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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Blood of Patriots
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C
HAPTER
S
IX
When John Ward was ten years old, his parents took him on their only real vacation together. They went to Yosemite and stayed in a cabin at the Ahwahnee Hotel. They had booked one of the cottages and what the young Ward remembered most about the visit wasn't the scenery or the wildlife, the Native American guides or the sky drenched with stars. Even then, big buildings full of light impressed him more than distant pinpoints in the sky. What stuck with him was the smell of the cottage. It was like nothing Ward had ever experienced, a mixture of smoky wood and volcanic soil you could literally feel at the back of your throat, of air filled with fragrances he couldn't place blended in a way he could never have re-created. That smell was just a memory until he entered Scott Randolph's home.
Maybe because his nose was more sophisticated now, Ward could pick out the pine from the lavender, the smell of the horses from the pigs, the old leather of the chairs from the adobe used to build the chimney. But it was still a blend that transported him to his childhood. The feeling was a sense of wonder tinged with caution and fear because he felt—he
was
—so clearly an outsider.
The floorboards creaked as the two men entered. Even that was different from the way New York hardwood sounded. He glanced down. The slats were wide and held firmly in place with wooden dowels. The pegs had been there so long they had become a part of the wood around them.
“You built this place?” Ward asked.
“Put it up with my dad in 1960,” Randolph said. “His father owned the property—oh, it was about three times larger then, but a bunch of it was sold off in rough times to build the houses where your ex-wife lives now. The family lived in a real small place next to the barn. Thing fell to hell about 1970. The hog shed is still the original, though I've had to fix the roof a coupla dozen times.” He laughed. “But the rest is all new. Well, newer than what Grandad built in 1930.”
Randolph spit his chaw into a real brass spittoon, then went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple of beers. Ward just stood on a bearskin rug—unashamedly real, the teeth yellowed and eyes stone-dead—and turned a slow circle. This was a home. Ward had never really had one, other than the city itself. An apartment was where you showered and slept, the bars were where you watched TV, and the streets were where you lived and worked.
For the second time that night his backbone felt a chill. A familial home and the values, the survival traditions that got you there. Those were worth fighting for.
“Sit,” Randolph gestured to an armchair with a beer as he handed the bottle to Ward. The farmer pulled over a rocker and sat facing his guest. “I hope Megan will forgive me for holding you a bit longer.”
“I think that engagement is on hold till I can square things with her mother,” Ward said ruefully.
“Your daughter—she knows about what happened back East?”
Ward sipped the beer and nodded. “She knows what people
say
happened and what everyone thinks.”
“About half of which is BS?”
“Depends,” Ward said. “I'm guessing they got it right on Fox. I'll explain it to her before I go. What about you? Any family?”
Randolph shook his head. “I had a wife. Boston gal. Met her when she was out here taking photographs for college back in the 1970s. She thought it would be neat to live in the mountains. That lasted about a year. I used to date a gal in Aspen, but she ran off with some European asshole name of Franz. Last I heard she was alone and tending bar in Italy.” He shrugged. “It's okay. I got my hogs, I got my horses, and I got Papa Vito's when I feel like a game of pool. I've got a cabin in the mountains when I want to go hunting. I like not having to answer to anyone except my pigs.”
“What about those off-roaders? How long has that been going on?”
“About three, four weeks,” Randolph said. “Damnedest thing. I can't put a finger on it, but I don't think this has anything to do with recreation or their goddamn bikes. I feel like they're baiting me.”
“Why?”
Randolph shrugged. “Ornery? Vegans? Got a grudge I don't know about?”
“Do you know who they are?”
Randolph shook his head. “They come when it's too dark for me to see their faces, and they all dress in black. If I had to guess I'd say they're young Muslims.”
“What makes you think that?”
