Read Online Point of Law by Clinton McKinzie - Free Book Online
Authors: Clinton McKinzie
Tags: Fiction
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protesters with what looks to me like a sort of grim amusement, the way a pack of coyotes stare at a herd of sheep.
Only one of the trucks is even remotely new looking—a huge Chevy Suburban painted a glossy black beneath the thin layer of dust the Forest Service road has sprinkled on it. The license plate reads “FSTRNU,” which, after a moment’s thought, I decipher as “Faster than You.” It must belong to David Fast, the notorious developer.
An arrogant prick,
I remember Kim saying. She also called him evil.
The driver of the black Suburban steps out. David Fast is dressed more expensively than the others, in a creased pair of khakis and a white shirt with pearl buttons. He looks around the meadow with a concerned, proprietary air. While the license plate gives credence to Kim’s description of a self-satisfied jerk, his appearance isn’t evil.
He’s a tall man, a little heavy with too much fat and too much muscle. Like an aging football player ten years past his prime. Although he’s probably Kim’s age, he looks a few years older. His graying hair is buzzed short on a handsome head.
Another man looks evil, though. He climbs out of the Suburban’s passenger side and slams the door shut behind him. He does it hard enough so that the echo bangs off the forested hillsides surrounding the valley. The sound reminds me of a bull elk’s territorial bugle. This man has a pumpkin-sized head, no neck, and the powerful torso of a prison weight lifter. The prison part is emphasized because of the tattoos that cover his arms. Even from this distance, I recognize some of the tattoos as a mark of membership in a jailhouse white supremacist gang. And I remember how at the campfire meeting the night before, several of the activists had complained about how Fast’s harassment had only become serious after he’d hired a professional enforcer named Alf Burgermeister, a.k.a. Rent-a-Riot. Someone had mentioned that Burgermeister sells his services to antienvironmentalist causes all over the country. This guy certainly looks like someone who would be called Rent-a-Riot. His menacing appearance is accentuated by the way his head is carefully shaved but for the long, red sideburns that meet above his upper lip.
The men who look like construction workers sit on the tailgates of their trucks or stand around them in the grass, talking, laughing, and watching the Tribe members in the meadow. Burgermeister calls to them in a deep baritone—a sergeant summoning his troops. For a moment I wonder who’s in charge—Fast or his enforcer. The men respond instantly, wandering over to gather around the developer’s shiny truck.
“What are we going to climb today, Ant?” my father asks, ignoring the spectacle around us. “It doesn’t make sense for us to wait all morning for Roberto.”
“I think I’m sticking around to check this thing out. There’s something nasty in the air.”
“I smell it, too. That’s just your brother, on his way,” he says in a rare try at a joke.
It’s a sign that he’s feeling a bit of stress. In my grumpy mood, I find it kind of amusing. This man can jump out of planes at over sixty thousand feet, climb run-out 5.12, fire just about any weapon known to man, run and swim in the worst of conditions for hours at a time, and perform every type of emergency surgery, yet he’s nervous about a reunion with his eldest son. To be fair, though, he should be nervous.
I pour myself some coffee from the kettle I’d placed on the hissing stove and keep watching the meadow. I glare at a new pickup coming into the meadow when it rumbles too close to us. The lone driver, a burly young guy with his sleeves rolled to his shoulders, hesitates while looking back at me. I can almost read his thoughts as he takes in my scrappy beard, scarred face, and the climber’s arms that I’ve folded across my chest. He slows, considering how to respond to the challenge in my eyes, and looks over to see just how far away
Only one of the trucks is even remotely new looking—a huge Chevy Suburban painted a glossy black beneath the thin layer of dust the Forest Service road has sprinkled on it. The license plate reads “FSTRNU,” which, after a moment’s thought, I decipher as “Faster than You.” It must belong to David Fast, the notorious developer.
An arrogant prick,
I remember Kim saying. She also called him evil.
The driver of the black Suburban steps out. David Fast is dressed more expensively than the others, in a creased pair of khakis and a white shirt with pearl buttons. He looks around the meadow with a concerned, proprietary air. While the license plate gives credence to Kim’s description of a self-satisfied jerk, his appearance isn’t evil.
He’s a tall man, a little heavy with too much fat and too much muscle. Like an aging football player ten years past his prime. Although he’s probably Kim’s age, he looks a few years older. His graying hair is buzzed short on a handsome head.
Another man looks evil, though. He climbs out of the Suburban’s passenger side and slams the door shut behind him. He does it hard enough so that the echo bangs off the forested hillsides surrounding the valley. The sound reminds me of a bull elk’s territorial bugle. This man has a pumpkin-sized head, no neck, and the powerful torso of a prison weight lifter. The prison part is emphasized because of the tattoos that cover his arms. Even from this distance, I recognize some of the tattoos as a mark of membership in a jailhouse white supremacist gang. And I remember how at the campfire meeting the night before, several of the activists had complained about how Fast’s harassment had only become serious after he’d hired a professional enforcer named Alf Burgermeister, a.k.a. Rent-a-Riot. Someone had mentioned that Burgermeister sells his services to antienvironmentalist causes all over the country. This guy certainly looks like someone who would be called Rent-a-Riot. His menacing appearance is accentuated by the way his head is carefully shaved but for the long, red sideburns that meet above his upper lip.
The men who look like construction workers sit on the tailgates of their trucks or stand around them in the grass, talking, laughing, and watching the Tribe members in the meadow. Burgermeister calls to them in a deep baritone—a sergeant summoning his troops. For a moment I wonder who’s in charge—Fast or his enforcer. The men respond instantly, wandering over to gather around the developer’s shiny truck.
“What are we going to climb today, Ant?” my father asks, ignoring the spectacle around us. “It doesn’t make sense for us to wait all morning for Roberto.”
“I think I’m sticking around to check this thing out. There’s something nasty in the air.”
“I smell it, too. That’s just your brother, on his way,” he says in a rare try at a joke.
It’s a sign that he’s feeling a bit of stress. In my grumpy mood, I find it kind of amusing. This man can jump out of planes at over sixty thousand feet, climb run-out 5.12, fire just about any weapon known to man, run and swim in the worst of conditions for hours at a time, and perform every type of emergency surgery, yet he’s nervous about a reunion with his eldest son. To be fair, though, he should be nervous.
I pour myself some coffee from the kettle I’d placed on the hissing stove and keep watching the meadow. I glare at a new pickup coming into the meadow when it rumbles too close to us. The lone driver, a burly young guy with his sleeves rolled to his shoulders, hesitates while looking back at me. I can almost read his thoughts as he takes in my scrappy beard, scarred face, and the climber’s arms that I’ve folded across my chest. He slows, considering how to respond to the challenge in my eyes, and looks over to see just how far away