To Darkness and to Death

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  Terry propped his chin in his hand and removed his reading glasses. Shaun knew speaking first would betray his weakness, his eagerness, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “What do you think?”

  Terry rolled one end of his mustache thoughtfully. “I gotta ask you, Shaun . . . why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you twisting yourself into financial knots like this? You know that as a creditor, AllBanc has already seen the preliminary proposal from GWP. You stand to make a bundle if the mill sells. Certainly more than you’d realize in ten years if you went on as you have been, taking the same level of salary out of the business.”

  He could feel sweat starting in his armpits, damp and sour. McKellan didn’t get it. He didn’t see it. “That’s one of the points of my proposal,” he said, forcing strength and confidence into his voice. “That we don’t go on as we have been. That we make a concerted effort to grow and develop the specialty paper market.”

  “But the capital costs of retooling the mill—”

  “Are accounted for in the third section of my proposal.”

  “Shaun, I won’t argue that those figures show a sufficient amount to upgrade the plant and still maintain operations. But you haven’t taken into account any market variables. If the economy takes a downturn, if the state raises the workers’ comp rates, if you can’t get the union to fall into line with you, you’ll be screwed. There just isn’t enough of a safety net.”

  The sweat was creeping down the middle of Shaun’s back now. His expensive Bahamian shirt clung to his spine.

  “You’ll be putting yourself personally in debt—deep in debt,” McKellan went on. “And if it doesn’t work out a few years down the road, GWP has moved on to bigger and better things. You’ll have a business weighed down with excess obligations and no white knight on the horizon to bail you out. So I ask you, why?”

  Shaun leaned forward, hands curling around the table’s edge. “Terry, my great-grandfather founded that mill. I’m the fourth-generation Reid to run the business. I’ve got a son who’ll be stepping into my shoes someday, just like I did with my dad and he did with his dad before him.” That was not, strictly speaking, the truth. Jeremy had shown no signs of interest in his family’s generations-old trade. As far as he was concerned, the money to be made in the Adirondacks was in tourism, not in timber. But the kid was young yet, still in love with his first job. Shaun would bring him around. If there was a Reid-Gruyn Pulp and Paper to bring him around to.

  “If GWP buys the plant, they’ll still need your expertise to run it. They’ll be able to make the upgrades you’d like.” Terry tapped the proposal. His cheery, pep-up tone scraped Shaun’s nerves like nails on chalkboard. “Reid-Gruyn could become a name in specialty papers. There’s a legacy to hand on to Jeremy.”

  “But I’d be working for someone else! It wouldn’t be mine!” Shaun clamped his mouth shut. God almighty, he sounded like a whiny three-year-old.

  Terry raised his eyebrows. They looked like two woolly caterpillars climbing Mount Baldy. “You’re already working for someone else,” he said. He used the mild and reasonable tone appropriate to a fussy preschooler. Shaun’s face grew hot. “The Reid family owns forty-nine percent of the company. The rest of the shares are held by individual and corporate investors.”

  Some of which, he didn’t have to say, were AllBanc’s own trust accounts.

  “Right. I misspoke.” Shaun leaned back, propping his arm over the back of his chair in what he desperately hoped was a casual gesture. “What I meant to say was, we’ll lose our local control. Decisions about the mill, the employees, the dividend payouts—everything will be coming from Malaysia. You and I have seen too many Washington County businesses get bought out and then abandoned. With me at the helm, you know the needs of our community will be at the forefront. Money is not the most important thing to me, you know that.”

  “I do.” Terry gazed at him with his big brown eyes. Brown, brown, brown—Shaun had never realized how much like a seal the loan officer looked. A mournful seal. “And I respect that. Unfortunately, as an officer of the bank, I have to put money first. I’m afraid I won’t authorize additional capital loans to Reid-Gruyn.”

  “Then give me the personal loan. You and I both know I have enough collateral. I can buy back enough stock to tip the family holdings to fifty-one percent. With that, I can stave off takeover attempts till doomsday.”

