The Will Page 8

  “I see. Talking salt.” Durand smiled, condescension wafting from him across the chamber. “Well, let me guess what the salt says, Miss Ashton. The salt says that the sky is falling, as we’ve heard so many times before. The sky is always falling in the wacko environmental world which you inhabit. Yours is a world of talking salt and catastrophes around every corner, isn’t it, Miss Ashton? But somehow we all keep getting up in the morning and breathing and drinking and living longer and longer. In spite of everything that you people keep saying, the sky doesn’t fall at all.”

  Amanda was about to respond, but Durand interrupted with a raised forefinger. “Do you have an office, Miss Ashton?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s a straightforward question. Do you, or do you not, have an office?”

  “It’s on the fourth floor in this building, Senator.”

  “And in your office, I assume you have a desk?”

  Amanda peered up at the speaker. “Yes, Senator, I have a desk.”

  “And on that desk you have a telephone?”

  “That’s correct.”

  Durand smiled broadly. “Excellent. Then what I suggest you do is to sit at your desk and use that telephone to get the county agent on the line. This is more in his line of work. Let him get out there and fine somebody for whatever the hell it is they’re doing, and then let us get on with the business of governing this state. Could you do that for me, Miss Ashton?”

  Amanda’s face flushed scarlet. She knew she was being baited, and she was resolved not to give Durand any excuse to shut her down. “Senator, hundreds of aging wells are turning to corroded powder across this state. If it means what I think it does, a horror of acids and poisons will follow closely behind. Those wells were all made in the same way from the same materials. The same with the pools. If they have reached their life span, they could all collapse very rapidly. I admit that I’m not absolutely certain that this will happen. I’ve never claimed that I was. But if I’m right, we are looking at something truly catastrophic. So it’s very simple. What I want, Senator, and what my agency desperately needs, is the money to find out.”

  The room grew silent, and Amanda leaned back in her chair, flushed by her own passion, and embarrassed to have had to take so much abuse from Durand simply because he controlled the purse strings to which she wanted access. Uncannily, as if reading her mind, Durand put his finger on her weak spot.

  “Yes, Miss Ashton,” he said dryly, “as usual, it all comes down to money. All this talk is another dreary plea for appropriations. Money that pays your salary.”

  Amanda grimaced. She had gotten into politics prepared to play hard-ball, eyes open. But the reality was nevertheless daunting. Durand had survived for seven terms in state politics, his power ever-growing. He had become wily and dangerous. He was eyeing a bid for governor, and the early money was betting he could win.

  Sam Coulton, a quiet, introspective senator from western Kansas, had been listening intently. Suddenly, he came to life. “What kind of chemicals are we talking about, Ms. Ashton?” he interrupted. “If the senator will indulge me?”

  Amanda smiled. It was the first question she had been asked all day that indicated an actual interest in what she was talking about. “Acids, mainly. Sulfuric, boric, hydrochloric. All used to break down rock and make the drilling easier. There’s a good deal of formaldehyde down there as well. Most of it is thousands of feet down, right in the range of the aquifer. It’s quite a brew.”

  Coulton jotted a note on a pad, nodding for Amanda to continue. “Of course,” she went on, “these chemicals were nothing in quantity compared to the huge amount of salt that the wells produced when they were pumping, but this cocktail was, and in fact still is, stored in large, lined, man-made pools. The point is, gentlemen, that if salt is leaking, the chemicals can’t be far behind.”

  Durand had heard enough, and he stopped her with pointed laughter. “If I can interrupt this fascinating doomsday scenario, Miss Ashton, you are entering into an area in which I have some expertise. I’ve drilled a well or two in my day. Fact is, some folks around here would consider me an expert on the subject. The pools and the wellheads are encased in concrete. The concrete is put down under four thousand pounds per square inch of pressure. If you’ll pardon my French, you couldn’t force a rat’s behind through that concrete with a chisel and a fire hose.” Durand excelled in colorful language, and he often used it to make his points.

