Gray Mountain (17 page)

“Never trust a jury around here. I keep telling Donovan this but he won’t listen.”

“Are you filming?” Donovan asked, changing the subject.

“Of course.” They chatted for a few minutes as both men kept glancing at their watches. Vic removed a small camera from his backpack and took a position between two boulders. Donovan said to Samantha, “Since the inspectors are not watching, it’s safe to assume Strayhorn will break a few rules when they start blasting. We’ll catch it on video, and maybe show it to the jury next week. It’s not that we really need it, because we have so much dirt on the company. They’ll put their engineers on the stand and they’ll lie about how closely they follow all regulations. We’ll prove otherwise.”

He and Samantha eased into positions next to Vic, who was filming and lost in his work. Donovan said, “They fill each hole with a concoction known as ANFO—an acronym for a combination of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil. It’s too dangerous to transport
so they mix it on the site. That’s what they’re doing now. That truck is funneling diesel fuel into the blast holes while that crew to the left there is rigging up the blasting caps and detonators. How many holes, Vic?”

“I count sixty.”

“So they’re clearly in violation, which is typical.” Samantha watched through binoculars as men with shovels began backfilling the blast holes. A wire ran from the top of each one and two men were busy gathering them into a bundle. Sacks of ammonium nitrate were dropped into the blast holes, which were topped off with gallons of diesel fuel. The work was slow; 4:00 p.m. came and went. Finally, when the blasting truck backed away, Donovan said, “It won’t be long now.” The grid was cleared as the crews and trucks disappeared. A siren sounded and that area of the site became still.

The explosions were a distant rumble as plumes of dust and smoke shot into the air, each blast only a split second after the one before it. The plumes rose in perfect formation, like fountains in a Vegas water show, and the earth began to crumble. A wide swath of ancient rock fell in violent waves as the ground shook. Dust boiled from the blast site and formed a thick cloud above it. With no wind, the cloud hung over the rubble with nowhere to go. Much like a play-by-play announcer, Donovan said, “They’re blasting three times a day. Their permit allows only twice. Multiply all of this by dozens of active surface mines, and they’re using about a million pounds of explosives every day here in coal country.”

“We got a problem,” Vic said calmly. “We’ve been spotted.”

“Where?” Donovan asked, taking the binoculars from Samantha.

“Up there, by the trailer.”

Donovan focused on the trailer. On a platform next to it, two men with hard hats were apparently watching them through their own binoculars. Donovan waved; one of the men waved back. Donovan shot him the bird; the man returned the greeting.

“How long have they been there?” he asked.

“Don’t know,” Vic said. “But let’s get outta here.” They grabbed
their backpacks and the rifle, and began a hurried descent down the mountain. Samantha slipped and almost fell. Vic caught her and kept her hand tight in his. They followed Donovan, ducking around trees, dodging boulders, clawing through underbrush, with no trail visible. After a few minutes, they stopped in a narrow open area. Vic pointed and said, “I came in this way. Call me when you get to your Jeep.” He disappeared into the woods, and they continued downward. The trail was not as steep and they managed to carefully jog for a few hundred yards. “Are we okay?” Samantha finally asked.

“We’re fine,” he said calmly. “They don’t know the trails like I do. And if they catch us they can’t kill us.”

She found little comfort in that. They picked up speed as the trail continued to flatten. The Jeep came into view a hundred yards away and Donovan paused for a second to search for other vehicles. “They haven’t found us,” he said. As they drove away, he sent a text to Vic. All was clear. They bounced down the mountain, dodging holes and ravines wide enough to swallow the Jeep, and after a few minutes he said, “We’re no longer on Strayhorn’s property.” He turned onto a paved road just as a large, dust-covered pickup truck raced around a curve. “That’s them,” he said. The truck moved to the middle of the road to block the Jeep, but Donovan hit the gas and passed it on the shoulder. At least three rough-looking characters in hard hats were in the truck, scowling and looking for trouble. They stopped abruptly and began turning around to give chase, but the Jeep left them behind.

Racing through the back roads of Hopper County, Donovan kept one eye on his mirror and said nothing. “Do you think they got your license plate number?” she asked.

