September

September 1, Friday

Get started! Come on!

Bang!

Finally. Steve straightened his papers for the hundredth time. Of all days to wait for the clock before they could start the meeting.

Angus McDonald was there in the front row, and Gordon Hite was next to him. Not too many other chairs were filled.

“Come to order,” Joe said. “Go ahead, Patsy.”

At least Joe was being quick. Patsy read the names quick, too.

“Everyone’s present, Joe.”

“Thank you, Patsy. Jefferson County North Carolina Board of Supervisors is now in session. We are meeting under the emergency provisions of the county regulations, and I’m also serving notice that our meeting next Monday will be canceled. The emergency provisions allow us to do that without the usual two-week notification. The regulations require us to describe the emergency involved, and that is the current forecast by the state Department of Emergency Services that there is a likelihood of heavy rain and possible flooding in Jefferson County. Sheriff Gordon Hite is present, as well as representatives of the volunteer fire department and rescue squads, and the county manager. We will dispense with all other business tonight, and reschedule that for our next regular meeting on the first Monday in October.”

Good grief. The guy must have the entire state code memorized. Steve swallowed his impatience. A minute or two wasn’t going to make a big difference. What they really needed right now was calm.

Joe was looking around the room. “That takes care of that. Steve Carter will introduce our guest.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

Show time. Steve did his own looking around the room, mostly to get himself calm. “This is Mr. Angus McDonald of the North Carolina State Department of Emergency Services. Mr. McDonald and I have talked several times over the last couple days, and he’s here tonight to make recommendations and to tell us how the state can help us.”

“Thank you, Steve. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

Angus McDonald exuded confidence. Blue shirt, yellow tie, just the right amount of gray hair to be young and competent yet experienced and assuring. Right out of central casting.

“Even this afternoon when I was getting ready to come up here, I was still hoping it might not be bad.” He shook his head. “But the last forecast just an hour ago is looking real bad.” Deep sigh. “Wardsville is in line to get one heck of a flood.

“Grant is right on track to make landfall midnight Saturday night, at Savannah. We’ll be getting rain here by Saturday evening—tomorrow.

Right now we’re forecasting as much as ten inches of rain between Saturday evening and Monday afternoon. The Fort Ashe River will be out of its banks by late Saturday and cresting sometime Monday.”

“How high will it be?” Louise asked.

“That’s always hard to tell,” Angus said. “Ten to twenty feet.”

“How high is that?”

“The last flood was twelve and a half feet,” Steve said. “I measured some places on Main Street. The floor of your salon is eleven feet above normal high level.”

“Now, let’s wait a minute.” Randy was looking pretty glum. “You’re saying this is a forecast. It’s not really certain, is it?”

Angus shrugged. “The whole thing might miss completely.”

“It just might. I’ve seen those forecasts be pretty far off the mark.”

“You might get lucky,” Angus said.

“Or we might not,” Steve said. What was Randy’s problem? “I think we should be planning for the worst, here.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Randy said. “I’m not arguing. I’m just hoping. We’re talking about how many feet here and there, and it might not ever get up close to that.”

“We’re all hoping,” Louise said. “We remember the last time.”

Randy nodded. “That was a mess, and I don’t want any repetition.”

“We got it cleaned up,” she said. “We’ll do it again if we have to.”

“Well now, I’m not so sure about that. That’s why I’m hoping that this storm would maybe just leave us alone.” Randy did his own looking around. “That was a different time, that last flood. Wardsville was different then. There were plenty of people downtown and businesses in every building.

“And it was a lot of work cleaning up, and I remember because I was there. They closed the high school and put us all to work. The whole town worked.”

“But I’m not sure I see that happening nowadays. I’m not sure people would think downtown was worth the effort. Mr. McDonald, this town might not recover from another flood. That’s why I’m hoping it won’t be as bad as you’re talking about.”

Angus shrugged. “Sorry. I really am sorry, but I can’t help you there.” What was Randy thinking? That the guy could cancel a hurricane? “I just give my reports to the responsible officials, which would be all of you. Those issues are beyond me.”

“Mr. McDonald,” Steve, the responsible official, asked. “What kind of help can we expect from the state?”

“If the governor declares the county a disaster area, there are grants and interest-free loans for recovery projects.”

“I mean right now.” Steve turned to Randy. “I think we need to concentrate on getting ready for this flood.”

Angus was frowning. “This is going to be a regional disaster. Communities are supposed to have already prepared. When this thing hits, we’re going to be stretched thin.”

Randy was sunk in glumnity. “How do you get ready for a flood?”

“Sandbags,” Steve said. “The county has a sand pile out by the landfill, and about five thousand burlap bags.”

“Five thousand?” Randy said. “That’s the Great Wall of China.”

“Not quite. Most of Main Street is eight feet above the normal high-water level. I’ve worked out a perimeter around Main Street that’s 540 yards, and the bags are thirty inches long. That’s 650 bags for one row. Five thousand bags can build us a wall about six feet tall. Since the perimeter is eight feet above the normal high water level, that brings it up to fourteen feet.”

“How are we going to fill five thousand bags?”

Shake out of it, Randy!

“If we start first thing tomorrow morning, filling two hundred an hour, we’ll make it.”

“Two hundred sand bags in an hour?”

“Thirty people in a shift,” Steve said. “Can’t we get that?”

“Where will we fill them? Just out at the landfill?”

“We have to keep the sand dry. Could we bring it into the high school?”

“We can’t get trucks into the gym,” Randy said. “Do we have trucks?”

“We have one dump truck.” It was the first Joe had moved. “And there’s no shortage of pickup trucks in Jefferson County. Just need a backhoe to fill them.”

“Patsy.” Louise was alive now, too. “Call Byron. The furniture factory has loading docks. We could fill bags there. And they have plenty of people to fill them.”

