Gray Mountain

by John Grisham

  where she bought a road map. Her leased Ford had a GPS but she had not bothered to program it. She needed directions fast.

  Half an hour later, as she drifted along a county road somewhere in Lawrence County, Kentucky, her new cell phone finally found enough service for a call. Jeff answered after four rings. She calmly explained what was happening, and he made her repeat everything in slow motion.

  “He wanted you to see him,” Jeff said. “Why else would he risk being seen? It’s not an unusual tactic. He knows you’re not going to punch him or anything, so he just delivers a not so subtle message.”

  “Which is?”

  “We’re watching. We can always find you. You’re hanging around with the wrong people and you might get hurt.”

  “Okay, I got the message. Now what?”

  “Nothing. Just keep your eyes open and see if he’s waiting when you get back to Brady.”

  “I don’t want to go back to Brady.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m on the road for a few days.”

  “Vague enough.”

  She drove into Brady just before noon and saw no one suspicious. She parked on the street near the office, and from behind her sunglasses managed to scan the area before going inside. On the one hand, she felt like an idiot; on the other, she half expected to see Bozo lurking behind a tree. And what the hell was he going to do? Stalking her would bore any private eye to death.

  The Crump brood was calling. Evidently, Francine had told one of them that she had changed her mind again and planned to meet with Ms. Kofer and make no changes to her existing will. This, of course, fired up the Crumps, and they were burning up the phone lines in an effort to find Ms. Kofer and set her straight, again. No one at the clinic had heard from Francine. Samantha reluctantly took the stack of phone messages from Barb, who offered the unsolicited suggestion that she should call only one, perhaps Jonah, the oldest, and explain that their dear mother had not called the clinic, and insist that they stop harassing the front desk.

  She closed her door and called Jonah. He said hello pleasantly enough, then immediately threatened to sue her and get her disbarred if she again messed with “Momma’s will.” She said she hadn’t seen nor heard from Francine in the past twenty-four hours. She had no appointment scheduled with her. Nothing. This calmed him a little, though he was ready to erupt any second.

  She said, “Could it be possible that your mother is playing games with you?”

  “Momma don’t think like that,” he said.

  She politely asked him to call off the dogs, to ask his siblings to stop calling the clinic. He refused, and they finally brokered a deal: if Francine came to the office seeking legal advice, Samantha would ask her to call Jonah and inform him of what she was doing.

  She quickly hung up, and two seconds later Barb buzzed her. “It’s the FBI,” she said.

  The caller identified himself as Agent Banahan, from the Roanoke office, and said he was looking for a man named Jeff Gray. Samantha admitted to knowing Jeff Gray, and asked the agent how she might go about confirming his identity. Banahan said he would be happy to stop by her office in half an hour or so; he was in the area. She said she would not discuss anything over the phone and agreed to the meeting. Twenty minutes later, he was in the reception area being examined by Barb, who thought he was quite cute and thought of herself as quite the flirt. Banahan was not impressed and took a seat in the small conference room where Samantha and Mattie were waiting with a recorder on the table.

  After terse introductions, and a close examination of his credentials by both lawyers, Mattie began by saying, “Jeff Gray is my nephew.”

  “We know that,” Banahan said with a smirk, and the women instantly disliked him. “Do you know where he is?”

  Mattie looked at Samantha and said, “I don’t. Do you?”

  “No.” She wasn’t lying; at that moment she had no idea where Jeff was hiding.

  “When did you last speak to him?” he asked, in Samantha’s direction.

  Mattie interrupted by saying, “Look, his brother was killed Monday of last week; we buried him on Wednesday, five days before you boys raided his office. Under the terms of his will, Jeff is the executor and I’m the attorney for the executor. So, yes, I’ll be talking a lot to my nephew. What is it you want?”

  “We have a lot of questions.”

  “Do you have a warrant for his arrest?”

  “No.”

  “Good, so he is not evading an arrest.”

  “That’s right. We just want to talk.”

