Well, here I am! Yes, another day-after update. :) Yes. Love it.
Anonymous Review:
sarah: hey! nice to hear from you! I officially forgive you for not reviewing. Seriously, you're cool. Although I would love getting the reviews... But it's okay. I will totally do that every time I don't receive one of your reviews. Yes, I will. :) You have not... except you just did. Thanks! :) But no, I'm really not MC... Rob is just awesome. And thank you again!
After swearing a few more times just to let out some steam, I went upstairs and asked Mom if I could borrow the truck.
"Why?" She asked, even though I'm pretty sure she already knew – or at least, knew that I was picking Jess up, not that I was taking Jess out to discuss murder and kidnappings.
But of course, I didn't enlighten her. I just shrugged and said, "Jess."
Which was probably a good thing to say, if the way Mom's face lit up in a big grin was any indication. I mean, if I hadn't already known that she really liked Jess, that grin would have confirmed it. And I felt kind of bad, because it was obvious that Mom thought that Jess and I were actually going to go out, like on a date, and that she was really pleased about it. And I guess she had reason to be. I mean, she really likes Jess – and she likes Jess and I as a couple, enough so that she openly endorses it despite the whole illegal thing; even enough to take part in the deception of Jess's parents, which I know couldn't be comfortable for her. And so she probably thought that me asking to borrow the truck to pick up Jess was a good sign for our relationship.
And yeah, some other people might have thought it was meddling or something, or annoying that their parents were so into their love life, but that's not how I see it. Mom just really wants me to be happy. And she can see that Jess makes me happy.
So, did I feel guilty about lying (by omission of the truth, at least) about my reasons for wanting the truck? Hell yes. Did I do it anyway?
Hell yes.
"So, uh, can I?" I asked, and Mom nodded.
"Sure. If I need to go anywhere, I can just call Gary. Have fun!"
She tossed me the keys, and that was it.
Or, you know, it would be, if she didn't stop me at the door with the question, "Are you going to talk things out with Jess?"
I turned around slowly. "What?"
Mom looked a little sheepish, like she knew that maybe this was kind of personal, but she went on anyway, "About meeting her parents. You should, Rob. I don't like you being some secret."
I could see in the way that she was looking at me that the whole lying-to-Mrs.-Mastriani thing had really upset her. But, I could also tell she would do it again if she really thought it was necessary.
But I couldn't make her do that. I couldn't do that to my mom. I shouldn't have even done it this afternoon, but I just wanted to talk to Jess. But still – just because Mom was willing to do stuff for me that made her incredibly guilty, that didn't mean I should ask her to.
So instead of telling her that I already had tried, quite a few times, and always got either distracted by kissing or I love yous and the like, I just said, "Okay. I promise."
And then I left, Mom smiling again and looking all satisfied. And me feeling like an ass.
Obviously, all of this boded real well for the drive. And yes, that was sarcasm.
It wasn't much fun getting into town, even with the truck; I would've been crazy to try the Indian. Still, it didn't take me too long to get to the Stop and Shop – only about twenty minutes longer than normal.
Jess was waiting outside, kind of stomping around in little circles, rubbing her arms. As soon as I slid to a halt – and I mean slid literally; the car met with some ice – she ran over and hopped in the passenger side, smiling at me. "Hey."
In a bad mood from the Mom-induced guilt, and the drive up here, and what I was going to have to tell her, I just sort of grunted, and began to drive.
Jess raised her eyebrows at me, but before she could say anything, I shook my head. "Just wait, okay? I'll tell you once we get there."
She looked a little confused. "Get there?"
"Chick's."
Jess just nodded, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. I admit that I was a little surprised that she was agreeing so easily, but I decided not to question it. You know, gift horse, mouth.
And it didn't take long until we got there, and I have to admit: sitting on a barstool in Chick's, the owner in front of me, I felt a whole lot better.
