He bought a burger and coke with fries at a McDonald’s nearby, hurried back to the bus, and was early enough to find a window seat in the back next to a boy who looked about fifteen who was holding down an aisle seat. He slid in, saying only excuse me, and again leaned his head against the window—this time it was warmer. The sun was high; no clouds in a clear sky and blue, so blue it seemed to go on forever.
He closed his eyes as he thought about the blue of the sky and he thought about what he would find in his old home, his old town, his old school, and wondered if he would find any of his old friends. Then he dozed and dreamed of the college campus where his father—who was dead—had taught, and of his mother—who was also dead— and wondered if any of his relatives had come to their house and wondered why he wasn’t able to live with one of them? Gramps and Nana lived in the forest near the Ohio River. His aunts and uncles did, too. He wondered why none of them had ever called. But maybe they were mad at him for leaving with strange men—and maybe they blamed him for his parents’ death. And the bad dreams continued until the boy next to him shook his arm.
“You having a nightmare?”
“I guess,” the Boy said, wiping sleep from his eyes. Then he looked outside. It was dark and they were in mountains, the bus twisting and turning on the highway, like the driver was guiding a roller coaster down a chute.
“Where are we?” the Boy said.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Dr. Graham Bell
Early Friday Evening, December 9
The sun had set by the time we got back to the inlet where we had found Jack’s body and his boat. Richie and I dumped the dinghy into the water while Huck and Louise dropped anchor. I started the motor and we moved slowly upriver, Louise shining a lamp to watch for debris or animals, like gators or sharks. They move at night—gators I mean.
We were almost back at the crime scene when I spotted a faint light in the dark ahead.
“Shut off those damn lights! I can’t see anything,” came a voice from out of the darkness. I caught the outline of a boat and a man, holding a hand against his face to deflect the light.
“Graham? Is that you?”
“Dammit!” he said. “Would you turn that thing off!” Louise did.
It was Graham Bell. He was bundled in a canvas coat and holding a bottle in his free hand.
“What’s going on?” I said, as we moved in closer. He was in a flat boat with a small motor. It looked like he had brought a whole lab with him in a large tackle box.
“What do you think I’m doing?” he said. Not a question really. “I’ve already checked the sample you left. What you brought me was a glob of chemicals, chief among which are some carcinogens: methanol and mercury. There is also some sodium bentonite. They are using that, I assume, to help grease the bits for the drill that’s boring into my baby’s belly—right underneath us, guys!” And he held up a new bottle of sample he had just collected and illuminated it with a pocket flashlight. “Evidence,” he observed.
“That they’re fracking?” I said.
“Right under your butt,” he said. “I think we can trace the sound right back to your rig in the Gulf.”
Now it was my rig.
“But we don’t need to do that. This stuff can’t be coming from anywhere else,” he continued, as he held the sample he had collected against the glow of his flashlight. “There’s some bad stuff in here,” he said. The ’stuff’ in the jar was dark and thick against the light, just like the junk we had collected earlier.
“So, they’re fracking here now,” he said. “And they’re using directional drilling to get into forbidden territory. And it’s not just here. It’s happening everywhere.” He was still staring at the jar. “And it’s pissing people off—as it should! Like the people in southwest Florida. Golden Gate. And there are at least a hundred rigs in the Gulf that are fracking illegally—right now. And who’s reporting it?” He paused—mostly for effect—because how in the hell would I know who’s reporting? “Al Jazeera!” he continued, throwing his arms in the air like they were taking flight. “I mean where are our own newspaper and TV people? Al Jazeera? Are you kidding me? But at least they’re reporting it, for Chrissake.”
It was dark and he had turned off his light. But I could feel the blood rise in his cheeks. He needed some aspirin.
“Someone’s coming,” said Richie, breaking into the silence. I heard the faint roar of engines—or a single powerful engine—coming up river. It grew in intensity very quickly and sounded very much like a go-fast boat.
“Is that possible?” I said more to myself than to the others. “A fast boat at this time of night?”
“Maybe someone’s coming to check up on us,” said Louise. “We need to get out of here.” Huck already had the motor running as she said it.
“I’m going back the way I came,” said Graham, quickly loading the sample jars into his large tackle box then starting his motor.
The boat sounded like it was less than a mile away.
“I’m taking the long way back,” Graham said hurriedly. “I can do it with my little buddy here.” He slapped the side of his boat. “Call that Homeland Security friend of yours,” he said as he moved away. “If you don’t, I will! These damn guys are poisoning my swamp.”
Bell quickly disappeared into a mangrove tunnel as we headed back to the Canyon.
Chapter Seventy
Jillie and Henry
Friday Evening, December 9
The temperature had dropped to thirty degrees. A light snow was still falling but now it was sticking to the ground. Downtown Chagrin Falls was a winter postcard: wreaths of pine with clusters of red berries hung from old-fashioned street lamps; strands of pine, twisted and secured on a wire, stretched across Main Street; and a lone tree in the town square, weighted with bulbs, red and green and blue, rose above the street, its lights jumping and winking and playing with the snow that was trying to cover it.
