by Ray Rhamey
Morning sunlight woke Jewel. Stiff from her night on the cot, she turned to find Soldado’s intense gaze on her from across the dead fire. Startled, she sat up and aimed her stopper at him. His gaze was steady. “You’ve got me.”
He was still tightly bound. She relaxed. “Yeah, I have.” She stood and walked to the door.
“You going to leave me here?”
She started to say yes, but wondered if he’d be safe. There might be wolves or something. Or, considering what she knew of him, he’d escape. Leaving him could be letting a killer get away. “I guess not.” She went to him and aimed the stopper at the base of his neck, where his shirt opened.
He said, “You don’t have to do that. I’ll even drive, if you want. You’ve got the guns.”
Seeing the alertness in his eyes and knowing how quickly he could move, she pressed the button for nap. He winced when it struck his neck, then shrugged and closed his eyes.
She worked up a sweat dragging him to the car and buckling him into the backseat, cussing herself for not making him get in before she turned out his lights. Taking no chances, she used a shot of tangle on his bound hands.
As she followed the GPS and drove back through the mountains, she struggled with whether to go home first or to the police station. It wasn’t much of a fight; she wanted her baby in her arms. As it turned out, a cop car was at Franklin’s house when she slammed to a stop. She ran past a startled officer and yelled, “He’s in the car.”
Chloe burst out the front door and flew to Jewel when she reached the porch, and they held each other for a long time.
Franklin appeared. His hug felt awfully good, too. They watched as a police van arrived and the officers freed Soldado of his tangle and took him away. Jewel held Chloe on her hip and felt a moment’s weakness in her knees as she realized that it was over.
She sat on the porch swing, Chloe in her lap. No way she was gonna go to work, and she didn’t want to be more than a couple of inches away from Chloe for a while. She stroked Chloe’s hair and said, “Hey, how about a picnic in the park?”
Chloe said, “Can I make peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches?”
“You bet, honey.”
Chloe said, “Yippee!” and slipped off Jewel’s lap to dash into the house.
Jewel smiled up at Franklin. “Thanks for looking after her.”
“Hell, you don’t need to thank me. My pleasure.”
Jewel and Chloe spent the afternoon in Lithia Park, swinging and sliding at the playground and playing catch with an old tennis ball they found near a pair of courts.
Her daughter’s giggles pushed back the terrors of the last day and night. Hank Soldado was out of her life.
But his weary smile drifted through her mind now and then.
Captivity
For the second time, Hank woke in a cell after overindulging in nap. Figuring he wasn’t going anywhere, he lay quietly and gazed at the bars while his mind cleared.
He hated being caged.
He pictured the fierce determination on Jewel Washington’s face when she got him with the nap. One helluva woman.
The door opened and Benson Spencer entered, accompanied by a guard who looked like a senior citizen. The guard carried an orange jumpsuit. He glared at Hank as he limped to the cell, opened the door for Benson, and dropped the jumpsuit on the floor. “You’ll need to change into that.”
“I don’t know. It’s not really my style.”
“Your choice. We’ve got some big guys who would love to help you.” Hank picked up the jumpsuit.
Pointing at a ceiling camera, the guard told Benson, “Just signal when you want out.” He closed Benson in the cell and limped away.
Hank said, “Hello, advocate.”
Benson wasn’t his usually jolly self. “You’re not an easy man to side with, Hank. I can’t decide whether you’re a good guy or a bad guy.”
“Hey, I had to run. You didn’t do much of a job defending me.”
“Defending you wasn’t my job. My job was to find the truth and to make sure you weren’t screwed. The truth is, you did kill Earl, and you did it with an illegal firearm.”
Something had flickered in Benson’s eyes when he mentioned Earl. Hank said, “You knew him, didn’t you?”
Benson’s gaze dropped to the floor. “He was once a friend.”
“You’re one of the guys they told me got pickled.”