“Will we have enough people to do everything?” That was Steve’s main question. “Can the state help us at all?”

Angus shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.”

“Now, Steve,” Randy said, “you’re saying there is a chance, though?”

“Yes, there’s a chance. I just don’t know how far the river will come up. We can beat it if it doesn’t come too far.”

“If it’s people we need, we’ll get the people.” Randy had finally given up on giving up. “We’ll start with the football team and work from there.”

“Here’s Byron,” Patsy said, holding up her cell phone.

“There’s a hundred strong men who work at the factory,” Louise said. “Let me talk to Byron and he’ll call Mr. Coates.”

Randy was sounding hopeful. “All of you out there,” he said to the audience, “start calling your friends. Have them call the Sheriff’s Department to find out where we need them. Steve, I suppose you should park yourself down there with Gordon.”

“Now, Randy,” the sheriff said. Steve felt a chill. Gordon Hite theoretically would be the person in charge. “This is a lot of effort we’re talking about here. On the one hand, we might not have a flood at all, and on the other hand, if it’s really as bad as the man says, I don’t think we’re going to stop it.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” Randy said, “and that’s true, but I think we really should make the effort.”

Gordon apparently did not. “And somebody might be putting all those numbers into their calculator, but how do we really know whether we have enough sand or bags?”

“Steve said he counted them,” Randy said.

“That’s a lot of bags to count,” Gordon said, “and if it is that many, I don’t think that sand pile is going to fill five thousand of them. Like I said, a person can do their figuring, but this isn’t a schoolwork problem to do with numbers and figuring. I don’t think we’ve got enough bags or sand. Anybody can look at that pile and know it isn’t enough to build a wall six feet high around the whole town.”

“Yes it is,” Steve said. Who was this oaf, to question an engineer? “We have five thousand bags, 250 bundles of twenty each, and we have 820 cubic yards of sand, which is twenty-five percent more than we need.” He was angry. “I measured the pile myself, and I calculated the volume.” He looked over to Joe and Randy. “We can do it, but only if we do it right.”

Joe knew what that meant.

“Gordon,” Joe said. “I think you’ll be plenty busy just managing your department. We’ll have Steve in charge of the sandbagging.”

Gordon scowled. “I think you’re wasting a lot of time and work.”

“That might be, but we’ll try it.”

“Of course we will,” Randy said. “Steve says there’s a chance, and that’s good enough for me to at least try. We have to try anyway, don’t we? How could we not try?”

“I’m not ready to give up yet,” Louise said. “Steve, Byron says for you to call Mr. Coates right after the meeting.”

It was like a movie. Steve was picturing Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney, and maybe Jimmy Stewart. We can do it!

Pretty wild. In three months Steve had gone from bit player to leading man.

But there wasn’t time to think.

“It just depends how high the river comes up,” he said, half to himself.

Eliza answered. “It will come as high as it wishes.”

September 2, Saturday

It was raining.

Louise stood at the front door of the salon and watched the drops pittering and pattering on the sidewalk, and on the windows, and on the street. Not very hard yet, but the clouds looked like big gray cotton towels sopping wet just out of the washing machine. Twenty boys and girls from the high school were milling around by the drugstore, and a few other men were on the sidewalks, standing under awnings.

The river looked about normal.

She turned back into the shop. Two long tables from church were spread with chicken and hot dogs and five big coffee urns. Artis Hite and two other ladies were in the back making sandwiches. The rest of the church ladies had gone home to be out of the way, but they’d be taking turns through the night.

Louise was ready.

“Excuse me—can I get a haircut?” a man’s voice said.

She spun around. Right in the middle of a hurricane! What kind of ridiculous man would come into her salon . . .

Oh, for goodness’ sakes.

“Matt! Oh, Matt, look at you!” She wrapped herself around him in the biggest hug a short grandmother could give a tall grandson.

“I made it, Grandma.”

“Look at you! And of all the days for you to get here!”

“I just got home yesterday, and Mom told me what was happening up here. I came up to help.”

“Well, we can use it! Oh, I’m so glad you’re home safe and sound. What a treat to see you! I was worried every single day you were gone.”

“I’m okay, Grandma. I’m worrying about you. Is Grandpa around?”

“He’s up at the factory filling sandbags, and everybody down here’ll be laying them out.”

“I’ll go see him. I’m pretty good with sand.”

Jeanie seemed satisfied. “As long as the creek doesn’t carry the whole house away.”

“It won’t,” Eliza said. “There have been other rains.”

“This is a hurricane, Mother.”

“There have been other hurricanes.”

Zach was already in the car. Eliza pulled her shawl over her head against the rain and flew to join him, and Jeanie with her.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“To Wardsville. Turn at the stoplight and there will be a building.”

He started driving. “The high school?”

“No. But close to it.”

“It’s an old factory,” Jeanie said.

“There will be people there,” Eliza said.

“There better be,” Zach said. “I’m not filling sandbags by myself.”

Good gravy, it was raining. It was surely feeling like a hurricane.

“Now, you’ll be safe here,” he said to Sue Ann, and she nodded. “The basement will be the safest place.”

“Randy—it’s you and Kyle I’m worried about.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“Here comes the first truck.”

Steve was standing on the bridge with Randy and his son, Kyle, and a dozen county employees, and Gordon Hite. The Fort Ashe was still kind of placid, but it was already right at zero feet flood stage.

And the rains were coming down, and the waters were coming up.

The truck full of sandbags parked at the end of the bridge. “We’ll start down there, just past the post office.” Steve said. Gregory Peck in command. “Right by that oak. Then across Main Street and back behind that first empty building, and then along the riverbank. I’ll show you.” They turned the other way. “And then cut back across Main Street at the green building, and up to that hill.” The important part was to get the line started in the right places.

