The huddled men-there were five of them-pulled up behind Ben. One of them, wearing a red baseball cap with caterpillar printed across the front, spoke. “Who is this creep, Jerry?”
“He’s one of those Green Rage assholes.”
“You’re kidding.” Strong hands clamped down on both of Ben’s shoulders. “Here?”
“It isn’t true,” Ben protested. “I’m not a member of-”
“He works with them,” the first man-Jerry, apparently-explained. “Helps them do their dirty business.”
“No shit,” Caterpillar man said. The others pressed close on all sides. “What were you planning? To bomb the mill?”
“Of course not. I just came to talk.”
“Right. Search him, boys.”
All at once Ben felt about ten hands pawing him in every place imaginable, and being none too gentle about it.
“Would you stop already!” Ben said. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Neither was Dwayne Gardiner,” Jerry replied somberly. “But he sure got it. And now there’s a woman with no husband and a boy who’ll grow up without a daddy. All because of people like you who care more about trees than human beings.” His jaw clenched up with rage. “Grab him, boys.”
All at once, Ben felt a dozen hands clamp down on him with viselike grips. He could barely wriggle, much less move.
“Someone got rope?”
“I know where some is,” Caterpillar man answered. He ran down the dirt road, opened a storage bin, and pulled out a good length.
“Tie him up.”
Ben tried to struggle, but it was useless. With all those hands on him, he couldn’t budge.
“Take him down to the lot.”
A moment later, all hands were jerking him down the way he came, toward the parking area. Clouds of dirt kicked up in his face, choking him, but there was nothing he could do about it. His arms were clamped tightly to his sides, and he had no control over his movements.
They kept moving till they got to the area where the vehicles were parked. Jerry nodded toward a huge eighteen-wheel flatbed truck. “Someone got the keys?”
One of the men in Caterpillars group nodded.
“Good. Tie the rope to the hitching post.”
The men tied one end of the rope around Ben’s wrists, the other end to the iron post at the back of the truck. He was beginning to have a very bad feeling about this …
“You’re making a mistake,” Ben said. He was trying to think of any words that might convince them, however pathetic they sounded. “I don’t mean you any harm.”
“Tell it to Dwayne’s family.” Jerry pulled Ben backward till the rope was extended and pulled taut, then he motioned for the man with the keys to jump in the cab.
“All right,” Jerry said. A trace of a smile cracked his stony exterior. “Drag him.”
Chapter 20
“You can’t be serious!” Ben said. Panic was setting in. Beads of sweat trickled down his temples.
Jerry didn’t bother replying. He raised his arm and then, like an orchestra conductor marking the opening note, brought it down with a flourish.
All at once, the eighteen-wheeler lurched into Drive. Ben was jerked forward, hands and head first, onto the hard red dirt.
He hadn’t expected that. He thought it would take the huge truck a while to warm up, that he would be able to jog behind it, at least for a while. Instead, it had taken off like a souped-up Camaro.
And it continued to barrel across the parking lot. Ben was dragged along the ground, his chin scraping the hard earth. Dirt flew up into his eyes, stinging them; he soon learned it was smartest to keep his eyes shut.
But all of that was minor compared to the pummeling his body was taking. He was battered by every bump, rise, and pothole. And there were lots of all of them. He was skinned and bruised and the truck seemed to be increasing in speed.
“Oof!” Ben’s chin socked the ground hard. He could feel blood trickling down his neck, his cheeks. It stung so badly he almost didn’t see the rock-
Until it was too late. It struck him square in the chest. Ben cried out in pain, but the truck kept moving and the rock rumbled under his body, cutting and bruising him all along the way. The hum of the engines told Ben the truck was accelerating. At the current speed, he was probably only looking at serious injuries. But if the truck moved any faster …
“Stop this!”
Ben heard the voice behind him, but he was in no position to check the source. The truck was still moving, and he’d spotted another rock with a sharp edge coming toward him. Fast.
“Stop this immediately! Stop or you’re all out of work!”
The truck braked. Ben heard the hydraulic hissing before he actually felt any decrease in speed.
He stopped just inches short of the jagged rock. Up close, it looked positively lethal. If he’d been dragged over that, he’d be in seriously bad shape.
“I’m so sorry about this.” A man he didn’t know had crouched down and was untying the knots around Ben’s wrists. “This is inexcusable. But don’t worry. I’ll take appropriate action. Listen, men, you’re all-”
Both he and Ben looked all around. They were alone. The loggers had fled.
“Typical.” The man made a clicking noise with his tongue, then finished untying Ben. He offered Ben a hand. “Are you all right?”
Ben slowly raised himself to a seated position. His whole body ached. His clothes were ruined, but he thought he could walk. “I’ll live.”
He pushed up to his feet, but his legs wobbled like jelly. The other man caught him and helped him back down to the ground. “Don’t rush it, son. It’ll be a spell before you get your strength back.”
Ben decided to take his advice. He wiped a trickle of blood from his chin. “Thanks for intervening.”
“No problem, son. They had no business doing this. The boys are just so riled up right now. Feel like they’re under attack, like danger’s coming at them from all sides.”
Really? Ben thought. That’s almost exactly how the Green Ragers say they feel.
Ben extended his hand. “Anyway, my name’s Ben Kincaid.”
“Jeremiah Adams,” the man said. He was in his late fifties, with short-cropped hair and a spotty white beard on his chin. He was wearing jeans and a western shirt, complete with studs. “I’m the supervisor out here. I think you were coming to see me.”
“You must be Granny’s father. I mean Granville’s. The prosecutor.”
Adams laughed. “You know my little girl?”
“I do.” Ben pushed himself to his feet again, and this time he was relieved to see that his legs held. “Could we go inside and talk?”
Ben followed the man as he led the way up the ramp and into the building. He tried his best not to wobble, but his left ankle felt twisted and kept dropping out from under him. Like it or not, he was going to limp; he decided the best he could do was to stare straight ahead and limp with dignity.
As soon as they passed through the front doors of the building, Ben was overwhelmed by the piercingly loud roar. Fierce, menacing, and metallic.
“Takes a mite to get used to that sawmill,” Adams said as he shuffled down the main corridor. “Nowadays I barely even notice it.”
Barely even notice? Ben thought, wincing. The man had to be kidding. Inside, the shrill roar was so insistent he could barely think, much less hear.
“I remember the first time I visited the mill, back before I worked here. ’Round ’70, ’71, I ’spect. Noise hurt my head so bad I stared wearing earplugs. ’Course that didn’t set too well with the regulars. They marked me down for some kind of sissy boy, if you know what I mean. So I took out the plugs and learned to deal with it. Haven’t had any problems since. Oh, I get some ringing in my ears from time to time, but not enough to complain about.”
I think I’ve got plenty to complain about already, Ben thought, but he decided to keep it to himself. He wasn’t at all sure he could make himself heard over this din anyway.