Gray Mountain

by John Grisham

  39

  A heavy, midweek rain drained into the rivers and streams of Curry County, and Yellow Creek was high enough for kayaking. It was warm for mid-January, and Samantha and Jeff spent most of Saturday afternoon racing up and down the creek in dueling kayaks, dodging boulders, floating on the still waters, and avoiding any mishaps. They built a fire on a sandbar and cooked hot dogs for a late lunch. Around 4:00 p.m., Jeff thought they should head for the cabin, which was about half a mile away upstream. By the time they arrived they were exhausted. Wasting no time, Jeff grabbed three backpacks and a rifle. He said, “Give me thirty minutes,” and disappeared toward Gray Mountain.

  Samantha put a log on the fire and decided to wait on the porch. She took a quilt outside, settled under it, and tried to read a novel. She watched two deer ease into the shallow water of the creek and take a drink. They left and vanished into the woods.

  If everything went as planned, she and Jeff would leave after sunset. In the Jeep—Donovan’s Jeep Cherokee—they would have in their possession all of the remaining Krull Mining documents. Jeff estimated their weight at about a hundred pounds. They would take them to a location he had yet to disclose. The less he told her, the less complicit she would be. Right? She wasn’t so sure. He had promised she would not touch the documents, and hopefully not even see them. If somehow they got caught, now or later, he would take all the blame. She was reluctant to help, but she was also eager to close this complicated chapter of her life and move on.

  Two rifle shots suddenly rang out, and she jumped out of her skin. Then two more! They were coming from just over the ridge, from Gray Mountain. She stood on the porch and looked in that direction. One more shot, for a total of five, and then nothing but silence. She could hear her heart pounding, but other than that there was complete silence. Five minutes passed, then ten. Fifteen. She was holding her cell phone but there was no service.

  Minutes later Jeff emerged from the woods, not on the trail, but from the dense forest. He was walking as fast as possible as he lugged the three backpacks. She ran to meet him and took one of them. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, then was silent as they tossed the backpacks onto the porch. He sat on the front steps, breathing heavily, almost heaving. She handed him a bottle of water and asked, “What happened?”

  He slurped the water and poured some over his face. “As I was coming out of the cave, I saw two goons, both with rifles. They had followed me, then I guess they got turned around. I made a noise. They turned and fired, both missed. I hit one in the leg and scared the other one.”

  “You shot someone!”

  “Damned right I shot someone. When they have guns it’s best to hit them before they hit you. I think he’s okay, not that I care. He screamed and his buddy was dragging him away last I saw.” He gulped the water as his breathing settled down. “They’ll be back. I’ll bet they’ve called for help and more thugs are on the way.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “We’re getting out of here. They were too close to the cave and they might have seen me go in. I can get it all in one more load.”

  “It’s getting dark, Jeff. You can’t go back there.”

  He didn’t hear anything but mumbled, “We gotta work fast.” He jumped to his feet, grabbed two of the backpacks and pointed to the third. “Get that one.” Inside, they unzipped them, carefully removed stacks of paper and placed the loot on the kitchen table. Two empty picnic coolers had been sitting suspiciously in a corner since Samantha’s first visit. He pulled them over and opened them. From the inside pocket of his vest he produced a black pistol and laid it on the table. He grabbed her shoulders and said, “Listen to me, Samantha, as soon as I leave, place the documents into these coolers. There’s a roll of cargo tape inside, make sure they’re sealed tightly. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  “There’s a gun on the table,” she said, wide-eyed.

  He picked it up and said, “Have you ever fired one?”

  “Of course not. And I’m not doing it now.”

  “You’ll do it if you have to. Look, it’s a 9-millimeter Glock automatic. The safety is off so it’s ready to go. Lock the door behind me and sit right here on the sofa. If anyone shows up and tries to get in, you have no choice but to pull this little trigger. You can do it.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “Buck up, Samantha, okay? You can do this. We’re almost finished, and then we’re outta here.”

  He did inspire confidence. Whether it was foolishness, bravery, the love of adventure, or a rush of adrenaline, he was assertive and sure of himself and made her believe she could hold the fort. If he was daring enough to return to Gray Mountain at dusk, the least she could do was sit by the fire and hold the gun.

  The least she could do? Why was she even there?

  He pecked her on the cheek and said, “I’m off. Does your phone have any coverage?”

  “No. None.”

  He grabbed the empty backpacks and his rifle and left the cabin. She stood on the porch, watched him disappear into the woods, and shook her head at his guts. Donovan knew he would die young. What about Jeff? Once you accept death, is it easier to charge into the darkness? She would never know.

  Inside, she gingerly picked up the Glock and placed it on the counter. She stared at the documents, and for a split second was tempted to at least scan a couple. Why not, after all their controversy? But her curiosity passed quickly and she stuffed them into the coolers. They barely fit, and as she was fumbling with the tape she heard two shots in the distance.

