank God we’re back in the modern world,” he said. “That copper connection was—look, here we go. We can see everything the camera sees. Hooray for night-vision.”

  “That’s the same game camera Syl’s neighbors were watching us on?” asked Trance.

  “Yep,” said Vern. “We rotated it a few degrees, so we could get a basic view of the front of Syl’s house. It’s not perfect, but it will let us know once they’ve arrived. Which shouldn’t be long. Assuming Horace read the business card he picked up so inelegantly, and assuming he called the governor on the way home, and assuming Tommy Augustus never asked himself why desperate terrorists left a business card with their host’s address on the floor, assuming all those things, the state police should be arriving any minute.”

  “Do you think this motel has a gym?” asked Trance.

  “I doubt it, but you can’t use it anyway,” said Vern. “But I’ll count push-ups for you if you want.”

  “I’ve been doing push-ups and sit-ups for the last week. I need to move,” said Trance.

  “Not right now though,” said Perry. “Something’s happening.”

  The action through the game camera was a little jerky, and hard to make out, but it looked as if six or eight large vehicles with flashing lights had pulled into the dirt driveway in front of Sylvia’s house. Men were piling out, rifles in hand, and taking position behind the vehicles. One man, ducked down behind an SUV, was talking into a microphone while another held the bullhorn over the roof.

  “I wish these cameras came with audio,” said Perry.

  “Normally deer don’t talk much,” said Trance.

  “Doesn’t matter. That’s Tommy Augustus and he’s saying something original like ‘Come out with your hands up.’ Which means, Perry, that it’s time for the firecrackers.”

  Perry hit a button, and though they couldn’t hear anything, they hoped that six loud pops had sounded from an upstairs corner window of Syl’s house. It took about five seconds before they knew the device had worked—that was the moment when every gun in the driveway seemed to let loose at once, with a fusillade that lit up the evening. In the sudden flash they could see another vehicle coming up the driveway.

  “Oh good,” said Vern. “Turn on WVTV.”

  “. . . LaRossette reporting live from the Channel 3 Mobile CrimeCatcher Tank here in Starksboro. We’re exclusively outside the home of Sylvia Granger, where Vern Barclay, Trance Harper, and their associates are holed up, according to state police.”

  Horace was crouched behind the truck, and now they could hear the gunfire loud and clear. “I wish he’d stop blocking the house with the truck,” said Vern. “But judging from the glow over his shoulder, I’d suspect the kerosene has worked and that house is ‘fully involved,’ as we used to say at the firehouse.”

  “. . . Chief Augustus,” Horace was yelling. “Can you join us here?”

  Tommy Augustus crawled from his vehicle over to the newstank, removing his hat long enough to make sure his hair was combed down underneath.

  “Chief Augustus, what’s happening in there?” LaRossette yelled.

  “Horace, we managed to track down the terrorists to this location. We came under fire, and then we returned fire. This is the end of the line for terror in Vermont.”

  “The noise is deafening,” said Horace.

  “We’re using lots of new equipment that the feds have loaned us for this operation,” said Augustus, with a grin. “The rocket-propelled grenades are making most of that noise. Those are desperate people in there and I’m not taking any chances with the lives of my men. We are setting an example here.”

  At that moment a new sound began to grow on the TV—the wail of a siren approaching fast. The WVTV camera swung around, and in the orange light of the burning house it was easy to see a familiar fire truck, with Sylvia at the wheel in full fire gear. It ground to a halt next to the vehicles, and men jumped from the cab and began unrolling hose.

  “Stop!” screamed Augustus. “Get down.”

  “Who are you?” said Sylvia.

  “Chief Augustus of the Vermont State Police,” he said. “Who are you?”

  “Chief Granger of the Starksboro Volunteer Fire Department,” said Sylvia. “And this is my house you’re shooting at.”

  “We’re only shooting at it because your terrorists have been shooting at us,” said Tommy.

  “What are you talking about, terrorists?” said Sylvia. “I’ve lived in that house for twenty years and I’ve never once seen a terrorist.”

  “Are you telling me that Trance Harper and Vern Barclay and that kid aren’t in that house?” said Tommy.

  “I was there three hours ago, before I went down to the firehouse for our monthly meeting, and there wasn’t a soul there but me,” said Sylvia.

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Tommy. “They were shooting at us.”

  “Was anyone hit?” she asked. “Do I need to call in the ambulance crew?”

  “Not for us,” said Tommy. “They missed.”

  “Wait,” said Sylvia. “Weren’t you on TV last week saying that Trance Harper was extremely dangerous, a trained sniper who could kill from a mile away? How’d she miss you?”

  Augustus looked a little panicked in the camera lights. He hesitated for a moment.

  “You tell them, Horace. This is the hideout, right?”

  “Hey, you weren’t supposed to tell that I—”

  “This is the hideout where the gang brought you this morning, right?”

  “Well, remember, I never actually saw the outside. I was hooded,” said LaRossette. “But I can easily identify the kitchen,” he added.

  “You better do it pretty quick,” said Sylvia, looking straight into the camera. “Because it looks to me like the kitchen isn’t going to be there much longer. And if you really think there are people inside, maybe you should let my crew put this fire out,” she added.

