Whatever Lola Wants (48 page)

Not sure what to think of all this. Could they do me any harm? No known evidence of such an act up here, at least not by me. On the other hand, I'd just stood off six Gods. I'd never heard of such a thing either. But it felt okay.

•

3.

Cochan watched Sheriff Nottingham march
up the nave. Merrimac Investigation Services's head agent, bringing his report to the President and Chief Executive Officer of Intraterra.

“How are you, Mr. Cochan?”

“Great, Hank. What's happening?”

Two things were happening. One was easy to talk about. The other the Sheriff and Jeb hadn't investigated far enough. Suspicions. Fears. If they checked out he didn't know if he could talk about it. He took a folded paper from his shirt pocket and spread it open. “Well, Mr. Boce was right in worrying about that Carney. We did a search on him—”

John sat back. “Hank, I don't need to know this. Tell Steed.”

Henry Nottingham nodded, a kind of self-encouragement to spend as much time on Carney as possible. “Just the context, Mr. Cochan, and a couple of interesting details. You see, this Carney, he's worth millions.”

“So?”

“So I read some of a book he's written, called
A Ton of Cure
. It's not pro the kind of environmentalism Terramac's all about. Not your Econovism, sir.”

“Hank, there's only one real environmentalism. Let's not get into that now. What else?”

“Hang on, Mr. Cochan, let me finish. You see—” He glanced at his paper.

Goddamn laconic Vermonters.

“There's another reason why this guy's around. Seems he was brought here by Theresa Magnussen.”

“I've already gathered that. And?”

“He's gone to visit the professor at the hospital several times. He's visited the home of the son, Karl. He's stayed at the Magnussen Grange, supposedly to fish Gambade Brook.”

“Hank. Spare me his itinerary.” What did Carney have to do with the whoring shrink son?

“He met with Leonora Magnussen.” The Sheriff looked up. “Couple of times.”

“Okay, Hank.”

“Took me longer than I hoped but everything's solid. I'll type it up tomorrow.”

“That's okay.” John smiled. He didn't feel like smiling. “I prefer some reports verbally.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Good work.”

“I'll be going, then.”

“Sure, thanks— Wait, wait a minute.” John had to ask. The empty coffin. He'd told Hank not to investigate. Still— “Was there anything else?”

“Uh, no sir.” There was. But till he got it clearer, he couldn't say anything. He handed Cochan the Magnussen file. “Take care.” He left.

John read it through. Full of Hank's good research, way more than he already knew about the family. Photographs. The woman who'd thrown the fish at Steed. The twins. The fatface stud. John would get him good.

4.

Sunday lunch at Karl's with
Milton, Leonora, Feodora, Ti-Jean, and Sarah now included Carney. Little awareness of his relationship with Sarah. Milton, his face glowing, announced to the them, “Theresa's coming home, they're releasing her Wednesday. She'll go for physiotherapy every day, I'll stay with her. We could all be at the house when she gets out, it'd give her such pleasure.” To Sarah specifically he said, “Can you come? About noon? It'd make her so happy.”

“Of course. Her mind's going to keep working till her heart quits.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “I'd take odds on that.”

Milton looked at her sadly. But Sarah had meant this as a compliment for a one-time combatant. Carney wondered if Theresa would want such a reunion. Was Milton inventing this pleasure for her sake or his own?

Feasie said, “I think it'd be good for Theresa to spend some time at the Grange. It's close enough to town for the physiotherapy.”

Milton wasn't sure. “The ground at the Grange isn't level. I've got her a new chair, it's coming this week. Twelve horsepower.”

Ti-Jean muttered, “Too big.”

Lunch was a roast capon smothered in tarragon, roast potatoes, asparagus. And a small multigrain casserole for Sarah. They drank Theresa's health. Over coffee, Leonora told them about her meeting with John Cochan. “Dalton Zikorsky filed for the restraining order against the blasting and Cochan's lawyers tried to block it right away. They'll set the hearing date this week. Dalt's feeling positive.” They cheered her. Good to be back on the offensive.

All except Karl. In the last week he hadn't called Leonora, although she'd phoned him twice. Worry about Priscilla dominated everything.