Randolph finished his beer, went to get another. “I know all the kids in town here. None of them would behave this way. Besides, a bunch of Arab kids moved into town shortly before all this started. It was after that strip of Muslim places opened. The newspaper reported that some group from Chicago picked up a string of foreclosed homes over on Floating Fork Court. Quiet cul-de-sac, very private. Some of the places were for families and some are like frat houses, all young men.”
“Or barracks,” Ward mused.
Randolph shot him a look from the kitchen. “Are you serious?”
“I didn't think I was. At least, I hope I'm not.”
The idea hung there as each man processed it. Randolph sat down and leaned back, the chair dipping slowly. Ward held the beer on his knee and looked at the bottle. The big picture wasn't coming together from the parts they had.
“I don't know what's behind this,” Randolph said. “Maybe they just don't like the idea that I'm a pig farmer. They got a strong dislike for pork.”
“It has to be more than that,” Ward speculated.
“Why? These people are funny. You draw their prophet in a cartoon and they want to cut your head off.”
“True,” Ward said, “but I still think it has to be more.”
“Some folks think they torched the Pullet 'n' Pork because of that.”
“I heard that was a grease fire.”
“The fire alarm had been disconnected,” Randolph said.
“How was business there?”
“So-so,” Randolph admitted. “Tough going up against Papa Vito's.”
“Well, that's a reason too. Besides, wouldn't they have struck you first? Choke the supply line at the source?”
Randolph took another chaw and chewed it thoughtfully. “Possible, I suppose.”
“Is there anything special about your property?” Ward asked. “Size? Location?”
“Both,” Randolph said. “Highest in Basalt and single biggest privately held chunk of land.”
“Those are more likely reasons to try and get under your skin.”
“More likely, but not practical. There's no way in hell they're gonna chase me from my home.”
“Has anyone tried to buy it?”
“Nah,” Randolph said. “People try, but most know better. Dickson would've told them. I mean, look. I don't owe anyone anything, and the farm provides me with a sufficient income. What I don't shoot during hunting season or catch in the river I'm able to buy. What the heck reason have I got to leave?”
“No kidding,” Ward said, a little envious. “I guess the other question would be why Basalt?”
“I think that should be obvious,” Randolph said.
Ward was missing it. He waited.
“We're the heartland,” the farmer said.
Ward couldn't dismiss the symbolism of that, though his gut told him it had to be more. “You got someone to watch your back if these guys come back?”
Randolph dismissed the idea with a wave. “I can look after the place. They know I wasn't shooting at them before, but they know I can. I'll be okay.”
“Well, if these guys do come back tonight don't get carried away,” Ward cautioned. “And I'm speaking from experience here. Minorities have a way of turning public opinion against a man.”
“John, I'm pissed off and I'm worried but I ain't stupid,” Randolph assured him. “I hold my water unless there's a real fire.”
Ward grinned and finished his beer. Randolph saw him to the door. The farmer clasped his hand and didn't immediately let go.
“You reminded me of something tonight,” Randolph said. “That true Americans, wherever we're from, whoever we are, are in this together. It's not ‘you give this to me' but ‘what can we do together.' That's one of the things that distinguishes us from other people and it's one of the things we're in danger of losing.”
“Too many hyphenates,” Ward agreed.
Randolph frowned. “I don't follow.”
“Korean-American, African-American, Gay-American, Muslim-American,” he said. “We've got more tribes than Afghanistan.”
“Amen,” Randolph nodded. “Hyphenates. I'll forget the word in about two minutes, but I like it.”
Ward grinned and returned to his car. He switched from green to gas. Driving without engine sounds was like trying to walk down the stairs without looking at your feet. You didn't get the full feel of what you were doing.
He sought out the illuminated clock on the dashboard. He had left the house forty minutes before. If her mother didn't push, there was a good chance Megan wouldn't hold it against him. He leaned into the gas and crossed the field and got down the dirt road as quickly as the streamlined little car would allow.
