“Did this surprise Stearns?”
“No. He says there are no laws requiring this.” Dad studied his notes for a minute. “I also learned that neither the federal nor the state government has any jurisdiction over privately owned dams except when they are on navigable water routes.”
“Like rivers.”
“Yes.”
“Did the report make any recommendations?” I asked.
“Yes. The engineer urged that a thorough overhauling be done of the present lining of the upper slope, that the five sluice pipes be uncovered, that there be construction of additional discharge pipes, plus the reconstruction of the spillways to discharge excess water safely.”
The Editor sighed, then pocketed his notes. “I debated all last night and today whether to tell you about this. I hesitated for fear of scaring you. Then I thought, this is silly. We’ve struggled through some desperate times together as a family. I’m not going to hold anything back now.”
“I’m so glad you didn’t, dear,” Mother said. “I want to know the worst that can happen. And you’ve told us. Now, can you explain why the elder McKeever doesn’t see how important the dam’s safety is to his special interests at both the Club and Yoder Steel?”
“I asked that question of Stearns. He just shrugged and said, ‘Money?’ It seems to be well known in business circles that McKeever is in deep financial trouble.”
Mother was shaking her head. “It makes no sense that such big companies as Yoder and the Pennsylvania Railroad would let a dam be a danger to their property. Dear, are you sure that somewhere between the time of the sale and now, these basic structural weaknesses in that dam haven’t been repaired?”
“If so, why the secrecy? Why no statements from McKeever to this effect? All he says is, ‘The dam is safe.’”
“Kenneth, I hope you’re not thinking of tackling this in the Sentinel.”
“I don’t know yet, Louise. What if the people of our town—the whole valley—are really in danger?”
“Then there’s got to be some other way. You can’t be a one-man crusade. The editorial on unions is enough for this year.”
My father was unconvinced. “The engineer’s report is a substantial piece of evidence against McKeever’s position on the dam. There’s another factor too that I can’t dismiss. Bryan McKeever’s statements about the dam keep floating back into my mind. If he told the truth—and why should he lie?—then the dam may be the one weak link in the McKeever empire.”
The Editor and I were both at the Sentinel early the next morning. He agreed to take the calls while I completed the week’s tally of subscriptions to see if the editorial on unions had been damaging. To my surprise, I discovered that there had been only five cancellations. On the plus side: twenty-five new subscriptions.
When I brought the good news to my father, he was pleased. Then he waved me into his office.
“Rand just called. Last night a portion of the road across the dam caved in. New leaks have sprung up on its face.”
“What does he suggest we do?”
“Run a story in the Sentinel. He’s really worried now.”
“Are you ready to do that?”
“I’m sure thinking about it.”
“Then you’ll need some pictures.”
The Editor looked at me sharply. “What are you suggesting?”
“That I’m the one to get them—if Rand will help me.”
“Hmm . . .” Dad studied me. “If you were to act like a teenage sightseer, you might get away with it.”
I winced at the teenage reference. “Will Rand agree to this?”
“I think so. But I’ll call him to check it out.”
The telephone conversation was brief. Then the Editor turned to me again. “Rand seemed a little hesitant at first about getting you involved. But we finally agreed that it would work provided you act very casual, disguise yourself a little, and do not take notes or pictures when anyone else is around. You are to drive the Willys into the Club parking lot tomorrow afternoon at two. Rand will join you there and give you instructions. Fortunately, Old Man McKeever is out of town.”
When I pulled into the Club grounds the following afternoon, I saw that they were as beautiful as ever. The old hotel, Victorian gingerbread work and all, was a dazzling white; the lawns, a lush manicured green; the flower beds, a riot of vivid color—yellow and red cannas, sage, borders of begonias and pansies. The waters of Lake Kissawha were a placid blue mirror, sparkling in the sunlight, as nonthreatening a body of water as one could imagine. Four sailboats were out, though they were almost becalmed.
It was almost exactly two o’clock when I stopped the Willys in the parking lot. With no breeze and the sun beating down, I felt perspiration begin to gather on my forehead. Hurry up, Rand.
While ten minutes passed, there was a constant flow of traffic in and out of the parking area as the resident members and their families milled about. This is not a good place to meet, I sat there thinking, too many people. Twenty more minutes went by.
It was two-forty before Rand appeared. He stared at me a moment before he climbed in beside me. “Good disguise. At first I didn’t recognize you.” He seemed very tense.
“Mother helped me put up my hair last night. This is one of her old picnic hats. I bought the dark glasses.”
“Julie, I can stay here only briefly. Let’s talk quickly.”
“Is something the matter?”
He hesitated. “I’m not sure. Just learned that the Vulcania is back. The Old Man could appear at any moment.”
“So what would I do then?”
“Do you think he would recognize you?”
“I don’t think so. We’ve never talked. Only place I’ve seen him is at church.”
“I’ve heard him mention you by name,” Rand persisted.
“What would he do if he did recognize me?”
“Nothing probably, except tell you to leave. Unless he saw you taking pictures.”
“Rand, I don’t think he’ll notice me. Let’s don’t call it off unless he appears right now.”