Benson looked up and laughed. “Pickled! Man, if you knew the sweat I wasted being afraid of therapy. That’s what I’m here about—your alternative to the Keep.”
“Some alternatives: prison or a pickle jar.”
Benson’s tone sharpened. “Do you know anything about either one of them?”
“No.”
“How about some facts before you draw conclusions?”
“So tell me.”
“The Keep is to Oregon what Australia was to Britain in the 1700s. Every violent criminal in Oregon is sent there. There are two Keeps, a big one for men, a smaller one for women.”
“Where is it?” When he escaped, Hank wanted to know where he could run to.
“Southeastern Oregon, out where there’s nothing but sagebrush and high desert.”
He’d better pack a lunch.
Benson said, “Like the judge explained, you lose the things society creates. No television, no mail, no medicine, no air-conditioning, no weight rooms, no basketball courts, no extras.
“The state provides the basics: shelter, food, water, and clothing. There are no guards, no pastors, no doctors. No cells and no bars. Just violent people.”
Hank said, “I can see why the life expectancy is only two years.”
“The Keep was built to handle five thousand. Four years ago it was nearly full, but we estimate there aren’t more than three thousand now.
“The alternative to the Keep is therapy in a small hospital the docs call the Repair Shop.”
“Cute. Better than Butcher Shop, I guess.”
Benson rolled his eyes. “First they analyze you. As Noah says, you are what you think. They isolate the things that drive the behavior that got you in trouble. Then they help you change ’em.”
Hank snorted. “Brainwashing!”
“No. They start with noninvasive techniques such as deprogramming, which can work on problems like racial bigotry.”
“Noninvasive. So there are ‘invasive’ techniques, too? What, lobotomy?”
Benson shook his head. “They use neurosurgery, and the decision is completely up to you. It’s voluntary. You don’t want to do it, they’ll try other approaches.”
“They operate on your brain? Why?”
“Think of it as having an abscess—the infection poisons your whole body. A doctor uses invasive techniques to clean it out, and your body returns to a healthy state.”
“That’s what they did to you?”
Benson nodded. “I wanted it. Like the rest of the men in my family, I had a fanatical belief that I had an unrestricted right to own any kind of gun, and that anyone who said different was a traitor. My belief was bulletproof, and there was no way to reason me out of it. Earl thought the same way.”
The old Benson would have been a man after Hank’s own heart. He’d grown up believing the same thing, mostly because it was true, but, he had to admit, his family had a lot to do with it.
Benson said, “At the Repair Shop they took out the basic belief, which left me with no opinion at all. Since then I’ve studied what the National Rifle Association says and the Supreme Court’s decisions, and decided I don’t have an unlimited right to carry any kind of gun. More than that, I’m convinced that states have the right to control guns. At least that part’s been upheld by the Supreme Court. There was no brainwashing, no attempt to convince me one way or the other.”
“That you know of.”
Benson threw up his hands. “It’s not like that!”
Hank watched Benson for signs of . . . of what? What did a washed brain act like? There did
n’t seem to be anything wrong, but . . . “So that got you out of the Repair Shop?”
“When the stuff that causes the problems is gone, then so is the wrongdoer. You’re considered a different person. The idea is to help people, not punish them.”
“How could you let them do it to you?”
Benson gazed at Hank for a long moment. His voice was soft when he said, “There came a time when I had to trust.”
Hank shuddered inwardly. “I’m not going to let anybody carve up my mind and trust that they won’t screw with it while they do.” His mind was who he was!
Benson said, “They don’t do anything you don’t agree to, and you have a medical advocate who makes sure that’s all they do.”
“Sure, they tell you that.”
“I’m the same guy who went in, I just don’t think the same way about guns.”
Yeah, he thought he was the same guy.
Leaning forward, Benson said, “Hank, choose the therapy.”
“No thanks. I don’t care how lousy the Keep is, at least I’ll still be me.”
“Maybe the you that you are isn’t the best you can be.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Benson stood. “That’s it, then. You’ll be transferred tomorrow. But you can change your mind anytime.” He waved at the camera.
