The Blood of Patriots

by William W. Johnstone

  “Ah. I have street cred in Basalt.”

  “But she’s embarrassed,” Joanne said. “I guess that’s not the best word. Uneasy, maybe? She doesn’t know how to be around you.”

  “I’ll take that up with her,” he said. “Look, I’m embarrassed and uneasy and scared, too. I came here because I needed to connect with the only people on the planet I thought would give me a fair hearing.”

  She nodded. “What did your folks say?”

  “They’re in China. I’m not sure they’ve heard about it.”

  “Are they okay?”

  “They’ve got their health and they’ve got their pension,” Ward replied. “They’re fine. Thanks for asking.”

  Joanne turned quickly. He knew the move well. She did it when she wanted to yell at him for being stupid but didn’t feel like fighting. Ward followed her up the walk.

  “I noticed the town’s undergone a few changes since last year,” Ward said.

  “Towns do that. A lot of people want to make more of this than it is.”

  “Tough not to. The first three places you see when you enter town have signs that have to be translated. That’s a pretty big change.”

  “Better they should be boarded up?” she asked. “And don’t talk like that in front of Megan, please.”

  “Like what?”

  She stopped and turned on him. “Disparagingly. Would you have said that if they were in Chinese or Spanish?”

  “If I were in Tibet or Arizona, maybe,” he said.

  “Megan has Ute friends and French-Canadian friends and I hope she will have Muslim friends as well,” Joanne said. “Do you understand me, John?”

  “No, but I hear you,” he replied.

  The Vassar College liberal lion was in full roar. Ward backed off. It all came back, the whole marriage, like undigested sushi. The differences you overlooked for months because you thought she was really smart and hot and she thought you were brave and studly. And then you were parents and all the illusions ended.

  They walked around the side of the inverted-V roof, along a slate path. Every second slab was glazed with a painting of a bird underneath. Ward wondered how many owls broke their necks dive-bombing the cartoony suckers. He experienced a sudden deep longing for New York sidewalks with gum, chalk art, and real pigeon droppings.

  Hunter and Megan were grilling corn, red pepper, and eggplant on a firepit. Joanne took the tongs from Megan, who ran over and locked her spindly arms around her father, her cheek pressed to his chest.

  “Hi, Daddy—”

  “Hey, Princess,” he cooed.

  She had grown taller, and stronger. It was no longer a little girl who held him.

  “I hear you’ve been surfing the net,” he said.

  “I was worried about you,” she said. She chuckled through a sob. “You’re a superstar on Fox.”

  “Me and Homer Simpson.”

  “Actually, it’s Hannity,” Megan told him. “They said they’ve been trying to get in touch with you.”

  Ward hadn’t bothered to check any of his cell phone messages. He didn’t want to hear from attorneys or officials and he certainly had no intention of giving interviews; there was nothing to be gained from intellectualizing a moment of conviction or living it over and over—though now that he thought of it, maybe his next career could be as a talking head or radio host or blogger. Part of him, a big part, still hadn’t accepted the idea that he wouldn’t be going back to his old life.

  Megan continued to hug her father in silence as Ward cradled her head. He didn’t want to look over at his former wife and Hunter but he did, anyway. The shouldery, bearded man had taken Joanne’s hand. His big-as-all-outdoors compassion made Ward feel inadequate and angry. Mostly angry.

  Father and daughter released one another and walked hand-in-hand to the firepit.

  “Hunter,” Ward said, offering his hand.

  The big man took it. “Welcome,” was all he said.

  Hunter McCrea was a lumberjack of a man, three inches taller than Ward, with gray eyes set deep in his broad, bearded face. There were paint splotches on his apron—it obviously doubled as a smock—and flecks of red and yellow in his curly salt-and-pepper hair. He looked like one of his colorful birds that had mutated.

  “Daddy, are you going to stay for dinner?” Megan asked.

  “Actually, I was kind of hoping I could steal you for a couple of slices at Papa Vito’s,” he said. He was talking to his daughter but looking at Joanne.

