Ben approached the sawmill with considerable trepidation. Maureen had warned him he would feel this way, but he hadn’t believed it until he arrived. After all, he was an impartial participant. He was a lawyer representing a client, conducting an interview relating to a murder case. He was not necessarily involved in the political issues that underlay the conflict.
He just hoped everyone else understood that.
He parked his rental car and started up the dirt path that wound toward the main building-a huge log-and-sideboard structure at the edge of the Crescent National Forest. As Maureen had explained to him, the sawmill had been there since the 1950s, processing tons of lumber on a daily basis for any number of logging sites.
Even from a good distance away, Ben could hear the teeth-grinding sound of the sawmill at work. It was a shrill, piercing sound, like a dentist’s drill magnified a thousand times over. Except instead of opening a root canal to save an abscessed tooth, it was splitting, pulping, and destroying hundreds of years and thousands of acres of wild growth.
Ben brushed shoulders with several loggers making their way out of the main building. He was pleased to see that, contrary to stereotype, they did not all wear flannel shirts. Jeans and T-shirts seemed more the current fashion. But then, it was still summer. Maybe the flannel came out later in the year.
He saw a group of loggers off to one side whispering. One of them glanced at Ben, then lowered his head into the communal huddle. If I were a paranoid man, Ben thought, I’d think they were talking about me.
And then he saw one of the men in the huddle jerk his thumb in Ben’s direction.
That settled it. Paranoid or not, Ben was the topic of conversation.
Ben was so busy watching the huddle that he almost walked right into the man standing directly in front of him.
“Oops!” Ben put on the brakes at the last possible minute. “Sorry about that.”
The man didn’t move. He didn’t smile, either. “You don’t look like you belong here. Got some ID?”
“What is this, a gestapo camp? You need ID just to get in?”
“We have to be careful. There are terrorists in the area who would love nothing more than to see this mill blown to bits.”
“Well, I can assure you I’m no terrorist.”
“Didn’t I see you at the courthouse?”
Ben’s heart skipped a beat. “Courthouse? Me? You must be thinking of my older brother.”
“No. It was you.” He placed his fists firmly on his hips. “You’re the lawyer. The one who’s representing the killer.”
Ben swallowed a big gulp of air. “Yes, I’m a lawyer. And I’m here on official business.” He noticed that the larger group of men at the side were slowly edging in his direction. “So if you’ll please just step aside …”
“You’ve got some nerve, showing your face here. After what happened to Dwayne.”
“Look, I wasn’t even in town when Dwayne was killed.”
The huddled men-there were five of them-pulled up behind Ben. One of them, wearing a red baseball cap with caterpillar printed across the front, spoke. “Who is this creep, Jerry?”
“He’s one of those Green Rage assholes.”
“You’re kidding.” Strong hands clamped down on both of Ben’s shoulders. “Here?”
“It isn’t true,” Ben protested. “I’m not a member of-”
“He works with them,” the first man-Jerry, apparently-explained. “Helps them do their dirty business.”
“No shit,” Caterpillar man said. The others pressed close on all sides. “What were you planning? To bomb the mill?”
“Of course not. I just came to talk.”
“Right. Search him, boys.”
All at once Ben felt about ten hands pawing him in every place imaginable, and being none too gentle about it.
“Would you stop already!” Ben said. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Neither was Dwayne Gardiner,” Jerry replied somberly. “But he sure got it. And now there’s a woman with no husband and a boy who’ll grow up without a daddy. All because of people like you who care more about trees than human beings.” His jaw clenched up with rage. “Grab him, boys.”
All at once, Ben felt a dozen hands clamp down on him with viselike grips. He could barely wriggle, much less move.
“Someone got rope?”
“I know where some is,” Caterpillar man answered. He ran down the dirt road, opened a storage bin, and pulled out a good length.
“Tie him up.”
Ben tried to struggle, but it was useless. With all those hands on him, he couldn’t budge.
“Take him down to the lot.”
A moment later, all hands were jerking him down the way he came, toward the parking area. Clouds of dirt kicked up in his face, choking him, but there was nothing he could do about it. His arms were clamped tightly to his sides, and he had no control over his movements.
They kept moving till they got to the area where the vehicles were parked. Jerry nodded toward a huge eighteen-wheel flatbed truck. “Someone got the keys?”
One of the men in Caterpillars group nodded.
“Good. Tie the rope to the hitching post.”
The men tied one end of the rope around Ben’s wrists, the other end to the iron post at the back of the truck. He was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this …
“You’re making a mistake,” Ben said. He was trying to think of any words that might convince them, however pathetic they sounded. “I don’t mean you any harm.”
“Tell it to Dwayne’s family.” Jerry pulled Ben backward till the rope was extended and pulled taut, then he motioned for the man with the keys to jump in the cab.
“All right,” Jerry said. A trace of a smile cracked his stony exterior. “Drag him.”