“Clint—I’m sorry, but you got nothing on this guy,” Clarence said.
Clint fumed and bit his lip. He shook his head as he felt his blood boiling. He threw his eyes at Clarence and then checked the door to make sure no one else was coming back. Clint grabbed Clarence’s arm. “I know this guy is guilty, Clarence. I know it.”
“You know what, exactly?” Clarence asked.
“I know he sold tainted meat that wasn’t inspected. Hell he butchered those animals himself. I know he’s responsible for those deaths and illnesses!”
Clarence shook his head. “Clint, we’ve been over this, and we’ve been over this. You−”
“Anthrax doesn’t just come out of the air, Clarence! It comes from the soil, unless we’re talking about a biological weapon. And we’re not. What we are talking about is infected, tainted meat that wasn’t inspected and was served to an innocent, unsuspecting public. That’s a clear violation of the Federal Meat Inspection Act!”
Clint paused, before continuing. “People died, Clarence!”
Clarence removed Clint’s grip from his arm. “Maybe you’re right, Clint. MAYBE. But there’s a difference between thinking something and knowing something. You don’t know it, you think it.”
“Ya but—”
“But WHAT, Clint? But you went up there to see him a few days ago and found, what? Oh, that’s right, you found nothing. Absolutely nothing! A man living in a small house on a small piece of land where he couldn’t possibly have raised and butchered a bunch of pigs.”
Clint jumped to his feet. “You know good and well there’s thousands of acres behind him that—”
Clarence stood, looked Clint in the eye and interrupted, “That has a bunch of trees in it. That’s all I know. Most of ’em laid flat by that storm last week. Face it, Clint, you don’t have anything on this guy. And we don’t have any resources for you to go after him chasing a hunch. Hell, it’ll take us months to figure out when all the restaurants and retailers are safe to reopen near the Georgia coast.”
Clint looked down and tapped the conference table loudly with his fingers. “So that’s it? We don’t have the resources so we just let this guy slide?”
Clarence furrowed his eyes and pointed his finger directly at Clint. “L-E-T it go, Clint. You just focus on what we do know.”
Clint looked up at Clarence and caught his stare.
“We do know that Nick Vegas served all the meats,” Clarence continued. “And we know that the meat was, in fact, tainted with anthrax. Those are the facts.”
Clint exhaled and dropped his shoulders.
“That’s your target, Clint. Nick Vegas.”
***
Nick sat in the plush leather window seat and stared down at the sights of Atlanta as the 767 climbed. Turner Field and the Peachtree Plaza hotel led his eyes to Buckhead. His sprawling home, which seemed so big to him, was lost down there somewhere. The Delta pilot flew over Stone Mountain and the flight attendant brought Nick another Jack Daniels once the chime indicated they had reached 10,000 feet.
Nick pulled the envelope out of the brief case in front of him that his lawyer had sent over that afternoon. “Just look this over this weekend and let’s meet Monday to strategize,”the lawyer said. Nick had glanced it over. He had seen the $30 million class-action civil lawsuit carefully drafted by IBM’s team of high-priced lawyers who had nothing better to do than to go after Nick. To make him a poster child for wrongdoing while making themselves look good to the public. Enhancing their image as sticking up for what they thought was right.
More than anything he wanted to stay and fight and clear his name, but everything transpired against him. Nick slugged the Jack Daniels and asked the flight attendant for more. To his way of thinking he had done nothing wrong. He really believed that. Mostly he wanted to break Blake in half for what he had done to him. For what Blake had cost him.
Yes, Nick wanted to stay and fight. But he’d lose and he knew it. So he transferred what money he could to banks in Barcelona. He’d lay low and fight the battle from there, hopefully holding on to the house and the restaurants but, if not, getting as much cash out as he could. And keep his freedom.
Chapter 34
Easter Sunday arrived on the last day of March, earlier than most years. The date made little difference to Ozzie. Nor did the day of the week or the event itself, for that matter. He walked down the slope after patrolling the ridge. He looked up as he walked and noticed that most of the trees were still bare. Leaves would be coming soon enough, along with all sorts of new life on the mountain. Ozzie walked past Hal’s old garden to the pile of strewn lumber scattered about; all that remained in the woods of Hal and his cabin. Ozzie listened, hoping to hear the sound of the thumper keg, the sound of Hal’s guitar. To hear Hal rant one more time. He heard the sound of silence.
A solitary, juvenile grunt from underneath the woodpile broke the silence. Then another. Then a chorus of them as six little piglets came out to greet their dad. Ozzie looked down at the motley crew. Three were soot black, just like him. Two were black with tan or orange spots. One little fella was bright, solid orangish red, just like his mom. He was the squeaky wheel of the bunch, always whining until he was fed first, always the one claiming there was a monster in the woods coming for him. They named him Rusty.
Tammy came out from underneath a cove of boards that she and Ozzie had built from Hal’s old cabin. They pushed and shoved them around where his porch formerly stood just before Tammy had given birth two months earlier. She walked over and stood next to Ozzie and watched the little torpedos squirm around, snorting, sniffing and smelling everything in sight. Everything new and wondrous to them.
“Where’re my grand babies?” Isabella called from beside the stream.
Rusty looked up and started running toward her. The others took off, racing as well, and passed him. Rusty came to a log lying down in his path, one that the others had magically hurdled over, but seemingly impossible for him.
“Wa, wa!” Rusty squeaked and squealed.
“Rusty, grow up!” Ozzie said, looking at him firmly.
Tammy walked to Rusty and glanced back at Ozzie, shaking her head. She put her snout under his rump and lifted him up. He ran sideways toward the stream and soaked up his grandmother’s love.
***
The children raced out of the Sandy Creek Baptist Church as the Easter egg hunt was about to begin. “Not this year for you, little one,” Angelica said as she tickled her three-month-old son’s nose. “But you girls run along and have some fun,” she said to Rose’s daughters.
The girls ran off in the matching Easter dresses Angelica had hand sewn for them on her grandmother’s Singer sewing machine. Bright yellow dresses with shoulder straps, hemmed on the bottom in six inches of pink fabric with red flowers. Angelica had put a pink ribbon in their hair that flapped now as they streamed toward the eggs.
“They’re so beautiful,” Rose said to Angelica as she walked out of the church and soaked up the midday sun with John. “I just wish they’d never outgrow them.”
Angelica laughed. “Well, I want to see this little munchkin grow up,” she said. Rose smiled as Angelica looked down to her newborn son.
“I just love the name Clayton,” Rose said. “Surprising you never hear that name up here. I don’t know anyone up here named Clayton.”
“Well, now you do,” Angelica said as she leaned down and put her face right in front of her son’s.
Rose nodded as her eyes fixed on a tearful, middle-aged couple, dressed in black and kneeling to place flowers in the creek. “Who is that?” Rose asked.