Chaingang

“Sure,” Mary said through a yawn. “If you think so.” Whatever. Just do it and wake me when it's all over was the way she felt. She was not a morning person, and she wanted coffee and silence, not necessarily in that sequence.

Royce kept talking, going over ideas, content, where they could go to get their circular printed, details of the leaflet drop—all very real in his mind. He was acting, differently now, she thought. She knew he couldn't have done drugs in a while, and wondered how difficult it would be for him to stay clean.

“If we do all this,” she said, “and it doesn't work ... you know ... we can't let it throw us. We'll have taken our best shot, as you said.” He knew she meant him, not we, but he nodded—taking her meaning.

Mary talked about who she thought might accompany them as signatories to the documentation.

“Alberta and Owen will go with us—I know.” She was referring to her next-door neighbors. “Terry Considine, Faye, Mr. and Mrs. Dale, Kristi and Wilma, maybe—uh—Joe Threadgill...” She was making a list and checking it twice.

“One thing you have to stress, Mary, is the possible danger to anyone who goes out there. I—don't know how to handle it. We don't dare go to the cops. If we take any kind of guns, it might even be worse if something would happen. I think what you have to do is tell the folks the truth about there being armed guards, that we'll be careful as we can and—you know—take a surreptitious look at the evidence and leave quickly. But they need to know it is a potentially very dangerous thing we're asking of them."

She agreed, naturally. But as it turned out, the dangerous part wasn't the problem at all. In theory, everybody they spoke with was itching to go the moment they told them about chemicals, and the possible cover-up by the authorities. But if you ever want to find out what citizens are more afraid of than armed guards, just drop words like “witness,” “deposition,” or “affidavit.” They all ran like scared rabbits.

By midmorning, with a photographer meeting them, they had lined up a grand total of four persons, one of whom—Mrs. Lloyd—sounded so ill, Mary hated asking her to do it.

“Better have her go, hon,” Royce urged. “Everybody who sees the evidence gives that much more credence to what we say."

They left for the Ecoworld property, driving out the back way and down the road that edged the Poindexter property, all of it now in World Ecosphere's corporate claws. Royce realized, but didn't voice, the fact that in such a small town, the grapevine would have spread their comments about the incriminating chemical containers by the time they hung the phones up. Would the parent company be tapped into such a pipeline—perhaps through Marty Kerns? For that matter, would they care?

They met the photographer at a prearranged spot, and he followed them to the place where everyone agreed to meet. They waited till Mrs. Lloyd and the Rileys arrived, and Royce took them to where the containers were.

He was relieved, yet frightened at the same time, to find everything as before.

“I don't understand why they'd leave this stuff to be found,” the photographer said. “Talk about stupid.” He was taking some pictures with a flash attachment, some without. Every time the shutter clicked, Royce felt like he was having a small heart attack.

“Apparently a pack of wild dogs thought something smelled like buried bones and started digging. This is just the way Mary and I found it."

The Rileys and Mrs. Lloyd signed the statement that had been prepared, but when they were told that they needed them to go to Maysburg with Mary and Royce, and be present when the thing was notarized, Owen Riley said he didn't think it was a good idea.

“If they've got the gumption to do this, we've got the gumption to go with them,” Alberta Riley scolded him. He got a sort of caged animal look in his eyes, but to his credit, he went along.

There would be two sets of photos—35-mm shots, which would need developing, and the set of Polaroids they'd use for the notarizing and as a safety copy. The photographer would do them ASAP, and they'd pick them up after they went to the bank.

The caravan went on its way immediately, sans Mrs. Lloyd, and once again there was no problem getting the papers and photos notarized and witnessed, this time in front of bank personnel. They had to wait around for an hour before they could get the shots, and took the Rileys to lunch, Royce feeling like brown shoes with a tux the entire time.

Fifty miles and two hours later they were at PRINT-WHILE-U-WAIT, and they were doing as the sign said—they were waiting. Royce, meanwhile, was back on the phone, having his dream dashed by a crop duster pilot.

“I couldn't allow somebody in my two-seater like that. It's against the law.” Royce had never known what a richly lucrative profession crop dusting was until he started getting prices.

“Well, could you drop the leaflets?"