See, Chick has been a friend for a long time… I probably couldn't even tell you since when. And I've been hanging out at his bar for a lot longer than was ever really legal, even if I wasn't, you know, drinking or anything. But still. It's kind of like a haven, stupid as that sounds.
So, I'd figured that I could have this not-so-great conversation there. Plus, Chick probably knew as much if not more about it than I did, so that was another great reason.
And it was pretty much perfect in there. The bar was totally empty – not even Eddy and Ben (the bartender and fry cook) could make it in – which guaranteed us privacy.
So, while Chick was busy making himself a meatball sandwich, Jess explained to him everything that had happened, (I finally learned what she was talking about with the synagogue earlier) and how the symbol kept cropping up, and she drew it on a piece of napkin for us.
Chick and I both took one look at it, and exchanged a glance. I had been right. "Oh, sure," Chick said, "The True Americans."
"Are you sure?" Jess asked, "I mean… you really know what this is?"
I might have been offended that she didn't trust my friend, except that a lot of the time, I don't trust Chick myself. He occasionally likes practical jokes, and he can be… But the thing is, when it comes to important stuff, he's always pretty reliable.
"Oh, yeah," Chick confirmed, taking a bite of his sandwich and dislodging a meatball onto the napkin, before he brushed it away. I was just as glad that I had said no when he asked if I wanted one. "Yeah. Yeah, that's it, all right. They all got it tattooed right here." Chick pointed at the webbing in between his thumb and index finger. Then he squinted at the drawing. "Only you got it sideways, or something."
He rotated it until it faced the right ways up, and you could clearly see the snake. "There. Yeah. That's how it's supposed to look. See? Like a snake?"
Jess still looked confused, so I added, "Don't tread on me."
Only, apparently she didn't pay attention in U.S. History class, because she turned to me, and said, "Don't what?"
"Don't tread on me," I repeated. "Remember? That was printed on one of the first American flags, along with a coiled snake." I picked up the drawing, pointing out the head. "That little thing on the end isn't an arrow. It's the snake's head. See?"
Jess squinted for a little bit, and then went, "Oh, yeah," but I'm pretty sure that she didn't. See, that is.
"So, these True Americans," she asked, "What are they? A motorcycle gang, like the Hell's Angels, or something?"
Chick and I exchanged righteously indignant looks. "Hell, no!" he cried. "Ain't a one of 'em could ride his way out of a paper bag!"
I sighed. "They're a militia group, Mastriani. Run by a guy who grew up around here… Jim Henderson."
Jess still looked confused. It was kind of c– I did not almost just think that word. No way.
"Oh…" She said, and paused for a long moment… before slumping down on the bar on her elbows. "Okay," she apparently gave up. "What's a militia group?"
Chick rolled his eyes. He doesn't like militia groups. "You know," he told Jess, "One of those survivalist outfits, live way out in the backwoods. Won't pay their taxes, but that don't seem to stop 'em from feeling like they got a right to steal all the water and electricity they can."
Jess still looked confused. It was kind of nice to be the one in the know, for a change. "Why won't they pay their taxes?"
I explained: "Because Jim Henderson doesn't approve of the way the government spends his hard-earned money," I said sarcastically. "He doesn't want his taxes going to things like education and welfare… unless the right people are the ones receiving the education and welfare."
"The right people?" Jess glanced from me, to Chick, and back. "And who are the right people?"
Chick shrugged. "You know. Your basic blond, blue-eyes, Aryan types."
"But…" Jess fingered the carvings on the bar, "But the true Americans are the Native Americans, right? I mean, they aren't blond."
Caught in the middle of a bite, Chick didn't let that dissuade him from explaining to Jess. I dispassionately observed the masses of half-chewed meatball and bread that he was displaying as he spoke, and reflected that maybe it was good that we weren't too similar. I doubt Mom would have appreciated it. "It ain't no use arguin' semantics with Jim Henderson," Chick told Jess, "To him, the only True Americans're the ones that climbed down offa the Mayflower… white Christians. And you ain't gonna tell 'im differently. Not if you don't want a twelve gauge up your hooha."
