Dig Too Deep (15 page)

Twenty-Eight

We take Granny's car, since Peabody got a good look at Dobber's the other night. I let Dobber drive since he knows how to get there. It takes about twenty minutes, winding up a two-lane road, dodging dump trucks full of coal every other curve. Driving a little ways past the mine entrance, we leave the car in the trees and creep out to the edge of the clearing. Crouched behind a pile of rock, we have clear view of the operation.

It's enormous. I mean, it looks big from the other side of the valley, but I thought it was big like a mall. Up close, it's more like a city, comprised of multiple plateaus of dirt, each of which could hold the whole town of Ebbottsville. Steep roads slope in and out of giant craters, and above it all towers the dragline, the giant crane that scrapes the flesh off the earth and dumps it into the valley. Twenty stories tall, it's a warehouse on a rotating platform. The scraper bucket is big enough to park a couple buses in. The dump trucks that were just running us off the road look like fleas compared to the crane.

Even as far away as we are, the noise is deafening and I can feel the ground vibrating through my shoes. I'm not sure what I'm looking for, but so far I don't see anything, just a bunch of equipment and a lot of raw dirt.

“What'dya reckon they take samples of?” Dobber asks. “There's no water up here.”

He's right. All the creeks and pools have been scooped up and tossed away. Aside from the containment pond, the place they dump the water laced with the sixty different chemicals they use to clean the coal, the site is dry.

I stare at the pond, halfway down the east side of the hill, remembering what I learned during my research. The carcinogens and heavy metals from the cleaning process sink to the bottom of the containment pond, enter the groundwater, and, rolling downhill, end up in the rivers and wells down in the valley. Granny's well. The Dobbers' well. Everybody's wells.

“Hang on,” I mutter. “Not everybody's.”

“Say what?”

I squint into the sun, past Tanner's Peak toward the west part of Ebbottsville beyond. “Oh my God. That's it!”

“What's it?”

“Not everybody is getting sick.”

“So?”

“Why do you suppose the county commissioners let Peabody do what he wants, even if it's a health hazard?”

“'Cause he pays 'em?”

“You can't pay somebody not to care about getting cancer. Or not to care that their kids might get cancer.”

“So what then?”

“They won't
get
cancer.” I point to the sludgy pool. “That containment pond is on the east side.”

Dobber stares. “Okay.”

“And where does Peabody live? And the county commissioners? And all the other rich people in Ebbottsville?”

“Oh. In Summerset … on the west side of the mountain.”

“Exactly.
Up
stream of the mine runoff. And where is the mine expansion going?”

“On Dry Ridge—south of the mountain.”

“Which drains to the east.”

Dobber shakes his head. “Like my daddy says, don't shit in your own backyard.”

“Looks like Robert Peabody took that lesson to heart, which means he knew the mine would be dangerous.”

“S'at give us proof?” Dobber asks.

“Not exactly. But if Peabody realized that mine would hurt people, and he went ahead with it anyway—”

“Then he deserves to get blowed up.”

“No, I was going to say he's committing murder.”

Twenty-Nine

We creep back to the car and head down the mountain. This time, I drive.

“Maybe they had studies done,” I say, taking a curve fast enough for the tires to squeal. “Topographic reports that show exactly where to locate the pond to keep the west valley safe. That would be proof of premeditation.”

“Even if they did, them studies'll be in Peabody's office,” Dobber says. “And there ain't no way we can get in there. They got …” He drifts off.

“Got what?”

We're just passing the mine entrance. I glance at Dobber, but he's not looking at the gates. He's looking at the car coming toward us, waiting to turn into the mine. The white Cadillac Escalade. The one with Robert Peabody behind the wheel.

“Shit.”

I pull my green-splinted hand off the steering wheel. Tilting my head, I let my hair fall over the left side of my face. Dobber dives forward, bending nearly double to get his head below the dash.

