““On the count of three, I’ll release the cat. Assume your positions.” I don’t want anyone injured, so they all have pre-arranged spots, hopefully out of Thunder Paws’ line of fire.
Rick Rathjen chuckles, “Damn, Queenie, you’re bossy. He’s just a pussycat. Not a mountain lion.”
“Did he just call you Queenie?” Ziggy asks. “I thought your name was Mel. And, that Billie guy called you Minnie. Do you have multiple personality disorder?”
“Later,” I snap. “Get ready.” I crouch next to the carrier, my hand on the latch. “One. Two. Three.” I fling the door open, expecting Thunder Paws to spring out and look for someone to punish.
Instead, he stretches out a paw and places it on the carpet. His upper body emerges. He turns and blisters me with a slitty-eyed glare. His lips curl back revealing big, sharp, yellow teeth.
“Nice kitty,” I murmur.
He hisses and walks out of the pet carrier to his feeding bowl. He polishes off the food in three gulps and makes a beeline to the front door where he stands tall and pounds the door with his front paws.
Rick reaches for the doorknob. “He wants out.”
“No!” I yell.
Rick shrugs. “Maybe he has to go potty. Does he have a litter box?”
I admit he does not and realize I haven’t factored in some pertinent details. Thunder Paws has always been an indoor-outdoor cat, coming and going as he pleases. He definitely likes the great outdoors for his bodily functions. “Guess I’d better put it on my list.”
The cat continues pounding the door, adding a series of yowls and hisses.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Rick says and opens the door.
Thunder Paws shoots through and the last I see of him is an orange streak heading north, toward the pub.
“Oops,” Rick says.
Ziggy laughs. “Best thing that’s happened all day.”
Suddenly, I’m supremely annoyed. Hands on hips, I turn to Ziggy and give her the stink-eye. “Best thing? All day? Do you remember what we went through to get Thunder Paws into the trap? And, now he’s gone. He may even be dead. Squashed flat by a car.”
She sobers quickly and mutters, “Whatever.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I repeat.
Since my cell phone is dead, I borrow Kendra’s.
Nick picks up after the first ring. He doesn’t bother to say hello. “Let me guess. Thunder Paws took off and you want me to buy a cathouse.”
The fact that he’s been so right about moving the cat ticks me off even more. I take a deep breath and force myself to speak calmly. “Better wait to see if he shows up.” I pause and glare at Rick. “He could be lying dead in the gutter as we speak.”
Nick says, “No way. He’s street-smart. He’ll either come back to your place or he’ll turn up here.”
“I hope you’re right. See you later.”
“Hold on, I need to talk to Ziggy.”
I hand the phone to Ziggy. She answers in her usual charming fashion and snarls, “Yeah?”
She listens for a while, interjecting an occasional “Uh huh” or “Yeah,” and then hits the off button and hands the phone to Kendra.
“Well?” I prompt.
“He wants you to drive me back to the pub. He made an appointment at some lame school.” She waits a beat before saying, “Hey, how about you call back and tell him I need to help you unpack and stuff.”
I think about how unhelpful she’s been, but decide not to go there. I point at Rick and Riley. “I’ve got plenty of help.”
Kendra says, “Come on, Ziggy, I’ll take you back.”
On her way out, Kendra tells the Rathjens, “Nice to meet you guys. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I know she’s dying to know why they’re here. So am I. She gives me a pointed look and mouths the words, “Call me.”
Rick waits until the door shuts behind her before speaking. “Sorry about the cat, but he really wanted to go out. Are you mad at me, Queenie?” He holds out his arms, inviting me in for a hug.
Last fall, I took riding lessons from Rick and earned the nickname Lil’ Queenie because of my bad, but imperious attitude. Let’s just say my equestrian skills are not stellar. I fake punch his arm and give him a brief hug.
“My turn.”