  “We never really go there,” Joanne said.

  “Except for parties, when I only have a little cake and tea,” Megan said.

  “Just like one of your old doll house fiestas,” Ward said, adding pointedly. “When you were five.”

  “We’re vegetarians,” Hunter explained. “People understand.”

  “Where’s the brawn come from?” Ward asked, using his chin to point at Hunter’s shoulders.

  “Soy milk, peanut butter, beans and unprocessed tofu are all great sources of muscle-building protein.”

  “Sometimes Hunter sounds like a cable TV ad,” Megan chuckled.

  Hunter grinned but Joanne looked unhappy.

  “So what if we get a cheeseless pie with onions, olives, mushrooms—that kinda stuff?”

  “That works,” Hunter had to admit.

  Megan made a face. “Except for the olives,” she said. “I don’t like them.”

  As they were speaking, Ward became aware of a distant buzz, like a lawn mower. He wouldn’t have thought much of it if Megan hadn’t shot her mother a look.

  “Just ignore them,” Joanne said.

  “Who are we ignoring?” Ward asked.

  “The off-roaders,” Megan told him. “They cut through Mr. Randolph’s place to get to the field.”

  “Should they not be there?” Ward asked. Randolph. The name was familiar—

  “We learned in school how it cuts rivulets in the earth and changes the flow of the runoff from the mountains,” she said. “That starves the fields off Ridge Road.”

  “Yeah, I saw them. They looked a little parched,” Ward said. “Can’t the police do anything about it?”

  “They never get there in time,” Megan said.

  Ward heard a gunshot. Then another.

  “That’s new,” Hunter said.

  “Mr. Randolph?” Ward asked.

  “That sounded like one of his blunderbusses,” Hunter said. “He sometimes shoots at coyotes.”

  “Not this time,” Ward said. “What’s got him so upset?”

  “Scott’s got a ninety-four acre hog farm and he says the noise scares his pigs,” Megan said, proud of her knowledge.

  That was where Ward had heard the name. From Allie. He used to provide the pigs to Pullet ’n’ Pork.

  “Maybe we should call 9-1-1,” Ward suggested.

  Hunter considered then dismissed the idea. “They’ll still be gone before the police get there.”

  “From up there you can see them coming along East Sopris Drive,” Megan said. “That gives the riders enough time to leave.”

  “You’re a regular detective,” Ward said to her.

  “And the chief may not look kindly on Randolph firing at people,” Hunter added. He took the vegetables from the grill and put them on the pita pockets. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s upsetting. And Scott used to call 9-1-1. The law is on his side, there are trespassing and noise violations. But as Meggie said, the police never catch anyone.”

  “They’re probably kids, and kids do stupid things,” Joanne said, in a voice intended to be the final word on the subject.

  “Some kids,” Megan corrected her.

  “Sorry, honey,” Joanne stroked her daughter’s hair and smiled apologetically.

  Ward looked through the trees toward the ridge above. “Does Ridge Road go to Randolph’s place?”

  Megan said, “The dirt road beyond the fence does—”

  “No!” Joanne said.

  Ward fired her a look.

>   “You’re not going up there. Scott might shoot at you.”

  “In a Prius?” Ward said.

  “John, don’t,” Joanne said. “This has nothing to do with us or you.”

  There was a thick, unpleasant silence. Ward turned and started toward the painted slate path.

  “I’ll just go and check it out,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see something that’ll help the police. A license number, something.” He glanced at his daughter as he was about to turn the corner. “Be back in a little bit. Don’t fill up on chick peas.”

  From Megan’s expression he couldn’t tell if she was eager that something was being done or anxious that he was doing it. Not that it mattered. Only part of him was doing this for her approval. He was going up there because he couldn’t help himself.