  “Nothing is coming out of those wellheads, Miss Ashton, and nothing is coming out of those pools. You may bank on that.”

  Amanda glanced at the faces of the committee members. She had sensed a subtle change in the room; a few of the senators had been actually listening. She needed to strike again quickly. “That’s correct, Senator, for modern wells. But these wells are from another era, some as early as World War I. The techniques were very different. In some cases there was no concrete. In other cases the concrete wasn’t poured under pressure. And in virtually all cases it only extends a short ways up from the bottom of the well.”

  Durand bristled. “I don’t need a lecture from you about drilling, Miss Ashton. This is all the same old environmental poppycock we’ve been through before. It’s nothing but another way to tell people what they can and can’t do on their own land.”

  “With the senator’s indulgence,” Coulton interjected quietly, “I’d like to hear her out.” Durand flashed back a dangerous look in response, but Coulton kept his eyes firmly on Amanda. “Let’s get to the bottom of this, Ms. Ashton,” he said. “These older wells can’t still be pumping. They must have been inactive for years, even decades.”

  “That depends on how you define your terms, Senator. They aren’t chemically inactive. They’ve been quite busy, actually, combining into some very nasty, highly abrasive compounds that have been gradually destroying the containers designed to house them. Picture these old casements, sixty, maybe seventy years old. They’re interacting with the chemicals, with highly abrasive salt water. Eventually, even inevitably, they begin to leak. Once they begin to decompose, they will fall apart quite rapidly. In that case, the chemicals will certainly follow in a massive outflow. These compounds are toxic in parts per billion, gentlemen. And there are tons of it out there, hundreds of tons.” At last she returned her gaze to Durand. “Think of it, Senator: hundreds of tons of chemicals that are toxic in parts per billion. What will we do if even small amounts of these poisons get into our underground water system? That water is connected beneath the surface of the earth to the major water systems of the Midwest, to the Missouri River itself. Thirty-six million people live along the Missouri and its tributaries. If these containers are melting down, the implications boggle the mind.”

  “Scare tactics,” rumbled Durand. “You want this committee to wring its hands and interrupt the legitimate business of hundreds or even thousands of people. You haven’t got a shred of hard data.”

  It was time for the hard pitch. “As you know, Senator, to get that data we need to actually go on the land. We need field agents, sophisticated equipment. We need this committee to recommend immediate funding for long-term research.”

  “Yes,” Durand answered coolly. “Long-term. I’m glad you used that particular phrase. Government has a way of making everything long-term. First one year, then two, then five—and in the end all you’ve done is created a bunch of paperwork and intruded into the lives of a lot of hardworking people. That is exactly the kind of thing my constituents have sent me here to stop, Miss Ashton. Studies of monkeys and beetles and salt and God knows what else, all at the taxpayer’s expense. I have no doubt that if the state’s environmental agency had its way this program would be more than just long-term, Miss Ashton, it would be permanent. Then you and all your agency friends could celebrate getting cushy government jobs studying things nobody cares about!”

  Amanda was poised to respond when the young aide once again materialized through the rear door and began whispering into the ch
airman’s ear. Durand smiled as he listened. The aide finished speaking and took his seat behind the committee with a blank expression, and the senator tapped his microphone. “I understand that the highway appropriations bill has come up for a vote, gentlemen. It seems the agenda of the general assembly has abruptly cleared, and we’re being called in. As you’re all well aware, that is a bill that demands our full attention. The future of your districts rests on those highways. It appears that we will have to adjourn immediately to attend to some real problems.” He smiled indulgently at Amanda. “Thank you for coming, Miss Ashton. You may consider your testimony concluded, with our deepest appreciation.”

