“Looks like you have a repair job waiting for you,” Frank said, nodding toward the window.
Doug sighed. “Yeah, Billy broke it.”
“Playing baseball?”
“Uh…right.”
Frank noticed three brown drip marks on the woodwork next to the window. Had Doug or Judy been cut while cleaning up, or had Billy put his hand, not a baseball, through that glass? Was he subject to fits of rage? Frank didn’t know much about Asperger’s—he’d have to ask Trudy.
“I know you’re under a lot of strain, having a handicapped son, and all,” Frank said, still trying to convey that he wouldn’t blame Doug for taking comfort with another woman.
Doug whirled around, his dark brows knotted together. “Don’t you mention my family. Just ask me what you have to ask me and leave.”
Frank felt like he had cornered a wild animal that he didn’t want to shoot. “Look, Doug, I’m not one to judge. But you are free during the day at times, and if you and Mary Pat…”
Doug looked baffled. “That’s what this is about? You think I knocked Mary Pat up? Jesus, even I’m not that stupid.” He began to laugh, an unpleasant sound that expressed something—bitterness? relief?—at any rate, not humor.
By 6:45, the parish hall already buzzed with activity. The monthly meeting of the Town Council, normally attended by no more than five or six people, had attained rock-concert popularity. Scheduled for discussion: the rights and responsibilities surrounding public demonstrations in Trout Run.
Frank stepped through door and paused. Early arrivals had reserved their places by draping their jackets over folding metal chairs, the set-up of which Augie Enright had probably stretched into an all-afternoon job. Some of the older folks were sitting down, but most people stood around chatting in groups of three of four, waiting for the meeting to be called to order.
Standing off to themselves Frank noticed the Extrom house construction supervisor Sean Vinson and a tall, tanned man with slicked-back hair. Must be Extrom himself. Was he taking an interest in local politics now that he was a property owner? Or did he consider Trout Run town council meetings part of the quaint local atmosphere he was paying so dearly for?
Frank took a deep breath and plunged into the crowd. He hadn’t taken more than three steps before the assault began.
“Frank, could you please send Earl over to run the speed trap on Beaver Dam Road? The way cars go flying down there, that’ll be the next place somebody nearly gets run down.”
“Frank, any news on what happened to Mary Pat Sheehan’s baby?“
“What a shock for poor Joe and Ann. I tell you, I took a casserole over there yesterday and Ann and I just sat down and had a good cry together.”
“Hey Frank, got your gun loaded? You may need it tonight!”
“Only if these nuts are planning a protest over there, right Frank?”
Frank answered every comment and request patiently, stretching his walk from the back of the room to the front into a ten-minute excursion. He finally arrived at the stage to find Reid Burlingame fiddling with the sound system, periodically sending ear-splitting blasts of feedback through the room. As many times as the council chairman had addressed a crowd in this hall, he remained utterly baffled by the church microphone.
“Let me help you with that, Reid.” With a few deft adjustments, Frank saved half the population from permanent hearing loss as Trout Run’s leader gratefully watched. Although electronically inept, Reid was quite sharp in every other way. Approaching 70, he still practiced law from an office in his rambling old house. He took these meetings very seriously, and had donned a natty, if venerable, suit for the occasion.
“Are the Fenstocks here, Frank? I like to begin promptly, but we can hardly get started without them.”
Frank scanned the hall, and noticed the sea of bodies parting to allow someone to pass up to the front. In a moment, he recognized the short, portly form of Abe Fenstock muscling his way through the crowd. His two sons, Roy and Stan, trailed close behind. “Go ahead, Reid, make the opening announcements,” Frank said.
Seeing Reid approach the podium, people began to scurry to their seats, and soon everyone’s eyes were fixed on the stage. To the left of Reid sat the Green Tomorrow contingent: Katie Petrucci, Meredith Golding, and the bearded guy, Barry Sutter. Beth Abercrombie stood in the middle of the room behind a slide projector. To the right sat the three Fenstocks, each nervously shuffling his feet in anticipation of the public speaking ordeal to come.
