A Matter of Trust (2 page)

“For how long?” Verna asked from the
doorway, a hint of humor in her tone, as her phone had started
ringing again from her desk.

“Indefinitely,” he said. “Oh, and to be
safe, alert security. No unauthorized visitors!” he added as a
chilling whisper of creepiness touched the back of his neck. He had
to fight the urge to shiver.

This time, Verna did laugh. “Already done!”
she said, starting out the door. “Oh, Mr. Stillwell, how are you
today?”

Peter Stillwell, the CEO, flashed Verna a
smile as he stepped past her and into Ben’s office, showing off his
capped, white teeth. It was a practiced smile Ben had seen all too
often on this sharply dressed man. Today, Peter was dressed in a
navy Armani suit, with silver cufflinks, a starched white shirt,
and a red tie. He was distinguished, and, as always, his white hair
was freshly cut. He was tall, though not as tall as Ben, and he
kept himself in good shape. His confidence showed in the way he
carried himself.

Ben couldn’t make out what else he said to
Verna as he leaned in toward her, but whatever it was had her
giggling—and Verna wasn’t one of those women who often giggled like
a silly schoolgirl. Ben couldn’t help wondering what was up.
Although he liked and admired Peter, there was something about him,
and Ben didn’t want him taking too much interest in his secretary.
Peter was a family man, in theory, married to the same woman for
the past forty years. In this day and age, considering the divorce
rate, that was unusual, to say the least, especially for a man of
his status. On the other hand, Peter’s faithfulness was
questionable, as Ben suspected Peter had a mistress or two. Ben may
not have approved, but he didn't judge him, either. He just didn’t
want Peter expressing any interest in Verna. He tapped the desk,
considering. Yes, maybe he needed to talk to Verna about this.

“Hey, Ben,” Peter said. “I wanted to talk to
you about that new pipeline project.” He closed the door, and his
smile for Verna vanished. Ben noticed his hesitation as he took in
the large office. Instead of taking a seat in one of the two chairs
in front of Ben’s desk, Peter wandered over to the black leather
sofa, unbuttoning his jacket before sitting down and putting his
arm over the back of the sofa. He tapped the leather as if
considering what to say. “We’re having some trouble from the
natives—figuratively speaking, of course,” he continued. There was
no humor in his expression, but something put Ben on alert.

“What kind of trouble?” he asked. He knew
the small community of Kit Cove on the coastline was not too happy
about the pipeline project passing through their town. He’d already
heard it a hundred times, and he’d been watching carefully from the
sidelines.

“Apparently, the community has sent over a
list of questions they want answered,” Peter said. “I’ve forwarded
it to our PR department to handle, but the people in that community
are already staging protests. Normally, we’d ignore it, but they’re
getting media coverage. A little too much attention, if you get my
meaning.” Peter brushed a piece of lint from his cuff, taking a
deep breath as he looked at Ben again. He smiled this time, but it
didn’t reach his eyes.

Ben knew well that Peter hated all of the
"riffraff," as he called them, who caused trouble for his drilling
projects. That was reason enough for Peter’s irritation. Ben didn’t
share Peter’s distaste for environmentalists, certainly not to the
same degree of hatred. He found them a pain in the ass at times,
and some were even over the top and dangerous, but most were those
he called "weekend protestors," who would go back to their busy
lives and forget about the issues after everything was said and
done. The problem ones were enough of a threat that KKO had files
of information on them: pictures, backgrounds, whereabouts, and a
list of everyone connected to them. Their security team made it a
top priority to keep track of where these people were, but then so
did the country’s top intelligence service, which was where some of
their current information had come from.

“I’m going to need you to take lead on this,
Ben,” Peter said. “Go on up to Kit Cove; calm the people, answer
their questions. Convince them that our project is going to bring
millions in revenue into their community, creating jobs and feeding
their children. Clean up the squalor. Get them on our side.”

Ben paused. This was outside his job
description. Normally, their PR rep handled these types of
problems. “I can do that,” he said, “but I have to ask: What’s got
you so worked up, more than usual?”

