CHAPTER 42: Charity of The Gods

Warren Jonah sat in his gray Tesla outside the private plane hanger at the JFK airport in New York. He’s late, he thought. Finally his cellphone vibrated.

“Car trouble,” explained Seamus Boyle. “A busted water pump. Can we reschedule for tomorrow?”

Jonah reluctantly agreed, set the time, ended the call, drove home to Manhattan, New York and parked his Tesla in the garage two doors down, walked to his ivy-covered townhouse.

An hour later he came out carrying two file boxes, and a black duffel. He placed them in the trunk of his car and drove to a single-story office complex in New Jersey, parked in a spot reserved for Unit #6.

Jonah carried the items into an office at the back of the building, placed them on the floor in the corner. an hour later, a furniture delivery truck parked in the loading zone out front.

The men carried in a desk, several chairs, a couch, two small side tables, a couple of lamps and a few fake potted plants to Unit #6. “Sign here,” said one.

“Where’s the safe?” asked Jonah.

“Requires a jackhammer,” said one. “All coming by another truck,” said the deliveryman. “Tomorrow before noon.”

Jonah sighed. “Looks like I’ll beat rush hour,” he said.

<><><><> 

From a distance at the airport, Seamus Boyle watched Warren Jonah sitting in his Tesla. My one hundred grand is in that car, thought Boyle as he made the call, giving Jonah the “car trouble” story. He then followed him to his ivy-covered townhouse in Manhattan.

Seamus Boyle waited. An hour later Jonah left his townhouse carrying two file boxes and a black duffel. He walked to the garage and Boyle followed him to a single-story office complex in New Jersey, parked in the spot for Unit #6. Jonah carried the items down a path and disappeared.

Boyle waited and watched as the furniture was delivered. Ten minutes later Jonah left. Boyle returned to his hotel in Newark, New Jersey, ordered dinner, slept. After the sun set, he drove back to office building and jogged past the building twice. He jogged back to his blue Honda hatchback and retrieved his bag of tools. He walked back to the office building and quickly disabled the security system. He chose a section of a window hidden by shrubs. It took him less than a minute to cut the glass and unlock the window to Unit #6. A little putty and the glass was back in place.

Just in case, Boyle returned to his car, sat in the front seat and waited. Fifteen minutes passed. No alarm. No police. All clear.

He walked back to the office and, worried there might be a door alarm, he climbed inside the window. The room gave off that new carpet odor.

There was office furniture and, on the floor, the two boxes and black duffel he’d seen Jonah had carrying. Boyle opened the duffel, smiled. Yep, one hundred grand.

Boyle sat on the floor and peeled the tape from the boxes, scanned the contents with the flashlight on his phone. The first box was bank statements and wire transfers. He was glad to see none of his bank accounts listed. The second box included a three-ring binder labeled REPORTS and another marked CORRESPONDENCE, along with three flash drives and a backup drive zipped up in a red canvas case.

He closed the boxes and transferred them and the duffel out the window, climbed out. He carried everything to the street, checked in both directions. Beyond the sound of traffic and dry leaves rustling in the gutters, all was quiet. 

Boyle walked to the blue Honda hatchback and placed everything in the trunk, drove a few blocks, pulled over and checked his phone. There was a 24-hour copy place in Manhattan. He grinned broadly as he drove away.

<><><><> 

Grace spent long hours at Chase Stanford’s sister Joan Stanford’s office, researching and writing. At night, she stayed at her parents’ bungalow in Pasadena.

Late one evening, her father padded down to the kitchen in his bathrobe and slippers. He studied Grace as she checked the fridge for left-overs and chose a half-eaten chicken. “Your mom and I have been talking, honey,” he said. “You’ve changed and we’re concerned. Are you sure you’re on the right path?”

“I’m not sure,” said Grace, hacking at the chicken on the kitchen table. “Everything I thought I knew is a lie,” she said. “I’m having trouble reconciling—”

He laid his hand over hers. “Don’t,” he said, “take it out on the chicken.”

Grace looked at him and began to cry. He held her until she stopped, then guided her into the living room, sat her down on the couch.

The room was cold. He placed a cotton throw over her shoulders and turned on the heat. Grace studied the ornately carved fireplace. There was no fire burning in the hearth, no logs stacked next to it. It stared back blankly.

“When was the last time we had a fire, Dad?” she asked.

He looked at the fireplace. “I don’t know, honey,” he said, sitting down beside her. “Do you want one?”

She started to cry again.

He patted her back. “There, there, dear,” he said. “We can have a fire if that’s what is needed.”

With tears streaming down her face, Grace laughed.

<><><><>

Sara Armstrong played peek-a-boo with her son Billy in the cab of the truck parked in front of the Washington State Forestry Association in Olympia, Washington State’s capitol. Inside the building, her husband Tom and four other loggers were discussing a logging plan with a consultant provided by the Forest Service.

