“Lordy, Paul, I haven’t taken part in a demo since we did a sit-in at the Dean’s office in university over a women’s issues course, if I remember rightly. Sounds like fun. Are we going to chain ourselves to the trees?”
“No, not at all, we’re going to stay exactly within the law.” Paul sounded horrified.
“Just joking, Paul, keep your briefs straight.” Lauren heard him laugh as she used their old lawyer joke. “Tell me when and I’ll be there with all colors flying.” And maybe I’ll get a chance to tell Mr. High and Mighty Rush what I think of his underhanded behavior, she thought to herself.
Nevertheless, after saying goodnight to Paul, Lauren went and stood in the open doorway, looking out into the bitterly cold, glistening night at a set of red taillights disappearing in the distance.
How much of the indignation she was feeling was because he hadn’t told her he was the enemy, she wondered, and how much because her traitorous heart thudded loudly in her ears at the memory of his kiss?
Chapter Three
Jon Rush snapped his cellphone shut with an exasperated sigh, stowing the slim instrument in his sports jacket pocket before turning to face the four other men—all top Rush Co. officials—seated in the Jeep with him.
“That’s all we needed,” he complained. “This damned protest committee has set up a roadblock into the Haverford Castle site, complete with a full media circus. What more do these people want? We’ve agreed to meet with them, full disclosure, this afternoon. The free phone info line has been set up for over twenty-four hours, with all available details—yet they’re still not satisfied. By the way, Stephen, congratulations on getting that info phone line set up so quickly.”
Rush’s cousin, Stephen, who, as head of Avalon Hospitality, also headed the company’s special projects division and was heavily involved in all aspects of the West River Project, smiled his lazy smile.
“All in a day’s work, boss,” he said, turning to look out the window at the passing scenery.
Warren Dillon, the company’s security chief, pressed his lips together, his dislike for Rush’s cousin momentarily displayed on his face. He had a hard time in not asking what Stephen knew about a day’s work since rumor in the company suggested he hardly ever did one, but knowing Jon’s protectiveness towards his only remaining relative, Dillon kept quiet.
He contented himself instead by making a mental note that Stephen would bear watching, although he knew Jon would go ballistic at any suggestion that his own cousin might be responsible for the troubles that had dogged the family firm. One thing was for sure, though, Dillon was going to be very interested in what Pippa Williams had to tell him.
Pippa, a senior accountant with particular responsibility for special projects accounting in Stephen’s department, had phoned him on his internal company line that morning requesting an interview to discuss some possible problems she thought she’d found when reviewing the Special Projects Department fiscal reports.
“I wouldn’t come to you with this unless I was sure,” Pippa, a sedate thirty-something career accountant had told him. “Now I have proof and it really needs acting on.”
She’d been reluctant to offer any more information on the phone, but had wanted to see him immediately. Dillon, knowing that he had to leave with Jon for the West River meeting within the half-hour, was torn between staying to find out what Pippa had to say and being at Jon’s side in case there was trouble in West River.
Hearing Jon’s news about the protest demonstration, he felt that his decision to postpone his interview with Pippa in order to accompany his boss was validated. Only later would he learn just how much of a mistake that would prove to be.
The smart, late model Jeep with the Rush Co. insignia drew interested stares from passers-by as it slowed to a halt outside the West River Municipal Offices. Stephen was to stay at the offices for a preliminary meeting with Reeve Harry Turner to discuss the potential locations for an information booth to liaise with the public about the Rush Co. project.
Stephen was also to discuss the possibility of hiring a secretary/receptionist locally. The latter seemed like a useful public relations gesture of good faith—Jon felt that hiring someone local would be an indicator of the company’s intention to involve local people rather than bringing in exclusively its own workforce from the city.
There would be some jobs for unskilled workers, and also some training opportunities for suitable candidates. He’d gleaned from the previous night’s meeting that any boost for the local economy would be a key factor in the acceptance of Rush Co.’s project.
