Fallen Mountains, page 11
Red thought of JT Shultz, who knew of what happened at the shale pit half a lifetime ago now, for those boys. If Red had considered the possibility that Possum could be behind this, wouldn’t JT have considered it, too? Would he have mentioned anything of that night to Mick Dashel? Or maybe JT had been keeping secrets all his life; maybe this was just one of so many skeletons that he’d already forgotten it.
Mick was in the kitchen, yanking open drawer after drawer, the silverware clanging, Pyrex dishes ringing. He opened the fridge, the freezer. He checked the pantry, his eyes scanning canned beans and Bisquick and fruit cocktail. “Nothing here,” Mick said, and then moved into the room off the kitchen, the one that used to be Jack Hardy’s den, the place where he had stored his hunting gear and written checks and ordered seeds. Red closed the kitchen drawers Mick had left open, and followed.
The room had been completely transformed since Red had last seen it, the fall before. When Jack was using it as a den, there were boxes of old knickknacks, heaps of hunting clothes, stacks of paper piled high on the desk. Now, all of that was gone, and the room had a tedious order to it. On the desk, a signed baseball in a glass case. Two framed photographs of Transom and Teresa. In a third frame, an old photograph: a woman and small boy, the boy leaning against the woman’s side, the ocean behind them, a bucket hanging from his hand.
“His mother, I presume?” Mick asked.
Red leaned in for a closer look. It was her, Marjane Shultz, tall and lean and lovely. Sue had told him once that every woman in Fallen Mountains envied her, with her beautiful dresses, her style and sophistication they could barely grasp, her charm. They’d all been shocked when, out of the blue, she’d slit her wrists with a paring knife—she’d seemed so happy, so flawless. Red nodded. “Yes,” he said. “That’s Transom’s mother.”
There was a map of the Hardy property on the desk, too, with notes and sticky tabs. Mick leaned over and studied the map. “Looks like Transom had settled in here, maybe used this room as a sort of work space.”
He began sifting through the desk drawers. One two three, lifting papers, then on to the next side. In one drawer, he found a small stack of photographs. He handed them to Red. “You know any of these folks?”
Red took the photos in his hand and flipped through. Jack, Maggie, Chase, and Transom, huddled together on the step of the front porch, the boys young, maybe twelve or thirteen, Transom already tall and thick, bigger than the rest of them, even Jack. Then another: Chase and Transom grinning and holding up fish by the mouth, bass. They were older in this one, larger. One with Transom with his arm slung over Maggie’s shoulder, Maggie small and white-haired, laughing and looking up at him. A picture of the Hardy farmhouse, the barn. And two black-and-white photographs of Laney Moore, taken five or ten years ago, probably, but Red wasn’t sure. Laney looking right at the camera, right at the person taking the picture, a smile playing at her lips, her shoulders bare, a blanket tucked beneath her armpits. In the next one—Red guessed the two were taken in succession—Laney was laughing, looking to the side, but again, under that blanket, naked.
“What is it?” Mick asked, sliding a drawer closed.
Red frowned. “Probably nothing.” He studied the photo. Laney was one of those lucky people who hadn’t changed a whole lot over the years—she could’ve passed for a twenty-two-year-old in high school, and she probably still could, even though she had to be in her thirties now—plus the photo was black and white, which made it harder to tell its age. “There’s a picture here of a woman. She and Chase Hardy are a thing, a couple.” He turned the photographs around and held them up for Mick. “Which is a little strange, don’t you think? Transom having a picture like this in his drawer, even if it’s old. It’s his friend’s girlfriend, plus he’s engaged to someone else.”
Mick shrugged. “People hold onto things. My wife held onto pictures from her junior prom, senior prom, middle school, tucked in a box in the attic. Friends, boyfriends.” He paused and looked out the window for a minute. “Not that we have a model relationship or anything. When I came out here, she told me not to come back.”
Red swallowed. “Ever?”
Mick studied a ticket stub in his hand. “Think so.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I wasn’t home much. Work and all.” Mick cleared his throat. “What’s her name, the woman in the photograph?”