  Amanda sat back, stunned. Durand’s reputation as a calculating manipulator of procedure was deserved; when he couldn’t shut people up, he simply scheduled them out of existence. The highway bill was the biggest thing on the legislative docket, and no senator could afford not to go on record on it. Not just a waste of time, she thought as she gathered her papers, a colossal waste of time. Anger and embarrassment pushed to the surface, and she tried to resist the impulse to protest. Smile and live to fight another day, she told herself. Nevertheless, an old habit came to the surface, a tendency that had made her a few enemies in her short career. For better or worse, she was determined to close with some dignity. “Thank you, Senator,” she replied with steel-like calmness. “My agency is quite small, and very understaffed with what you call cushy jobs, as it happens. The entire environmental needs of this state are now being serviced by a total of four field agents.” She looked directly into Durand’s eyes, fixing him in a level stare. “But whether or not you approve increased funding, we will move forward with our limited resources. As the senator knows, our agency is empowered by federal law to fulfill its mission, with or without the approval of this committee.”

  Durand glared, stung by an unaccustomed strike. His face flushed red, and Amanda knew she had added another name to her list of adversaries. It hardly mattered; Durand had already made it clear that he would do everything in his power to make her life miserable. Staring coldly back into Amanda’s eyes, Durand picked up a large wooden gavel and smacked a leather pad on the table. “Adjourn till Monday at three.”

  Henry opened the door of the Feed and Farm Supply Store and peered into the narrow register area, scouting for people. No one was about, and he murmured a silent blessing under his breath. Maybe they could slip in and out without being noticed. A display of American flags dominated the front of the building, the bright colors hanging from a long wire stretched the length of the store. To the left, a line of lawn mowers stood in formation. “All right, Mr. Boyd,” he said, “let’s get this over with.”

  The Birdman followed Henry in, humming softly to himself, a plaintive, unmusical sound. Henry stopped at the registers and said, “You wanted to come, and I’ve brought you.”

  “My buildings,” Boyd said in a cracking voice. “Tell them.”

  Henry looked at him; a good bit of Boyd’s anger had drained away, replaced with palpable discomfort. He was growing anxious, far from his park and in a public place. But in spite of his agitation, Boyd’s eyes narrowed, and Henry could feel words forming in the man. It was evident that he was going to have to play the thing out. “All right,” he said, “I’ll say something to the manager. I don’t know what, but something. Then we’ve got to leave.”

  The Birdman hacked up something from deep in his throat and swallowed it. “I own your store, Billy Payne,” he said softly. “Them’s my buildings.”

  “Who’s Payne?” Henry asked. But Boyd didn’t respond; he was mumbling softly to himself now, his speech turned inward once again. Henry stared at him a moment, then turned down the aisle to find the manager. His only goal was to get Raymond Boyd in and out of the store as quickly as possible.

  Henry led Boyd down a long aisle and turned a corner. A dismal-looking man was stocking shelves two aisles away, and Henry motioned to him. “I’m looking for the manager,” he said. Boyd stayed behind, hiding now behind Henry like a shy child. He made a clucking sound in his throat, nervous and guttural.

  The man looked up from a box of insecticide bottles. He stared up at Henry with curiosity, then stood and dusted himself off at the knees. “I’m him,” the man said. “I manage for Mr. Crandall. Name’s Billy Payne.” He set down his box cutter and stood silently, as if waiting for orders. Henry put on a businesslike, nonthreatening smile, but before he could speak the Birdman rustled up against him from behind, knocking him forward several inches. The manager shifted to look over his shoulder, but Boyd was still concealed behind Henry’s larger frame. A distinctly unsavory smell, however, was gaining ground on the bug killer and fertilizer surrounding them.

  “Mr. Payne,” Henry said, “my name is Henry Mathews, and I’m a lawyer. I’m here as executor of the late Mr. Tyler Crandall’s estate. I’ve got . . .”

  Suddenly, the Birdman reached a grimy hand around and pushed Henry to the side. Stepping forward, he bobbed in the aisle, smiling a yellowed smile. Then, without warning, he shrieked, “I own your store, Billy Payne! I come to see my buildings!”

  Payne jerked reflexively backward, tipping a box of screws off a display. The parts scattered noisily, dancing and running along the floor. “Mother of God,” the manager exclaimed. He froze, staring.

