Page 79 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
Most of the messages are routine. Friends asking if we’re alright. Some work emails I can handle easily. Spam, a couple of invoices. One from Eric’s university asking me to confirm his secondment is on track. Nothing major.
Until the voicemails. That’s when everything shifts.
I hit play, and my boss’s voice fills the room.
“Jack, hi, it’s Pat.”
Pat Mackenzie. Owner of Mackenzie Forestry Services. Known him a long time. He was one of my dad’s Army buddies—they served together in the first Iraq war. After he got out, Pat used his inheritance money to start the company. When I left theRangers, Dad introduced us, and Pat took me on. Been with him ever since. The company’s been my home, same as the lodge, same as the forest.
“Listen,” Pat goes on, “sorry to do this over voicemail. I’ve been trying to call for a week, but with your cell coverage down, I couldn’t. And I didn’t want you hearing this from someone else.”
The first time through, I was confused. The second time, dread already clenches my gut.
“Sad to tell you this, but Mary…” His voice catches. “Mary’s got cancer. We’ve known for a while, but we haven't had clarity about her future. Well, now we do, and it’s not good. Docs say six months, give or take. So here’s the deal: I’m retiring, effective immediately. The business means a lot, but Mary means everything. We’ve agreed to spend as much time together as we can, while we still can. That means I've got to sell the business. Problem is, it's not worth all that much. I've spoken to our accountants, and they've consulted with a couple of specialist business valuers and resellers. Even with our twenty-year contract with the Forestry Service, plus the other two long-term contracts, and factoring in the yard we own outright and all the equipment, they're saying three to five million, tops.
"So far, I've had an offer from Collier Logging, but I don't want to sell to them. I don't like the CEO; there's something about him I just don't trust. He lowballed the hell out of me. Offered one and a half million. That's maybe half what the company's worth—if not less.
"My accountant says if that's all I can get, once all's said and done, I'll be left with less than fifty grand a year, and what's that worth these days? The bastard knows I'm in a hurry, so he's taking advantage. Tells you all you need to know, doesn't it?
"Frankly, Jack, that's not much to retire on—especially after the government takes their slice. God knows how much Mary's medical bills are going to cost before she… You know."
Collier. That name rings a bell. I don't handle the trade side of the business—that's Pat's domain, I'm the operational side—so I'm not up to speed on all the competition. But I swear I've heard that name recently… I just can't place it.
"Anyway, buddy, I'm sorry to dump this on you. Give my best to Toby—and to Luke, too. Let them know what's going on. If either of them decides to move on, they'll get a solid severance package and great references. The same goes for you, of course. But I'd rather you stayed and saw it through. Maybe we can find a better buyer, last minute. I'll keep you posted. God bless."
I stand there, staring at my phone.
Just when everything was going so well, this has to happen. It's bad enough to learn Mary's got cancer and only a few months to live. But now the whole company's in play, too. If Pat sells it as a going concern, maybe—maybe—we can keep things going as they are. But chances are, a new buyer will want to make changes. Maybe big ones.
Could be for the better… but what if it's not? What happens to the five of us then? Just when we were finally getting started…
And now this.
We need a meeting. It's only fair that I let everyone know the situation. We all have to decide what we want to do. Me too, though I already know in my heart I'll stay on until the very end. I owe Pat that much. Also, out of respect to Pat, we need to make sure any mission by Kill Climate Change to make the company look bad doesn't succeed. The last thing Pat needs when he's trying to sell the company is bad publicity.
Let them have one last evening without knowing. Tomorrow at breakfast, I'll break the news.
I sleep fitfully, disturbed by bad dreams. Well… one bad dream, on repeat in what feels like a never-ending loop.
A man I don’t recognize, with an unpleasant fake smile and cold, hard eyes. He’s sitting in a jeep on the edge of our property. Off to my left, Luna’s chatting with Luke. They’re laughing and smiling, sharing a joke without a care in the world.
Then I see the man lift a gun—a rifle.
I’m frozen. I can’t move. All I can do is watch as he takes careful aim, straight at Luna. I try to shout, to warn her, but no sound comes out. My mouth is open, but I’m silent as the grave.
There’s nothing I can do as he sights down the barrel. Time slows to a crawl. I see his finger tighten on the trigger. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly?—
And then I wake up with a jolt and a shout, my heart pounding, breath ragged, sweat beading on my forehead, muscles taut, sheets tangled around me.
I tell myself it was only a dream. But it feels so real.
By the third time, I give up and glance at the clock beside the bed. Five-thirty.
I sigh. I don’t even want to go back to sleep if another round of this is what’s waiting for me.
I head to the bathroom and take a long shower, switching between hot and cold, trying to shake off the despair settled in my bones. But it clings to me.
Eventually, I get dressed and step into the kitchen.
