Cobra Strike (9 page)

“R-right.”

As Waymen's footsteps faded, the man began talking again.

“It's simple, boy. You can have it all, or you can lose it all.”

I didn't understand.

“It's great isn't it,” he said, “playing football with the famous Whalin' Waymen Whitley. You and him, you're such a good team, you got a shot at the state championship. It's getting you noticed by university scouts. Once you get recruited, you'll get good coaching. Who knows, boy, maybe it'll get you a shot at the pros, and you can bring down a couple of million a year. And all of it is getting started because of Whalin' Waymen. Without him, this team is nothing.”

I still didn't understand.

“Think back, boy. When was it that Whalin' showed up? Wasn't it just after you took those jars of water to the county office?”

I thought about it. He was right.

“See, the people you're buckin' against, they ain't dumb. Soon's the health inspector recognized what was in the water and called
them, they went out and hired Waymen's old man.”

“Wh-hat w-was in the w-water?” I had my own guess. In the last few days, I had been doing some research. About industrial pollution. I'd discovered that some chemicals are hard to break down safely and are very expensive to treat. So unethical companies sometimes dump the chemicals illegally. And the illegal chemicals sometimes leaked, poisoning the environment. If the Johns Corporation was threatening me and Gram, we must have guessed right. There must be something in that mine shaft near Gram's water supply.

“You ain't listening to me, boy. They offered Way men's old ma n so much money he was willing to move his family immediately. And they did it for one simple reason: You.”

“M-me?”

“To make you happy, boy. Folks in this town know how good you are. For two years now, they been saying what a shame it is there weren't no quarterback good enough to make
you shine. Now you got your quarterback. That is, if you behave.”

What had Waymen said? His dad was getting triple his old salary? Could what this man was saying be true?

“Here's the other side of the coin, boy. If you don't behave, your gramma gets hurt and Waymen's old man gets fired. You lose your quarterback and your shot at getting scouted, not to mention the pros. In other words, drop what you're doing, and life will be just fine. Got it?”

“L-let me g-get this straight,” I said a few seconds later. “The J-johns C-corporation is trying to h-hide s-something. If I l-let it d-drop—”

“I didn't say the Johns Corporation.”

“You s-said whoever's b-behind this hired Waymen's f-father. Th-that's who he w-works for.”

“Boy, right this moment you are doing precisely what I'm saying you should stop doing—looking for answers. All I'm going to tell you is that you're a fool to go up against them. This is a backwoods county lost in
the mountains. Nobody outside cares what happens here. The Johns Corporation owns this county and has for the last seventy years. Sheriff, newspaper, everybody. Don't mess with them. Got it?”

He didn't wait for my answer.

He opened the door and climbed out. After he slammed the door shut, he leaned down and looked at me through the window one final time.

“Just remember, boy. You can have it all or lose it all. Your gramma? I know where she sleeps. And I love any excuse to watch a good fire burn.”

Then he was gone.

“Cat got your tongue?” Waymen asked me. “You haven't said a word since you got here.”

We were in Al's Ice Cream Parlor. For the last ten minutes, kids and adults had walked past our table, slapping us on the back, telling us how great we'd played.

“A t-t-tiny m-mean c-cat,” I said, “k-keeps shaking my t-t-tongue and m-m-makes m-me t-talk funny.”

Waymen grabbed his chest like he was having a heart attack. “What?! You made a joke!”

I couldn't help but grin. I had told a joke, one about my stuttering. Not that I'd tell Waymen, but he was great to hang with. He did what friends should do. He made me feel good.

I grabbed my chocolate milkshake and slurped hard, dropping my head so Waymen couldn't see my eyes. I didn't want him to read my thoughts.

Here I was, enjoying his friendship, and I had to make a decision that could get his dad fired. And I knew how much this new job meant to his family.

It seemed like it would be much easier just to listen to the guy in the black cap and drop this whole water thing. Then Gram wouldn't get hurt. And Waymen's family wouldn't get hurt. Not only that, I'd probably be able to go to college on a scholarship.

