Mining for Justice Read online

  “I know. This was my idea, and most of the time I don’t brood. For some reason it came over me just now.”

  “We’ll do all right here.”

  He nodded, and she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Their mother’s voice whispered in memory: Oh, Mary. I do so want a different life for you. After Loveday died, Mary had agreed to leave only because America offered a chance to become the woman her mother had dreamed she might be. The overtime wages she’d saved had made it possible for her and Jory and Andrew to purchase passage. Hard as all this was, it felt right.

  Mary thought of Mrs. Bunney of the Christian Welfare Society, who had ordered Mr. Penhallow around and been so unkind to the mine girls. Mary had learned a great deal from Mrs. Bunney.

  She glanced up at the racing clouds. Mama, she promised, I am going to be a new person here. I’m not going to be a bal maiden forever.

  When Mary walked down the hill to fetch water, a man with hints of gray in his dark hair walked along the lane beside the creek, leading a small donkey cart loaded with cut wood. He was dressed as roughly as a miner, but wasn’t as dirty. “Good day,” he greeted her, tipping his hat with a flourish. “Jago Green, wood jowster, at your service. I offer dry wood and fair prices.”

  Mary introduced herself, eyeing the cordwood in his cart. Wood was scarce here where dug earth and prairies stretched toward the horizon, and timber was needed to shore up mines, but Andrew carried their money. “I may buy, but not today.”

  Mr. Green briefly looked forlorn, then rallied. “How would you like to have a portrait painted? I’m a good artist.” He pulled a large pad from a satchel hanging over one shoulder. “See here. The newspapers back east are using my sketches to make engravings.” He flipped through, showing detailed pencil sketches of miners handling a windlass, a lone man swinging a pick, two women washing ore, a smelter. “I can paint too.”

  “I have no money to spend on fripperies,” Mary said firmly.

  Undaunted, the man grinned and slipped his pad away. “Perhaps another time.” He ambled on.

  Mary found her spirits higher as she filled her buckets and trudged back up the hill. Green’s cheer was contagious.

  Jory and Ruan found only enough fuel for a quick fire. That’s fine, Mary decided. Barley half-boiled would make a clacky meal, sticky and chewy, that filled their bellies better than barley mush.

  Ruan had made arrangements for a freighter to haul his forge and a supply of iron by oxcart from Galena. “Until my supplies come,” he told Andrew and Jory as they ate, “I’ll help you look for a good claim.”

  “No way to know but to dig,” Andrew said, “so we appreciate the help. When we hit something promising, I’ll find the government office in town.” Miners had to lease land from the government agent.

  Men they’d met in Galena had explained that lead was to be found in cracks and crevices in the limestone. Some veins dribbled out quickly; others ran a mile or more. The first men to mine lead here had looked for float—lead visible on the ground, which needed only to be collected. “Can you imagine?” Andrew had asked, shaking his head in wonder.

  But the easy surface pickings were mostly gone now. Some of the early miners had also come and gone. “These Americans don’t dig more than ten feet before giving up,” Jory observed, sounding bewildered.

  Andrew laughed. “That just means it’s time for hard-rock Cornishmen to take over. There’s no deep hole in all the world that doesn’t have a Cornish miner at the bottom.”

  Andrew, Jory, and Ruan ranged over the hillsides, searching for a promising spot to sink a shaft. They looked for lead gravel, digging so they could study the soil. It took two weeks of prospecting to find a promising show of mineral. They laid claim to the plot by staking its boundaries. Then Andrew went to file the location at the land office in town.

  He returned with a new ladder, and told them the rules he’d promised to obey. “Jory and I are only permitted to lease six hundred square feet of land. We are not permitted to farm or cut timber.”

  “Not much timber to cut,” Mary observed dryly. None, to be exact.

  Andrew shrugged. “Whatever we mine has to be sold to a licensed smelter, who will hold ten percent of the yield back as rent to the government. Last, we forfeit the claim if eight days pass without any work being done.”

