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  “Listen to me good,” he said. “There ain’t no story. And if there was a story, there still ain’t no story.”

  “B-but how can you say th-th-that?” No script to follow. My stutter was back. “Th-th-ere is s-something wrong with th-th-th-the water. I kn-know it.”

  “Didn’t I just say listen to me good? Let it drop.”

  Let it drop?

  I repeated my thoughts out loud. “L-l-let it dr-drop?”

  He stood and pushed me to the door.

  “Stick to football, boy,” he said. “You’ve got a future there. Now if you don’t mind, I have deadlines.”

  “B-b-but—”

  “Good-bye,” he said. “Don’t visit again unless you want to talk football.”

  chapter twelve

  I walked back to my truck, head down and face burning red with anger.

  What did he mean, there was no story?

  I had seen the dead birds. I knew there was something in the water. My tests in the chem lab had proven that. I wished I was able to pinpoint what was in the water. The high school chem lab didn’t have what I needed to do that.

  The county health inspector had told me there was nothing wrong with the water. But I knew he’d either done a bad job of testing it, or he had lied to me.

  And now the Journal’s reporter was doing his best to ignore what I had to say too.

  Something strange was happening. This was a story.

  The trouble for me was I didn’t know where else to go. If the county health inspector wasn’t interested, and the Johnstown Journal wasn’t interested, who could I get to help me find out what was going on?

  By the time I got back to my truck, I was mad enough to know the answer.

  Who could find out what was going on?

  I could.

  The next day, I had a study period just before lunch. That meant I could leave school early if I needed to, which I did.

  Again, the sky was a perfect blue; the leaves had just started to turn colors. A small breeze pushed at my hair as I walked across the parking lot to my truck.

  It was a good day to go for a drive in the hills and visit Gram, a good day to spend some peaceful time at her cabin.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t. Because if I didn’t do something about her poisoned water, her small part of the world would no longer be as beautiful.

  Halfway across the parking lot, I heard someone call my name.

  I stopped and turned to see Waymen Whitley running toward me, tall and lean and graceful like the star quarterback that he was. Because most kids were still in class, he was the only other person in the parking lot.

  I waited for him.

  “Hey,” he said, when he caught up with me, “where you going?”

  If anyone else had asked me, I might have shrugged to try to get out of answering. But Waymen seemed to really care about people, including me.

  “J-j-johns C-c-corporation.”

  “No kidding,” he said. “That’s where my dad works. Yours too?”

  I shook my head. “My p-p-parents d-died when I was th-three.”

  “Sorry to hear it, man. That must have been pretty awful.”

  “Y-yeah.” But he wouldn’t want to hear how I cried myself to sleep all those nights when I was little.

  For a moment it was awkward, with neither of us knowing what to say.

  “So,” he finally said, “you want company? I don’t have another class until two.”

  Usually I kept to myself. I preferred the quiet conversations in my head to the stumbling conversations I had with other people. But there was no way to say no without looking like a jerk. And I remembered how much I’d liked it when he called me a friend in front of Powell and Jones at his first practice.

  “S-sounds g-g-good,” I said.

  And I hoped it would be.

  chapter thirteen

  We were at the stop sign at the end of the parking lot when Waymen spoke.

  “No one in school or on the team knows it,” Waymen said. “But for a long time I could hardly read. It’s still kind of hard. And it drives me nuts.”

  I looked over at him, not sure why he was telling me this or what I should say back to him. He was resting easy, his big hands on his knees.

  “When I was a kid,” he continued, “I hated it when teachers would ask me to read something out loud to the class. It would take me forever to get through a sentence. Even then, I’d get half the words wrong. Still sometimes drives me nuts, trying to get through some of my homework assignments. ‘Specially now in high school.”

  Our windows were down, and the wind felt good against my face. I listened to him carefully.

  “Anyway,” Waymen said, “people made me feel stupid because I couldn’t read. Then we figured out I have dyslexia. Something in my brain makes me see letters and words backward. I had to learn other ways of looking at letters and letter patterns to see words. I still can’t spell very well.”

  “I’d h-hate that,” I said. “R-reading is one of the b-best th-things that’s happened to me. I c-can get lost in a g-good book and not c-come out for hours.”

  “Because it’s easier to read than talk?” he asked me.

  I slowed down for a traffic light. I waited until the truck had stopped to look at him.

  He smiled before I could get mad. “Hey,” he said, “for me it’s easier to talk than read. And if you and I have to pretend you don’t stutter, it’s going to be tough to be friends.”

  “Wh-wh-wh-why do you th-th-think w-w-we’re going to be f-friends?” I didn’t ask it in a mean way, but in a curious way. And he understood.

  He grinned. “One, you’re the best receiver I’ve ever seen. No one in the state can catch and run like you. I’d be a dumb quarterback not to make friends with the guy who’s going to help us both set a single-season record for touchdowns.”

  He wasn’t being cocky. He really believed we would set a record and I should believe it too.

  His grin turned serious. “And two, I’m like you. Words mess me up. And people have hassled me about it. Why do you think I got so mad at Powell at my first practice? For what it’s worth, I’d seriously think about trading. You take my dyslexia and I’ll take your stutter. I mean, it’s a lot easier to get a university degree with a stutter than it is with a reading problem.”

