Gray Mountain (46 page)

She had a room upstairs. Marshall had a car with a driver, and he offered Karen a ride home. When they said good-bye in the hotel lobby, Samantha had tears in her eyes as she watched her parents leave together.

F
ollowing instructions, she parked on Church Street in downtown Lynchburg, Virginia, and walked two blocks to Main. Midday traffic was heavy in the old section of town. The James River could be seen in the distance. She was certain someone was watching and she hoped it was Jeff. The reservation at the RA Bistro was in her name, again, pursuant to instructions. She asked the hostess for a booth in the rear, and that’s where she sat at exactly noon, Wednesday, January 14. She ordered a soft drink and began fiddling with her cell phone. She also kept an eye on the door as the lunch crowd slowly drifted in. Ten minutes later, Jeff appeared from nowhere and sat across from her. They exchanged hellos. She asked, “Was I followed?”

“That’s always the assumption, right? How was Washington?”

“I had a delightful dinner with my parents, for the first time in modern history. In fact, I cannot remember the last time the three of us ate a meal together. Pretty sad, don’t you think?”

“At least you have both parents. Did you tell your mother about the FBI raid?”

“I did, and I asked her to make a call or two. She will, but she’s not too sure what will happen.”

“How’s Marshall?”

“Swell, thanks, he sends his regards. I have a couple of questions
for you. Did you call the office on Monday and warn us about the FBI raid?”

Jeff smiled and looked away, and it was one of those moments when she wanted to scream at him. She knew he would not answer the question. “Okay,” she said. “Have you heard the news about Buddy Ryzer?”

He frowned and said, “Yes. Just awful. Another casualty in the coal wars. Too bad we can’t find a lawyer willing to take on Lonerock Coal and the boys at Casper Slate.”

“Was that a shot at me?”

“No, it was not.”

A friendly waiter stopped by, went through the daily specials, and disappeared.

“Third question,” Samantha said.

“Why am I getting grilled? I had in mind a pleasant little lunch a long way from the boredom of Brady. You seem pretty edgy.”

“How many of the documents have you removed from Gray Mountain? We were there last weekend. I woke up at 4:40 a.m. Sunday and you were gone. I freaked out for a minute. You sneaked back in around five, got all cuddly as if nothing had happened. I saw the backpacks, all three of them. You kept moving them around, and they were noticeably heavier when we left. Level with me, Jeff. I know too much.”

He took a deep breath, glanced around, cracked a few knuckles, and said, “About a third, and I need to get the rest of them.”

“Where are you taking them?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s say they’re well hidden. Jarrett London needs the documents, all of them, as soon as possible. He’ll tender them to the court and at that point they’ll be safe. I need your assistance in getting them away from Gray Mountain.”

“I know, Jeff, I know. I’m not stupid. You need me for cover, a chick who’ll put out by the fire during long romantic weekends on the property. A girl, any girl will do, so that the bad guys will
figure we’re just kayaking and grilling on the porch, a couple of lovebirds screwing away the long winter nights while you sneak through the woods with the files.”

He smiled and said, “Pretty close, but not just any girl will do, you know? You were carefully chosen.”

“I’m so honored.”

“If you’ll help me, we can get them out this weekend and be done with it.”

“I’m not touching the documents, Jeff.”

“You don’t have to. Just be the girl. They know who you are. They’re watching you too. They picked up your trail three months ago when you came to town and started hanging around with Donovan.”

The salads arrived and Jeff asked for a beer. After several bites, he said, “Please, Samantha, I need your help.”

“I’m not sure I follow you. Why can’t you just sneak onto the property tonight, or tomorrow night, all by yourself, get the documents, load them up, and take them to Jarrett London’s office in Louisville? Why would that be so complicated?”

Another roll of the eyes, another glance at nearby eavesdroppers, another bite of salad. “Here’s why. It’s too risky. They’re always watching, okay?”

“Right now, they’re watching you?”

He rubbed his chin and pondered the question. “They probably know I’m somewhere in Lynchburg, Virginia. Maybe not exactly where, but they keep track. Remember, Samantha, they have all the money in the world and they make their own rules. They figure I’m the link to the documents. They can’t find them anywhere else, so if it costs a fortune to track me, no big deal.” The beer arrived and he took a sip. “If I go to Gray Mountain on the weekends with you, they’re not suspicious, and why should they be? Two thirty-year-olds in a cabin deep in the woods, just having a little romance, as you say. I’m sure they’re close by, but it makes sense that we’re there. On the other hand, if I were to go there alone, their radar goes way up. They might provoke an encounter, something ugly so they could see what I’m doing. You never know.
It’s a chess match, Samantha, they’re trying to predict what I’ll do, and I’m trying to stay one step ahead of them. I have the advantage of knowing my next move. They have the advantage of unlimited muscle. If either side makes a mistake, someone will get hurt.” He took another sip and glanced at a couple reading menus ten feet away. “And, I gotta tell you. I’m tired. I’m really tired, exhausted, running on fumes, you know? I need to get rid of the documents before I do something stupid because of fatigue.”

“What are you driving right now?”

“A Volkswagen Beetle, from Casey’s Rent-A-Wreck in Roanoke. Forty bucks cash per day, plus gas and mileage. Really cute.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “Do they know I’m here?”

