Sanctuary (16 page)

I saw his face crumble, and only then realized what I had said. I had let my personal grief get the better of me, and spoken out of turn. I bit my lip.

“You said he was all right,” Seth said, his dark eyes suddenly swimming in tears. “That cop. You said he was okay.”

“He is okay,” I said, putting my arm around the little guy. “He is, really. Sorry. I just lost it for a minute there.”

“He’s not okay,” Seth wailed. “He’s dead, isn’t he? And because of me! All because of me!”

It was kind of amazing that after what this kid had been through, the only thing that really got him upset was the idea that a cop that had been trying to save him had ended up catching a bullet for his troubles. Seth Blumenthal, bar mitzvah boy, really was something else.

“No, not because of you,” I assured him. “Because of those asshole True Americans. And besides, he isn’t dead, all right? I mean, he’s hurt bad, but he isn’t dead. I swear.”

But Seth clearly didn’t believe me. And why should he? I hadn’t exactly been the most truth-worthy person he’d ever met, had I? I’d told him I was there to rescue him, only instead of rescuing him, now I was just as much a prisoner as he was. I’ll tell you what, I was starting to agree with him: As a rescuer, I pretty much sucked.

I was just thinking these pleasant thoughts as the door to the room we were locked in suddenly opened. I blinked as the light from the hallway, which seemed unnaturally bright thanks to my eyes having adjusted to the dimness of our cell, flooded the room. Then a figure in the doorway blocked out the light.

“Well, now.” I recognized Jim Henderson’s Southern twang. “Ain’t that cozy, now, the two of you. Like something out of a picture postcard.”

I took my arm away from Seth’s shoulders and stood up. With my vision having grown accustomed to the light from the hallway, I was able to see that Henderson looked slightly disconcerted as I did this, on account of him being only an inch or two taller than me.

“Where’s Rob?” I demanded.

Henderson looked confused. “Rob? Who’s Rob?” Then comprehension dawned. “Oh, you mean
Hank
? Your friend with the smart mouth? Oh, I’m sorry. He’s dead.”

My nose was practically level with his. It took everything I had in me not to head-butt the jerk.

“I don’t believe you,” I said.

“Well, you better start believing me, honey,” Henderson said. His eyes, blue as they were, seemed to have trouble focusing, I noticed. He had what I, having been in enough fights with people who have them, call crazy eyes. His gaze was all over the place, sometimes on the boarded-up windows behind me, sometimes on Seth, sometimes on the ceiling, but rarely, rarely where it should have been: on mine.

See? Crazy eyes.

Unfortunately, I knew from experience that there was no predicting what someone with crazy eyes was going to do next. Generally, it was just about the last thing you’d expect.

I’d have taken my chances and reached out and wrapped Jim Henderson’s crazy-eyed neck into a headlock if it hadn’t been for Red Plaid Jacket standing there in the hallway behind him. Red Plaid had retrieved his rifle, and had it pointed casually at me. This was discouraging, to say the least. I had a bad feeling his aim was probably better than mine.

“You know,” Henderson said. “It’s not just minorities like the Jews and the blacks who are ruining this country. It’s people like you and your boyfriend back there. Traitors to your own race. People like you who are ashamed of the whiteness of your skin, instead of being proud—proud!—to be members of God’s chosen race.”

“The only time I’m ashamed to be a member of the white race,” I said, “is when I’m around freaking lunatics like you.”

“See,” Henderson said to Kerchief-Head, who was behind Red Plaid, and was watching her leader’s dealings with me with great interest. “See what happens when the liberal media gets their hands on our children? That’s why I don’t allow the sons and daughters of the True Americans to watch TV. No movies or radio, neither, or any of that noise people like you call music. No newspapers, no magazines. Nothing to fog the mind and cloud the judgment.”

I couldn’t believe he was standing there giving me a lecture. What was this, school? Hello, get on with the torture already. I swear I’d have rather been held down and branded than listen to this dude’s random crap much longer.

But unfortunately, he wasn’t through.

“Who sent you?” Henderson asked me. “Tell me who you work for. The CIA? FBI? Who?”

I burst out laughing, though of course there wasn’t anything too funny about the situation.

“I don’t work for anybody,” I said. “I came here for Seth.”

