“Next day, the National Guard moves in, takes over, and shuts everything off. No volunteers, no media, no nothing allowed into the valley. Damn governor’s in bed with the coal companies, and they’re scrambling to cover their asses, calling it an act of God, just another natural disaster, too much rain, they said. And they don’t want people snooping around and taking pictures of the dam or the destruction they caused—or the bodies of kids lying in the mud.” Hank’s voice was bitter.
“They knew the dams weren’t safe. State inspectors had been up there and cited them a year earlier for not having any emergency spillway. But they never did anything—nobody did—and the state didn’t give a shit. They all just let it happen. The motherfuckers!” Hank slammed an open hand against the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. “They knew the night before that the dams might collapse, but they didn’t warn anyone!”
Hank shook his head in frustration and wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve. “Lot of ’em were kids, Charlie. Forty-three of the dead were under the age of fifteen. Had all these little bodies piled up in the cafeteria down at the middle school. Whole families wiped out. Jesus.”
The anger was back in his voice and in his dark eyes when he continued. “A hundred and twenty-five good people died at Buffalo Creek, Charlie. Wasn’t any act of God. God had nothing to do with it. Was an act of man! And corporate greed, and arrogance from a hundred years of taking and taking and keeping the people poor and dependent and powerless…” Hank stopped to take a deep breath and calm himself down before continuing in a softer tone. “Three of the bodies they found were babies that no one could identify. Think about that, Burden. Three kids with no name, no identity.”
Hank pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose quietly. “You know what gets me the worst, Burden?” The old man looked at Charlie with sad, imploring eyes. “No one from the company, or from the state, or the federal government—no one ever said they were sorry for what happened. No one ever apologized to the survivors of Buffalo Creek for their years and years of nightmares or apologized to the relatives for their lifetime of heartache. And surely no one ever apologized to the people of West Virginia for making us look like … like backward, hillbilly fools livin’ in flimsy shacks where we shouldn’t be, like the flood was the fault of the people living there. Goddammit.”
Listening to Hank relate the story of Buffalo Creek, Charlie felt as close to the old man as he’d gotten to anyone in many years. It clearly wasn’t a story that his friend enjoyed telling or one that he told very often. Charlie also had a newfound appreciation for his neighbor’s strength of character and his sensitivity to the plight of his fellow West Virginians. What was it Natty Oakes said her grandmother always said?… There’s a lot of heartache in these mountains. Hank would surely agree with that, thought Charlie. He chastised himself for even considering that Hank might’ve been looking for a payoff.
“So, Burden, when it comes to water impoundments, I go beyond the code. Make it as safe as I can. ’Cause I can’t bring back any of those kids from Buffalo Creek, but maybe I can help save … Well, you know what I’m saying. Maybe it’s just a symbolic gesture, but that’s the way it is, and right now I got the gavel, so that’s the deal.” Hank started to get to his feet. Charlie bounced up quickly and extended a hand to help pull the old man erect.
Hank spoke first. “We got a deal, Burden?”
Charlie smiled at his friend and offered his hand. “Yes, Hank, we’ve got a deal. We’ll build a safe pond, for now and for years to come. What about the other two board members?” Charlie asked. “Will they be okay with this?”
“Oh, them? Miserable pricks, both of ’em.” Hank laughed. “But they’ll be okay. They’ll listen to me. What about your client? What are they going to say?”
“OntAmex? They’re mostly miserable pricks, too. They’ll approve it on my recommendation, though. Actually, Hank, they’ll be thrilled with the deal. A hundred thousand is a cheap price to pay to keep the project on schedule.”
“Should’ve asked for more, then,” Hank said jokingly.
“Well, Hank,” Charlie said, as if he were thinking aloud, “maybe you’ll get a little more. I’ve got an idea I need to work on. We’ll talk about it before the planning-board meeting.”