“Laney,” he said. “Laney Moore.” The thought f lickered through his mind: Possum’s cousin, his closest friend. Red saw them together all the time. This, combined with the discovery of the photographs, made him wince—had Laney managed to get wrapped up in something ugly? Had Possum dragged her into it?
“We’ll bring her in, ask her a few questions,” Mick said.
“Sure. Wouldn’t hurt.”
Mick stood and walked to the corner, where Jack Hardy’s guns were lined up in an old glass-front cabinet. He reached up to the top, felt around, and grabbed a key. He took out his blacklight and shined it carefully over each gun. Nothing. Then he took out the fingerprinting kit.
“Help me label these?” he said, handing Red a Sharpie.
“Don’t see what the point is,” Red said. “These guns were Jack Hardy’s. Chase’s now. Prints will be all over them.”
Mick took out the first gun and began dusting for prints. He glanced at Red. “Remember, this is what I do. There’s a process to all this. Trust it.”
Red watched with interest as Mick worked through weapon after weapon, quick and precise, his hands skilled and confident. They were there for over an hour, working in Jack’s den, until Mick was satisfied and said they could take a lunch break. The whole time, Red kept wondering if Chase would show up and find them searching his house, opening drawers and dusting his guns and leafing through pictures, and even though they had a warrant and weren’t breaking any law, Red couldn’t help but feel that they were the ones doing something wrong.
BEFORE
The February wind whisked the snow from the roof of the Lincoln as Chase loaded the last few items—a tackle box, a waterproof bag, beef jerky for the ride, and a Pennsylvania Gazeteer—into the trunk. He shut the hatch gingerly, careful to avoid breaking anything. One last time, he thought through his list of chores. He’d arranged for Cliff Miller, one of their old farmhands, to tend the cows for two days. He’d heaped the cats’ bowl high with food. He’d banked the woodstove. It had been years since he’d left the farm overnight, and he was nervous about it, sure he was forgetting something important, sure something would go wrong without him there to handle it.
Somehow or other, he had gotten stuck with almost all the packing for their camping trip, both the food and the gear, while Transom made phone call after phone call from Jack’s den, which he had sort of transformed into his own office over the past several weeks. Even though Transom had described his work various times to Chase, in vague, uninteresting ways, Chase still wasn’t exactly sure what it was his friend did for a living.
Every time Chase asked about it, Transom usually came up with some line about how it was complicated and boring, and Chase took that to mean that, whatever it was, it might not be entirely legal. He decided not to push it— if his friend was into something shady, he’d rather not know. That way, he wouldn’t have to lie for him, the way he’d lied for him all those times to Jack and Maggie. He’d always hated that, being put in a position of having to choose between lying to his grandparents or getting Transom in trouble. Besides, if he and Transom were going to live together as adults, they needed to respect each other’s privacy. No prying, no pushing for answers. Even though Chase had been nervous that Transom might make things awkward when Laney had stayed over after coming to dinner—say a snide remark or rap on the door or make crude gestures behind her back—he had done no such thing, and for that, Chase was grateful.
He headed back to the house and walked to the kitchen, the old, dark floorboards whining beneath him. Plates were stacked to the right of the sink. A frying pan with dry scrambled eggs caked along the sides sat on the counter. He plopped himself into a chair and contemplated where to begin, and then realized, with a strange sense of alarm, that the tablecloth hadn’t been changed since Jack died. Because it was a pattern, yellow and blue and red checkered, the wide assortment of spills and stains weren’t noticeable right away, but with a closer look, he saw it was disgusting. He cleared the table and removed the tablecloth, balled it up and walked it to the laundry room.
He began removing the dishes from the sink so that he could fill it with fresh water. When Chase was in high school, Jack had tried to convince Maggie to get a dishwasher, but she had always brushed him off, joking that she already had two, Chase and Transom. It had been their job to help with the dishes three nights a week. Although both boys hated that chore, when Chase thought back to it now—Transom soaked to his elbows in suds, Chase laughing—he found himself remembering doing the dishes with an odd fondness. Life was simple, back then, and good.
