Chapter 6

The following morning is drizzly. Farrell opts for the jeans, turtleneck, tweed blazer and hiking shoes over attire more suited for a job interview. There’s no reason to dress up. She’s not a stranger, it isn’t a formal business call, and she’ll have time to walk around the park. She brings along her camera and tripod in case she feels like taking some practice shots to keep her camera-eye in shape.

The elderly woman at the welcome desk in the visitors center lets her go upstairs. The door to the room on the right of the landing is closed. Another elderly lady, whom Farrell doesn’t recognize, says Bruton is in a meeting.

“Here or in the park office?” Farrell asks.

The woman seems surprised. “Oh, here, dear, here,” she simpers.

Farrell asks the woman to please let him know that she, Farrell, is here. “He wants to see me.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Not exactly. He left me a message.”

“Oh, I couldn’t interrupt.”

For ten minutes Farrell waits in the faded redwood patio chair across from the desk, then asks if she could make a call or her own.

The woman is polite but wary. “Is it local?”

“Very local.”

Farrell hits a button. Bruton’s voice squeezes through the intercom. “Yes, Angie.”

“Sorry to interrupt. Farrell Schmidt is here to see you.”

“Farrell …” Bruton’s voice breaks off. He’s speechless, Farrell thinks. He knows it’s not Angie. Perhaps he doesn’t want to believe it’s me?

The closed door across the landing opens wide. There stands Bruton, looking fit but oddly out of character in chinos and lambswool cardigan. His face is red. He traps an unlit pipe between his teeth. “You got my message,” he says through the pipe.

Farrell smiles but hesitates. She expected a more enthusiastic reception. He really doesn’t want me, but he’s stuck for help, she tells herself.

They shake hands. Still holding her hand, Bruton ushers her into the office. Tom Von Aldo is there, in his green ranger’s uniform, also seeming out of character.

“You haven’t found work, then,” Bruton is saying.

Farrell shrugs. “There’s a recession out there.”

“You can’t find something with a newspaper?”

“Either I’m overqualified because I was an editor or I don’t fit the mold because I don’t have a degree in journalism.”

“Can’t you work as a freelancer? What do they call ‘em? Stringers?”

“There’s no pay. It’s work for school kids, retirees and rich wives, not for people who have to support themselves.”

“So what are you doing with yourself?”

“What else? Looking for work.”

“What kind?”

“Any kind. I know computers. I can type. I know how to answer phones and work with the public.”

“Clerical stuff?” spits out of Tom.

Farrell senses contempt. “If it’s any consolation, I can’t find work in that realm, either. I can’t even get my foot in the door of an employment agency. Agents don’t want me because I’m not a professional secretary.”

Bruton interrupts. “So what will you do?”

“Keep looking.”

“What are you living off?”

“Savings. The little that Mom left me.”

“How long before it’s gone?”

“Not long.”

Tom snorts. “What does your c.v. list as an objective, poverty?”

“To tell you the truth, I sometimes think it would be better to be poor than to have a little money. If I had nothing, I would qualify for public aid.”

Farrell doesn’t understand why they’re asking her all these questions. Are they setting me up to make me a bad offer that they’ll say is one I can’t refuse?
Bruton is shaking his head. His lips are compressed. He seems angry. “By Christ, I’ll never understand why you left.”

Farrell tells her story with the attitude of someone who has told the same story over and over, knowing it will do no good. “I had no choice. The paper replaced me. They weren’t obliged to grant me leave to take care of my mother because the Federal Family Leave Act didn’t apply to them because they had fewer than fifty employees.”

“But why move two hours away?”

“I thought there were more opportunities for work around Princeton.”

“Your home was here. Your friends were here,” Toms says.

Farrell wants to say, “I have no one and nothing here.” Instead, she reminds him that she lost her home. “I shared a little house with Mom in that adult community, remember? Two days after she died, a trustee came to me and told me I had thirty days to get out, I was too young to live there.”

“Isn’t that age discrimination?”

“The community is a private association. I had two attorneys tell me that such communities can set whatever exclusionary rules they like, so long as the rules are in writing.”

“So you’re free; you can do as you please.” Bruton’s tone is vigorous.

“I’m not free. I have rent to pay.”

“Can you help us out here?”

Farrell’s not sure. “Look, Brut, you know me. I’m not a businessperson. Forgive me for being blunt, but I’ve got to tell you that whatever you pay me has got to be enough to let me pay my rent plus car expenses, including insurance and repairs.”

Bruton nods and waves away her concern. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. Come on, let’s show you around.”

He and Tom take Farrell into the empty village. They stop in front of the chapel. The building is surrounded by neon orange utility fencing and bright yellow tape that proclaims “Danger: Renovations” in thick, black letters.

Bruton taps the tape. “We have a situation here. The state will make the formal announcement, and the state will deal with the media, so you don’t have to worry about fighting off journalists. What we’d like you to do is help us spread the word that the village is safe and wide open to visitors.”

Farrell squints up through the glary haze to the steeple. It looks all right; it isn’t tilting or anything. So where’s the problem? “What happened? Did the sonic booms finally jar everything loose and unsafe?”

Tom coughs, scrapes the ground with his heavy-duty boot. Bruton looks pleased. “As of this moment, in theory, yes. In reality? That’s the problem. The damage wasn’t caused by Concordes.”

“By what, then?”

Tom mumbles.

Farrell begs his pardon.

He speaks up. “Something’s hatching.”

Farrell’s not sure she heard him correctly. At the same time, Bruton is sweeping his arm around the trees. His manner is grave. “This range of hills, Farrell, was created millions of years ago by forces deep within the earth. You should know that; you grew up and went to school in New Jersey, right?”

“Right.” Oh, come to the point …

“Well … It’s happening again.”

“What is?”

“An addition to the range of hills. A new mountain.”

Farrell’s not a scientist, but she understands the principles of physical science. “A new mountain?” Are these two on drugs or something? She peers into their faces, the anxious stares to the woods beyond the chapel. The only thing they’re on is fear and trembling. “I’m not following you. Mountains just don’t pop out of the middle of the woods.”

“That’s right,” Tom chimes in. “That’s why I said something’s hatching. It’s pushing through the tectonic plates around ten miles north of here.”

“What is pushing through tectonic plates ten miles north of here?”

“As I said, a new mountain. A juicy one. A volcano.”