“This is a big deal, Ben—huge. It’s the
biggest project we’ve ever been part of, and we stand to make
billions. I don’t have to remind you that this is also your baby.
You negotiated the pipeline project, the Pacific Gateway. You met
with the state senators and congressmen who’ll benefit the most.
You should be the one to meet with the community and let them know
we’re on their side. Smooth it out. People like you, a small-town
boy with deep roots in the community…you can use that,” Peter said,
gesturing for emphasis.

As Ben watched Peter, he realized that,
maybe because of the size of the project, the problems were much
bigger than either of them had anticipated. If that was the case,
it would be too much for Janet Taylor, head of their public
relations department, to handle. Sometimes, problems took on a life
of their own. Maybe this could only be defused by the head of the
company. “When do you want me there?” he finally said.

This time, Peter gave him one of those good
old boy smiles as he stood up, buttoning his jacket. “Tonight,” he
said. “Take the company helicopter. Janet can schedule a meeting
with the community for tomorrow. Give yourself a night to get a
handle on things. Figure out how to win them over.” He started
toward the door and then paused. “Oh, and great article, by the
way.” He gestured toward the desk, where the shiny magazine was
sitting. “It wouldn’t hurt to use all that charm. Talk about your
family, too; your values, how your father was a logger, how your
large family grew up on the land…”

Ben had begun to tune Peter out. He was
really pushing the “family roots” angle, and Ben hadn’t even
realized that his boss knew about his family. It had been tough
times growing up in rural Idaho, with five boys, five mouths to
feed. Hunting, fishing--they had done it all just to survive. Ben
somehow didn’t think a group of environmentalists would be too
friendly with the fact that his father had cut down trees, probably
old growth, too, just to make a living.

He said nothing as Peter left his office.
The Stillwells may have come up from being dirt poor, as Peter had
recounted so many times, but Ben couldn’t help wondering at what
point Peter had lost his understanding of how the average person
perceived big, bad corporations like KKO. Peter had clawed his way
to the top, through the trenches, not allowing anything to get in
his way. Maybe he didn’t want to remember what it was like, Ben
realized. Maybe that was what happened when the wealthy got
wealthier.

“Wow, would you look at that!” said Jason,
the helicopter pilot, his voice clipping through the headphones as
they approached Kit Cove.

It was a small coastal town, a fishing
community with a large Native population. As Ben stared out the big
bubble of a windshield, he was struck by what appeared to be
hundreds of people below, waving signs as the helicopter approached
the small community airfield. As they came in closer, Ben could see
how they moved and yelled, shaking their signs in anger, the energy
all ramped up. There was no doubt in his mind that this unfriendly
crowd of people was meant to be his welcoming committee, and he
didn’t need to read their damn signs to know that this community
wasn’t interested in listening to him. What the hell was he walking
into? Ben ground his teeth, fighting his first instinct to swear.
Instead, he growled, wondering who was responsible for this.

“Okay there, boss?” Jason said. He could
hear him, of course. The microphone picked up everything.

“Just trying to figure out how they knew
that I was coming,” he replied. Ben had thought they were being
smart, flying in tonight and slipping into town unannounced. He
remembered telling Janet to make sure that she didn’t announce
their arrival. He glanced over at his pilot, who was wearing
headphones and dark glasses, his microphone almost touching his
lips.

Jason was handling the stick, lowering the
chopper down. “Wasn’t me who alerted these folks, just in case you
were wondering,” he said gruffly.

No, Ben knew it couldn’t have been Jason.
He’d known the man for six years, working closely with him for the
last four. Ben had always been able to pick up on things in people
once he got to know them, and he could always pick out the
questionable ones that he wanted to keep an eye on. Jason wasn’t
like that. He had a wife, four kids, loved to fly. He was about as
uncomplicated as they got. “Don’t be an ass,” Ben replied. “I know
it wasn’t you—not unless they offered you box-seat season tickets
to the Mariners.”

