Redemption Mountain (24 page)

By the time Charlie reached her, they were abreast of the soccer field, now thick with late-summer weeds, the bare-earth patches cracked from dryness. Natty had stopped to assess the work ahead of her in getting the field ready for their first practice in less than two weeks.

“God what a mess,” she said. “Have to get it mowed down pretty soon. Got our first practice the Saturday after next.”

“How's your team going to be this season?” asked Charlie, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Natty looked out over the field. “We'll be fine, if we can find enough players.” They resumed their walk up the hill. “We got the Pie Man, of course.” She laughed. “And a few other decent players who should be back. Plus Sammy Willard and his brother, Zack. They'll be terrific players, once they practice a little. Got a good goalie—girl named Brenda Giles. And, of course, we got Emma. You met her in front of Eve's place.”

“Pie says she's a pretty good player.”

“Emma Lowe's the best thirteen-year-old girl soccer player in the country,” Natty said matter-of-factly.

“Whoa, that's a pretty big statement,” said Charlie. He'd been around kids' sports long enough to have heard the exaggerated praise of individual players by parents and coaches. Invariably, the praise fell somewhat short of reality.

“I know. You'll just have to come watch a game and make up your own mind. We could use a few fans, and Pie would love it if you came.”

“Of course I will. Be a lot of fun.” Natty nodded, nervous at the thought of the new power-plant boss attending one of their ragtag soccer games. “Probably miss the first game, though,” said Charlie. “I have to go back up to New York for a while.”

“Business?” Natty asked, happy to change the subject.

“No, not really. My daughter's coming in from Illinois, and I want to see her before she goes back to Northwestern. Also, my wife's going to force me to make a decision on a house she wants to buy.”

“Don't sound like you're crazy about the idea,” Natty said, looking up to see if she could read anything from Charlie's face.

After a pause, he replied, “No, I'm not.” He sounded as if he was thinking out loud. “But she really wants it, and she deserves it, too. I don't know. It just seems so wasteful to me. The house is too big, and it's over a million bucks.”

Natty swallowed hard, trying to hide her shock.
What was it he just said? Over a million bucks.
“That's a lot of money, all right. Must be a pretty nice house,” Natty said, recovering enough to sound polite.
What kind of world did this man live in? “Forced to make a decision” about buying a million-dollar house. What was he even doing here in Red Bone, this beautiful, sensitive, super-successful man, walking up South County Road with a plain-looking, no-account hillbilly girl?

“Oh, it's a beautiful house, but it's also Westchester County, one of the most expensive real estate markets in the country. Million bucks doesn't buy as much house as it used to.”

“Yeah, must be tough trying to get by up there,” Natty said, playing along.
God, they were like two people from different planets. This was one daydream that would never make any sense.

When they got back to Main Street, Natty got her purse out of Charlie's car and walked to Gus Lowe's garage to pick up her Accord. The new rocker panel was black, the color it would stay. She wrote out a check for $80, which, she told Gus, was all she had until payday, when she might be able to give him another $100. She'd try to clear it up as quickly as she could, but they both knew that Gus's bill would soon be lost in the growing pile of debt in the Oakes household.

She drove home, feeling sick to her stomach, thinking about the money she owed Gus and how he hadn't uttered a word of protest. The Accord felt old and noisy compared to Charlie's Lexus, which Natty had just been getting used to.

 

CHAPTER 14

 

T
he
whump whump
of the helicopter blades announced the arrival of the lawyers from Charleston. Charlie glanced at his watch. It was 10:00
A.M.
, right on schedule. The gleaming black helicopter with the silver lightning bolts roared in over the trees from the northwest, pulled up over the middle of the site, and feathered gently down onto the landing pad adjacent to the parking lot. As Charlie stood to pull his sport jacket from the rack in the corner, he was surprised to see Terry Summers in the doorway. “Ready, boss? Looks like it's showtime.” Summers flashed Charlie one of his trademark smiles.

“Hey, Terry,” Charlie answered. “You going up to see the farmer with us?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world. I know the way there, so it'll be easier if I drive.”

