Gray Mountain Read online

  compounds—poisons such as vinyl chloride, trichloroethylene, mercury, lead, and a dozen others. With great patience, Vic explained what the big words meant. Jesse got the gist of the message. Not only was it unsafe to drink; it should not be used for anything, period. Not for cooking, bathing, brushing teeth, washing clothes or dishes. Nothing. Jesse explained that they had started hauling in their drinking water some fifteen years earlier, but had continued to use well water for bathing and household cleaning. His boy died first, cancer in his digestive tract.

  Donovan turned on a tape recorder and placed it on a rubber milk crate. Casually, and with complete empathy, he elicited an hour’s worth of background on Jesse’s family and the cancers that had ravaged it. Vic listened and smoked and occasionally asked a question himself. The stories were gut-wrenching, but Jesse went through them with little emotion. He had seen so much misery and he had been hardened by it.

  “I want you to join our lawsuit, Mr. McKeever,” Donovan said after he turned off the recorder. “We’re planning to sue Krull Mining in federal court. We think we can prove that they dumped a lot of waste in their pond up there, and that they’ve known for years that it was leaking into the groundwater down here.”

  Jesse rested his chin on his cane and seemed to doze. “No lawsuit’ll bring ’em back. They’re gone forever.”

  “True, but they didn’t have to die. That slurry pond killed them, and the men who own it should have to pay.”

  “How much?”

  “I can’t promise you a dime, but we’ll sue Krull for millions. You’ll have plenty of company, Mr. McKeever. As of now I have about thirty other families here in Hammer Valley signed up and ready to go. All lost someone to cancer, all within the past ten years.”

  Jesse spat to his side, wiped his mouth on a sleeve, and said, “I heard about you. Plenty of talk up and down the valley. Some folks want to sue; others are still scared of the coal company, even though it’s finished up there. I don’t know what to do, really. I’ll just tell you that. Don’t know which way to go.”

  “Okay, think about it. But promise me one thing; when you get ready to fight, call me, not some other lawyer. I’ve been working on this case for three years, and we haven’t even filed suit yet. I need you on my side, Mr. McKeever.”

  He agreed to think it over, and Donovan promised to come back in a couple weeks. They left Jesse in the shade, the dog once again by his side, and drove away. Nothing was said until Samantha asked, “Okay, how do you prove the company knew its sludge pond was contaminating Mr. McKeever’s water?”

  The two in the front seat exchanged a look, and for a few seconds there was no response. Vic reached for a cigarette and Donovan finally said, “The company has internal documents that clearly prove it knew of the contamination and did nothing; in fact it has covered up everything for the past ten years.”

  She opened her window again, took a long breath, and asked, “How did you get the documents if you haven’t filed suit yet?”

  “I didn’t say we have the documents,” Donovan said a bit defensively.

  Vic added, “There have been a few investigations, by the EPA and other regulatory agencies. There’s a lot of paperwork.”

  “Did the EPA find these bad documents?” she asked. Both men seemed tentative.

  “Not all of them,” Vic replied.

  There was a gap in the conversation as she backed off. They turned onto a gravel road and bounced along for a mile or so. “When will you file the lawsuit?” she asked.

  “Soon,” Donovan said.

  “Well, if I’m going to work in your office, I need to know these things, right?”

  Donovan did not respond. They turned in to the front yard of an old trailer and parked behind a dirty car with no hubcaps and a bumper hanging by a wire. “And who is this?” she asked.

  “Dolly Swaney,” Donovan said. “Her husband died of liver cancer two years ago, at the age of forty-one.”

  “Is she a client?”

  “Not yet,” Donovan said as he opened the door. Dolly Swaney appeared on the front porch, a crumbling addition with broken steps. She was huge and wore a large, stained gown that fell almost to her bare feet.

  “I think I’ll wait in the truck,” Samantha said.

