Timber Line

Chapter Five

Joey Webb walked into the center of her room, her fists clenched hard at her sides. Her face turned as red as her hair, and finally she unleashed her temper by throwing a very unladylike roundhouse right at a lampshade.

Pow. She hit it solid. The lamp spun off the end table and fell unbroken, into an overstuffed chair.

She let it lie there.

"Damn," she muttered. "Damn, damn, and damn."

She jumped onto her bed and covered her head with a pillow, not moving, trying not to think.

There was a knock at the door. She ignored it; whoever it was would go away. She did not want to see anyone or talk to anyone. Not even to faithful old Oscar Brack. It had been a lousy day, preceded by a disastrous month. She didn't know what bothered her most: that someone was trying to destroy the copa-ibas or that someone had killed her fiance, Danny.

She thought of the snake attack and with a twinge of guilt realized how lucky she was that she had decided at the last moment not to go with Danny.

He had called her from the copa-iba stand and told her that he had finally discovered who was trying to destroy the trees, and why. He would be along to pick her up in a few minutes, he said. Then they were going off to warn Tulsa Torrent authorities about what he'd learned. He was afraid to use any of the telephones in the camp.

But he never arrived, and she missed him, and she was upset that this project that her father had given his life for was possibly going down the drain; the final straw was that lunatic Remo O'Sylvan.

The knock on the door was louder this time, and reluctantly she decided that whoever was there wasn't going to go away.

"Come in if you have to," she called out.

Brack and Stacy came into the room. Brack looked around, saw the upset lamp, and went over and returned it to its place on the table.

Joey got off the bed and walked to the window. Stacy sat on the edge of the bed — God, how she hated that, she thought — and Oscar sat in the chair.

"Are you all right?" Oscar asked.

Joey nodded. "I guess so. What do you want?" she asked in general, and then specifically to Stacy, "What do you want?"

Stacy looked nervous. "I don't know. Oscar said he wanted to talk to us after O'Sylvan left, so here I am. What's on your mind, Brack?"

Joey looked at Brack. For a moment their eyes met. She could tell from the look in his eyes that the sturdy man was in great pain from his gunshot wound.

"Oscar?" she said.

"Yeah, Brack, what is it?" Stacy demanded.

The sturdy sixty-year-old Brack glowered at the man who was officially his boss. There was no mistaking the contempt in the look; it was a look that said Stacy wasn't smart enough, tough enough, or man enough to have the job he held, a job that Oscar Brack had wanted for almost ten years.

"I just want to know, Stacy, what it is you're doing around here. Danny dead, accidents to the machinery up with the copa-ibas, people shooting at us... what are you doing about it?"

"A lot," Stacy said.

"Such as," Brack persisted.

"Well, first of all, I don't know that I have to answer to you. Remember, Tulsa Torrent put me in charge of the show up here, not you. I'm sure if they thought you could do this job better, you'd have this job."

"I'm not interested in the goddamn job; I'm interested in us staying alive — Joey, me, and those trees."

Joey just watched the conversation. She had always refused to take sides in the fight that had been simmering between the two men for as long as she could remember.

"What are you doing about keeping us alive?" Brack demanded.

"Everything that can possibly be done," Stacy said. He had raised himself into an erect position on the edge of the bed.

There was a long, ugly silence.

"Which means you're doing nothing," Brack said.

"No, it doesn't mean I'm doing nothing. I've beefed up security all over the area; I've posted new warning signs to keep out trespassers; and I'm putting in television monitors to keep an eye on things."

"Great," Brack sneered. "We're getting shot at, and you're hanging up signs and television sets. Swell."

There was more silence before Joey spoke.

"What about this O'Sylvan, Roger?" she said. "Did you really have to inflict him on us?"

"It wasn't my doing," Stacy said. "The government sent him. I thought he was supposed to help us here. Instead, he turns out to be another goddamn bureaucrat."

Brack laughed. "Help us? He couldn't tell a tree from a turnip. It's all kind of typical of the way things are going here," he said.

"I can see there isn't much use talking to you about this tonight," Stacy said. He looked elaborately at his watch. "I have something important to see to tonight, so if you'll excuse me..."

Stacy stood up and walked toward the door. As he passed Brack, he said, "I want you in my office at eight o'clock in the morning — sharp."

"What?"

"You heard me. Eight o'clock sharp." His voice had a razor's edge in it. "Do you understand?"

Brack swallowed, then nodded.

"Oh, and one other thing," Stacy said.

"What's that?" asked Brack, not even bothering to keep the contempt out of his voice.

"I think I should have you examined by a second doctor. I want to make sure that wound's as bad as it's supposed to be. The company is tough on malingerers."

He didn't wait for a reply. As soon as he finished speaking he pulled the door shut behind him.

Brack jumped to his feet and stared at the door. "Malingerer," he said. "That bastard... that..." He started for the door.

Joey called to him softly, "Oscar." He turned to her, but she said, "Forget it. Just forget it."

"I should have left him back there in the jungle to die," Brack said. "I should have had that pilot turn his plane around and fly right the hell out of there. I never should have landed and saved his worthless life. What did I get for it? Tell me. What did I get out of it?"

Joey laughed. "Me?" she suggested.

Brack thought for a moment, then nodded. "Rights, you. Joey, you make it worthwhile."

He sank back into the chair and Joey returned to sit on the bed.

"I've been thinking," she said, "about this Remo O'Sylvan."

"Yes?"

"When I came in here, I was all steamed up that the government had just sent someone to bother us and mess up the project. But I'm beginning to think that there's nobody as dumb as this O'Sylvan wants us to think he is."

"Yeah, he is. He's that dumb. You heard him. The son of a ward leader."

"Nephew," she corrected.

"Nephew, son, it doesn't matter," Brack said.

"I don't think so," Joey Webb said. "But think about it. We both know that the oil people and the nuke people own a lot of the government, and both of them are trying to stop this project. Right?"

"Maybe," Brack said. "Probably. I wouldn't be surprised."

"Well, I wouldn't be surprised either if Mr. Remo O'Sylvan is somebody from the government, but who's really working for the oil companies or the nukes."

"Good theory," Brack said. "But how do you prove it?"

Joey looked at him, arched one eyebrow, threw out her chest, and very quickly thrust her tongue into her cheek, then removed it. "I'll find out," she said. "Don't you worry. I'll find out."