Through my bangs, I sneak a peek at Peabody as we pass by, but all I can see is the reflection of the trees above on his windshield. One second later, we're past him. I watch him turn left into the parking lot. I have no idea if he's seen us or not.

Dobber raises his head just a bit, staring at his side-view mirror.

“Is he following us?” I ask.

“I don't think so.”

“Should I pull off on one of these side roads?”

“Naw,” he says. “Just slow down right up there.”

I take the switchback curve with my brakes on slightly. Around the bend, the trees give way to a rock face and a clear view of the road directly above us. I'm crawling along at about twenty miles an hour, while Dobber watches for the Escalade.

But it doesn't appear.

I exhale. My chest feels like a balloon that's been stretched out too long. “Maybe he didn't see us. The glare on the windshield was pretty bad.”

“Maybe.”

“Plus, he doesn't know Granny's car,” I say, feeling better with each second I put between us and Peabody. “And we weren't technically at the mine. This is a public road.”

“I reckon,” Dobber says. “'Cept there ain't nothing up there
but
the mine.”

My safe feeling evaporates. He's right. Now that the top of the mountain is gone, the mine's the end of the road. Anybody up here is either on mine business or completely lost.

“Do you think he saw us?” I ask.

Dobber rubs his hand across his cheek, covered with half a day's stubble, and sighs. “Dunno, Lib. But I reckon we'll find out.”

I erupt in a bad case of goose bumps.

Back at the house, Granny's fallen asleep. Dobber heads home after I promise to call him if I have any trouble. He doesn't specify what “trouble” might be and I don't ask.

The phone rings and I jump for it, hoping one of the nurses is finally calling back.

“Hello?”

“Hello. This is Dr. Lang.”

“Oh.” I take the phone outside, onto the porch. “Hi, Doctor.”

“I wanted to check in on Mrs. Briscoe. How's she doing?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“No sudden weakness? No nausea?”

“No,” I say. “But the red guck is getting worse.”

“That's to be expected, I'm afraid. How is she feeling? Any pain?”

“A little, but she's been taking those pills you gave her.”

“Good. There's no reason for her not to be comfortable.”

I'm struck by the irony of being comfortable and dying at the same time. “It's nice of you to call,” I say. “Do you always check up on your patients?”

“Sometimes,” he says. “Liberty …”

I'm impressed he's remembered my name … which is followed by a long pause.

“Yes?”

“This type of cancer … it spreads rapidly. With your grandmother in stage four, there's a good chance it's already done that.”

“Spread?” What's he saying? She's going to die quicker? “Spread where?”

“Other organs. Potentially to her brain. If that happens, it could be very hard on her caregivers. On you.”

“Oh.” God. Oh God.

“Have you noticed any new symptoms?” the doctor asks.

“Um …” The words “brain cancer” are ricocheting around in my head like bullets, driving out all other thoughts.

“Confusion. Hallucinations of any kind.”

“No …”

“Hallucinations can manifest in any of the senses.”

I force my mind back to the last few days. “I can't remember anything. She's been just as cranky and sarcastic as ever.”

Dr. Lang laughs. “Well, that's a good sign. It may not be an issue, but I did want you to be aware.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“I'll check in again,” he says. “And Mrs. Blanchard will send me notes from her visits too.”

“Okay. Thanks again for calling.”

“Not a problem.” And then the phone clicks. Someone really ought to explain the concept of “good-bye” to that man.

I sink onto the rocker, trying to remember if there is anything at all that might suggest Granny's brain is affected. But really, there's nothing. I drop my head and, clasping the phone with both hands, pray. “Please, God. Don't let her get brain cancer.”

I'm pretty sure I couldn't handle that. Granny's the smartest of all the smart-asses I know. Seeing her mind go, having her forget who I am, maybe even who she is, that would be impossible to take. Granny stirs on the couch, and I drop the phone back in the charger.

“What time is it?” she asks.

“About five.” I crouch down next to her.

“Lordy, I'm just so tired all a time.”