  They had an early lunch at the only diner in downtown Rockville, a hot, stuffy café with the smell of grease heavy in the air. The waitress placed three glasses of ice water on the table; all three glasses went untouched. Instead, they ordered diet sodas to go with their sandwiches. With no one sitting close, Samantha decided to continue the questioning.

  “So, if you already have thirty clients, and you’ve been working on the case for three years, why haven’t you filed suit by now?”

  Both men glanced around as if someone might be listening. Satisfied, Donovan answered in a low voice, “This is a huge case, Samantha. Dozens of deaths, a defendant with enormously deep pockets, and liability that I think we can make clear at trial. I’ve already spent a hundred thousand bucks on the case, and it’ll take much more than that to get it before a jury. It takes time: time to sign up the clients, time to do the research, time to put together a legal team that can fight the army of lawyers and experts Krull Mining will throw at its defense.”

  “It’s also dangerous,” Vic added. “There are a lot of bad actors in the coalfields, and Krull Mining is one of the worst. Not only is it a ruthless strip miner, it’s also a vicious litigator. It’s a beautiful lawsuit, but dealing with Krull Mining has scared away a lot of lawyers, guys who are usually on board in the big environmental cases.”

  Donovan said, “That’s why I need some help. If you’re bored and looking for some excitement, then let’s go to work. I have a ton of documents that need to be reviewed.”

  She suppressed a laugh and said, “Great, more document review. I spent the first year with the firm buried in a vault doing nothing but document review. In Big Law, it’s the curse of every rookie associate.”

  “This will be different, I assure you.”

  “Are these the incriminating documents, the good stuff?”

  Both men glanced around again. The waitress arrived with the diet sodas and left them. It was doubtful she cared anything about litigation. Samantha leaned in low and hit them hard with “You already have these documents, don’t you?”

  Donovan replied, “Let’s just say we have access to them. They went missing. Krull Mining knows they’re missing, but they don’t know who has them. After I file the lawsuit, the company will learn that I have access to them. That’s all I can say.”

  As he spoke, Vic stared at her intently, watching for her reaction. His look said, “Can she be trusted?” His look was also skeptical. He wanted to talk about something else.

  She asked, “What will Krull Mining do when it knows you have access?”

  “Go berserk, but what the hell. We’ll be in federal court, hopefully with a good judge, one who’ll hold their feet to the fire.”

  Their platters arrived, scrawny sandwiches beside piles of fries, and they began eating. Vic asked her about New York and her life there. They were intrigued by her work in a firm with a thousand lawyers in the same building, and by her specialty in building skyscrapers. She was tempted to make it sound slightly glamorous, but couldn’t muster the necessary deceit. As she ignored the sandwich and played with the fries, she couldn’t help but wonder where Blythe and her friends were lunching; no doubt some chic restaurant in the Village with cloth napkins, a wine list, and designer cuisine. Another world.

  14

  The Skyhawk climbed to five thousand feet, leveled off, and Donovan asked, “Are you ready?” By then she was enjoying flying at lower altitudes and absorbing the views, but she had no desire to take the controls. “Gently grab the yoke,” he said, and she did.

  “I’ve got it too, so don’t worry,” he said calmly. “The yoke controls the pitch of the nose, up and down, and it also turns the airplane. All movements are small and slow. Turn it slight
ly to the right.” She did and they began a gradual bank to her side. She turned back to the left and they leveled off. She pushed the yoke forward, the nose dipped, and they began losing altitude. She glanced at the altimeter. “Level off at forty-five hundred,” he said. “Keep the wings level.” From forty-five hundred feet, they ascended back to five thousand, and Donovan put his hands in his lap. “How does it feel?”

  “Awesome,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s so easy.” The Skyhawk responded to the slightest movement of the yoke. Once she realized she was not going to crash it, she managed to relax a little and enjoy the thrill of her first flight.

  “It’s a great airplane, simple and safe, and you’re flying it. You could go solo in a month.”