  Terry recoiled. “That’s insider trading, Shaun. When GWP announces their bid publicly, there’s no way the share value isn’t going to shoot up. For you to buy in advance, knowing the offer will be made within days—”

  “So give me a loan for home improvements, then. I don’t care what it says on the paperwork. I just need the money, and I need it by Monday.”

  Terry’s seal-like eyes looked harder now. “No. The SEC would be all over your buy. They’d look at the loan, and the first thing they’d see would be the bank’s notice of inquiry from GWP. You may be fine with doing three-to-five in the federal pen, but I’m sure as hell not.”

  “But—” The phone rang. Terry held up a finger as he snatched the receiver off the hook.

  “Terry McKellan here,” he said. His caterpillar brows went up, and he looked at Shaun. “Hi. Were you trying to reach your husband?” Shaun tensed. He hadn’t told Courtney about this appointment. How had she tracked him down? “I can see where that would be a problem,” Terry said. Shaun locked his hands over one knee. Casual. Casual. “Saratoga? I guess I could. What’s the name of the place?” Terry jotted down something on a notepad. “Sure. Glad to be of help. I should be able to have them there in about two hours. Would that work for you?” He looked at Shaun again. “Okay. I’ll see you then.” He hung up.

  “That was Courtney,” he said. “She’s at St. Alban’s. There was a mix-up, and they didn’t get the little pie tins for the quiches they’re making for the reception tomorrow.” He ripped the note off its pad. “So I’m detailed to go to the kitchen store in Saratoga and buy two hundred of the things.” He stood up.

  “But . . . the loan?” Shaun remained seated. He didn’t want to acknowledge the meeting was over. Over, and a complete failure.

  “I’m sorry, Shaun.” Terry shook his head. “There isn’t going to be a loan. I know it’s hard, but maybe the best thing is to acknowledge that times change and businesses, like people, have a natural life span. Maybe you need to stop the extraordinary life support and let Reid-Gruyn go.”

  10:35 A.M.

  Clare found the documents tossed on a table near the gun cabinet. She debated with herself less than five seconds before picking them up.

  The uppermost letter was from the Adirondack Conservancy Corporation. It was addressed to Louisa van der Hoeven, Eugene van der Hoeven, and Millicent van der Hoeven. She shook her head. Let no one say the van der Hoevens went in for trendy names. Dear dat-da-dat-da-da . . . She skimmed the first paragraph, which was an effusive thank-you for the family’s agreeing to the buyout. Clare wondered for a moment if they were letting Haudenosaunee go at a reduced rate. That might be behind Eugene’s anger. Perhaps he felt he was getting stiffed?

  The second paragraph held the meat of the matter. Under the terms of the preliminary agreement, the ACC has consulted with the New York State Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation’s Bureau of Historic Sites, which has rendered up its opinions on the various buildings now located on Haudenosaunee land (see attached). Clare pulled the papers apart. Sure enough, there was a letter from the Bureau, stapled to documents that presumably held its opinions in greater detail.

  First, to address issues related to the original “great camp” built in 1867: The BHS has examined the historical record of this building and its current physical condition. Although the original Adirondack Gothic construction would have been deserving of landmark status, the decay following the van der Hoeven family’s move into the modern house in the years following World War II and the subsequent fire have left the buil
ding damaged past restoration. The ACC has accepted the Bureau’s recommendations that the building shell remain in situ, in part because of the historical value of the ruins and in part due to the difficulty and cost of removing the extensive stone structure.

  Clare translated the bureaucracy-speak in her head: Tearing down old walls into heaps of stone isn’t worth the time and effort.

  Secondly, as to the modern house and dependencies: The conclusion of the BHS is that the current habitation, also known as “Haudenosaunee,” is historically unremarkable, being constructed in no particular architectural style in the 1940s and added on to from time to time in the 1960s and 1980s. The loss of integrity suggests no reason to include the house and its outbuildings on the state list of protected properties. Therefore, in line with the ACC’s mandate to keep the protected area of the Adirondack State Park “forever wild,” the ACC has developed a plan to dismantle the currently existing “improvements” to the property and to replace alien plantings with native species.

