Still, she was there, so she may as well make the best of it. Maybe she’d learn something. Or get to hit someone. Either one would be good. Both would be splendid.
From where she leaned, she could see most of the room. A row of dignitaries sat up front at a long, lopsided table with a matchbook shoved under one wobbly leg. Off to the left, Liam held up a wall in much the same position as she did, and watched the area with a wary eye. He’d raised one eyebrow as she’d entered, and for a moment it had looked as though he was going to come over and greet her, but he’d been waylaid by a middle-aged matron wearing a too-tight flowered dress, and in the end, he’d stayed where he was, a strained expression on his rugged face. Her heart had done a weird pitter-pat when she’d seen him, like she had one too many cups of coffee. Or stayed up all night dancing in a fairy circle. Except she hadn’t done either. Recently.
From within a cluster of sympathetic neighbors, Belinda held a whispered consultation with an elderly woman whose eyes widened at the sight of Baba. The woman bowed her head respectfully in Baba’s direction, clutched her equally elderly husband’s hand tightly, and then turned resolutely to face forward, as if not wanting to draw attention to any connection between her and the stranger.
Baba didn’t blame her. People were already giving Baba curious, vaguely uncomfortable glances when they spotted her, like a pack of coyotes sniffing at a wolf who had somehow wandered onto their territory by mistake. Maybe she should have changed out of the black leather pants, black tee shirt, and motorcycle boots. Oh well, it wasn’t as though she would have blended in, no matter what she wore.
“They’re not being unfriendly,” Belinda said, coming to stand next to her against the back wall. “They’re just on edge because of the missing children, and of course, the hydrofracking. As far as they know, any unfamiliar person means trouble.”
Baba snorted. They had no damned idea.
Up front, a microphone let out an unearthly squeal that sounded like a mermaid with laryngitis, and a plump, jowly man with a receding hairline and an expensive suit cleared his throat and said, “I’m Clive Matthews, president of the county board, as most of you know. Let’s get things started, shall we? I’m sure we all have places we’d rather be than this lovely meeting hall, eh?” He gave a practiced chuckle, and Baba thought, Politician.
Ten minutes later, when Matthews had rattled on about how important the issue was without in any way saying anything substantive, or, in fact, actually getting the meeting started, she added to that observation: Pompous windbag with delusions of grandeur not accompanied by any particular wealth of personality, looks, or charisma. And seriously considered turning him into the toad he so strongly resembled. Only the fact that his audience might possibly notice the difference kept her twitching fingers at her side.
“Let’s keep in mind that both sides are entitled to their opinions,” he was saying as she pulled her attention away from daydreams of a cold beer, “and that we’re gathered here to discover facts, not to argue. The county will be holding a vote soon to decide whether or not to enact a moratorium on drilling.”
He scowled out over the crowd, his double chin aquiver with dignified self-righteousness. “I am against the moratorium, of course. The county needs the money that drilling will bring with it, along with the new job opportunities, improvements to our roads, and many other benefits.” He turned to gesture toward one of the men sitting at the long table behind him, the only other one wearing a suit, instead of casual everyday clothing.
“Here to tell us all about how safe the hydraulic fracturing process really is, and what we can expect when his company expands their holdings into our area, is Peter Callahan, of the East Shoreham Oil and Gas Company.” Clive clapped his meaty hands together as the other man approached the mike; about a third of the folks in the room followed suit, while the others sat in stony silence, their lack of enthusiasm as palpable as the full moon’s tidal pull.
Next to Baba, Belinda crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at the handsome man in his well-tailored suit, her grief forgotten for the moment as she listened with obvious skepticism to his smooth explanations of foolproof safety records and guaranteed profitability. An undercurrent of something foreign and malicious eddied through the room, prickling at Baba’s senses like briars in a hedge.