by Rex Miller
“Tennessee Motor Courts, Good Evening."
“Good Evening. This is Mr. Conway. I believe my company made a reservation for me—General Discount in Scottsville, Kentucky?” The rumbling basso profundo resonated in the motel clerk's ears.
“One moment, sir. Yes. We have your reservation."
“Well, I'm sorry. I'm not going to be able to get there for a couple of days. I'd like to change my reservation accordingly. May I do so?"
“You certainly may. Any how long will you be staying with us?"
“Just one evening, the way it looks now. Say, listen, I've got a package that I've had forwarded to me there at your motel. And I'm afraid it's going to get there before I will. Is that going to cause a problem?"
“No, I don't think so. I'll make sure the other clerks on duty know that a package will be coming for you, and we'll just hold it at the front desk for you. Okay?"
“I appreciate that. Thanks. That'll be a big help."
“The package is coming addressed to you here?"
“Yes. It's from a clothing store out East, East Coast Big and Tall. And I also have a fellow sending over some petty cash, which I would like the front desk to hold for me—the reason I'm doing that, the package is being delivered by taxi cab, and I want the clerk to pay the driver out of my cash envelope. Can that be arranged?"
“Well...” The clerk was suddenly on his guard. They'd never had to do anything like this before, and he wasn't sure. “I'd have to ask my manager."
“Listen—that's fine—but there's no problem. It's very simple. You'll be getting an envelope in tomorrow's mail, and I'll check back by phone to make sure the cash is on hand. It has fifty dollars inside—in cash. I doubt if the cab driver will charge more than twenty dollars, and I want to give him a least twenty dollars for a tip...” the deep voice rumbled on, confusing the clerk with a stream of details. The clerk had to break away twice to answer calls and deal with the desk traffic.
During the telephone call the name Conway and General Discount Stores became identifiable in the clerk's mind. When they finally saw the envelope with the return address “Mr. W. Conway, Scottsville, Kentucky,” with the big red GDS logo, it would all be an official paid-for transaction. Nothing solves problems like crisp new ten-dollar bills and corporate name. The motel would “sell” the transaction, in turn, to a taxi driver who would be asked to pick up ad deliver a package that had arrived in care of general deliver.
The cab driver would already have his cash in hand. If he was asked to leave a package atop a certain pay telephone kiosk or booth, he might think it weird, but he would be likely to comply. Mr. Conway was going to be born again—born out of the box—and no one would see the delivery.
Mr. Conway, who would materialize at some far-flung location, might or might not remember to cancel his reservation at the Tennessee Motor Courts of Maysburg. And the busy clerks would never think it a bit odd that the envelope containing fifty dollars cash had been postmarked “Finch Hollow, Missouri."
Nor would they know that the corporate envelope was one of several that had been retrieved from the bottom of a company dumpster.
28
WHITETAIL
Somebody was always uttering succinct aphorisms that stayed in the back of the mind and cooked. When you needed a profound thought, and you reached back in too far, you'd grab one of those all-purpose maxims instead. “Vigilance is the price of liberty.” Who said that?
The price of vigilance—that was something else. That price was up there in the stratosphere. It could cost you. The price of one's thrills could get up there, also. You do pay for your big chills—no question about it. There was another adage to live by.
Royce sipped at his wine, but it had gone bad. It was bitter. Nothing tastes so strong as raw truth, taken straight.
“World Ecosphere, Inc., presents ECOWORLD,” he read from the glossy brochure, “with a commitment to research for a better tomorrow.” Awkward. For a megabuck outfit, the copy sure was stilted, almost as if it had been translated into English from Cantonese or Taiwanese or Korean. That's what it was. Their hype read like the instructions on an imported battery-operated toy.
“Cleaning the air we breathe, greening the land we inhabit, and gleaning the sea's harvest” were among the parent company's prime concern. “Development of fossil fuels, solar power, and other low-cost energy sources for home and industry...” The thing had the feel of one of the old documentaries they used to show in school during civics and social studies class.