  They moved into an abandoned badger hole near the claim, the roof made from brush. While the men began sinking their shaft, Mary used a shovel to lift squares of sod from the ground. She laid these over the branches, and by the time she was finished, they could sleep dry in all but heavy rainstorms. It’ll do for now, she thought.

  They met more Cornish men, some who’d brought their wives, which was a comfort. There were a few slaves at the diggings too, brought here by owners who evidently dreamed of wealth but didn’t care to actually work for it. But most of the miners working nearby were Americans from Illinois, or southern states like Tennessee and Kentucky and Missouri. They were hard men, used to living rough. Disputes were settled with fists or Bowie knives. Still, most of the miners were friendly enough to the newcomers, and generous with advice.

  Several weeks after they’d come to Mineral Point, the freighter arrived with Ruan’s forge and iron. “I’ll try my luck right here, for now,” he decided. “The miners won’t have to go far if they need a new gad. When business is slow I can help dig mineral. Besides, I’ve been eating a whole lot better than if I had to rely on myself.” He glanced at Mary, his eyes crinkling.

  Mary’s mouth twitched with her own hint of a smile. Their meals had been paltry, for their supplies were dwindling, and their funds too. But she didn’t mind having Ruan linger at the Pascoe camp.

  Eleven

  Roel­ke sat alone at the officers’ desk, finishing the paperwork triggered by Michelle Zietz’s arrest and conversion to confidential informant. With Chloe away, it was a good time to be doing this kind of thing. And taking Libby and the kids to Justin’s T-ball game tonight would fill the evening. Funny, he’d lived alone for years and never given it a second thought. Now the farmhouse he and Chloe shared seemed … hollow, sort of, when she was gone.

  She’s doing her history thing, he thought. Finding the skeleton in Adam’s house was disturbing, but she was working at Pendarvis now. Spending time with a colleague she liked, far away from Ralph Petty. Be glad for her, he scolded himself. She deserved to have some fun.

  Chloe crouched in one corner of the badger hole as the rain poured down. She wore khaki trousers, which turned clammy, and a thin wool sweater over a cotton blouse. Warmest when wet, she thought, fastening every clasp with trembling fingers, but it was small comfort when she was soaked and shivering.

  Sooner or later the rain would pass, but what then? She hadn’t been able to climb out of the badger hole when it was dry; she certainly wouldn’t be able to climb out now. Chloe hated to think of how worried Tamsin would be. At what point would she call someone? Who would she call? Claudia? The police?

  Chloe buried her face in her hands. Of the many stupid things she’d done in her life, this was the stupidest. Who would find her? Gerald, next morning? Oh, he’d love that. Or … oh God, not Loren, please. Instead of impressing the director, she was going to be humiliated. The story would spread all over Mineral Point. All over the state historical society. All over Old World Wisconsin. It would make the local newspaper: Visiting Curator Falls Into Hole During Monsoon. How would she ever explain it?

  Wait. Chloe thought back to that last moment on the edge. Something had pressed briefly, lightly, against her back. Had she been too close to the edge when a thrashing branch startled her, throwing her off balance? Or … had it been a hand? Had someone actually pushed her?

  Chloe looked up abruptly, squinting against the streaming rain. No one was there.

  Her teeth chattered as she considered. There had been something … hadn’t there? She hadn’t just lost h
er balance. The brush was thick near the badger hole. Someone might have heard her coming and hidden there, or behind the limestone outcrop, and taken advantage of the moment …

  No. She was being ridiculous. She’d been smacked by a branch, or buffeted by the furious wind. After all, who would do such a thing?

  Well, Gerald, maybe. He’d certainly been —

  Craa-ack!

  As wood splintered Chloe instinctively raised her arms over her head. She shrieked as a limb fell, leaves and slender boughs slapping and scratching as it landed beside her.

  When the rustling stopped she gingerly raised her arms, her head, and studied the heavy branch. That thing could have killed me, she thought, wiping her face against rivulets of water.

  Then she narrowed her eyes. As tools went, the limb wasn’t much. But it had more to offer than tissues or hard candy.