“So be it, then. I suggest you act like a village lass visiting a friend on the grounds. When I leave, wait a few minutes, then stroll very casually toward the dam. The watchman is off on an errand. By the way, I fired James, but for some reason the Old Man hired him back and told me he was untouchable, whatever that means.”
My face must have reflected my inner fears.
“Don’t worry, he’ll be gone for two hours, at least. I suggest that you take several pictures, not only of the lake and the dam, but of the Club as well. When you’re finished, hustle away. Can you manage all that?” he asked anxiously.
“Yes.”
“I’ll leave you, then.”
“Rand, I think what you, did—getting that report—took a lot of courage.”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m doing things that don’t make any sense from a career point of view.”
“My father was deeply touched.”
I had so many things to ask him, but he was getting out of the car and seemed quite tense again. “Remember, now,” he concluded, “you’re here visiting a friend.”
I waited a few moments, then slipped out of the car, pencil and notepad in my purse and the strap of my camera case slung over one shoulder. It was simple to amble around and stare at the lake, the trees, the Club grounds—all the while pretending to snap pictures. Eventually I got caught up in the spirit of it and found it an exhilarating game.
By indirection my course took me to the dam. Where was the new damage? Other people were also wandering about, so I tried to blend in with them.
The road across the breast of the dam had never been paved. As I walked out on it I saw that even on this calm, sunshiny day, the water on the lake side was no more than six or seven feet below me. From that side, Lake Kissawha stretched so far into the distance that I could scarcely see the misty wooded ridge at the other end.
When I tur
ned around and looked in the other direction, there was a sharp drop of some thirty feet to a rocky, tumultuous creek bed. The stream was redirected to the left by a man-made ridge of earth and concrete. After a few hundred feet, it was lost to sight in a series of bends and twists.
I walked down to the base of the dam, not far from the spot where Margo and I had eaten our picnic lunch nearly a year ago. Once again I caught my breath at the stark appearance of the front of the dam. What had seemed like a mound of dark rubble last fall—with a strange resemblance to a squat, hairy animal—was now covered with green bushes, tall weeds and grasses, brambles, saplings, and quite a number of half-grown trees. Looking closely, I saw why the vegetation was growing so luxuriantly: constant seepage.
Backing up some, I took pictures of the leakage from all angles. Then I climbed back up to the top of the dam, keeping watch for other people. No one was in sight. I noted that part of the road had caved in at the far end of the dam, away from the main building. There was a hole about two feet deep and perhaps five yards long. I knelt at the edge to peer in and saw mostly small pieces of loose shale.
There would be no great difficulty in mending the road. It was what I saw next that startled me—deep transverse cracks zigzagging from opposite corners of the hole. At one place where the crack was about an inch wide, I poked a stick in, but it did not hit bottom; there was no way of telling how deep the crevasse went.
Observing once again that no one was around, I shot pictures from all angles, wondering what the best technique was for photographing a dark hole. As supplementary material, I took especially careful notes and measurements.
All that done, I started back toward the parking lot. Halfway there, I was startled to see a man approaching me from the edge of the lake. He was walking fast. I froze. It was Tom McKeever Sr.—the Old Man!
Had he recognized me? My heart began to pound.
“You there. Young lady. Stop, please!”
I turned toward him in mock surprise. “Me, sir?”
He strode up, puffing slightly, frowning, staring hard at me. “Are you a member of this Club?”
“No, I came to visit a friend.”
“And who is that?”
“A waitress who, I’ve just learned, no longer works here. This is such a beautiful Club and the lake and grounds are so lovely and well cared for. I just couldn’t resist walking about. Are you the watchman?”
Old Man McKeever looked slightly nonplussed as I continued to simper and ramble on, trying to take the role of the mindless teenager as best I could.
“What’s your name?”
For that question I was not prepared. What to do? I did not want to lie, yet I dared not tell the truth.
“Julie Paige.”
“I see.” He scowled at me for a few moments. “Why did you walk so far away from the Club?”
I put on the most innocent look I could muster, trying to show my uncertainty. “I—I didn’t realize I had walked so far. It’s so-o-o beautiful. My parents will love the pictures I took of the lake.”
Again the Old Man looked uncertain.
“If you’ll excuse me now, sir, I’ll go back to town.” With that I turned and headed for the parking lot. I felt his eyes riveted on my back as I forced myself to walk at a leisurely pace.
When I reached the old Willys, I rejoiced that the engine started up at once. Quickly I wheeled out of the parking lot and headed down to Alderton.
There was no mistaking the setting—the Caledonian Inn. I was searching for Rand, but he was nowhere in sight. I pushed open the door at the back of the inn and walked out into the glorious garden. While I was savoring all this beauty, a rotund man lurched around the corner of the building and made for me.
I began running and could hear close behind me his heavy breath. Ducking behind the perennial border, I tried to head toward the meadow, only to find that my feet were sticking to the ground. I could barely move.
My pursuer was closer now. The fingers of his sweaty hand were about to clutch my upper arm.
I screamed . . .
And woke up—with a pounding heart.
The identity of my pursuer was clear: Old Man McKeever. He was an alien in this lovely spot. But where was Rand? Was the dream a warning? Could the Sentinel be in danger? Its editor? Even our family?
