by J. D. Brick
Maybe I’m feeling bad about Kendra or the Coupe, or maybe I want to punish myself, but for whatever reason, I plug the Hell’s Highway playlist from my phone into the car’s audio system just as the Coupe starts eating up the miles on the highway to Fort Peace. I haven’t been able to listen to the bad-ass songs we blasted as we rumbled down roads in Helmand province in Afghanistan, trying to find IEDs before they blew up a comrade or an innocent civilian. Bands like Mystic Prophecy, Laaz Rockit, Metalium. Not the kind of stuff I’d listen to with my mother or even want to hear by myself, now that I am out of the service. But it helped make us feel invincible, and we needed that. Even though invincible turned out to be the last thing we were.
Predictably, the songs stir up memories, especially of Cunny. He was the only one still alive when I reached the site of the attack, and he died in my arms, managing to grin faintly at me at the end as if to console me. The son-of-a-bitch died grinning. That’s what I was dreaming about when I scared the shit out of Keegan. It was Cunny’s name I was saying when I grabbed Keegan’s chin like a lunatic; Cunny’s face I was searching as the life drained out of it. We were best friends, me and Richie Cunningham. Yeah, that was his full name, just like the character on that old TV show Happy Days. Cunny’s parents must have been almost as twisted as mine. Maybe that’s why we bonded so quickly. I would have done anything for Cunny, and he would have done anything for me. And he did everything, gave everything, for me.
Cunny regularly gave all of us these slaps to the side of the head. He called them ‘Pull Your Head Out of Your Ass Pats.’ As I’m driving, my head suddenly jerks like Cunny just gave me one of his best. The Coupe surges ahead; my foot’s pressing the gas pedal to the floor. My hands grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles are white. Shit. Get yourself under control! It’s Cunny's voice in my head. I take my foot off the gas and rub the wheel with my hands. Think of something else, Danube, before you get arrested or manage to kill yourself.
So I set the cruise control at the speed limit and start thinking about my music, about my upcoming class with Bryson, about the encouragement he unexpectedly gave me after hearing us play at the Embassy. Encouragement from The Great One is like water in the desert: rare and precious. I lapped it up. I’m working on a couple of new songs I am eager to try out for him; both songs have been inspired by Keegan, this girl I can’t seem to get out of my head. It’s not just that Keegan’s eyes are so much like Aziza's eyes. Or that I can sense the same tender strength in Keegan that had been so obvious in Aziza. I’d wanted to protect Aziza, rescue her from the fate that awaited her. But she was only 14 years old. I thought of her like a little sister.
My feelings for Keegan are definitely not sisterly. I’ve already had a couple of hot dreams in which Keegan plays the starring role. I can still smell her, taste her lips, feel her skin under my fingers. I’m not even sure if those sensations are from our brief makeout session or from my dreams, or maybe some delicious mixture of both. It’s more than just lust, though. I’d never have said this in front of the guys; I’d have been laughed out of the platoon. But even for guys—well, a lot of guys—lust by itself is kind of empty, cold, unfulfilling.
Not that I haven’t had my share of one-night stands and a few months-long relationships. But I always knew it wasn’t the real thing. Man, you sound like a girl. I can almost hear Cunny saying it and feel one of his head pats. But it doesn’t change anything. I know I want more of Keegan. Much more. Of her body, yeah. But also of her mind, soul, spirit, everything that I can feel inside her that seems to have connected instantly with whatever’s inside me. If I can only manage to stop scaring her away.
I have to swerve across three lanes to keep from missing the Fort Peace exit, which seems to pop up out of nowhere. Holy crap, get it together.
I slow down when I see the massive marble sign with the elaborate stone base at the town’s entrance: WELCOME TO FORT PEACE, Population 25,433. It sure isn’t your typical roadside sign. Someone’s paid a lot of money for it. And what catches my eye, besides the picture of a smiling but stern-looking woman, are the words carved next to her in all caps: HOME OF THE WORLD-FAMOUS COOKE RANCH AND VIRGINIA COOKE, PRESIDENT PRO TEMPORE OF THE OKLAHOMA STATE SENATE AND DESCENDANT OF JOHN COOKE, A PASSENGER ON THE MAYFLOWER.