Meanwhile Jon and Dillon, along with construction manager Ray Wilkie and public relations chief Bill Costello, were to go ahead to the site where they would face a press conference and, no doubt, a barrage of input from the protest group. Jon sighed, still tired from his late night drive back to Toronto and early morning start to catch up on other matters before returning to West River.
But then he thought that Lauren would probably be there and he couldn’t resist a smile of anticipation at the idea of seeing her again. He’d been both disappointed and relieved that their moment together had been interrupted so rudely by the telephone. Disappointed because of the delight he’d taken in holding Lauren, tasting her sweetness, and relief because those very same pleasures created tumultuous feelings that had momentarily threatened to boil out of control.
But yes, he found himself looking forward to seeing her again, and finding out if the starry night had shaped her into a figment of his imagination, or if she had the same magical effect on his physiology in the cold light of day as she had had on that frosty midnight hour.
“For a man about to face the wrath of the eco-warriors, you’re looking mightily like a cat that got the cream,” Ray Wilkie, a sedate gray-haired oldster who’d started with Rush Co. when Jon was just a wet-behind-the-ears youngster—and never let him forget it—pointed out curiously.
“I’m sure the protest will be dignified and orderly,” Jon replied with a smile. “After all, these are all established citizens facing a change in their own backyard, hardly your classic eco-warriors. Calm and peaceful, you mark my words.”
Words he was soon to regret, for they’d barely stopped the Jeep when they were faced with a chanting crowd of picket waving protesters.
“At least they didn’t chain themselves to the trees,” Wilkie muttered sarcastically to Jon as they stepped out of the vehicle. He was barely able to conceal his wry delight at Jon’s discomfiture as he observed the television cameras taking the whole scene in for dissemination to a few million viewers on that evening’s news bulletins.
Flanked by his department heads, Jon waved away the police escort that had stepped forward to meet them on the road.
“I don’t think we need bodyguards, but thanks for the thought,” Jon said quietly to Mike Ohmer, the local police chief.
“Let’s just make sure there’s no trouble here,” Ohmer replied firmly. “West River isn’t that kind of place any longer.”
“You mean it used to be?” Warren queried incredulously.
“Buy me a beer later, and I can tell you tales that will make your hair stand on end,” the police chief promised with a grin, stepping back to let Jon and the other Rush Co. officials by.
Jon knew this confrontation could be crucial, not only in terms of Rush Co.’s public image as filtered through the news media, but also in terms of the company’s long term relationship with the townsfolk of West River. He knew their goodwill would be vital to the comfortable success of the project, and he scanned faces in the crowd in hopes of reading their mood accurately before deciding on how to conduct himself.
The crowd of about ninety people facing him certainly didn’t look welcoming. In fact, hostility was written on all their faces—but he continued scrutinizing faces until he found the one he specifically was searching for. He found her, standing quietly next to the tall, gray-haired man who had chaired the previous night’s meeting, and he could read
no welcoming leap of recognition in her eyes.
The silence that descended was almost worse than a riot, Jon thought, as he and his co-workers crunched along the icy gravel road towards the stately entrance of Haverford Castle. For a moment, listening to the wind rattle through the trees he was uncomfortably reminded of the ominously full silences that would reign in the desert immediately before an attack upon his platoon as it was pinned down during Desert Storm.
He shivered slightly as he used all his willpower to pull himself back to the present.
Then they were standing at the tall, wrought iron gates, where the rutted road passed through fieldstone columns. These gateposts listed slightly from frost heave acquired over the near-century of their existence as sentinels at an eccentric millionaire’s retreat.
Lauren was there, standing ramrod straight, sandwiched between Paul and Lucy, her chin tilted proudly high. The Wellmans and other committee members stood beside them, blocking the gateway, flanked side and rear by a large band of neighbors who’d turned up to add their voices to the very public protest. Jon was momentarily amused to see Lauren was clutching a two by two piece of lumber with a large artistically painted “Art Before Commerce” logo.
