Redemption Mountain (18 page)

“If we could just get the roof fixed, then we could get some new furniture, and some more books, and be back in business,” Natty said hopefully. “I was going to get a computer so the kids could—well, that ain't going to happen.” Natty went into an adjacent room crowded with maintenance supplies, a portable blackboard, and several wicker baskets full of athletics equipment. Hanging on a wall was a mesh-net bag of white soccer balls. She took it down and brought out two balls.

Charlie found an old wooden flagpole and used it to push up several ceiling panels to get a better look at the roof. Standing on the back of a long green plastic-covered couch, he pulled himself up into the rafters. Natty came back into the room and heard him climbing around in the roof trusses. She went outside and threw the balls down to the kids on the soccer field. When she returned, Charlie was coming down from the ceiling.

“Mr. Burden, you didn't have to do that. The roof ain't your problem.” She watched while Charlie used some paper towels to wipe off his hands. He had strong, muscular arms and a hard-looking chest under his T-shirt, a lot like Buck.

Charlie finished cleaning his hands and threw the paper towels in a cardboard box on the floor. “You need to rebuild the whole roof structure. The trusses are rotting, and the whole thing is sagging. Foot of snow up there in the winter and it'll cave in.”

“Damn,” she said dejectedly. “That sounds expensive.”

“Well, it's more than a patch job.” They went around to the back of the building and down a long flight of crumbling cement stairs to the soccer field. Emma and Sammy were playing keep-away from Pie, who ran around like a madman as they dribbled and kicked the ball back and forth. Pie had a big
happy face
on, and every few seconds he would check to see if Charlie was still watching him.

The field was overgrown with weeds, dandelions, and large patches of crabgrass. In front of the goal was a large indentation that was certain to be a foot-deep pond after a rainstorm. Across the field, Charlie could see several more depressions and some ruts made by water runoff. In Mamaroneck, the parents wouldn't have used the field for a parking lot.

Going back up the hill, Emma took off at a quick sprint, pursued closely by Sammy. Pie ran after them for a few yards but soon gave up the chase, his short legs no match for the hill or the other children. He fell into a labored hike a few yards in front of the adults.

Halfway up the hill, Charlie called out, “Say, Pie Man, how'd you like to make ten bucks and help me move my stuff up to the fourth floor?”

Natty looked at him with surprise. “You're moving in here? Alva Paine's apartment on the fourth floor?”

“I looked at it this morning. It's fine, and a lot closer to the project than Bluefield. The price is right, too.” When Natty didn't answer, he asked, “Is there something wrong?”

“No, no. I'm just surprised, is all. That's good. That's good for Hank. He needs someone up there. I'm glad you're moving in here, Mr. Burden.”

“You know Hank?” Charlie asked.

Natty smiled at him. “Damn, you still don't know where you are, do you, Mr. Burden?
Everybody knows everybody
in Red Bone.” She looked up toward the fourth-floor porch. “Mr. Hankinson was my history teacher, two years in high school, before I got—before I left. He was the principal for a long time, too. Tried his best with me, but I guess I was beyond hope,” she said with a laugh.

“Why did you—”

Natty cut him off. “Pie would be more than happy to help you move your stuff, and don't even think about giving him any money. That right, Pie Man?”

Continuing to trudge up the sidewalk, the boy pulled his pockets inside out, showing that he was penniless.

“Yeth, Mama,” he called over his shoulder. “I help Charlie.”

Charlie and Natty laughed. They could see that the boy was chuckling over his little joke. A few yards from the top of the hill, Natty winced when she heard the unmistakable sound of Buck's truck whining to make it up the hill behind her. She didn't turn to look. She didn't want to see Buck. Most of all, she didn't want this moment with the kind, considerate man from New York to end. And she certainly didn't want a scene with Buck, not with this outsider present.
Maybe he'll just drive by without stopping.

The white pickup came to a rough stop a few yards farther up the hill, the front right tire jumping over the short stone curbing. Charlie was startled at first, but he could see from Natty's reaction that it was someone she knew. Buck fixed Charlie briefly with a cold eye before turning to Natty and leaning over toward the open passenger window.

