“Yeah. Verity.” He didn’t add her last name.
His father’s smile faded but then he teased, “Yesterday, Marta. Today, Verity. My son, the lover boy.”
“Takes after his papa,” Marie said.
“How’d you make out at the swap meet?” Kyle asked, wanting to take the heat off himself. “Were you able to get the ‘big stuff’ you want?”
“Some.”
“Dad, what’s Operation Desperate mean?”
The silence lasted so long that Kyle thought his father didn’t want to answer, or wouldn’t. But finally he said, “Where’d you hear that?”
“I heard you talking about ‘O. D.’ I asked Hiram if he knew what it meant, and he said, ‘Ask your father.’ Then I asked this girl, Verity, and she said, ‘Sure. Operation Desperate. Everyone knows.’”
Marie and his father exchanged quick glances.
“It means . . .” His father paused and said, “You tell him, Marie.”
“It means,” Marie said, picking her words carefully, “that if the government oversteps its powers . . . It means,” she started again, “that if they go too far—the militia will have to take action.”
“You mean, use guns and all? Against our own government?” Kyle’s voice cracked. “Honest?”
“Honest.”
A jolt of electricity shot down Kyle’s arms as he realized they were indeed serious. Not only that, but Verity’s father, with the ATF, knew about it. He’d wanted to ignore the signs—weapons hidden in the barn, bivouacs, secret meetings, the illegal purchase of weapons. Or at least he’d figured nothing would really come of it. Now he had to accept that Dad and his friends were preparing for a real war! Against their own country! Kyle hugged himself, suddenly cold.
“When you say ‘desperate,’ how desperate do things have to get?” he asked in a shaky voice. “I mean, I can’t imagine any situation bad enough to . . . to . . . do that.”
“We certainly hope you’re right,” Marie said. “Isn’t that so, Ed?”
His father didn’t answer.
13
KYLE TURNED to the window, staring blindly at the green fields and cow pastures they passed. His father lit a cigarette, shutting himself off from further talk. Kyle recognized that kind of escape. It was a flaw he saw in himself. When he wanted to do something others might not approve of, he tuned them out and went ahead and did it anyway. His mother worried about that in him. “You’re so like your father I could scream!” she’d cry. “You do just as you please, no matter what advice you get.” Maybe Brian was different. That would explain why his mother loved him.
He tried to cheer himself. As far as he knew, the militia had done nothing violent so far, so maybe his dad and the others were all talk. But they weren’t all talk; he knew it. You don’t keep acquiring more and bigger weapons without finding a reason to use them. Probably every weapon ever built got used.
He’d better keep alert. But even if he did learn of some planned action, what would he do about it? He crossed his arms over his chest, drew a deep breath, and tried to get his mind on something else. Verity. He’d think about her again.
“Gun club’s meeting here tonight,” his father announced as soon as they drove off the main road toward the house. Prince barked an excited welcome, tail wagging his whole body, as the truck rolled to a stop.
Kyle opened the door and jumped down. Great! Maybe he’d get to use some of the different pistols and rifles he’d seen at the fair. Maybe he could try his skill against the experienced men. “Can I help?” he asked eagerly, skipping in front of his father and Marie as they reached the house.
“Sure. Set up chairs. Outdoors. You’ll find them stacked against the wall in the barn. We’ll be meeting first.”
“Why outdoors? There’ll be hordes of mosquitoes.”
“Just do what I said.” His father dropped his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with the toe of his boot. “Maybe you’ll be a lawyer. You sure ask lots of questions.”
When they entered the house, Marie went off to the kitchen to fix supper and his father checked the blinking message machine. Kyle hung back, peeling a banana.
“Ed, it’s Thad. Be a little late but I’ll be there.”
“Roger here. Okay if I bring a guest tonight?”
“Hell, no!” his father roared, though the man on the answering machine couldn’t hear. “He oughta know we got to check the guy out first!”
“Easy, Ed,” Marie called from the kitchen. “You know he wouldn’t bring someone he couldn’t trust.”
A woman’s voice. “Kyle, honey? It’s Sunday afternoon. Everything all right? How about a phone call?”