“The public will be a part of ECOWORLD, participating in a vast and innovative recycling complex based on new scientific principles that could literally change the world's face!” This read like VCR instructions translated from Japanese.
He took his pen and wrote the word “Japanese,” followed by a question mark. Then wrote another paragraph and stopped, reading the whole thing back to himself. What if they made copies of an “investigative report to the people of southeast Missouri” and circulated it everywhere? Not just media and law enforcement, but had it printed as a leaflet and dropped over the town.
“Hey,” he said to Mary, who was in bed, thinking. “You asleep?"
“Uh-uh."
“What if we ... uh...” His voice faded away.
“I'm awake. I'm listening. Go ahead."
“What if we had leaflets made. Who's the guy that drops those—the pilot?"
“Huh? Oh! The guy in Cape."
“Yeah.” He tuned out on whatever he was going to ask her, and resumed reading his notes. She was miles away, a few feet from him, with an old sheet clothespinned to a rope across the width of the cabin, for propriety, she supposed. She was in the bed but with her eyes wide open. Royce was at the trestle table. He reread the notes.
“The supposed ‘Community Communications Company’ that is building Ecoworld is not what it appears. The company exists only on paper, a front for something called World Ecosphere, Inc., a mysterious, well-funded corporation operating in Washington, D.C. and New York as a holding company. But the company—again—is more than it appears to be, just as Ecoworld is not what they claim it is. We have hard evidence that indicates Ecoworld may be a sophisticated cover operation for the largest clandestine drug laboratory ever built in North America!"
He read the details of their find—the itemized list of toxic and hazardous chemicals found on the property subsequent to the construction of the first concrete structures—a list that read like a recipe for cooking killer ice, the street name for the most deadly strain of freebase cocaine ever manufactured. How it might be possible for the people behind Ecoworld to distribute worldwide from their drug lab, under the noses—no pun intended—of the townfolk of Waterton. The amusement park aspect, with displays, tour participation, even circus-type rides tied to ecological themes, would work both as a physical cover and a money-laundering conduit. Even the foul stench of cooking narcotics down in the concrete bastion covering the central excavation might be explained by the research-and-development theme. They could be experimenting with toxic waste eradication, or pollution control—any number of plausible possibilities to choose from. It was the beginning of a perfect drug operation that could prove to be all but impenetrable.
Royce further posited that World Ecosphere was the start of a paper trail that would end in South America or Japan. The bad guys would prove to be “a consortium of politicians, drug enforcement officers, and top-level narcotics kingpins.” Perhaps an even more nefarious foreign power was providing the financial backing—who could say for certain?
The notes would be signed by Mary Perkins and Royce (whose signature would be less than worthless), and they would obtain other witnesses as soon as possible. Credible townspeople like Mary's friends and neighbors who would attest to what they'd seen at the Ecoworld constructions site. This would be augmented with a couple of clear photos, all of which would be legally documented and notarized. They'd run the thing off at some quickie printer and drop fifty thousand of th
e leaflets on Waterton, Maysburg, and the surrounding agri-community.
He wasn't pleased with the presentation. He tried to begin with the line about how all it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. He started over:
"What is going on here?" he wrote. He liked that better. It was catchy.
A killer or killers wantonly murdering our families, friends, and neighbors? People vanishing without a trace? Yes! These are not just small-town rumors you've heard—Waterton, Missouri, is in serious trouble, and the law is doing nothing! Ask yourself, why?
We have hard evidence to indicate that “ECOWORLD” may be a sophisticated cover for the largest clandestine drug laboratory ever built in North America—and neither the police nor the Federal Bureau of Investigation is lifting a finger to stop it! These findings speak for themselves:
[WITNESSED, NOTARIZED PICTURES AND DOCUMENTATION]
These are hazardous chemicals used in the manufacture of a powerful and deadly type of “freebase” cocaine. World Ecosphere, Inc., is a front for a richly funded drug cartel, perhaps even a consortium in league with a foreign power. We believe that the murders occurring in this community may be directly linked to the clandestine drug lab's construction.