“What about Gabe’s repair shop?” Gordon Hite asked. “We’ll leave him outside the sandbags.”

“We can’t go that far,” Steve said. “We don’t have enough bags or sand or people.”

“Doesn’t seem to me it’s that much farther,” Gordon said. “Now, let’s start back there, past the garage.”

The idiot was doing it again. If the sheriff couldn’t stop them from trying, he’d make sure they did it wrong. And Joe was nowhere to be seen.

“Do you think I don’t want to? But it won’t work,” Steve said. “See how the road dips, there? The sandbags will have to be twice as high for that whole distance.”

“It looks high enough to me. We can’t go cutting the town in half and leaving Gabe’s and those other buildings to get flooded.”

That did it.

“Forget it, Gordon!” Had he ever in his life called a person Gordon? “You’re not going to wreck this. Now, either do what I say or get out of here.” To Randy. “Take the football guys down to the post office and start there with this load of bags, and I’ll be back to check.”

A second truck had turned onto Main Street.

“The rest of you, come with me down the other way.”

“Bunch of useless know-it-alls.” Gordon was not leading, following, or getting out of the way. Steve had to walk around him.

The phone on Patsy’s desk was ringing. “This is Joe Esterhouse.”

“Joe, it’s Marty Brannin.”

“Thank you for calling back, Marty.”

“I don’t deserve that. Joe, I’m sorry. I haven’t been able to get any help for you at all. The whole state is getting pounded right now.”

“I understand.”

“Emergency Services doesn’t have a candle to spare. You talked to them?”

“Mr. Angus McDonald, here in Asheville.”

“He’s the one. If he can’t help, nobody can.”

“That’s too bad, Marty. You know what this will mean.”

“I know. We’ll get you some loans, I promise that.”

“Don’t know that anyone will want them.”

“There’s just not much to do at the last minute.”

“Never was much we could any time. Thank you for trying.”

“I’m sorry.”

Joe walked out to the hallway, to a window, rain beating against it.

Randy took a minute to walk over to the bridge. There was still some light through the clouds, enough at least to see that the river was as dark and swirling as the clouds overhead, muddy brown with branches and leaves, and it didn’t seem much pleased with the pylons from the bridge, or with its own banks for that matter. The water seemed more solid than the land, maybe because it was stronger, and it had a purpose, just to get by.

The wind was harder than before. It seemed to have a purpose, too, and it had about as much water in it as the river, and at least as many leaves and debris, which out on the bridge here, left Randy feeling like he was under fire.

And the town was under siege. The river was an attacking army and they were trying to fight it off, building a wall. Thinking about it that way, and looking at the determined river, Randy wasn’t very sure they’d win.

The bag was coarse burlap, feeling like tree bark, and Eliza held it as Zach shoveled sand. He was so fast. Heap after heap flying in, and the limp bag filling and taking shape. Then a man named Grady lofted it onto his back and it was away, and the next begun.

The factory was bright and frightful! Great machines and a hard blue floor and gray metal boxes and pipes adhered to the white walls, and all much too large. Fifty men and women were working, taking turns shoveling and holding and carrying, as if they were one great beast.

Roland Coates had greeted her, and for his sake she had walked the paths through the building, and he was proud to show it to her. And he had brought her to Byron—Louise’s husband. Roland and Byron, they were very much alike.

“Pleased to meet you,” Byron had said, and stared at her with narrowed eyes and frowning brow. But then a young man had come and Byron had left her to greet him.

And now, she concentrated on the bag and sand and Zach’s shovel.

It was troubling. She was in this hard, bright place, and it was uncomfortable. Her purpose for being there with these other people was to contend with the river and the wind and rain, which were better left to themselves.

Preventing a river! It was contention with the Warrior himself. But she was making a choice, for these people. What would come of it?

That wind howling like a wild animal and more water than the skies could ever have held. Louise stood at the door. She could barely see the men working in the headlights of the cars.

“Artis,” she said, “can we get more coffee? These pitchers are empty.”

“I’m making it.”

They still had tables of food, and more coming in, and plenty getting eaten, and six Baptist ladies were making as big a hubbub as the hurricane was.

Gordon Hite stumbled in, just as the whole room went black.

“There it goes,” he said. “Lucky it held on as long as it did.”

“Light the lanterns!” Louise commanded. And soon the salon was bright, but not near what it had been. And it was so dark outside now.

Gordon was looking down back at his wife. “Artis! Everett Colony wants a plate of sandwiches or something down at the Episcopal church.” He turned to Louise. “Everett’s at the church treating people.”

“Is anyone hurt?”

“Fred Clairmont slipped and broke his arm, and there’s been a sprained ankle or two. Just hope nobody ends up in the river.”

Seven inches. In thirty minutes the water was up seven inches. Just three feet below the sandbags.

Steve did the calculations again for the hundredth time.

Five hundred forty yards. Every row was 650! Absolute best case, they could do eight courses of bags. Two yards high. The wall would be six feet high, maximum.

The first row was eight feet above the average high-water mark. Eight feet plus six feet. The top of the sandbags would be fourteen feet above flood stage.

Maybe it would be. Everybody must be getting tired. The first row of bags had been fifteen truckloads, one load every five minutes. Now the trucks were ten minutes apart, just finishing the second row. He had no idea what was happening up at the factory. Hopefully Louise’s husband had enough people and shovels.

First row, eighty minutes. Second row, two hours. Eighteen inches of wall in over three hours, and slowing down.

The water was up seven inches in thirty minutes. Not slowing down. It would reach the sandbags in three hours.

Calculate.