“It’s so beautiful,” whispered Jillie—as much to herself as to Henry—as they drove slowly past stores still filled with shoppers. And the candy shop—there were lines out to the sidewalk. No one seemed to mind the cold.
Then Henry pulled into a bed and breakfast—like something out of an English countryside—a white picket fence, a wrap-around porch with a swing, a gazebo off to the side of the Inn with a built-in sitting area that watched over a fire pit. Two gas lamps hung over a walkway that led to a porch fronting the inn. Jillie paused to see if they were real.
“They are!” she exclaimed. “I wonder if the lighting inside the inn is gas as well?” Henry shook his head and grinned. He was enjoying watching her.
They passed under a green awning and into an entry room where three chairs and a couch, upholstered in soft rose, were arranged around a fireplace. Its heat warmed the entire room.
“Hot apple cider or wine?” said a young woman, smiling and hurrying through glass doors toward them.
Henry turned to Jillie. “Let’s try the wine,” he suggested.
“It’s a local wine made from grapes grown in the vineyards on the southern shore of Lake Erie,” the hostess explained, pouring a sample into Henry’s glass. “A Cabernet Franc,” she added.
“Ah, very light,” said Henry, letting the wine wash over his palate. “You know, the Lake Erie wineries are becoming well known. And this Cabernet Franc is marvelous! I think you’ll like it, Jillian,” and he motioned for the hostess to pour her a glass.
Jillie studied him as she sipped the wine, wondering how it would be later—in the room—when they were in bed, to have sex with him again, after these many years. Would it be the same? She didn’t know. She worried, but she was also excited. After all, Cooper…But she put her thoughts to rest. Enjoy these moments, she chided herself.
They sat in front of the fireplace, trying different wines. There were five or six varieties. And they sat quietly, watching the flames throw sparks around the hearth like shooting stars in a miniature night sky.
Henry looked over at Jillie. “Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded. “My first time after our separation. But,” she added quickly, “I want to do this,” not wanting to sound reluctant, and about time, she thought to herself.
“And it’s about time, you thought of yourself,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. And then his cell buzzed. He checked a message, concerned. Then shook off whatever it was.
“Is everything okay?”
He nodded. “Just one of my patients—she was just admitted to the hospital. I was hoping…” He stopped himself. “Sorry. Nature of the job.” He slid his phone back into his pocket.
“Shall we?” he said and gestured toward a stairway that twisted upwards into an open hallway. “Let’s check out our room.”
They took their time mounting the stairs, plush red and protected by an ivory enameled rail. And they followed the rail as it swung right at the top of the stairs and across the front of an open hall from where there was a full view of the lower level: the lights from the street blinking white through the high windows of the reception area, and the fireplace still burning and throwing its heat and light against the glass doors leading to the restaurant, now closed.
Jillie paused and leaned against the rail, watching snow filling the street and enjoying the warmth of the inn. Henry bent over next to her and put his arm around her, and they stayed like that, the only sound, the steady ticking of a grandfather clock in the lobby.
Their room was the first one on the left after the open hall. Right behind them, actually.
“Allow me,” Henry said and slid the plastic room key into the slot and opened the door.
“It’s perfect!” said Jillie, staring at the canopied four-poster bed covered with a burnt-orange duvet and matching pillows. Then there was the nineteenth century dresser against the wall—she knew the style since it was the same kind she had seen in Anthony’s Antique Shop; and the burnt-orange drapes, matching the duvet and chenille pillows—only a softer color; and finally, the fireplace! Gas. No logs.
“Let’s light it!” she said. Am I delaying? she wondered.
Henry didn’t seem to mind. He went directly to the mantel, found some matches, located the handle to turn on the jets, applied the match, and the room warmed. And Jillie? —she suddenly relaxed for the first time in a long time. And she noticed how handsome he was, the semblance of a beard—he hadn’t shaved—his features sharp, his cheeks slightly drawn. It gave him a rugged, outdoor look. And she remembered his gentleness.
She could see herself actually falling for him—this substitute for Cooper—no, maybe a new person altogether. Someone who could help her forget Cooper, and Maxie, and Muskingum; and all the nights she cried away her thoughts; and her marriage; and about how much they had loved each other—she and Coop—and about how it all fell apart that morning when she was home with her son, and he got away, somehow, and she was in charge—Cooper had reminded her of that—and she had reminded him that if he were home more maybe it would never have happened. But deep down, she blamed herself, and she knew Cooper did also—and she hated him for that. Truth be told, she hated herself even more. But tonight, there was the fire, and there was Henry and maybe everything would change.
Chapter Seventy-One
The Night Visitor
The boat blew past us just as we boarded the Canyon, its motors howling like a banshee. The river was wide where we were anchored, and the Canyon was near the shore. So I figured they hadn’t seen us.
“What the hell,” said Richie, going below for his gun. “Who are those guys?” Huck was right behind him.
