Higher Mythology (23 page)

“Well, Miss Collier, you’ve got to answer to your own conscience for that. I understand there’s a business run off this farm?”

“Why, yes, but that’s not illegal, is it?” Marcy asked.

“No, ma’am. This property is zoned for certain commercial operations. Are you involved in this business?”

Marcy could hear whispering from the Folk conferring in the kitchen. Maura was there, too, with Asrai. She prayed the baby wouldn’t cry. It would be impossible to ignore Asrai’s air-raid siren voice, and she didn’t want the officer thinking she was concealing an illegitimate baby, as well. If the rumor got back to her parents, she was dead. “Only peripherally. I help out sometimes with packing boxes and things. Keith and I go to the same college. The workshop is a cooperative. We have lots of friends who come in and use the tools. Um.” Greatly daring, she added, “Would you like to see it?”

“I’d like that just fine,” the officer said, still serious. He holstered his radio in a square pouch on his belt. She escorted him in through the great room and into the kitchen. The red barn was visible through the window at the far end of the room.

Marcy picked up a hastily discarded dishrag one of the Little Folk had dropped on their flight from the house. She tossed it casually onto the drainboard. She hoped he thought she had been interrupted doing dishes when he rang. The officer seemed to be looking at everything in the room, counting the stacks of small benches and kindergarten-sized chairs.

“There’s just one phone line here, isn’t there?” the officer asked, pausing in the middle of the room.

“That’s right,” Marcy said. “Right there.” She pointed, then held open the back door, wishing he’d follow her out. He glanced at the waist-level wall phone and did a double-take.

“What’s it doing down there?”

She tried to think of an excuse and wondered what Keith would say. “Oh, my aunt’s in a wheelchair,” Marcy said at last, swallowing. “She can’t reach it if it’s at eye level for us.”

“She visit a lot?” the officer said, squinting at her.

“Oh, yes.”

“Any other extensions in the house?”

“Well, no,” Marcy said. “I mean, why? There’s just two of us. The workshop is this way.”

The September grass was too dry to take footprints, so there was no traces from the Little Folk who had fled for cover in the barn or the fields beyond it. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Enoch slip out of the house behind them. He was keeping watch on her, in case the officer became unfriendly. She smiled affectionately, then hid the expression, not wanting to explain herself to her visitor.

The barn almost echoed, so devoid it was of living things. Even the cat who’d been asleep on the Archivist’s desk was gone. Lonely dust filmed the usually shining power tools and tables. Marcy, used to the small signs after more than a year of living among the Little Folk, knew that all the signs of disuse were illusionary, and that there were many pairs of eyes watching.

There must have been more than adequate time to empty the workshop. Most of the supplies were put away on the shelves and in the open-faced cabinets. The Master had even had time to erase the equations on his chalkboard before concealing himself. The pointer lay casually placed across the easel tray.

“Nice, huh?” the sheriff asked, going around the room. He ran a finger through the sawdust on the floor next to the drill press. His were the only footprints marring the scattered wood shavings. “What do they make here?”

“Oh, Christmas ornaments, cookie cutters, necklaces,” Marcy said. She showed him the elaborate chain of wooden beads and stones she was wearing. Enoch had given it to her for her birthday. The officer seemed impressed.

“Pretty good. I like the design,” he said, nodding. “Creative. My wife’d like it.” He picked up one of the small lanterns that stood on a worktable, waiting to have the filigree screens dropped into the slotted sides before the small roof and ring was fixed on. He put it down and lifted the power drill. “You make some of this stuff, too?”

“Goodness, no!” Marcy exclaimed, her voice squeaking a little. She aimed a hand at the power tools. “I don’t know how to use these things. I’m just an Arts and Sciences major. I hardly do anything practical.”

There was a nearly-inaudible, high-pitched giggle in the loft. Marcy almost gasped. She wondered if the policeman could hear the breathing and low whispers, or if she was just being too sensitive. He looked at the numbers of chairs and benches set out in rows before the Master’s easel.

“Everything’s so small,” he said jokingly. “Are you sure you’re not violating the child labor laws?”

“Oh, no!” Marcy said, horrified. “We—we have a lot of children who come in for demonstrations. You know,” she said, reaching back in her memory for something Keith had once said, “Junior Achievement?”