  “Let’s not rush things.”

  They flew straight and level for a few minutes without talking. Samantha watched the instruments closely, glancing only briefly at the mountains below. He asked, “So, Captain, where are we going?”

  “I have no idea. Not sure where we are and not sure where we’re going.”

  “What would you like to see?”

  She thought for a moment. “Mattie told me about your family’s place and what happened there. I’d like to see Gray Mountain.”

  He hesitated for a second and said, “Then look at the heading indicator and turn left to a heading of 190 degrees. Do it slow and stay level.” She executed the turn perfectly and kept the Skyhawk at five thousand feet. After a few minutes, she asked, “Okay, what would happen right now if the engine quit?”

  He sort of shrugged as if this never crossed his mind. “First, I would try and restart it. If that didn’t work, I’d start looking for a flat surface, a pasture or pipeline, maybe even a highway. At five thousand feet, a Skyhawk will glide for about seven miles so there’s a lot of time. When I found my spot, I would circle around it, try and gauge the wind on the descent, and pull off a perfect emergency landing.”

  “I don’t see any open areas down there.”

  “Then just pick your mountain and hope for the best.”

  “Sorry I asked.”

  “Relax. Fatalities in these planes are rare, and they’re always caused by pilot error.” He yawned and went quiet for a while. Samantha found it impossible to relax entirely, but was growing more confident by the minute. After a long break in conversation, she glanced at her co-pilot, who appeared to be dozing. Was he joking with her, or was he really asleep? Her first impulse was to yell into her mike and startle him; instead, she checked the instruments, made sure the airplane was flying straight and the wings were perfectly level, and fought the urge to panic. She caught herself gripping the yoke and let go for a second. The fuel gauge showed half a tank. If he wanted to sleep, go ahead. She would give him a few minutes to nap, then panic. She released the yoke again and realized the plane would fly by itself, with only a light touch here and there for corrections. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes, ten, fifteen. The mountains were slowly passing under them. There was nothing on the radar to indicate traffic. She kept her cool, but there was a growing sense that she needed to scream.

  He awoke with a cough and quickly scanned the instruments. “Nice job, Samantha.”

  “How was your nap?”

  “Fine. Sometimes I get sleepy up here. The drone of the engine gets monotonous and I have trouble staying awake. On long trips, I’ll turn on the autopilot and doze off for a few minutes.”

  She wasn’t sure how to respond to this and let it pass. “Do you know where we are?” she asked. He looked ahead and without hesitation said, “Sure, we’re approaching Noland County. At eleven o’clock is Cat Mountain. You’ll fly just to the left of it, and I’ll take over from there. Descend to four thousand feet.”

  They flew over the edge of Brady at three thousand feet, and Donovan took the controls. “You want to fly it again sometime?” he asked.

  “Maybe, I don’t know. How long does it take to learn everything?”

  “About thirty hours of ground school, or self-study, and another thirty in the air. The problem is there’s no instructor around here. Had one, but he died. In a plane crash.”

  “I think I’ll just stick to cars. I grew up in a world of plane crashes so I’ve always been wary of aviation. I’ll let you do the flying.”

  “Anytime,” he said, smiling. He kept the nose pitched downward until they were a thousand feet above the terrain. They flew beside a strip mine where blasting was under way; a thick cloud of black smoke hung close to the ground. On the horizon, steeples were peeking above the trees. “Have you been to Knox?” he asked.

  “No, not yet.”

  “It’s the seat of Curry County, where I was born. Nice town, about the same size and sophistication as Brady, so you haven’t missed much.” They flew over the town, but there wasn’t much to see, at least not from one thousand feet. They began climbing again, weaving around the taller peaks until they were deep in the mountains. They topped one and Donovan said, “There it is, what’s left of Gray Mountain. The company abandoned it twenty years ago, but by the time they left most of the coal was gone. Lawsuits tied up everything for years. Obviously, the site did not get reclaimed. Probably the ugliest spot in all of Appalachia.”