Riley’s megawatt smile melts my heart. I step from one pair of Rathjen arms to the other. I became involved with the Rathjen family last fall when Yasmin, Riley’s Muslim girlfriend, was found dead close to their ranch in Red Ridge, a small community north of 3 Peaks. Because of my special ability at detecting lies, and my connection with Homeland Security, I arranged a series of riding lessons in order to determine whether or not the Rathjen’s were involved in her death. They weren’t, but the tragedy totally changed the family dynamics. Even though they may have other issues, Rick is all about family. He underwent an attitude adjustment and gave up his bigoted blog, Americans First. Instead of railing against brown-skinned immigrants, he focused on his son. Riley was drowning in grief. The family is still struggling, but the healing has started.
Riley squeezes me tight and holds on a little longer than necessary. He smells like teenage boy and fresh air. Nice. When he doesn’t release me, I think, Really, Riley? Remember our “I’m not a cougar,” conversation? I pat his cheek in what I hope is a sisterly fashion. “Hey, I have a real home now, complete with coffee and pastries. Follow me.”
I clear off the table and chairs and fire up the coffee pot. I feel a little guilty about not sharing the goodies with Kendra and Ziggy. Kendra, I regret. Ziggy? Not so much. I live by a certain set of rules. You have to earn your doughnuts.
We settle in around the table. Riley is squirming a little. Rick slurps coffee and chomps down a maple bar.
Looks like I need to kick start this conversation.
“It’s great to see you guys again. Any special reason for your visit?”
Riley glances over at his dad. “Just ask her.”
Rick wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.
Note to self: buy napkins.
“Well, we were hoping you’d take a little field trip with us, up in the mountains to a place called New Dawn.”
Riley jumps in. “It’s like a military compound where a bunch of heavily-armed people live with their families. They also go by the name National Freedom Alliance.”
“Sounds like a bunch of nuts. Why do you want to go there?”
Rick says, “The guy running the outfit, Ken Hitchcock, came to the Rockin’ R to buy hay for their animals. He talked about my blog, Americans First.” He leans across the table, fixing me with an intense gaze. “You know I stopped writing it, right?”
I nod.
Rick continues, “I didn’t tell him I’d closed it down. I wanted to hear what he had to say, so I let him believe I still had my previous attitude.”
Riley takes over. “This guy told Dad they needed more people like him in their group, people who believed our only hope is to get ready for when the shit hits the fan.”
“Wow,” I murmur. “What does it have to do with me?”
Rick says, “You tell her, son.”
Riley gives me his most impressive smile. “There’s a meeting today, and we’re hoping you will come with us.”
I’m still puzzled. “Why would I want to visit some batshit bonkers military compound?”
“Because, Riley says you can read this Hitchcock guy’s soul. See if he’s evil or, as you said, ‘just batshit bonkers.’ ”
Rick bows his head and rubs his temples. When he looks up, I see sadness and regret in his soul. “It’s not just curiosity on my part. I need to make up for my past. If they’re bad dudes, they need to be stopped. If they’re people who choose to live apart from society, so be it.”
I think about all the Rathjen family has been through, how they’ve finally emerged from the darkness, braver and stronger. How can I say no?
Chapter Five
It’s four-thirty in the afternoon and I’m
in the back seat of the Rockin’ R pickup. We’re bouncing along the rutted dirt road leading to the New Dawn complex. Winter still clings to Central Oregon in early March. A brisk wind stirs through Lodgepole pines bordering the road. Dirty patches of melting snow dot the landscape. A puny sun slinks behind the mountains to the west, casting no warmth. I think about poor homeless Thunder Paws and wonder where he’ll sleep tonight.
The twisty road takes a strong pitch upward. The pickup lurches into four-wheel drive. I give an involuntary grunt as we hit a deep pothole.
Riley glances back at me. “You okay back there?’
“Just dandy,” I mutter. “Forgot to tell you guys I get carsick on curvy roads.”
Rick hits the brakes. “Want to change seats with Riley?”
“How much farther?”
“Less than a mile.”
“I’ll be okay, just slow down on the curves.”
We proceed at a snail’s pace. The road bends sharply to the left. That’s when we see the sign.
STOP AND TURN AROUND. TRESPASSERS WILL BE MET BY OUR GREETERS, SMITH AND WESSON.