I felt rotten.

And Gram's words—about how much a person's soul was worth—kept haunting me.

She and I have talked a lot about things like that. Gram has no trouble understanding that people have souls to go along with their bodies and minds. She says something that's as invisible but as strong as love is good enough proof for her. Love is clearly something bigger than body and mind; it not only comes from the soul but also fills the soul. She says a lot of people try to fill their empty souls by chasing money or drugs or a whole lot of other things that leave them emptier than when they started. And all they need is love. She says once they understand they have souls, then they have to ask why, and what their souls were meant to do. Those were the questions that made life worth living no matter how tough the situation.

I slurped more of my milkshake, trying to think through my situation.

I knew I couldn't just quit on the water thing. It would bother me the rest of my life. No matter how much money I made thanks to a degree or pro football, I would always know deep inside that I had gotten it the wrong way. And that would cost me my soul.

I lifted my eyes and looked at Waymen. He grinned back.

“W-would you ever t-t-take the easy w-w-way out if it m-meant doing the wr-wrong th-thing?”

He thought for a few moments, hearing the seriousness in my voice.

“I hope I wouldn't,” he finally said. “Mom and Dad have always taught me that the Bible is something to live by—not just something to read on Sundays. But sometimes doing the right thing might be real hard. You asking for a reason?”

“M-maybe,” I said.

“If you need help,” he said, “whatever it is, I'll back you. All you need to do is say the word.”

I had to look away. I knew he meant what he said. A guy couldn't ask for more in a friend.

“I n-need help,” I said when I looked back at him.

“You got it,” he said.

I was beginning to have an idea.

“L-let me t-tell you what's b-been happening,” I said. “And l-let me t-tell you about our secret w-weapon.”

Because he wanted to help, Waymen joined me and Gram after dark the next night, high in the backwoods hills.

“Spooky,” Waymen said. He shivered in his heavy sweater.

He was right, of course. It was a totally black night. Clouds had moved in, covering the tops of the hills with fog and blocking the moon and stars.

I had parked my truck at the end of a narrow dirt road. I'd left the engine running
and the headlights on. The lights cut through wisps of fog, making it look like angels were slowly dancing around us.

Gram was in the truck, waiting in the warmth of the cab.

“S-spooky,” I agreed. “J-j-ust be g-glad we're h-here with Gram's kin.”

Waymen quickly nodded. I think he was still rattled from meeting the two cousins of Gram's long-dead husband.

They were hill people and not fond of having strangers in their midst. They were almost Gram's age and had stopped going to school after sixth grade, which was not to say they were dumb. They just weren't schooled. They could track a squirrel across flat rock and read a man's thoughts by looking at his face. And they were tough. Real tough. The kind of tough that comes from working in a coal mine ten hours a day, six days a week, every week of the year.

And that's where they were right now.

Down a coal mine shaft. One that had not been mined for years.

After a half hour of waiting, Waymen had gotten pretty edgy.

Owls hooted from the darkness beyond the truck's headlights. Trees cast shadows like deformed giants. And little animals rustled in the bushes. I had spent so many summers in these hills, for me, it was like enjoying a night out in my backyard.

“Did I tell you how angry my dad was when I told him about what they tried to do to you?” Waymen asked.

“About a d-dozen times,” I said, grinning. “L-like m-maybe you n-need to h-hear your own v-voice.”

“Maybe I do,” he said. “I'm a city boy, remember.”

A second later an owl hooted.

“Did I say this is spooky?” he asked.

“F-four times.”

“And what if someone from the Johns Corporation shows up? What if the guy in the black car followed us and—”

Two figures suddenly appeared in the headlights, walking toward us through the fog.

“Good guys, right?” Waymen said. “Please tell me they're the good guys.”

“D-don't w-wet your pants,” I said. “Th-they're c-coming from the m-mine.”

“Maybe they got your gram's cousins and are coming to get us,” he answered in a low voice. “I saw this movie once where the good guys turned out to be the bad guys. And we're twenty miles from the nearest town...”