  “Any and all conversations with Jeff Gray will take place right here, at this table. Understood? I will advise him to say nothing outside the presence of Ms. Kofer and me, okay?”

  “That’s fine, Ms. Wyatt, so when can we chat with him?”

  Mattie relaxed and said, “Well, I’m not sure where he is today. I just tried his cell and it went straight to voice mail.” Samantha shook her head as if she hadn’t spoken to Jeff in weeks. Mattie continued, “We were scheduled to go to court tomorrow to open the estate and start the process of probate, but the judge rescheduled it until next week. So, I don’t know where he is at this moment.”

  Samantha asked, “Is this related to the actions the FBI took yesterday when it confiscated files from the office of Donovan Gray?”

  Banahan showed her both palms and said, “Isn’t that pretty obvious?”

  “Seems like it is. Who are you investigating, now that Donovan Gray is dead?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Mattie asked, “Is Jeff a subject of your investigation?”

  “No, not at this time.”

  “He’s done nothing wrong,” Mattie said.

  28

  The damage was inflicted at the Millard Break Mine near Wittsburg, Kentucky, in an attack similar to the others. Firing from a position on the east face of Trace Mountain, a densely wooded ridge five hundred feet above the strip mine, the snipers found their range from about seven hundred yards and had a grand time taking out forty-seven tires, each weighing nine hundred pounds and costing $18,000. The two night watchmen, both heavily armed themselves, told authorities the attack lasted about ten minutes and at times sounded like a war as sniper rifles snapped and echoed across the valley and tires exploded nearby. The first volley hit at 3:05 a.m. All mining machinery was idle; all operators safely at home. One security guard jumped into a truck for some idea of pursuit—he wasn’t sure exactly where he might be headed—but was soon dissuaded when the pickup took fire and had two of its tires blown off. The other security guard ducked into an office trailer to call the law, but was forced to take cover when a burst of gunfire blew out all the windows. These were significant events because they directly endangered human life. In the other attacks, the snipers had been careful not to hurt anyone. They went after machinery, not people. Now, though, they were breaking serious laws. The guards thought there were at least three rifles in play, though, admittedly, it was difficult to tell in the chaos.

  The owner, Krull Mining, made the usual harsh and threatening statements to the press. It offered an impressive reward. The county sheriff promised a thorough investigation and swift arrests, some rather blustery and shortsighted comments in light of the fact that “these ecoterrorists” had been marauding through southern Appalachia with impunity for the better part of two years now.

  The news story went on to recap recent attacks and speculated that the snipers had used the same weaponry as before—the 51-millimeter cartridge that’s normally fired from the M24E long-range rifle, the same one army snipers were using in Iraq and routinely scoring kills at over one thousand yards. An expert was quoted as saying that using such a rifle from such a distance, and in the dead of night with easily available optic technology, would make it virtually impossible to track down the snipers.

  Krull Mining said there was a tight market for tires, a shortage in some places, and the mine could be close
d for several days.

  Samantha read the story on her laptop as she sipped coffee Friday morning at the office. She had a sick feeling that Jeff was involved with the gang, if not its leader. Almost two weeks after the death of his brother, he needed to make a statement, to lash out in his own brand of retribution, and strike a blow at Krull Mining. If her hunch was accurate, it was just another reason to pack her bags. She e-mailed the story to Mattie down the hall, then walked into her office and said, “To be perfectly honest, I think Jeff is involved in this.”

  Mattie responded with a fake laugh at such foolishness. She said, “Samantha, this is the first Friday in December, the day we decorate the office, along with everybody else in Brady. It’s the first day I’ve managed to feel good and actually smile since Donovan died. I don’t want to ruin the day by worrying about what Jeff is up to. Have you talked to him?”

  “No, why should I? We’re not involved, as you like to say. He doesn’t check in with me.”

  “Good, let’s forget about Jeff for a little while and try to muster up some Christmas cheer.”

