Chapter 18

Tom is lying. He was not caught by a National Guard outfit in training. He was nabbed by a unit sent to secure the site of the task force study.

He told the Guard he was precisely where he was supposed to be. The park was his responsibility. He had a duty to see that things were not amiss.

The arresting corporal’s captain was not impressed. “You’re telling me with a straight face that you were driving around in the middle of a blizzard looking for trouble.”

“Any storm is the best time for things to happen. Poachers take advantage of the weather. When I came across young Stoner, here, I thought he was a poacher.”

Stoner was offended. “I have a license!”

The captain silenced him with a look.

“But he was only taking advantage of the facilities,” Tom concluded.

Tom got a kick out of watching the Guardsmen. They reminded him of Civil War and Rev War reenactors: doctors, dentists. Stockbrokers and schoolteachers during the week, but literally playing it to the hilt in the blue suit or the Continental frock coat on weekends.

They didn’t seem to know what to do with him. Stoner had radioed his find, but it was several hours before he was cleared to bring Tom to the command dome half a mile down the road. They kept him there for another few hours, then packed him with two escorts in a HumVee driven by a female corporal. The uniformed trio was smart and very military while in camp, but once they hit the road and started lumbering through the storm, they turned out to be ordinary folk. The driver stopped for coffee and doughnuts at a local bakery. From there they went to an armory in Morris County.

Tom was treated more like an old friend than a captive, as tho0ugh he were a POW in a surrealistic war game. Maybe it was his ranger’s uniform. Uniformeds relate to uniformed the way secretaries, medical professionals and lawyers relate to strangers in their own professionals. He was made to feel at home. Everyone was eager to chat with him about his work. They chatted back about their own. He didn’t mention the volcano. Nobody asked.

Eventually the HumVee rumbled into Trenton. All the while, as they headed south, the snow grew lighter and lighter, until it was reduced to a fine white substance. Volcanic ash, Tom thought.

Once in Trenton he was deposited with his superiors at forestry department headquarters. They didn’t appreciate his story. They suspended him without pay pending the outcome of a departmental hearing.

Tom didn’t come away with photos. But he will never forget what he saw in the glen, and what he saw convinced him there was no volcanic activity.

So, if there is no volcano, why would the state go through the big production? Why put Francis Hume off the farm? Why confiscate the horselets?

What did Farrell say about believing the volcano story? She would believe it until she knew why the state would lie?

Fair Mantle State Park is public land, but Tom is now prohibited from setting foot on that land.

Nobody told him not to treat with Bruton and Farrell, however. He sees them every day. He won’t call. He’s afraid the phones are tapped. Farrell doesn’t need persuasion to stop calling her experts. A good thing she wasn’t able to contact anybody once the storm intensified.

Bruton decides to test the state at its own game. “If they’re bugging us, we’ll bug them right back.”

“Brilliant,” Tom scoffs. “The only way we can tap their phones is if Farrell records her conversations with them for purposes of recording interviews for the newspaper. Form what I see, she’s not working for a newspaper. Unless, of course, you’re rich enough to start one up yourself in the next few days.”

“I mean, Mr. Park Superintendent, that we will be the bug up their ass that they can’t get out.”

Bruton calls Tom’s boss in Trenton to find out if anybody is going to help him move the historic collections to safety. Bob says the collections are not to be moved yet. “You wanted to stay open as long as possible, remember? I thought you were working on PR.”

“That’s right," Brut says.

Then Bob catches on to what must be an echo at the end of his line. “You’re on a speaker phone?”

“It’s all right. I’m at the practice. Have your guys check it out.”

He is indeed at the practice. What Bob can’t check is the fact that Tom and Farrell are also in Brut’s office.

“Bob, we’re not talking just New Jersey here. This collection is part of the national heritage. A lot of the towns around here were settled in the early seventeenth century. You don’t see settlement dates like that throughout the lower forty-eight.”

“Brut, we’re trying. Sit tight. Keep working on your PR. You’re going to need it.”

“Look, Bob, your guys may have been able to move Francis Hume overnight, but you sure as hell won’t be able to move the contents of an entire village in the same amount of time. We need preparations. We need time to prepare the preparations. Where are the preservation experts from Rome and Sicily that you promised us?”

“We’re working on it. Give us time.”

“We don’t have time.”

“Come on, Brut, this thing broke only a week ago.”

“And if we were some impoverished village in the Third World, the government would have people knocking down our doors to help us.”

“We sent the task force.”

“We need answers, not studies.”

Bob’s sigh is angry.

Bruton goes for blood. “Who’s replacing Von Aldo?”

“Nobody. Everything goes through me now.”

“Then you’re right. Nobody.”

Farrell runs her hands through her hair till they meet at the back of her neck. Terrific, Brut. Get yourself ousted. Put me out of work, while you’re at it.

Tom’s boss resurrects the main point of the conversation. “We’re doing what we can as fast as we can. We’ll be there in time. Meanwhile, stay open. Don’t frighten people away.”

“That’s a damn hard thing to do when the chimney and the chapel are wrapped up in wooden trusses. We need major reconstruction, not a facelift.”

“Beauty’s skin deep, Brut. Use your imagination. Your people will think of something. Let me know what you come up with. We don’t want anyone endangered by getting too close to the buildings.”

Bob hangs up without saying goodbye.

“He didn’t say anything about the hearing,” Farrell notes.

Brut consults Tom, who slumps on a stool against the wall, staring at graphic illustrated posters of normal skin and the development of acne. “You’re sure there’s going to be a hearing.”

“Bob told me so. Hell, he told me to stand by for my cooperation.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“Maybe he figures the non-profit doesn’t count. This is state territory.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want you there?” Farrell offers.

Brut doesn’t doubt it. “Did you get enough volcano material?”

“We could use the opinions of all the authorities I can get.”

“Will anybody come here?”

“I can’t invite anybody without knowing when the hearing will take place.”

Skepticism grips Tom’s features. “Will they want to be paid for their expert testimony?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked.”

“You haven’t been able to use a phone,” Brut corrects. “Damn it, Bob and his henchman have us by the balls! I wonder if it would do any good to use the car phone.”

Bright as Brut is, he’s not thinking. Farrell jumps. “Worse! Use a cellular, and there’s no telling whose air space you’ll wander into.”

The trio withdraw into themselves. Tom stares at the acne, grabbing the edge of the stool between his legs. Farrell twists her hair around her finger. Brut clicks the tip of the pipe stem between his teeth.

At last Brut leans on his desk, rubbing his eyes. “Well, I’d prefer to avoid this,” he yawns, “but maybe it’s for the best. After all, dead men tell no tales.

“Farrell, I want you to use Francis Hume’s phone.”