As they got closer, I saw that one man held a video camera in one hand and a jar in the other. The jar sloshed with a clear liquid.

“G-good g-guys,” I said. “W-with g-good news.”

“Roy,” the first man called out as he moved far enough into the light for us to see his bearded face. He was Gram's cousin Stewart. “You wuz right. There wuz hundreds of barrels down at the bottom. A bunch leaked all over. You could see stains where something got on the floor of the shaft.”

“I cain't read much,” Clem, the other cousin, said. Not only did they both have long beards streaked with gray, they both
wore greasy ball caps, dark flannel shirts and denim overalls. “But I can cipher enough to git by. I done scratched down on a piece of paper the name on the barrels.”

He held up the jar. “And I got some of it from a barrel what hadn't spilled.”

“Y-you d-didn't touch the s-s-stuff,” I said.

“No sirree,” he said as he showed me his gloves. “From what you told us earlier, I'd just as soon grab a rattlesnake.”

He handed me the jar and the video camera. “You'd be right proud of me, Roy,” Clem said. “I was able to point and shoot just like you showed me. Stewart lit it all good with his flashlight, and it weren't no problem putting all them barrels into this here camera. ‘Course, there's a couple of places where Stewart's doing a little jig dance, just cause he ain't ever been on television.”

“Hope you don't mind,” Stewart said, looking down and scuffing his foot. Old as he was, the shyness made him almost cute, in spite of the shotgun he carried.

“Y-you g-g-ot everything we n-needed,” I said. “Th-thanks.”

“‘T'weren't nothing,” Clem said. “The both of you, just keep making us proud with your football playing.”

“Yes, sir,” Waymen said.

There was one last thing I had to ask Stewart and Clem.

“W-would it be all right if G-gram stayed with you for a f-few d-days?” I said. I told them about the weasel-faced man. “N-no s-sense taking ch-chances.”

“Be a pleasure,” Clem said. “If that feller in the black car shows up looking for trouble, he'll get plenty.”

I had felt at home wearing blue jeans and a sweater, waiting in the woods late at night.

But the next afternoon, I did not feel at home in a suit and tie, waiting in a plush room deep in the Johns Corporation building.

I looked around the conference room where presentations were given to employees. At one end of the room a television sat on a stand, hooked up to a
VCR
. A large oval table filled the center of the room. Rolling chairs
with deep cushions lined the table. On the walls, there were large oil paintings of ships at sea. The thick carpet made the room feel hushed.

The only thing that calmed my nerves was the fact that Waymen and his dad were beside me.

Mr. Whitley was as tall and lean as Waymen. You could tell by their faces they were father and son. Mr. Whitley's hair, though thinner and shorter than Waymen's, was the same color. Laugh lines etched the corners of Mr. Whitley's mouth and eyes, showing what Waymen would look like in twenty years. They, too, wore dark suits.

“I'm n-n-nervous,” I told Waymen as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and back again. “Wh-hat if h-he shows up with l-lawyers or s-something?”

“Relax, country boy,” Waymen said. “Besides, I've seen you on the football field. You could outrun any army he brings.”

We had been waiting fifteen minutes. I would have been happier in a spooky fog at the end of a dirt road. We were waiting
for the president of the Johns Corporation. I had only seen him in newspaper photos, generally when he'd written a check to some local charity. Not that writing checks hurt him. He had millions of dollars. Not only that, his family had controlled this county for years and years, long before I had been born. What was I doing here?

“D-did I t-tell you how mad Gram was wh-when I m-made her s-stay with her c-c-cousins?”

Waymen grinned. “About a dozen times. Like maybe you need to hear the sound of your own voice.”

“V-v-very f-funny,” I said.

Before Waymen could say anything else, the door opened.

Albert Wayne Johns III walked into the room. Alone.

I recognized him from the newspaper photos, but I had expected him to be bigger. He had surprisingly narrow shoulders. He wore a perfectly pressed suit, with his hair slicked back to complete the tailored look. His gold-rimmed glasses reflected the light
as he entered, and he smelled faintly of aftershave.