The line behind the microphone had grown considerably shorter by the time I returned to my seat. I searched for Curtis Blevins in the audience, and couldn’t find him.
A woman stepped up to the mic. She was carrying what looked like a folded blanket. I didn’t recognize her from where I sat until she stated her name.
“I’m Bridgette Franson.”
That caused a stir in the audience and a few ohhs and ahhs, yet she didn’t acknowledge it.
“I live near a sand mine. There’s a layer of sand on my car every single day. I brush it off and the next day I come back and there’s another layer, and I park in a garage. The same with my porch and sidewalk. The same with my windows and roof. I never open my windows anymore no matter how hot it is. The sand gets inside anyway. It covers my dishes in the cabinet; I have to wash them before I set the table. My clothes are full of it. So is my hair. I can feel it in my throat, in my nose. I’m not asking anyone to feel sorry for me. I’m asking you not to make the same mistake that we made by selling our property to these people.
“I’ve heard a lot of talk tonight about how prolonged exposure to airborne crystalline silica can cause cardiovascular disease and increase the risk of lung cancer. I compare it to secondhand smoke. These two will tell you that the problem doesn’t exist, just like the tobacco companies claimed for how many years that cigarettes weren’t addictive and that they didn’t cause cancer. Believe me when I tell you that I have been around a great many liars in my time…”
I heard a hoot and a smattering of applause.
“These two are as accomplished in the art as anyone I’ve ever seen. This quilt was hanging on my line for only a couple of hours this afternoon.”
Bridgette unrolled the quilt she was carrying and gripped one end with both hands. She waved it up and down frantically. A cloud of yellow dust formed and spread across the auditorium.
“My advice?” she said. “Don’t believe a word these people say.”
Bridgette turned and walked back up the aisle, trailing the quilt behind. Applause followed her; some people cheered. One of them was a woman dressed in jeans, a white dress shirt, and a blue sports jacket not unlike the one I wore. She sat down next to me.
“You go, girl,” she shouted. I watched her as she applauded. In a softer voice she asked, “Are you having fun yet, Mr. Taylor?”
“Have we met?”
She reached into her pocket, withdrew a thin wallet, and handed it to me. I opened it slowly, as if it were a bomb. Instead, it was the lady’s credentials. I read it aloud.
“Special Agent Rachel Colgin, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives.”
“Don’t you just love the way that rolls off the tongue?” she said.
I handed the wallet back.
“You’re a little young to be working for the Department of Justice, aren’t you?” I said.
“Says the old man of forty-three.”
“Forty-two. My birthday isn’t until the end of the month.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Whenever I meet someone from the Justice Department I always ask the same question—what did I do?”
“It’s not what you did. It’s what you’re going to do.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Good, Taylor. You’re going to do good.”
“I already don’t like the sound of this.”
Colgin patted my knee the same way my father did just before telling me how much fun we were going to have putting new shingles on the house.
“Let me tell you a story,” she said. “Once upon a time, there was a magical people called Yuppers that lived in a land called the Upper Peninsula in the kingdom of Michigan. Some of these Yuppers, about eighty-five hundred, resided in a city called Menominee. Menominee, Michigan, not to be confused with Menominee, Wisconsin. It’s very pretty. You’d like it there.
“Now, Menominee, Michigan, is located across the Menominee River from its evil rival Marinette, Wisconsin. The river marks where the Upper Penninsula begins and Wisconsin ends. Both towns are also on the western shore of Lake Michigan. They like to call themselves inland seaports. Only Marinette has the edge in that regard. To keep up, Menominee decided to expand its harbor facilities. To do this, it needed to acquire the land immediately adjacent to the existing harbor. The city made what it considered a fair market offer. Except the owner of the property was a feisty anti-government sort named Curtis Blevins, and he refused to sell. The city instituted a complete taking of the land.”
“Condemnation via eminent domain,” I said.
“Look at you knowing how the government works. I bet you got nothing but A’s in high school civics.”
“The city took Blevins’s property.”
“Yes, it did. It paid him less than he would have received if he had accepted the original offer, too. Blevins was upset, to say the least, and who can blame him? He decided to depart the city by the inland sea and never return. Unfortunately, the night before he left, he indulged himself with a little domestic terrorism.”
“What did he do?”
“He blew up Menominee’s Welcome Center, the building the city used to greet visitors and promote commerce. Classic IED. Anhydrous hydrazine. Ammonium nitrate. Aluminum powder. Glass canning jar. Cell phone detonator. Ka-boom. You know what the ATF thinks of bombs.”
“You don’t like them.”
“We don’t like them.”
“How do you know he did it?”
“I know.”
“Why isn’t he in custody?”
“There’s knowing it and there’s proving it. Seems the court demands evidence before locking up an American citizen and throwing away the key.”
“How inconvenient.”
“Too bad he’s not a foreign national. Oh well. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“He has refused on several occasions to converse with Special Agent Rachel Colgin of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives. Yet he might speak to you.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because you just beat up his nephew. I saw the fight, by the way. I was rooting for you.”
“Blevins and Eric Tibbits are related?”
“Yeppers.”
“That makes Esther Tibbits his niece.”
“Raises a few questions, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Is the apparent bombing by Curtis Blevins of a public building in Menominee, Michigan, over a dispute involving eminent domain related to the murder of Mayor Todd Franson, who was attempting to abuse the same power in Arona, Wisconsin, and is that somehow related to the murder of Emily Denys in St. Paul, Minnesota?”
“Do you always speak like this?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“How do you know who I am and why I’m here?”
Colgin tapped her chest.
“Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives,” she said. “Aren’t you paying attention?”
Actually I wasn’t, because at that moment I heard a voice that forced me to gaze back down at the auditorium floor. A woman with strawberry hair was now standing at the microphone.
“I’m Devon Barrington,” she said. “First, I must apologize. My mother had hoped to be here tonight. Unfortunately, she was unable to attend.”
“Not without violating the conditions of her bail agreement,” Colgin said.
“Shhhh,” I told her.
“Nor could my older brother be here,” Devon said.
“I wonder what that’s about,” said Colgin.
“Would you please?” I said.
“So it falls to me to publicly address the representatives of the U.S. Sand Company, Acting Mayor Gischler, members of the Arona City Council, and the citizens of this fine community which my family has loved and supported for nearly a century. My statement is simple—our property is not for sale at any price.”
I was surprised by the high volume of applause Devon received. She waited patiently until it receded.
“We are aware, of course, that steps have been taken in the past to acquire our property by hook or by crook, as my mother put it,” she said. “Please, don’t do that. If you persist … My mother gave me a note to read.”
Devon pulled it from her pocket and carefully unfolded it.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said. “Those of you who have met my mom know that her language can sometimes be … salty.” She took a deep breath and read the note with her exhale. “Don’t mess with us you sonsuvbitches. I will fuck you up and I won’t care how much it costs, how long it takes, or how many lawyers I need to hire.”
Devon refolded the note, returned it to her pocket, and smiled.
“Thank you for your time,” she said.
Devon returned to her seat amid the loudest cheers of the evening.
“I like her,” Special Agent Colgin said.
“So do I.”
“Her brother was dating Emily Denys, wasn’t he?”
“So I have been led to believe.”
“Her mother, Eleanor Barrington, stands accused of Emily’s murder. Must be hard on her. Devon, I mean.”
“What’s your point, Rachel?”
“You used my given name. I’m going to use yours, too, because we’re friends now.”
“What do you want me to do, Rachel?”
“I want you to do your job, Holland. I’m going to help.”
“Help me what?”
“Find someone else to blame for killing Emily Denys.”
“Anyone I know?”
She patted my knee some more.