Hank asked, “How’s Jewel? I feel bad about her. She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“She’ll recover. Strong woman.”
“You’re telling me.”
The gimpy guard returned, unlocked the cell door, and stood well back with his stopper ready. As Benson stepped out, Hank said, “Let her know I’m sorry. It wasn’t personal.”
Benson studied him. “You don’t get it, do you? Violence is always personal. It was her personal chin you jammed that gun barrel into.”
“Just tell her?”
Benson’s energy bubbled back up. He beamed and said, “Will do.”
After they’d ended the visit, Hank stretched out on his bunk. Into his mind came the image of Jewel’s indomitable face as she hit him with nap. Beautiful, and he wasn’t thinking of appearance.
Teach Your Children Well
Mitch turned away from the Smith & Wesson order he needed to get shipped. He couldn’t focus. Hank Soldado’s report of Noah Stone’s fear of guns kept popping into his mind—maybe there was a way to use it to scare Stone off, especially now that Hank was out of the game. Mitch couldn’t blame Stone for how he felt after the shooting at the Chicago rally. Speaking of scary, there was Hank’s report on the Mackinac Militia website. Yeah, Colonel Hanson was one spooky woman. He got on the Internet, Googled the militia, and went to the site.
Jesus, there really was a photo of a bullet with Noah Stone’s name on it. If only— No, better be careful what you wish for. Don’t go there.
Still, Hank had said Stone looked primed to break. Too bad he had ended up convicted of murder. Mitch didn’t know what he should do now.
His daughter appeared in the workshop doorway. Carrie said, “Is it time, Daddy?”
That brought a smile to his face, and he happily shut the computer down. They had a date to introduce her to the new Cricket .22 rifle he’d gotten her for her ninth birthday. He figured she was smart enough and responsible enough to have her own gun—as long as she was properly trained, of course, and that was why they were going to the shooting range.
Mitch beamed with pride as he escorted Carrie to the shooting range in the basement of NRA headquarters. He held her new rifle cradled in one arm, and a big grin stretched her face. He took her to a firing station and laid the rifle on the counter. She reached for it, but he stopped her with a hand over hers. “What’s our first rule about guns?”
“Never point one at a person.”
He gave her his serious look. “What if it’s not loaded? Is it okay then?”
She shook her head and then said, “Never assume a gun isn’t loaded.” Her smile said she knew she’d nailed it.
He grinned and patted her on the head. “Good girl. Now, I know this gun isn’t loaded, but you shouldn’t take my word for it, check it yourself. Once you do that, it’s okay for you to handle it here. Get used to it, practice aiming down there where that old target is while I go get a fresh one.”
When he picked up a new target in the storage room, he noticed a flash of red from a crumpled target on the floor. Wishing people would clean up their messes, he picked it up. There was something familiar about the shiny red paper taped to its front—he smoothed it out and found the Time magazine cover of Noah Stone, riddled with bullet holes.
It gave him a shudder and made him a little embarrassed that he’d had thoughts about putting holes in Stone’s face, even though it was just a finger doing the shooting. Creepy. He wadded the thing up and tossed it into a wastebasket.
After rigging Carrie’s target and sending it out a short distance, he took his time introducing her to her Cricket rifle, a scaled-down version of an adult weapon. Although it was just a .22 caliber, it could kill, and he intended to drill her on safety. He ignored her sighs of impatience as he took her through the rules. At last he let her load the gun and take aim at the target.
He stepped back and said, “Remember, pull it in tight to your shoulder and squeeze the trigger, don’t jerk it.” Although a .22 didn’t make much noise, he insisted she put on her earmuffs before shooting.
His cell phone rang. It was Hank Soldado. “Hey, Hank, how are things going?” He’d seen the story on the Internet of Hank’s failed kidnapping of that woman.
Carrie looked back at him. He stepped away and gestured for her to keep going, keeping an eye on how she handled the rifle.