  Clare frowned at the letter. Did the mean what she thought it meant?

  The plan is an follows: Within one week of the land transfer scheduled for November 14 (please see the Preliminary Deed of Transfer and Grant of Easements Agreement, dated August 14 of this year), all family members and personal property shall remove from the buildings of Haudenosaunee, including the main house, garage, gardening shed, storage shed, and boathouse.

  Clare hadn’t seen a boathouse. Must be by the waterfall-slash-swimming-hole. She flipped to the letter’s second page.

  The ACC will engage a construction crew to dismantle the existing buildings. To whatever extent it is possible, the materials will be removed from the site and reused. Unless specific exemptions are requested by the family members, all architectural items including doors, windows, wood stock, trim, light fixtures, hardware, etc., will become property of the ACC and may be sold or auctioned by it to defray any costs associated with returning Haudenosaunee to its natural state.

  She looked toward the dining room, with its gleaming wood floors and its antler chandelier. Historically unimportant or not, she suspected the ACC could defray a whole lot of costs if they dismantled the place carefully enough. It would take advance planning and a skilled work team—the image of the men standing by the young blond woman popped into her head. Clipboard, measuring tape, camera. Exactly what you would bring along if you were planning the step-by-step deconstruction of the house.

  The next two paragraphs were given over to plants. The plan was to rip as much out of the gardens and borders as possible before snow started to fly, then to resume in the spring by “reintroducing native plant life as horticulturally advisable.” Apparently rosebushes weren’t as valuable as doorknobs and countertops, and removing them was not as expensive. The letter referred to “local ACC volunteers” who would tackle the project using a checklist of approved planting materials, which was, like the reports from the Bureau of Historic Sites, attached.

  Given the narrow window of time afforded by the November weather, and the inadvisability of leaving the buildings uninhabited and untended throughout the winter, the ACC would like to proceed as quickly as possible post the transfer of land rights. If you have any objections to the proposed plan, including of timeline, please notify project director Becky Castle as soon as possible. If you assent to the abovementioned plan, as detailed here and in the accompanying documents, please sign below and return to the ACC . . . it wound up with an Albany address and an injunction to the recipients to keep a copy for their records. Beneath Becky Castle’s signature, there were places for all three van der Hoevens to sign. All three lines were blank. Clare flipped back to the first page and looked at the date. August 30.

  Who had signed off on the plan to demolish their family’s summer home? Louisa, in far-off San Francisco, was a cipher; the only thing Clare could deduce about her was that her use of the Haudenosaunee house—if any—was restricted to occasional visits. Millie had been living here since August; surely if she had agreed to the plans she wouldn’t have been whiling away her time? Anyone expecting to move in a week should be hip deep in boxes by this date. At least she knew where Eugene stood. Or did she? Maybe he was all for selling off the land but was holding out for the right to remain in his home. Maybe Millie didn’t want to let go of either the land or the house and was hiding herself away in passive protest against her siblings’ decision.

  It all hinged on a question that sounded like a bad light-bulb joke: How many van der Hoevens does it take to transfer 250,000 acres?

  She looked toward the kitchen. There was a phone in there, hanging above the desk, next to the tower of wine crates Russ had joked about. Russ. She should call him. She should—The crackle of her radio snapped her to the awareness that there was something she definitely was supposed to be doing. And it wasn’t standing around speculating on the van der Hoevens or making phone calls.

  “Fergusson? What the hell happened? You fall into the toilet or something?”

  She bounded toward the front door and managed to make it off the porch before keying her response, so that she could honestly tell John Huggins, “I’m on my way.”

  10:35 A.M.

  The only thing that would have made Randy Schoof feel better as he entered the post office would be a notice from the state saying he and Lisa had won the lottery. Except he didn’t think they mailed those out. Weren’t you supposed to call them when you saw the numbers on TV?