“C'mon, Nat. We need to talk. Get in.” It was the apologetic voice that Buck could summon up when he needed it, but he was never able to mask the look in his eyes that said there was trouble rumbling just beneath the surface. Natty knew the look and didn't want to provoke any trouble. She stood still for a second, looking down at the ground, then walked toward the truck. She turned back to her son.

“Pie, you go help Mr. Burden move his things. I'll get you at Eve's later.” She got into the truck and stared straight ahead as Buck roared away from the curb faster than he had to. Charlie watched the boy stare after the truck as it accelerated noisily away. The Pie Man didn't say anything. He just trudged more quickly up the hill, staying a little ways in front of Charlie.

*   *   *

A
FTER A LONG
afternoon touring the construction site with Terry Summers, Charlie declined his invitation to dinner with some of the construction workers at a place called Moody's Roadhouse and returned to the apartment in Old Red Bone. The store and the restaurant were closed, and Main Street was deserted. Charlie suddenly felt quite alone as he hiked up the four flights of stairs.

On the kitchen table, wrapped in aluminum, was a large turkey pot pie still warm from the oven, with a note from Eve Brewster that read,
Welcome to West Virginia,
and, in parentheses,
P.S. This is Hank's favorite.
In the refrigerator was a homemade apple pie from Mabel Willard. Charlie rapped on the back door to his neighbor's apartment and invited Mr. Hankinson over for dinner and some cribbage.

After devouring a good portion of the turkey pie, the two men went out on the porch and took their chairs at the card table. Hank went over the stakes as Charlie admired the orange sunset, which cast a warm, comforting glow across the table. “We play for twenty dollars a game, plus a dollar a point, five for the high hand, double for a skunk.” He looked up quickly to see if Charlie had any objections. The stakes seemed a little steep to Charlie, until he remembered the scorebook with the thousands of games and the running total.

Charlie won the first game and lost the next three. On a piece of scratch paper, Hank totaled up the damage. “That's fifty-eight dollars, my friend,” said Hank, sounding pleased with himself. “Pay up.”

The demand took Charlie by surprise. “What about the book?” he said.

“Oh, no,” said Hank gruffly. “Last time I did that, the guy stiffed me for eleven hundred bucks.” He stared at Charlie unflinchingly.

Charlie reached for his wallet. “Well, okay,” he said, bewildered. “I guess we can do it like this.” He thumbed out three twenties, then he looked up and saw Hank grinning through his white mustache.

“Gotcha there, Burden,” the old man said, slapping the table loudly. He reached for the scorebook. “We'll put it on account and see how things go. May have to lower the stakes, if you're as lousy a player as you showed today.”

“Don't worry about me, Hank,” Charlie said, relieved that they wouldn't be playing for cash. He watched Hank write in the book that he and Alva Paine had shared for twenty-one years. Charlie thought he saw Hank sigh when he looked at the last page and wrote Charlie's name in place of Alva's at the top of the column. “You two played a lot of games, huh, Hank?”

“Lot of games,” Hank said softly.

*   *   *

T
HAT NIGHT, CHARLIE
called Ellen at the house in Warren, Vermont. Ellen and Linda Marchetti were making dinner for some people from the tennis tournament. Charlie could hear loud voices and sporadic laughter in the background. “Darling, how's everything in Virginia?” Ellen asked grandly, as if for the benefit of her guests. As always, she sounded full of life and in command.

“West Virginia. Red Bone, West Virginia,” he corrected. He told her about the drive down, the apartment, and shopping for boots. “They have a Barney's here,” he said.

“Oh, that's wonderful. You'll have somewhere to shop, then.” She and Linda were playing in the finals of the tennis tournament the next morning, then driving down to Manchester for some outlet shopping and staying over at the Equinox. “You'll be up for Columbus Day weekend, darling? The foliage is going to be fabulous this year. And I've made the reservations in Aspen for Christmas.” Ellen enjoyed playing for the crowd. Charlie visualized her waving a wineglass like an orchestra conductor's baton, head tilted back to air out her words.

“That's fine, Ellen. Shouldn't be a problem,” said Charlie. He wished her luck in the tournament, and Ellen said something in reply that Charlie didn't catch but brought a laugh from her dinner guests. Then she clicked off.

