Killer Mountain

and Carol. “Where do I turn it off?”

“There’s a switch at the head of the cellar stairs,” the man said, shaking his head as if in a fog.

“Why kill innocent people?” Bruce wanted an answer to Joel’s comment.

“Me? How?”

“Poisoning the river.”

“Poisoning? That’s just a load of shit!”

“Don’t deny it.”

“I just admitted it!”

Joel came back from the cellar stairs. “It ends with a pipe in the river?”

“Yes.”

“Where does it start?”

“At my toilet! I just told you! Je-sus! An overloaded cesspool and they send the fucking National Guard.”

The soldiers looked at each other as the sun rose higher in the sky.

Chapter 37

Wally was awake when the knock came at the door. He turned on the light and looked at his watch. Four AM. Six o’clock in New England. Six hours left. He hadn’t slept; there must be something he could still do. He’d gone over the searches of the last three days, by air and land but mostly air. There was no trace of Hudson or any indication as to what happened to him. It was a big desert.

“Yes?”

“It’s Loni, Mr. Carver. Can I come in?”

“Wait.” He padded to the door and opened it to let her in. She stood there indecisively. “You look terrible. What’s the matter?”

“They saw birds.”

“What?”

“The pilot. Of one of the search planes. There were a lot of birds circling over a gully.”

“You mean vultures.”

“Yes.”

“Well, come in, come in. There’s no point to us talking in the hall. That doesn’t mean he’s dead, or even that it’s Hudson. Why didn’t I hear about it? Why didn’t they land and see what it is?”

“He’s in a fixed wing; there was no place to land. A posse, or whatever they call it, some men, left an hour ago. He’s gone back to his plane to guide them.”

“Why not one of the helicopters?”

“They’ve gone back to their regular duties. Three days was all they could spare them for.”

“Why wasn’t I told? How come you know?”

“He...Jimmie, he’s the pilot, just told me.”

“At three o’clock in the morning?”

“We been up, talking. He didn’t tell me until now, I guess cause he felt it was bad news.”

“You’ve been up till now? Never mind. Which way did they go?”

“We can listen in by radio at the police station.”

There was no news at four or four-thirty. At five-fifteen the radio crackled.

“Air One Oh Three to Base. Ground is only a half-mile from the site. Their radio is out, but we’re circling the arroyo, joining the other flyers.”

“He means the birds,” said Loni.

“I know that,” growled Carver.

They waited. Ground was a four-wheel drive rescue truck.

“Air One Oh Three to Base. They’re at the arroyo...They’ve found something, they’re bringing a stretcher...” Loni bit her lip. Carver leaned his forehead on his hand. “They’re coming back out...there’s someone on the stretcher...it’s a man. They’re looking at him. And...” There was silence for nearly thirty seconds.

“And what?” exploded Carver into the microphone. “Finish the damn sentence.”

“They’ve pulled a sheet over his head.”

Chapter 38

Frances Ingalls and Bob Gold sat watching a growing disaster. The third member of the audience in front of the Carver television set was Andre Adams, who had spent the previous week prodding New England state governments to do more to prevent what was on its way to becoming one of the most horrific environmental disasters of all time. His efforts, coming on top of all the other pressures facing these civil servants, reduced the number of responses to his calls to zero. He had thus decided that a visit to northern New England, which, being far enough north to be nearly at the rivers’ headwaters, hadn’t been evacuated, and was preferable to being caught up in escaping mobs. Bob Gold was only too happy to have someone house sit his cottage while he, himself, recuperated at Wally’s.

Film clips taken around New England looked more and more like a war zone, which was just the way Gold saw it. Someone had declared war on the six state region, and suddenly that secure countryside, which hadn’t been endangered during the lifetime of anyone living, was threatened with catastrophe. Few clues were handed out by authorities so the media had a guessing field day. What was known was that those living on major rivers were told to move out, and given no reason. The task proved impossible in metropolitan areas like Boston where everyone was within a few miles of the Charles River. Residents there were advised to stay inside with windows and doors closed. This suggestion not only wasn’t much comfort to anyone who dwelled in New England’s largest and most likely target, but proved particularly unsettling to those with more active imaginations, prompting many, with unprintable suggestions as to what the authorities could do with that advice, to scramble out of the bulls eye. Many of the weak - and some of the strong that got blindsided - were trampled at South Station, as proper Bostonians improperly attempted to stuff themselves aboard overloaded trains. An aerial shot of a freight train flashed on the screen; it was leaving the station crawling with what looked like banditos in a Mexican movie to Frances and ants on a chocolate bar to Bob.

Logan Airport had been the first to go. Those boarding or hoping to get a seat on outgoing flights, unable to find parking spaces in the garage or metered lots, left their automobiles in the streets around the terminal and ran for their planes. This froze the airport and backed up traffic on the access ramps to the Boston Tunnels, built to carry automobiles from Boston city to Logan, in turn backing up the Boston side. By five-thirty on the morning of March twenty-second nothing moved on the streets of Boston.

The telephone rang, answered by Frances.

“Cilla!” The voice barked.

“She’s not here, Mr. Carver.”

“Where is she?”

“You’re not going to believe this, I’m not sure I do myself...”

“Just tell me”

“She’s climbing Mt. Washington! In the middle of winter!”

“Why?”

“She’s after the Nutcracker. She feels if she can find him he’ll tell her where Hudson is.”

“I see...”