  “Wh-why would you n-need a degree?” I joked. It was becoming easier to talk to him now that I knew he didn’t care about my stuttering. “You can m-make m-millions as a pro quarterback.”

  He pointed. I looked up. The red light had turned green. I hit the gas and the truck moved through the intersection.

  “What if I get hurt?” he said. “Then what? All my life, I’ve watched my mom and dad struggle because they couldn’t make much money. I promised them I would get an education, and I aim to deliver.”

  I remembered what Elizabeth, his sister, had told me about her dad getting a new job.

  “Your s-sister s-said the Johns C-corporation offering your dad a job was like w-winning a lottery.”

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “It’s unbelievable. Dad is making triple what he was before.”

  Waymen frowned. “When did you talk to my sister?”

  “In th-the science lab one m-morning.”

  He slapped his leg. “That was you? The guy quoting Shakespeare? She told us all about it.”

  “L-long story,” I said. We were getting close to the Johns Corporation.

  “But you...”

  “S-stutter?”

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  I took a deep breath. “‘To be or not to be. That is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing, end them.’ “

  “I don’t get it,” he said. “How do you do that?”

  “I’m n-not sure,” I said. I explained how stuttering is a mystery to doctors and to people who stutter. “Acting, r-reciting lines, is d-differe
nt for m-me from sp-speaking, I guess.”

  He grinned. It was an easy grin to like. “Then do more acting,” he said. “I wish my dyslexia was as easy to beat.”

  I flicked my turn signal and drove into the Johns Corporation parking lot. “M-more acting,” I said. “R-right.”

  As if it would ever happen. Me, speaking in front of an audience full of strangers?

  I pulled the truck into a parking spot near the shiny glass and brick of the main building.

  “I never did ask,” he said. “What exactly are you doing here?”

  “Another l-long story,” I answered. “N-not a b-big deal.”

  It was, of course. But it wasn’t something I figured would be a big deal to him.

  Later, I would find out how wrong I was.

  chapter fourteen

  The main offices of the Johns Corporation were in a two-story building a block long. A wide sidewalk led to a broad set of steps. At the top of the steps, just before the glass doors, a decorative fountain burbled. Altogether it was an impressive building for a town as small as Johnstown.

  “Wh-hat does your d-dad d-do here?” I asked Waymen as we walked past the splashing fountain.

  “Back in Lexington,” Waymen said, “he worked as a mechanic for a small service station. Here, he supervises all of the mechanics who work on the company vehicles.”

  I whistled. That would be some job. Between the company cars and the trucks they used in the coalfields, there was a lot to take care of. He probably had a lot of people working for him too.

  “His office is somewhere in there,” Waymen said. “Maybe later, we can visit.”

  “If y-you w-want, go ahead,” I said. I didn’t want Waymen watching as I tried to talk to strangers. “We can m-meet back here in h-half an hour.”

  Waymen looked at me and smiled. “I think I’d rather stay with you. I’m curious about what you’re doing here.”

  The security guard at the front desk was curious too. Behind him the building split into two hallways. It was quiet with the hushed kind of whispers an expensive air conditioner makes.

  “What is your business here?” the guard asked. He was tall and broad shouldered and very serious in his uniform. “Do you have an appointment with someone?”

  Waymen looked at me. I did my best to answer.

  “I w-want to t-talk to someone about m-m-maps,” I said.

  “Maps?”

  “C-coal m-m-ine m-maps,” I said, hating how my stutter worsened with his stern look.

  “The Johns Corporation is not a public company,” the guard said. “The information on those maps is not available to just anyone who walks in off the street.”

  “I j-j-just w-w-want t-to t-talk—”

  “There is nothing to talk about,” he snapped, impatient with my slow speech.

  “Sir,” Waymen said, “I know this is an unusual request. It’s more of a school project. We go to Johnstown High School. This is Roy Linden, and my name is Waymen Whitley. We—”

  “Whalin’ Waymen Whitley?” the guard said. He stared at Waymen. “I should have recognized you from the newspaper. Your old man works here, don’t he?”

  The guard snapped his fingers. “And Roy Linden. I know that name. You scored three touchdowns! I wish I could have seen the game last Friday. But being as it was out of town, I couldn’t. What do you think about this upcoming game against the Cougars? From what I hear they’re an even better team than they were last year. If you guys can beat them, this whole side of the state is going to have to sit up and take notice. I mean, you guys could have a shot at the league title.”

  Waymen grinned. “League? Let’s talk state. Put Roy here in a pair of Nikes and he can run down a deer. A fella doesn’t have to be much of a quarterback with someone like him as a target.”

  Waymen talked football with the guard for a few more minutes, long enough to make him happy. When the conversation got around to our “school” project again, the guard lifted his phone to call ahead for us.

  “Sign in,” the guard instructed. He handed us a clipboard. There was a place for our names and the time of our arrival. There was another space to mark the time when we left.

  “Down the hall to the first turn, then go right,” the guard said. “Look for door 128.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Waymen said.