 

CHAPTER 11

 

E
ighteen thousand feet over central Pennsylvania, a silver-and-black Gulfstream V flashed across the evening sky, heading for Toronto's Lester Pearson International Airport. Alone in the luxuriously appointed cabin, Jack Torkelson sat in one of the four beige leather captain's chairs. To his right was a communications console with two telephones and a fax machine. Torkelson sipped a mineral water and studied the rows of figures on the computer while he waited for the conference call to begin.

After a weekend at home in Georgetown, Torkelson was headed for his biweekly meeting with upper management, before heading back to the Washington office on Wednesday. Torkelson disliked having to spend time at the Toronto headquarters. He found dealing with the bright-eyed, simple-minded Canadians tedious at best and the time he spent north of the border an inefficient use of his time. He needed to be in Washington, the vortex of the global energy industry, not in the OntAmex boardroom, facing the overachieving Duncan McCord and his chief lieutenant, the roughneck Red Landon.

The phone buzzed softly, and Torkelson waited for the others to come on the line. Larry Tuthill joined first, from his hotel in Chicago, then Vernon Yarbrough, the lawyer, from his home in Charleston, and finally, from his apartment in Bluefield, West Virginia, Terry Summers of Dietrich Delahunt & Mackey. After the obligatory salutations, Torkelson got down to business. “So, Mr. Yarbrough, how did your meeting go with the judge?”

“Couldn't have been better. He'll make his ruling in November, and we'll have our variance for Redemption Mountain within a week. All according to plan—as long as Ackerly Coal has a deed for that pig farm. But, if DeWitt hasn't sold out by mid-November, the whole thing is off. The judge isn't going to make this an open-ended deal.”

Larry Tuthill broke in. “Now tell Jack the good news, Vernon.”

“What news?” Torkelson asked quickly.

The others could hear the tinkle of ice in Vernon Yarbrough's cocktail glass before he spoke. “Well, Jack, seems that we've got ourselves some leverage now. Should make that old pig farmer a little more receptive with regards to the magnanimous nature of our offer.”

“What leverage?” Torkelson asked quietly, trying to hide his impatience. He held Southerners in about the same regard as he did Canadians, and Southern lawyers, with their sham degrees from country-club law schools like Vanderbilt and Duke, were barely tolerable.

The lawyer had a smile in his voice. “Now, Jack, what would you say if I told you that we've established firsthand that our favorite pig farmer, or more likely his grown son—Petey, they call him—has about half an acre of commercial grade, SWAT-team-ready, early-news-quality cannabis plants growing smack in the middle of his cornfield?”

Larry Tuthill laughed. He enjoyed Yarbrough's facility with words.

The lawyer continued. “
And
that son Petey, during his early adulthood, did a yearlong stretch at one of our fine penal institutions for a previous felony, which would be child's play compared to the time he'd face for a second offense of this magnitude—
if,
that is, someone were to bring the illicit herb garden to the attention of our county and state law-enforcement agencies.”

Jack Torkelson couldn't suppress a wide smile. Finally they had the advantage over that unreasonable pig farmer who didn't care about money. This was better than money. This was family. “They're growing pot? In the cornfield?” He was genuinely amused.

“Yessir, and a nice healthy crop it is, too,” Yarbrough responded. “Getting plenty of good sunshine up on that mountain.”

“All right, that's good. But we don't use it unless we have to,” said Torkelson.

“My thoughts exactly,” replied Yarbrough. “Our judge is going to want to see that the farmer got a nice payday, so he can feel good about the whole thing. But now we got a mulligan to use if we need it.”

“Good,” said Torkelson. “Now, what about our cooling-pond problem?”

“We've got a date before the town planning board the third week in September,” said Yarbrough. “We'll put together a first-rate presentation, plus we'll have representation from the governor's office, couple of state senators, and probably some county politicians, too.”

“Don't worry, Jack, we'll get that done,” added Larry Tuthill.

“Don't screw it up,” Torkelson responded calmly. “Then take care of the pig farmer. Larry, keep me informed. Good night, gentlemen.”