  “No!” said Tommy. “Those people are armed and dangerous. And you—you’re, you’re under arrest for harboring fugitives from the law.”

  He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his belt and clamped her wrists behind her back. Sylvia looked at the camera and said, “I’m starting to see why these people want a free Vermont—I mean, I’m being arrested for trying to put out a fire in my own house. Mr. LaRossette, it’s very nice to meet you in person. You look shorter than on TV, but that’s an awfully nice suit you have on underneath that Kevlar vest.”

  “Wardrobe provided courtesy of Men’s Wearhouse at University Mall,” he said, as Augustus led Sylvia away into the night. “We’re here exclusively at the site of what state police are calling a terrorist hideout in Starksboro.” A wide shot from the cameraman holding his lens above the roof of a police car filled the screen, showing the house already caving in, with a column of fire rising high into the night.

  20

  Sylvia, looking radiant as her blond hair spilled over an orange prison jumpsuit, walked down the steps of the Washington County courthouse the next morning on the arms of two men in suits, and flanked by fourteen others—eleven men and three women. They stopped at a makeshift lectern in front of dozens of reporters, and one of the men stepped to the microphone.

  “Good morning,” he said. “My name is David Fenton, and I will be serving as media coordinator for the team representing Ms. Granger in the days ahead. She will answer questions in a moment, but first let me bring you up to date on the day’s proceedings.

  �
�Ms. Granger was released this morning after an appearance before Judge Lem Harkness in Superior Court. The State of Vermont asked for bail of ten million dollars, arguing that she was a flight risk. Our team argued that she was a long-term resident of the community, residing in the same house for twenty years until the State of Vermont burned it to the ground last evening. We further informed the judge that we know of no physical or other evidence to substantiate the charge that she harbored terrorists, and moved to have all charges dismissed, a motion the judge took under advisement. In addition, we filed suit this morning in state court seeking fifty million dollars in damages for the destruction of her home and the mental distress caused by forcing her to watch, handcuffed, as that home burned to the ground. Now, if there are some questions?”

  The reporters started shouting, and Fenton pointed at a tall man in the first row.

  “Anne Galloway, VTDigger.org,” she said. “Can you describe the scene at your home last night?”

  “Not very well,” she said. “When I was led away, my home was fully involved—the fire had spread to every part of the structure. It’s what we call a Class V structure, ordinary wood construction. My fire department was on hand and the tank of the pumper was full; not only that but there’s a pond by the house that would have let us spray for an hour. But law enforcement prevented us from fighting the fire, which is probably just as well since as far as I could see they were busy, for reasons unclear to me, keeping a heavy gunfire on the premises. It was pretty interesting, and if it hadn’t been my own house, it might have been kind of fun to watch—I am told much of Vermont viewed it live on television. But I was led away before it was over; my assistant chief informed me earlier this morning that there was nothing left but a few smoldering timbers with a lot of state and federal investigators sifting through them. They wouldn’t let him anywhere near.”

  “Paul Heintz, Bennington Banner. Was there anyone else in your house last night?”

  “I was divorced eight years ago and live alone,” said Sylvia. “My dog died last summer. Thank God I waited to get a new puppy.”

  “Tim Timmins, WVTV. But the state police insist that Vern Barclay and Trance Harper died in your house last night. In fact, tonight at seven we’re broadcasting their unseen last interviews, in a special series, ‘Voices from Beyond the Grave.’ Are you saying you didn’t even know them?”

  Sylvia paused, and looked at the man on her left, who gave a slight nod.

  “Well,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “Everyone knows Vern Barclay. I mean, I drank my coffee listening to him since I was in high school. And he interviewed me when I started my school, the School for New Vermonters. Trance Harper—I’m not a big sports fan. But I was watching when she raised that flag over the new arena, and what she said about big and small was the smartest thing I’d heard in a very long time. I doubt if my television works very well anymore, but I’ll make sure to watch those interviews tonight—and I’ll sure hope that they’re still alive somewhere, because it seems to me we need them in this state. I mean, I thought that before, but after last night I really think it. I may not have a house in Starksboro right at the moment, but I imagine they’ll still let me come to town meeting, and I’m going to vote for a free Vermont.”

  “Angelo Lynn, Addison Independent. Ms. Granger, I’ve been a reporter here in Vermont for a very long time, and I’ve never seen anyone with sixteen lawyers. How can you afford this much legal . . . firepower?”

  “Um, that’s a very good question,” said Sylvia.

  “I’ll take that one,” said Fenton, stepping to the microphone. “Only fourteen of us are attorneys. I’m a media relations specialist, as is Mr. Erskine Hunnewell, former vice president of the global PR firm, Hill and Knowlton. Our entire team is working pro bono, because we had the pleasure of studying at Ms. Granger’s school when we retired to Vermont. She taught us a variety of skills, which we now pursue—when I got the call this morning about this court appearance, I was preparing to cut firewood on my property. While wearing, I might add, chaps and hearing protection,” he said, glancing at Sylvia, who beamed back.