Reid was not one for long-winded introductions. “We’re here tonight because of an incident that happened out at Raging Rapids five days ago. Some protesters—”
Immediately, a buzz of conversation erupted in the hall. Reid rapped his gavel three times.
“Some protesters, who were exercising their constitutional right to free speech, got a little carried away and blocked the driveway to Abe’s business. Then a truck, which still hasn’t been found, nearly ran down some of the protesters. This whole thing has clearly gotten out of hand. Reasonable people can disagree on an issue, and we ought to be able to discuss it without resorting to violence or breaking the law. So I’ve agreed to give both parties some time at the podium tonight to present their cases.
“Green Tomorrow has a little slide show for us. After that we’ll hear from Abe Fenstock. There will be plenty of time for questions at the end, so please don’t interrupt our speakers. Go ahead Mrs. Golding.”
Reid sat down and Meredith Golding took his place behind the podium. She looked straight out into the crowd and spoke without any prepared notes in a clear, steady voice. But Frank noticed her long, slender hands, resting on the side of the podium, trembled slightly. “I think most of you are aware of our organization and its mission,” she said. “Some people obviously thought that Green Tomorrow would die, along with its founder. But I want to say that my husband’s death has made me more committed than ever to continue our work to preserve our natural resources for coming generations.”
Beth, Katie and a few other people, including Lucy Bates, applauded. Frank noticed Edwin reach out and take his wife’s hand. He marveled that Meredith could talk about her husband’s murder with such composure. He’d felt like crawling into a hole and shutting out the whole world after Estelle’s death. But everyone dealt with grief differently. It wasn’t fair to hold it against her that she wasn’t a basket case.
“I know a lot of rumors have been circulating about why we want to close Raging Rapids,” Meredith continued. “We’re here tonight to clarify our position, and to answer any questions you may have.”
Frank settled back in his hard, metal folding chair. This he wanted to hear.
“In a nutshell, we believe the Raging Rapids tourist attraction is destroying the fragile ecosystem of the rapids section of Stony Brook,” Meredith began, “which is a habitat for several varieties of trout, many wildflowers, and blue heron and other rarer birds. We propose to dismantle the current system of catwalks and observation decks and replace it with a carefully constructed hiking trail which would, of course, be open to the public free of charge.” This was a jab at the $7.00 fee the Fenstocks charged for admission to Raging Rapids.
A murmur ran through the crowd—nothing so blatant as a boo, but distinctly unsympathetic.
“To pay for this, and to compensate Mr. Fenstock for his business, we have written a grant proposal seeking two million dollars from the State of New York.”
Now the room burst into excited chatter. “Who says the state would give them the money?” “That’s a fortune! I’d take it.” “Not really, he’d have to pay taxes, and then how are Abe and the boys going to earn a living?”
Meredith raised her voice over the clamor. “I’d like to show you these slides, which I think clearly illustrate why Raging Rapids should be closed.” She nodded and Augie dimmed the lights, while Beth started up the projector.
“First, the concession stand at Raging Rapids promotes litter,” Meredith narrated, as a pi
cture appeared of a solitary blue heron standing regally still as an M&M wrapper swirled up against his spindly legs. Next a slide of a dark-haired teenager throwing a soda can from one of the catwalks into the brook below flashed on the screen. “That’s probably your brother,” someone called out, prompting laughter and scattered clapping in the darkened room. Frank smiled too. The slide proved nothing; it would be easy to set up the shot.
“More importantly,” Meredith resumed, “the constant noise and traffic created by Raging Rapids is disrupting the habitat of the Bicknell’s thrush, a rare native bird whose numbers are declining at an alarming rate.”
“Thrushes? There’s plenty of thrushes around—I got some in my backyard,” someone shouted out.
“This is the Bicknell’s thrush,” Meredith explained. “If its habitat continues to be destroyed it will soon disappear altogether from the Adirondacks.”