  We walked away.

  “This is a school project,” Waymen said, “right?”

  “N-now it is,” I answered. I’d write this up as part of a report for science. It made me wonder why I hadn’t thought of it before. “B-biology.”

  “Then count me in on it,” Waymen said. “I can use some extra credit in biology.”

  “D-deal,” I said.

  A minute later it looked like we didn’t have much of a deal, after all. That’s how long it took the guy in office number 128 to throw us out.

  chapter fifteen

  Before the guy could grab my shirt and push me out the door, though, we’d had to get past his secretary to see him.

  “Waymen Whitley, ma’am,” Waymen said to the woman behind the desk who was facing a computer monitor. She was middle-aged, with a round face and a sweet smile. “And my friend, Roy Linden. I believe the security guard just called about our arrival.”

  “Yes, he did.” She gave us more of her sweet smile. “You can go on in. Mr. Webber is expecting you.”

  She pointed at the open door behind her. The room was bright from the sunshine streaming through the window. I led the way.

  Mr. Webber’s desk, shiny and dark brown, filled half the office. Shelves covered with books lined one wall. A photo of him with a woman and two kids sat on top of one of the shelves.

  Just like in the photo, he was a large man, wearing a dark suit. His dark hair was neatly cut. He wore wide glasses that rested on a big nose.

  He stood up and smiled a greeting at both of us as he extended his hand.

  “M-m-my name is Roy L-l-inden,” I said. “I w-w-was h-hoping you c-could h-help m-me with c-coal m-mine m-m-maps.”

  His face darkened instantly into an angry frown. Faster than I could have believed possible for such a big man, he came around his desk.

  That’s when he grabbed my shirt and dragged me back through the doorway, past the secretary’s desk on his way to the hallway. He was such a big man and I was so surprised, I didn’t even try to fight.

  Waymen followed, his mouth wide with shock.

  “Mr. Webber!” the secretary said. “Mr. Webber! What is going on?”

  Mr. Webber paused, his strong hands still squeezing my shirt tight against me.

  “N-n-n-nobody w-w-w-walks into m-m-my office and m-m-m-makes fun of m-m-m-me!” he said to her. “I don’t h-h-have to p-p-put up with it!”

  “B-b-b-b-b-b...” I was too flustered to get out what I was trying to say. “B-b-b-but y-you d-d-d-d—”

  I just made him angrier.

  “Th-th-that’s enough!” he yelled. “G-g-g-get out you p-p-p-punk!”

  “Sir! Sir!” Waymen shouted, moving in front of us and waving to get his attention. “Sir!”

  Mr. Webber glared at him.

  “He’s not making fun of you, sir,” Waymen said. “He—”

  Waymen lost it. He started to giggle. His giggle became laughter.

  “He—” Waymen could hardly speak, he was laughing so hard.

  It gave me a chance to work a few words out.

  “I s-s-s-tutter t-t-oo,” I said. “R-r-r-really.”

  “R-r-r-really?” Mr. Webber asked.

  “R-r-r-really,” I said.

  Hearing the two of us stutter back and forth just made Waymen laugh harder. I could tell he wasn’t laughing at me or Mr. Webber, but at the situation. I never wanted people to feel sorry or embarrassed for me because of my stutter. I was glad Waymen could laugh about it. Because it was funny.

  I started to laugh too.

  Finally Mr. Webber joined us. He laughed so hard he had to lean against his secretary’s desk.
/>   Every time either one of us tried to speak, our stutters made us all howl louder.

  It got so bad that people from other offices stuck their heads in the door to see what was so funny. That, of course, just made us laugh even more. Mr. Webber had to wave them away as he wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

  It took ten minutes for us to settle down. Mr. Webber apologized and said he’d had a bad morning, and he was sorry for getting so mad so quickly.

  I told him I didn’t mind because I understood how frustrating it could get.

  As it turned out, I couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to the one man at the Johns Corporation who could give me the most answers. He felt so bad about how he’d reacted that he helped me a lot more than he should have. He gave me stuff the public never sees.

  When Waymen and I left his office, we had maps of all the mine shafts—old and new—that the Johns Corporation had dug near Gram’s cabin.

  And those maps gave me the information I wanted.

  chapter sixteen

  The next day I knew I would have to wait until after practice to drive up into the hills to Gram’s cabin. As usual my day at school was full and passed quickly. My mind wasn’t on what my teachers were saying, however. It kept wandering to caves and underground rivers.

  Kentucky is famous for its caves. About eighty-five miles west of Louisville is the Mammoth Cave, a tourist attraction. It’s actually a bunch of connected caves—more than three hundred miles’ worth at five different levels.

  The caves were made when limestone—Kentucky is full of it—was dissolved by water. Underground rivers cut beneath many of the mountains in the area. The Mammoth Cave formed when a number of underground rivers and streams flowed through, including the Echo River, which comes to the surface and eventually flows into the Green River.

  Around our town, according to the Johns Corporation maps, an underground river fed the creek near Gram’s cabin. And, according to the maps, that same underground river passed near an inactive coal mining shaft. It looked like the shaft had been closed for years.