“The hearing.” Ti-Jean squinted at her. “When could it happen?”

“Likely not till September.”

Ti-Jean, still muttering: “Lawyers.”

Leonora ignored him and reported on her research. “What's complicated is the trespassing issue. The laws of Vermont and of Merrimac County—and Johnnie Cochan's activities have to be considered under these—these are, regarding our options, contradictory in an important way.”

Karl muttered, “Normal.” But he did realize Leonora was diving into all this work to wash away her foolishness. Recommending buying into Terramac, for godsake!

“In certain respects the law is all too clear. If he were mining, well he's got the go-ahead for the Terramac project. His underground rights included.”

Carney asked, “So what's unclear?”

Leonora turned to him. “Are they really building underneath our land? We don't know.”

“We do know he's blasting.”

“Specifically under Grange land?”

Feasie said, “But if he's building wherever, we've got him?”

Leonora's head shook. “That's equivocal.” She had to make them see how hard she'd worked on the case. To give the Grange land the greatest possible protection. “The law's direct enough on mineral rights, with approval you can mine or quarry your own land or with a lease you can remove ore or rock or fossil fuels from under somebody else's. His agreement with the county lets him mine to five thousand feet. So if he's less deep than that, and if he's not taking anything out of there, if he's building deeper than several sub-basements—” She shrugged. “In Vermont law, no one's ever posed this question.”

Ti-Jean liked his wife's twin sister well enough, except when she epitomized the legal profession; like now. He shook his head. “You say property rights extend into the ground?”

“Right. Except no one I've consulted knows how far down. So it's not clear if his five thousand feet is legal. Some states have laws, but not Vermont. If you go down far enough into the earth, everybody's property meets. In that sense.”

“The only issue we should be concerned with”—Carney spoke slowly, deliberately—“is if he's under land to which he has no rights. If so, whatever he's doing there is illegal.”

“Goddammit,” Feasie breathed. “The explosions, they're under the Grange. I can feel it.”

Milton looked baffled, discouraged. “Under his own land he can blast what he wants?”

Leonora said, “In one sense, yes.”

Carney turned to Milton. “Do you have underground mineral rights at the Grange?”

“I don't know.” Milton frowned. “My father never said. We never worried about it.”

“You should acquire them. Before someone else does.”

“He's got plenty of space of his own.”

“This is Handy Johnnie, remember?”

Leonora felt as if she'd been set aside. She leapt in again. “Look, his prospectives for the Fortier farm have been approved by the county, his power and water and waste disposal requirements are satisfied. At least on paper. He's self-contained and we can't do a thing.” Leonora smiled, in control again. “But, if he has moved under our land in order to build, we can go beyond restraining orders, and lay charges. It could take years and it'll cost. But we'll beat him. And set important precedent.”

“So now what? Wait?” Feasie was furious. “He's already messed up the stream. The well water tastes, I don't know, different.”

Milton squinted at her. “You sure?”

“Maybe it's my taste buds. But Ti-Jean thinks it's different. Don't you?”

“That's it.”

Carney was nodding. “Like Leonora says, it's a slow way. But it has to be done. Stop him here, you'll stop him in other places too.” Long-term prevention. Always a patient process.

“Sure, Carney. Slow, polite, easy.” Karl leaned forward, his face flushed. “Step back, let the bastard do what he wants. He destroys whatever's in his way.” The land, his wife— Damn! He turned to Leonora. “You think there's a law to deal with the likes of John Cochan? He does what he wants with whoever he wants. He beats and smashes. And by the time you get to him, it's too late. Too fucking late.” Tears filled his eyes.

Leonora leaned over his chair, she put her arm around his shoulder. Her neck felt hot. “I've got some vacation time coming. I'll do everything I can.” With a grim smile she glanced around the table. She took Karl's hand, he squeezed hers.

Carney said, “It's a shame we can't see where the blasts have taken place, check the site with global positioning. That'd tell us all we need to know.”

Lunch broke up. Sarah left with Carney. In full view of all they drove away.

Monday Carney again visited Theresa. She could roll side to side now. Not up and down, she had to be pulled to a sitting position, but, Milton said, with therapy that too might return. Once up she could hold herself straight, her chest and back muscles again hard at work. Her neck had regained some strength and she could turn to face whoever was speaking. If she wanted to.

