The Dirty Secret (6 page)

McCallen Resources had friendly relationships with the “gathering” companies that purchased raw oil and the “transportation” companies that purchased raw natural gas from well-head operators like his company. Those companies sold them for a profit to local plants that refined and processed them into products consumers could use. Jack would argue that his company’s good relations with those middlemen improved its chances to turn a profit even if prices dropped and times got tough.

Moreover, Jack knew MR had invested wisely during the recent boom, updating and upgrading its wells with the most accurate measuring devices and the most efficient capturing equipment available. Those investments maximized its profits and improved its chances to endure the bust periods that scared the bejeezus out of jittery, conservative bankers.

Mentally reaching the presentation’s midpoint, Jack recalled the vivid, full-color pie charts and bar graphs he had generated from stacks of MR’s production records and sales invoices. Those graphics showed that over the past five years, MR had significantly increased both the oil and gas it was extracting from its leaseholds as well as its profit margin.

Jack stared at himself in the rearview mirror.
If only that told the whole story. If that were the case, I would sleep like a baby. Instead, I have bags under my eyes and an Elavil prescription that needs refilled.

Driving between Fairmont and Morgantown, Jack was struck by the barren scenery around him. The rolling hills of north central West Virginia – so lush and green in the summer and painted in fiery reds, deep oranges and golden yellows in the fall – were brown and dead-looking today. As they would remain, Jack knew, until the leaves began to return in the middle of April. Despite winning yet another election last week, Jack felt the aching emptiness of those hills perfectly reflected the despair and loneliness weighing him down.

Jack suddenly realized he had to shake this foul mood, quickly. In only minutes, he would be shaking hands with the banker and he needed his “A” game. He closed his eyes and bent his head sideways like he was trying to touch his ear to his shoulder. First to the right, then to the left, he felt the taut muscles in his neck slowly begin to unknot.

Jack turned on the radio and a few haunting lyrics from Doug Stone’s old song, “I’d Be Better Off (In A Pine Box)” poured out of the speakers. Scowling, he jammed his thumb against the tuning button, hoping to find something less likely to make him slit his wrists.

Moments later, the melodic strumming of a single electric guitar began to fill his ears and he pulled his finger away from the stereo controls. Exhaling deeply, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes as the lead vocalist of the ‘80s hair metal band, Tesla, crooned the first few lines from
Gettin’ Better
.

The guitarist kicked his efforts up a notch and the rest of the band followed suit. Jack tapped his left hand on the steering wheel in time with the music and felt his outlook on life improve. As the song played on, he became more and more animated, banging his head slightly and even balling his right hand into a fist at one point he found particularly uplifting.

By song’s end, he was rolling into the bank’s parking lot without a trace of the gloom and doom that had earlier gripped him. Turning the volume down, he shut off the engine and grabbed his laptop case after making a mental note to download that old Tesla album soon.

It might come in handy the next time I feel like throttling Tabatha
, he privately quipped, cracking a wry smile as he strolled toward the bank.

A stunning woman in her early thirties with long wavy hair the color of cornsilk sat behind a semi-circular stainless steel desk. “Hello,” she said with a smile. “How may I help you?” Her words flowed smoothly, sounding melodious, educated, accommodating and sultry.

Jack returned the smile. “I have an appointment with Marty Tharp at one.”

The receptionist glanced down at her calendar. “Mr. McCallen?”

“You’re looking at him.” From years spent making campaign speeches and shaking hands with farmers in the oil patch, Jack felt his comfort level rising as he subconsciously switched into glad-handing mode.

The woman nodded. “Have a seat, and I’ll let Mr. Tharp know you are here.” She motioned toward a row of burgundy leather office chairs aligned along a glass wall to her right. Jack silently dipped his head in acknowledgment and took a seat.

Magazines half-covered the cherry end table beside his chair. Jack pawed through them before selecting a Smithsonian to pass the time. Less than a minute later, a man called from across the lobby. “Jack?”