They drove back to the administration building and parked next to Hank’s beat-up old Chrysler. Hank refused Charlie’s invitation to buy him lunch out at the Roadhouse, but they agreed to meet that evening for some cribbage and a shot or two of some local moonshine one of Hank’s former students had brought over. Charlie watched Hank drive out through the gate, the rumbling exhaust of the Chrysler belching white smoke as it accelerated toward the access road. The big car rode low on shocks and springs that had given up long ago. In a few days, Hank could be driving a brand-new car, any make he wanted, Charlie mused, if he were at all interested in such things. One call to Vernon Yarbrough, and the next day Charlie would have a gym bag full of cash for the planning-board chairman. Of that, he had no doubt.
But Pullman Hankinson didn’t care about cars or living high. He cared about people, his neighbors, and his town, and certainly about West Virginia. And he cared most fervently about the injustice of poor people dying because they were poor enough not to matter. Charlie felt a rush of pride in having Hank for a friend. It was a rare episode he’d experienced out in the field, a demonstration of selflessness and emotional exposure that didn’t seem to exist anymore in Charlie’s world. Maybe that’s what he had been searching for these past few years. Personal nobility. A hazy cloud of dust hung in the air in the Chrysler’s wake. Charlie smiled and whispered out loud, “You’re my hero, Hank.”
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, Charlie was on the porch when he saw his blue Lexus coming up South County Road. Natty flashed the headlights and waved. She was standing in the middle of Main Street, ready to go, by the time Charlie got downstairs. “Keys are over the visor,” Natty said, as they started out at a slow jog. “Thanks for the car. It was a big help.”
“You’re welcome,” said Charlie. It was then that he noticed Natty’s appearance had changed. The long baggy shorts were replaced with lightweight red running shorts. On top, she wore a black T-shirt that fit snugly across her back and shoulders and hung loose at the waist. The shirt was short enough to occasionally reveal her small waist. In place of the customary Spider-Man cap, her hair was pulled back in a dark-green bandanna. Charlie smiled as he watched Natty’s narrow hips and thin legs churn confidently in front of him. He wondered if she knew how good she looked in normal clothing.
When they exited the woods and hit the mountain trail, Natty picked up the pace and was soon twenty yards ahead. Charlie made no effort to catch up, as it seemed obvious that Natty wasn’t interested in chatting. She was probably a little uncomfortable, as was he, with the idea of running together two days in a row, as if they were establishing a routine.
They ran through the dark woods above Oakes Hollow and down the logging road without slowing their pace a step. When Charlie finally crossed the wooden footbridge to South County Road, Natty was fifty yards ahead of him, and his lungs and thighs were burning. A half mile from Old Red Bone, Charlie saw Natty stop running. She turned around to look for him and then began to walk slowly to allow him to catch up.
By the time Charlie reached her, they were abreast of the soccer field, now thick with late-summer weeds, the bare-earth patches cracked from dryness. Natty had stopped to assess the work ahead of her in getting the field ready for their first practice in less than two weeks.
“God what a mess,” she said. “Have to get it mowed down pretty soon. Got our first practice the Saturday after next.”
“How’s your team going to be this season?” asked Charlie, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Natty looked out over the field. “We’ll be fine, if we can find enough players.” They resumed their walk up the hill. “We got the Pie Man, of course.” She laughed. “And a few other decent players who should be b
ack. Plus Sammy Willard and his brother, Zack. They’ll be terrific players, once they practice a little. Got a good goalie—girl named Brenda Giles. And, of course, we got Emma. You met her in front of Eve’s place.”
“Pie says she’s a pretty good player.”
“Emma Lowe’s the best thirteen-year-old girl soccer player in the country,” Natty said matter-of-factly.
“Whoa, that’s a pretty big statement,” said Charlie. He’d been around kids’ sports long enough to have heard the exaggerated praise of individual players by parents and coaches. Invariably, the praise fell somewhat short of reality.
“I know. You’ll just have to come watch a game and make up your own mind. We could use a few fans, and Pie would love it if you came.”
“Of course I will. Be a lot of fun.” Natty nodded, nervous at the thought of the new power-plant boss attending one of their ragtag soccer games. “Probably miss the first game, though,” said Charlie. “I have to go back up to New York for a while.”
“Business?” Natty asked, happy to change the subject.
