Gray Mountain (34 page)

“So either way, it’s dead?” Buddy asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’m not quitting. I’ll not sign it.”

Mavis blurted, “Why don’t you take the case? You’re a lawyer.” Both eyed her intently, and it was obvious the question had been kicked around at length.

This, Samantha had anticipated. She replied, “Yes, but I am not experienced in federal court and I’m not licensed in Kentucky.” They absorbed this without comment, and without really understanding it. A lawyer is a lawyer, right?

Mavis shifted gears with “Now, on this black lung claim, you said you were gonna calculate all the back benefits we’re entitled to. And you said that if we win the case, we get to go back to the day we first filed the claim, some nine years ago. Is that right?”

“That’s correct,” Samantha said, shuffling for some notes. “And according to our numbers, it’s about $85,000.”

“That’s not much money,” Buddy said in disgust, as if the paltry sum could be blamed on Samantha. He drew in mightily and continued, “They ought to pay more, a helluva lot more after what
they done. I should’ve quit working in the mines ten years ago when I got sick, and I would have if I’d had the benefits. But no, hell no, I had to keep working and keep breathing the dust.”

“Just got sicker and sicker,” Mavis added gravely.

“Now I won’t be able to work another year, two at max. And if we ever get ’em in court they’ll be liable for almost nothing. It ain’t right.”

“I agree,” Samantha said. “But we’ve had this conversation, Buddy, and more than once.”

“That’s why I want to sue them bastards in federal court.”

“Your language, Buddy,”

“I’ll cuss if I want to, dammit Mavis.”

“Look, I need to be going,” Samantha said, reaching for her briefcase. “I wish you would reconsider your decision not to sign this dismissal.”

“I’m not quitting,” Buddy said, gasping.

“Fine, but I’m not driving over here again for this. Understood?”

He just nodded. Mavis walked out with her, leaving Buddy behind for a few moments. At the car, Mavis said, “Thank you so much, Samantha. We are grateful. We went years without a lawyer, and now it’s comforting to know we have one. He’s dying and he knows it, so he has some bad days when he’s not too pleasant.”

“I understand.”

A
t the ancient Conoco station, Samantha stopped for gas and, hopefully, a drinkable cup of coffee. A few vehicles were parked to the side of the building, all with West Virginia license plates, and none of which she recognized. Jeff had told her to be more aware, to watch every car and truck, notice every license plate, look at faces without staring, and listen to voices while appearing uninterested. Assume someone is always watching, he had warned, but she found it difficult to accept.

“They believe we have something they desperately want,” he had said. The “we” part still troubled her. She didn’t recall joining
anyone’s team. As she stared at the pump, she saw a man enter the store, though she had not noticed another vehicle arrive in the past few minutes.

Bozo was back. She paid with a credit card at the pump and could have sped away, but she needed confirmation. She entered through the front door and said good morning to the clerk at the register. Several old men were sitting in rockers around a potbellied stove and none seemed to notice her. A few more steps and she was in the tiny café, which was nothing but a cheap add-on with a dozen tables adorned with checkered cloth. Five people were eating, sipping coffee, and talking.

He was seated at the counter, staring at the grill, where a cook was frying bacon. She couldn’t see his face and didn’t want a scene, and for a second she stood awkwardly in the middle of the café, uncertain. She caught a glance or two and decided to leave. She drove back into Madison and stopped at a convenience store where she bought a road map. Her leased Ford had a GPS but she had not bothered to program it. She needed directions fast.

Half an hour later, as she drifted along a county road somewhere in Lawrence County, Kentucky, her new cell phone finally found enough service for a call. Jeff answered after four rings. She calmly explained what was happening, and he made her repeat everything in slow motion.

“He wanted you to see him,” Jeff said. “Why else would he risk being seen? It’s not an unusual tactic. He knows you’re not going to punch him or anything, so he just delivers a not so subtle message.”

“Which is?”

“We’re watching. We can always find you. You’re hanging around with the wrong people and you might get hurt.”

“Okay, I got the message. Now what?”

“Nothing. Just keep your eyes open and see if he’s waiting when you get back to Brady.”

“I don’t want to go back to Brady.”