Glancing up from the magazine, Jack saw a tall, slightly-built man in a crisply-tailored suit staring back at him expectantly. His rusty-colored hair was thick on top with an emerging widow’s peak. Light brown eyes gazed through a pair of rectangular metal eyeglasses, and dark freckles dotted the man’s middle-aged cheeks and forehead.

The banker smiled and approached him, extending his right hand. “I’m Marty Tharp. You want to come on back?”

Jack accepted the grip. “Thanks for seeing me. You lead the way.”

Tharp whirled on his right heel and headed back across the lobby toward a pair of stainless steel elevator doors. Jack followed suit.

The banker pressed the call button. “So how was your drive over from Saint Marys?”

“Not bad. Route 50 was a little boring, but at least I didn’t hit any deer along the way.”

Tharp chuckled. A bell rang, and the elevator doors parted, revealing the cabin’s rich mahogany walls. “Yeah, it’s about that time of the year, isn’t it? Are you a hunter?”

“Well, I like to get out in the woods during rifle season when work allows it. But I haven’t bagged one in a while, so I hope I’m due for one this year.”

The doors shut, and the elevator car began to rise accompanied by the soothing melodies of some song Jack thought was by Kenny G. As the digital screen morphed from a four into a five, the elevator slowed to a stop, and the doors opened. Tharp walked directly across the hallway into an open conference room. Jack mentally steeled himself as he followed the banker into the room with his laptop draped over his right shoulder.

A massive oval table was situated in the middle of the room. Tharp sat in a black, ergonomically-sculpted chair positioned within easy reach of Jack’s loan application package, which was neatly spread out in a semicircular pattern atop the table. The banker spun 90 degrees and faced Jack, gently reclining his chair. “I understand you have a PowerPoint presentation for me.”

“I figured that would be easier than asking you to dig through all that paperwork like you’re looking for a needle in a haystack.”

Tharp motioned to a projector stationed in the middle of the conference table, focused on a large white screen protruding from the ceiling. “Go right ahead.”

As Jack spoke, he felt like he had been transported from his body. He had memorized the script down to a tee, having practiced at least fifty times. Smoothly transitioning from slide-to-slide, he gave his spiel to the banker with the same polished delivery that had earned him votes for years.

Tharp stared across the room at the projector screen, nodding as Jack used his laser pointer remote to highlight important language from his exploration geologist’s report. He pointed out the gas pocket believed to exist about 8,500 feet below the Schoolcraft property, and the likelihood that a thick strand of the untapped Marcellus Shale strata ran through the property about 6,500 feet underground.

“But isn’t your lease on that tract tied up in litigation right now?” the banker asked, his red eyebrows furrowed above his eyeglasses.

“We can’t actually drill on the property until the lawsuit is resolved,” Jack conceded. “But our lawyer thinks the lease will remain valid because the plaintiffs can’t prove we haven’t ‘reasonably developed’ those resources. After all, until this new ground-penetrating radar equipment was created, no one could have envisioned such an unusual sandstone formation at that depth. Plus, until recently, no one had devised a way to economically harvest the gas trapped in the Marcellus.”

Tharp slowly nodded his head, but the skepticism did not fade from his eyes. “Who’s your lawyer?”

“Rikki Gudivada.”

The banker’s posture loosened, and his eyebrows smoothed out. “She’s one of the best. When’s the case supposed to go to trial?”

Jack felt his stomach tighten. “The first slot the judge could give us was July 14th. Of course, that’s if the judge doesn’t grant us summary judgment, and we don’t settle the case.”

Tharp whistled loudly. “That’s what … eight months from now?”

Jack hoped the glumness in his heart wasn’t manifested on his face. “Yeah,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “But the judge will hear our motion for summary judgment in May. Rikki thinks we have a pretty good shot at winning that one unless the plaintiffs can pull a rabbit out of their hat.”

“Strange things happen in litigation,” the banker observed ominously. “I’d feel a lot better about loaning you 3 million dollars if that lawsuit wasn’t hanging over your head.”

“If that lawsuit wasn’t hanging over my head, I wouldn’t need to borrow 3 million dollars. I’d have people lined up to
throw
money at me.”

