Chaingang (31 page)

Royce further posited that World Ecosphere was the start of a paper trail that would end in South America or Japan. The bad guys would prove to be “a consortium of politicians, drug enforcement officers, and top-level narcotics kingpins.” Perhaps an even more nefarious foreign power was providing the financial backing—who could say for certain?

The notes would be signed by Mary Perkins and Royce (whose signature would be less than worthless), and they would obtain other witnesses as soon as possible. Credible townspeople like Mary's friends and neighbors who would attest to what they'd seen at the Ecoworld constructions site. This would be augmented with a couple of clear photos, all of which would be legally documented and notarized. They'd run the thing off at some quickie printer and drop fifty thousand of the leaflets on Waterton, Maysburg, and the surrounding agri-community.

He wasn't pleased with the presentation. He tried to begin with the line about how all it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. He started over:

"What is going on here?"
he wrote. He liked that better. It was catchy.

A killer or killers wantonly murdering our families, friends, and neighbors? People vanishing without a trace? Yes! These are not just small-town rumors you've heard—Waterton, Missouri, is in serious trouble, and the law is doing nothing! Ask yourself,
why?

We have hard evidence to indicate that “ECOWORLD” may be a sophisticated cover for
the largest clandestine drug laboratory ever built in North America
—and neither the police nor the Federal Bureau of Investigation is lifting a finger to stop it! These findings speak for themselves:

[WITNESSED, NOTARIZED PICTURES AND DOCUMENTATION]

These are hazardous chemicals used in the manufacture of a powerful and deadly type of “freebase” cocaine. World Ecosphere, Inc., is a front for a richly funded drug cartel, perhaps even a consortium in league with a foreign power.
We believe that the murders occurring in this community may be directly linked to the clandestine drug lab's construction.

WE MUST ACT AS A COMMUNITY TO BRING THESE KILLERS AND DRUG PEOPLE TO JUSTICE. CONTACT YOUR SENATORS AND REPRESENTATIVES, THE DRUG ENFORCEMENT ADMINISTRATIVE, THE JUSTICE DEPARTMENT, YOUR COUNTRY SHERIFF, OR ANYONE ELSE IN A POSITION OF AUTHORITY AND SEE THAT THIS INFORMATION IS ACTED UPON NOW—WHILE THERE'S STILL TIME!

Just awful. But he was too tired to work on it anymore. This would do. He read it to Mary and asked her what she thought.

“It's real good, Royce, but do you think people will
do
anything after they read it and see the pictures of the chemicals? Remember, this project has already made a lot of money for the town. They say old Gabe Augustine and his family are millionaires now from the concrete they've poured. And it's brought a lot of jobs just in construction work. What about all the money that they say will be coming into the area in tourism? Won't people around here just figure the chemicals deal is some kind of smear campaign, and choose to ignore it?"

“Maybe.” He shrugged.

“And if they did get up in arms about it and called Marty Kerns, imagine what would come of it. He'd give them some soft soap and pat them on the head, and that would be that. What can we realistically hope to accomplish? I'm not putting down the idea, I'm just asking."

“I don't know, hon. You may be right. But it's our shot—the way I see it. And it might even give us a bit of protection. You, anyway. Perhaps they'd realize it would make them look bad if anything were to happen to the person who accused them of being drug manufacturers. Also—I know sometimes you can have a lot of heat and no light, but maybe this will produce a little light along with the heat. Maybe some newspaper will get interested, or one of the TV channels, and—who knows—somebody who sees the leaflet might have some clout with a U.S. senator or the governor or—” He didn't really believe what he was saying. “Let's sleep on it,” he finally said, and collapsed into his sleeping bag in front of the fire.

“There's one thing in our favor,” he said, yawning. “Waterton! We're in a town where they actually report UFO sightings. There's people here buy those papers at the supermarket and will swear to you that Elvis is still alive. There's been how many Bigfoot sightings recently? I mean, we are talking Small Town America, right?"

“You'd better believe it,” Mary said. “Woman's place is in the home, and we pay wages to prove it."

“Exactly."

“The ERA wasn't even a rumor here."