The officer nodded. “Oh, yeah, belonged to one of them myself when I was twelve,” he said fondly. “Well, okay. Sorry to bother you, miss. I can find my own way back to my car.”

He tipped a small salute to the young woman and climbed the slight slope up toward the house. Ms. G. just had a bee in her bonnet, he thought. She was probably looking for another cause to back for her campaign, and decided to pick on what sounded like a hippie commune workshop smack in the middle of her constituency. Turned out to be nothing, and he’d tell her so. Her daddy had been a big man in the county when he was alive. His daughter ought to just tend to her business before she tried to take his place. By all accounts the fertilizer factory was suffering from neglect. He wasn’t planning to vote for her anyhow. His wife said something about women’s liberation, but he just classed Mona Gilbreth in with all the other politicians he’d ever seen. The county officer climbed back into the car and lifted the radio to report in. Politicians were all alike. You couldn’t trust a one of them.

Not long after the officer disappeared around the corner of the house, Rose appeared at the back door and waved a dish towel. All clear. Marcy sank down onto one of the benches with her shoulders slumped, and just breathed.

Enoch emerged from beneath the workbench and came over to sit beside her. He seized her hand and kissed it fiercely.

“I don’t even like to hear you say things like that,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Marcy said helplessly. “That was all I could think of.”

“Never mind,” Enoch said, the scowl softening to a tender smile. He moved closer and put an arm around her. “It was … expedient. Do you feel all right?” Marcy nodded.

The Master seemed to appear out of thin air. He patted her on the shoulder.

“Vell done, Mees Collier. The first attack has been repulsed. Our own counterattack goes on, to continue a military metaphor. There vill be more sallies by our foe, of that I am certain. Ve vill be ready.”

“Keith Doyle?” the secretary said into the microphone of her headset. She checked the office clipboard and reached for a pad of pink forms. “I’m sorry, he’s not in right now. May I take a message?”

“No, wait!” Brendan, passing by the desk in the reception hall, jumped in front of the secretary and signaled until he got her attention. “I’ll take it.”

“Hold, please.” The woman pushed a few buttons that transferred the call to the phone on the desk.

Brendan picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Keith?” a woman’s voice asked. The tinny quality of the sound told Brendan it was long distance.

“No, sorry. I just work with him. I’ll be seeing him this afternoon. Can I give him a message?”

“No, I guess I can call back. Do you know when he’ll be in?”

“Uh, no,” Brendan said. “He’s off with another one of our coworkers, Dorothy. They could be a while, you know what I mean?” He gave the phrase all the lascivious glee he could muster.

“No, I do not know what you mean,” the woman said with asperity. Brendan was delighted.

“Well, you know, they call ’em ‘nooners’ but they can last longer than the noon hour—oops,” Brendan interrupted himself and continued in a horrified whisper. “Is this his girlfriend? It’s nothing. I’m gossiping. Rumors can be so malicious. Forget I said anything. Sorry. I’ll tell him you called. Bye.” He hung up the phone and sauntered away from the desk. The receptionist barely spared him a glance as he went by.

Only a few moments later, Keith and Dorothy, their arms full of paper bags from the bakery, came in together through the glass doors. They were laughing at some private joke. Keith held the door open by leaning against it as Dorothy passed through. Every time she glanced up at him, he wiggled his eyebrows, and she burst into a fresh attack of giggles.

“Hey, Keith,” Brendan said, coming over and helping himself to a jelly doughnut from one of the bags. “Your girlfriend called.”

“Hey, thanks, Brendan,” Keith said.

“Don’t mention it.” Brendan smiled.

It was only late afternoon when Mona returned to the plant, but she felt as if she had been out hiking forever. It had been a tiring and irritating day. Her feet nearly sighed with relief when they sank into the meager padding under the carpet in the reception area.

“Ms. Gilbreth,” the receptionist said as she passed by going toward her office to put her legs up. The girl held out a stack of pink slips. “I’ve got a whole bunch of messages for you. Here’s your mail, too. Oh, and there’s a couple of men around here somewhere. They said they were from the EPA.”