  Barb cranked up the radio and soon carols were ringing throughout the offices. She was in charge of the tree, a sad little plastic reproduction they kept in a broom closet the rest of the year, but by the time they strung up lights and hung ornaments it was showing signs of life. Annette placed ivy and mistletoe all over the front porch and tacked a wreath to the door. They hauled in food, and lunch was a leisurely affair in the conference room, with Chester supplying a beef stew from a Crock-Pot. All work was forgotten; all clients ignored. The phone seldom rang, as if the rest of the county was also busy getting in the spirit. After lunch, Samantha went to the courthouse, and along the way noticed that every shop and office was being decorated. A city crew was busy hanging silver bells on light posts above the streets. Another was anchoring a large, freshly cut fir in the park next to the courthouse. Christmas was suddenly in the air and the entire town was catching the spirit.

  At dark, all of Brady arrived and throngs of people clogged the sidewalks along Main Street, drifting from store to store, picking up hot cider and gingerbread cookies as they went. Traffic was blocked from the street and children waited excitedly for the parade. It materialized around seven, when sirens could be heard in the distance. The crowd pressed closer and lined Main. Samantha watched with Kim, Adam, and Annette. The sheriff led the procession, his brown-and-white patrol car gleaming with fresh polish. His entire fleet followed. Samantha wondered if ole Romey might sneak into the action, but there was no sign of him. The high school band marched by with a rather weak rendition of “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” It was a small band from a small high school.

  “They’re not very good are they?” Adam whispered to Samantha. “I think they’re great,” she replied.

  The Girl Scouts marched by, followed by the Boy Scouts. A float carried some disabled vets in wheelchairs, all happy to be alive and enjoying another Christmas. The star was Mr. Arnold Potter, age ninety-one, a survivor of D-day, sixty-four years ago. He was the county’s greatest living hero. The Shriners zipped about on their mini-motorcycles, stealing the show as always. The Rotary Club’s float was a Nativity scene with real sheep and goats, all behaving for the moment. A large float pulled by a late-model Ford pickup was packed with the children’s choir from the First Baptist Church. The kids were dressed in white robes and their angelic voices sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem” in near-perfect pitch. The mayor rode in a 1958 convertible Thunderbird. He waved and smiled a lot but no one seemed to care. There were some more police cars, a fire truck from a volunteer brigade, and another float with a bluegrass band picking and strumming a rowdy interpretation of “Jingle Bells.” A riding club trotted by on a herd of quarter-horses, all garbed up in rodeo splendor, humans and animals. Roy Rogers and Trigger would have been proud. The local gas jobber had a shiny new truck with a ten-thousand-gallon tank, and someone thought it would be a nice addition to the parade. For fun, the driver, a black guy, was blasting non-holiday rap with the windows down.

  Finally, the reason for the season appeared in his sleigh. Old Saint Nick waved to the boys and girls and tossed candy at their feet. Through a loudspeaker he chanted, “Ho, Ho, Ho,” but nothing else.

  When the parade was out of sight, most of the spectators moved toward the courthouse and gathered in the park beside it. The mayor welcomed everyone and prattled on too long. Another children’s choir sang “O Holy Night.” Miss Noland County, a beautiful redhead, was singing “Sweet Little Jesus Boy” when Samantha felt someone touch her right elbow. It was Jeff, with a cap and eyeglasses she had never seen before. She backed away from Kim and Adam, eased through the crowd and away from it to a dark place near the war memorial. They had stood there last Monday night, looking at Bozo and Jimmy in the distance.

  “Are you free tomorrow?” he asked, almost in a whisper.

  “It’s Saturday; of course I have nothing to do.”

  “Let’s go hiking.”

  She hesitated and watched as the mayor flipped a switch and the official Christmas tree lit up. “Where?”

  He slipped a piece of folded paper into her hand and said, “Directions. See you in the morning.” He pecked her on the cheek and disappeared.