  It was a desolate landscape, with open gashes where coal was being extracted when the crews suddenly stopped, and mounds of overfill left to sit forever, and all over the site scrawny trees trying desperately to survive. Most of the mine was rock and soil, but patches of brown grass had grown up. The valley fill dropping from the site was partially covered with vines and shrubbery. As Donovan began to circle, he said, “The only thing worse than a reclaimed strip mine is one that’s been abandoned. That’s what happened here. It still makes me sick.”

  “Who owns it now?”

  “My father, it’s still in the family, but it’s not worth much. The land is ruined. The streams disappeared under the valley fill, all the fish are gone. The water is poison. The wildlife ran off to a safer place. Did Mattie tell you what happened to my mother?”

  “She did, but not in detail.”

  He descended and banked steeply to the right so she looked straight down. “Do you see that white cross down there, with rocks around it?”

  “Yes, I see it.”

  “That’s where she died. Our home was over there, an old family place built by my grandfather, who was a deep miner. After the flood destroyed the home, my mother found a spot there, near the rocks, and that’s where it happened. My brother, Jeff, and I found some old timbers from the house and built that cross.”

  “Who found her?”

  He took a deep breath, and said, “So Mattie didn’t tell you everything?”

  “I guess not.”

  “I found her.”

  Nothing was said for a few minutes as Donovan buzzed the valley on the east side of Gray Mountain. There were no roads, homes, or signs of people. He banked again and said, “Just over this ridge here is the only part of the property that wasn’t ruined. The water flows in another direction and the valley was safe from the strip mine. You see that creek down there?” He banked steeper so she could.

  “Yes, I got it.”

  “Yellow Creek. I have a little cabin on that creek, a hiding place few people know about. I’ll show it to you sometime.”

  I’m not so sure about that, Samantha thought. We are now close enough, and pending some change in your marital status, I have no plans to get closer. But she nodded and said, “I’d like to see it.”

  “There’s the chimney,” he said. “It’s barely visible, both from here and on the ground. No plumbing, no electricity, you sleep in hammocks. I built it myself, with help from my brother, Jeff.”

  “Where’s your father?”

  “Last I heard he was in Montana, but I haven’t spoken to him in many years. Have you seen enough?”

  “I believe so.”

  At the Noland County Airfield, Donovan taxied close to the terminal but did not kill the engine. Instead,
he said, “Okay, I want you to get out here, carefully, and walk behind the airplane. The prop is still spinning.”

  “You’re not getting out?” she asked, pulling the latch on her shoulder harness.

  “No, I’m going to Roanoke to see my wife and daughter. Be back tomorrow, and at the office.” Samantha got out under the wing, felt the rush of air from the propeller, walked behind the tail, and waited at the door. She waved at Donovan, who gave her the thumbs-up and began taxiing away. She watched him take off and drove back to Brady.

  Saturday dinner was a pot of Chester’s legendary Texas chili. He’d never been to Texas, as best he could remember, but found a great recipe (only two years ago) on a Web site. The legend part seemed more or less a creation of his own imagination, but his enthusiasm for cooking and entertaining was infectious. Mattie baked corn bread and Annette brought a chocolate pie for dessert. Samantha had never learned to cook and was now living in a tiny apartment with only a hot plate and a toaster, so she got a pass. While Chester stirred the pot and added spices and talked nonstop, Kim and Adam made a pizza in Aunt Mattie’s kitchen. Saturday was always pizza night for them, and Samantha was delighted to be at the Wyatts’ and not stuck again with Annette and the kids. In their eyes she was no longer a roommate/babysitter, but in one week had risen to the hallowed status of big sister. They loved her and she loved them, but the walls were closing in. Annette seemed content to allow the kids to smother her.

  They ate in the backyard, at a picnic table under a maple tree ablaze with bright yellow leaves. The ground was covered with them