Hank said, “Well, my day in court didn’t work out too well.”
Mitch said, “I saw. I know you weren’t guilty. I’m sorry you couldn’t get away.”
He heard a smile in Hank’s voice when he said, “I just chose the wrong person for a hostage.” Strange.
Carrie squeezed off a shot and hit the ring next to the bull’s-eye. She looked back at him and he gave her a thumbs-up. He said to Hank, “You saved Stone’s life when you shot that guy. Why’d you do it?”
“I don’t know. Just reacted, I guess.”
A considerable pause came along. Then Mitch said, “Maybe I wish you hadn’t.”
“You want him dead?”
He pictured the bullet holes in the Time cover. “Oh, no! It’s just the problem would be gone. I don’t know what to do now.”
Hank said, “How about getting an appeal going for me?”
“Yeah! I know a couple good lawyers.” Mitch laughed. “Well, except they haven’t been having much luck in Oregon courts. But I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep you informed. What’ll you do about Stone?”
He’d been stewing over that. “I don’t know. I just don’t. But I feel the pressure building. We need to do something, and soon, while Stone is shaky.”
“Luck.” Hank ended the call.
Yeah, luck. He could use some of that. He stepped on a loose cartridge case as he moved closer to the shooting station. It was from a hunting rifle.
A hunting rifle. A bullet like the one Colonel Martha Hanson had on her website. The one that scared Noah Stone.
The Keep
Now outfitted in an orange jumpsuit, Hank was stretching after breakfast when the gimpy guard banged the cellblock door open and Joe Donovan and Sally Arnold entered. Donovan lifted a set of shackles and said, “Time to go.”
Sally said, “Guess we ought to thank you for taking Emerson out the way you did. The Alliance offered us your job, and now we’re looking after Noah Stone.”
Relief popped into Hank’s mind. Well, he did like the guy.
She said to Hank, “The Ashland police deputized us to get you to the Keep.” She aimed her stopper at him as Donovan opened the door. “You got away from them a little too easily.”
Donovan sa
id, “Grab some bars and spread.”
Hank gripped two bars up high with both hands and spread his feet. Donovan entered, slipped the shackles onto Hank’s ankles, then handcuffed his hands in front of him. “Sorry about this, Soldado.”
Hank straightened, angered by the cuffs. “How do you feel about what they’re doing to me, Donovan?”
“I think you’re getting screwed, in a way, but I also think you screwed up. Around here, they like to make sure screw-ups have consequences. The bad guys, and I’m not saying you’re one, don’t get away with much.”
Hank glanced at Sally’s stopper. “You think I could have stopped Emerson with one of those toys?”
“Hell, they’ve stopped you a couple of times, haven’t they?”
He couldn’t deny the truth of that.
Sally said, “Tell him about the kidnapping charges.”
Donovan grinned. “Yeah. You should know that Noah talked the cops out of nailing you for kidnapping Jewel Washington, and she went along with it.”
Sally swung the cell door open. “You’d have gone from being in deep shit to completely flushed.”
“I wish I could thank him.”
“You’ll get your chance.” Sally led the way out, and Donovan followed Hank. Outside the cellblock, she passed an open door and halted at the far side. Donovan stopped Hank with a tug on his sleeve. “In there.”
Noah Stone waited inside, his arm in a sling. He frowned at the shackles, then gazed into Hank’s eyes. “Hank.”
“Noah.” Hank nodded at the sling. “How’s the arm?”
“It’ll be okay. Since I do most of my work with my mouth, it doesn’t slow me down much.” His eyes twinkled with irrepressible humor. “Hey, the doctor said the physical therapy might even improve my backhand.”
Dutifully, Hank smiled. A silence settled between them. Hank broke it. “I hear you quashed a kidnapping charge.”
“I was sure you never meant any harm, and Jewel confirmed it.” He gazed into Hank’s eyes, and emotion thickened his voice. “I owe you my life again.”
