Amerika (17 page)

Andrei raised his eyebrows, his face uncomprehending. “He will be the last president of the United States.”

Devin paused so that the sound of his own footsteps crunching over crusted snow would not distract him from what he thought he was hearing. Music? Could it be that the sounds of strings and brass were issuing from the bam where he had kept his first pony so many years ago? He approached. The music grew louder. He poked his head in the half-opened door and saw a ragtag orchestra rehearsing, twenty or so musicians watched by twice that number of Exiles of all ages. He noticed Dieter Heinlander playing the cello. Some of the Exiles were pressed against the walls; others watched from the hayloft that served as a balcony.

The orchestra was wrestling its way through Mozart’s Haffner Symphony. The strings traced out elegant figurations that suggested an orderliness that Devin feared had vanished from the earth forever.

He slipped in a side door and took a place along the wall, wanting only to be an anonymous listener. The orchestra, although clearly a mixture of amateurs and professionals, played with great feeling. When they finished, the people watching roared with their approval. The conductor, clad in an ancient and frayed pair of ill-fitting tails, was amused by the applause for a rehearsal. He grinned and waved, half jokingly accepting the response.

“More! Encore!” someone cried.

Then a husky black man in a tan overcoat stepped forward from the violin section and raised his hand for silence. “Thank you. Maybe we’re getting better,” Alan Drummond said with a smile. “Recently, a new Exile joined us. Unlike most of us who have been uprooted and sent hundreds, even thousands of miles from our homes—for this man it is a homecoming.”

Devin didn’t know how this man had recognized him, but he saw where his words were leading. He wanted to flee, but remained.

“He means a lot to me,” Drummond continued. “Actually, I have never met the man. What I mean is that it was through his actions that I first became an active Resister of the policies of the New America. He awakened in me a sense and feeling which had lain dormant most of my life. The feeling of being American—not just someone who does the best he can for himself and his family, but also for his country. I would love to impose upon him and introduce the former representative from Massachusetts to the Congress of the United States, and the only real candidate for president in the 1992 election, Devin Milford.”

There was a smattering of applause as people began turning their heads, straining to see him. Alan pointed at Devin, who was still standing against the wall. Dieter stood up and walked to him, roughly putting his arms around Devin’s shoulders, bringing him forward. The applause increased, and a few people began to cheer. Devin wasn’t sure how to respond. At first, he felt frightened and intimidated, not knowing how the Exiles would receive him, but as the applause built, he began to warm to the passion of the ovation. When the chant of “Mil-ford, Mil-ford” began, he raised his hand for silence.

“I—” Devin’s eyes were tearing. “I—thank you.”

There was scattered applause, followed by an awkward moment. Devin sensed that they wanted comforting words but tonight he had none to offer them. He turned to the conductor. “Maestro . .

The orchestra played, Brahms this time, and when they had finished, people crowded around to shake Devin’s hands. Then they drifted out of the barn slowly.

With the last handshake, Devin looked around to find all the Exiles gone except for Alan Drummond and five others. “Devin, let me introduce you to the Exile Council,” Alan said. “You can trust all these people. We believe the camps are infiltrated but everyone here has been checked way, way back.” He grinned. “We’re genuine antisocial, reactionary enemies of people.”

Devin grinned.

“We want to do anything we can,” Alan said. “But we’re scattered. There must be hundreds of groups like us across the country, maybe thousands trying to find some way—something to do.”

Dieter broke in, “Resistance is not enough. Even courage is not enough. It must be sensible. There must be a plan. We need serious political leadership. That’s why it’s so exciting to have you here.”

Devin was seated on an old metal chair and they pressed around, surrounding him. “What the hell do you want from me?” he demanded. “I’m one man. I failed. I tried and I failed. I was beaten. No one stood up in ninety-two.”

“They did stand up!” Alan exclaimed. “All over the country.”

“I didn’t see them,” Devin said, and he knew at once that the words were not true, that they embodied five years of pent-up bitterness. “It doesn’t matter,” Devin said.

“You can’t just sit here and do nothing,” a woman cried. “You have a responsibility. You . . She was too angry to finish.

The others looked at him waiting.

Devin looked back at them in anguish. “I’m sorry,” he said, with genuine grief, and walked out into the darkness.

Justin did not leave Milford County immediately after he roared away from Jackie’s home on his motorcycle. His plans were unformed and unsettled.

He called on Puncher and some of his other friends to say a proper goodbye and go out in a blaze of glory. They were gathered in the darkness beside a remote stretch of highway in the southern part of the county. Several of the boys carried rifles and one had a pair of

Molotov cocktails. Justin was at the wheel of a pickup truck that had four spotlights rigged across the top of its cab. Far to the south, a pair of headlights glittered on the highway.

“Okay, get ready,” Justin commanded. He pulled a bandanna over his face and the others did the same.

Moments later, a big semi roared into view. Justine drove the pickup straight at the truck, his searchlights beaming directly into the driver’s face. Blinded, the driver wrenched the wheel. The semi twisted and skidded crazily out of control. It jackknifed, sending the trailer portion into the ditch. When the driver climbed out, he raised his hands in the air automatically. Justin greeted him with a shotgun.

“Get down,” Justin ordered.

“Sure, buddy, you got no trouble from me, okay? Just watch that a little, all right?”

“Is the back door boobied?” Justin said impatiently. The driver was a small, paunchy man. “Yeah,” he said. “I got to release the circuit.”

“Do it,” Justin said. “And do it right, because you’re the one opening the door.”

The driver climbed back into the cab and flipped a switch under the dash. “What are you, amateurs?” he grumbled. “No driver’s dumb enough to fool around. You think I care if the gooks don’t eat?”

“Open it!” Justin commanded. The driver unlocked the back of the truck and swung the door wide.