Transom came into the kitchen then, grabbing a beer from the fridge. He reached into his pocket, grabbed one of his pills, and tossed it into his throat.
Chase twitched slightly. “You know it’s not even ten o’clock in the morning,” he said.
Transom cracked open the beer and took a swig.
“You can dry,” Chase said, pointing to the drawer where the towels were. He scrubbed at the eggs on the frying pan. “Who were you on the phone with?” Chase asked. The question was harmless enough.
Transom shrugged. “An associate,” he said, wiping out a glass with a towel and reaching to put it in the cupboard. “Business stuff. We used to be friends.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah, just figuring out some details,” Transom said.
Chase could tell he was lying then. Transom had this habit of pulling his head ever so slightly to the left whenever he lied. He had always done this, ever since he was a small boy. Sometimes, he would be telling a story that was completely true, but then, as soon as he began embellishing or exaggerating, he’d tug his head toward the left. He was angry, too, Chase knew, from the way he clenched his jaw. Remembering his intention to respect each other’s privacy, Chase decided not to press for information, at least not right then. They finished up the dishes. Transom grabbed a six-pack from the refrigerator, and the two of them headed for the Lincoln.
It wasn’t until late that evening that Transom brought up his plans for the farm.
They’d spent a half day hiking to their campsite. Dark swept in early and quickly in February, but Chase had set up his tent so many times that he could do it swiftly, even in the waning daylight. He unrolled the nylon and stretched it into its square shape, then he pounded the metal stakes into the hard, cold earth. Transom stomped around nearby, clearing a spot for a fire and gathering pieces of dry wood.
When he was satisfied that he could safely burn the fire, Chase arranged the larger pieces of wood, building a tepee of sorts over the dry leaves and kindling. He lit a match, leaned over, and blew softly so that the flames kicked up and caught the leaves. In a few minutes, the kindling was burning nicely, and the dry, outer edges of the firewood had caught, too. Chase grabbed his backpack, turned it sideways, and leaned up against it as Transom finished seasoning the venison steaks they’d brought along. He breathed in the cold night air, felt it dry and sharp in his throat. He loved that feeling, that coldness that burned just a little. He looked up at the sky, dark and clear and full of stars.
“This was a good idea,” Chase said, “coming up here.”
Transom squatted and carefully placed the steaks in the cast-iron skillet on the grate over the fire. He smiled, reaching for two beers and handing one to Chase. They sat in silence for a few minutes, the fire’s cracking and hissing the only sounds in the night.
Transom grabbed a skinny branch and held it over the fire, letting the end catch and burn up orange. “Listen,” he said. “I don’t know how to say this, exactly, and I know you aren’t going to like it, but here goes: we’ve got to get some timber off the farm.”
Chase frowned. “What do you mean?”
Anxiety flickered across Transom’s face. “I mean I signed with a logging company to come in. Forester came this afternoon to mark trees. Loggers will be there soon.” He took a drink. “Maybe Monday.”
“Monday? This Monday? Where?”
Transom shrugged helplessly, defensively, his face illuminated by the light of the campfire. “Hard to say.”
A strange sensation welled up in Chase’s chest, an anger and resentment and feeling of betrayal he hadn’t felt in a long time. If those loggers were arriving Monday, this plan had been in motion for some time. Why hadn’t Transom mentioned it before? Is this why he’d wanted to come on the camping trip, so he could drop this news on Chase in the woods, far from the farm, where nothing could be done? Chase rubbed his thumb over his knuckles and sat still, focusing his eyes on the fire, which spat and grew as the wind picked up. “How much are they gonna cut?”
“Just a few acres, probably. Enough to get some cash flow. The thing is,” Transom continued, “there’s a process to this sort of thing. It takes time. You got to trust me.” He looked at Chase across the fire, his face bright from the glow.
“What do you mean, ‘this sort of thing’?”