  She drove to the town of Knox in Curry County and parked in the library lot a block off Main Street. If she had been followed, she was not aware of it. She walked nonchalantly to Main, west for three blocks, and into the Knox Market, a café and coffee shop. She asked about a restroom and was pointed toward the rear. She found a door that led to an alley that led to Fifth Street. As directed, she walked two blocks away from downtown and saw the river. As she approached Larry’s Trout Dock under the bridge, Jeff appeared from the bait shop and pointed to a twenty-foot johnboat.

  Without a word, both got in the boat; Samantha in the front bundled against the cold, and Jeff in the back where he started the outboard. He guided the boat away from the dock and eased down on the throttle. They were in the center of the Curry River, and the town was quickly disappearing. They passed under another bridge and civilization seemed to end. For miles, or however one measures distance on a crooked river—Samantha had no idea—they glided over the dark, still water. The Curry was a narrow, deep river with no rocks or rapids. It wiggled through the mountains, hidden from the sun by soaring cliffs that almost touched one another above the water. They passed a boat, a lone fisherman staring forlornly at his line, oblivious to them. They passed a small settlement near a sandbar, a collection of floating shacks and boats. “River rats,” Jeff would later call them. They went deeper and deeper into the canyon, and around each bend the Curry grew narrower and darker.

  The loud hum of the outboard prevented conversation, not that either had much to say. It was obvious he was taking her to a place she had never been, but she was not afraid, not hesitant in the least. In spite of his complications, his anger, his current emotional instability, and his recklessness, she trusted him. Or at least she trusted him enough to go hiking, or whatever he had in mind for the day.

  Jeff eased off the throttle and the boat drifted toward the right. An old sign said, “Curry Cut-Off,” and a concrete ramp came into view. Jeff swung the boat around and it skidded onto a sandbar. “Hop out here,” he said, and she stepped out of the boat. He chained it to a metal rack near the ramp and stopped for a moment to stretch his legs. They had been in the boat for almost an hour.

  “Well, good morning to you, sir,” she said.

  He smiled and said, “And to you. Thanks for coming.”

  “As if I had a choice. Where, exactly, are we?”

  “We’re lost in Curry County. Follow me.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  They left the sandbar, stepped into thick woods, and began climbing an unmarked trail that only someone like Jeff could follow. Or Donovan. As it grew steeper he seemed to pick up the pace. Just as her thighs and calves were beginning to scream, he stopped suddenly in a small clearing and grab
bed some cedar branches. He shoved them out of the way, and, of course, there was a Honda four-wheeler just waiting for a ride.

  “Boys and their toys,” she said.

  “Ever been on one?” he asked.

  “I live in Manhattan.”

  “Hop on.” She did. There was a sliver of a seat behind him. She locked her arms around his waist as he cranked the engine and let it roar. “Hold on,” he said, and they were off, tearing along the same trail that, seconds earlier, had been barely wide enough for humans. It led to a gravel road, which Jeff attacked like a stunt driver. “Hold on!” he yelled again as he popped a wheelie and they were practically airborne. Samantha wanted to ask if he could slow down, but instead just squeezed harder and closed her eyes. The ride was thrilling and terrifying, but she knew he would not endanger her. From the gravel road, they turned onto another dirt trail, one that rose at a steep angle. The trees were too thick for stunt work, so Jeff became more cautious. Still, the ride was harrowing and dangerous. After half an hour on the four-wheeler, Samantha was having fond memories of the johnboat.

  “May I ask where we’re going?” she said into his ear.

  “Hiking, right?” The trail peaked and they raced along a ridge. He turned onto another trail and they began a descent, a treacherous journey that involved sliding from one side to the other and dodging trees and boulders. They slowed for a second in a clearing and took in a view to their right. “Gray Mountain,” he said, nodding at the shaved and barren hill in the distance. “We’ll be on our land in just a moment.”

  She hung on for the last leg, and when they splashed across Yellow Creek she saw the cabin. It was tucked into the side of a hill, a rustic square made of old timbers, with a front porch and a chimney on one end. Jeff parked beside it and said, “Welcome to our little hiding place.”

  “I’m sure there’s an easier way to get here.”