A group of half-a-dozen protesters paced back and forth carrying a variety of signs: NO MORE CLEARCUTS / SAVE OUR FORESTS / STUMPS SUCK and other variations on a theme. They spotted the ARMSTRONG MILL SIGN on the truck’s door and cursed. Sara ignored them and they lost interest.

Billy was sleeping peacefully in his car seat when Tom returned with his colleagues. Sara rolled down her window and waved at her husband. He waved back with his left hand.

The protesters, seeing the gesture, upped the volume, directed their chanting at the five loggers who ignored the taunts. A protester, with a bandanna around his head and his long hair tied back, wore an Earth First T-shirt displaying a clenched fist. He circled the loggers more aggressively. “You guys are raping the Earth for a buck!” he yelled. “You should be shot!”

“Spiked any trees lately?” asked one of the loggers quietly.

“You scum. You blood sucking parasite,” said another logger, his voice low and full of hatred. It unnerved the more rational of the protesters, who tried to pull the Earth First’er away from the confrontation. “Just let it go, Kenny,” they soothed their friend, but he would have none of it.

The belligerent protester heckled Tom, shoved him and fists flew.

Three of the protesters ran for help while the loggers pummeled the rest. With only his left arm, Tom did a good job of fighting while keeping the useless stump of his right arm out of the fray.

“Tommy, stop!” pleaded Sara, running from the truck where Billy was wailing.

A security guard stood by the building, talking into his radio. “Enough,” said Tom. “Let’s get out of here.” The men scattered and Tom and Sara got into the truck. She drove and chastised her husband for two blocks, “Are you crazy? You could go to jail for getting into fights like that!”

Billy sniffled in his car seat. They stopped at a red light and Sara turned to Tom and continued scolding him. “What were you thinking, Tommy?”

“Sara, honey,” he grinned, wiping blood from his face, “it just felt so damn good!”

Sara went quiet, but Tom could see her starting to crack. He poked her shoulder a few times until she gave way. Chuckles grew into belly laughs that made their sides ache. Billy giggled along with them. They were still laughing when the light turned green.

They drove back to Silvercreek, not saying much, but laughing every time they looked at each other.

<><><><> 

It took the Brentwood Police Department in Los Angeles several days to interview Boyle’s friends, only one day to track down his girlfriend Carol Murphy at her apartment.

She volunteered she’d rented a car for the man she knew as Robert “Bob” Patton. She let them snap a photo of the paperwork from an agency in West Los Angeles.

“Where’s the vehicle?” they asked.

“My boyfriend borrowed it, still has it,” she said.

“Here? He was here in L.A. when he borrowed the car?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Say where he was going?”

“Camping,” she said.

“Gave you cash to cover it?”

“Yep.”

“For how long?”

“Four weeks,” she said. “If he needs it longer, he said he’d call.”

“Heard from him yet?”

“Nope,” she said.

“Call us if you do?”

“Sure,” she said.

<><><><> 

At the 24-hour Manhattan postal service center, Seamus Boyle slid the two boxes across the counter to the clerk with the man bun. “I need one box big enough for these boxes and two copies of everything inside,” he said.

The clerk opened the boxes, patted the red canvas case. “Hard drives in here?”

“Yeah,” said Boyle. “Big one and three little ones.”

“We can put everything, including the paperwork, on flash drives. Digital.”

“Digital it is,” said Boyle. “Two sets. How long?”

“It’s quiet,” he said. “30 minutes maybe. l’ll need the passwords for the drives.

Shit, thought Boyle, making one up, “XYZ1234.”

Stupid password, thought the clerk. “I’ll get to work,” he said.

While he was waiting, Boyle addressed two labels in big block letters to Grace Newman at The Los Angeles Tribune. He pulled two pages from his notebook and wrote the same note to Grace twice.

The clerk returned. “Done,” he said placing a large box on the counter and handing two flash drives to Boyle. “Everything’s on these,” he said. “You really should use passwords, man. There aren’t any on the original drives.”

Dumb luck, thought Boyle.

“I set you up with a password on the copies,” said the clerk, scribbling DAISY99 on a piece of paper and handing it and two flash drives to Boyle.

Boyle opened the boxes. The stolen documents and the red canvas case of flash drives were stacked neatly inside. Boyle popped in a note to Grace Newman at The Los Angeles Tribune and affixed one of the labels to the box. The clerk taped the large box closed.

“I need an envelope for one of the flash drives,” said Boyle.

“Padded,” replied the clerk, choosing one.

Boyle turned away from the clerk and tossed one of the flash drives into his duffle where it disappeared under the money. He wrote PASSWORD: DAISY99 at the bottom of his second note to Grace Newman, placed it and the second flash drive into the padded envelope and added a label to Grace at The Los Angeles Times.