Eloquently put, Chick. Congratulations.
"Oh," Jess said, with a look of dawning comprehension. "So they killed Nate…"
"…because he was black," I supplied.
"And they burned down the synagogue…"
"…because it's not Christian," I finished again.
"So the only True Americans, according to Jim Henderson," Jess said, "are people who are exactly like… Jim Henderson."
I considered applauding, but Chick had me beat with his, "Give the girl a prize," grin, complete with a reshowing of the sandwich-in-teeth.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, Jess went from confused to hitting the table angrily. "I can't believe this," she yelled. "Are you saying that all this time, there's been this freaky hate group running around town, and nobody's bothered to do anything about it?"
I blinked at her. "And what should someone have done, Mastriani?"
As expected, she yelled, "Arrested them, already!"
Chick shook his head. "Can't arrest a man on account of his beliefs," he told her. "A man's entitled to believe whatever he wants, no matter how back-ass-ward it might be."
I love the way Chick talks.
"But he still has to pay his taxes," Jess tried.
"True enough," Chick said, "Only ol' Jim never had two nickels to rub together, so I doubt the county ever thought it'd be worth its while to get after him for tax evasion."
"How about kidnapping and murder?" Jess asked angrily. "The county might think hose worth its while."
"Imagine so," Chick frowned, contemplating this. "Don't know what ol' Jim must be thinking. Isn't like 'im, really. I always thought Jimmy was, you know, all blow and no go."
I smirked. "Perhaps the arrival of the Thompkinses, the first African-American family to come to town, offended Mr. Henderson. Aroused in him a feeling of righteous indignation."
Chick stared at me, "Ooh. Righteous indignation. I'm going to remember that one."
We were sharing a grin, when Jess suddenly stood up. "Right. Well, that's it then. Let's go."
For at least the fourth time, Chick and I exchanged a glance.
"Go?" Chick asked, when I was too hesitant to. "Where?"
Jess stared at us as if it was obvious. She had a very good make-you-feel-like-a-kindergartner thing going for her. "To Jim Henderson's place," She said, her voice clearly expressing the duh. "To get Seth Blumenthal."
I may love Chick, and all, but that does not mean I appreciate the way he sprayed his mouthful of beer out all over me at that statement. Seriously. Sprayed. Like a whale.
"Oh, man," I said, reaching for the napkins.
"Yeah, Mr. Chick," Jess agreed, "Say it, don't spray it."
"Nobody," Chick said, over us, "is going to Jim Henderson's place. Got it? Nobody."
See, I knew there was a reason I chose to come here.
"Why not?" Jess asked, and the sad thing was, she really meant it. "I mean, we know they did it, right? It's not like they tried to hide it, or anything. They practically hung up a big sign that says 'We Did It.' So let's go over there and make 'em give Seth back."
At this, Chick burst out laughing. "Give the kid back," he chuckled, "Wheredja get this one, Wilkins? She's a riot."
But I couldn't find the humor in the situation. I just looked at Jess.
"What?" She asked, "What's so funny?"
I shook my head. "We can't go to Jim Henderson's, Mastriani."
"Why not?"
I sighed. "Well, for one thing, Henderson shoots at the water meter-men the county sends out. You think he's not going to try to take us out?"
"Um. Hello? That's why we sneak in." Jess obviously didn't get it.
"Little lady," Chick said, stabbing an emphatic finger at her. I was a little surprised that she didn't protest the term, but then this was Chick. He's not exactly small. "You don't know squat. Didn't I hear you say these folks already shot up a cop earlier today, on account of not wanting to give up some kid they got hold of?"
"Yes," Jess conceded, but of course she couldn't leave it at that. "But the officers involved weren't prepared for what they were up against. We'll be ready."