“No, not really. My daughter’s coming in from Illinois, and I want to see her before she goes back to Northwestern. Also, my wife’s going to force me to make a decision on a house she wants to buy.”
“Don’t sound like you’re crazy about the idea,” Natty said, looking up to see if she could read anything from Charlie’s face.
After a pause, he replied, “No, I’m not.” He sounded as if he was thinking out loud. “But she really wants it, and she deserves it, too. I don’t know. It just seems so wasteful to me. The house is too big, and it’s over a million bucks.”
Natty swallowed hard, trying to hide her shock. What was it he just said? Over a million bucks. “That’s a lot of money, all right. Must be a pretty nice house,” Natty said, recovering enough to sound polite. What kind of world did this man live in? “Forced to make a decision” about buying a million-dollar house. What was he even doing here in Red Bone, this beautiful, sensitive, super-successful man, walking up South County Road with a plain-looking, no-account hillbilly girl?
“Oh, it’s a beautiful house, but it’s also Westchester County, one of the most expensive real estate markets in the country. Million bucks doesn’t buy as much house as it used to.”
“Yeah, must be tough trying to get by up there,” Natty said, playing along. God, they were like two people from different planets. This was one daydream that would never make any sense.
When they got back to Main Street, Natty got her purse out of Charlie’s car and walked to Gus Lowe’s garage to pick up her Accord. The new rocker panel was black, the color it would stay. She wrote out a check for $80, which, she told Gus, was all she had until payday, when she might be able to give him another $100. She’d try to clear it up as quickly as she could, but they both knew that Gus’s bill would soon be lost in the growing pile of debt in the Oakes household.
She drove home, feeling sick to her stomach, thinking about the money she owed Gus and how he hadn’t uttered a word of protest. The Accord felt old and noisy compared to Charlie’s Lexus, which Natty had just been getting used to.
CHAPTER 14
The whump whump of the helicopter blades announced the arrival of the lawyers from Charleston. Charlie glanced at his watch. It was 10:00 A.M., right on schedule. The gleaming black helicopter with the silver lightning bolts roared in over the trees from the northwest, pulled up over the middle of the site, and feathered gently down onto the landing pad adjacent to the parking lot. As Charlie stood to pull his sport jacket from the rack in the corner, he was surprised to see Terry Summers in the doorway. “Ready, boss? Looks like it’s showtime.” Summers flashed Charlie one of his trademark smiles.
“Hey, Terry,” Charlie answered. “You going up to see the farmer with us?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I know the way there, so it’ll be easier if I drive.”
Vernon Yarbrough came across the parking lot like a candidate for the U.S. Senate, his arm outstretched, his big hand searching for Charlie’s, as if he were greeting a lifelong friend. “Mr. Bur-dan. How the hell are you, sir? Goddamn, you’re looking fine, just fine. Our mountain air must agree with you.” The silver-haired lawyer gave Charlie the two-handed shake, his left hand at Charlie’s right elbow.
Kevin Mulrooney from Ackerly Coal stepped forward and was introduced. Charlie remembered meeting him a couple of years earlier, when they were all down for the original announcement of the Red Bone plant. Mulrooney was red-faced and sweating from the heat. A scowl on his face said that he didn’t want to be there. Technically, Ackerly Coal was to be the purchaser of the farm, although it had now become an imperative for OntAmex due to the CES merger.
Charlie tossed Summers the keys to the Navigator. Yarbrough took the front seat. Charlie sat behind him with Mulrooney. “Take us about forty minutes to get there,” Summers announced.
“That’s fine, just fine,” Yarbrough answered, looking at his gold Rolex. “Put us at the farm about eleven o’clock.” He turned to address the passengers in the backseat. “Talked to Farmer DeWitt last night. Told him we were coming up today to give him some real good news. ’Course, he protested. Said he wasn’t selling, but I told him I was bringin’ some pretty important folks and wasn’t taking no for an answer. So DeWitt says, ‘If y’all are coming up, may as well come around lunchtime.’” Yarbrough laughed as he shot a knowing glance at Mulrooney. He was in a pretty good mood, Charlie thought, considering DeWitt’s stubborn insistence on keeping his land.
