Gray Mountain: A Novel(83)

“How did he get the documents out?”

“Trash bags, just another load of garbage. He put seven bags in a Dumpster behind the office building. We knew the garbage truck would run Tuesday morning. Vic and I followed it to the landfill. Donovan walked out of the office, changed costumes and became an FBI agent, and showed up at the landfill with a badge. The people who work at landfills really don’t care where the stuff comes from, or what happens to it, and after a few harsh words from Agent Donovan they threw up their hands. We loaded the trash bags into the rental van and sprinted back to Brady. We worked around the clock for three days sorting, arranging, and indexing, then we hid the documents in a mini-storage not far from Vic’s home near Beckley. Later, we moved them again, and again.”

“And the good folks at Krull Mining had no clue that someone had vandalized their offices?”

“It wasn’t that clean. Donovan had to jimmy some locks and break into some file cabinets, and he kept some of the original documents. He left a trail. There were surveillance cameras all over the exterior, and we’re sure they recorded images of him. But you would never know it was him because of the disguises. Plus, Donovan and Vic thought it was important for Krull to know that someone had been there. We went back later that afternoon, that Tuesday, and watched from a distance. Police cars were coming and going. Folks were obviously agitated.”

“It’s a great story, but it strikes me as being incredibly reckless.”

“Of course it was. But that was my brother. His philosophy was that since the bad guys are always cheating—”

“I know, I know. He told me more than once. What’s on his computer hard drives?”

“Nothing sensitive. He wasn’t stupid.”

“Then why did you take them?”

“He told me to. I had strict instructions in the event something happened to him. There was a case in Mississippi a few years back where the FBI raided a law office and grabbed all the computers. Donovan lived in fear of that, so I had my orders.”

“And what are you supposed to do with the Krull documents?”

“Deliver them to the other lawyers before the FBI finds them.”

“Can the FBI find them?”

“Highly unlikely.” They were approaching the courthouse from a narrow side street. Jeff pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to her. “It’s a prepaid cell phone,” he said. “Your very own.”

She stared at it and said, “I have a phone. Thanks.”

“But your phone is not secure. This one is.”

She looked at him and did not reach for the phone. “And why might I need this?”

“To talk to me and Vic, no one else.”

She took a step back and shook her head. “I don’t believe this, Jeff. If I take that phone, then I join your little conspiracy. Why me?”

“Because we trust you.”

“You don’t even know me. I’ve only been here for two months.”

“Exactly. You don’t know anyone, or anything. You’ve yet to be corrupted. You don’t talk because you have no one to talk to. You’re smart as hell, fun to be around, and very cute.”

“Oh great. Just what I need to hear. I’ll look spectacular in an orange jumpsuit with chains around my ankles.”

“You would, yes. You’d look great in anything, or nothing.”

“Was that a pickup line?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, the answer is not now. Jeff, I’m seriously considering packing my bags, hopping in my rented car, slinging gravel out of here, as you locals like to say, and not stopping until I get to New York City, where I belong. I don’t like what’s happening around me and I did not ask for all this trouble.”

“You can’t leave. You know too much.”

“After twenty-four hours in Manhattan I’ll forget it all, believe me.”

Down the street, Sarge slammed the door to the café and lumbered away. Nothing else moved on Main Street. Jeff gently took her arm and led her off the sidewalk to a dark spot beneath some trees near a memorial to Noland County’s war dead. He pointed to something in the distance, far behind the courthouse, two blocks away. Almost whispering he said, “See that black Ford pickup truck parked next to the old Volkswagen?”

“I don’t know a Ford from a Dodge. Who is it?”

“There are two of them, probably your new pal Bozo and a jackass I refer to as Jimmy.”

“Jimmy?”

“Jimmy Carter. Big teeth, big smile, sandy hair.”

“Got it. How clever. What are Bozo and Jimmy doing sitting in a parked truck at eight thirty tonight?”

“Talking about us.”

“I want to go to New York, where it’s safe.”

“Can’t really blame you. Look, I’m disappearing for a couple of days. Please take this phone so I’ll have someone to talk to.” He slid the prepaid cell phone into her hand, and after a second or two, she took it.





27


Early Tuesday morning, Samantha left Brady and headed for Madison, West Virginia, an hour-and-a-half drive that could take twice that long if the roads were choked with coal trucks and school buses. A strong breeze scattered the few leaves still on the trees. The color was gone, and the ridges and valleys were a dull, depressing shade of brown that wouldn’t change until spring. There was a chance of light snow tomorrow, the first of the season. She caught herself glancing into the rearview mirror, and at times managed to smile at her paranoia. Why would anyone waste time following her through the mountains of Appalachia? She was just a temp, an unpaid intern who was growing more homesick by the day. She planned to spend Christmas in New York, to catch up with friends and places, and she was already wondering if she would have the guts to return to Appalachia.