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” I say. “I’m too young to die.”
Riley says, “They’re expecting us.”
“Me too?”
Rick turns and gives me a reassuring smile. “No worries, Queenie. We’ll think of something.”
My stomach gives an ominous lurch. “They’re not expecting me?” My voice is shrill. Maybe I’m a little anxious.
Riley reaches over the seatback and pats my knee. “We take care of our own.”
Another curve, this time to the right. Just ahead, we see a high chain link fence topped with razor wire and pull to a stop in front of a large metal gate padlocked shut. Two men dressed in camo and carrying extremely large guns approach the gate.
My heart kicks up a notch. “Are we about to meet Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson?”
Riley turns to his dad. “Are those AK-47s they’re carrying?”
Rick nods. “I think Smith and Wesson have been replaced.”
I lean forward. “Should I be officially scared shitless now?”
“You’re fine,” Rick says. “I’ll handle it.”
The guards unlock the gate, crack it open and step through. Rick zips his window down.
“Please remain in your car, sir.”
Both men are unshaven with dark, scruffy facial hair. A blossoming potbelly hangs over the belt of the older man. The younger guy is lean, muscular and looks to be around Riley’s age. The family resemblance is strong. Probably father and son.
The older man goes to Rick’s window, the younger one to the passenger side and motions for Riley to lower his window. Both men observe my presence in the back seat.
Guy number one asks Rick, “Your name, please?”
“Rick Rathjen, and this is my son, Riley. A fella named Ken Hitchcock invited us here. For some kind of a meeting he’s got going.”
Guy number two says, “We know about you two. Who’s the female in the back seat?”
The way he says female makes me feel dehumanized, like I’m a heifer or brood mare. I puff up a little, but since they have the big-ass guns, I keep my mouth shut.
Rick says, “She’s my daughter, Melanie Rathjen.”
“Her name is not on the list. We’ll have to check with the boss.”
The young guy whips out a cell phone, takes a few steps away from the truck, makes his call, then turns to the other guy and nods.
“You guys carrying any weapons?”
Rick says. “Took the shotgun out of the rack.”
Not willing to take Rick’s word, we’re asked to step out of the truck for a pat down. The young guy gives me a crooked grin and tells me to hold out my arms and spread my legs. I want to tell him to go to hell, but I comply, vowing silently to never again return. I’m getting a little pissed at Rick for dragging me along.
My pat down is more thorough and invasive than Rick’s and Riley’s. Finally, I’ve had enough and say through gritted teeth, “Take my word for it, buddy. I’m not concealing a weapon anywhere on my person.”
The kid stands behind me, groping the inside of my thighs. “Nothing personal. It’s just that women have more places to hide stuff than guys. Like in their panties and bra or in a more personal space.”
He’s now crossed the line. The hell with his big gun. I turn, put my hands on his shoulders, shove him away and snap my legs together. “Damn it, I told you, I’m not carrying a gun. I don’t own a gun. I don’t even like guns. If that’s not good enough for you, I’ll wait out here while the guys go inside and you all do your man thing. Is that okey dokey with you?”
His eyes widen in surprise. It makes me wonder if, in his young life, he’s ever been chewed out by a female. He straightens up and scowls at me before turning to the other guy. “She’s clean.”
“As a newborn babe,” I add.
The men open the gate and motion us through.
I scoot to the edge of the seat so I can speak directly to the back of Rick’s head. “What the hell, Rick? That kid was groping me. And, now I’m your daughter, Melanie Rathjen?”
“Sorry, kiddo. I didn’t realize there would be a pat down. I figured the only way to get you inside was to say you’re family.”
I mutter some choice words under my breath before declaring, “Whatever you want me to do, it will have to be today, because I’m never coming back here.”
“Gotcha, Queenie.”
Once through the gate, it’s surreal, like we’ve entered a time warp and stumbled upon a movie set for an old time Western movie. Other than the chain link fence and a number of above ground propane tanks, the landscape is dotted with a variety of buildings, all constructed of rough-hewn logs. Most look like individual family dwellings with kids’ toys and stick-built furniture on tiny front porches. Smoke curls from chimneys and rises into the towering pines before dissipating in cold, crisp air.