I pull off the road, park near the sign and get out. Virginia’s eyes seem to glare at me as I approach. My imagination, of course. I study the Oklahoma map carved under her picture, with a star for the town’s location in the northeast corner of the state, and next to it what I assume is the ranch’s brand: a topsail with a large, fancy C inside it.
“So,” I say to Virginia, crossing my arms and feeling foolish. “You’re the dreaded grandmother.”
Again, it’s obviously just my imagination, but as I walk back to the car and slide my hypocritical ass into the soft leather seat, I’m sure I can feel Virginia Cooke's eyes burning into my back. And it hits me just as I turn the key in the ignition that I've seen her face before. If you take away the gray hair and the wrinkles and soften the steel in the brown eyes, you’re looking at Keegan's sweet, heart-shaped face: same eyes, same nose, same mouth. Keegan looks just like the grandmother she despises. Yeah, I should probably keep that observation to myself.
The town of Fort Peace was named after an actual fort built in the 1880s to keep the peace between the settlers streaming into Oklahoma Territory and the Indian tribes already living there. That fact from my fourth grade Oklahoma History class suddenly pops into my head. I still remember watching a video with grainy pictures of grim-faced tribal leaders signing treaties almost immediately broken by the American government. I am one-quarter Choctaw on my mother's side. I still feel a trace of the outrage that made my 10-year-old self tremble with indignation on behalf of my Indian ancestors, who lost their land and way of life. It's funny, the things that stay with you.
I drive slowly down Main Street, looking for the First Baptist Church of Fort Peace. During the drive, I’d done a quick search for Tyler Adams Fort Peace Oklahoma. Dozens of links popped up on my phone about Seth Adams, “The People's Pastor” and “The Force in Fort Peace” and lots of other shit like that. There was even a story in The New York Times about “Oklahoma's own Pied Piper.”
Keegan said Tyler was a preacher's kid, and I can’t find any other reference to a pastor in Fort Peace with the last name Adams. It had to be this guy. She also said Tyler works weekends at his dad’s church, so I figure I’ll find the church and then just show up and ask for him. What I’m going to do once I’m face to face with the dweeb, I have no idea. I’m kind of rolling along on adrenaline and the urge to do something to help Keegan.
And all at once, there it is in front of me: First Baptist itself, a complex of buildings dominated by a sprawling structure that’s topped by this massive glass-enclosed steeple that shines so brightly in the sun I can barely stand to look at it. Acres and acres of parking lots surround the complex, and as I turn into the church's sweeping driveway, I spot a half-dozen of those trams like you see at Disney World. “Wouldn't want the faithful to have to walk too far,” I mutter as I pull into a spot not far from the main building. It’s a Saturday, and there’s only a smattering of cars.
I have a bias against these huge churches. I've never actually gone to one, so maybe I am being unfair. For years, Mama and I attended this tiny, dirt-poor country church 20 miles away from where we lived, just because of the pastor there. He’s the most humble, godly man I've ever met; anything I know about faith and compassion and decency, I’ve learned from Brother Philip. Bill would never come with us to services; he always said it was a bunch of hokum, and I think he was embarrassed to be seen at such a ramshackle place. Good old Bill Danube, always aware of his image.
I read online that Seth Adams’ church has thousands of members. He can influence people and events way beyond his home state, and if you believe all his press, his influence is growing by the day. Something about that sets loose my inner cynic. I just don’t trus
t power or those who have it. I grew up watching my father accumulate it, along with a huge fortune, from his natural gas company. Politicians of every stripe, hats in hand and favors at the ready, were always trooping out to see my old man. And the richer and more powerful Bill became, the more of a grade-A asshole he turned into.
Then, when I enlisted, I found out quickly that power’s the only thing that really seems to matter to so many people. Almost everyone who gets good at holding on to power, wielding it and building up more, is left tainted by it. Big church, big company, mighty military, it doesn’t matter. Power corrupts even those who try hard to stand against it. At least from my perspective. I want nothing to do with any of it.