WE MUST ACT AS A COMMUNITY TO BRING THESE KILLERS AND DRUG PEOPLE TO JUSTICE. CONTACT YOUR SENATORS AND REPRESENTATIVES, THE DRUG ENFORCEMENT ADMINISTRATIVE, THE JUSTICE DEPARTMENT, YOUR COUNTRY SHERIFF, OR ANYONE ELSE IN A POSITION OF AUTHORITY AND SEE THAT THIS INFORMATION IS ACTED UPON NOW—WHILE THERE'S STILL TIME!
Just awful. But he was too tired to work on it anymore. This would do. He read it to Mary and asked her what she thought.
“It's real good, Royce, but do you think people will do anything after they read it and see the pictures of the chemicals? Remember, this project has already made a lot of money for the town. They say old Gabe Augustine and his family are millionaires now from the concrete they've poured. And it's brought a lot of jobs just in construction work. What about all the money that they say will be coming into the area in tourism? Won't people around here just figure the chemicals deal is some kind of smear campaign, and choose to ignore it?"
“Maybe.” He shrugged.
“And if they did get up in arms about it and called Marty Kerns, imagine what would come of it. He'd give them some soft soap and pat them on the head, and that would be that. What can we realistically hope to accomplish? I'm not putting down the idea, I'm just asking."
“I don't know, hon. You may be right. But it's our shot—the way I see it. And it might even give us a bit of protection. You, anyway. Perhaps they'd realize it would make them look bad if anything were to happen to the person who accused them of being drug manufacturers. Also—I know sometimes you can have a lot of heat and no light, but maybe this will produce a little light along with the heat. Maybe some newspaper will get interested, or one of the TV channels, and—who knows—somebody who sees the leaflet might have some clout with a U.S. senator or the governor or—” He didn't really believe what he was saying. “Let's sleep on it,” he finally said, and collapsed into his sleeping bag in front of the fire.
“There's one thing in our favor,” he said, yawning. “Waterton! We're in a town where they actually report UFO sightings. There's people here buy those papers at the supermarket and will swear to you that Elvis is still alive. There's been how many Bigfoot sightings recently? I mean, we are talking Small Town America, right?"
“You'd better believe it,” Mary said. “Woman's place is in the home, and we pay wages to prove it."
“Exactly."
“The ERA wasn't even a rumor here."
“So you take my point. This is Redneckville. Hayseed, U.S.A. An NRA stronghold. Used to be a Klan stronghold not so long ago. If you ain't white and Christian, you know—like the song says, red, white, and Pabst Blue Ribbon—we don't want you. That's Waterton. Maybe the people around here won't be too thrilled about Japs buying up three hundred acres for their underground drug lab.” She ignored his heavy-handed irony.
“But you don't know that the Japanese are behind Ecoworld."
“You don't know they aren't, do you?” She just laughed in response. “The point is—whoever's behind it, Colombians, Little Green Saucer People, or—God forbid—the damn Democrats—they ain't one of us."
Mary smiled when she heard him lightly snore. He was so tired, but he'd done his best. She'd have to watch him when they had the handbill printed in the morning, she thought, or he'd have them out at the Ecoworld dump site searching for “Made in Japan” on the chemical containers.
Mary tried to go to sleep, but she was wide-eyed. There were feelings inside her that were growing stronger by the day, part of what she thought of as her “dark side.” She felt them coming to the surface.
The thoughts she was thinking were forbidden thoughts, and that made them all the more exciting. It was almost a turn-on to be near this man for whom she had such steamy feelings, like a kind of taboo sex act. He wanted her. She knew that. This was not the time or the place, of course. And that made it even more taboo, and even more of a turn-on.