Jason laughed. “Yeah, that would be sweet.
May want to find out who told them, though. Whoever it was probably
has it out for you,” he said. Jason could be a smartass sometimes,
but Ben picked up on the edge in his voice.

“Yeah,” he bit out. He’d have to speak with
Janet, as she had organized the meeting at the town hall tomorrow
at five—“After the folks put in an honest day’s work,” as she had
put it. He remembered adding that they would be tired and cranky,
too, having a chance to get all worked up before he had time to say
his piece. She’d pursed her lips and said that was the only time
they’d be available to hear him, because, after all, they were the
working class.

He had realized then that she was upset with
him, for some reason. He couldn’t imagine that Janet actually
wanted to be the one to handle to this mess, so he hadn’t given it
a second thought, but now he was wondering if she had just happened
to mention when he would be coming. He could be reaching, and he
didn’t want to start pointing fingers until he knew for sure, but
he planned to find out. Maybe he’d call Verna, too, to make sure
people kept their mouths shut. Ben wasn’t liking this reception,
and he generally avoided this kind of heat. Protests weren’t about
listening to reason or hearing from the other side, and you never
knew when a friendly gathering could become dangerous.

The chopper landed a safe distance from the
crowd. The sun was setting, and there was a string of lights across
the small building.

“You take off as soon as I’m clear,” Ben
muttered.

“Okay, boss. Take care,” Jason said. “Is
someone picking you up?”

“Yeah, better be.” He pulled his headphones
off, reached behind the seat for his bag, and climbed out. Bending
over, he hurried away from the chopper as he spotted a pickup
coming his way, pulling away from the crowd.

He could hear the whir behind him as the
chopper took off, the wind from the blades making it hard to see
when he glanced up. He turned back just as the pickup truck pulled
up beside him. The crowd was closing in, too, all carrying signs.
Some were written in blood red, with images of death and
destruction. Some cried, “No tankers!” Some even bore his photo
with a line drawn through his face, as if someone wanted him dead.
He swallowed, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck pricking
up. There was shouting and anger, and then someone spit in his
face. He wiped it off and stared down at the culprit; a short,
blond woman with an oval face and sharp blue eyes. She was
attractive, once he got past her outrage.

“Get back on that chopper, you oil company
sleaze ball! Get the hell out of here! You’re not welcome!” she
shouted.

“Hey, knock it off!” a man yelled from the
open driver’s door of the truck. He was older, maybe late fifties,
close to Ben’s father’s age. He had gray hair and was large in the
middle, as if he enjoyed a lot of home-cooked food. “You Ben
Wilde?” he yelled over the roar of the departing helicopter and the
shouts of the protesters. The group made no move to surround his
truck, though they continued to wave their signs and shout.

Ben started toward the man. “I am, and you
are?”

The crowd was about to surround them. The
other man was a few inches shorter than Ben, but he didn’t seem
bothered by the crowd at all. His expression gave nothing away, and
he gestured toward his truck.

“Get in! I’m your ride. I suggest you hurry
before we’re boxed in by your welcoming committee and get stuck
here for the night.”

Ben tossed his bag in the back of the truck
and went around to the passenger side, squeezing past the
protesters who rustled him as he pulled the door open and slid in.
As soon as he'd closed the door, the man put the truck in gear,
pulling in a big circle, narrowly missing some people who hadn’t
stepped back. He then pressed the gas, heading away from the crowd,
out the open wire gates. They turned onto the road.

“My name’s Jack Richardson,” the man said.
“I was hired to come and get you. My wife and I run a B&B, and
your company rented out one of our cabins. A lady named Verna
called, spoke with my wife and arranged it for you. She seemed
concerned. She your wife?”

Ben chuckled, and the man gave him an odd
look. “No, my secretary,” he replied. “She likes to mother me. I
think, some days, she thinks I’m one of her kids.”

Jack gave a hint of a smile and then shook
his head softly. Maybe he understood, but he didn’t say anything
else.

“That was quite the welcoming committee, and
all for my benefit?” Ben said, trying to lighten the mood. At the
same time, he was wondering if this man was responsible for filling
that crazy group of people in on his arrival.