  She forgot about the Glock and ran to the porch. After a few seconds, there was a third shot, then a shriek of an indistinguishable nature. Under the circumstances, she was reasonably sure it was the sound of a man getting hit by gunfire, not that she had any experience with such situations. As the seconds passed she became convinced it was Jeff who’d been hit. Ambushed by the backup thugs, or goons, or whatever.

  She began walking along the creek, headed for the trail where she had seen him disappear. She stopped for a second and thought about the gun, then kept walking. The documents were not worth dying for, not when her life was on the line. If the bad guys grabbed her, she was betting that they would not kill her. Unarmed, anyway. If she burst into the woods blasting away, she wouldn’t last three seconds. And how valuable was she in a gunfight? No, Samantha, guns are not your thing. Leave the Glock in the cabin. Leave it there with all those wretched documents and let the thugs have them all. Live another day and before long you’ll be back in New York where you belong.

  She was at the edge of the woods, staring into blackness. She froze and listened; nothing. She called out softly, “Jeff. Jeff. Are you okay?” Jeff did not answer. One foot slowly followed the other. Fifty feet in, she called out again. A hundred feet into the woods and she could not see the opening behind her.

  Trying to find Jeff or anyone else, or anything in particular, at that moment in those woods was a ridiculous idea. She was not following orders. She was to stay inside the locked cabin and guard things. She turned around and hurried out of the woods. Something snapped loudly behind her and she gasped. She glanced back, saw nothing, but walked even faster. Out of the woods, the sky lightened a little and she could see the silhouette of the cabin a hundred yards away. She scampered along the creek until she hit the porch at full speed. She sat on the front steps, catching her breath, watching the trail, praying for a miracle.

  She walked inside, locked the door, lit a lantern, and almost fainted.

  The coolers were gone, as was the Glock.

  There was a noise on the porch, heavy footsteps, bags being dropped, a man’s cough. He tried to open the door, rattled it, yelled, “Samantha, it’s me. Open up!”

  She was wrapped in an old quilt, cowering in a corner, armed only with the poker from the fireplace, and ready to use it if necessary in a fight to the finish. He found a key and burst inside. “What the hell!” he demanded. She laid down her
weapon and began crying. He rushed to her and said, “What happened?”

  She told him. He kept his cool and said only, “Let’s get outta here. Now!” He poured water on the fire, turned off the lantern, and locked the door. “Take that one,” he said, pointing to a backpack. He threw one onto his back, slung the other over his shoulder, and had his rifle in a ready position. He was sweating and agitated and barked, “Follow me!”

  As if she might choose another course of action.

  They headed for the Jeep, which, along with everything else, was lost in the night. The last time Samantha checked her phone the time was 7:05. The trail was straight and within minutes they were in the opening. Jeff hit the key and the Jeep’s lights came on. He yanked open the hatch, and as they tossed in the backpacks Samantha saw the two coolers. She barely managed to say, “What?”

  “Get in. I’ll explain.” As they were driving away, he turned off the lights and drove slowly along the gravel road. He said, “It’s a basic tactical maneuver. The good guys are on-site doing a mission. They know the bad guys are watching, trailing them. What the bad guys don’t know is that the good guys have a backup team that’s watching and trailing the bad guys, sort of a security ring.”

  She mumbled, “More stuff they didn’t teach us in law school.”

  A yellow light flashed twice in front of them and Jeff stopped the Jeep. “Here’s our backup team.” Vic Canzarro yanked open a rear door and jumped inside. No greetings, no hellos, nothing but “Nice move, Sam, why did you leave the cabin?”

  “Knock it off,” Jeff barked over his shoulder. “Have you seen anything?”

  “No. Let’s go!”

  Jeff turned on the lights and they were moving again, much faster now, and were soon on a paved county road. The fear was fading, replaced by a bit of relief. Each mile took them farther away, they thought. Five minutes passed without a word. Vic was texting away, his rifle still in his lap.

  Finally, Jeff calmly asked her, “Why did you leave the cabin?”

  “Because I heard gunshots, and I thought I heard someone scream. I thought you were hurt, so I panicked and went to the trail.”

  “What the hell were the gunshots?” Vic thundered from the backseat.

  Jeff began laughing and was quite amused with himself. He said, “Well, I was racing through the woods, pitch-black, you know, and I ran into a black bear. A big one. They’re hibernating this time of the year so they’re practically brain-dead. This guy wasn’t moving too quick, but he was irritated anyway. Figures it’s his neck of the woods, you know, so he takes offense at getting run over by a trespasser. We had words, he wouldn’t move, I had no choice but to shoot him.”

  “You shot the bear?”

  “Yes, Samantha, I also shot a human, though I suspect he’s okay.”

  “Aren’t you worried about the police?”

  Vic laughed loudly as he cracked a window and lit a cigarette.

  “No smoking in here,” Jeff said.

  “Sure, sure.”

  Jeff glanced at Samantha and said, “No, dear, I’m not worried about the police or sheriff or anyone else, not for shooting an armed thug who was stalking me on my own property. This is Appalachia. No cop will investigate, and no prosecutor will prosecute because no jury will ever convict.”