“I just talked to her yesterday!” Kyle complained.
Another female voice, low and enticing. “Mr. Klinger? Do you take girls in your gun club? I’m a real good shot. Honest.” A sexy giggle.
Kyle’s eyes darted from his father to Marie.
“Doesn’t give up easy, does she?” his father asked, frowning.
“That poor child!” Marie smiled.
And then Kyle heard the deep, resonant voice of Mr. Johnson. “Ed? Earl here. Call me soon as you can. I got trouble, bad trouble!”
“Didn’t I ask you to set out the chairs?” his father said, picking up the receiver. “Go on! Skedaddle.” He held the phone, eyes on Kyle, waiting.
Kyle turned away reluctantly. His father didn’t want him hearing whatever he had to say to Mr. Johnson. Come to think of it, his dad used the phone very little and said very little when he did. Mostly “yes,” “no,” and “what?” Did he think the phones were bugged? Did he think the house was bugged? Maybe that’s why he wanted the meeting outdoors. Kyle shook his head. Now who was acting paranoid?
Crickets clicked loudly and the resident owl hooted, though it was still light when Kyle finished setting out the chairs. Cars and trucks began pulling in, churning up mud from the wet ground, and parking near the barn.
Kyle recognized some of the men from the night at the Hoot Owl, but most he’d never seen before, and there were no women. The men carried rifles and wore combat boots and camouflage jumpsuits.
His dad had changed into a fresh uniform with stars on the shoulders. “General!” Men came up to him and saluted. For the moment Kyle put aside his misgivings about the militia and basked just in being his father’s son. He grinned until his face hurt. Brian and his mom should see all the respect and admiration shown his dad. He wandered around, listening to bits of conversation, excited by the undercurrent of expectation.
“Kyle.” His father put an arm around his shoulders. “Go on back to the house, now. You can join us when the meeting’s over and go to the firing range with us.”
“Aw, Dad, can’t I stay?”
“This is an order, soldier!”
Kyle turned back to the house, viciously kicking up dirt as he went. If only he could hide someplace and listen, he thought, glancing back. But the chairs had been set up in the open—he’d put them there himself—with so much clear space around that no one could eavesdrop without being seen.
“What are they meeting about?” he asked Marie. She was preparing a big pot of coffee. The kitchen smelled of chocolate, and two large sheets of cookies cooled on the kitchen table.
“Probably what they always talk about. There’ll be reports on what new weapons they’ve bought. Someone always goes on about Ruby Ridge and Waco, Texas, and how the government lied about them. Pete’s sure to ask for more donations to the NRA to fight gun control.” She paused, pouring ground coffee into the filter to the forty-cup limit, then reached over and patted Kyle’s hand as he reached for some cookies. “Easy on the cookies, darlin’. Those men can really put it away and the turnout tonight is bigger than usual.”
Kyle took two cookies and sat down at the table. “What happened to Hiram’s dad?”
Marie plugged the coffeepot into the wall, stalling, Kyle thought. But then she turned to him and said, “I guess you’ll find out soon enough, so
you may as well hear. Earl’s had a notice from the IRS—you know, the tax service?”
Kyle nodded. The coffeepot began to gurgle. Marie sat down, facing him. “Seems they plan to take over his farm if he doesn’t come up with the taxes he owes.”
“Can they do that?”
“Sure can.” Marie ran a hand through her curly blond hair and sighed. “Real shame, too. Earl hardly makes ends meet as it is.” She looked worried as she fixed her bright blue eyes on Kyle.
“Couldn’t friends loan him the money?”
“Wouldn’t take it. Says it’s a matter of principle. The government’s got no right to his money, no right to tax anyone.”
“Then what will happen?” Kyle asked, leaning toward her, hands folded on the table.
“Well,” Marie said, softly, “Earl Johnson’s one of our own. We can’t just stand by and do nothin’, can we? That farm’s all he’s got.”
A jangle of alarm rang through Kyle’s body. Was this Operation Desperate time? He remembered Mr. Johnson that day in the barn. The man had scared him at first, with his booming voice and huge bulk. But he’d felt that under the toughness and size was a man worn to the edge of despair and exhaustion.
