THE MEETING—THERE HAD to be a meeting—was scheduled for seven the next night in the high school auditorium, Gordon Welch presiding. Over two hundred people showed up. The initial meeting, the one that got Take Back Our Forests off the ground, had been held in Gordon’s den (his man cave, as he liked to call it, with a kind of rote obnoxiousness he seemed not even dimly aware of), and there were exactly eight people in attendance, all male but for Susan Burton, who owned the coffee shop on Main Street and who supported any and all causes that had to do with salvation, whether of stray cats, Romanian orphans or the land we trod, the water we drank and the air we breathed. As Sten remembered it, they talked a whole lot of nothing for two solid hours, Carey giving speeches and Gordon taking over when he ran out of breath, the stuffed heads of big-game animals from three continents staring incongruously down on them from their vantages on the paneled walls. Sten wasn’t exactly sure what a kudu was, but he had a feeling that the one with the twisted black horns must have been a kudu—or was that a sable?—and couldn’t help wondering how the Burnsides would feel about its presence there amongst them. But the Burnsides weren’t there. And neither was Carolee.
What was resolved? The color of the T-shirts they were going to give out at the coffee shop by way of drumming up support and the configuration of the Take Back Our Forests logo that would grace the breast pocket and the back too (a clever melding of the letters T, B, O and F to represent a tree-spiked hillside Carey had devised with the aid of Photoshop). And a vague promise of future meetings, a letter-writing campaign and the involvement of law enforcement. There was no urgency. They were operating on rumors. On the sightings of Mexicans at the supermarket and the hardware store. On statistics. The only real evidence was the dead zones the growers had left behind, to which Sten was an eyewitness and said as much.
But this was different. Now Carey was dead, shot down and murdered, and people were out for blood. If it felt strange walking down the corridor and stepping into the auditorium, Carolee on his arm, Sten tried not to show it. He’d been back a few times since he retired, easing the transition for the new man, John Reilly, clearing out his things, saying his goodbyes after a lifetime, but here he was in the very auditorium where he’d called so many meetings and assemblies himself, where he’d been in charge and was in charge no longer. That was all right with him. He was fine with that. He was here to bear witness and lend his stature to the moment and the cause and whatever was to come. They were not vigilantes, that was the thing to remember, and that was what he was going to emphasize when it was his turn to speak because he knew where violence took you, knew better than most, and if he thought of Carey he thought of that day in the car and the rage that had come over him. Whether the man with the gun had been guilty or not, he’d been ready to take him on, ready to snap, a heartbeat away—it was the Mexican who had the sense, who was cool enough to suss out the situation and back down. For the moment. But then he was out there still, wasn’t he?