  Ward was jogging when he reached the front of the house. He jumped in the Prius and tore from the driveway. A wooden-slat fence marked the end of the city-managed street. It was easy to maneuver around it. Flooring the pedal, Ward spun a cloud of dirt behind him as he raced up the road.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It wasn’t exactly the Bullit car, but the Prius had better pickup and maneuverability than Ward imagined. He picked his way along the path through trees that bore a hint of twilight on their trunks. There were no foothills like the one through which Ridge Road ran. When he reached the plain, that was it. Beyond it, the Rocky Mountains rose straight and mammoth. If Ward had a poet’s vocabulary something would have occurred to him to commemorate the moment. The only phrase that came to mind was “freakin’ big.”

  Before them, the punks seemed trivial. The noise was loud, though, echoing and nondirectional. Ward could barely make out the bikes in the setting sun. As his eyes adjusted to the dark under the peaks he saw the sparks of the engines. Those could probably cause a helluva brushfire. He also saw the lights of the Randolph home and just once the flare of his gun. He heard the crack a moment later. There did not appear to be a functioning fence between Randolph’s spread and the field, just a few old posts that had fallen to the ground and rails that had long since rotted from the posts that were still standing. Before this, Randolph probably hadn’t needed one.

  Ward had driven up without his lights—stealth mode, he thought whimsically. The car was nothing if not quiet; he doubted anyone up here was aware of him. He took that advantage to reconnoiter. The field where the four ATVs were humming lay on the west side, Randolph’s hog farm was in the center, and the slope down to Ridge Road and the valley beyond was on the east. The lights of Basalt were visible beyond; they were just starting to twinkle in the dusk.

  Ward turned left from the dirt road onto the field. He proceeded slowly, trying to pick out any boulders or pits that could stop the car. The riders were turning circles and wide figure-eights. Randolph wasn’t firing anymore; in the fast-deepening darkness, Ward could not tell what the farmer was doing. He was a shadow among larger shadows.

  The sparking motors of the ATVs seemed to align for a moment before the vehicles revved and, as one, began racing toward the west in the direction of Randolph’s place. They might veer off before they came within range. Then again, they might not. Maybe this was some idiotic Basalt version of Chicken.

  Ward wouldn’t be able to reach them in time to intervene but he felt he might be able to distract them. He fumbled for a switch to turn on the headlights and was relieved to find them come on by themselves as dusk settled in. Now that he could see the field he cranked up the acceleration. He sped toward the riders and not the farm so that Randolph wouldn’t think he was with the bikers.

  The ATV riders stopped; first one then the other three. They’d know he wasn’t a cop since there were no flashing lights. But they couldn’t know whether Randolph had an ally who might have been waiting for them. Three of them didn’t stay to find out. They cut diagonally across the field, toward the road—not the one Ward had taken but the real one, below the farm. Now that Randolph was armed, they avoided what the fence remnants suggested was the boundary of the farmer’s property, staying to the outside. Ward used to tell students at a firearms class at the local YMCA: “If you ever use deadly force on your property, be sure to tell the investigating officer these words: ‘I feared for my life.’” He was sure the same dictum held out here. Those three riders were being cautious.

  The fourth rider was not. He spun his ride ninety degrees to face Ward. He seemed to be weighing a run at the Prius.

  I’ve got two tons, insurance, and an airbag, Ward thought. I’m good for a game of Chicken.

  The ATV engine roared once, deeply, and took off toward the detective. Ward accelerated as well, hard. The idea of Chicken was not to see who veered off first. That was the result. The best tactic was to narrow the window your opponent thought he had to make a final decision, to speed things up so that his instinct for survival overrides his bravado. Ward crushed the pedal to the floor. There was no accompanying howl of horsepower but the dim outline of the ATV got larger faster, and his own headlight would be doing the same. There were less than five seconds to impact. Ward had stiffened his arms on the wheel; he relaxed them, relaxed his body, so it would be flexible, no bones braced to snap in the ensuing collision, if it came.