“You need rest,” I say. “Your body's going through a lot.”

“Um hm.” She looks hard at me. “And how 'bout you?”

“How 'bout me what?”

“What're you going through?”

I settle onto the floor cross-legged. “What are you talking about?”

“You wanna tell me what happened with that boy? Or you gonna keep it bottled up inside and let it fester?”

Brain cancer? I don't think so. She doesn't miss a thing. “I assume you mean Cole.”

“Well, I don't mean Charlie Brown.”

Sighing, I launch into a rundown of the cafeteria incident. “And then I punched him in the face.”

“Um hm.” She nods at my hand. “That how you popped your finger?”

“Yes.”

“I knew that ‘slammed it in the car door' story was bull the minute I heard it.”

“Sorry.”

“How's things stand between you now?”

“Um, I punched him in the face. So …” I give her the clearest “duh” face I can muster.

“So it's over?”

“Oh, it's over all right.” I scrape at a spot of mud on the side of my boot. The ick tornado spins to life in my stomach again, as I think about all the people who knew Cole was cheating. “Apparently …” I can't bring myself to look at Granny. “Apparently, he was messing around with somebody else too.”

“Oh Lord.”

“My feelings exactly.”

“What you mean by ‘messing around'?”

“Um, well … like …” I thought I could tell Granny anything. I can't believe I'm having this much trouble saying one tiny word. “Sex.”

“Sex?” Granny sits up fast. “Hold on, now. What kinda things did y'all get up to on them dates of yours?”

“Not me! Nothing. We never … no.” I'm so damn relieved that's true, given the way things ended.

She slouches back onto the cushions. “Well, at least you punched him. Sounds like he deserved it.”

“I guess.”

There's that word again. Deserved. What Cole deserved, what Peabody deserves. We humans are awfully quick to decide what everybody else deserves. We just reach into our well of judgment and pull out a verdict. Actually handing out the desserts though, that's a different story. Cole may have deserved a punch in the face, but I ended up with a broken finger. Was that the universe's way of saying I was wrong to even his karmic score?

Then there's Peabody, sitting in his Jacuzzi on the west side of town, dealing out death every single day. What does he deserve? More than a punch in the face, obviously. But who's going to give it to him? And what will the universe have to say about that?

“Granny, what if Peabody did burn our shed?”

“Then he'll have to answer to his maker for that.”

“I can't wait that long,” I say. “He ought to be in jail right now.”

“Did you tell the police you thought he done it?”

“Yes.”

“They gonna arrest him?”

“Of course not.” I wiggle my finger through a hole in the fabric of the couch. “They think he's some kind of God.”

“Then I reckon you gon' have to wait.”

But sitting here, in this broken-down house, with poisoned water and almost no food, watching the one and only person in all the world that I love die, I know I can't wait.

Thirty

After dinner (ramen again), I take the phone to my room and call Iris. It's been weeks since I talked to her, and lately it's been as much my fault as hers.

“Where the hell have you been, girl?” she asks.

Hearing her voice is like finding a great pair of jeans I forgot I had. “I miss you,” I say. My chin trembles. But I don't cry about happy stuff either, so I bite the inside of my cheek and count to five.

“Ditto you! So? How're things in rural America?”

I think about what to tell her, bite harder, count more. “Tough.”

“Ohmigod. Are you biting your cheek?” she asks. “What's going on out there?”

I take a deep breath. “My grandmother has cancer.”

“Oh shit!”

I pretend I'm acting out a scene, like all the things I'm saying aren't actually happening to me. Doing that, I can get through it without any tears. “It's terminal. They gave her weeks, maybe a couple months, to live.”

“Liberty! I'm so sorry.”

“I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm not eighteen, so …”

“God, I hadn't thought about that. When's your mom's trial?”

“It doesn't matter,” I say. “I'm not moving back with her.”

“What choice do you have?”

I toy with a necklace on my nightstand, my stomach churning at my only option. “Foster care.”