“I don’t know what they know, but I am assuming they’re tracking you. And they’ll continue to monitor both of us until the documents are turned over. I don’t know this for a fact, but I would bet all the money I have.”

“I find this hard to believe.”

“Don’t be naive, Samantha. There’s too much at stake.”

W
hen she walked into her office at 5:20 that afternoon, her computer was sitting on her desk, precisely where it had been before the FBI took it on Monday. The keyboard and printer were in place; all wires running where they were supposed to run. As she stared at it Mattie walked to her door and said, “Surprise, surprise, huh?”

“When did this find its way back?”

“About an hour ago. One of the agents brought it over. Guess they realized there was nothing on it.”

That, or Karen Kofer had far more friends than she would admit to. Samantha wanted to call her mother, but in her current state of paranoia she decided to wait.

“The Ryzer funeral is Friday afternoon,” Mattie said. “You want to ride with me?”

“Sure. Thanks, Mattie.”

M
attie predicted a full house, and she was right. During the drive to Madison, she tried to explain why rural funerals, especially those of dedicated churchgoers, draw such big crowds. In no particular order of importance, her reasons were (1) funerals are important religious services, as the living say good-bye to the departed, who by then are already in heaven reaping rewards; (2) there is an old and unshakable tradition that proper and well-raised people pay their respects to the family; (3) country folks are usually bored and looking for something to do; (4) everyone wants a crowd at his or her funeral, so you’d better play the game while you can; (5) there is always plenty of food. And so on. Mattie explained that a shocking death like Buddy’s was guaranteed to draw a crowd. People want to play a role in the tragedy. They also want the gossip. She also attempted to explain the conflicting theologies behind suicide. Many Christians consider it an unpardonable sin. Others believe no sin is unpardonable. It would be interesting to see how the preacher handled the issue. When they buried her sister Rose, Jeff’s mother, her suicide was never mentioned. And why should it have been? There was enough anguish without it. Everybody knew she’d killed herself.

They arrived at the Cedar Grove Missionary Baptist Church half an hour early and barely got in the door. An usher made room for them on the third pew from the rear. Within minutes all seats were taken and people began lining the walls. Through a window, Samantha could see the latecomers being directed to the fellowship hall, the same place she’d met with Buddy and Mavis after Donovan’s death. When the organ started, the crowd grew still and expectant. At ten after four, the choir filed in behind the pulpit, and the preacher took his position. There was a commotion at the door. He raised his hands and said, “All rise.”

The pallbearers rolled the casket down the aisle, slowly, so everyone could have a look. Thankfully, it was closed. Mattie said it would be, on account of the wound and all. Behind it, Mavis was supported by her son, the oldest, and they moved along in an
anguished shuffle. They were followed by the two girls, Hope, age fourteen, and Keely, age thirteen. Through the mysteries of adolescence, Hope, who was only ten months older, was at least a foot taller than Keely. Both were sobbing as they suffered through this painful ritual.

Mattie had tried to explain that much of what they were about to see was designed to maximize the drama and grief. It would be Buddy’s last hurrah, and they would milk it for all the emotion possible.

The rest of the family ambled by in loose formation—brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts, and uncles. The first two rows on both sides of the aisle were reserved for family, and by the time they took their seats the organ was blaring at full volume, the choir was humming loudly, and folks were breaking down all over the church.

The service was a one-hour marathon, and when it was over no tears were left un-shed. All emotions were expended. The mourners had given their all. Samantha was dry-eyed but drained nonetheless. She could not recall the last time she wanted so badly to run from a building. She walked, however, with the rest of the crowd to the cemetery behind the church where Buddy was laid to rest amidst lengthy prayers and a tear-jerking rendition of “How Great Thou Art.” The solo baritone was a cappella, and profoundly moving. Samantha was stunned by it and finally had to wipe a tear.

In keeping with tradition, the family remained in their chairs next to the grave as everyone proceeded by for a comforting word or two. The line wrapped around the burial tent and moved slowly. Mattie said it was best if they did not sneak away. So they inched forward, in single file with hundreds of complete strangers, waiting to squeeze the hands of Mavis and the kids, who had been sobbing now for hours.

“What am I supposed to say?” Samantha whispered to Mattie as they approached the grave.

“Just say, ‘God bless you,’ or something like that, and keep moving.” Samantha said this to the kids first, but when Mavis looked up and saw her she wailed anew and lunged for her in bear-hug fashion.

“This is our lawyer, kids, Miss Samantha, the one I told you about,” Mavis said with far too much volume. But the kids were too numb to care. They wanted to leave more than Samantha. Mavis said, “Please stay and have some supper. We’ll catch up later.”

“Sure,” Samantha said because there was nothing else to say. As she was released from the hug and scooted away from the tent, Mavis let loose with another shriek.

Supper was a “Baptist potluck,” as Mattie called it, in the fellowship hall. Long tables were covered with casseroles and desserts, and the crowd seemed to grow even bigger as two buffet lines started. Samantha had no appetite and couldn’t believe she was still there. She watched the horde attack the food and observed, to herself, that most could afford to skip a meal or two. Mattie brought her iced tea in a plastic cup, and they schemed ways to make a respectful departure. But Mavis had seen them, and they had promised to stay.