Puncher shone a flashlight inside. “Son of a bitch, would you look at that!”

Inside the truck was a cornucopia the likes of which none of the boys had ever laid eyes upon: hams, sides of beef, crates of fruit and vegetables, spices, boxes of pastry, cases of wine. A king’s banquet.

“Jesus, let’s split it up,” a boy cried.

“Pull the pickup around,” Puncher ordered.

“No,” Justin said coldly. “Bum it. All of it.”

“Man, are you crazy?” a boy asked.

Justin spoke again. “If we take it we’ll be like them. We’re better than that.”

“What about our people?” a boy protested.

“Bum the damn stuff,” Justin said.

Puncher brought up a Molotov cocktail and started to light it. The driver, still covered by shotguns, looked at Justin and grinned. “That’s a tough kid,” he said. “Maybe dumb, but tough.”

“Take off,” Justin said. “Down the road.”

The driver shrugged and started to run. Puncher tossed one of the firebombs into the truck. Others did the same. They stood and watched as the flames began to eat away at the meats and crates of fruit and vegetables.

“Barbeque,” Puncher said.

“Let those bastards go hungry for a change,” Justin said. “Come on, let’s go.”

Puncher pulled him aside. For a moment, the two friends stood together in the flickering firelight. “You coming back to my place?” Puncher asked.

Justin pulled off the bandanna and shook his long blond hair. “No, man,” he said. “This barbeque is my goodbye party. I’m headin’ west.”

He started for the pickup, then turned back and gazed a moment at the burning truck, the wasted food, the gesture that so few would understand.

This one’s for you, Devin, Justin thought, standing alone on the now deserted road. The rig burned fiercely, the fiery flames shooting up wildly, illuminating Justin’s eyes. Justin heard a whining sound piercing the night. He looked up and saw two helicopters far off approaching.

He got into his truck and took off down the highway.

Peter was asleep when Ward Milford called about the hijacked truck. He got up quietly, dressed, and drove to the scene at once. There wasn’t really anything he could do, but he felt a responsibility; there hadn’t been much crime in the county and he thought anything as big as this deserved his personal attention.

When Peter arrived, a small army of police and military officials was clustered around the charred wreckage of the food-supply truck. Ward and another deputy were there, as well as a contingent of UNSSU troops led by Major Helmut Gurtman.

The tall, black-clad commander greeted them with a curt nod. “Have you questioned any of the Exiles?”

“We’re covering all the possibilities,” Ward said.

“What did the driver say?” the German asked.

“He said they blindfolded him,” Ward replied. “He never saw their faces.”

“I think we can handle this, Commander,” Peter said pleasantly.

“This is not an ordinary hijacking. The contents were burned, not stolen,” Helmut said sharply. “That makes this an act of terrorism. Terrorism is our responsibility.”

“We’ll put an escort on your supply truck,” Peter said. “That should solve the problem. I’m sure it was a hit-and-run job from outside the county.”

“Such certitude is rare,” Helmut said. “I thought it interesting that we have this incident only days after the return of the dissident Devin Milford.”

“I guess now there’ll be somebody to blame everything on,” Ward grumbled.

“I simply point out the coincidence,” Helmut said icily. “Perhaps his presence excites the adventurous.”

“Look, I think your prison camp took care of Devin,” Peter said, his bitterness only slightly concealed.

“Keep me apprised of your progress,” Helmut said, and without waiting for a reply marched back to his
jeep.

Peter turned back to Ward. “What do you think?”

The big deputy shook his head. “Pretty good job. It could have been outsiders. Maybe somebody followed the truck up from Kansas City.”

“Drove all that way to bum twenty thousand dollars’ worth of food?” Peter said. “What about Devin? Could he have been involved?”

Ward was surprised—and angry—that Peter could so readily suspect Devin. “Hell, you’ve seen him. I don’t think he could rob a piggy bank right now. And besides, goddammit, my brother was a politician, not a terrorist.”'

“You’re right.” Peter was quiet for several seconds. “I’ll see you back in town.”

“Peter?”

Peter turned back. “Yes?”

“Just for your information, Justin hasn’t been home for a couple of days. I think maybe he’s left for good. I don’t expect that to break your heart, as far as your daughter is concerned, but I thought you ought to know.”

Amanda opted to ride her bicycle to Milford High. Riding made her feel somewhat exhilarated, perhaps due to the unencumbered movement, perhaps simply because she felt completely in control. She pulled off the road onto the sidewalk and walked her bike into the
faculty parking lot, where there was a combination of bicycles, pickups, and motor scooters. She slid the bike into the rack and started toward her alma mater.

She walked through the empty corridors, then stopped outside a classroom and looked inside. It was empty.

Down the hall she saw Vice-Principal Herb Lister walking through. “Excuse me . .

Lister turned around and was instantly officious. “Mrs. Bradford. What an unexpected pleasure.” He walked over to where she stood. “Congratulations on Peter’s nomination.”

She found herself instantly resenting his use of Peter’s first name. “Thank you. I was looking for Alethea Milford.”

Lister’s face darkened a little at the mention of Alethea, but he maintained the facade of courtesy. “I believe she and her class are in the cafeteria. Everyone is working on the banners for the Lincoln Day parade. Here, let me take you; I was just going that way.”

He walked her over to a small, nondescript building, then left. The cafeteria had been transformed into a workspace. Tables had been pushed to the edge of the room. Long rolls of cloth and butcher paper were stretched across the floor. Alethea stood against the far wall, supervising a group of students. As Amanda approached her, Alethea looked up quizzically, her guard going up.

“May I talk to you?” Amanda asked.

Alethea cocked an eyebrow. “I suppose if you have the party’s permission ...”

Amanda stiffened at the quip. “Look, I didn’t come here to be your friend. I came about Devin.”