The Big Finish Read Free Page B

down from all the protest pictures were some images taken from a mile or so in the air that showed a lush green mountain range pockmarked with the gray flattened scars of mountaintop removal, a mining technique that wiped out the forests and blasted away the rivers and streams and obliterated the mountains one by one as giant cranes scooped out the black shiny coal.
    There were aerial shots that included both the elementary school and a huge pond carved into the mountains just a half mile above the school. A caption described the pond as filled with three billion gallons of coal slurry. Thorn had to look that one up and found that coal slurry was the by-product of mountaintop removal mining. A highly toxic blend of dissolved minerals. The Web page that listed the toxins in a typical slurry pond was full of multisyllable chemicals from benzidine to dimethyl phthalate. Thorn didn’t need to look up any of those. The images of the foul brown liquid made it obvious.
    Nobody sane would want their kids attending school in that brick building a half mile downhill from a few billion gallons of toxic sludge held in place by earthen walls.
    A few weeks ago when Flynn sent this postcard, this is where he’d been, Flynn and his cohorts in the Earth Liberation Front, the group of eco-avengers he’d gotten mixed up with late last year. The postcards had been arriving regularly at Sugarman’s office. Sugar, Thorn’s closest friend, ran a one-man private investigation agency and because of that, Thorn usually deferred to him in matters of logic, but since these postcards started arriving, he and Sugar had been at odds over what they signified.
    “He’s sending you a message,” Sugar said.
    “A few words would be a message. These are blank. This feels more like taunting, showing off, trying to prove he did the right thing by joining up with these people.”
    “He wants you to know where he is, that he’s safe. He’s trying to reassure you, keep the lines of communication open.”
    “Then he should include his goddamn address.”
    “You know he can’t do that. He’s got to stay at arm’s length.”
    “He wants me to know what he’s up to, but he doesn’t trust me.”
    “The stuff he’s doing, he’s got to be cagey.”
    “Why send them to your office? Not directly to me?”
    “Somebody could be snooping on your mail.”
    “Come on. Who would do that?”
    “Whatever federal task force is hunting ecoterrorists.”
    “Flynn’s no terrorist.”
    Sugar didn’t reply. He was tired of arguing that particular semantic issue.
    “Okay, sure, he’s misguided, getting involved with these people. But he’s well-meaning. This is civil disobedience, nothing worse.”
    “So he’s not a terrorist. Fine. Use whatever word makes you happy. Point is, if he’s caught, the kid’s going to do some serious time. He’s known to the feds and so are you. Since you’re his father, I wouldn’t be surprised if your mail is being monitored.”
    “They would do that?”
    “That and more. If you had a phone, Internet access, they’d be all over that too.”
    Thorn spent a while longer scrolling through the images of Marsh Fork, Kentucky. Groups of forlorn women locked arm in arm marching somewhere, cops in riot gear blocking their way. More country folks, men, women, and children having a sit-in at the Kentucky governor’s office. Save Marsh Fork Elementary.
    He moved the computer mouse to the heading of the Google page and touched the arrow to “News.” He hesitated, glanced around the library. The place was so quiet, so polite, the world of books and reading and thoughtful people. No one protesting. No one risking their lives for a higher principle.
    The young librarian with purple hair and five nose rings was watching Thorn from behind the circulation desk, sending him “I’m available” smiles. Her name was Julia, and on several previous occasions she’d helped Thorn with the computer when the damn machine confounded him. A