No trouble with her hearing. But her speech was badly jumbled. Her right hand was steadier from the therapy and the doctor had started her on acupuncture. Her fingers could grasp a spoon. On the left side, no recovery. Two doctors told Milton they'd pretty much given up there.

Milton wouldn't believe it. He'd bring her back.

5.

Yak stared at blue equations
on Steed's computer screen, tabulations of around-the-dome Luciflex strength per square meter. He saw only blue lines. Go across to Johnnie's office, let him ruminate, wind him down?

He turned his head halfway, he watched Johnnie, but the Handyman— Well, he was sitting, more broody than in a long time, exuding cool silence. Yak would help Johnnie any way possible, if Johnnie'd let him. He did understand, he'd heard the sad news of the miscarriage. Though not from Johnnie. Wrong for John Cochan to bear this all alone.

No, leave him be. The Handyman didn't want to talk.

John Cochan stared
at the plexiglass wall. He turned, let his eye roam the other wall, solid and smooth, the old church wall. A better wall. It led up to the steeple, a pinnacle. His own pinnacle

It stood there. Grand. Up there nothing had changed. Only here, at the bottom. She.

Johnnie gazed up. Way up there, the tower. To rise above the menaces, the falsehoods, the horrors, and alarms the mind constructs. A pinnacle for standing isolate. A tower of peace, above the chaos. Far, far from the fearful bugs. Grand heights, for safety. Apex of his triangle. Only down below lie the bugs. He picked up the phone, pressed two buttons. The ring—

“Hello?” Harold Clark, in the Trailer of Architecture.

On that phone, why did Harry answer Hello? as a question. “It's me, Harry. Who'd you expect, Ethan Allen down from his horse?” Cochan's throat-and-stomach laugh, lips unmoving.

A snicker from Clark. “How're you, John?”

“First rate. Listen, I have a question.”

Clark waited. Silence from Cochan. “Yes?”

“It's about when you're blasting.”

“Okay.” Clark waited. “What about when we're blasting?”

“Bang plants one of his big charges, he sets it off from where you can see it, right?”

“Sure. On remote. Why?”

“And the remote sets it off through a timing device.”

“Yeah. A minute delay, couple of minutes. What're you asking?”

“He can put it all together, watch the timer being set, pull back before it blasts.”

“Sure. What's this about?”

“Nothing. Just an idea. Thanks, Harry. See you later.”

“Yeah, but—”

Johnnie set his phone down. For a moment he felt pleased, and allowed a small smile. His first real smile in days. He stroked his mustache flat.

Benjie wasn't in the coffin. The daily world was twisted. What madness to have thought Benjie was—reachable. Empty coffin, empty womb. Double betrayal. Benjie never had a chance.

All those visits to the cemetery. All those conversations with Benjie, and he wasn't even there!

She. She'd pampered Benjie, treated him like a tiny tot, for cripesake, made him so he couldn't fight the bugs. Beth, Johnnie's own mother, had never treated him like a baby. Now Priscilla, with that fiend of a fatface Magnussen. Had Johnnie loved Priscilla? Ever? Must have, once. Otherwise unbelievable, sleeping beside her all those years, then her defiant silence. Did she chortle inside at her little joke? No more.

But the sweet Priscilla, she wouldn't quit. Every night the weeping, the brazen explanations, her pretense of reason. Where did she find her scurrilous courage, those attempts to comfort Johnnie as if he, he, he were the one who'd committed some act of turpitude, as if he stood in league with fear and chaos?

Since Wednesday, he'd gone over and over their life together. The woman had been his wife. Still was, in that technical way. They had lived in the same house, conceived Benjie together, loved Benjie together, though she could never love with Johnnie's might and heart. They had planned Terramac together—

How, how had he been so duped by her? Over two years this—affair had gone on. She'd admitted it! But much longer was her mind's desire. Or more than mind's desire? The flesh as well? She admitted only to this present one. The whore. And with this one, what did she think, if she fucked him brain-dry, he'd gull his father into selling the land? Ha. The wasp-whore. She would burn for it. But later. Now she would be taught.