“Sorry.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m on the road for a few days.”

“Vague enough.”

She drove into Brady just before noon and saw no one suspicious. She parked on the street near the office, and from behind her sunglasses managed to scan the area before going inside. On the one hand, she felt like an idiot; on the other, she half expected to see Bozo lurking behind a tree. And what the hell was he going to do? Stalking her would bore any private eye to death.

The Crump brood was calling. Evidently, Francine had told one of them that she had changed her mind again and planned to meet with Ms. Kofer and make no changes to her existing will. This, of course, fired up the Crumps, and they were burning up the phone lines in an effort to find Ms. Kofer and set her straight, again. No one at the clinic had heard from Francine. Samantha reluctantly took the stack of phone messages from Barb, who offered the unsolicited suggestion that she should call only one, perhaps Jonah, the oldest, and explain that their dear mother had not called the clinic, and insist that they stop harassing the front desk.

She closed her door and called Jonah. He said hello pleasantly enough, then immediately threatened to sue her and get her disbarred if she again messed with “Momma’s will.” She said she hadn’t seen nor heard from Francine in the past twenty-four hours. She had no appointment scheduled with her. Nothing. This calmed him a little, though he was ready to erupt any second.

She said, “Could it be possible that your mother is playing games with you?”

“Momma don’t think like that,” he said.

She politely asked him to call off the dogs, to ask his siblings to stop calling the clinic. He refused, and they finally brokered a deal: if Francine came to the office seeking legal advice, Samantha would ask her to call Jonah and inform him of what she was doing.

She quickly hung up, and two seconds later Barb buzzed her. “It’s the FBI,” she said.

The caller identified himself as Agent Banahan, from the Roanoke office, and said he was looking for a man named Jeff Gray. Samantha admitted to knowing Jeff Gray, and asked the agent how
she might go about confirming his identity. Banahan said he would be happy to stop by her office in half an hour or so; he was in the area. She said she would not discuss anything over the phone and agreed to the meeting. Twenty minutes later, he was in the reception area being examined by Barb, who thought he was quite cute and thought of herself as quite the flirt. Banahan was not impressed and took a seat in the small conference room where Samantha and Mattie were waiting with a recorder on the table.

After terse introductions, and a close examination of his credentials by both lawyers, Mattie began by saying, “Jeff Gray is my nephew.”

“We know that,” Banahan said with a smirk, and the women instantly disliked him. “Do you know where he is?”

Mattie looked at Samantha and said, “I don’t. Do you?”

“No.” She wasn’t lying; at that moment she had no idea where Jeff was hiding.

“When did you last speak to him?” he asked, in Samantha’s direction.

Mattie interrupted by saying, “Look, his brother was killed Monday of last week; we buried him on Wednesday, five days before you boys raided his office. Under the terms of his will, Jeff is the executor and I’m the attorney for the executor. So, yes, I’ll be talking a lot to my nephew. What is it you want?”

“We have a lot of questions.”

“Do you have a warrant for his arrest?”

“No.”

“Good, so he is not evading an arrest.”

“That’s right. We just want to talk.”

“Any and all conversations with Jeff Gray will take place right here, at this table. Understood? I will advise him to say nothing outside the presence of Ms. Kofer and me, okay?”

“That’s fine, Ms. Wyatt, so when can we chat with him?”

Mattie relaxed and said, “Well, I’m not sure where he is today. I just tried his cell and it went straight to voice mail.” Samantha shook her head as if she hadn’t spoken to Jeff in weeks. Mattie continued, “We were scheduled to go to court tomorrow to open the
estate and start the process of probate, but the judge rescheduled it until next week. So, I don’t know where he is at this moment.”

Samantha asked, “Is this related to the actions the FBI took yesterday when it confiscated files from the office of Donovan Gray?”

Banahan showed her both palms and said, “Isn’t that pretty obvious?”

“Seems like it is. Who are you investigating, now that Donovan Gray is dead?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Mattie asked, “Is Jeff a subject of your investigation?”

“No, not at this time.”

“He’s done nothing wrong,” Mattie said.