“The EPA?” Mona asked, her heart sinking as she thought of the dumping she had authorized in forest preserves all over the county, and not only in the one behind Hollow Tree Farm. Had someone spilled the beans? “As in Environmental Protection Agency?”

“Yes’m. They showed me their badges, so I called Mr. Williamson. I guess he took them around.”

“Thank you,” Mona said, hobbling down the gray hallway. She stuffed the handful of messages into her purse. “Could you find me some coffee, Beryl? A whole pot.”

“Sure, ma’am,” the receptionist called after her.

All the whistle stops after her early morning speech at Midwestern had been horrible re-runs of the first. People Mona had never met before came up to complain to her about her policy of waste disposal and ask pointed questions concerning her support of open land greenways. Siccing the EPA on her factory was the crowning insult. She wondered if there had been time to shovel dirt over the leaks in the number eight tank, or to take the suppurating truckloads of overdue waste off the grounds.

Jake arrived at the same time as the coffee. Mona, her shoes discarded under the table, poured her mug a quarter full, swirled it around to cool it a little, gulped it down, and refilled the mug to the lip.

“All right,” she said, settling down behind her desk with a sigh. “What’s this about the EPA?”

The foreman shook his head. “It’s nothing, ma’am. They got a call from some indignant female claiming Gilbreth is full of violations. She was such a pest the inspectors promised to look into it right away. I cooled it with them. They’ll come back for a spot check next week, after we’ve had a chance to clean up.”

“My God, if we can find the money between now and then. What lit a fire under them?” Mona asked, feeling personally put upon. “Normally it takes months to set up an investigation.”

Jake shrugged. “Who knows? Who cares? They’re gone.”

She started to turn over each of the messages. “What’s going on here?” she asked, astonished. “These are all complaints about the plant. Air pollution, air pollution, runoff, the smell, dumping, runoff, the smell—was there a letter in the paper yesterday that I missed? The day before?”

“No, ma’am, I’ve been keeping an eye on things. There’s been nothing from
them
for the last week, since you’ve had the kids.” He let his words trail off and raised his eyebrows significantly.

“Small mercy,” she said, but she didn’t feel consoled. The letters, some of which had been delivered by hand, were full of the same kinds of complaints she’d been fielding all day long. One letter was printed in a juvenile hand and full of exclamation points and underlining. “Even kids think I’m the incarnation of Satan. How could that be? I’m running on a pro-environment package. What set these people off?”

“How about the guy you’re running against?” Jake asked.

“Not a chance,” Mona waved a hand. “He hasn’t got the imagination to stir up this kind of hate mail. Who are all these people who are complaining?”

Jake glanced at the phone. “You know who to ask.”

“They wouldn’t dare!” Mona said. But she was worried. D-Day for the election was getting closer and closer. Any questions about her integrity now would make it harder for her to continue, especially when money remained so scarce. The rest of her mail was bills. Some of them—
most
of them—said “Second Notice” or “Final Notice.” She couldn’t hold the creditors off forever, and she didn’t dare kite checks, not with the last House banking scandal still fresh in everyone’s memory. She had to get money somewhere, not only to cover convention expenses, but also haulage fees, or she was ruined. Under the circumstances, any hope of borrowing cash discreetly from the election funds was out of the question. So was dumping any more waste on Hollow Tree Farm, dearly as she would have loved to. Nobody deserved it more. “I’ve got to stay clean.”

“Maybe, but if it was me, I’d let the kid go, take the money and run.” Jake had a disconcerting trick of reading her mind when she was thinking about money.

“I can’t,” she said, taking another healthy swig of coffee. It was still too hot, and she gasped out, “Everyone’s watching me too closely right now.”

“Here’s the sheriff’s report,” Jake said, taking an envelope out of his pocket. “There’s nothing out of the ordinary at that farm. No one was there but a girl who says she’s Doyle’s live-in. She said she’s a student at Midwestern. That checks. She couldn’t have had a baby in the spring, and she’s not old enough to be the mother of the kid at the cabin unless she started in grade school. You also got a call from your little pal at PDQ. Keith Doyle reported for work this morning right on time. Except for an hour for lunch he’s been there every minute.”

“So Keith Doyle and H. Doyle aren’t the same person,” Mona said. “Who is it that’s answering that phone?”