“So, we still got a ton a birds,” a man next to Frank muttered. But he noticed that Ardyth Munger and Celia Lambert, both great bird-watchers, were sitting forward in their seats paying close attention. He looked back at Meredith Golding. He still hadn’t heard her say anything that explained how Green Tomorrow got interested in Raging Rapids in the first place. He might just participate in the question and answer period himself.
“Finally,” Meredith said, “we believe the system of catwalks and observation decks at Raging Rapids is quite unsafe.”
In the dim light, Roy Fenstock leaped to his feet. “We’ve never had a serious accident in fifty years of operation,” he shouted to more scattered applause.
“Sit down, Roy,” Reid commanded. “You’ll get your chance to respond.” Roy allowed his brother to pull him back into his seat, although he continued shaking his head.
The slide on the screen now showed a very large man backing up to take a picture. His broad backside was pressed against a metal guardrail, which bulged outward under his weight. The crowd tittered, despite the man’s precarious situation.
“That was repaired weeks ago!” It was Abe who burst out this time, then glanced guiltily at Reid and lowered his gaze to the floor.
“As you know,” Meredith narrated calmly, “Raging Rapids is the site of many school field trips. I think you’ll be interested in this series of slides.” The first image on the screen showed a group of grade school children, all wearing nametags and marching along a catwalk behind their teacher. The next showed the last boy in the line lagging behind. The third showed him placing one sneakered foot on the cross support of the catwalk railing, which begged to be used as a foothold. The fourth slide showed a terrified adult pulling the child back as he straddled the railing, one foot flailing in space. The final slide showed the dizzying drop below, as water surged powerfully over huge, jagged rocks.
After a moment of stunned silence, the room burst into a cacophony of debate. “I’m never letting my daughter go there again!” “Oh, they’re blowing this all out of proportion. Skiing’s dangerous and you don’t hear anyone saying Whiteface should be closed.”
Frank glanced around the room, trying to anticipate where free speech might escalate into trouble, but after repeated, vigorous pounding of his gavel, Reid managed to bring the room to order.
“It’s time to hear from Abe Fenstock. Please give him your undivided attention.”
Abe came up to the podium clutching a sheet of tablet paper that had grown limp in his sweaty grasp. His short upper lip and prominent chin combined to give him a naturally pugnacious look, although anyone who knew him could tell you he was the most affable of men. Tonight he seemed neither frightened nor angry, simply determined.
“Hello everybody. I think you all know me and my sons. All I want to say is this. I don’t want no two million dollars from the state. I just want to earn an honest living. People have offered to buy my land before and I always turned ‘em down. Don’t forget, I employ sixty people over there in the high season, and these fellas”—he gestured across the stage—“won’t employ none. Like Roy said before, we’ve never had a serious accident in fifty years, and we don’t intend to ever have one. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to discuss because my family has owned that land since 1873 and we intend to keep it.” Then he sat down.
Determinedly loud applause broke out in several pockets throughout the room, then Reid opened the floor for questions. Alma Kurtz immediately strode up to the stage. Short and wiry, she barely cleared the podium, but her voice rang out, doubly amplified by anger and the microphone. “I think you all know my husband and I own the Trim ’n Tidy Motel in Verona. We get a lot of business from bus tours and Raging Rapids is one of the main attractions on the bus tours. You’ll lose all that business if they turn the rapids into a hiking trail,” she spit the last words out like pieces of gristle and stomped off the stage.
Frank noticed several people in the audience nodding their heads in agreement. One head bobbed harder than the rest. It belonged to a thin, dark-skinned man sitting between two empty chairs. Frank knew he was Sanjiv Patel who had recently bought the old Mountain Vista Motel on Route 12. Deserted for more than two years, the motel had attracted kids who broke into the rooms to have sex and smoke pot. Some college boys on a ski trip had even crashed there and started a small fire. The place had become a nuisance, and Frank knew he wasn't the only person to be relieved when Mr. Patel bought it and cleaned it up.