  She stood, put one foot on the limb, grabbed a secondary branch, and pulled. When it snapped she landed on her butt in the slurry pooled on the bottom of the badger hole. But she had a stout stick about ten inches long clutched in her dripping hands.

  Kneeling, she scratched a mark in the slimy wall and jabbed the stick at it, over and over. She didn’t stop until she had made a depression a good six inches deep and six inches wide. Then she moved up and over six more inches and started again.

  It took a long time. Rain sluiced her face, dripped from her nose and her earlobes and her saturated braid. Drops pittered against the leaves overhead, drummed against the earth. Her teeth clattered uncontrollably. Her clothing clung to her skin. The gloom grew, and she didn’t know if twilight was descending or the storm was growing worse or both. Don’t think, she told herself. Just keep at it. This has to work. It has to.

  Eventually she had half a dozen toeholds carved into the wall. She cast the stick aside, stood, and once again planted her forearms on the surface. The ground was slick now, and she took a moment to find the best spot, to settle her weight. Then she wedged her right foot into the first slippery-slick toehold. When her foot felt truly jammed she held her breath and eased her weight up. The toehold held. She found the next gouged hole with her left foot and moved up again.

  As her body edged over the badger hole’s lip she got excited, moved too fast, and felt the toes supporting her start to slide. “No,” she insisted, teeth clenched, muscles tight, toes cramping, refusing to lose ground by sheer will. Finally she got a knee over the edge. For a moment she paused there, catching her breath, terrified that if she put weight on the knee it would slip backwards. She wiggled it for a moment, trying to dig a depression in the mud. Then, with a final heave, she threw herself onto the ground.

  She lay there, gasping for breath as rain beat upon her. The air smelled of mud. She tasted mud. She was drenched and freezing and bruised and covered with mud. All she could do was laugh.

  Finally she dragged herself up to hands and knees, lurched to her feet, and started back down the trail.

  Justin was thrilled when Roel­ke showed up to take him, Deirdre, and Libby to the T-Ball game. “Really? My dad came to my last game.”

  “We’re all proud of you, sport.”

  “Say, Roel­ke.” Justin grabbed his hand. “Next Thursday is Career Day at my school. Will you come talk about being a policeman?”

  “If I can,” Roel­ke told him. “I’ll have to check with my chief.”

  “What’s it like to be a policeman?” Justin asked, head tipped back, eyes earnest behind his glasses. “Do you like catching criminals?”

  “Lots of days I don’t actually catch any criminals.”

  Justin was clearly disappointed. “Oh.”

  “I do different things on different days. That’s one of the best parts. I never get bored.”

  “But what’s it like?”

  Roel­ke hesitated. Then he crouched and put his hands on Justin’s shoulders. “You know how sometimes your mom tells you to stand up straight? That’s what being a cop is like. It’s something in your anatomy—something inside—telling you that slouching is no longer an option.”

  Justin thought that over. Finally he said, “O-oh,” again, his tone now suggesting that he and Roel­ke were in complete accord.

  “Time to go,” Libby called. “Wear your jacket, Justin.” She shepherded the others out the front door. When Roel­ke passed she leaned against him for a moment, shoulder to shoulder.

  Roel­ke drove to the field. They got good seats on the bleachers, the rain held off, and the kids played their hearts out.

  After the last inning Roel­ke treated his family to frozen custard. Spirits were high by the time they got back to the house. “Thanks,” Libby said, as Justin and Deirdre ran ahead. “This was just what we needed.”

  “It was fun,” Roel­ke said. Justin’s team had actually won the game, and Raymo had not presented himself. Maybe that really is the end of the trouble, Roel­ke thought hopefully.

  “Justin’s definitely improving, which is great,” Libby was saying. “Very good for his self-esteem. I think … ” She stopped walking.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Libby pointed to the purple tricycle with matching plastic streamers trailing from the handlebars just visible in the yellow glow cast by the light over the front steps. “When we left, that was on the other side of the walk.”

  “It was?” He couldn’t remember.