  “But even though we are retired, we retain some of our old skills. Ms. Granger’s representation includes the former general counsels of Pillsbury, Xerox, and International Harvester”—at the mention of each company one of the men nodded slightly—“as well as the former attorney general of New Jersey, the former deans of the law schools at Harvard and Princeton, and judges from the Fourth and Sixth federal circuit courts. In fact, our team is slightly larger than this group—two of us, including the lead counsel for the Senate committee that investigated the Waco shootings, are on hand at the site of Ms. Granger’s former home, watchdogging the forensic investigation. We believe she will have . . . adequate representation,” he concluded, unable to suppress a grin.

  “We will be holding daily press briefings, but for now we need to get Ms. Granger some rest. Thank you very much,” he said, and he led Sylvia into a Subaru Forester with tinted windows that was waiting at the curb. As it drove away, with reporters chasing it down the road shouting questions, every camera caught the “Barclay for Prime Minister” bumper sticker on the back.

  21

  “Tonight, a WVTV exclusive report. Those of you who were watching our live coverage last night from the Channel 3 CrimeCatcher Tank know that a Starksboro farmhouse burned to the ground. FBI experts continue to search the site, looking for evidence to back up the claim from Montpelier that it’s the grave of longtime radio host Vern Barclay and Olympic heroine Trance Harper.”

  “I would have liked to be a fly on the wall when Tommy Augustus met the governor today,” said Vern. “Leslie Bruce may not be the absolute sharpest chisel in the tool drawer, but he’s a good enough politician not to want to watch live as his chief of police handcuffs the chief of a local fire department to keep her from saving her own home.”

  “. . . What you don’t know is that I, Horace LaRossette, was in that farmhouse earlier in the day. Or in some other farmhouse, maybe—I was wearing a blindfold. Anyway, I was able to conduct an in-depth interview with Harper, Barclay, and a third young man, Percy Alterman.”

  “Well, that’s pretty close to Perry Alterson,” said Perry. “And after I fixed his camera.”

  “If the authorities are correct, these are their last words. They are literally speaking . . . from Beyond the Grave. I asked them a series of hard-hitting questions about their hopes for Vermont, and the conduct of their underground campaign. Now, in their own words, these fellow Vermonters.”

  The picture shifted to videotape from Sylvia’s kitchen, though there was no clue beyond the blue wall behind the three as they answered questions.

  “. . . Farm Bureau says that you’d put Vermont farmers out of business. How do you respond?”

  “Horace, I’m an old farmboy, so I could give you my opinion. But let’s hear some facts and . . .”

  Vern had never gotten used to seeing himself on TV. He was comfortable with his voice, maybe a little proud even (“not silver, but a bit of pewter,” was how he thought of it) but he found it distracting to watch himself, even in the best of times. And this is not the best of times, he found himself thinking. I look old, I look tired. Do I look a little crazy? He closed his eyes.

  “. . . the first thing to say is, If you’re depending on Social Security you may want to think again,” he was telling Horace. Eyes closed, it sounded okay. “At the moment its promised benefits exceed its projected income by trillions of dollars—that’s trillions with a T. In any event, it shouldn’t vanish simply because we leave the Union; Americans who move abroad continue to receive their checks, because it’s just the return on the money they’ve invested throughout their lives. If Vermont became ‘abroad,’ our seniors should be protected.”

  “Well, you may not be treasonous,” said Horace, “but the Bruce administration has made some serious charges that need addre
ssing. Most of all—why are you engaging in terrorism?”

  “Whoa, Horace,” said Vern, “I think that’s what the lawyers call ‘a leading question.’ So far as I can tell, we haven’t fired a shot or blown up a bomb or threatened to do anything of the kind. It’s true that Perry and I did manage to, um, fill the new Walmart with a different kind of crap than the crap they sell, but in terms of volume it was considerably less manure than one of our big corporate mega-dairies produces in a single day, and none of it washed straight down into the lake. Except for that, we’ve done nothing but talk.”

  “But what about you, Trance?” asked LaRossette. “The government says you’re a highly trained markswoman.”

  “Mr. LaRossette, I’ve been shooting things since I was a little girl. I shot coyotes on the farm, I shot targets when I was an athlete. And I went to Iraq and shot people—five of them. Five shots and five kills and I’m not ashamed—I did what my country asked. But I’m not ever doing it again, not for anything. I’m done shooting people. And even if I wasn’t, I’m a good enough soldier to know that you don’t choose your opponent’s weapons—the government has more guns than we could ever hope for, and I imagine they’re just looking for an excuse to use them. This is an entirely nonviolent campaign, at least on our side.”

  “Well, okay,” said LaRossette, who seemed a little startled by her sternness. “And may I just say thanks for the people of Vermont for your service to your country. At WVTV we honor all our warriors.”

  Trance just looked at him, a look that lasted long seconds till the coverage cut back to the studio, and to LaRossette, who still looked a little startled. “That was yesterday. Today Trance Harper may be dead. She claims she’d laid down her weapons; the government insists they were fired on from inside that farmhouse. Those may have been her last words—we’ll keep following this story.