  It did not. Ward kept going, surprised by his own apparently suicidal resolve, but the ATV swerved around to the driver’s side, passing Ward like a missile. He picked it up in his rearview mirror, watched it pivot and swing back toward him. Now Ward had him. The rider closed on the Prius, obviously intending to bump Ward in the rear. The detective watched the ATV carefully then mashed the brakes and immediately jammed the gas. Rocks and dirt flew in a sheet behind the car and the rider was close enough to catch them full-on. Ward crushed the brake again, sped up again, and sent another wave flying behind him. He only needed to do it twice. The ATV swerved and swung away, toward the ridge, toward where the other bikers had stopped to watch. The leader, their champion, couldn’t have been happy with what they saw. When he reached them they left together.

  The sound of the ATVs faded not long after they disappeared over the ridge and headed down the slope to East Sopris Drive. Ward turned the Prius toward the house. He would have flashed his lights as some kind of signal if he could have figured out how to do so. Only as Ward thumped across the lumpy terrain did he realize his heart was beating rapidly, as it did just before he made a bust. It felt good to be in business again, even without portfolio. He passed through a broken stretch of fence and slowed as he neared the farm. It was dark now and he couldn’t see Randolph. But he suspected the hog farmer was there. As the lights of the house revealed the dim silhouette of a man standing out front, Ward stopped the car. He did not turn it off but left the headlights shining ahead. He got out and walked into them, his hands slightly raised. Now that he was outside, and the bikers were gone, he could hear the pigs squealing on the other side of the farm. The detective had no idea what a happy pig sounded like, but these seemed agitated.

  “Mr. Randolph?” he said softly. “My name is John Ward. I used to be married to Joanne McCrea who lives down on Ridge Road.”

  “You took quite a chance there,” the man said from the darkness. It was a hard voice, like shale. He was near, maybe a hundred yards, and coming closer.

  “No one ever accused me of being smart,” Ward replied. “I was down there and heard the noise. Joanne told me what was going on—thought I’d check it out, see if there was anything I could do.”

  “Sir, I’d say mission accomplished,” Randolph said.

  “An honorable phrase that’s fallen out of favor.”

  “Among some,” Randolph said. His voice was much closer now. Ward could hear the crunch of dry scrub and then the farmer was in the cone of the headlights. He was slightly shorter than Ward, rounder, and about twenty years older. He had a thick head of wavy gray hair beneath a beaten old Stetson, and dark eyes that had some steel in them. He tucked his shotgun under his arm and offered a big, raw hand. “Scott Randolph. Pleasure to know you.”r />
  Ward felt his heart slowing. “Likewise,” he said with a smile.

  Randolph reached into the pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out a tobacco pouch. He offered some to Ward, who declined, then tucked a pinch in his cheek. “You’re the New York cop, aren’t you? The one who got busted.”

  Ward nodded.

  “Tough break,” Randolph said. “Can I interest you in a Coors?”

  “I was supposed to take my daughter to dinner.”

  “Understood. Another time, then.”

  Ward hesitated. He wanted to know more about what had happened up here and what, if any, repercussions there might be—not just against Randolph but against the stranger in the white Prius. And, there was something more. Ward felt good right now, planted. He wanted to hold on to that a little longer, bring a better dad back to Megan.

  He took his cell phone from his pocket and called Joanne. She was neither surprised nor happy to hear from him.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I’m going to stay with Mr. Randolph a bit.”

  “Of course you are,” she replied. “The job is still keeping you away.”

  “It’s not like that,” Ward said. It wasn’t. It was bigger than that. Ward looked at the farmer standing in the white glare of the headlights, his backbone straight and his red neckerchief rustling slightly in the breeze. His eyes were turned to some distant vision, as the gaze of American farmers have always done. A chill ran up Ward’s spine to his skull. “I’ll come by in a little bit. You’ve got dinner there—I’ll take Megan for dessert.”

  “Don’t bother,” Joanne said.

  “I’ll be there in less than an hour,” Ward said firmly—to dead air.

  Ward folded the phone slowly. He considered calling Megan herself but decided against it. This was something you discussed in person. It wasn’t an apology, it was an explanation. What was the old song or saying or whatever the hell it was about being good for yourself first before you can be good for somebody else?

  He tucked the phone in his pants pocket. “I guess I’ve got some time,” he said.

  “Joanne—she’s a tough one,” Randolph said.