I shut off the Coupe and roll down the windows. It’s warm again, too warm for November. I press against the headrest and close my eyes, feeling the hot wind roll over my face and waiting for the sick feeling in my stomach to go away. I hate thinking about Bill, but I've done it a lot lately. It usually gives me a headache. And sometimes, like now, I get that old feeling of panic that used to roil my insides and claw its way up into my throat when I was a kid and had done something I knew would piss Bill off. You're still just a scared little kid. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
I have no fucking clue what to do next. Go into the church and demand to see the preacher's kid? Or just go straight up to the Big Man himself and ask if he knows what the hell his son has been up to. Or maybe I should just get the hell out of here. This is a crazy idea. I don’t even know if Tyler is really the guy.
A loud bang jolts my eyes open in time to see a side door in the largest building bounce off the wall and slam shut again just as the dweeb I saw at the Embassy storms away from the building. Too convenient. I don’t even have to go into the church. Stalker Boy is coming to me.
And then the door is thrown open again, and two thick-necked goons in suits rush out after him. “Just leave me alone,” I hear Tyler yell back at the sunglass-wearing suits. They look like fucking Secret Service agents. The suits stop running, put their hands on their hips in unison and stand there staring as Tyler walks rapidly across the parking lot, straight toward me. It looks like he’s muttering to himself; he’s still wearing the backward baseball cap. He has on torn jeans and a grubby-looking T-shirt. He doesn’t look like the son of a rich and famous man. Keegan said he’s the weekend janitor at the church; he sure looks the part.
I get out of the Coupe and lean against it, my arms folded. Tyler lurches toward me, still muttering. He seems to be lost in an argument with himself; I’m not even sure he sees me. I try to imagine what there is about him that would make Keegan want to. . .
Ugh, don’t even go there. But there it comes again: the thought of this weirdo putting his hands all over Keegan. My teeth grind into my jaw; my hands tighten into fists. Don’t do something stupid. I relax my hands, but can’t quite unclench my jaw. I want to bust this kid’s ass. I’m just waiting for him to give me an excuse. But all he does is stop about 10 feet away, as if he’s just become aware of me leaning against the Coupe giving him a death stare behind my sunglasses.
“Can I help you with something?” His voice is unexpectedly soft and polite. He looks like he’s been crying. When I keep staring at him, he looks nervously back at the suits, who are watching us. Then he tries again. “Um. . .I’m Tyler Adams, my dad’s the pastor here.” He waves a hand back toward the buildings. “Do you need some help? There are lots of people inside who can help you.” Not what I expected. The little moron is messing everything up.
“I’m here to talk to you about Keegan,” I say stonily, crossing my arms. “About what you are doing to Keegan. I think maybe we need to go in and talk to your old man about that. Then you’re the one who’s going to need help.”
Tyler gasps and steps back. He looks scared. “Are you a cop?” His voice is actually trembling. “I’ve already told you guys, I’m not the one who’s stalking her!” He covers his face with his hands and sinks down onto the pavement. “I love Keegan.” He speaks through his fingers. “I wouldn’t do anything to scare her.”
The suits walk toward us, and one of them pulls out his cell. I walk quickly over to Tyler and yank him to his feet. “Look, I’m not a cop,” I say impatiently. “I’m Keegan’s roommate, and I just want to talk to you.”
Tyler’s mouth falls open.
“Hey, who the hell are the goons?”
Tyler sighs. “My dad’s security. They keep an eye on me, too. Whether I want them to or not.” His voice is bitter.
“A Baptist preacher needs a security team?”
Tyler’s staring at my car. He nods. “You’d be surprised at all the threats he gets.”
“Everything okay, kid?” one of the goons calls out as they slowly approach. It’s obvious to me they are both packing. Why they need to be armed in a Baptist church parking lot in a podunk town in Oklahoma is beyond me, but I’m not making any sudden moves.
“Just talking to Tyler about a mutual friend of ours.” I smile as I say it.
The suits don’t smile back. “That true, Tyler?”
And that’s where he could nail me, make sure I never bother him again. But he doesn’t. “Yeah, that’s true,” Tyler says, trying to be nonchalant. “We’re just about to go for a ride.” He pulls open the passenger door and plops down in it like he’s done it a hundred times.
I grin at the goons as I get in on the driver’s side. “Later.” I have no idea how things are going to turn out, but my gut’s telling me to go. So we pull back on to Main Street. “Where are we going?” I ask.
