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Authors: Sellers Alexandra
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phrasing repeated Johnny Winterhawk's own phrasing almost word for word. She looked into the dark eyes and wondered if Johnny Winterhawk was as ruthless a man as her father.
"We didn't know, of course, that he was having heart trouble. Maybe he's slowing down because of his health," he said.
Not if the past few weeks were anything to judge by, Smith thought, remembering her futile efforts to get her father to do just that.
"What happened then?" she asked.
"People began to perceive us as having achieved a moral victory," Johnny Winterhawk said dryly. "They forgot about the strike and all the legitimate business reasons there might have been for putting off new operations, and insisted on seeing your father as having backed down. The number of groups that wanted to be in on that was legion. Everybody, it seemed, needed one good rousing victory over business or capitalism or the establishment or male supremacy or polluters or wildlife destroyers—you name the cliché, we had the group on our bandwagon. We had, and still have, women's liberation groups, organic-farm groups, Marxist-Leninist groups, dedicated young lawyers—anyone and everyone who was looking for the back of a good cause to climb on."
The cynicism in his tone was almost cruel.
"Is that how you look at it?" she asked in disapproving surprise.
"That's how it is, Miss St. John," he said coolly. "There are fast-buck artists in the moral-conscience business, too. Whether they realize it or not."
"And you would know, of course,!"
The dark eyes considered her. "Why do you think so?"
"Why were you going to kidnap my father?" Smith countered.
"Ah, of course. We'll get to that," he said. "Here, sit down." He indicated the leather chair behind the desk. When she had sunk into it, Johnny Winterhawk pushed the map to one side, hiked one leg up onto the desk and sat looking down at her.
"Both the federal and provincial governments ignore native land-claim rights in this country every day," he began. "Our only real hope lay in the fact that lumbering in the area would destroy the salmon spawning grounds of Cat Bite River, which is my people's traditional fishing ground, as well as damage the wildlife habitat of Cat Bite Valley, which is our traditional hunting ground. This is an argument that is harder for government to ignore. Eventually, the provincial government announced the setting up of a commission of inquiry."
That was an achievement, she knew; commissions weren't set up every day. She wondered why her father hadn't mentioned it to her.
"What did the commission decide?" she asked, although it was a foregone conclusion: if they were kidnapping her father, the decision had gone against them.
With a sudden clarity she understood why Johnny Winterhawk had refused her offer of money: the ransom he was seeking was worth a lot more to him than a few hundred thousand, or even a few million dollars.
"The inquiry is still in progress," he said. "The commission is holding public hearings that begin tomorrow."
Smith wrinkled her brow as a faint memory jogged. "Is my father scheduled to appear at that hearing?"
"Yes, he is," said Johnny Winterhawk. "So am I."
"I don't understand this," Smith said. "What exactly were you hoping to achieve by kidnapping my father now?"
Johnny Winterhawk sighed. "We weren't kidnapping him. We were hoping to frighten him."
Seven
" Frighten him?" Smith sat up with such a violent start the chair slapped forward and almost threw her across Johnny Winterhawk's lap in front of her. But she sat back with an equally violent jerk before he had time to do more than touch her shoulders in a brief firm clasp. "Frighten him?" she repeated, outraged.
"Or reason with him. There was no other way to speak to him. We couldn't get access, he wouldn't see us."
She was too angry to remain still. Shaken, she shoved back the chair and got to her feet. Her eyes were now almost on a level with his, but her anger was so violent she couldn't
"We didn't know, of course, that he was having heart trouble. Maybe he's slowing down because of his health," he said.
Not if the past few weeks were anything to judge by, Smith thought, remembering her futile efforts to get her father to do just that.
"What happened then?" she asked.
"People began to perceive us as having achieved a moral victory," Johnny Winterhawk said dryly. "They forgot about the strike and all the legitimate business reasons there might have been for putting off new operations, and insisted on seeing your father as having backed down. The number of groups that wanted to be in on that was legion. Everybody, it seemed, needed one good rousing victory over business or capitalism or the establishment or male supremacy or polluters or wildlife destroyers—you name the cliché, we had the group on our bandwagon. We had, and still have, women's liberation groups, organic-farm groups, Marxist-Leninist groups, dedicated young lawyers—anyone and everyone who was looking for the back of a good cause to climb on."
The cynicism in his tone was almost cruel.
"Is that how you look at it?" she asked in disapproving surprise.
"That's how it is, Miss St. John," he said coolly. "There are fast-buck artists in the moral-conscience business, too. Whether they realize it or not."
"And you would know, of course,!"
The dark eyes considered her. "Why do you think so?"
"Why were you going to kidnap my father?" Smith countered.
"Ah, of course. We'll get to that," he said. "Here, sit down." He indicated the leather chair behind the desk. When she had sunk into it, Johnny Winterhawk pushed the map to one side, hiked one leg up onto the desk and sat looking down at her.
"Both the federal and provincial governments ignore native land-claim rights in this country every day," he began. "Our only real hope lay in the fact that lumbering in the area would destroy the salmon spawning grounds of Cat Bite River, which is my people's traditional fishing ground, as well as damage the wildlife habitat of Cat Bite Valley, which is our traditional hunting ground. This is an argument that is harder for government to ignore. Eventually, the provincial government announced the setting up of a commission of inquiry."
That was an achievement, she knew; commissions weren't set up every day. She wondered why her father hadn't mentioned it to her.
"What did the commission decide?" she asked, although it was a foregone conclusion: if they were kidnapping her father, the decision had gone against them.
With a sudden clarity she understood why Johnny Winterhawk had refused her offer of money: the ransom he was seeking was worth a lot more to him than a few hundred thousand, or even a few million dollars.
"The inquiry is still in progress," he said. "The commission is holding public hearings that begin tomorrow."
Smith wrinkled her brow as a faint memory jogged. "Is my father scheduled to appear at that hearing?"
"Yes, he is," said Johnny Winterhawk. "So am I."
"I don't understand this," Smith said. "What exactly were you hoping to achieve by kidnapping my father now?"
Johnny Winterhawk sighed. "We weren't kidnapping him. We were hoping to frighten him."
Seven
" Frighten him?" Smith sat up with such a violent start the chair slapped forward and almost threw her across Johnny Winterhawk's lap in front of her. But she sat back with an equally violent jerk before he had time to do more than touch her shoulders in a brief firm clasp. "Frighten him?" she repeated, outraged.
"Or reason with him. There was no other way to speak to him. We couldn't get access, he wouldn't see us."
She was too angry to remain still. Shaken, she shoved back the chair and got to her feet. Her eyes were now almost on a level with his, but her anger was so violent she couldn't
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