They had dinner in Walhalla at the Cat’s Eye, and afterward drove back toward Johnson’s Ridge. It was dark now, a cold, crystal night with silent stars and no moon and a few wisps of cloud. They were riding three across the front seat in Corky’s Mazda when they rounded a curve and saw the soft green glow at the top of the ridge.
“Look at that,” said Marie’s sister.
Corky would have pulled off somewhere so they could watch, but the road was lined with cars. Instead he slowed down and crept along at about twenty.
To Marie, there was something supernatural in that quiet radiance. As though God himself had provided a lighthouse for His lost children. A reassurance that He was still here.
Oddly, she had felt nothing when she’d been alongside the structure two hours earlier, in broad daylight. But now the full weight of its significance caught her.
“We can see it all the way out to the border,” said Corky. He was a customs inspector at the Fort Moxie border crossing, and that statement was exaggerated. The border was too far away. But tonight it seemed possible. Tonight everything seemed possible.
“Slow down, Corky,” Marie said.
Corky was already creeping along, and some headlights had come up behind them.
Marie’s sister said, “I wonder what causes it. Maybe it’s made of phosphorous.”
Marie began to see an image. If you backed away a little bit mentally, stayed away from the details, and looked just so, you could make out a woman’s face. And she knew the woman.
“It’s the Virgin,” she said.
Arky Redfern ushered his guest to a seat, sat down behind his desk, and smiled politely. “Dr. Wells,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
Paxton Wells was a tall, lean man with a gray mustache and a manner that would have been aristocratic had he not been burdened with oversized ears. “Mr. Redfern,” he said, “I understand you represent tribal interests on Johnson’s Ridge.”
The lawyer nodded.
“I have an offer to make on behalf of the National Energy Institute.” He released the catches on his briefcase, searched inside, and withdrew a contract. “We would like to have permission to investigate the power source in the Roundhouse.” His eyebrows rose and fell, signaling, Arky thought, a fair degree of stress, which otherwise did not evince itself in Wells’s manner. “There’s a possibility we might be able to develop some of the technologies in the building. If indeed there are any technologies that can be adapted. We don’t know that, of course.”
“Of course,” said Redfern.
“Nevertheless, we would be willing to offer a substantial sum of money for the property and assume all the risk and expense of developing it.”
“I see.” Redfern picked up the document.
“We can offer a million dollars,” Wells said. He underscored the amount and left himself slightly breathless.
The lawyer flipped methodically through the pages, stopping occasionally to examine an item that had caught his attention. “I see,” he said, “you would get all rights for development and use.”
“Mr. Redfern.” Wells leaned forward and assumed an attitude that he obviously thought was one of friendly no-nonsense sincerity. “Let’s be honest here. This is a crapshoot. NEI is willing to gamble a lot of money on the off chance that there’s something usable on the ridge. We don’t know that to be the case. Nevertheless, in everyone’s interest, we’ll assume the risk. And the tribe can just sit back and collect. One million dollars. To do nothing.”
Redfern folded the contract and handed it back. “I don’t think so,” he said.
“May I ask why? What can you lose?”
The lawyer got out of his chair. “Dr. Wells, I’m quite busy today. If NEI wants to make a serious offer, you know where to find me.”
“Aren’t you overstepping your authority, Mr. Redfern? I would think your responsibility is to consult your employer.”
Redfern let Wells see that he was not impressed. “I believe I understand my responsibility, Dr. Wells. Now, I hate to rush you—”
“All right.” Wells leaned back in his chair. “You drive a hard bargain, Redfern. To save us both time, I’ll go right to the bottom line. I’m authorized to offer two million.”
Redfern glanced up at his father’s bow. There were times, he thought, when he regretted that they’d given up the old ways.
18
A man without money is a bow without an arrow.
During the two years he’d served on the city council, Marv Wickham had never seen more than a dozen people attend the monthly meeting. But tonight was different. Fort Moxie’s total population of nine hundred twenty-seven must have been at city hall, where they overflowed the spacious second-floor meeting room and spilled out into the corridors. (The presence of the New Agers to whom the mayor had rented the lower-level auditorium did nothing to alleviate matters.) They were still coming in when the council president, Charlie Lindquist, launched the evening’s proceedings.
There were several routine items on the agenda: a zoning ordinance request, a proposal to issue highway improvement bonds, and a suggestion that Fort Moxie participate in a consolidated school scheme. But the issue that had drawn the crowd, and which Lindquist consequently scheduled last, would be a request that the city approve a demand that the Johnson’s Ridge excavation site be shut down.
Lindquist, who considered himself the town’s Solomon, guided the deliberations methodically through the preliminaries. At twelve minutes past nine he gave the floor to Joe Torres, a retired farmer now living in town.
Torres, reading nervously from a sheet of paper, described the chaotic conditions existing in Fort Moxie. Traffic had become impossible. There were drunks and fights and crowds of hoodlums. Visitors were parking their cars everywhere. They were overflowing the restaurants and stripping the supermarket so that ordinary citizens had to drive eighty miles to Grand Forks. They were even drawing lunatics with bombs, like the one who had taken out the Tastee-Freez the day before. “I know it’s good business for Mike and some of you other boys, but it’s pretty tough on the rest of us.”
Agnes Hanford stood up. “We need to take advantage of this while we can. In the end, the whole town’ll be better off.” Agnes’s husband owned the Prairie Schooner.
Joe shook his head. “That’s easy for you to say, Agnes. But it’s getting worse. And I think we need to do something.” As if to underline his argument, they heard an automobile roar past, horn blaring, radio shaking the building. “If we allow this to go on, we’re going to have to hire some police officers.” Historically, Fort Moxie had received what little law enforcement support it needed from Cavalier. “I therefore propose,” he continued, reading again, “that the council demand that the persons digging on Johnson’s Ridge cease and desist. And that the structure known as the Roundhouse be demolished.” He looked around. “Torn up and hauled away,” he added.