In reality, though, he was simply a cold-blooded killer.
Probably the most diabolical serial killer in history. How many Priorities had there been? Hundreds? At least. More like a thousand. How long had it been going on? Twenty years? No. Closer to thirty. So many lives indiscriminately ended to protect the bottom line. Where other companies laid off, scaled back, shut down, reorganized, went bankrupt, or simply closed their doors, Southern Republic murdered. How did it start? How had it gotten to this point? When had it become so easy?
The car inched through traffic.
His mood darkened like this after church. Something about the majesty of an omnipotent being implementing some grand design brought to the surface what tiny bubble of conscience he still possessed. He lost all sense of values years ago, somewhere between the first Priority and the five hundredth. But of late he’d found notions of right and wrong, good and evil, life and death, reentering his decision-making process.
And it frightened him.
Especially given the realization of his own mortality.
He reached over for the day’sAtlanta Constitutionlying on the back seat and tried to flush the disturbing thoughts from his mind. But it was hard to concentrate.
Instead, he remembered back thirty-plus years.
And how everything had started.
“I’m telling you, Chris, it’s the deal of the century,” Hamilton Lee said.
He and Lee were huddled in a tiny office in downtown Atlanta, four stories up in a ten-floor dilapidated building. The space was more desk than air. Hamilton Lee sat in one chair, a cracked-leather briefcase in the other. Lee was excited. He’d just returned from Concord, a tiny town, in a tiny county, in a tiny part of Georgia. A paper mill had been built there after World War II that was, at first, a moneymaker. Wholly owned by a family out of Massachusetts, not much had been done in the way of modernizing or expanding. Premature deaths had claimed all its founders.
Now the heirs wanted out.
Since World War II, New England paper companies had steadily discovered the richness and relative cheapness of southern pine forests. The warm climate was ideal for growing trees. Water flowed plentifully. And the proximity of railroads, highways, and deepwater ports made the locale irresistible. One news account labeled the area “the wood basket of the world.” Mills sprouted everywhere. But it was a volatile market, one that demanded a company either keep pace or be left behind. Republic Board and Paper, headquartered in Concord, Georgia, had involuntarily chose the latter.
“What’s really great are the labor costs,” Lee said. “The wage scales are a good dollar to a dollar and a half an hour less than anywhere else.”
Lee worked for Roland Paper Company, a multistate conglomerate that owned four mills. He’d been an assistant superintendent at their Savannah plant for nine years. Young. Bright. Energetic. His only fault was a perpetual impatience and a desire to be in charge. Unfortunately, that kind of ambition took time—time Lee had no intention of expending climbing a corporate ladder—so he’d been on the lookout for a company of his own.
How different they were.
Chris was a deputy chief loan officer for Georgia Merchants and Savings Bank. Lee a brash, arrogant entrepreneur. Timber had brought them together, Georgia Merchants a sprawling institution that financed much of the booming pulp sales market. It had evolved slowly. Landowners needed to sell their wood. Companies needed to buy. Cash was not always available and the investment was risky since trees could burn, attract disease, or be devoured by insects. So banks had stepped in and assumed the risk, providing capital in return for an above-market rate of interest. Georgia Merchants maintained a wide portfolio of timber loans from all across the state, regularly doing business with Roland Paper.
“Chris, we can buy this mill for pennies on the dollar. I talked to one of the heirs and all they want is out. They have a note due at a New York bank that’s gobbling them up in interest. They just want the principal paid. These people don’t know anything about the paper industry.”
“I agree, Hamilton. It sounds good.”
And it did.
Damn good, in fact.
He was tired of loaning money and watching others make a fortune. He wanted to try his own luck in the business world. Wanted out of this cubicle of an office. Wanted more than a two-room apartment on the east side of Atlanta. A big car would be nice. Maybe a butler and a housekeeper. Visits to Europe. Lots of dreams. And there was nothing wrong with dreaming.
So long as it didn’t interfere with sound thinking.
He’d often wondered if what they were planning was foolish. Particularly for a twenty-eight-year-old assistant mill super-intendent and a thirty-eight-year-old deputy loan officer, neither of whom had ever owned a business before.
“Can you get the money, Chris?”
“How much we talking about?”
Lee told him. “That’s enough to buy and renovate.”
The amount surprised him. He’d actually figured on more. “I can get it.”
A smile formed on Lee’s face.
Together they dreamed of forming a company, resurrecting a town, building a skyscraper, and becoming millionaires a hundred times over.