Henderson shook his head. “So young,” he said. “Yet so full of lies. America doesn’t belong to people like you, you know,” he went on. “America is for pioneers like us, people willing to work the land, people who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.”

“You certainly proved that,” I remarked, “when you killed Nate Thompkins. Can’t get much dirtier than that.”

Henderson smiled. But again, thanks to the crazy eyes, the smile didn’t quite reach all the way to those baby blues of his.

“The black boy, you mean? Yes, well, it was necessary to leave a warning, in case any more people of his persuasion took it into their heads to move to this area. You see, it’s important for us to keep the land pure for our children, the sons and daughters of the True Americans.”

“Well, congratulations,” I said. “I bet your kids are gonna be real happy about what you did to Nate, especially when they’re frying your butt for murder up in Indianapolis. I know how proud I’d be to have a convicted felon for a dad.”

“I don’t worry about laws made by man,” Mr. Crazy Eyes informed me with a smile. “I worry only about divine law, laws handed down by God.”

“Huh,” I said. “Then you’re gonna be in for a surprise. Because I’m pretty sure ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’ came straight from the big guy himself.”

But Jim just shook his head. “It’s only a sin to kill those God created in his own image. In other words, white men,” he explained, tiredly. “People like you will never understand.” He sighed. “Living as you always have in the comforts of the city, never knowing what it is to work the soil—”

“I’ve got news for you,” I said. “There are a lot of people I know who don’t live in town and who’ve worked the soil plenty but who feel the same way about you freaks that I do.”

He went on like he hadn’t heard me. Who knew? Maybe he hadn’t. Clearly Mr. Henderson was only hearing what he wanted to hear anyway.

“Americans have always dealt with adversity. From the savages they encountered upon their arrival to this great land, and then from foreign influences who threatened to destroy them. Pretty ironic, ain’t it, that the greatest threat of all comes not from forces overseas, but from within the country of America itself.”

“Whatever,” I said. I’d had about as much as I could take. “Are you here to mess me up, or what?”

Crazy Eyes finally looked me full in the face.

“You will be disposed of,” he said, in a voice as cold as the wind outside. “You, your boyfriend, and the Jew will all be disposed of, the same way we disposed of the black boy. Your bodies will be left as a warning to any who doubt that the new age has arrived, and that the battle has begun. You see, someone has got to fight for this great nation. Someone has got to keep America safe for our children, prevent it from succumbing to hate and greed… .”

The great Jim Henderson broke off as, from outside the ranch house, an enormous explosion—rather like the kind that might occur if someone threw a lit cigarette down a trailer’s septic tank—rocked the compound.

I smiled sweetly up into Jim Henderson’s crazy eyes and said, “Uh, Mr. Henderson? Yeah, I think that someone you were talking about, the one who is going to make America safe for our children? Yeah. He and his friends just arrived. And from the sound of it, you’ve really pissed them off.”

C H A P T E R
15

A
nd then I hauled off and slugged him. Right between those crazy, shifty eyes.

It hurt like hell, because mostly what my knuckles caught was bone. But I didn’t care. I’d been wanting to punch that guy for a long, long time. The pain was totally worth it, especially when, as I’d known he would, Henderson crumpled up like a doll, and fell, wailing, to the floor.

“She hit me,” he cried. “She hit me! Don’t just stand there, Nolan! Do something. The bitch hit me!”

Nolan—aka Red Plaid Jacket—was too busy squawking into his Walkie-Talkie however to pay attention to his fearless leader. “We got incoming! Do you copy, Blue Leader? We are under attack. Do you copy? Do you copy?”

Red Plaid might have been more interested in what was happening to the rest of the compound, but that certainly wasn’t the case with Kerchief-Head. She was pretty hacked that I’d taken a poke at her spiritual guide—hey, for all I know, Henderson might even have been her honey. She could easily have been Mrs. Henderson.

I was hopping around, waving my sore knuckles, when Kerchief-Head, with a snarl that would have put Chigger to shame, launched herself at me.

“Ain’t nobody gonna do Jim like that,” she declared, as her not-insignificant weight struck me full force, and sent me back against the bed, pinned beneath her.

Mrs. Henderson—if that’s who she really was—was a big woman, all right, but she had the disadvantage of not having been in many fights before. That was clear from the fact that she did not go directly for my eyes, as someone better accustomed to confronting adversaries would have.