Constant rate of water rising, constant rate of wall rising . . . the water would crest the wall in four hours. Midnight. And it wasn’t a constant rate of water rising, and it wasn’t a constant rate of the wall rising, either.

Somehow, through the hurricane, his cell phone was ringing.

“This is Steve.”

“Steve Carter? I’m Charlie Ryder. I’m checking. Oh that road—”

Steve hurled the phone into the river.

Randy had to sit down. His arms felt like lead and he could hardly lift them, and the rain was pelting down to soak through anything. It was soaking through everything he had on. It’d be hard to say what was worse, the rain or the wind. He could just see Kyle and his team in the headlights down the next block.

He caught a glimpse of his wristwatch in a moving light. Almost eleven! Had it been that long? How much longer could they go?

But the water kept coming and coming, faster and higher, way up over the bank and the first rows of sandbags.

An empty truck roared off back toward the furniture factory. There wasn’t another one yet and everyone at the line had to stop again.

Randy got himself up. “Gordon?”

“Yeah?”

“I think we need people to be ready if that water comes over.”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking.”

“Might be another hour,” Randy said, “but we’re not keeping up, and it’ll come fast.”

“We’ll keep an eye on it.”

A couple of men headed down toward Louise’s, but Randy had to sit down again, even in the wind and rain. They weren’t close to keeping up, and he knew what it meant. Somewhere there’d be the first stream over the top, and then more, and the breach would open up, and it would all come pouring in.

He remembered the last time, even thirty years later it was still fresh in his mind, the brown water racing down the street, every business in the town with that torrent running through, waist deep or higher.

Not one of them was going to get over that. Not this time.

It was the end.

Pretty foolish, crying like a baby when the rain’s already pouring down and the wind’s screaming louder than anything.

They’d close the town. Just empty buildings filled with mud up and down Main Street, and a road over the mountain, and soon why even live in town anyway? Why look at it all run-down and dead?

There wasn’t a way to stop the water. Wardsville had put up its best against the river, and the river was the easy winner. They’d be the hard losers.

Finally another truck pulled in, and all he could see was the arms and hands reaching in and pulling bags off. The only light was headlight beams jutting through the rain. And across the river there more headlights coming up.

A hard wall of wind hit him, filled with water, and he staggered back a little. Then he got his bearings to look back over the river.

It was hard to see. It looked like a line of lights. It would have to be reflections on the wet road, because it looked like headlights and more headlights stretching back down Marker Highway.

Randy got himself up and went staggering toward the bridge as fast as he could through inches of water and pounds of weariness. The river wasn’t up to the bridge deck yet, and it wouldn’t be before Main Street was already flooded.

But there were men at the other side. He started running toward them.

He couldn’t even think, really. What was he even doing? Three men were at the edge of the river looking at the bridge.

“The bridge is fine,” he called, not even knowing what he meant. “It’s fine. You can come over it.” Somehow he knew they needed to. “It’ll hold. You can make it. We can make it.”

He still didn’t even know what it meant, but they were here to help. He knew it.

And one of the men turned back to the first trucks. “Move it!” the man yelled. “Move ’em, move ’em, move ’em! Get ’em over!” The first truck was roaring louder than the rain, blowing past them, then the next, and more. They were big trucks. “Move it!” Someone had a light stick and he was waving trucks past, and someone at the other end of the bridge was sending the trucks in either direction along Main Street.

“Thank you so much,” Randy was saying to the one man who’d sent the trucks across the bridge. “Thank you so much.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Steve Carter is in charge as much as anybody, and you’ll find Sheriff Hite over there,” Randy said. “You’ll be best off just getting sandbags from the furniture factory and laying them out.”

“We brought our own bags,” the man said, and Randy finally realized that they were army trucks. He looked back at the town and a big spotlight glared on and the street was filled with its fire and the whole town was crawling with men, and it was like his eyes had been opened to see things he hadn’t been able to before.

They weren’t going to lose. He could see it all now.

Two hundred bags left, and that was it. Now what? Steve was standing in the loading dock at the factory, looking at the little pile of bags.

Now what? Nothing! No bags.

What else could they use? Nothing. Logs? Bricks? Cinderblocks?

Cinderella?

Pumpkins? Mice? He needed a fairy godmother.

“Mr. Carter?”

What? A guy in a big army surplus coat.

“I’m Steve Carter.”

“Corporal Ramos, sir. Could you come with me?”

Gordon was having him arrested. “What’s happening”

“If you could come, sir. Captain Bednarek can explain.”

Who were these people? Where had this Hummer come from?

And maybe the coat wasn’t surplus.

They pulled out into Hemlock River and through the rapids toward downtown.

What were the lights? Somebody had the power back on Main Street?

Trucks. Big trucks, and lots of people. Lots of people pulling sandbags off big trucks. It was a whole battalion of National Guard! A brigade, at least. Or a couple companies.

“Where’s Bednarek?” the driver screamed out his window.

The man pointed.

They pulled up by the command center—three men standing on the corner at Main Street and the bridge.

“Mr. Carter? You’re the engineer in charge?”

Huh? Uh . . . “Yes.”

“Could you look over the line, sir and see if it’s acceptable? Corporal Ramos will go with you.”

“Yeah! Let’s go. Um . . . I’m just wondering who sent you? We heard there was no help available.”

Even in the dark, Steve could see the man’s expression. “Somebody pulled some really big strings.”

The telephone rang. Nobody else was in the courthouse. He picked up the handset.

“This is Joe Esterhouse.”

“Mr. Esterhouse. Please wait for the governor.”

He waited.

“Joe?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tommy Johnson.”

“Evening, sir.”

“I’m calling back to check on you. Did your help get there?”

“Yes, sir, they did. About a half hour ago.”

“Did they make it in time?”

“It looks like they did, sir.”