Tharp nodded curtly. “Quite true,” he said, tightening his lips and staring at Jack as if taking his measure. Jack stood motionless with the computer remote cupped in his right hand, returning the gaze unwaveringly.

“Hey,” the banker blurted, scooting his chair closer to the conference table. “I meant to tell you that I saw your name in the paper this morning.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jack asked, his eyes narrowing. “Which one?”

“The Dominion-Post. It was a big story about the election brouhaha. I didn’t know you’re one of our presidential Electors.”

“Well, I will be if Governor Vincent doesn’t magically manufacture a few hundred votes for Senator Wilson out of thin air.”

The banker’s face suddenly brightened. “That’s pretty cool. I had no idea how that whole thing worked.”

“Most people don’t. It only becomes an issue about once a century.”

“So how did you become an Elector? I don’t remember ever voting for you.”

“Nah, it’s not an elected office,” Jack said. “Each party picks five people from around the state to vote as members of the Electoral College in the event their nominee wins the state’s popular vote. I’ve been shaking hands and kissing babies for the Republican Party for a long time. I guess they figured naming me as an elector would be a nice way to honor my service.”

“And what about your wife? Doesn’t she have something to do with it too?”

Jack smiled like a poker player trying to bluff a pot with a pair of fives. “The party named her as an alternate. She’s put in a lot of time at Republican Women’s lunches and working on party fundraisers over the years. The folks down at headquarters kinda look at us like we’re a matched set. If they’re having me do something, chances are they’re roping Tabatha into it, too.”

Tharp tapped his fingertips on the table. “Ah, I see. Well, I do think that’s pretty neat. I bet your kids will look back on that as a real accomplishment someday.”

Jack snorted. “I hope that casting one ceremonial vote in the Electoral College ends up paling by comparison to leaving them a prosperous oil and gas company when I croak.”

The banker laughed. “Absolutely,” he said, rising from the table.

Jack recognized the meeting had ended and subtly used his remote to darken the projector screen. “So when do you think you’ll be able to let me know about this loan?”

“Well, I need to run everything by our loan committee. We’re supposed to meet again tomorrow, so hopefully you’ll know something no later than Friday.”

McCallen clapped his hands together and rubbed them lightly. “Sounds good to me,” he said, extending his right hand to the banker. “I hope we’ll be doing business together.”

Tharp shook his hand. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

Well,
that
was a pretty non-committal response
, Jack silently noted. He pumped the banker’s hand up and down twice and then turned his attention to his laptop, disconnecting it from the projector and powering it down.

The banker reassembled the loan application documents into neat little stacks while Jack folded his laptop and gingerly stowed it away. Then the two made a beeline for the elevator.

“I have another meeting I need to get to,” Tharp said, lightly patting Jack on the back. “You mind if I stay up here and let you find your own way out?”

“No problem. You have a good one and I’ll talk to you on Friday.”

Tharp nodded, pressed the elevator’s call button and headed down the hallway toward a corner office. Jack stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby, silently praying the bank would give him good news. And
fast.

CHAPTER 12

WILLIAMSON, MINGO COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1:00 P.M.

The hills surrounding the town of Williamson were so steep they made Madison look like Kansas City. If railroad construction in the 1890s had not made extracting the region’s vast coal reserves feasible, Dave saw no reason why a town would have developed here at all.

Only sheer stubbornness seemed to explain Williamson’s creation and continuing existence. Narrow streets had been painstakingly carved from the hills in strict conformity with the area’s unforgiving topography. The Tug River’s brown waters coursed through town, serving as the border between West Virginia and Kentucky.

On several instances over the past hundred years, the Tug had done its damnedest to wipe Williamson off the map by overflowing its banks and sending a torrent of floodwater through its streets, most recently in 1977. A small voice inside Dave’s head sardonically opined that such a result would have been an appropriate punishment for the town’s real and perceived sins over the years. Even though God –
For reasons known only to Him
, lamented Dave – had chosen not to sweep Williamson from its tenuous grip on the planet’s surface, the resulting damage was so extensive that documents in the courthouse had been saturated, if not destroyed, by the mud.