House of Gold (10 page)

"I'll let pre-American Revolution Mohawks pull out my fingernails one-by-one before I ever pay up on that bet," he told her as he sealed the envelope.

"I don't think a bet counts if somebody cheats like that, Sweetie. And where do you come up with stuff like Indians pulling out your fingernails? Yuck!"

"Sorry, last night I watched Last of the Mohicans after you went to bed," he explained, followed by his shouting impersonation of Daniel Day-Lewis, "You stay alive! No matter what occurs, I will find you!"

The Woodwards were not invited to subsequent
family gatherings at the O'Meara compound.

Chapter Four

The Other Woman

Sam and Buzz took the corporate plane to Montana. It took an entire day, beginning with pre-flight at six in the morning, and they stopped in Coon Rapids, Minnesota to refuel.

It wasn't a fancy plane–a used, twenty-two-year-old twin-engine Beachcraft Baron 58 with upgraded avionics, decent de-icing capabilities, and enough room to cram six skinny people into her cabin.

Buzz was cramped and claustrophobic in the cockpit next to Sam, who piloted with the same nerveless calm with which he guided his company; both were relieved when they climbed over the final mountain east of Butte.

Buzz's discomfort during the flight had not ruined, however, his amazement at the endless empty spaces that defined the state. The skies had been clear, and for what seemed like thousands
of miles, the eastern third of the state was really nothing more than a huge, cold plain. There were very few trees, but plenty of mounds of dirt, dust, and sand, peppered infrequently with a small town here and there. The mountains began to dominate the state only after they passed the famous cowtown, Billings. He had not seen any farms, though Sam promised him that the real estate agent in
Butte had been confident that there were several to look at within a two or three hour drive west and south of the city.

They stayed at the Fairfield Inn on the outskirts near the airport. There really wasn't a defined downtown in Butte. It was more akin to an organically laid out flower of rust and ramshackle buildings on a plain surrounded by seven mountain ranges. Incredibly rich copper mines
serially owned by several different holding companies over the decades had placed the town at its location in central Montana. At one time, more copper had been clawed from beneath its rocky surface than from any other single place on the planet.

Settled primarily by Irish Catholic immigrants in the late 1800s, it was at one time known for having more "Sullivans than Smiths." It was said that
in its heyday, Butte was more well-known in Ireland than was New York City. By the turn of the century, pollution from the huge smelting factories had killed off most of the trees in the town and surrounding areas. Back then it was rare for a miner to reach the ripe old age of fifty. Environmental regulations and foreign competition eventually drove the smelters out of business.

In recent times,
Butte had become the butt of jokes–the Jersey City of Montana. It had failed to make any trendy magazine's list of Top 100 American Cities. Yet despite the harsh climate, the remoteness, and a Depression-era economy that lasted through the 1980s, its hardy, gut-tough sons had a love for their hometown that was esoteric–inexplicable to those who never lived there, except perhaps citizens of other
maligned outbacks.

Butte, like the Jersey Citys and Garys and Fargos of the American landscape, was what it was and where it was. Her people held on to her the way you hold on to an old jalopy that served you well in your youth; you behold it as shiny and new as the day you bought it, overlooking its rust and sagging chassis. A view through the eyes of the heart.

Butte was still there, proud and
defiant–in a world where silicon, not copper, was now the measure of economic value. The story had been told of the immigrant laddie from Butte who returned to the old country to visit his relatives after a lifetime choking and slaving in the mines. He caught ill during the trip. As his brothers, cousins, aunts, and uncles gathered 'round his deathbed, his last words were thus: "When I die, I want
you to take me home, and bury me in Butte."

In the early Eighties, with its obsolete copper mines shuttered and unemployment rampant, there had been rumors of Butte becoming a ghost town right up until Our Lady of the Rockies climbed atop its rockiest, tallest mountain. On the very day after her statue was completed, a new company announced the purchase of the mines, along with plans to modernize
and reopen them. Butte had enjoyed relative prosperity and a mild comeback in the years since.

Buzz and Sam emerged from breakfast at the Denny's next to the hotel to greet the real estate agent as he pulled up in his car. The ground was still covered with snow–not an uncommon sight in April, apparently.