  Henry closed his eyes and grimaced; the circus had begun. “I just need a second, Mr. Payne. Unless you’re busy right now, in which case I’d be delighted to come back another time and explain this to you when we’re alone. You have no idea how delighted.”

  “I got time,” Payne said. He looked over at Boyd. “I got all the time in the world for this.”

  “I’m here to inform you that Mr. Boyd here . . .”

  “Boyd?” Payne asked. “I thought he was just the damn Birdman.”

  “He’s got a name, like everybody else. It’s Boyd. And Tyler Crandall saw fit to leave Mr. Boyd certain properties in his estate. This store is one of them.”

  Boyd reached out and picked up a box of hinges, sniffed it cautiously and set it back down on a different shelf. Payne pointed at him. “You’re sayin’ that . . .”

  “That’s right, Mr. Payne.”

  Payne looked blankly back at him for some time. He appeared to be staring at an indecipherable mathematical equation. Then, in stages flickering and receding, a smile crept cautiously across his face. “To . . . him,” he said slowly. “Joseph, Mary, and the baby Jesus.”

  A customer turned down the aisle, and Boyd made a low, guttural sound, not unlike a dog growling. The customer stared a moment, then retreated back out the door. “What I’m saying, Mr. Payne,” Henry stated, anxious to finish, “is that it would appear you have a new boss.”

  Boyd rambled several feet down the aisle, his interest now occupied with some distant shelves. Payne, watching him, muttered, “The Birdman. The damn Birdman, in my store.”

  Henry was unwilling to let Boyd out of his sight. He nodded a perfunctory good-bye and said, “I appreciate your time, Mr. Payne. I’ll be in touch.” He started back down the aisle, ready to hustle Boyd out of the store. As he turned, Payne suddenly reached out a hand and grabbed him by the arm. The man’s smile had vanished.

  “What does Roger say about all this? About the Birdman owning the store?”

  Something in the man’s face made Henry pause; his expression looked like genuine fear. I have the feeling you’ll find out what Roger has to say, he thought, and you’re going to wish you were someplace else when you do. But he merely answered, “He’s not pleased, Mr. Payne. He’s not pleased at all.”

  Go home. That was the smart move. Get on the plane, tell Sheldon all about it, about the freak and the greedy son and the whole idiotic mess. Have a good laugh over drinks with the boys, and fall into bed with Elaine. But once again, he wasn’t doing the smart move, the Sheldon Parker move. The edge beckoned, and more and more, he was answering. Henry had dialed Parker’s direct line and explained that things had gotten complicated, c
arefully leaving out most of Roger’s outburst, and all of Boyd’s trip to the Crandall Feed and Farm Supply Store. He had started with some light humor, buttering Parker up, knowing that even though Parker saw through it he still couldn’t resist it. And then the announcement, that the thing was a bit of a mess, that he needed some time to sort it out. Parker’s response had been direct and to the point.

  “So we got ourselves a little situation here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look, Henry,” Parker had said, “it sounds to me like the family isn’t thrilled with you anyway. Why roll a rock uphill? Write a letter requesting a release due to scheduling problems beyond your control. Come back to the real world, buddy.”

  Henry had heard himself say, “This is technically firm business, Sheldon. All my preexisting stuff got absorbed into the office. That was part of the deal.”

  “Of course it was, Henry. I drafted your deal. We can’t have our new friends carrying on little probate cases behind our backs, can we? Of course not.”

  “It’s a nice estate, Sheldon. Two and a half, three million. That makes our end, what, ninety grand?”

  “Okay, Preacher,” Parker had answered. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing down there, but I’ll throw you this bone. I have terms, of course. This wacko story stays plausible only if you tie the fruitcake directly to Crandall. If. Then things stay straightforward. But if there really is no connection between the two of them, you got nothing but a family drama and that’s not our line of work. The kid . . . what’s his name?”

  “Roger.”

  “Right. Thing is, the kid’s got a shot if there’s no connection. Too good a shot to pass up. Not that I blame him. But there’s no way in hell I’m letting you stick around for that melodrama. Too much time, not enough zeros.”