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Ruffling Feathers Chapter 9 - Life on the Spine
Dennis Brown sat down in the foyer outside Paul's office in the software building. Paul was running late. With the Fourth of July tomorrow, Carol Landry told Dennis that practically all of Paul's staff had suddenly discovered a crisis that required his attention. Dennis shuffled restlessly through old issues of Byte and Wired and Business Week. "Excuse me, Mr. Brown." Dennis looked up to see an elegant hand with slender fingers and bright red nails offering him a mug. Carol Landry handed him the coffee and the morning's Daily Camera. He sipped the scalding beverage. "Perfect." In every way, he mentally added. Dennis settled into the couch across from Carol and flipped to the Local section of the newspaper. How predictable, he thought smugly as he began to read Amy's weekly column. "Fire and
Water: Walking the Tightrope This morning the
West is burning. Over one million acres of forest and grasslands are ablaze,
with firefighters from all over North America battling Mother Nature. It's hot,
it's dry, it's windy. They're not going to win. She'll burn until she burns
herself out. This year, we'll
lose huge stands of ponderosa pine and blue spruce; we'll lose dwarf forests of
scrub oak and Piñon pine. But the forests will come back. The fire will clean
out dead timber. The heat will open seeds. Ash will fertilize the soil. Two,
three years from now, meadows will be overflowing with wildflowers; charred
forests will be dotted with baby aspens, creating a nursery forest of young
saplings. Dry lightening in a
heavily fueled forest produces firestorms that obliterate the past.
It takes awhile, but in the end, they rejuvenate the land. The math is
simple. It gets complicated
when you introduce the human factor into the equation. Every year we spend
millions of dollars fighting a losing battle with fire to protect the homes,
businesses, ranches, farms, nuclear power plants, and archeological sites that
lie in the path of the fire. Sometimes we forget
that we live in one of the most fragile places on earth. Step off the trail
above timberline, and you destroy alpine tundra. One golf course too many, and
the Colorado River dies in the California desert. Our fragile state, our fragile
region, cannot accommodate developments in the wrong location. South Park is the
wrong place for a new community. Hoarding South Platte water under Douglas
County in an aquifer and then sending it to South Park instead of letting it
flow into eastern Colorado will upset the fragile balance nature has
established. I urge you to join
me tomorrow to celebrate Independence Day at a rally near the South Park site
where Donovan Industries, under the guise of the Delisle Development Group,
plans to create a new recreational site using water that nature intended for our
country's mid-section. On our nation's birthday, let's use the democratic
process to stop this assault on our fragile balance. NO DONOVAN PARK!" The article adjacent to Amy's column detailed the rally's logistics. Buses from Colorado's major cities and towns would help transport participants and minimize mountain traffic—food tents and water stations would be available—demonstrators were advised to bring sunscreen and canopies for shade—and no fireworks! Best of all, "Citizens Against Donovan Park" had lined up big name entertainment—the usual Hollywood liberals, Dennis noted. The event was going to be MC'd by the Sierra Club's president, and Greenpeace was just one of a myriad of green teams offering up speakers and resources. The rally was a veritable love-in for eco-groupies. Ed Hutchins has certainly been busy these past two weeks, Dennis observed. Not only was Ed wise in the ways of civil disobedience, he was equally adept at appealing to the masses. Dennis had to give him credit. The man had given the "Citizens" group expert counsel, and they were putting on a Fourth of July party that was going to make it on the map...or at least C-Span. "Citizens" announced that the network was going to broadcast every minute of the rally, and replay the broadcast throughout the evening. Though he'd barely admit it to himself, Dennis couldn't quite believe how perfectly the project was coming together. Ed Hutchins had actually been the wild card in the game. Dennis hadn't been able to confidently predict how involved Ed would become in the Donovan Park protest—sometimes he walked away from causes that everyone thought he would champion. Dennis suspected Ed's involvement was spurred by paternal jealousy. From what he'd heard, Ed hadn't liked the chemistry between his favorite daughter and Paul Donovan. Dennis shrugged. Whatever the reason, the rally was going to rocket and hate mail was going to fly. It was probably only a matter of days before Donovan would be the numero uno target for lunatics. One of the Bureau's finest, Dennis was well-trained, intellectual, committed. Like every top agent, Dennis worked out a mental model that provided a framework for solving a case while keeping his sanity. As a cadet at the Air Force Academy, Dennis discovered Sun Tzu and found a game plan for his own life's work in The Art of War or Suntzu Pingfa. Dennis recognized a kindred spirit in this fifth century B.C. Chinese general who lived at a time of upheaval, change, and intrigue, a time when the Zhou empire was slowly disintegrating into a multitude of competing regions, city-states, and clans. Dennis looked at his own world and felt it was disintegrating too. A quarter century later, the chaotic forces hadn't slowed down. Even before he had finished his tour of duty in Germany, Dennis took the foreign service exam. Being an Air Force zoomie had merely been the quickest path for an Iowa farm boy to make it to the state department. Instead, the FBI had come calling. He had scored highly on the brutally difficult exam. The clincher—his personal profile fit the FBI perfectly, but was less perfect for the state department. Dennis swallowed hard, and took the FBI up on their offer. Dennis took a worn index card out of his wallet and read the words that he had memorized so many years ago: 1) All warfare is based on deception. 