Angry voices came through the open window from the men near the barn, but Kyle couldn’t make out words. “Is there anything Dad can do? I mean—to help?” Kyle asked.
“Maybe so,” Marie said, getting up. “We’ll just have to wait and see. One thing’s for sure. If there’s anything can be done—your daddy will find a way to do it.”
14
WHEN KYLE WOKE the next morning his shoulder ached from holding the rifle to it and taking the recoil; the muscles of his right arm still quivered from the weight of the weapon. The smell of gunpowder still clung to his clothes, yet he felt good. It had been fun! Great fun!
He went through the whole process again in his head. “Ready on the left!” the range officer had called, and “Ready on the right!” Then, “Ready on the firing line!” and “Commence firing!” That was when the targets suddenly popped up.
He’d felt like a grown man in a real army, firing in all kinds of different positions—prone, kneeling, and standing. Even now his blood raced just remembering.
And the praise! At first he’d thought they were saying it just because he was Ed Klinger’s son. But then he realized they meant it. “Good eye, boy!” “Nice score!” “Chip off the old block!” and lots more. The best praise had come from his father. Not in words, but in the satisfied grin, the look of pride, and the light touch on the shoulder.
Kyle stretched, groaned at his sore muscles, and rolled cautiously out of bed. He whistled as he showered. All yesterday’s worries seemed overblown. Whatever his dad did, he decided, would be all right with him. After all, Dad wasn’t a criminal! How had he ever considered turning him in?
He rushed through his chores—sweeping up the spent shells behind the barn, cleaning Blackie’s stall and getting his feed, putting kibble and water out for Prince. And then he fixed three sandwiches, in case Verity and her sister didn’t bring lunch, added cookies, drinks, and fruit, and stuffed it all into his day pack.
Ready! Ready to find Verity and bring home a string of trout for dinner!
Kyle pedaled hard, a feeling of happy anticipation driving his legs. Strange that he wanted so much to see Verity, wanted so much for her to think well of him. At home he’d never paired off with any particular girl. Mostly he’d gone in guy groups to the mall, where they hung around with girl groups. He didn’t know why he felt this way about Verity, especially when he knew what he could have from Marta. Out of breath from excitement, he stowed his bike under the bridge, grabbed his pole, and hurried downstream.
“Hi!” he called before Verity saw him, so he wouldn’t scare her like he had the last time. She was bent over, threading bait on a hook. Her head shot up and a broad, welcoming smile lit her face. “Hi!”
Charlene rushed at him. “Look, Kyle!” She held out a hand. A worm crawled up her palm to her wrist, and she nudged it back with a finger.
“Hey, neat!” Kyle said, dropping his pack.
“We got lots more. Come see!” Charley ran down the slope and hurried back with a coffee can full of worms. “See? Verity grows them! She’s got zillions!”
“Oh, Charley!” Verity chided as Kyle reached her side. “I don’t have zillions. She loves to exaggerate.” Verity raised her pole and artfully cast the line toward a dark pool across the stream.
“I brought a fishing pole,” Kyle said, holding out the dusty pole he’d found in the barn. “Can you show me how to fix it?”
“Sure, give it here and hold my pole. If you feel a little tug, don’t pull in the line until you’re sure he’s hooked.”
He divided his attention between the spot where Verity’s line disappeared into the water and Verity, as she added a sinker, a bobber, and a hook to his line. Finally she dug into the bait can and pulled out a fat worm. “You want to cover the hook like this,” she said, “but leave just enough worm dangling so it looks appetizing to the fish. Then . . .” She paused, smiled warmly at him, and added, “Cast it into that pool, and maybe you’ll catch a fish and maybe you won’t. Here.” She held his pole out and reached for her own.