C
HAPTER
S
EVEN
Ward pulled into the driveway, not sure at first that he had the right place. There were no exterior lights and the shades were drawn dimming what illumination there was inside. It was almost as though the house itself had vanished. Either he wasn't expected or he wasn't welcome.
He didn't bother turning off the engine. He wanted his getaway car ready. Whichever way this went, he wouldn't be long.
It was shorter than that.
He punched the bell with a knuckle, heard footsteps—a long slow stride, not Megan's—and Joanne was at the door. Her open face was expressionless.
“What, John?”
“The man needed help,” he said flatly.
“People always need help,” she said. Her voice was tense but soft. She obviously didn't want Megan to hear. “That's why we're no longer together, remember?”
“You won't let me forget.”
“Oh, right. This is my fault.”
“It's nobody's ‘fault.' It's just the way things are. But Megan doesn't have to suffer because of what went on between us—”
“No,” Joanne agreed. “And she's not going to suffer for what you do now, promising to take her somewhere, then running off.”
“This is
her
community—”
“And you were trying to fix it, I know. God, I'm so sick of that. Would anything have turned out differently up there if you'd skipped the testosterone rush and taken your daughter out when you said you would?”
There was no point trying to explain to Joanne what had transpired, how it had made him feel. And even if he could communicate that, she wasn't wrong; he had done this at Megan's expense.
“Is she coming?”
“She's doing her homework,” Joanne said.
Ward pressed his lips together and glared at Joanne and stood there waiting for her to come up with something less ridiculous. She yielded somewhat.
“Are you staying over long enough to have breakfast with her?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Ward said. “What time does school start?”
“Eight.”
“I'll be here at seven,” he said. “Little picnic, then I'll get her to school.”
“Fine.”
Joanne started to close the door. Ward stopped it with the heel of his hand.
“You make me feel like a bad man,” he said. “I'm not.”
“No, you're not,” she agreed. “But that's not the same as being a
good father
. Or husband.”
Joanne leaned into the door and Ward removed his hand. It shut with a gentle click. Ward stood on the small wooden patio, surrounded by loneliness, the soft vanilla scent of wisteria hanging from the pergola, and the feeling that despite all that supposed testosterone, he was somehow half a man. He was pissed that his former wife still had the power to make him feel that way.
That's why athletes and movie stars get trophy wives
, he thought as he stalked back to the car.
After you agree to an allowance there's nothing left to debate
.
Ward drove back to the Basalt Regency Inn and ate at the small coffee shop in the back. He considered going to Papa Vito's but decided he was too tired to listen to tales of the town. Besides, he didn't know if he wanted to be that close to the Al Huda Center. Not just now. Most important, he wanted to think. Since the confrontation in Battery Park he hadn't stopped moving—from Muslim accusers, from cops who were for-or-against him, from reporters. He had walked, flown, driven almost nonstop with no real idea where he was going, only what he was leaving.
Now he was still. And in those first moments of calm, waiting for his dinner in the nearly deserted café, he realized several things. For the second time in his life, a chapter had closed. The first was his divorce; now, for the first time in his adult life, he had no job, no career. He was one of the vast unemployed of the ailing nation. He wasn't simply a visitor in Basalt, someone just passing through a quaint Midwestern community. They were, all of them, hurting, floundering Americans—
Don't do this
, he thought suddenly.
Don't wallow
. Despair was counterproductive.
Just get some sleep, see your daughter, and think about what you'll do when you get back. Either fight the charges or put the NYPD in your rear view mirror and get a job in security somewhere. Or do what you joked about not doing, blogging or becoming the voice of sanity on FM radio somewhere.
His cheeseburger and french fries arrived. The meat was plentiful and the trans-fat ban obviously hadn't reached Basalt. Half of what was on the plate took care of him. Paying, he found out the diner opened at six in the morning. Ward put in his order now so he could grab it and run up to collect Megan.
He dragged himself down the long corridor to the lobby and then up the single flight of stairs to his room. As he did, he was only dimly aware of the low-beams rushing toward the foothills.

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