2) When you surround an army, leave an outlet free. 3) Supreme excellence consists in breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting. 4) It is precisely when a force has fallen into harm's way that it is capable of striking a blow for victory. He knew that he had the eco-crowd guessing now. He had ordered Donovan to level the house on Second Avenue, and then stop, leaving Piñon a powder keg of tension. Nerves were frayed and allegiances tenuous. Mayor Cox was a pariah in some circles and acclaimed in others. Dennis knew he had let out just enough line to entice a shadowy someone out there into acting again, but he had to watch and wait. Wait for when that someone, that eco-terrorist with a murderous twist, would reveal himself...and then, case closed. Paul opened his door and motioned Carol inside, pausing to nod to Dennis and indicate that he was next in the queue. Dennis watched as Carol grabbed a notepad and went into Paul's office. She's completely wasted here, Dennis mused. He liked her chic angularity, her attention to detail. She was brittle and crisp...and vulnerable. Totally attractive. The door opened again and Paul came out, followed by Dave and Carol. Dennis gathered that the company jet was going to take Dave Landry to New York and then was going to stop in Boston to pick up Richard Clayton and Gina Donovan. Dennis inserted himself into the conversation. "Your sister is coming out here?" "Richard said she's insisting. Says Gina can't stand another country club summer, and she wants to see Colorado." Paul paused and then raised an eyebrow at Dennis, "You got someone to keep an eye on her?" "No problem." In the quiet confines of Paul's office, Dennis calmly reviewed the next step in the project. Basically, the next step was to do nothing. Dennis explained that they had thrown out more than enough bait to make Paul a target for any eco-terrorist who was looking for a scalp. As evidenced by Amy Hutchins's column, unveiling the Donovan Park project had given Paul Donovan all the notoriety he needed. "When do you think they'll strike again?" Paul asked. He knew that Dennis had agents watching every aspect of his life—his house, car, jet, sister, buildings—but still, he was the target. It was unsettling. And then, for a naturally introverted person, life in a fishbowl was almost unbearable. He craved the old anonymity he had sacrificed to avenge his parents' death. Would they even have wanted him to take this path? Even his mother, vivacious as she was, had fiercely protected their family's privacy. "After the rally. That rally will provide ample fuel for a lunatic feeding frenzy. The "Citizens" group that's organizing this thing think they can keep the rally under control, but they have no idea what they're unleashing here." Dennis saw a look of concern pass over Paul's face. He patted Paul's arm. "It's okay, we're ready for them." Paul fixed his eyes on Amy. She looked like a warrior queen up there on stage—a Deborah or a Boadicea looking out over a sea of tents and canopies, warriors waiting for the order to charge. Except this time, the warriors weren't soldiers but simply ordinary people who had come up to South Park, a vast mountain basin, to protect their land and water from bulldozers and greed. Shimmering on stage in white denim and leather, Amy was the crowd's favorite, the people's choice. Navaho silver and turquoise encircled her waist and neck and arms like armor. Her eyes flashed beneath a wide bolero hat. The eyes of Joan of Arc, Paul thought with a shudder. This woman who had declared two weeks ago that she had no enemies, now most likely looked on him as the enemy. He had turned her town upside down. He had destroyed houses and trees, and worst of all, he had stirred up old animosities between ranchers and fishermen, farmers and entrepreneurs...all over a resort community he had no intention of ever building. He had upset life on the spine because Dennis had told him it was the only way to find his parents' killers. Even through the medium of television, Paul was mesmerized by Amy's magnetic charm. The camera loved her. It caught the energy in her eyes and made it seem as if Amy was the life force of the event. Alone in the study of Chuck and Kate Gilcrest's Aspen valley ranch, Paul silently watched C-Span's broadcast of the July Fourth South Park rally. Gina Donovan and Richard Clayton had gone with the Gilcrests for a horseback ride and picnic up the Frying Pan River. Paul had begged off. He had to watch the rally. Chuck and Kate had been good friends with George and Anne Donovan—college pals back at Courtland College in Piñon thirty-five years ago. They insisted that Paul spend the holiday up at their ranch. They had wanted him to get out of Piñon and breathe some mountain air. When he told them that his sister and cousin were joining him from Boston, they made it a family affair. Now Sam Redmond, the Sierra Club president and MC for the rally, was getting huge applause as he announced that Amy was going to sing the next song. So far, she had made one small speech, really just introducing one of the celebrities, but she had been on stage for most of the rally. Paul leaned forward, breathless, looking into Amy's eyes as she looked into the camera. Then she closed her eyes and let the music ratchet up around her...train music, drums and bass guitar pounding out a circular, driving beat...raise the banner and sing the anthem. I live on a battlefield, surrounded by the ruins of a love we