“Oh, they know it’s me. They’ll run to the judge Monday morning and cry like babies. I’ll deny it all and tell them to stop whining. Let’s pick a jury.”

They passed the courthouse on Center Street in Colton. Donovan nodded in its direction and said, “There it is. Ground zero. The ugliest courthouse in Virginia.”

“I was there Wednesday, with Mattie.”

“Did you like the courtroom?”

“It’s kind of weird, but I’m not much of an expert on courtrooms. I’ve always tried to avoid them.”

“I love them. It’s the only place where the little guy can go toe-to-toe on a level field with a big, crooked corporation. A person with nothing—no money, no power—nothing but a set of facts can file a lawsuit and force a billion-dollar company to show up for a fair fight.”

“It’s not always fair, is it?”

“Sure it is. If they cheat, then I cheat. They play dirty, I get even dirtier. You gotta love justice.”

“You sound like my father. It’s frightening.”

“And you sound like my wife. She has no stomach for the work I do.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay, do you have plans for tomorrow?”

“Saturday in Brady. The clinic is closed, so what are my options?”

“How about another adventure?”

“Does it involve guns?”

“No, I promise I will not carry a gun.”

“Will we trespass on someone’s property? Is there a chance of getting arrested?”

“No, I promise.”

“Sounds pretty dull. I’m in.”

B
lythe called bright and early on Saturday morning with the incredible news that she had the day off, a rarity in her world. Her employment situation had stabilized; her firm had apparently stopped its bloodletting. No one had been shown the door in the past five days and promises were finally trickling down from above. A gorgeous fall day in the city with nothing to do but shop and worry about lunch and enjoy being young and single. She missed her roommate, and at that moment Samantha was painfully homesick. She had been away now for only two weeks, but given the distance it seemed like a year. They talked for half an hour before both needed to get on with their day.

Samantha showered and dressed quickly, eager to ease out of the driveway before Kim and Adam came bouncing out of the house with a list of things to do. So far, it seemed as though Annette and her children allowed their guest to come and go without notice. She lived as quietly as possible, and had yet to see them peeking through screens and around curtains. But, she was also quite aware that most of Brady was curious about the alien from New York.

For that reason, and because his marital situation was unstable, Donovan had suggested that she meet him at the county airport, eleven miles east of town. They would rendezvous there and begin the next adventure, the details of which he kept to himself. She was surprised to learn there was an airport within a hundred miles of
Brady. Late Friday night, she searched it online and found nothing. How can an airport not have a Web site?

Not only was it missing a Web site, it also lacked aircraft, or at least none that she could see as the gravel road came to an end at the Noland County Airfield. Donovan’s Jeep was parked next to a small, metal building, and was the only vehicle in sight. She walked through the only door she saw and crossed through what appeared to be the lobby, with folding chairs and metal tables strewn with flying magazines. The walls were covered with fading photos of planes and aerial shots. The other door opened onto the ramp, and there was Donovan puttering around a very small airplane. She walked outside and said, “What’s that?”

“Good morning,” he said with a big smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“Eight hours. Are you a pilot?”

“I am, and this is a Cessna 172, better known as a Skyhawk. I practice law in five states and this little dude helps me get around. Plus, it’s a valuable tool when it comes to spying on coal companies.”

“Of course. And we’re going spying?”

“Something like that.” He gently folded down and locked a cowling that covered the engine. “Preflight is finished and she’s ready to go. Your door is on the other side.”

She didn’t move. “I’m not so sure about this. I’ve never flown in anything that small.”

“It’s the safest airplane ever built. I have three thousand hours and I’m highly skilled, especially on a perfect day like this. Not a cloud in the sky, ideal temperature, and the trees are alive with the colors of autumn. Today is a pilot’s dream.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“But it only has one engine.”

“That’s all it needs. And if the engine quits it’ll glide forever and we’ll find a nice pasture somewhere.”

“In these mountains?”

“Let’s go Samantha.” She slowly walked around the tail and to the right-side door under the wing. He helped her into the seat
and gently secured the seat belt and shoulder harness. He closed the door, locked it, and went around to the left side. She looked behind her at the cramped rear seat, and she looked in front of her at the wall of instruments and gauges.