“Good. I’m glad you called when you did.”

Joe still had the pink notepaper from March in his hand. “You gave me your telephone number, so I thought I’d use it.”

“That’s why I gave it to you.”

“And we appreciate the help. I don’t think we would have recovered from a flood this time.”

“Let me know if you need anything else.”

September 5, Tuesday

The water was still high, but it was down closer to where it was supposed to be.

“Hi, Grandma,” Matt said, sitting right down on Becky’s chair in the salon. “It’s a mess out there.”

“It’s nothing like the last flood,” Louise said. “That was a mess!”

“This is enough.”

“So, did you talk to Lyle?”

“He said I could work for the week.”

“Then your grandpa can get you that job at the factory, and you can be in the basement as long as you want. Do you really want to stay?”

“Sure! For a while. I need to find a job.”

“You won’t find one around here,” Louise said.

“Grandpa says if the road gets built, they’ll be hiring at the factory.”

Louise bit her lip. She was not going to pull Matt into all of that.

But right then, the door opened and Randy McCoy and Steve Carter came tromping into the salon.

“We’ll need new bags anyway,” Steve was saying. “Hi, Louise!”

“Well, look at you two,” she said. “I bet you’re both feeling pleased. There is not a spot of mud on Main Street.”

“Which is different than the last time,” Randy said. “But there’s still the paper work to be done, just like for anything.”

“We’re figuring what the county had to spend, and we’ll get the state to reimburse us,” Steve said. “I hope. Bags and sand. Emergency services. Police overtime. Food. Did you spend anything on all that food?”

“Of course not,” Louise said. “Everybody just brought it.”

“It’ll cost to clean up the sandbags,” Steve said.

“Matt’s all ready to start on that,” Louise said. “Lyle hired him.”

“Oh. Good,” Steve said. “So what are you doing with them?”

“Sheriff Hite told us to just dump them in the river,” Matt said.

A big scowl appeared on Steve’s face. “He said what?”

“Dump them in the river.”

“What does Lyle say?”

“He says do whatever the sheriff says.”

“He would.” Steve didn’t seem to have gotten off real well with Gordon. “Just throw the bags in whole?”

“No,” Matt said. “Cut the ends and dump the sand off the riverbank, then send the bags back to the storage shed at the landfill to use again next time.”

“Can we fire Gordon?” Steve said.

“Don’t worry about Gordon,” Louise said. “He’s just never been through a flood before as sheriff.”

“Actually,” Randy said, “we can’t even talk about it. We can’t have more than two board members talk official business together except at official meetings.”

“Then I won’t talk to you,” Steve said. “You’re Matt?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell your grandmother, and Mr. McCoy, that guy right there, that I think we should fire the sheriff.”

“Grandma . . .” Matt started.

“I heard him,” Louise said. “We won’t right now, and besides, we can’t. He’s elected.”

“Why is he even involved in this anyway?” Steve said. “The sheriff isn’t in charge of cleaning up.”

“Now, Steve, we’re all involved,” Randy said. “Sometimes it’s just who’s there that makes a decision.”

“But that’s the wrong decision. Where does all the sand go if you throw it in the river? Somebody should figure that out first. And we’re not going to use the bags over. We can do better than this.”

“I’m all for that,” Randy said. “I just don’t think anybody knows how, and there isn’t any money to pay for it anyway.”

“Look what we did already!” Steve said. He’d gotten so determined in the last week! It made Louise feel determined herself.

“Steve,” she said, “just go have a talk with Lyle. And if he or Gordon give you any trouble, we’ll put Joe on to them. But I think you’re right. Nobody would have thought we could beat a hurricane, and we did.”

“We did beat a hurricane, didn’t we,” Randy said. “Even if it took the National Guard to help. But we beat it.”

September 12, Tuesday

Tearing. Ripping. Leaf after leaf. Everywhere was smelling of tobacco.

Joe was walking the fields, tearing leaves but still watching. Fifteen boys, high school and past school, tearing leaves.

Leonard Darlington hired Mexicans. Most of the farmers did. Joe cobbled together a crew from town and around and Rose fed them all, but it was harder each year to find enough, and they cost more.

But he’d got enough for this year. Wouldn’t need them next year.

In the computer age, why were so many trees dying? And why did so many of them show up in his mailbox? The physical inbox, the one that brooded on the corner of his desk, usually in lonely solitude but today crushed under the massive weight of . . . Mount RushMail. He wasn’t running a civil engineering practice—he was a mere cog in the great life cycle of paper as it went from forestland to landfill.

Time to slay this dragon. Steve took his weapon, Murgatroyd, the purple plastic letter opener with little green race cars, which Max had given him for Christmas, and attacked.

An hour later he was approaching the bottom.

Big manilla envelope. No return address. Asheville postmark, from August. A little curious.

He wielded Murgatroyd—who was actually quite sharp for a thirty-nine-cent piece of plastic.

A contract, some paragraphs blacked out. December 1, a year ago, between . . . Trinkle Land Trust and Regency Atlantic Associates.

Well, how interesting. Jarvis had come through.

But there was still other mail. Set Mr. Jarvis aside for a more opportune moment.

“I’m doing my big article on the flood,” Luke said, plopping himself down in Randy’s office.

“You’re only now getting around to it?” Randy said.

“I’m sure you’ve been following my ongoing coverage. But this is the inside story with all the investigative details. You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“What I want to know is why the county was so poorly prepared, and all those other backroom deals and decisions.”

“Just go, Luke. I don’t have any time for this.”

“Who was mad at Gabe to leave his garage outside the sandbags?”

“His insurance will get him right back in business. It’s your place we should have let flood.”

“I love these quotes,” Luke said.

“Speaking of quotes—I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh, I don’t answer questions. I only ask them.”