“Revitalization. You want to stay there, you want to farm. I get it. But things are changing. I’ve been looking at the numbers in Jack’s books, and it wasn’t just Maggie’s illness that set you back. Things were going south long before that. Something had to be done.”
“You should’ve run this by me. You should’ve asked.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Brother—but it’s not your call.”
Chase glared at him, his anger simmering. He thought of the farm, Church Hollow, the towering oaks that sighed and swooned. He loved the fields, the hills and folds of the land, the stream where the cows drank and cooled themselves. But that was all part of farming; that was work. The woods—they were sacred. Surely there was some other way.
Transom ran his hand over his stubble. “That came out wrong, man. What I’m trying to say here is that there’s value in that land, plenty of value. And we can do a better job of managing it. We can make it sustainable.”
“It’s been sustainable for two hundred years,” Chase snapped, pitching a twig into the fire. The Hardy farm had been in the family since 1802.
Transom shook his head. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s not sustainable. It hasn’t been for years. The place has been going under for close to a decade.”
Was it true? Jack in his office, pacing back and forth. Jack up at night, bent over his calculator, brow furrowed. Jack late on Chase’s paycheck, saying he’d lost track of time. Had Chase been too blind to see it? Too naïve?
“Everything’s different now,” Transom said. “It doesn’t have to be such a struggle, having a piece of ground. It doesn’t have to be so hard.” He paused and took a drink. “Here’s the way I see it. The cows, the crops—that’s what you know. That’s your part and you’ll keep doing that. Leave the management to me. I know what I’m doing. I’ve done this before. Things may look different for a while. They might change. But let me do my part. Can you do that? Can you trust me?”
Chase rubbed his hands together and held them closer to the fire. Change. He’d never been good at it, and he knew it. He thought again of Church Hollow, the towering oaks, the cherry trees with their wide, ambling limbs. He hated that his instinct was to feel angry: angry once more at Jack, for leaving him in the dark, for handing him such impossible odds. “Can you take another look at things?” he asked. “See if there’s any way to keep the trees?”
Transom reached into his pocket and took out a pill. “Sure,” he said, tilting his head back. “I’ll see what I can do.” He leaned over and nudged the steaks with a fork. “You ready to eat?”
The next morning, Chase lay cocooned in his sleeping bag, listening as the woods awoke. Crows hollered as they passed overhead, irritated, perhaps, by the unusual sight of the bright yellow tent. Something, a squirrel, he imagined—they always sounded so much larger than they were—lumbered loudly through the thick quilt of half-frozen leaves covering the ground. Chase hadn’t slept well. He kept replaying the conversation from the night before through his mind, toiling over whether he should’ve asked all of his questions. He decided that he must be firmer with his friend. Transom had always been the more willful, more powerful one, and Chase had, for the most part, always gone along with what Transom wanted. That’s how it had been when they were kids: Transom came up with the plan, and Chase went along with it. And Chase had never minded much, but now, things needed to change. They were adults. There was too much at stake.
Just before six, Chase forced himself from the warmth of his sleeping bag. He’d tucked his jacket down by his feet to keep it warm overnight, and he quickly slid it on. Transom snored softly, turning on his side as Chase unzipped the tent and climbed out. A white pine nearby swayed and creaked. He picked up a stick and poked at the coals from the night before. There were still some left, enough to get a good fire going, and he arranged some pieces of kindling and leaned over to blow on the coals. A few small embers swirled, and a thin curl of smoke snaked its way upward.
Chase settled his back against a fallen tree and watched as the fire grew in intensity, kicking a log that had rolled off. He thought of calling Laney to talk things over with her, ask for advice, but when he checked his phone, he had no service. He poured water from his canteen into the kettle and placed it over the fire and began thinking about all the strange events that had unfolded in the past several weeks. So much had happened, so quickly, that he’d hardly had a chance to take it all in. Losing Jack. Sitting at the attorney’s office and learning of the dire financial situation he had left behind. Transom returning unexpectedly. Transom offering to help. Chase had heard people refer to such times as a roller-coaster ride, and now he understood why, so many ups and downs, no chance to get your bearings.