T
he damage was inflicted at the Millard Break Mine near Wittsburg, Kentucky, in an attack similar to the others. Firing from a position on the east face of Trace Mountain, a densely wooded ridge five hundred feet above the strip mine, the snipers found their range from about seven hundred yards and had a grand time taking out forty-seven tires, each weighing nine hundred pounds and costing $18,000. The two night watchmen, both heavily armed themselves, told authorities the attack lasted about ten minutes and at times sounded like a war as sniper rifles snapped and echoed across the valley and tires exploded nearby. The first volley hit at 3:05 a.m. All mining machinery was idle; all operators safely at home. One security guard jumped into a truck for some idea of pursuit—he wasn’t sure exactly where he might be headed—but was soon dissuaded when the pickup took fire and had two of its tires blown off. The other security guard ducked into an office trailer to call the law, but was forced to take cover when a burst of gunfire blew out all the windows. These were significant events because they directly endangered human life. In the other attacks, the snipers had been careful not to hurt anyone. They went after machinery, not people. Now, though, they were breaking serious laws. The guards thought there were at least three rifles in play, though, admittedly, it was difficult to tell in the chaos.

The owner, Krull Mining, made the usual harsh and threatening
statements to the press. It offered an impressive reward. The county sheriff promised a thorough investigation and swift arrests, some rather blustery and shortsighted comments in light of the fact that “these ecoterrorists” had been marauding through southern Appalachia with impunity for the better part of two years now.

The news story went on to recap recent attacks and speculated that the snipers had used the same weaponry as before—the 51-millimeter cartridge that’s normally fired from the M24E long-range rifle, the same one army snipers were using in Iraq and routinely scoring kills at over one thousand yards. An expert was quoted as saying that using such a rifle from such a distance, and in the dead of night with easily available optic technology, would make it virtually impossible to track down the snipers.

Krull Mining said there was a tight market for tires, a shortage in some places, and the mine could be closed for several days.

Samantha read the story on her laptop as she sipped coffee Friday morning at the office. She had a sick feeling that Jeff was involved with the gang, if not its leader. Almost two weeks after the death of his brother, he needed to make a statement, to lash out in his own brand of retribution, and strike a blow at Krull Mining. If her hunch was accurate, it was just another reason to pack her bags. She e-mailed the story to Mattie down the hall, then walked into her office and said, “To be perfectly honest, I think Jeff is involved in this.”

Mattie responded with a fake laugh at such foolishness. She said, “Samantha, this is the first Friday in December, the day we decorate the office, along with everybody else in Brady. It’s the first day I’ve managed to feel good and actually smile since Donovan died. I don’t want to ruin the day by worrying about what Jeff is up to. Have you talked to him?”

“No, why should I? We’re not involved, as you like to say. He doesn’t check in with me.”

“Good, let’s forget about Jeff for a little while and try to muster up some Christmas cheer.”

Barb cranked up the radio and soon carols were ringing throughout the offices. She was in charge of the tree, a sad little
plastic reproduction they kept in a broom closet the rest of the year, but by the time they strung up lights and hung ornaments it was showing signs of life. Annette placed ivy and mistletoe all over the front porch and tacked a wreath to the door. They hauled in food, and lunch was a leisurely affair in the conference room, with Chester supplying a beef stew from a Crock-Pot. All work was forgotten; all clients ignored. The phone seldom rang, as if the rest of the county was also busy getting in the spirit. After lunch, Samantha went to the courthouse, and along the way noticed that every shop and office was being decorated. A city crew was busy hanging silver bells on light posts above the streets. Another was anchoring a large, freshly cut fir in the park next to the courthouse. Christmas was suddenly in the air and the entire town was catching the spirit.

At dark, all of Brady arrived and throngs of people clogged the sidewalks along Main Street, drifting from store to store, picking up hot cider and gingerbread cookies as they went. Traffic was blocked from the street and children waited excitedly for the parade. It materialized around seven, when sirens could be heard in the distance. The crowd pressed closer and lined Main. Samantha watched with Kim, Adam, and Annette. The sheriff led the procession, his brown-and-white patrol car gleaming with fresh polish. His entire fleet followed. Samantha wondered if ole Romey might sneak into the action, but there was no sign of him. The high school band marched by with a rather weak rendition of “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” It was a small band from a small high school.