“Back in April, one of those times you were bugging me about Gold River Highway. You said you were meeting Wade Harris in town here. Did you ever do that?”

That put a cork into Luke for a few seconds at least. “Well, no,” he said, finally. “He died before we could.”

“Wasn’t it going to be that day of the meeting?”

“It was, but he called and canceled it,” Luke said. “Said he was meeting a customer and couldn’t make it into town.”

“Now, what does that mean?” Randy said.

“What does what mean?”

Wade hadn’t seen Jeremy, and he hadn’t seen Luke, either. Where had he been coming from? “Well, I’m just wondering where Wade had been all afternoon.”

“I wish I’d seen him,” Luke said. “That would have been a story.”

September 18, Monday

“I like this better, Joe.” Marty Brannin was at his place at the kitchen table. The morning sun was a flood in the window. “Lots better than dark night meetings. And I don’t mind any delay in getting back to Raleigh.” Wolfing his eggs and bacon, poor man was always in a hurry. “I’d be hard-pressed to decide between late night pie and a country breakfast. But anything’s better than a fast-food egg biscuit.”

“You’re always welcome, Marty.”

“Thank you both. Let’s see, anything I need to do for you since your flood? The governor has taken an interest. Wardsville and Jefferson County are magic words in Raleigh right now. The little town that could, you know.”

“Steve Carter’s been taking care of things.”

“And now I’ll sing for my supper. Joe, I had a scheduled sit-down meeting with Jack Royce. I said I wanted to ask his advice. I wasn’t sure he’d talk to me, except I used my own magic word.”

“What word was that?”

“Trinkle. I said, ‘Jack, I’ve got an unusual opportunity here, and I just have a feeling you might want to discuss it.’ I told him there was a prime slice of real estate in my district, and there were some possible deals, but I’d been given his name to talk to first. And of course he remembered my asking about that Charlie Ryder and West Carolina Development. So he took the bait. I acted like I knew more than I did, and he acted like he knew less than he did. But just dropping that Trinkle name made his eyes get real big. He knew, if I was asking him about them, I must know enough. So he told me he’d been working with them on some legislation. Then he said we better keep each other informed.”

“What does that mean then, Marty?”

“I’d bet one of Rose’s apple pies that the Trinkle family paid Jack Royce to get that road built.”

“I’d about decided that, too.”

“Then it’s for sure. A couple other things. He’s never heard of that Regency Atlantic. That must be a legitimate business deal. Next, I haven’t found anything about who’s against the road, and that’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it?”

“Seems to be,” Joe said. “But knowing for sure about the Trinkles means a lot. I wonder when anyone here would have heard about any of this.”

“It would have been happening by last fall. That’s when the Clean Air Act was written. So, what do I do now?”

“I don’t know. I suppose we should just keep in touch.”

“The Planning Commission of Jefferson County North Carolina is now in session.” Either try to sound like Joe, or try to not sound like Joe. Steve would never find his own independent existence as a board chairman. He would always be under the shadow of the master.

Be patient, Grasshopper. Your time will come. In just fifty years, you too will understand the Gavel of Authority.

“Is this a quorum?” he asked.

“Probably not,” Ed Fiddler said. They were the only two. Humphrey King was absent. Duane Fowler had not actually been to a meeting yet that year. In fact, Steve hadn’t even met him yet. And now that Randy was off the commission—it was getting pretty sparse.

“Okay. We’ve got one item here, so we can discuss it, but we’ll have to pass it on to the Board of Supervisors without any recommendation.”

The only other person in the room was Roland Coates.

“Mr. Coates,” Steve said. “Do you have any comments?”

“Just what I’ve said already. I want my zoning changed.”

“Can’t you tell us anything?”

“It’s a business deal, and I’m not telling you my business.”

“How can we do anything if we don’t know what you want us to do?”

“I don’t see that I need to,” Mr. Coates said. “You can’t vote one way or the other without your quorum, and its Randy’s board that counts anyway.”

“I guess that’s correct,” Steve said. So who needed an existence, anyway? “Mr. Coates, could you tell me one thing?”

“Maybe.”

“This isn’t going to be another grocery store, is it?”

“Where in tarnation did anybody get that idea? No, it isn’t any grocery store or any kind of store and it never had been!”

“Okay. Thanks. I was just checking. And thanks for your help in the flood.”

“Pleased to be of service.”

“I really mean it, thanks. Um . . . anything else?”

“I don’t have anything,” Ed said.

“Okay. I guess we’re adjourned. Thanks for coming, Ed.”

“No problem. I was on my way to get some ice cream at the store and just thought I’d stop in.”

The last sunset light swept across the porch. And Eliza was also sweeping the porch. The leaves that had opened so jubilantly were now aged, dry, humbled. Their moment of the circle was past, and they would return to the soil.

But not on her porch!

The leaves were like the weeds, only by misfortune appearing where they were not allowed. And like the river waters.

It was still troubling. She had sided against powers of wind and water that had greater right to do as they wished than she had to prevent them. And now she had a bond with the people of the town that she had not before.

She swept the leaves away. And any more that fell would follow!

“You’re back early,” Natalie said. She smiled. “You can say goodnight to everybody!”

“Sure,” Steve said. “I rushed through the entire agenda just so I could get here. Gosh, what a waste! Let’s see—twenty-five-minute drive to Wardsville, five-minute meeting, twenty-five minutes back. That’s nine percent efficiency. Or ninety-one percent inefficiency.”

“My whole life is inefficiency.”

“It depends how you juggle the numbers. I’ll go say good-night.”

Which he did, very inefficiently, but to great constituent approval. And then he was at his desk.

A little extra time. What to do? Ah yes, my dear Watson. The Trinkle case. He took the envelope out of the drawer.