Tyler slides his cap around so he’s wearing it the right way. Then he points at a Sonic restaurant up ahead. “You’re going to buy me lunch.”
We certainly don’t end up as friends. But after I buy the manipulative little moocher a large order of onion rings and a peanut butter and bacon shake, then threaten to shove it all where the sun doesn’t shine if he lies to me, I’m pretty sure he is giving me honest answers. Actually, I’m certain he’s telling me the truth. And I’m certain of what my gut told me the moment he asked if I needed help in the parking lot. Tyler’s not the guy.
So I drop him off at the church about an hour later. It still repulses me to think of him with Keegan. That just doesn’t make any sense. But I can’t hate him. In fact, I feel kind of sorry for the kid.
“So. . .” He gets out of the car and leans into the passenger window. He’s turned his cap back around and again looks like a goofball. “. . .when you figure out who’s sending Keegan those messages, when you catch him. . .you’ll let me know?” His voice squeaks a bit.
I shake my head. I still don’t want to get too buddy-buddy with Tyler. “I don’t know, maybe. Probably not.” I point my finger at him. “But you stay away from her. No contact. You freak her out.”
His face wilts. I’ve hurt his feelings, but I had to say it. “Okay, then. I’ll stay away from her.” He turns and walks away, his shoulders hunched over.
I raise the windows and crank up my Bryson playlist, the best stuff from the Seventies, his golden years. I need to hear it. I’m glad I came to Fort Peace. But I still have no idea who is making life so unpleasant for my Keegan. My Keegan. Shit, man, you’ve got it bad.
Just before I shift into drive, my phone buzzes on the seat next to me. A text from Keegan. Kendra just told me what you’re doing. I grip the phone and curse Kendra, debating how to answer. But before I can, another text comes in: Why are you doing this? I type quickly: u can b mad at me if u want but I had 2 do it
A long pause. I can’t stand it so I keep typing: I told u I would help u I need 2 help u
Another long pause. Then, from Keegan: I’m not mad at you. I smile, debate what to type next. My phone buzzes again: Thank you. Really. Thank you. But why are you doing this? Why are being so nice to me? This isn't your problem. Now it’s getting easier. My thumbs fly over the tiny keys: cuz ur cute & u have a great ass & the rest of u aint bad either
Yeah, I’m being a smart ass. B
ut I can’t just go all Romeo and start declaring my undying love:
& cuz I have not forgotten about those music lessons it would be a disservice 2 society 2 let u go around being so ignorant
Another long pause. I turn Bryson down and the A/C up. I am sweating. Another buzz: How is it that someone who uses phrases like ‘disservice to society’ is unable to spell out words like ‘you’ and ‘to’ and use appropriate punctuation? Now I’m grinning. We’re flirting. I type as quickly as I can: Sorry, Madam Editor, I forgot with whom I was communicating.
This time the pause seems to go on forever. Finally, the phone buzzes again. I am still in the fucking parking lot. So what happened with Tyler? A few flirtatious texts, and I’ve already almost forgotten about him. You were right, I type, making sure to use good English. It’s not Tyler. At least I don’t think it is. But I will find out who it is and I will stop him. I promise you that.
No answer. I wait, nervous for some reason. Finally, my phone buzzes. Blue?
Yeah?
Meet me on the roof tonight. At 9. Bring your guitar.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the Roof
Keegan
I guess I’m expecting Blue to do the Romeo thing again and climb the tree. So when he knocks on my bedroom door instead, it startles the crap out of me. I am already out on the roof, waiting for Blue in the dark. Even though I’m just sitting here, my heart’s pounding. I am excited about what I’ve decided to do, but nervous about it too.
The only light in my room is coming from the glow of my phone on the bed, plugged into the wall and charging. The phone behaved itself all day, not displaying any threatening emails or vulgar texts from the stalker to spoil my giddy mood. There’s been a flurry of Daily emails and a couple of texts from Megz, the first one raving about the “hot, hilarious, horny hunk” that is my new roommate Hunter. About an hour later, a second text ranted about the “absolutely arrogant asshole” that is my new roommate Hunter. Megz is big on alliteration. And it’s really easy to piss her off.