* * *
Lauren herself was wishing she’d worn warmer socks, and worried about Lucy. The older woman should have stayed home, she thought, half-furious, half-admiring. That she should turn out to something like this said much about her courage and determination, but what if she should be accidentally injured in the pushing and shoving that might ensue in the protest?
Lucy’s constitution, depleted by her illness, simply wasn’t strong enough to cope with further insult, but all the pleading of her various friends had only served to stiffen her resolve that she was going to be on the front line. After all, she’d quipped, that was where she’d spent most of her life—why let a little thing like a bad heart stop her having fun now?
So it was with some anxiety and distraction that Lauren watched Jon Rush and his team walk steadily towards them on that windy, cold March day. But the coolness of the day and all her worries about her friend couldn’t stop that traitorously warm feeling rush again through her veins like fine strong whisky as Jon’s eyes sought hers.
She knew, in that breathtaking instant, as their glances locked, that he was reacting in the same way. For a long moment, everything else seemed to fade. The friends and neighbors, Jon’s co-workers, the police standing at the ready a hundred feet away—nothing existed but the two of them and the wild winter wind which rattled the trees with a song of timeless, wild excitement.
Then everything came back into focus as the moment slipped by and Lauren realized that the Rush Co. officials stood just a few polite feet from the protesters. She shivered as she heard Jon Rush’s deep, male voice. Although he was speaking quietly, even the timbre of his voice carried an indisputable authority.
“We understand you have concerns, and we’re willing to meet with you all to discuss them further. A time has been set for that, this afternoon, but beforehand we want to visit the proposed site and I would really appreciate it if you would let us pass.”
As he finished speaking, his eyes sought hers, and Lauren thought there was something there, some special message for her, separate and nothing to do with the conflict.
But it couldn’t be so. She knew that. Her love of this area was too deep, too passionate, to be set aside in a pigeonhole apart from the rest of her feelings. Now was not the time or place to tell him so and she listened as Paul replied, in his usual understated and polite manner.
“You understand that the residents of West River are almost unanimously opposed to your proposals?”
The television camera crew focused on both men during this exchange. Jon acknowledged Paul’s statement without appearing to hear the shouts of protest and jeers that burst from others in the crowd. Paul signaled for everyone to step back.
Then all hell broke loose.
Someone from behind pushed forward, either to get a better view or just not happy to see the protest end on so low-key a note, and the action caused a ripple effect as people struggled to understand what was happening whilst keeping their footing on the treacherously icy surface of the pitted road.
Lauren felt Lucy slump against her, sensed her friend had fainted in the cold and the crush, and anxiously turned to try to protect the other woman. But as she swung around to catch Lucy, she slipped and lost her own footing, falling with Lucy a dead weight in her arms.
Not knowing what was happening but seeing Lauren slip, Jon instinctively reached out to grasp her protectively. But Lauren was pivoting towards him and the sign she still grasped on its wooden post swung out, connecting heftily with Jon’s temple.
With an oath, Warren, who’d seen the incident out of the corner of his eye and thought his boss was being attacked, pushed past Wilkes to place himself between Jon’s fallen body and the protesters, angrily grasping Lauren’s protest sign wielding arm.
The crowd alongside and behind, not having witnessed Lucy’s faint and the ensuing events, knew only that one of their number was being roughly grabbed by a Rush Co. official, and they surged forward in outrage, to be met by two dozen large, armed police officers who’d been speedily brought up from their discreet positions at a signal from Chief Ohmer.
It was a short-lived but wild melee, over so fast that Lauren remembered little but the whirr of TV cameras and the click of press still photographers’ equipment, the shouting and the sight of Jon’s pale, anxious face leaning over her as she struggled to her knees with Lucy in her arms.