For a long time, while Charlene played nearby, Kyle and Verity stood side by side, not speaking. A gentle, sweet-smelling breeze stirred the bushes. Now and then a frog slid off the bank into the stream. Kyle stared unblinking at the red bobber floating on the light-flecked water. If it dipped, it meant he’d snagged a fish. Nothing else seemed to matter except that bobber, not even Verity’s presence beside him. “I’ve got one!” he whispered, after a time, stopping an urge to jump up and down. A trout leaped from the water, twisted, then fell back, trying to escape the hook. “Wow! Did you see that! Did you?”
“I’ve got one, too! Look at that! Charley! Get the net!”
Two hours later Kyle’s three trout and Verity’s five cooled on a string in the stream. Kyle thought of the time Brian had taken him to a trout farm. The pond had been crowded with fish and it had taken no skill to bring in a string of them. What a difference from fishing here!
He proudly held up his catch and laughed. “Big white hunter! Me bring home the bacon for tonight!”
Verity laughed, too. “Big white hunter, you done good.”
Later, as they sat on the ground eating the lunches they’d brought, Kyle said, “Fishing’s the only sport where you can spend hours thinking of nothing, just waiting for a bite. That’s what my father says, and he’s right.”
“Know what my dad says about fishing?” Verity asked, passing a bag of carrot sticks to Kyle.
“What?”
“He says fishing’s like his job. When he goes after a bad guy he baits a hook, throws the line into the right place, and sits back to wait. Pretty soon the bad guy, just like the fish, gets greedy. He forgets the hook and goes for the bait. And then he doesn’t have a chance; you’ve got him. That’s what my father says.” She flashed him a shy, innocent smile and nibbled a carrot stick.
Kyle felt a quick stab of uneasiness. There was a warning in that story.
Charley crept up behind him, hugged him, and laid her cheek on his head. “Yuck!” she exclaimed, jumping away. “Your hair’s like a—a broom!”
“Charlene, that’s not nice!” With a twinkle in her eye, Verity bent forward and pressed a hand on his buzz cut. “Gracious, she’s right! Why’d you ever go and cut it?”
Kyle ran a hand over the stubble. He wanted her to like how he looked, to like him. And his dad, too. “All the guys around here wear their hair this way! I like it,” he said, but without conviction.
“It’s just that I thought you were different.” Verity touched his arm as if to console him. “See, around here—that cut’s a sign, like a gang color. It means the guy is probably one of these antigovernment types—like the men who belong to that ‘gun club’ your dad runs. You’re not like them, are you?” She stared hard at him.
“No, I’m not! But wait a minute! I know those guys and they’re great. They may not care for some of the things the government does, but that doesn’t make them criminals. If you’ve got something against them, let’s hear it!” Annoyed, he rose to his feet and started to gather up his things.
“Wouldn’t do any good, Kyle. You’re biased. You don’t want to believe anything bad about your father, so it’s no use my saying. You wouldn’t believe me anyhow. I guess you’ll have to find out for yourself.” She sighed and stood up. “If you do figure it out, and you don’t know what to do about it—come talk with my dad . . . Charley! Time to go! Come on!”
On the ride home, with his trout packed in wet paper towels in his day pack, he felt very different than he had on his way to meet Verity. No longer exhilarated and expectant. Worried, instead, angry and hurt, as if he’d just learned a secret society he longed to join had turned him down. Verity had a way of getting to him like that, throwing him off balance and leaving him unhappy.
The heck with her! She’d said nothing about going fishing again, and he’d said nothing about seeing her again. Miss High-and-Mighty didn’t like anybody, as far as he could tell—not Dad, or Dad’s friends, or his friends, and probably not even him. Saying this to himself didn’t help. He still hurt.
He didn’t notice that Prince wasn’t around when he reached home until he leaned his bike against the picnic table and took off his backpack.
“Prince!” he shouted, looking around for the dog. “Hey, Prince!” He whistled.
A frenzied barking answered from the barn. “Prince?” The dog had been outside when he left to go fishing. His father had gone to work before that. How’d he get into the barn?
He ran across the field and opened the side door. Prince zoomed out, nose to the ground. He rushed to a bush, stopped to sniff, then rushed on to another bush. Suddenly, as if he’d caught a scent, he charged across the clearing between the barn and the house and threw himself at the back door, barking and clawing.
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