She tried to isolate the title of a faintly recalled book or dimly recollected film in which the couple had just returned from a funeral, and there's a hot, raunchy bedroom scene. What was it that was so strong and undeniable that linked the death, or the metaphorical loss of someone close to you, with the act of making life?
The dark side of death-and-sex lust was yet another area Mary would have identified as thoroughly alien to her, yet here it was, running its fingers up and down her nude flesh, trying hard to get her attention, and succeeding in a big way.
Royce Hawthorne stirred, bones cracking, from the sleeping bag on the hard floor of the Perkins vacation abode. He'd “painted the ceiling” twice—once in his sleep, and again since first awakening—mulling over the many facets of the day ahead. He'd been up since before dawn, and was now readying Mary for the rigors of the morning.
“I've decided I definitely should not sign the thing,” he said. “It'd only give Kerns or the sheriff something to use to counter the statements we put forth in the circular. They could say—a known drug guy blah blah was part of it. It wouldn't stick as a charge, but the point is, it would take away from the impact of our documentation. Agree?"
“Sure,” Mary said through a yawn. “If you think so.” Whatever. Just do it and wake me when it's all over was the way she felt. She was not a morning person, and she wanted coffee and silence, not necessarily in that sequence.
Royce kept talking, going over ideas, content, where they could go to get their circular printed, details of the leaflet drop—all very real in his mind. He was acting, differently now, she thought. She knew he couldn't have done drugs in a while, and wondered how difficult it would be for him to stay clean.
“If we do all this,” she said, “and it doesn't work ... you know ... we can't let it throw us. We'll have taken our best shot, as you said.” He knew she meant him, not we, but he nodded—taking her meaning.
Mary talked about who she thought might accompany them as signatories to the documentation.
“Alberta and Owen will go with us—I know.” She was referring to her next-door neighbors. “Terry Considine, Faye, Mr. and Mrs. Dale, Kristi and Wilma, maybe—uh—Joe Threadgill...” She was making a list and checking it twice.
“One thing you have to stress, Mary, is the possible danger to anyone who goes out there. I—don't know how to handle it. We don't dare go to the cops. If we take any kind of guns, it might even be worse if something would happen. I think what you have to do is tell the folks the truth about there being armed guards, that we'll be careful as we can and—you know—take a surreptitious look at the evidence and leave quickly. But they need to know it is a potentially very dangerous thing we're asking of them."
She agreed, naturally. But as it turned out, the dangerous part wasn't the problem at all. In theory, everybody they spoke with was itching to go the moment they told them about chem
icals, and the possible cover-up by the authorities. But if you ever want to find out what citizens are more afraid of than armed guards, just drop words like “witness,” “deposition,” or “affidavit.” They all ran like scared rabbits.
By midmorning, with a photographer meeting them, they had lined up a grand total of four persons, one of whom—Mrs. Lloyd—sounded so ill, Mary hated asking her to do it.
“Better have her go, hon,” Royce urged. “Everybody who sees the evidence gives that much more credence to what we say."
They left for the Ecoworld property, driving out the back way and down the road that edged the Poindexter property, all of it now in World Ecosphere's corporate claws. Royce realized, but didn't voice, the fact that in such a small town, the grapevine would have spread their comments about the incriminating chemical containers by the time they hung the phones up. Would the parent company be tapped into such a pipeline—perhaps through Marty Kerns? For that matter, would they care?
They met the photographer at a prearranged spot, and he followed them to the place where everyone agreed to meet. They waited till Mrs. Lloyd and the Rileys arrived, and Royce took them to where the containers were.
He was relieved, yet frightened at the same time, to find everything as before.
“I don't understand why they'd leave this stuff to be found,” the photographer said. “Talk about stupid.” He was taking some pictures with a flash attachment, some without. Every time the shutter clicked, Royce felt like he was having a small heart attack.
“Apparently a pack of wild dogs thought something smelled like buried bones and started digging. This is just the way Mary and I found it."