“What we’re doing here today, gentlemen,” Yarbrough continued, “is giving Farmer DeWitt one last chance to make a good deal and save his ass.” He turned back around to face front. “’Cause next time I have to come up here, that pig farmer ain’t going to be inviting us to lunch. You can bet your ass on that.” Yarbrough, Summers, and Mulrooney joined in a short, knowing laugh. Charlie got the feeling he was missing something. They drove along in welcome silence for twenty minutes.
“Hear any more noise from the granddaughter?” asked Mulrooney.
Yarbrough turned again toward the back. “No, nothing more from her. And I don’t think we will. She took her shot, and that’s probably the end of it.”
“What happened?” asked Charlie.
“It seems the farmer’s granddaughter went to see a lawyer in Welch, asking questions about mountaintop-removal mining. Looks like the family figured out a few things. Think we got it pretty well contained, though. We got the lawyer on our side now, case she tries to stir things up.” Yarbrough faced front. “We’re okay. Just got to wrap up this farm business sooner rather than later—like today. Then we don’t have to worry.” He glanced at his watch again. “Five hundred thousand. That’s our number. Five hundred thousand, or we move on to Plan B,” he added.
“What’s Plan B?” asked Charlie. In the front seat, Yarbrough shifted his weight a little uncomfortably.
“Let’s just say we got some other avenues to take with this boy. Some legal remedies we can pursue.” He let it drop for a few moments, then added, “But five hundred grand’s a huge number for that place, so … we’ll be okay.”
Clearly he didn’t want to go into any of the details of what Plan B might be, so Charlie let it go. Mention of the money, though, reminded him of the meeting in New York and Larry Tuthill’s million-dollar figure. It was a strange offer. Charlie understood that Tuthill and Torkelson were in a bind over the CES merger because someone—according to Yarbrough—may have bribed a superior court judge to set aside a court ruling against mountaintop-removal variances. And now they needed to purchase the farm quickly and quietly. It was the reason Charlie was in West Virginia—to help OntAmex and, in doing so, protect his friend Duncan McCord. But the money and the source didn’t fit. Maybe Tuthill was panicking, envisioning his career going down the toilet in a messy PUC hearing over the CES merger. Charlie’s nagging doubts about the whole Redemption Mountain deal made him reluctant to get further involved.
He hoped that Yarbrough could close the deal with DeWitt today.
“Here we are,” announced Summers, as he made a sharp turn onto Heaven’s Gate. An old wooden sign with an arrow pointed them in the direction of Angel Hollow, and they started a winding climb, the road barely wide enough for the big Navigator to ride without scraping the tree limbs on either side.
Gradually, the thick woods gave way to thin stands of birches and maples and rolling meadows sprinkled with white and yellow flowers. Large boulders and flat rock pushed up through the ground. Soon they came to another sharp turn. Summers cut the wheel to the left, then accelerated up a steep incline onto Redemption Mountain Road. After a long gentle curve, the road straightened and the trees fell away on the left side of the road, revealing how high they’d come.
A minute later he announced their arrival. “This is it,” Summers said, as he pulled the Navigator into the front yard of the DeWitt farm. He parked in the shade of a huge oak tree, and the four men exited the vehicle in a noisy succession of slamming doors. Acorns crackled under their feet as they stretched their legs and put on their suit jackets.
There was no one in sight, but a picnic table was set up in front of the house, covered with a yellow plastic tablecloth, a large glass pitcher of ice water, and a stack of brown plastic cups. Charlie was reminded of the tired old farms on the back roads of Vermont. The patches in the roof of the house, the sagging porch, and the ominous lean of the walls of the barn told a familiar story.
“Hello, in the house. Mr. Dewitt,” Yarbrough called out loudly. There was no answer. Summers leaned inside the Navigator and pushed on the horn for several seconds. The rude sound pierced the quiet. Charlie flashed Summers a look of disapproval, which he returned in the form of a wide, amused smile.
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