Vernon Yarbrough came across the parking lot like a candidate for the U.S. Senate, his arm outstretched, his big hand searching for Charlie's, as if he were greeting a lifelong friend. “Mr. Bur-
dan
. How the hell are
you
, sir? Goddamn, you're looking
fine
, just
fine
. Our mountain air must agree with you.” The silver-haired lawyer gave Charlie the two-handed shake, his left hand at Charlie's right elbow.

Kevin Mulrooney from Ackerly Coal stepped forward and was introduced. Charlie remembered meeting him a couple of years earlier, when they were all down for the original announcement of the Red Bone plant. Mulrooney was red-faced and sweating from the heat. A scowl on his face said that he didn't want to be there. Technically, Ackerly Coal was to be the purchaser of the farm, although it had now become an imperative for OntAmex due to the CES merger.

Charlie tossed Summers the keys to the Navigator. Yarbrough took the front seat. Charlie sat behind him with Mulrooney. “Take us about forty minutes to get there,” Summers announced.

“That's fine, just fine,” Yarbrough answered, looking at his gold Rolex. “Put us at the farm about eleven o'clock.” He turned to address the passengers in the backseat. “Talked to Farmer DeWitt last night. Told him we were coming up today to give him some real good news. 'Course, he protested. Said he wasn't selling, but I told him I was bringin' some pretty important folks and wasn't taking no for an answer. So DeWitt says, ‘If y'all are coming up, may as well come around lunchtime.'” Yarbrough laughed as he shot a knowing glance at Mulrooney. He was in a pretty good mood, Charlie thought, considering DeWitt's stubborn insistence on keeping his land.

“What we're doing here today, gentlemen,” Yarbrough continued, “is giving Farmer DeWitt one last chance to make a good deal and save his ass.” He turned back around to face front. “'Cause next time I have to come up here, that pig farmer ain't going to be inviting us to lunch. You can bet your ass on that.” Yarbrough, Summers, and Mulrooney joined in a short, knowing laugh. Charlie got the feeling he was missing something. They drove along in welcome silence for twenty minutes.

“Hear any more noise from the granddaughter?” asked Mulrooney.

Yarbrough turned again toward the back. “No, nothing more from her. And I don't think we will. She took her shot, and that's probably the end of it.”

“What happened?” asked Charlie.

“It seems the farmer's granddaughter went to see a lawyer in Welch, asking questions about mountaintop-removal mining. Looks like the family figured out a few things. Think we got it pretty well contained, though. We got the lawyer on our side now, case she tries to stir things up.” Yarbrough faced front. “We're okay. Just got to wrap up this farm business sooner rather than later—like today. Then we don't have to worry.” He glanced at his watch again. “Five hundred thousand. That's our number. Five hundred thousand, or we move on to Plan B,” he added.

“What's Plan B?” asked Charlie. In the front seat, Yarbrough shifted his weight a little uncomfortably.

“Let's just say we got some other avenues to take with this boy. Some legal remedies we can pursue.” He let it drop for a few moments, then added, “But five hundred grand's a huge number for that place, so … we'll be okay.”

Clearly he didn't want to go into any of the details of what Plan B might be, so Charlie let it go. Mention of the money, though, reminded him of the meeting in New York and Larry Tuthill's million-dollar figure. It was a strange offer. Charlie understood that Tuthill and Torkelson were in a bind over the CES merger because
someone
—according to Yarbrough—may have bribed a superior court judge to set aside a court ruling against mountaintop-removal variances. And now they needed to purchase the farm quickly and quietly. It was the reason Charlie was in West Virginia—to help OntAmex and, in doing so, protect his friend Duncan McCord. But the money and the source didn't fit. Maybe Tuthill was panicking, envisioning his career going down the toilet in a messy PUC hearing over the CES merger. Charlie's nagging doubts about the whole Redemption Mountain deal made him reluctant to get further involved. He hoped that Yarbrough could close the deal with DeWitt today.

“Here we are,” announced Summers, as he made a sharp turn onto Heaven's Gate. An old wooden sign with an arrow pointed them in the direction of Angel Hollow, and they started a winding climb, the road barely wide enough for the big Navigator to ride without scraping the tree limbs on either side.