There was a big difference between engineering specifications and contracts. They might both look like dense, intractable, boring piles of printouts. Well, actually they both were. But at least with engineering, either the sewer system worked or it didn’t. With contracts there were always clogs.

Surely a reasonably intelligent person with enough Extra Strength Tylenol Headache Formula could figure it out. And after a while he had a few interesting points highlighted.

Regency would buy the Trinkle farm from the Trinkle Land Trust.

The contract was written August 20 of last year.

The contract was signed December 12 of that year.

The closing would take place within one year of signing.

The sale was contingent on many things, but most had been satisfied between the writing of the contract in August and the signing in December. Some others had still been open.

The contract was contingent on clear title to the land, with no outstanding lawsuits. That had been satisfied.

The contract was contingent on all taxes having been paid. That had been satisfied.

The contract was contingent on the commitment to complete Gold River Highway into Wardsville, and that one hadn’t been satisfied.

Add it all together, and it sounded like over a year ago, sometrinkle, somewhere, had high expectations of a complete Gold River Highway. And Regency had trusted them enough by December to sign a contract— with a contingency. Trust, but verify.

He put the papers back into the envelope.

Mr. Phelps, this tape will self-destruct in five seconds.

September 19, Tuesday

“What’s on your mind, Joe?” Gordon said. “Because I hope you’ve got over all that other.”

“I haven’t.”

“Oh, I wish you had. There’s nothing to it, Joe, and you’ll be better off to give it up. Nothing’s changed since summer.”

“I know who’s behind the road, and how it got this far,” Joe said.

Gordon settled his whole weight into his chair, ready to be aggravated. “There’s always tomfoolery when the state does anything, and I don’t care much about it. Last time you were claiming someone shot Wade Harris, and that’s what I don’t want to hear about.”

“I came to ask you one thing. I want to know what you and Dr. Colony are so worried about anybody uncovering.”

“I’ll tell you it’s police business, Joe, and not your business.”

“Does it have anything to do with the Trinkle family or the new shopping center?”

“No, it doesn’t. And don’t start quizzing me.”

“Then just tell me.”

“I’m not going to, Joe. I’m as elected as you are, and you can’t come in here and demand me to answer questions.”

“I can still call in the State Police if you won’t do your job,” Joe said.

“You’ve been saying that for months.”

“The reason I haven’t is you and Dr. Colony saying I shouldn’t. It’s time I knew if that’s a good enough reason.”

“Oh, all right!” Gordon was plenty aggravated. “It’s Jeremy Coates.”

Joe waited.

“You’re making it worse than it has any right to be,” Gordon said. “Jeremy went and got himself a gun, and he’s been shooting out peoples’ car windshields, and that’s all there is.”

“Why would he be doing that?”

“You’d have to ask him. It was Roland that brought him in here. Jeremy had shot at Randy McCoy’s car, and Roland’s, too.”

“He must have had some reason.”

“I guess it was about Roland selling his factory and Jeremy thinking he could stop it. I don’t know, it’s all mixed up. But I let him off when he said he wouldn’t do anything else foolish. Now, Joe, you know what’ll happen if outside police come in and look around. They’ll be sure Jeremy shot at Wade and hit him, and he won’t have any way to prove he didn’t.”

“Where was Jeremy that night?”

“I asked him and he said he was over in Asheville, where he lives.”

“Why are you so worried for him? It sounds like he should be arrested.”

“But not for killing Wade Harris. Roland thought right away that he had, and had me out to the factory to arrest the boy, and I had to calm Roland down and tell him that Everett Colony and I had both checked real well and there weren’t any bullets in Wade or the car.”

“You never did,” Joe said. “You or Dr. Colony.”

“Because there weren’t any, and I didn’t have to.”

“Why’s Dr. Colony part of this anyway?”

“He’s the one who’s so sure we shouldn’t get outsiders involved.”

“I wonder why he’s so sure.”

“I guess you should ask him.”

Except he wouldn’t give an answer. “Did anybody ever tell Randy any of this?”

“There’s no need to. He got his car fixed, and he told Gabe it was just a rock that hit the windshield while he was driving, so that’s what he thinks it is.”

“While he was driving?” Joe couldn’t keep the anger down. “He was in the car when Jeremy shot at it?”

“Nobody got hurt.”

“He could have.”

“But he didn’t.”

“But Randy asked you about finding a bullet?”

“He claimed he just found it out in his yard or such.”

“You knew where the bullet was from,” Joe said. “You should have told him.”

“There’s no need.”

“Gordon, you’re acting a fool.” Joe said it as hard as he could, slapping him with the words.

“Joe, what good will it do anybody to put Jeremy Coates in jail?”

“Sounds like he should be, and you with him.”

“And what would that do? Do you think that does anyone any good? And what happens after, with it in newspapers across the state, that Jeremy Coates murdered Wade Harris? People who’ve lived here all their lives accused of killing each other? If you try to call in the State Police, I’ll fight you. I’ve asked what happens if you try by yourself to get them in here, without my being part of it. You’ll have to get a judge to decide between us, and it might sound just as crazy to him as it does to me and as it would to anybody. I’m no fool. It’s you that is. There’s not everybody in the county who’d say you’re still fit for the job you have.”

“I’ll do what I have to,” Joe said. “Whatever people think.”

“Oh, you’re home!” Louise ran out into the hall. There was Byron dropping his lunch pail on the chair, and Matt right behind him.

“We’re home,” Byron said. “What’s for supper?”

“Pork chops and rice. You must be famished. Are you hungry, Matt?”

“Sure, Grandma.”

“Loading lumber into the saws all day,” Byron said. “The boy’s working harder than anyone.”

