Free Wildfire by Ken Goddard Page B

the last sentence spoken by his one and only son: the fifty-eight-year-old chief executive officer of his far-flung mining, extracting, milling, and plating enterprises. He tilted his head questioningly, his bushy white eyebrows furrowing with sudden concern.
    Sam Tisbury covered the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand. "It's Jonathan."
    Harold Tisbury nodded in silent understanding. Selecting the familiar overstuffed chair to the right of his son's expansive desk, the seventy-nine-year-old board chairman and family patriarch sat down and crossed his thin legs. Then he reached across the desk for the ebony-framed photograph of the Tisbury family.
    After staring at the familiar photograph for a long moment, Harold Tisbury put the expensive frame back on the desk. Then he sat back, folded his thin, wrinkled hands across his sparse lap, and closed his eyes with a tired sigh.
    "No, Jonathan," Sam Tisbury went on smoothly, "I can assure you that Harold feels exactly the same way I do. It's been what, six months since we lost Counter-Wrench? And since that time there hasn't been a single shred of evidence to suggest that these damnable federal wildlife agents—much less the FBI—are even aware that we exist, much less investigating us."
    Sam Tisbury drummed his fingers silently on the tabletop as he listened patiently.
    "Yes, of course, Jonathan. That's absolutely true. Any attempt to bring the committee together again, even now, is bound to involve some degree of risk. But Harold and I have discussed this at great length. Basically, we feel we're going to be taking a chance anyway, no matter what we decide to do. At least this way, if something does go wrong, God forbid, we'll be in a position to defend ourselves in a unified manner, rather than as seven disorganized and possibly panicked individuals."
    He paused again to allow the man on the other end of the line to finish his troubled discourse.
    "No, Jonathan, we've been watching for exactly that sort of thing very carefully. As far as I'm aware, no member of the committee has come under any type of law enforcement surveillance during the last six months. Why? Have you heard anything different?"
    Sam Tisbury's face registered his surprise. "Oh, really? That's odd, I was just in contact with Alfred a few hours ago, and he didn't mention anything of the sort."
    Alerted by the sudden shift in his son's voice, Harold Tisbury's eyes came open.
    "Well, yes, I suppose that's true. It would be difficult to follow someone in a sailboat without being discovered," Sam Tisbury chuckled, and then turned serious again.
    "But in any case, Jonathan, Harold and I want you to know that we do share your concerns. And I agree, it's very tempting to just stay low for a few more months, keep our heads down and hope that nothing goes wrong. But given the current political situation and the nature of some of our current projects, we're just not certain that we can afford to maintain that strategy much longer."
    Harold Tisbury suddenly realized that his son was staring at him. Meeting his son's questioning gaze, the elder Tisbury nodded slowly.
    "We've always known that our window of opportunity with respect to the environmental groups was going to be very narrow," Sam Tisbury went on. "But even so, we've suffered a very serious setback with Counter-Wrench. And if they should ever sense that they have us on the run . . ." He left the rest unspoken.
    "What? Yes, of course, Jonathan. Either way, Harold and I will understand completely. Take your time. We'll wait for your call."
    After leaning forward to hang up the phone, Sam Tisbury made a small, precise checkmark next to the fifth name on his list. Then he turned to face the man with whom he had worked and played and conspired for the past forty-two years.
    Since the day he had turned sixteen—Sam Tisbury smiled, remembering his ceremonial transformation from a child into a businessman. A ceremony that had long ago become a mandatory rite for every