Gradually, the thick woods gave way to thin stands of birches and maples and rolling meadows sprinkled with white and yellow flowers. Large boulders and flat rock pushed up through the ground. Soon they came to another sharp turn. Summers cut the wheel to the left, then accelerated up a steep incline onto Redemption Mountain Road. After a long gentle curve, the road straightened and the trees fell away on the left side of the road, revealing how high they'd come.

A minute later he announced their arrival. “This is it,” Summers said, as he pulled the Navigator into the front yard of the DeWitt farm. He parked in the shade of a huge oak tree, and the four men exited the vehicle in a noisy succession of slamming doors. Acorns crackled under their feet as they stretched their legs and put on their suit jackets.

There was no one in sight, but a picnic table was set up in front of the house, covered with a yellow plastic tablecloth, a large glass pitcher of ice water, and a stack of brown plastic cups. Charlie was reminded of the tired old farms on the back roads of Vermont. The patches in the roof of the house, the sagging porch, and the ominous lean of the walls of the barn told a familiar story.

“Hello, in the house. Mr. Dewitt,” Yarbrough called out loudly. There was no answer. Summers leaned inside the Navigator and pushed on the horn for several seconds. The rude sound pierced the quiet. Charlie flashed Summers a look of disapproval, which he returned in the form of a wide, amused smile.

At that moment, the front door swung open and an elderly woman backed through, carrying a tray covered with a red-checked cloth. Carefully, she made her way down the short flight of steps, placed the tray in the middle of the table, and stood up stiffly. “Bud'll be down in a minute,” she said, looking toward the cornfield. “I'll bring out the coffee.”

“Fellows, this is our hostess for today,” said Yarbrough grandly, “Mrs. Agnes DeWitt.” The men said hello and took turns shaking hands with and introducing themselves to the woman, who said nothing. She hesitated for a moment, as if she had something to say, then turned and went slowly up the steps and into the house.

Mulrooney stepped forward, pulled back the cloth covering the tray, and helped himself to a chicken salad sandwich. “Imagine living way the fuck up here,” he said, as he stuffed half a sandwich into his mouth. “Have to go nuts after a while, wouldn'tcha think?”

Before anyone could offer an opinion, a green tractor came into view, churning up a cloud of dust. Bud DeWitt parked the tractor next to the barn and walked over to a wooden bucket and washed his hands and face. He dried himself with a small white towel as he walked toward the picnic table.

Charlie recognized him from the picture in the folder. Medium height, a weathered face creased by years of squinting into the sun, and a thin, wiry build. Except for his stiff-jointed gait, he looked younger than seventy-two. DeWitt was wearing the same Peterbilt hat that he wore in the picture. “Mr. Yarbrough,” he said as he got closer.

“Nice to see you again, sir,” replied Yarbrough. “We appreciate your lettin' us come up here, and I think we're prepared to close this deal today. And we do appreciate this fine lunch that your lovely wife has put out for us.”

Bud DeWitt sat down at the picnic table and reached for a sandwich. “Got only a half hour,” said DeWitt, as he poured himself some ice water. “Better get started.”

Yarbrough introduced Mulrooney, the head of Ackerly Coal, and then Mr. Charlie Burden, down from New York, the head of the power-plant construction project. Charlie reached across the table and shook hands with DeWitt. The farmer had a naturally strong grip and clear gray eyes. As they shook hands, he studied Charlie's face, as if trying to discern what part he might play in the negotiations. Summers sat at the end of the picnic table. Mulrooney remained standing, rather than risk trying to squeeze onto the bench, from which he might not be able to extricate himself.

“Looks like you got yourself a bumper crop of corn coming in,” Yarbrough said, as he gazed up the hill to the field of corn. “Bet that's some real sweet-tasting corn up there.”

DeWitt poured himself another glass of ice water. “Hogs like it,” he replied. He looked up to see Charlie smiling. The farmer gave him a quick wink.

Yarbrough reached for a napkin and wiped his mouth, signaling that he was ready to get down to business. “Now, Mr. DeWitt, you know why we're here. Last time we came up, we offered you a hundred thousand dollars for your farm, a more-than-fair price, as you well know.”