“I think we’re about to find out,” I said, turning to Louise. The fast boat had suddenly slowed down to an idle. And then there were voices in the dark—about several hundred yards downriver. I assumed they were bent on taking the inland water route to the mainland. Avoiding traffic. A load of drugs maybe.
“What you doing out there?” A voice came out of the dark. Chinese? I didn’t answer. Louise drew her gun, ejected the magazine, checked the load, and slammed it back in place—so he could hear it.
Chapter Seventy-Two
The Orphan
“We’re in West Virginia,” the boy in the seat next to him said, waking up Maxie. “There was a sign about a half hour ago. And this here’s the West Virginia Turnpike,” he added, as the bus twisted and turned down a mountain side. Then, “Dude, this your first time on a bus?”
The Boy nodded. “Yeah. Yours?
“Nope. Ride all the time. My Mom and Dad—they’re divorced. So right now, I’m going to stay with my uncle—in Columbus.”
“Ohio?”
“Of course, idiot,” he said, and laughed. “Is there any other?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Good old Columbus of O.H.I.O.” The kid paused, like he was thinking about it. He shook his head. “Can’t believe it,” and he turned back to the Boy. “I’m practically an orphan!”
The bus was hurtling down another chute on the highway, weaving in and out of construction barrels blocking the outer of two lanes, and the mountains seemed so high to the Boy who had never seen them before, and the night so dark and dangerous, and the way home so scary, especially as he thought of what he would find when he got there. Maybe it would have been better if he had stayed with the Man. And what the kid next to him said really got him—about being an orphan—and for the first time he realized that he was one also. The face that looked back at him as he stared out the window looked lonely to him, and sad. And his stomach hurt as he tried to shake the thought—I’m an orphan. But it persisted as he stared into the face in the window and watched the sides of the mountain rush by. High. Rough. And dangerous.
Chapter Seventy-Three
Jillie and Henry
The wine went to her head quickly. She wasn’t used to drinking. Henry had brought a special wine for this trip: a Beaujolais. She had remembered a trip to the Riviera when she and Coop had been out late and were walking through the narrow streets of Nice near the beach, and it was late, dark, most of the cafes were closed. But signs announcing Beaujolais Nouveau est arrive’ were on every corner, in the window of every shop, and on the lips of every Frenchman they passed—everyone in France, a wine lover. And they had just passed one shop that had already closed and were looking in the window at the tables, when a man unlocked the door, smiling, and announced, “Beaujolais Nouveau, est arrive’!” and waved for them to come in.
“Aren’t you closed?” Coop had said, since the sign said they were.
“Oui!” said the man, but for you…ah lovers!” He led them into his shop, closing the front door and locking it.
She remembered how he had seated them at a small round table in a back room, walls lined with bottles of wine and smelling of Beaujolais. She could see him even now, holding up a bottle—a Beaujolais, he had said—first of the season. Then he opened it, allowed the flavor to drift into the room, placed two glasses on the table, and carefully poured, and then filled one for himself.
Pour vous, mes amis, he had said, lifting his glass and taking a sip, savoring it as if it were the last he would ever take. Sante’. A la votre, mes amis. And she remembered how they drank, how they wondered at the amazing good luck they had to run into this hospitable Frenchman, and she remembered the taste of the wine, the first of the season, the newest of the Beaujolais, the rich odor of it, the sting of the wine as she tasted it before swallowing, the look on Coop’s face as they drank and watched each other, the indescribable smile on the face of the Frenchman as he watched them. Sante’. Again, he said it and poured once more. Her mind was giddy then.
It was giddy again this evening, but in a different way. Exciting. But softened. By the memories of Cooper.
“Do you like the wine?” said Henry, watching her carefully, noticing her eyes wandering.
“Yes,” she said and held up her glass for him to pour again and almost said, sante’, but she kept it to herself. And she drank.
/> Chapter Seventy-Four
What Are You Doing Here?
Friday Night, December 9
“This is not good,” I whispered to Louise who was standing next to me at the helm. “Time to get the hell out of here,” and I punched the starter and the motors roared, as flashes of light burst out of the darkness, shattering the Canyon’s windshield and blowing it outward—lucky thing—seawater and glass exploding everywhere. I ducked, spun the boat away from the shots, while Louise, waiting for me to come full circle, rested her arm on the gunnel and fired rapidly into the darkness. The damn guys were running without lights.
Both Richie and Huck were topside now and firing blindly with Louise into the heart of the dark of Shark River, the only target the sound of the fast boat screaming in the night. I pushed the Canyon after them toward the bay. But soon the only sound on the water was the roar of our own Yamahas. So I slowed as we broke free of Shark River and entered the open waters of Ponce de Leon Bay, the fast boat nowhere to be seen—or heard.
In the distance, I could see lights from the rig and I cursed it, wondering who the hell they were and what they were doing. “We’re going to find out,” I swore under my breath. “And we’re going to shut you down.”
I handed the wheel to Louise, the helm taking the full brunt of the sea now that the windshield was gone.
“Take us home,” I said, “I gotta make a call.”
A Cold Copper Moon (The Cooper Series Book 3) Page 20