  “What will happen to the guy?”

  “I guess he’ll have a sore leg. He’s lucky. The bullet could have hit him between the eyes.”

  “Spoken like a true sniper.”

  Vic said, “He’ll show up in an emergency room with a tall tale. Did you get everything?”

  “Every piece of paper. Every scrap so skillfully confiscated by my dear brother.”

  “Donovan would be proud of us,” Vic said.

  In the town of Big Stone Gap, they turned in to a Taco Bell and waited in the drive-thru. Jeff ordered a sack of food with drinks, and as he was paying Vic opened the door and got out. He said, “We’re headed to Bristol.” Jeff nodded as if that was expected. He watched closely as Vic opened the door to his pickup, a truck Samantha recognized from her excursion into Hammer Valley with Donovan.

  She said, “Okay, what are we doing now?”

  “He’ll follow us to Bristol and watch our tail. He also has the documents we hauled out last Saturday, the first batch.”

  “I thought you said Vic has a pregnant girlfriend and wanted no part of this.”

  “It’s true. She is pregnant, but they got married a week ago. You want a taco?”

  “I want a martini.”

  “I doubt if you can find a good one around here.”

  “What, may I ask, is in Bristol?”

  “An airport. Beyond that, if I tell you then I’ll have to kill you.”

  “You’re on a rampage, go ahead.”

  The aroma hit them, and they were suddenly starving.

  There were only five airplanes parked on the general aviation ramp at the Tri-Cities Regional Airport near Bristol, Tennessee. The four small ones—two Cessnas and two Pipers—were dwarfed by the fifth, a sleek, glistening private jet with all lights on and the stairs down and waiting. Samantha, Jeff, and Vic admired the aircraft from a distance as they waited for instructions. After a few minutes, three large young men dressed in black met them outside the terminal. The documents—in two coolers, three backpacks, and two cardboard boxes—were handed over and immediately wheeled out to the jet.

  One of the three men said to Jeff, “Mr. London would like to see you.” Vic shrugged and said, “Oh why not? Let’s check out his little toy.”

  “I’ve actually flown on it,” Jeff said. “It’s a step up from the Skyhawk.”

  “Well aren’t you the big shot,” Vic snarled.

  They were led through the empty terminal, onto the ramp, and to the jet. Jarrett London was waiting at the top of the stairs with a huge smile and a drink in hand. He waved them up and welcomed them to his “second home.”

  Samantha had a friend at Georgetown whose family owned a jet, so this was not her first glimpse at one. The massive chairs were covered in deep, rich leathers. Everything was trimmed in gold plate. They sat around a table while a flight attendant took their drink orders. Just take me to Paris, Samantha wanted to say. And come get me in a month.

  It was clear that Vic and London knew each other well. As Jeff gave the details of their escape from Gray Mountain, the drinks were served. “Would you like dinner?” London asked in Samantha’s direction.

  “Oh no, Jeff treated me to Taco Bell. I’m stuffed.”

  Her martini was perfect. Jeff and Vic had Dickel on the rocks. London explained that the documents would be flown right then to Cincinnati, where they would be copied on Sunday. On Monday, the originals would be flown to Charleston and handed over to a U.S. marshal. The judge had agreed to lock them up until he could review them. Krull Mining had not been informed of this agreement and had no idea what was about to happen. The FBI had backed off completely, for the moment anyway.

  “Do we have friends in Washington to thank for this, Samantha?” London asked.

  She smiled and said, “Perhaps. I’m not sure.”

  He took a sip, rattled his cubes, and said, “What are your plans now?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, it would be nice to have another lawyer on the ground in the Krull case. You’re obviously familiar with it. Donovan trusted you, and his firm is still in the hunt for some serious money. There’s a fifty-fifty chance Krull will surrender when they learn we have the documents. A settlement is not unlikely, albeit a confidential one. If they play hardball, then we crank it up and push for a trial. Frankly, that’s what we want—a spectacle, a grand exposé, a two-month-long production in which all of the bad stuff gets hashed out in open court. Then, a spectacular verdict.”

  Shades of Donovan. Shades of Marshall Kofer.

  He was on a roll: “There’s plenty of work for all of us, including you, Samantha. You could join my firm in Louisville. You could hang out your shingle in
Brady. You could take Donovan’s office. A lot of options. My point is, we need you.”

  “Thanks, Mr. London,” she said properly, then knocked back another gulp. She was on the spot and didn’t like it.

  Vic sensed this and changed the subject by quizzing him about the jet. A Gulfstream V, the latest marvel. Virtually unlimited range and so on, cruises at forty thousand, far above the airlines. Very quiet way up there. As the conversation lost steam, London glanced at his watch and asked, “Could I drop you guys off somewhere?”

  Ah, the perks of a private jet. Drop-offs here, pickups there. Anything’s possible.

  They declined and said they had places to go. He thanked them profusely for delivering the documents and walked them back to the terminal.

  40