Hugh Wiggins jumped out of his rusty sedan, then shook their hands. He was a short, portly
man with big hands and a ruddy complexion. He wore a threadbare brown suit, and Buzz noticed that his shoes probably hadn't been shined in months.

They exchanged the usual pleasantries, then drove off, heading west on I-90. Sam sat in front.

Occasionally Buzz commented on the beauty of the natural surroundings–the hills, the buttes, the mountains, the occasional clumps of pines.

There really was
a "big sky" here which gave false impressions of true distances. The mountains always seemed to be close and far away at the same time, especially to the north. It was a stark state–more high plain than either Clevelander had realized.

It rained on and off, like a shower faucet being turned by an unseen hand. The droplets rolled off the windshield like mercury. Buzz remarked about this effect,
and Hugh explained that the air was especially dry in Montana. At one point, Buzz realized that he could see three separate rainstorms on the horizon in three different directions. Hugh called these local-ized storms "squalls." He added that out-of-staters often were impressed by this curious Montana phenomenon of "seeing the weather."

Buzz fell into a melancholic daydream, staring out the window,
imagining the beams on the wooden electric-line poles to be oversized crucifixes, and the sun as laying her golden shrouds on the earth in the far-off places where he saw it was not raining.

"How come you chose this area?" Hugh asked eventually, a cheap cigar perched on his lower lip. The question had been gnawing at him ever since Sam's telephone call a week earlier.

Buzz caught Sam's gaze in
the rearview mirror. They had agreed to keep mum about the computer bug during the search. They realized that bringing it up would just complicate things, and give the locals a reason to think they were nuts. Time for the cover story.

"I'm interested in building a corporate retreat–something different," Sam explained. "I've always wanted to have something in Montana, and my best friend here has
always dreamed of owning his own farm. We are planning on marrying the two ideas. Mr. Woodward will live here all year round on the farm, and I'll come for summer vacation and to hold-seminars during the rest of the year."

The explanation seemed to satisfy Hugh. Both passengers could feel his urge to ask the logical follow-up question,
But why Butte?

After all, droves of rich folks and beautiful
people were buying up ranches, farms, and mountainsides in Montana and Wyoming–in places like Walcott, Jackson Hole, and in the western valley surrounding Missoula, which had milder weather. But not near Butte.

Hugh showed them four properties that day. The first was a "small" ranch–300 acres–and the next two were larger, flat "wheat" farms on the plain whose main crop turned out to be hay, not
wheat, which Buzz and Sam discovered after talking with the owners at each property. Apparently the big wheat cooperatives in other parts of the state had made local wheat farming unprofitable.

"Don't any of these properties have streams or rivers on them?" Sam asked when they were back in the car, frustrated, after checking out the third disappointing property in a row. A river or stream had
been a condition he had given Hugh over the phone.

"Uh, some do, but not these I'm showin' you today," Hugh stumbled for words. "Maybe some properties with uh, rivers, will come on the market in the springtime. It's still early in the season."

Buzz rolled his eyes.
Isn't it spring already?

He felt a pang of futility in his heart.
This is all wrong! What are we doing out here in Montana? We don't
know a soul.

"Wait, there is one more place," Hugh suddenly offered. "It's not a proper ranch or a farm. But it does have a...brook on it, and a bit of tillable land. It's on the way back to Butte, not far from town.

"It's not exactly on the market, but old Harvey Stone has always been considerin' sellin' it. Even had it on the market a couple years back. I went to grade school with 'im."

So Hugh
drove them to the property, which was located about three miles northwest of the city. It was seventy-five acres–seventy-two of which consisted of bare mountainside dotted with a few hardy pines. It featured a small, rickety farmhouse at the base of the mountain, and less than three acres of farmland. A small barn–hardly larger than a two-car garage–stood nearby. There was one cow guarded by four
mangy dogs patrolling the driveway. Two old snowmobiles lingered by the front porch. White smoke drifted out the stone chimney. The house had black-slatted wood siding.

"Wait here." Hugh jumped out, then fearlessly cut a path through the yapping hounds and knocked on the front door.

"Is that the river?" Buzz asked, pointing to a slope behind the house. They spied a trickle of water barely a foot
wide slipping down into a small pool by the barn.

"I sure hope not," Sam said.

Hugh returned to the car.

"Harvey's not home. He's probably out hunting. We could come back later."

Sam and Buzz shared a dejected look.

