Gray Mountain: A Novel(71)

Samantha closed her office door and fell into her chair. She was too stunned to think of anything else, so she stared at the window for a long time and tried to organize her thoughts. Organization failed her, and she was consumed with the sudden desire to flee Brady and Noland County and all of Appalachia and perhaps never come back. It was Thanksgiving week and she was planning to leave anyway, to head for D.C. and spend time with her parents and maybe some friends. Mattie had invited her to Thanksgiving lunch, but she had already declined.

Some Thanksgiving. They were now staring at a funeral.

Her cell phone vibrated. It was Jeff.


At four thirty that afternoon, he was sitting on a picnic table at a remote scenic overlook near Knox in Curry County. His truck was parked nearby and he was alone, as expected. He did not turn to see if it was her, did not move as she walked across the gravel toward him. He was gazing into the distance, lost in a world of jumbled thoughts.

She kissed him on the cheek and said, “I’m so sorry.”

“Me too,” Jeff said, and managed a quick smile, a forced one that lasted only a second. He took her hand as she sat beside him. Knee to knee, they silently watched the ancient hills below them. There were no tears and few words, at first. Jeff was a tough guy, far too macho to be anything but stoic. She suspected he would do his crying alone. Deserted by his father, orphaned by his mother, and now left abandoned by the death of the only person he ever truly loved. Samantha could not imagine his anguish at this awful moment. She herself felt as though there was a gaping hole in her stomach, and she had known Donovan for less than two months.

“You know they killed him,” he said, finally putting into words what they had been wondering throughout the day.

“And who are they?” she asked.

“Who are they? They are the bad guys, and there are so many of them. They are ruthless and calculating and for them killing is no big deal. They kill miners with unsafe mines. They kill hillbillies with contaminated water. They kill little boys who are sound asleep in their trailer. They kill entire communities when their dams break and their slurry ponds flood the valleys. They killed my mother. Years ago they killed union men who were striking for better wages. I doubt if my brother is the first lawyer they’ve killed.”

“Can you prove it?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll try. I was in Pikeville this morning—I had to identify the body—and I stopped by to see the sheriff. I told him I suspected foul play and I wanted the airplane treated like a crime scene. I’ve already notified the Feds. The plane did not burn up, just crashed. I don’t think he suffered. Can you imagine having to identify the body of your brother?”

Her shoulders slumped at the thought. She shook her head.

He grunted and said, “They had him at the morgue, just like you see on television. Open the vault, slide him out, slowly pull back the white sheet. I almost threw up. His skull was cracked.”

“That’s enough,” she said.

“Yes, that’s enough. I suppose there are certain things in life you’re never prepared to do, and after you do them you swear you’ll never do them again. Do most people go through life without ever having to identify a body?”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay. Good idea. What do you want to talk about?”

“How do you prove it was a criminal act?”

“We’ll hire experts to examine the plane from prop to tail. The NTSB will review the radio transmissions to see what was going on right before the crash. We’ll piece this thing together and figure it out. A clear night, perfect weather, an experienced pilot with three thousand hours in his logbook, one of the safest airplanes in history; it just doesn’t make sense otherwise. He finally pissed off the wrong people, I guess.”

A breeze blew in from the east, scattering leaves and bringing a chill. They huddled closer together like old lovers, which they were not. Not old, not new, not current. They’d had dinner twice, nothing more. The last thing Samantha needed was a complicated romance with a definite expiration date. She wasn’t sure what he wanted. He spent a lot of time away from Brady, and she suspected there was a girl involved. They had absolutely no future together. The present might be fun, a romp here, a frolic there, a little companionship on cold nights, but she wasn’t about to rush in.

He said, “You know, I’ve always thought the worst day of my life was the day Aunt Mattie came to my classroom at school and told me my mother was dead. I was nine years old. But this is worse, much worse. I’m numb, so numb you could stick knives in me and I wouldn’t feel anything. I wish I’d been with him.”

“No you don’t. One loss is enough.”

“I cannot imagine life without Donovan. We were basically orphans, you know, raised by relatives in different towns. He was always looking out for me, always had my back. I got into a lot of trouble, and I wasn’t afraid of my relatives or schoolteachers or the cops or even the judges. I was afraid of Donovan, and not in a physical sense. I was afraid of letting him down. The last time I went to court I was nineteen years old. He had just finished law school. They’d caught me with some pot, a small amount that I was actually trying to sell but they didn’t know it. The judge gave me a break—a few months in the county jail but nothing serious. When I was about to walk up to the bench and face the judge, I turned around and looked at the courtroom. There was my brother, standing next to Aunt Mattie, and he had tears in his eyes. I’d never seen him cry. So I cried too, and I told the judge he would never see my face again. And he didn’t. I’ve had one speeding ticket since then.” His voice cracked slightly as he pinched his nose. Still no tears, though. “He was my brother, my best friend, my hero, boss, confidant. Donovan was my world. I don’t know what I’ll do now.”