“So you take my point. This is Redneckville. Hayseed, U.S.A. An NRA stronghold. Used to be a Klan stronghold not so long ago. If you ain't white and Christian, you know—like the song says, red, white, and Pabst Blue Ribbon—we don't want you. That's Waterton. Maybe the people around here won't be too thrilled about Japs buying up three hundred acres for their underground drug lab.” She ignored his heavy-handed irony.

“But you don't know that the Japanese are behind Ecoworld."

“You don't know they aren't, do you?” She just laughed in response. “The point is—whoever's behind it, Colombians, Little Green Saucer People, or—God forbid—the damn Democrats—they ain't one of us."

Mary smiled when she heard him lightly snore. He was so tired, but he'd done his best. She'd have to watch him when they had the handbill printed in the morning, she thought, or he'd have them out at the Ecoworld dump site searching for “Made in Japan” on the chemical containers.

Mary tried to go to sleep, but she was wide-eyed. There were feelings inside her that were growing stronger by the day, part of what she thought of as her “dark side.” She felt them coming to the surface.

The thoughts she was thinking were forbidden thoughts, and that made them all the more exciting. It was almost a turn-on to be near this man for whom she had such steamy feelings, like a kind of taboo sex act. He wanted her. She knew that. This was not the time or the place, of course. And that made it even more taboo, and even more of a turn-on.

She tried to isolate the title of a faintly recalled book or dimly recollected film in which the couple had just returned from a funeral, and there's a hot, raunchy bedroom scene. What was it that was so strong and undeniable that linked the death, or the metaphorical loss of someone close to you, with the act of making life?

The dark side of death-and-sex lust was yet another area Mary would have identified as thoroughly alien to her, yet here it was, running its fingers up and down her nude flesh, trying hard to get her attention, and succeeding in a big way.

Royce Hawthorne stirred, bones cracking, from the sleeping bag on the hard floor of the Perkins vacation abode. He'd “painted the ceiling” twice—once in his sleep, and again since first awakening—mulling over the many facets of the day ahead. He'd been up since before dawn, and was now readying Mary for the rigors of the morning.

“I've decided I definitely should not sign the thing,” he said. “It'd only give Kerns or the sheriff something to use to counter the statements we put forth in the circular. They could say—a known drug guy blah blah was part of it. It wouldn't stick as a charge, but the point is, it would take away from the impact of our documentation. Agree?"

“Sure,” Mary said through a yawn. “If you think so.” Whatever.
Just do it and wake me when it's all over
was the way she felt. She was not a morning person, and she wanted coffee and silence, not necessarily in that sequence.

Royce kept talking, going over ideas, content, where they could go to get their circular printed, details of the leaflet drop—all very real in his mind. He was acting, differently now, she thought. She knew he couldn't have done drugs in a while, and wondered how difficult it would be for him to stay clean.

“If we do all this,” she said, “and it doesn't work ... you know ... we can't let it throw us. We'll have taken our best shot, as you said.” He knew she meant
him
, not we, but he nodded—taking her meaning.

Mary talked about who she thought might accompany them as signatories to the documentation.

“Alberta and Owen will go with us—I know.” She was referring to her next-door neighbors. “Terry Considine, Faye, Mr. and Mrs. Dale, Kristi and Wilma, maybe—uh—Joe Threadgill...” She was making a list and checking it twice.

“One thing you have to stress, Mary, is the possible danger to anyone who goes out there. I—don't know how to handle it. We don't dare go to the cops. If we take any kind of guns, it might even be worse if something would happen. I think what you have to do is tell the folks the truth about there being armed guards, that we'll be careful as we can and—you know—take a surreptitious look at the evidence and leave quickly. But they need to know it is a potentially very dangerous thing we're asking of them."

She agreed, naturally. But as it turned out, the dangerous part wasn't the problem at all. In theory, everybody they spoke with was itching to go the moment they told them about chemicals, and the possible cover-up by the authorities. But if you ever want to find out what citizens are more afraid of than armed guards, just drop words like “witness,” “deposition,” or “affidavit.” They all ran like scared rabbits.

By midmorning, with a photographer meeting them, they had lined up a grand total of four persons, one of whom—Mrs. Lloyd—sounded so ill, Mary hated asking her to do it.

“Better have her go, hon,” Royce urged. “Everybody who sees the evidence gives that much more credence to what we say."