Boyle directed the clerk to ship the large box to Grace in ten days. The code to change those instructions, or to release the box for pickup, was BETTY BLUE.

“Good job,” said Boyle, paying in cash. “Is there another copy place around here that’s still open?” he asked.

“Central Copy. A block up, make a left, half way down.”

“Thanks for your help, man.”

“No problem, bro. You have a good night.”

Boyle walked to Central Copy and gave the young Goth behind the counter the same directions for the envelope to Grace, but this time he extended the time frame to 14 days. She carefully wrote down his instructions. The code for any changes was HELL ON WHEELS. She liked that.

“OK,” she said, “We’re cool. If we don’t hear HELL ON WHEELS within 14 days and get new instructions, we ship this out to the lady at the newspaper in L.A. Got it. Sign here.”

“Where can I get coffee?” he asked.

She pointed, “Café on the corner.”

Boyle walked to the café, ordered coffee and donuts, used their restroom. He walked back to his car, put the duffle in the trunk and retrieved listening equipment from his tool bag. He drove back to Jonah’s townhouse, parked on the street. He strolled by the townhouse and planted a listening device on the side of the building, hidden in the ivy.

Boyle then climbed into the back seat of the Honda and flipped on the spy equipment. He listened to the sounds of Jonah having dinner, Jonah listening to the news, Jonah complaining to a friend about his work.

“Masters of the universe is what they are,” he said. “I should ask for a raise.” Muffled voice as his friend spoke. “Yeah, maybe a vacation. Go with me? Barbados?” Quiet. “Bali, it is!” Jonah laughed, finished the call. A few seconds later lights went off downstairs, then turned on upstairs. Ten minutes later the lights went off upstairs.

All tucked in for the night, thought Boyle in the back seat of the blue Honda. He got comfortable and quickly fell asleep.

<><><><> 

At the Armstrong family compound in Silvercreek, Jackson couldn’t concentrate, had trouble sleeping and couldn’t see the purpose of anything anymore. Problems mounted. Jackson Valley was off limits, its timber sale under injunction. The USDA had stalled the importation of the wood from Mexico citing regulations for insect control. Preparing for the hearing for the Wild and Scenic Rivers designation on Dragonfly River required too many hours.

The State inspectors came back, for a third time, to look at the mill’s water runoff. “Private property,” said Frank. “No warrant? Take a hike.”

They did not look happy. “We’ll be back,” they said.

Jackson thought about Ginnie constantly and worried about Grace. He spent time at the gun range, found solace in imagining shooting Seamus Boyle and Frédéric Trinité.

Jackson held little faith the system would ever bring either man to answer for his crimes. He watched without comment as Grace and the Sheriff attempted to bring Boyle and his employer to justice, navigating a maze designed to protect the wicked.

Early one morning, before the house came to life, Jackson quietly made his way downstairs and sat in the big leather chair next to the cold fireplace. His phone chirped, a blocked ID, but he answered it.

“Mr. Armstrong,” said Marguerite, “I hope I am not calling too early. I read about Mrs. Anderson’s death. Shocking. We sent flowers and a thousand dollar donation to her Yellow Ribbon Alliance.”

“Your psycho arsonist Seamus Boyle killed her. He never would have been here if you hadn’t hired him.”

“My psycho?” she asked. “I’d be absolutely shocked if any of our subsidiaries’ contractors engaged in something illegal.”

Jackson swallowed hard and said nothing.

“Maybe we can ease your pain, Mr. Armstrong,” she said. He did not reply. “We can make you a far better offer than Masters’ Logging’s last bid,” she added.

Jackson inhaled sharply. “Before you go any further,” he said slowly. “As evidence of your goodwill, send a decent donation to the Yellow Ribbon Alliance. In memory of Erica White and Virginia Anderson. $5 million would be respectable.”

Marguerite sucked in her breath. “Two sounds better.”

“Three and done,” said Jackson.

“Send the transfer details and ID number for the tax deduction.”

Jackson cringed. “Write up your offer,” he said, “and we’ll have our lawyers look it over.”

“D’accord,” she said. Jackson said nothing, ended the call.

Progress, thought Marguerite.  

Charity of the gods, thought Jackson as he chose a key from the ring on his belt, walked to his father’s office and opened the doors of a tall cabinet, chose his favorite pistol, a Beretta. He sat down at his father’s desk and opened a drawer, took out a box of ammunition. As he methodically loaded the magazine, he said the names of the places to himself. Dragonfly Glen. Shannon’s Peak. Jackson Valley. Hunger Mountain. Silvercreek. Treasure Pool. Blue Meadow.

“Charity of the gods,” he whispered angrily, shaking his head. On Ginnie’s life, he swore to himself, I will deliver justice to them all.