Jon, helped to his feet by Wilkes and Dillon, shrugged off his colleagues’ help to swiftly scoop Lucy’s frail body into his arms while grabbing Lauren’s hand. Using his own husky frame as a wedge, he pushed through the crowd, protectively sheltering the two women until they were beyond the scope of the pushing, shoving, shouting match taking place all around them.
Frozen with horror, Lauren saw the vivid scarlet blood seeping down the side of her rescuer’s face, and saw the raw pain in his eyes—pain overlaid with anger.
“What the hell went down there?” he rasped. “Did you deliberately start that?” He bobbed his head towards the angry crowd. “And why, for God’s sake?”
Shocked by the events and stunned speechless by his accusation, Lauren could only gape at him until he turned on his heels and walked angrily away from her. Then Paul was by her side, rubbing Lucy’s bloodless cheeks and lifeless hands, his own face ashen with fear.
Lauren managed to get Chief Ohmer’s attention and seeing Lucy on the ground, still unconscious, the chief immediately started spitting out orders to his well-disciplined men. Within minutes, a police car with Paul cradling Lucy in its back seat was speeding towards the nearest hospital with emergency lights flashing and siren wailing.
* * *
They left behind a now subdued group of protesters, mostly quiet and shamefaced in their shock at how the peaceful protest had turned into something so ugly.
Lauren was aware of a hurried conference between Jon Rush and the police chief, and of feeling ashamed that she had brought that look of anger and pain to his eyes. She thought the sight of his pale, shocked face, vivid blood oozing from under the cap of blond hair, would stay with her forever. She wanted to go to him, but didn’t know what to say.
Before she had sorted things out in her mind, the Rush Co. Jeep had been heading off down the road leaving her once again with the view of its red taillights gleaming in the gloom beneath the trees.
An angry Police Chief Ohmer subjected the group to a careful questioning about the incident and eventually accepted Lauren’s story about Lucy’s fainting spell and her own accidental wounding of the company’s chief executive officer.
“You mean you didn’t wallop that bugger deliberately?” Peter Wellman quipped.
His jocular robustness was quelled by a dangerous glare from the police chief, who then told them he had advised that the meeting planned
for later in the afternoon between the protest committee and Rush Co. officials be postponed “until tempers have simmered down”.
“I want you all to know that, in light of today’s proceedings, we’re going to be keeping an eye on each and every one of you. Even a hint of trouble like this afternoon, and you’ll be talking to the provincial court circuit judge!”
With that, Ohmer stomped off, his feathers distinctly ruffled that there had been trouble on his patch.
Lauren trooped homewards silently with the rest of the group, which straggled in threes and fours in the gathering winter gloom. She turned down an offer of an early supper with the Wellmans and the Polechucks in favor of returning to her own quiet studio.
But once home, she found that she couldn’t settle despite the exhaustion that had caught up with her from the past week. She worried about Lucy, hoping Paul would find a moment to call her and let her know what was happening, and the events of the afternoon kept replaying in her mind.
Even more worrying, her answering machine contained a dozen calls with hang-ups and without any message being left. Lauren looked up the number for reporting problems to the telephone company, but found herself robbed of the energy to face Ma Bell’s officialdom by the depression that had dogged her steps from the protest site.
For a while she mixed paint and toyed with ideas on canvas, but her mind’s eye kept returning to Jon Rush’s angry, accusatory face, the scarlet blood oozing down the shockingly pale skin: blood from a wound that she had caused. No way could she ever attempt to echo that vision on canvas.
Giving up on her artwork, she started to prowl around the studio, attempting to tidy the growing mess that seemed to creep up on her out of nowhere. Then the telephone shrilled again and Lauren grabbed up the receiver, expecting to hear Paul with a progress report on Lucy. But instead, she heard her dinner date of earlier in the week, Steve Wallace, his voice sounding peevish.
“You’re really hard to get hold of, you know that? I’ve tried to get you before, but got that damned awful answering machine,” he declared irritably.
Judgement By Fire Page 4