"Mastriani," I shook my head. "I get where you're coming from. I really do. But we aren't talking the Flintstones here. These guys have a pretty sophisticated setup."
We all paused respectfully to let Chick belch out a healthy amount of meatball-smelling air. "Yeah," he agreed with me once he finished, "You're talking some major security precautions. They got the barbed wire, guard dogs, armed sentries – "
"What?" Jess, well, screeched. Ow. My ears. "Are you kidding me? These guys have all that? And the cops just let them?"
"No law against fences and guard dogs," Chick shrugged, "And a man's allowed to carry a rifle on his own property – "
"But he's not allowed to shoot cops," Jess pointed out furiously, "And if what you're saying about these True Americans is accurate, then somebody in that group did just that, earlier today, over at the trailer park by Mr. Shaky's. They got away – with a twelve-year-old hostage. I'm willing to bet they're holed up now with this Jim Henderson guy. And if we don't do something, and soon, that kid is going to end up in a cornfield, same as Nate Thompkins."
Okay. Now Chick and I couldn't really laugh at her anymore. Because… well, because she was right. But the thing was, we couldn't really do anything. And that wasn't funny. That wasn't funny at all. We exchanged look number seven: You're right, but what can we do? Nothing.
Jess shook her head determinedly, putting her hands on her hips. I had a brief barn flashback, and decided that I much preferred that experience to this. For one thing, we weren't alone this time, so if I suddenly decided I couldn't stay away from her, we would have an audience. For another, this time it was highly unlikely that the hands-on-hips preceded a declaration of love. Much was the pity.
"Look," Jess said, "I don't care how secure their fortress is. Seth Blumenthal is in there, and it's up to us to get him out."
Yeah. Now I felt sad and guilty. Thank you, Jess.
Chick shook his head at Jess. "Little lady, Jimmy's crazy as they come, but one thing he ain't is stupid. There ain't gonna be a scrap of evidence to connect him with any of this stuff, except the fact that he's head of the group that claimed responsibility. Bustin' in there – which'd be damn near impossible, seeing as how we can't even approach Jim's place by road. It's so far back into the woods, ain't no way the plows can get to it – to rescue some kid is just plain stupid. Ten to one, that boy is long dead."
I groaned at this, and let my head fall into my hands. Why? I mean, really. Why?
"No," Jess told Chick, "He isn't dead, actually."
"Now how in the hell," I heard Chick ask, "could you know that?"
Oh, great, time for this again. I lifted my head from my hands to add, "Because. She's Lightning Girl."
Yeah. Yeah, Chick did not know just who Jess was. It was kind of nice, having a friend who didn't know. Although, he probably should have, since we'd had a conversation about it, along with Jed and Wylie, shortly after the first time Jess and I went out. Well, actually, less of a conversation than them teasing me about Jess and revealing to Chick that she was Lightning Girl. But I guess he was too caught up in the teasing to remember anything else.
Figures.
Chick looked Jess over slowly, possibly attempting to remember said conversation or see if she had antennae or something. Apparently, whatever it was turned out good for him, because he was nodding as he said, "You think we should go busting in there and get that kid out?"
Hey. Wait a second. That was not the right tone of voice, there. The right tone of voice would have been a definite NO. Something that told Jess that we were not gonna do this. No way, no how. Instead, Chick sounded like… well, like he was considering it.
No, Chick! No! Resist!
"Busting," Jess grinned, "is not the word I would use. I think we could probably come up with a more suitable form of entry But yes, I do."
"Wait." Okay, I had to stop this in its tracks. "Wait just a minute here. Mastriani, this is insane. We can't get involved in this. This is a job for the cops – "
She cut me off. " – who don't know what they're up against. Forget it, Rob. One cop already got shot on account of me. I'm not going to let anyone else get hurt, if I can help it."
There was something weird going on again, in my stomach. I was just as glad I hadn't had that sandwich, because I'm pretty sure it would want out. "Anyone else," I said, "What about yourself? Have you ever stopped to think these guys might have a bullet with your name on it next?"