I tried to push away my fears with the thought that it was only a bad dream. Then, jerking myself back to real life, I wondered what might have happened there at the Club if I had told Mr. McKeever my last name. Would he have confiscated my camera and the pictures of the dam? Had me arrested for trespassing? Despite my little disguise, had he guessed who I was anyway?
When I had reported on my scouting assignment to Dad, I had made light of the encounter with the Old Man. I had caught a flicker of admiration in the Editor’s eyes at my on-the-spot inspiration to use the name Paige. Even so, Dad was apprehensive. I could see it in his eyes.
“Tomorrow I begin work on the editorial,” he had said. “But”—and here his anxiety showed—“after I’ve gotten something on paper, I’d like to talk to you and your mother about it.”
The three-way conference, held the following night, was reminiscent of that earlier one that took place soon after we had come to Alderton. In the intervening months, all we had been through had bound us closer together as a family. Despite all obstacles, even the flood, we had built the Sentinel into a paper that commanded respect.
As we gathered in Dad’s study, I could tell that Mother was upset. The Editor had not consulted her ahead of time about his eloquent plea on Spencer’s behalf at the congregational meeting. She had been proud of her husband that night, even to the shedding of a few tears, but I sensed that she had felt left out. Sitting in the Morris chair, sorting a basket of towels, there was a trapped look in her gray-blue eyes. Can you tell your mother you love her with a look? I tried to when she glanced my way.
Dad began by leaning back in his chair, his hands locked behind his head. “Let me try to summarize where we stand,” he began. “Then I’ll read you the rough draft of my editorial.”
Mother’s brow creased. “So you’ve already decided to run it, Kenneth?”
“I decided to write the editorial, pray about it, talk it through with you and Julie. Fair enough, Louise?”
“Yes, dear. Fair enough.”
“First, there are some sharp differences of opinion as to whether or not the Kissawha dam presents any threat to Alderton or any of the townships closer to the dam.
“McKeevers, Junior and Senior, steadily maintain that the dam is safe. Others of us, now including Bryan McKeever and Randolph Wilkinson, feel that it is a threat to people in this whole area. Our concern is based on the engineer’s report obtained by Rand last Tuesday, plus what seems to be the deteriorating situation of the dam itself.
“Not only has the road above the dam partially caved in, but deep transverse cracks show clearly in the pictures you took, Julie. They could go right on down to the dam’s core. By the way, considering everything, your pictures came out rather well.
“So now, let me read you a rough draft of my editorial.
There continues to be much discussion in our community about the Kissawha lake and dam owned by the prestigious Allegheny Hunting and Fishing Club. Is it safe? Could the dam be breached? If the dam did give way, would Yancyville, Mills Ford and Alderton be in real danger?
Several months ago, the Sentinel ran a feature story on this Club. The article detailed something of its history and lauded the resort as an asset to western Pennsylvania. A brief summary was included of the dam and its collapse some eighty years ago, and its repair and sale by the Pennsylvania Railroad to the Hunting and Fishing Club back in 1926.
The Sentinel received criticism for this story from some of the Club’s top executives. They assured us that the dam was inspected regularly and is completely safe. They also pointed out that even should the dam ever give way, Alderton would not suffer. First, the rerouting of the Kissawha stream
into Somerset Valley should handle 90% of any overflow or breaching. Second, our town is 6 miles from Lake Kissawha, connected by a valley varying in width from 300 to 2,500 feet, through which the water would have to spread. “So what if downtown Alderton did get another two feet of water? We’ve lived through worse in many a spring flooding,” they said.
Their arguments were persuasive and the Sentinel had no reason to pursue the matter further until last week. Then, an engineer’s report made at the time of the sale of the dam to the Hunting and Fishing Club came into our possession. Prepared by Hershel Thomas (who died in 1929) for the Pennsylvania Railroad, the report faults the dam’s inadequate spillways and states there is a high-hazard risk of structural weakness which could result in a major breach at the center of the dam. The engineer also warns that, were the dam somehow to be breached, the new waterway would not prevent some 500 million tons of water from pouring down on Yancyville, Mills Ford and Alderton.
The report indicated that, in the eventuality of a major collapse of the dam wall, the damage to these three towns below could be devastating in terms of property damage and loss of life.
The purpose of this editorial is to urge the Hunting and Fishing Club to act now to undertake and complete the major repairs to the dam recommended in the engineer’s report. A copy of this report is available in our files at the Sentinel office if the Club has lost its copy. We also address this editorial to the Pennsylvania Railroad and the Yoder Steel Company in the hope that these large corporations will use their persuasion with the Club for remedial action in handling these safety problems.”
The Editor laid the sheets of paper on his desk, then looked at Mother and me expectantly. “Well—what do you think?”
For a long moment we were silent. Then Mother asked, “Kenneth, if you print this editorial, won’t Randolph lose his job?”
“That’s possible. The Club Board of Directors will certainly want to know how we got the report.”
“Is that fair to Randolph?”
“He faced that possibility when he got the report for us, and he has agreed that the Sentinel should do something to alert people.”