“It’s okay,” Matt said, with his big smile. “It’s more fun than patrolling Baghdad. I’ve never seen such a huge pile of furniture.”

“It’ll be a lot more,” Byron said.

“How will Mr. Coates ever sell it?”

“He’s trying, Louise! Let the man alone.”

“I just wonder,” she said.

“Doris says he was talking about opening his own store, up there in Gold Valley at the new shopping center.”

“Don’t you start that, Byron.” But she didn’t feel like arguing. “We’ve been through too much together to fight.”

“Mr. Jarvis? Hi!” Use the happy voice. “This is Steve Carter, up in Jefferson County.”

Short pause. “Well, Steve, good to hear from you. How are things going up there?”

“Very well, thank you.” Try . . . Paul Newman, in The Sting. No, more like Robert Redford. “I had a few questions.”

“Oh sure, Steve. I hope you’ve had some questions answered already?”

“Yes. I have. Thanks very much for asking. All I’ve got left are a couple of the technical ones I mentioned before.”

“Just tell me what you want.”

“I think I’m okay now with the traffic projections, and of course that was the big one. I guess just some more on the environmental impact. Oh, and how about the core samples? Just the data. You don’t have to send me any dirt!”

Stupid joke.

“Ha! That should be no problem.”

Jarvis is laughing at stupid jokes. That would mean he knows he needs to keep his friend on the board happy.

“Great. Now. Just between us. What would be the chance of getting anything changed? It would sure be a lot easier if it didn’t have to be such a huge road.”

“I understand.” Longer pause. “Okay, between us, there is not any chance. We’re working with traffic projections that were given to us, and we have to satisfy them. Those numbers require a road that size.”

“And, um, just really between us. I mean completely off the record. Those projections are complete fairy tale.”

Jarvis didn’t pause. “Three bears plus Goldilocks. That’s four lanes.”

“Okay. Back in the real world. Supposedly, the grant was funded before the project was planned, so there was no telling back then if twenty million would be enough.”

“Theoretically, that is true,” Jarvis said. “If we hadn’t known what the project was, there would have been no telling if that was enough.”

So . . . if they had known what the project was, they would have known how much the grant should be. Too twisted.

“What if twenty million isn’t enough?”

“We’d just redesign and build what we could. But, strangely enough, twenty million is exactly the right amount.”

“Good evening, Ed,” Randy said over the hedge, which Ed Fiddler was giving one last trim for the fall, which happened to be the time each year that Ed’s homeowner policy came up for renewal. “I’m seeing just a little red and orange out there in the leaves.”

“Right on time,” Ed said. “Beautiful time of the year.”

“It is that, it certainly is. Makes me think of homecoming.”

“It’ll be Hoarde County this year.”

“I still remember that pass you threw at the homecoming game our senior year against Hoarde County,” Randy said, nice and jovial.

“I remember it like yesterday! Those were the days, Randy. But I’m looking for a game this year, too. Your Kyle’s got an arm.”

It was all just a friendly chat between two neighbors, and friends, and if it did happen to leave Ed slightly more disposed to send in that renewal payment, that would be an added bonus. No need to actually mention the insurance—the letter from the underwriter would have already come and be sitting on Ed’s desk, and Ed might have even sent in his payment just automatic without thinking about it. It just didn’t hurt to be friendly.

“And Ed,” Randy said, thinking Ed’s promotion at the bank would make light conversation on an agreeable subject, “I guess you’ve gotten used to being vice-president now?”

“I’d been doing the job for years, working toward it,” he said. “It’s nice to finally get the title, as well.”

“And the paycheck, I hope.”

“That’s been nice, too. Not that we’re a big bank with big salaries, but it was a nice increase. Now, Randy, talk about being a small bank, I’ve got my eye on Gold Valley.”

Randy caught his smile just before it fell right off onto the sidewalk.

“What are you thinking about that, Ed?”

“I’d like to get a branch out there in the new shopping center. Of course the real profit’s in mortgages out there. If we had a loan office where people could see us, and got in with the developer—now, that could be some real growth.”

“That’s good to know. I’ll be glad when it’s all voted on and done with. I don’t know what Everett Colony will do if they do build the road.”

“Pack up and leave, probably. I thought he was doing that last spring.”

“Leave town?”

“Since we’re neighbors,” Ed said, lowering his voice, “and I know it won’t go any further. I did wonder if he was. He walked into the bank and took fifty thousand dollars out of savings. In cash. They had to call me down to approve it.”

“Cash? Fifty thousand?”

“Then the next Monday he put it all back in.”

“Of all things,” Randy said. “When was that?”

“End of April. It was a Friday. I remember because it was the day they put up the list of starters for the football game and Kenny was listed as a receiver. He sure was excited.”

“I remember Kyle telling me he’d made quarterback.” He shook his head. “I wonder what Everett Colony was going to do with fifty thousand dollars in cash. And then he didn’t do it.”

“Next is talking to Dr. Colony,” Joe said. “I’m not looking forward to it.”

“Just to ask him about Jeremy Coates?”

They were back from their walk and were sitting in the kitchen. He’d made a point of taking walks together. Rose had made a point of sitting with him at night, and not cooking or sewing.

“He might know why Jeremy was doing what he was. But what I’d like to know is why Dr. Colony wants to hide it. He’ll have some reason more than protecting the boy.”

“There might be something else he wants to hide?”

“That would be my guess.”

Then they sat, quiet, thinking their thoughts.

Sixty years side by side.

“Joe. You’re being careful, aren’t you?”

It was the first time she’d said that.

“Not much I can do.” Then he thought better. “I am.”

“What would happen if the State Police came?”

“I don’t know. They might not find anything. Or they might find everything there is. It’ll be opening a door and it can’t be shut. I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s a hard choice,” she said.

“It’s a hard choice.”