Chapter Twenty-Five
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Andrew sat in the cab of his old truck, heat blasting, and looked out into the darkness. The morning had come, as it always did, way too fucking early. He flexed his stiff fingers, willing the heat to ease his aching joints. The pain was always worst in the morning, when winter approached and the cold seeped in. Frost still clung to the windows—the heater wasn’t quite keeping up with the cold. The piece of junk was his dad’s old Dodge, a 1991 ram pickup, and Andrew cursed the thing every time he drove it. It was red and gray, dinged by years of hard work. He’d replace it any day now.
The sun wouldn’t rise over the trees for hours; it wasn’t even five o’clock in the morning. First to the site, he waited for his crew to show up and went back over some paperwork. He read somewhere that getting the worst thing done first was good for productivity, and Andrew hated paperwork, so that was where he started his day.
They were behind across the board, thanks to whatever freak accident had damaged his rigs. It was already a pain to get them out into such rugged terrain, and the damage set him back a whole week and a half. Not to mention the hefty sum it cost to fix. October would end in the red, he figured, all thanks to some tree roots .
Some of his crew swore the forest was haunted by some vengeful spirit out for blood over the felled trees. But Andrew wasn’t stupid, and didn’t believe in ghosts. If ghosts were real, he figured, his old man would have come for him a long time ago.
His dad had far too much love for the damn trees, and that held him back. Kept him poor. The lectures echoed in Andrew’s head, inescapable even after the man had died. Andrew tried again to tune them out. After all, trees were more like cattle, really. Sure, you had to grow em’ big and tall, but they were always worth more money once they’d been felled and bucked. Folks sat on their acres like dragons on a hoard, and not once did they bother cashing in on it. All these trees just growing, and for what?
No, Andrew didn’t believe in ghosts. Until the old hippie came pounding on Andrew’s front door, he had no reason to believe in such ridiculous, made-up things.
He did believe in the bottom line, though, and right now that was his biggest concern. He’d have to cut into his own paycheck to make sure they all got paid as it was. One more unexpected expense and his whole crew would be out of work, and there weren’t many options for men who’d worked in logging their whole lives.
This little operation was supposed to take a few days at most. He snorted to himself in the dark cab. Lucky for him there was still a way to salvage the situation.
Sean snagged one of the big maples, out near where they were cutting. At first Andrew had been pissed about the bent arm of his harvester—until he’d looked a little closer, and realized he’d struck gold.
Andrew had been in the logging business his whole life, and if there was one thing he knew, it was wood.
Sure, the fir trees were good for lumber, and they would fetch a fair market price. Fir was the staple which Wilkenson logging and been built on, but there was profit lurking in each and every tree if you knew where to look. Figured maple, where the growth patterns leave curls in the woodgrain, was used to make musical instruments, and carried a tone better than other types of wood. A high-grade sample sold to the right buyer could net a hefty sum.
He’d spent the last day or so tracking the right buyer down .
It was always more difficult to move the stolen wood, since it meant a bit of shady dealing, but there was always someone out there looking to make an easy buck. It was hard to say exactly how much wood they’d get from a maple that size, and he wouldn’t know the total value of it until they’d taken it down. But now that he had a buyer lined up, Andrew was willing to take on the burden. It was a mature maple, and if the quality of wood he’d seen ran the height of the trunk, he could be looking at a profit of nearly $80,000. His buddy who processed the lumber would have no issue looking the other way on the paperwork when talking about that kind of money. Andrew was nearly drooling at the thought.
He put the thermos filled with coffee to his lips, and drank—forgetting momentarily that the contents were extremely hot, and burning his mouth in the process. He swore, voice loud in the quiet cab, and jammed the lid back into place.
Of course, that was when Sean and Jimmy decided to show up.
Andrew pulled on his hat and gloves, flexing his stiff fingers a few times before stepping out into the cold morning. He turned the lantern on, and set the clipboard he’d been looking at down on the hood of his truck, alongside the thermos of too-hot coffee.
“Lazy fucks,” he muttered, as they emerged from Jimmy’s own truck. It was a brand new F-250, bought with the money they’d earned over the summer, from selling the lumber from their previous clearcut on Walt’s old land. It had been good for business, and even better for keeping them loyal, Andrew had learned.
The shady stuff had been smooth sailing so far, but it didn’t hurt to have his crew locked down tight, just in case. Better to funnel them the cash, even if it left Andrew in a tough spot himself.
Sean and Jimmy were nearly as hungry as Andrew had been starting off. The more money they made, the more used to the lifestyle they got. They were useful enough, both knowledgeable of the industry and good at their work. Andrew only worried that neither was all that bright and their idiocy could mean trouble in the future.
“Hey, boss,” Jimmy called.
“Good, you’re both here. I need your help with something,” he told them. “Today we’re gonna fell that big ass maple, over there.”
Sean frowned in the harsh light of the lantern. “You want to cut that thing down?” He swayed uncomfortably on his feet .
Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so superstition, man. It’s just a tree. Why do they grow out here, if not to be useful?”
“My grandma was an Indian, and she told stories that would scare you senseless. You saw the roots, and I still have burns on my hands from the poison oak. I swear this place is bad news, and cutting down that maple just don’t sit right with me.”
“You want the payout on this one, or what?” Andrew barked at him, and watched the gears turn in Sean’s mind. No one else had the knack for estimating a tree like Sean could. It was an imprecise science, invaluable to Andrew given the situation.
“That thing’s a beast,” he said warily, and it seemed he wouldn’t argue any more about it. “Much harder than the firs, you know, the width of the crown and all that moss in the way. We’ll have to bring her down in chunks.”
“How long, you think it’ll take?” Andrew asked.
“A day or two, maybe. Easier if we get the firs around it down first,” Jimmy chimed in.
“You can get to it today, then?”
“I can try. We can fell the firs now and buck ‘em tomorrow. Save the truck space for the maple.”
“Good, good. I got a buyer for it, but it needs to be done quick. We’re already losing time on this one, and I got other contracts to finish this month. I need this to go smoothly, if you want to keep that shiny new truck of yours,” he told Jimmy.
It was just them today, with the rest of his men off working some above the table work for the Forest Service. Better to keep most of them in the dark, where he could. Andrew took another gulp of his coffee, this time prepared for the temperature of it.
“Quit standing around then, get to it,” he barked, and the small crew got to work.