They left for the Ecoworld property, driving out the back way and down the road that edged the Poindexter property, all of it now in World Ecosphere's corporate claws. Royce realized, but didn't voice, the fact that in such a small town, the grapevine would have spread their comments about the incriminating chemical containers by the time they hung the phones up. Would the parent company be tapped into such a pipeline—perhaps through Marty Kerns? For that matter, would they care?

They met the photographer at a prearranged spot, and he followed them to the place where everyone agreed to meet. They waited till Mrs. Lloyd and the Rileys arrived, and Royce took them to where the containers were.

He was relieved, yet frightened at the same time, to find everything as before.

“I don't understand why they'd leave this stuff to be found,” the photographer said. “Talk about stupid.” He was taking some pictures with a flash attachment, some without. Every time the shutter clicked, Royce felt like he was having a small heart attack.

“Apparently a pack of wild dogs thought something smelled like buried bones and started digging. This is just the way Mary and I found it."

The Rileys and Mrs. Lloyd signed the statement that had been prepared, but when they were told that they needed them to go to Maysburg with Mary and Royce, and be present when the thing was notarized, Owen Riley said he didn't think it was a good idea.

“If they've got the gumption to do this, we've got the gumption to go with them,” Alberta Riley scolded him. He got a sort of caged animal look in his eyes, but to his credit, he went along.

There would be two sets of photos—35-mm shots, which would need developing, and the set of Polaroids they'd use for the notarizing and as a safety copy. The photographer would do them ASAP, and they'd pick them up after they went to the bank.

The caravan went on its way immediately, sans Mrs. Lloyd, and once again there was no problem getting the papers and photos notarized and witnessed, this time in front of bank personnel. They had to wait around for an hour before they could get the shots, and took the Rileys to lunch, Royce feeling like brown shoes with a tux the entire time.

Fifty miles and two hours later they were at PRINT-WHILE-U-WAIT, and they were doing as the sign said—they were waiting. Royce, meanwhile, was back on the phone, having his dream dashed by a crop duster pilot.

“I couldn't allow somebody in my two-seater like that. It's against the law.” Royce had never known what a richly lucrative profession crop dusting was until he started getting prices.

“Well, could
you
drop the leaflets?"

“Nope.” Eventually he found a man who owned an ancient Piper Cub that he kept tethered at the Charleston Emergency Airfield.

“I understand you drop leaflets?” Royce asked of the man.

“Sometimes. I have a time or two. What you want dropped?” Royce told him about the circulars.

“Do you have your license?"

“License?” Royce asked, and learned about an entirely new aspect of the circular-dropping biz. Apparently you had to get a license from the city. Where did one go to get it?

Marty Kerns's office. Couldn't they “work something out?” Royce wondered.

“This baby is a J5—one of the rarest Cubs in private hands, my friend. My father won it from ‘Wings of Destiny’ in 1940! It was Grand Champion Antique three years running at the aeroplane show. I could never do anything that might jeopardize—"

“I understand.” Royce said, thanking him. Royce's picture of himself dumping leaflets from two thousand feet, his white scarf streaming over the side of the cockpit, was in tatters.

By early evening, the ink barely drying on the print job, they were no longer trying to get the circular dropped, but were still shopping around for a way to get it into the Waterton homes. The Maysburg
Weekly Dispatch
was out. The
Jackson Grove Star
was out. There was one way they could get it into area homes tomorrow morning, and that was to give a great deal of cash to one Fred Finch, who put out something called the
Tri-State Shopper
. They would be an “insert,” sandwiched in between coupons for discounts on rump roast (USDA choice boneless: $1.99 a pound) and hog jowls (SPECIAL! Only 59 cents a pound!).

Fifty thousand leaflets, Mr. Finch assured them, would be tucked into his two-page, two-color throwaway.

“I ain't never done this for nobody before! Hope I ain't making no mistake,” he said. Not at these prices, he wasn't.

Royce was a worrier. He worried that Mr. Finch might just dump the leaflets, which he swore would be “tucked by high-speed insertion machine into each and every
Tri-State Shopper
” that went into the mailboxes. Who would be the wiser? Mary was even more worried than he was.