  Lewis Johnson’s words ringing in his ears, he had gone from the mill to the county employment office. The prospects were as bad as Johnson had painted them. A well-meaning girl who looked to be barely out of high school had shown him how to search the database for the help-wanted listings and told him he was free to use the computer to update his résumé and the phone to call prospective employers. But he had found that anything offering a decent amount of money required at least a high school diploma, and most wanted people with college degrees and related work experience. There was one trucking company looking for drivers, but it was based in Plattsburgh and ran mostly into Canada, which would mean days, if not weeks, away from home. There was a shipping company in Saratoga looking for loading-dock workers, but when he called, the position had been filled.

  No logging companies were listed. He figured he could get some names and numbers from Mr. Castle and call them himself. For the money he could earn in a season of cutting, maybe he and Lisa would just have to suck it up and live apart for a few months. Discouraged, he logged off the employment office computer and left, giving Miss Helpful a flop of a wave as she caroled, “Have a nice day!” at his back.

  There was a Certified Mail postcard in his postal box. He took it to the front desk. “Hey, Randy.” Geraldine Bain, the elderly postal worker holding down the desk, was his wife’s second cousin. “How’s it going?”

  Randy almost snarled, It sucks, but the sight of a poster—ASK ABOUT OPENINGS FOR RURAL DELIVERY ROUTES!—shut him up. “Good,” he answered. “It’s going good. What’s this about needing deliverymen?”

  She glanced at the sign. “You interested? I can give you the form for the test.”

  “There’s a test?”

  “Yep. And they’ve just started this new thing where you got to have a security check. But once you get those under your belt, we can put you on the list.”

  “The list?”

  “Ayeah. We start you out as a substitute. If you work out good, you can become a regular as soon as there’s need of one.”

  “How long’s all this take?”

  “We can have you up and running come early summer.” She grinned. “That’s less’n you’ve ever made anthrax, of course. Then all bets are off.” She laughed.

  He slid the Certified Mail postcard across the counter toward her. “I’ll think about it.”

  Geraldine picked up the card and went hunting for the corresponding piece of mail. She emerged from the back holding up an envelope. “From the town.” She pointed to where he
had to sign it. “You two aren’t adding on up there, are you? Sumpin’ you need a building permit for? Like a nursery?”

  Nosy old bitch. “Nope. Nothing to report.” Geraldine ripped off the confirmation tag and handed Randy the envelope, which he tucked beneath his arm along with the three bills, grocery store circular, and Motorcycle magazine he had already retrieved from the postal box. “Have a nice day, hon,” Geraldine said as he retreated outside the post office to check out his letter in peace.

  One of the town benches, set out a century before, had been placed in front of the post office. Randy had sometimes wondered why whoever had laid out the benches had picked this spot, with no tree or view or any other reason to settle, as a likely place to sit. He supposed now it was for just this purpose, to let a man open a certified letter without having any gossipy relations check it out. He ripped open the envelope and pulled out a lengthy letter on the town’s letterhead. The tiny print and legal language swam before his eyes. Third notice . . . significant unpaid taxes . . . interest and penalties . . . lien on the property . . .

  The town had put a lien on his land. For $5,693.47 in back taxes. Randy dropped the letter in his lap and stared across the street at the Millers Kill Free Library. Someone had taped pictures of fat-faced Pilgrim children in the windows on either side of the door. The girl was leaning against a shock of corn, and the boy had his arm around a happy turkey’s neck. Randy picked up the letter and reread the notice of lien. $5,693.47. Where was he going to find that kind of money? He and Lisa were up to their necks in debt as it was.

  Lisa. He had to call Lisa. He was off the bench and had taken three steps down the sidewalk toward the pay phone in front of the IGA when he stopped himself. She didn’t like to get called when she was at a client’s house. He sank back onto the bench, braced his elbows on denim worn to white over his knees, and hid his face like a little kid. This was going to be a nasty surprise to Lisa. It drove her nuts, the way he dealt with difficult news by putting it off. If he didn’t see bills and demands for back taxes, he could ignore them. If Lisa saw them, she’d storm at him, demanding that he take care of this or make a phone call to that. So, and this was the part that was going to kill him when she got home, sometimes he made certain bills and demands and notices disappear.