  Libby scanned the shadowed yard. “And my flowerpots have been moved around.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!” Libby hissed. “It was him, Roel­ke. Dan was here.”

  “We don’t know it was Dan,” Roel­ke said, even though his nerves were prickling. He squinted, trying to see through the gloom as he slowly pivoted. If Raymo was watching, he was well hidden.

  Something cold balled in the pit of Roel­ke’s stomach. Was this his fault? Had Raymo seen him sitting outside his office this morning? Roel­ke realized only now that he’d wanted Raymo to see him. Wanted to send a clear message without breaking his promise to not talk to Libby’s ex. But he’d screwed up.

  “Mom,” Justin called impatiently, hand on the doorknob.

  “Get the kids inside,” Roel­ke muttered.

  In the house, Libby kept the children corralled in Justin’s bedroom by reading a story. Roel­ke crept through the house with his off-duty gun in hand, but he found no sign of Raymo. He stowed the gun back in his ankle holster and returned to the bedroom. “Clear,” he murmured to Libby, and saw her shoulders ease with relief. “All doors and windows locked.”

  She got the kids ready for bed. After good nights were said, cups of water were fetched, and more hugs and kisses delivered, Roel­ke and Libby retreated to the kitchen. “Take a hard look around the house,” Roel­ke instructed. “Tell me if anything’s been tampered with.”

  Ten minutes later Libby returned. “Nothing’s been touched in here. I’d know.” She stepped to the back door, flicked a light switch, and stared into the night. “The patio chairs have been moved, though.” She turned to face him. “Oh God, Roel­ke. He was in the back yard too. What if the kids had been out there?”

  “I don’t think he would have ventured into the yard if you’d been home,” Roel­ke said. Which was disturbing in its own way, suggesting that Raymo was keeping an eye on the house, watching his children and ex-wife.

  “Sneaking around, trying to mess with me, is more his style.” Libby sounded angry. ”I swear, sometimes I just want to shoot him and get him out of our lives once and for all.”

  The fervor in her voice was as shocking as the sentiment. “Libby, do you own a gun?”

  “Of course I don’t own a gun,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t keep a gun in the house with my children.”

  “We should talk to the local cops.”

  “They’d think I’m nuts.” Libby began to pace. “A tricycle moved three feet? Th
e blue flowerpot where the yellow one should be? Hardly menacing to anyone else. Besides, I can’t prove it was Dan.”

  Roel­ke knew she was right. He’d been on the receiving end of such calls himself. Yes ma’am, but if someone was here he’s gone now. It was probably just some kids playing pranks … Probably nothing to worry about … Probably it won’t happen again, but if it does, call us back.

  “Things will calm down,” Libby said. “Adam came over last night.”

  Roel­ke did not let on that he knew that.

  “I told him it wasn’t going to work out between us.” She leaned against a counter and massaged her forehead. “He left.”

  Roel­ke chewed that over. Had Raymo seen Adam come by Libby’s house? Is that what had triggered the little psychotic game of moving things in the yard? If so, Raymo was fast moving from asshole status to official stalker.

  Roel­ke didn’t like the way this was going. “Want me to spend the night?”

  “No, thank you,” Libby said. “The house is secure. The kids and I are fine.”

  He wanted to spend the night, but he couldn’t figure out how to push the issue without giving her more to worry about. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said instead.

  Once back in his truck, he drove to the Palmyra Police Department. It was a small department, much like the EPD. He knew everyone who worked there because officers from neighboring villages called on each other if backup was needed. He was glad to see a light on.

  Officer Troy Blakely looked up from his typewriter when Roel­ke opened the door. Good, Roel­ke thought. Blakely had been around for a while. He was thoughtful and steady and built like a weightlifter.

  “Officer McKenna!” Blakely got up to meet him. “You’re obviously not on duty”—he gestured to Roel­ke’s jeans and t-shirt—“so what brings you here?”

  “My cousin, Libby Raymo, is having problems with her ex.” Roel­ke explained what Raymo had said, what Libby had found at the house that night.