Silence on the other end, then, “You have
got
to be kidding me. Even your whacko mom is better than foster care.”

“Says the girl with the perfect nuclear family.”

“Look, stay with your grandma until … well … as long as you can. After that, maybe you can stay with us until … well …”

Until what? I run through the options while the silence stretches on. Until I turn eighteen, get a minimum-wage job and an apartment I share with thirteen other people. Until my untimely death in a freak house fire. “Iris, there's something else.”

“Something
else
?”

As quickly as I can, I explain about the mine, Peabody, the shed, my plans with Dobber.

When I'm done, Iris says, “I'm coming to get you.”

That makes me laugh. My throat muscles barely remember how, but they get the hang of it pretty fast. It feels good. For those ten seconds, the weight lifts. “Thanks for that. I thought you'd … you know, forgotten me.”

“No way! Aw, I'm sorry Libs. It's just, the play starts next week, so we've had rehearsals every day and—Oh man! I forgot to tell you. I got my internship with the
Washington Recorder
!”

Her dream come true. Iris's been applying to the
Recorder
for years, trying to get her foot in the door. I should have guessed.

“Yep. Is that perfect or what?”

“Perfectly perfect.” I fight down a wave of jealousy.

“The guy I'm interning with said he might even let me write a little.”

“That's so great. Iris, I'm really happy for you.”

“You can celebrate with me in person,” Iris says. “I'm coming to get you tomorrow.”

The idea of going back to DC, back to Westfield Academy, leaving behind arsonists and orange water and dying grannies, makes me feel like I've got a helium balloon in my chest, lifting me up above all the crap. And then it pops. “I can't leave Granny.”

Iris sighs. “Yeah, I know. But God, Lib. That guy setting fire to your shed? That's insane.”

“I know.” Glancing out the window, I realize it's gotten dark and close the blinds. God only knows who might be out there.

“Promise me you'll stay out of his way,” Iris says.

Oh, how I'd love to. “Well …”

“Liberty, seriously. Stay the hell away from the guy!”

“I can't,” I say. “I have to make this right.”

“Your granny is dying. The mountain's trashed. The people in charge there just voted to screw themselves over even more. How can you make any of that right?”

“I don't know. But it's not fair! None of it.”

Iris groans. “Oh no. Not Liberty Briscoe's infamous quest for fairness again.”
“What?”

“I've been down that road too many times already.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Seriously? How about when Chester got credit for all our work on that team project?”

“What about it?” I say. “Chester shows up for half an hour and gets an A because we worked all night for two days?”

“It wasn't fair. I agree. But you went all vigilante on him.”

“I did not.”

“Throwing his homework away, for two weeks, when you were Mr. Murphy's classroom aid? That's vigilante. He nearly flunked.”

“Well, he deserved—” My gut clenches at the word.

“And then that time Jason Mueller told Ms. Shatner that Tabitha Warner cheated off his test, when it was actually the other way around.”

“I remember.” I'm still trying to scrub the word “deserved” out of my mouth.

“You stuffed a thong in his locker and his girlfriend dumped him when she saw it.” Iris laughs. “Oh, and remember when that kid tied a firecracker to that stray cat?”

“Okay, I get it.” The pattern of behavior she's describing sounds disturbingly similar to someone else I know. Someone I really don't respect. Someone who's sitting in prison right this second.

“I'm just saying, you have an interesting way of making things fair.”

“Thanks for pointing that out.” I feel icky inside now. I don't like being reminded that I did those things, even if, at the time, they seemed right and fair … and maybe deserved.

“Whatever.” Iris sighs. “Look, I'm worried about you. Are you sure I can't come get you?”

“I can't leave Granny.”

“I know you can't. Just promise you'll call if you need me.”

“Promise.”

“I'll call you this weekend, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Love you, Lib.”

“Ditto you.”

I hang up the phone, missing Iris like crazy and not liking myself very much at all.