Carved in Bone

seedlings?” He laughed and shook his head. “I don’t understand,” I said. “You grew this here?” He nodded. “But it looks just like the wild one.”
    “Bingo. I’m not cultivating twenty-dollar-a-pound ginseng here, Doc; I’m growing thousand-dollar-a-pound wild sang. If it looks like wild sang and quacks like wild sang, it’ll sell like wild sang.”
    If his entire ten acres looked this authentic, the audacity and the brilliance of his plan were breathtaking. “How come you can grow roots like this, but the cheeseheads up in Wisconsin can’t?”
    “I’ll tell you, Doc, but then I’ll have to kill you.” Seeing my expression, he snorted and gave me a reassuring pat on the back. “Like I said, I’ve had some help from some good botanists. We found a way to shock the plants, chemically and thermally, at regular intervals during the growing season—not enough to really hurt ’em, just enough to make ’em pucker up in those constriction bands. Sort of like subjecting new wood to bleach and buckshot for that weathered, wormy look. Adds a year to the time required to get a mature, man-shaped root, but that extra year will pay for itself ten times over when we harvest.”
    “You tested this on buyers yet?”
    He grinned. “That’s where I was part of last week. Product testing. Not just buyers, but chemists, too. The chemists say it’s every bit the equal of wild black ginseng. The exporters say they’ll take all I can bring ’em.”
    Suddenly all the secrecy made sense. “So the kudzu camouflage and the hidden road—you’re keeping the operation hidden so nobody knows it’s cultivated?”
    He nodded. “Plus the kudzu creates the shade the ginseng needs. I figure my cover’s gonna get blown within a few years, but by then, I’ll be millions of dollars ahead. Besides, even if I have to come down some on the price eventually, I’ll still be way ahead of the cheeseheads. I mean, look at what they’re producing.” He pointed scornfully at the smooth root in my hand. “It’s like a supermarket tomato—the right size and color, but a sorry substitute for the vine-ripened real deal. Eventually, Cooke County Black Ginseng—I’ve trademarked the name already—will become the Vidalia onion of ginseng. People will always pay a premium for it, because it’ll be the best there is. If the marketing and business plan work like they’re supposed to, we’ll create a hundred jobs within two years. Maybe help reduce the poaching in the Smokies, too, which would be something to feel proud of.”
    “You do defy expectations, Jim,” I said. “The hillbilly stereotype may never be the same.”
    But O’Conner wasn’t listening to me. He’d suddenly taken a step to one side, cocking his head toward the house, then he cupped both hands behind his ears to catch more of whatever sound he was seeking. “Well, damn,” he said to himself, and ran for the kudzu tunnel.
    By the time he disappeared through his back door, I could hear it myself. “Damn,” I echoed, and began running, too.
    By the time I reached the front porch, the faint sound had become the distinctive, rhythmic, and ominous beat of a helicopter rotor. Unless I missed my guess, the helicopter would be piloted by Chief Deputy Orbin Kitchings.
    O’Conner, one hand shading his eyes, stared toward the mouth of his hanging valley. Judging by the way the sound ricocheted off the ridges, the helicopter was flying low and closing fast. Suddenly it rose into view, climbing up out of the gorge at the lower end of the valley, almost as if emerging from the earth itself. Black with gold trim, it was unmistakably the sheriff’s JetRanger, and it was headed straight for us.
    O’Conner cursed again. I was just opening my mouth to say something reassuring and probably wrong when a crack split the air. “My God, somebody’s shooting,” O’Conner said, and his head spun toward the ridge angling alongside the house. I saw sparks fly from the chopper’s tail boom as another shot rang out. “Top of the ridge,” he said. “That’s a high-powered rifle. Those aren’t warning shots—somebody’s trying to bring him down.”
    As if the pilot had heard him, the chopper halted in midair, then veered sharply to the left and began weaving toward us in violent zigs and zags. Orbin had been an army pilot, I remembered. I hoped he recalled enough of his combat training to outmaneuver the sniper.
    Wheels began turning frantically in my head, and I