Still, Patel wasn't exactly part of Trout Run's inner circle, and Frank had to smile as the slender man leaped out of his seat and started toward the front, then paused as if horrified by what he had done. But Reid waved him on, and then introduced him as he took the podium.
"Miss Alma is correct," Patel began, his voice quavery and high-pitched. Frank thought he probably made fewer grammatical mistakes than half the men who worked at Stevenson's, but the sing-song rhythm of his speech set him apart as foreign, exotic. "We motel owners are not the only ones who would be affected. Closing Raging Rapids would hurt Malone’s and the Farmer’s Market and you, Miss Beth.”
Patel turned and pointed at Beth Abercrombie. “The hikers and backpackers," he said this word carefully, with the emphasis on pack, "will not be the ones to buy your vases and rugs. Not on your life!" he nodded, looking pleased that he had thought of this Americanism. “This Nathan Golding stayed at my motel, but if I had known who he was, and what he wanted to do, I tell you, I would have turned him away!”
Then he stepped back from the podium and addressed the room at large with surprising confidence. “Mark my words, closing Raging Rapids will hurt the whole local economy.” With that prediction hanging in the air, he slipped back through the crowd to his seat, keeping his eyes focused straight ahead.
Now the room buzzed with debate as people twisted in their chairs to discuss this angle with their neighbors. Frank felt a pang of sympathy for Beth, being singled out for reproach in front of the whole town. But Alma and Mr. Patel had a point, and he wondered why Beth aligned herself with the Green Tomorrow group against her own best interests.
Marooned there in the center of the room with the slide projector, Beth looked like a Puritan sinner sentenced to the stocks. On all sides the people of Trout Run talked and shot her looks, but no one spoke to her directly. Frank thought she maintained her composure pretty well, keeping her eyes fixed on the stage as if simply waiting for her next projector cue, but her hands moved restlessly in her lap twisting and folding a Green Tomorrow brochure. She had nodded to him when he first took his seat, but now she refused to make eye contact.
The buzz of conversation died down as Katie Petrucci rose and approached the podium. Everyone knew full well who she was, so she just began talking. “It seems to me,” she said in a preachy tone that bordered on stridency, “that we’re all forgetting just what it is about the High Peaks region that attracts all the tourists in the first place. It’s the natural beauty of the last remaining wilderness area in the Northeast. Without that my friends, we have nothing. We owe it to our children and our grandchildr
en to preserve the land, protect it, and pass it on. Forever Wild!” she shouted with a raised fist.
This battle cry produced a tumult of shouts and whistles from the audience, but how many were supportive and how many were catcalls Frank couldn’t tell. “Forever Wild” was the slogan of the Adirondack Park Agency and he knew not everyone in town endorsed their efforts. Still, he could see plenty of people in the audience nodding in agreement. Rod Extrom glanced up at the podium as if he might want to say something, but Frank noticed Sean Vinson tug on his boss’s arm and shake his head.
Katie had left the stage, and now the three Fenstocks had their heads together at the podium. Frank watched as Abe laid a restraining hand on Roy’s arm, but the younger man shook him off and snatched up the microphone. “I just want to say that the Fenstock family loves the Adirondacks as much as anyone in this room. We’ve lived here for five generations and God be willing, we’ll live here for five more. If any person or organization tries to take away our land, it’ll be over my dead body!”
Roy’s performance effectively ended the meeting. Two men tried to ask questions above the noise of the crowd, but soon gave up, and the hall began to empty out.
“What did you make of that?” Edwin asked later as Frank stood outside the church making sure all the participants went quietly to their cars.
“I don’t like any meeting that ends with talk about dead bodies.”
Edwin patted him on the shoulder. “Relax. It’s just a figure of speech.”
Chapter 21
“You’re not going to believe this! No sooner did I place Mary Pat’s baby with the couple in Syracuse, than I notice a bunch of posts in the adoption chat rooms from a couple looking for a baby and willing to really pay.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to take that child away from the new couple the way you took her from the Finns!”
“No…relax. But I hate to let this new couple get away. Maybe I’ll contact them.”
The Lure Page 14