"No, don't bother. We're not interested," Sam told him. "Please take us back to the hotel."

During the short drive back, Buzz asked from the back seat, "Hugh, what have you got lined
up for us tomorrow?"

"I'm still workin' on that."

In the rearview, Buzz saw Hugh shift his eyes a bit as he spoke. "Got a couple places in mind."

"Good," Buzz muttered.
Yeah, right.

Sam remained silent.

They got out of the car and stood in the parking lot watching Hugh drive away.

"This isn't working out, is it, Sam?"

Sam shook his head.

"Should we even bother going out with Hugh tomorrow?"

Sam
shook his head again.

"This sucks."

Sam nodded.

They returned to their hotel, washed up, then enjoyed a one-star meal of omelettes and clam strips at the Denny's before returning to their room. It was a standard-issue room, punched out of the same xerox machine as every room in every mid-range hotel chain in the country. They might as well have been in Texas, or New Jersey, or South Carolina.

"Maybe we could find another real estate agency?" Buzz asked a sullen Sam.

"We could try. I called five last week, and believe it or not, Hugh Wiggins struck me as the most professional. By the time we track one down, we'll have lost a whole day. Even if we do find one, I get the feeling that nothing here is going to fit our parameters. And I've got to get back to Edwards for Monday's strategy
meeting."

"Does this mean we're gonna have to come back to Butte next weekend?"

Sam looked at Buzz, then down at his hands.

"No," the tall man replied.

"Huh?"

"I'm sorry, Buzz. Montana is all wrong. Don't you feel it? We're like fish out of water here."

Buzz paused. "Yeah."

"Yeah."

They called their wives and told them the news: Montana was a huge detour. Ellie was not too pleased, Buzz judged
by the look on Sam's face.

Mel was actually happy about it, though surprised that the men had made up their minds about Montana so quickly–without a clear-cut second option.

"Where will we look next?" Mel asked.

"I don't know," Buzz told her.

"Then I'll pray." God, he loved her.

Sam then called Hugh Wiggins and canceled the next day's appointment. The two friends sat on the edge of their hotel
beds and prayed an unenthusiastic Rosary. Then Sam plugged his laptop into the outlet, and began surfing the net to browse several "alternative energy" sites he had bookmarked.

Buzz called the front desk and got directions to the nearest Catholic church, then called the church and got a recording relating the daily Mass time.

Good, they have a Saturday morning Mass.

He walked to the window. It
was dark now, and he could see the statue of Our Lady on her mountaintop. Actually, she wasn't standing on the peak–rather, she was perched on a natural platform next to the peak. Her builders had leveled off the platform at a place called Lamb Rock–after much blasting and heavy machinery work.

How did they get her up there?

He knew, of course. In four stages by military skylift helicopter. Lee
Royalle's book,
Our Lady Builds a Statue,
had kept him riveted from start to finish with all the details.

When he had first seen the bluish-grey statue from the plane as Sam descended over the pass leading into Butte, Buzz had been mildly disappointed by her relative size. She was formed in the mode of Our Lady of Grace as found on the Miraculous Medal, with her arms outstretched as if to distribute
heavenly grace to the world. Yet even a statue as large as the Statue of Liberty could be dwarfed by an eighty-five hundred foot mountain. Here, from the hotel room, she seemed tiny–the size of his pinky–far away, untouchable.

He walked back to the desk and flipped open the phone book. He found a single listing under "Royalle, L." He looked at Sam, who was immersed in the Web. He picked up the
phone and dialed the number.

+  +  +

"Sure, I'm Lee Royalle, who are you?" the voice at the other end of the line growled.

On a lark, Buzz decided to get down to brass tacks.

"My name is Buzz Woodward, I flew in from Cleveland last night. I want you to take me up to see the Lady."

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. "Is this a joke?"

"You are the guy who built the statue?"

A laugh.
"Yeah, and you want me to bring you up there to see her? When?"

"Tomorrow is my last day here."

Another long pause. "Mountain's closed 'til spring, sorry." Buzz could tell Royalle wasn't much for long sentences.

"But there's a road–"

"Road's closed for winter. I tried to get up to see her myself last week using my four wheel drive. No way. Didn't get two thousand feet. Been washouts during the
thaw last month, and now it's all ice and snow up to yer hips. Sorry."