built...and then destroyed between us. My new home is a shell-hole filled with tears and muddy water...and bits
of broken heart. All around, there is desolation and scenes of devastation of a
love being torn apart. I live on a battlefield, the one where not one single drop of blood has
spilled is no less horrifying. Sweet memories of a bygone situation, now shattered, Lord and battered,
lies scattered all around. Everything that can has gone wrong. It's going to take spine to carry
on. Like a drowning man coming up for air, I'm looking for another survivor but
I can't see one anywhere. I live on a battlefield.* Paul ground his fists into his temples. Richard knocked softly on the study where he had left Paul at ten that morning. The room was dim, with sunlight barely peeking around the blinds, the TV glowed and Richard could see Paul's head resting against the back of the couch, his feet outstretched on the ottoman. "The rally still on?" Richard asked. "No—it was over two hours ago. This is the tape." "How many times have you watched it?" "This part? Oh, about a dozen times." "What is this part?" "The last song—Amy comes back on stage. Here, listen..." Paul stopped the tape and rewound. It was eerie, watching Amy moving back in time. Paul started the tape again. Amy stepped up to the mike and quieted the crowd. She talked about how moving it was to see so many people there today in the hot sun lifting their voices against unrestrained, irresponsible, unlimited development. Here, in this beautiful mountain park, ringed by distant mountains that were forever snowcapped, the people of Colorado were lifting their voices to tell the developers that "enough is enough." Once more, she quieted the thunderous applause that erupted over her words. She talked about the sacredness of South Park—once it had been the winter home of the Ute Indians who found salt and water and game in the park. She told the crowd to "look out across the miles of emptiness and imagine buffalo herds so vast that they filled the park. Only to be slaughtered along with the Indians who hunted them." Amy wanted to dedicate her last song to her father, Doctor Edward Hutchins, the man who made the rally a reality. He wasn't there today because, well, he was better at organizing rallies than participating in them—and he would probably never forgive her for pulling him into the spotlight. But, she wanted to sing a song for him. Richard and Paul silently watched as Amy picked up her guitar and carefully picked out a tune, heartbreaking in its sweetness and simplicity... You'll never be the sun, turning in the sky. And you won't be the moon
above us on a moonlit night. And you won't be the stars in heaven, although they
burn so bright. But even on the deepest ocean, you will be the light. You may not always shine as you go barefoot over stone. You might be so
long together or you might walk alone. And you won't find that love comes easy,
but that love is always right. So even when the dark clouds gather, you will be
the light. And if you lose the part inside when love turns round on you, leaving
the past behind is knowing you do like you always do. Holding you blind, keeping
you true. You'll never be the sun, turning in the sky. And you won't be the moon above us on a moonlit night. And you won't be the stars in heaven, although they burn so bright. But even on the deepest ocean, you will be the light.** Amy slipped off the guitar, and raised her arms, tears streaming down her face. She blew a kiss sunward "To my father—our light and our conscience as we fight the good fight." Paul muted the sound, and the two men sat and stared at the screen, watching the wrap up of the rally in silence. Finally Paul asked, "So what are we going to do?" Richard shook his head as he rested it in his hands. A quiet voice from the doorway said, "You could try the truth." They turned to see Annie Edgerton silhouetted in the doorframe, back lit in late afternoon sunshine. Annie was an old family friend of the Gilcrests as well and had also taken them up on their invitation to celebrate the Fourth at the ranch. "What do you mean?" Paul asked walking towards her. "What do you know about this?" "People talk to me. They always have." She paused as she took measure of the men now standing before her. "You've been waiting for the truth about your parent's death to surface. Why don't you try seeking out that truth instead of playing games and waiting for it to find you." A little smile flitted across her face. "Maybe the truth will set you free. A lie never will. I don't know what you're up to, but I do know that you've been lying…to the governor, to the Water Board, to Amy…" * Battlefield, Nick Lowe
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