We are directed to park in front of the largest building. The sign over the door says, New Dawn Community Hall. A group of men is clustered on the wide front porch. They make no effort to hide their curiosity. The door to the hall opens. An imposing figure steps out.
“That’s Hitchcock,” Rick says. “The guy I told you about.”
“The guy whose soul you want me to read?”
Rick nods. “If possible.”
The group parts like the Red Sea to allow the man through. Clad in a long-sleeved camo T-shirt and black jeans, Hitchcock is a big man, well over six feet, with dark hair going gray. His upper lip sports a bushy gray mustache. No potbelly on him. He’s broad across the shoulders, lean across the middle. Unhurriedly, he walks down the wooden steps, approaches the truck and offers a hand to Rick. His hand is huge, like a catcher’s mitt. Looks like he could strangle a giant bear with one hand tied behind his back. The image frightens me.
“Welcome, my friend,” he says in a gravelly voice. “Sorry about the hassle. We were not informed a female would be accompanying you.”
That word again. I narrow my eyes at him. It’s wasted effort because he doesn’t bother to look at me.
Rick says, “Is it a problem?”
“Only if she makes it one. Females are not allowed in our forums. She’ll have to wait for you outside.”
Rick stiffens, as if he’s expecting a barrage of indignation from the back seat. There are so many things I want to say, but this is not my world. It’s Ken Hitchcock’s world and apparently his word is law. However, I do want to look into his eyes. It’s the reason I’m here. Once accomplished, my work is done and I’ll return to the real world where females are called women and girls.
I strive to make my words non-threatening. “If I may ask, is there a reason women are not permitted to attend your meetings?”
Rick’s body relaxes which I interpret as disaster averted.
As I hoped he would, Hitchcock turns his head and gazes into my eyes. The close-up of his face reveals a scar I’d been una
ble to see until now. It originates high on his left cheekbone and terminates with a crease through the corner of his upper lip. I suspect the mustache was grown to help disguise it. The scar causes his upper lip to retract a bit, resulting in a permanent sneer. Not an attractive look, but considering his rank as leader of this flaky group, maybe it works to his advantage. Though his body looks like that of a much younger man, the ravages of time are etched on his face. His eyes are an icy color of gray and bloodshot with billowy pouches beneath them. Maybe he doesn’t sleep well. Or, perhaps he overindulges in adult beverages. Maybe both.
His soul, however, is what interests me. Strangely, it mirrors his eyes, which, in my experience, is rare. His soul is predominantly pale gray with red streaks. It tells me he’s a stone- cold dude with anger issues. But, there’s something else as well. A wavy blue line snakes across the bottom.
He bares his teeth, possibly his version of a friendly smile. “At New Dawn, every person has a specific role. While it’s true our governing body consists entirely of men, we value the female role, that of wife and mother, and offer them our protection. It works for us.”
I wonder if the word us includes the perspective of New Dawn females. I decide not to rock the boat, but smile sweetly and try to keep sarcasm to a minimum. “Very gentlemanly. I’m sure female input would muddy the waters with unseemly emotion. Probably works best when each gender knows exactly what’s expected of him or her.”
Rick stiffens again. Did I not try hard enough to tamp down the sarcasm?
Hitchcock’s fake smile disappears, although the unfortunate sneer remains. His brows draw together as he tries to untangle the nuances of my statement. He chuckles and slaps the side of the truck. I levitate several inches from my seat.
“Well said, young lady. I believe we’ve come to an understanding. You’re welcome to remain inside the compound until our forum is finished.”
Wow, I’m now a young lady, not a female. I grab my down jacket as we exit the truck. Rick and Riley follow Hitchcock into the building. I settle into a chair on the wide porch, a front row seat as a stream of men and boys file into the hall. I’m the recipient of curious glances. Perhaps females are not allowed to set foot on this bastion of masculinity.
Hope and Honor Page 3