And therein lay the rub. I did not like this idea. Because Jess was going to get herself fucking killed, and I could NOT let that happen!
"Rob." Jess sounded surprised that I hadn't figured this out. Duh voice, version 2.0. "Jim Henderson isn't going to shoot me?"
Now, this I'd like to hear. This I would really like to hear. "Why not?" I asked, a weird mix of exasperated, desperate, and confused.
Jess shrugged. "Because I'm a girl, of course."
Because… What the HELL? "Fuck!" I swore, leaping up from the bar. I really, really needed to hit something… Goddamnit!
Yes, I did. I stormed over, and punched the jukebox. And I'm pretty sure it hurt, but not positive. I wasn't really paying attention. I was pretty focused on maybe needing to kidnap Jess myself, to keep her out of this and therefore alive. It would be easier, this time. I had the truck instead of my Indian. I just needed to figure out where to take her…
Apparently, Chick objected to my abuse of the jukebox, because he looked at me indignantly. "Hey!"
Chick. Chick could help me. Chick was on my side. I spun to look at him, begging him, "Can you help me out here? Can you please explain to my girlfriend that she must be suffering from a chemical imbalance if she thinks I'm letting her anywhere near Jim Henderson's place?"
Jess stared at me, a wide-eyed and somewhat exultant look on her face, which confused me a little. Just what had I said? What had I said that could make her so… Oh. Oh, shit. I'd said it. I had actually said it. I couldn't believe it.
I had actually called Jess my girlfriend. Out loud. In front of Chick. Who was a witness. Who had just seen me call Jess my girlfriend.
Which pretty much meant that I was doomed. There was no way in hell that Jess was gonna let me break up with her now, and I'm pretty sure that I didn't actually want to.
Yeah. Doomed. So, so doomed.
And on top of it all, Chick wasn't going to help me out. He just stroked his goatee, and said, "You know. It isn't the worst idea I ever heard."
I couldn't do anything but stare at him, horrified and betrayed. Hey, Chick, I came here so you would agree with me!
"Hey," Chick said, very defensively. "I ain't saying she should go in alone. But a kid's dead, Wilkins. And if I know Henderson, this other one hasn't got much time left."
True. Bad, but true. I ignored Jess's gloating look, focusing on Chick as he continued.
"And you might say," Chick added, "this is a homegrown problem, Wilkins. I mean, Henderson's one of our own. Ain't it appropriate that we be the ones to mete out the justice? I can put in a few calls and have enough boys over here in five minutes, it'd put the National Guard to shame."
And the thing was, I knew he could. Because, after all, hadn't I done much the same thing when I'd gone to rescue Jess from Crane? Yeah, I knew that what Chick was saying was a possibility, and I have to admit his argument about it being a homegrown problem was kind of convincing.
But not if it meant it was going to put Jess in danger. That was just not gonna happen. And so I brought out my best argument: "Even if we did agree this was a good idea," I said, quickly adding, "which I am not doing, you said yourself it's inaccessible. There's nearly two feet of snow on the ground. How are we even going to get near the place?"
Instead of conceding the truth of my argument, like I'd expected, Chick just grinned at us, crooking a finger to tell us to follow him, as he went off towards the back door.
Jess followed, and I trailed after her with a sinking heart. We went down the hallway into the garage, me getting more worried with every step. Chick's grin, when he walked over to an object under a tarp, was not reassuring. And when, with a really bad accent, he said, "Viola," and pulled the tarp back to reveal two shiny new snowmobiles, I could have hit him.
Because he was trying to kill my – publicly acknowledged, even! – girlfriend.
And she was turning around and giving me a big grin because of it, and I just knew that I was going to have to agree to this insanity, and…
God. God. God, Jess, I swear you drove me insane. I'm whipped, or something.
Because why the hell else would I be nodding?