“Are you claustrophobic?” he asked as he snapped his seat belt and harness into place. Their shoulders were about an inch apart.

“I am now.”

“You’re gonna love it. You’ll be flying it before the day is over.” He handed her a headset and said, “Stick this on. It’s pretty loud in here and we’ll talk through these.” They arranged their headsets. “Say something,” he said.

“Something.” Thumbs-up, the headsets were working. He grabbed a checklist and ran through the items, carefully touching each instrument and gauge as he went. He pulled the yoke back and forth. An identical one on her side moved in tandem. “Please don’t touch that,” he said.

She shook her head quickly; she wasn’t touching anything. He said, “Clear,” and turned the key. The engine jumped to life as the propeller began spinning. The airplane shook as he pushed the throttle. He announced his intentions over the radio, and they began taxiing down the runway, which seemed short and narrow, to her anyway. “Is anyone listening?” she asked.

“I doubt it. It’s very quiet this morning.”

“Do you have the only airplane in Noland County?”

He pointed to some small hangars ahead, along the runway. “There are a few more down there. Not many.” At the end of the runway, he revved the engine again and rechecked the controls and instruments. “Hang on.” He pushed the throttle forward, gently released the brakes, and they were rolling. As they picked up speed he calmly counted, “Eighty miles an hour, ninety, a hundred,” then he pulled the yoke back and they left the asphalt. For a moment, she felt weightless and her stomach flipped. “You okay?” he asked without looking at her.

“Fine,” she said with clenched jaws. As they were climbing, he began banking to the left and completed a 180-degree turn. They were low, not far above the trees, and he picked up the main
highway. “See that green truck parked down there in front of that store?” he asked. She nodded. “That’s the asshole who followed me this morning. Hang on.” He jiggled the yoke and the wings dipped and rose, a salute to the asshole in the green truck. When it was out of sight, he began climbing again.

“Why would they follow you on a Saturday morning?” she asked, her white knuckles digging into her knees.

“You’ll have to ask them. Maybe because of what happened yesterday. Maybe because we show up in court Monday for a big trial. Who knows. They follow me all the time.” Suddenly she felt a bit safer in the air. By the time they reached Brady she was relaxed and taking in the scenery not far below. He buzzed the town at five hundred feet and gave her a bird’s view of where she lived and worked. Except for a ride in a hot air balloon in the Catskills, she had never seen the earth from such a low altitude, and it was fascinating, even thrilling. He climbed to a thousand feet and leveled off as they skipped across the hills. The radio was as silent as the one in Romey’s old fake patrol car, and she asked, “What about radar and air traffic controllers and stuff like that? Is anybody out there?”

“Probably not. We’re flying VFR—visual flight rules—so we’re not required to check in with air control. On a business trip, I would file a flight plan and get plugged into the air traffic system, but not today. We’re just joyriding.” He pointed to a screen and explained, “That’s my radar. If we get close to another plane, it’ll show up there. Relax, I’ve never had a crash.”

“A close call?”

“None. I take it very seriously, like most pilots.”

“That’s nice. Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”

“You’re the pilot, and you don’t know where we’re going?”

He smiled, banked to the left, and pointed to an instrument. “This is the altimeter; it monitors the altitude, which is pretty important when you’re in the mountains.” They were inching up to fifteen hundred feet, where they leveled off. He pointed outside and said, “That’s Cat Mountain, or what’s left of it. A big operation.”
Ahead and to her right was the strip mine, which looked like all the rest: a barren landscape of rock and dirt in the midst of beautiful mountains, with overfill shoved far below into the valleys. She thought of Francine Crump, the client in search of a free will, and the land she wanted to preserve. It was somewhere down there, somewhere close to Cat Mountain. There were small homes along the creeks, a settlement here and there. The Skyhawk banked steeply to the right, and as it did a perfect 360, Samantha looked straight down at the mining trucks and loaders and other machinery. A blasting truck, front-end loaders, a dragline, mining trucks and haul trucks, track shovels, track loaders. Her knowledge was expanding. She spotted a supervisor who was standing beside an office, straining to watch the airplane.