Plus, for all her doughiness, Mrs. Henderson wasn’t very muscular. I easily twisted to sink a knee into her stomach, then accompanied that by a quick thrust of one elbow into the back of her neck while she was sunk over, clutching her gut. And that took care of Kerchief-Head.

Meanwhile, outside, another explosion ripped through the compound.

“Save the children,” Kerchief-Head gasped. “Somebody save the children!”

Like Chick and those guys would even be targeting the kids. I am so sure.

“Who do you people think we are?” I demanded. “
You?
”

Then I reached out, grabbed Seth by the arm, and said, “Come on.”

We would have gotten safely out of there, too, if I’d just hit Henderson a little harder. Unfortunately, however, he recovered all too quickly from my punch … or at least quickly enough to reached out and wrap a hand around my ankle, just as we were stepping over him.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Jim Henderson breathed. I was delighted to note that blood was streaming from his nose. Not as much blood as had streamed from Rob’s head, but a fairly satisfying amount, nonetheless.

“It’s all over, Mr. Henderson,” I said. “You better let go now, or you’re going to regret it.”

“You stupid bitch,” Henderson wheezed. He couldn’t talk too well, on account of the blood and mucous flowing into his mouth thanks to what I’d done to his nose. “You have no idea what you’ve done. You think you’ve done this country a favor, but all you’ve done is sign its death warrant.”

“Hey, Mr. Henderson—” Seth said.

When the crazy-eyed man looked up at him, the boy brought his foot down with all the force he had on the hand that was grasping my ankle.

“—eat my shorts.”

Henderson, with another cry of pain, released me at once. And Seth and I took off down the hallway.

Red Plaid Jacket, aka Nolan, had disappeared. There were plenty of other people, however, creating chaos in the ranch house. Women and children were darting around like goldfish in a bowl, calling each other’s names and falling over one another. I couldn’t blame them for panicking, really. The acrid smell of smoke was already thick in the air, and it got even thicker when Seth and I finally burst outside …

… to be greeted with the welcome sight of Jim Henderson’s barn and meeting house in flames.

Both trailers were on fire, as well. All around the snowy yard ran True Americans, waving rifles and looking panicked. The panic wasn’t just because most of their compound was on fire. It was also because extremely large men, many of whom were wearing cowboy hats, were whipping back and forth across the yard on the backs of snowmobiles. It was a truly magnificent sight, seeing those sleek vehicles sailing over the snow in direct pursuit of an overalled True American. I saw Red Plaid Jacket try to take aim at one with his rifle. Too bad for him that the minute he did, another snowmobiler, yelling, “Yeehaw!” darted forward and knocked the gun right out of his hands.

Meanwhile, not far away, another snowmobiler had lassoed an escaping True American neatly as if he’d been a fleeing heifer, bringing him down to the snow with a satisfying thud. Elsewhere, two snowmobilers had cornered a pair of Jim Henderson’s followers, and were just gliding around and around them, giving them a tiny bit of room to escape, then cutting off that escape route at just the last moment, entirely for kicks.

“Whoa,” Seth said, his eyes very wide. “Who
are
these guys?”

I sighed happily, my heart filled with joy.

“Grits,” I said.

And then I remembered Rob. Rob, who, last I’d seen him, had been spread-eagle on the floor of the True Americans’ meeting house.

Which was now in flames.

I forgot about Seth. I forgot about Jim Henderson and Chick and the True Americans. All I thought about was getting to Rob, and as fast as humanly possible.

Unfortunately, that meant running across the snow toward a burning building while Hell’s Angels and truckers on snowmobiles were ripping the place apart. It was a wonder I got as far I did. Part of it was due to the fact that Chigger appeared from out of nowhere, and, apparently thinking I still had mashed potatoes on me that he might be able to score, loped after me.

I didn’t recognize him right away, however—there were other dogs running around the place, barking their heads off thanks to all the shooting—and I thought he’d been trying to bring me down. So I kicked up my heels, let me tell you.

But when I got to the barn doors and peered inside, all I could see were flames. The tables were on fire. The rafters were on fire. Even the walls were on fire. Though I couldn’t lean in very far, due to the extreme heat, I could see that no one was inside … not even any unconscious motorbike mechanics who happened to be on probation.