Or maybe they just found a patsy to pin it on. I smirked. That theory was nothing new. Oliver Stone practically built his movie career on it.
I stopped scratching the paint long enough to recognize what was really bothering me—even frightened to discover it wasn’t the moral question which worried me most. I wasn’t quite ready to agree with Jerry that “some people just need killing.” And who pulls their quotes from a video game anyway? Ignorant hick!
No, the moral question was a smokescreen. True, I didn’t fully agree that assassination was the morally right course of action, but I didn’t exactly disagree with it, either. If Hitler’d been assassinated, a lot of lives could’ve been saved. I still wondered whether or not we shouldn’t have sent a small strike team into Baghdad and taken out Saddam Hussein with a single bullet, rather than sending in the army. Probably ought to do it to Ahmadinejad. Maybe even a couple of them nasty Mullahs who kept preaching hate and jihad.
No. What was really bothering me was the fact that I would lose my brother. There was no way they wouldn’t catch him. They’d find trace evidence. A fingerprint. A drop of blood. A shell casing. A frickin’ hair follicle! Almost anything. And it would tie him to the crime, and they’d ship him off to the mental ward or the electric chair. I’d seen too many episodes of C.S.I. to even think differently. The feds were just too good at catching people.
Or worse, someone would let slip what Martin intended. Could be Jerry. Could be his machinist friend. Could be someone we hadn’t even met yet. Someone would catch wind and let it slip out. Someone would overhear a conversation—maybe even an old army buddy to whom he complained one time—someone would put two and two together, call out the Secret Service.
And my brother would be gone.
I turned around and peered through the window. Yellow light from the living room peeked through my mother’s lace curtains. Between the stitched paisley and floral patterns I could see the television flickering against the wall. Jerry had turned on Jeopardy!, and was trying his best to fathom why anyone would want to memorize so many insipid factoids. It’s not like the show paid out any real cash. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? or Deal or No Deal? paid out better.
Martin was the only real family I had. Oh, there were a couple of cousins living down south in Canandaigua, and an uncle over in Auburn, but nobody we really connected with. And not even Jerry could play with quotes like Martin.
He just didn’t have our father.
Dad was a classic conservative. He’d served his country honorably in Vietnam fighting the Communist Threat (yellow reds, he called them), only to come back and find them taking over the country he’d fought to defend. Dad hated the war. Not because we fought it, but because we fought without the will to win. “If you’re going to get into a war, get in a war to win it,” he’d always say. Dad used to say we should’ve bombed Hanoi then bombed Berkeley.
He’d hated the way conservatives continued to cave to the liberal elites. “They lack the will to win,” he’d said. Too many of them were knee-jerk conservatives, embracing the political philosophy of the right without bothering to understand its historical or philosophical underpinnings. I sometimes wondered if he oughtn’t to have home-schooled us. Maybe if Mom were alive he would have. He kept us in school, but then he schooled us even harder when we got home. Dad made us read the Federalist Papers, the Anti-Federalist Papers, the writings of Thomas Jefferson, the political essays of John Locke, Thomas Hobbes’ Leviathan, among others. He pushed us to memorize significant passages of political writings and the Bible.
“‘Like arrows in the hands of a warrior,’” he’d quote, “‘so are children in the days of your youth. Blessed is he whose quiver is full of them.’ You boys are the only two arrows I got. I’m going to send you out as far and as fast as I can. I will send you straight and true to the heart of the matter, and you will be my weapons to turn this country back from tyranny.”
We took it to heart. I became a writer, drawn to blog about politics and pop culture. Martin entered the military. But after Dad died, we took our foot off the gas. It was like he was the rocket engine driving our success, and without him pushing us to greater heights, we fell back to earth. I sometimes wonder what would have happened—what we would’ve become—had he lived a little longer.
I couldn’t help wondering what he would think of Martin’s latest plot. In some ways, it reminded me of the time Martin decided he wanted to swim the length of the Finger Lakes. All eleven of them—including the two that are illegal: Hemlock and Canadice. His plan was to start with the smallest, Canadice, at only three miles long, work his way up through Honeoye and Otisco, and then do Hemlock, Conesus, Owasco, Skaneateles, Canandaigua, and then Keuka, at nineteen and a half miles long. Finally, he would tackle the two largest: Seneca, at thirty-eight miles, and Cayuga, at thirty-eight point two.
I never thought he’d make it. The English Channel is only twenty one miles across from Dover to Calais—and though there’s a world of difference between swimming in freshwater to salt, the distance alone would crush him long before he got to Seneca or Cayuga. For an entire year he practiced every day he could, spending an extended time flopping about in Lake Ontario off Sodus Point then keeping it up with daily swims at the YMCA in West Webster during the winter.
Then one day he came home and announced he was ready. That weekend we climbed into Dad’s pick up and drove toward West Canadice. Martin’s goal was to start at the southern end and work his way north. Dad and I would follow along beside him in the canoe, ready to pull him in the moment we spotted trouble. We got down to the edge of the lake, and before we could even get the canoe in the water, someone spotted Martin’s swimming trunks and called the Sheriff’s office. Or maybe he just happened to be in the area. We never did find out how he got there so quickly. All I know is that we spent the day paddling about in the canoe, and Martin never did get to go in the water.
As I watched him now from the back porch, I began to hope this latest ambition would wind up in the ash heap of Martin’s big ideas, right alongside the quest to swim the length of the Finger Lakes. I had no doubt my brother would take this about as far as he could go with it, but in the end, the threat of getting caught—or just the utter futility of his plan—would grind his scheme to a halt.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Five
I didn’t hear Martin raise the subject of assassination again for the next few weeks. Thanksgiving was on its way, and once more we were invited by the Knapps to their house for dinner. It was an annual tradition, begun in earnest when my father died. Don and Mary Knapp were what my father had called ‘good people.’ Both were unrepentant Baptists—meaning they wouldn’t see the truth no matter how many times Dad tried to convert them to the rightness of the Methodist doctrine. But they were Christians well enough. They’d always been willing to invite us to church or to lend us a hand whenever Dad’s heart condition got the best of him. Mary would sometimes make dinners and bring them by, if only out of compassion for three men who didn’t know their way around the kitchen. I never bothered to tell her that Dad was, in fact, an awesome cook—and I, his protégé—because we didn’t want to spoil her fun. She cleaned, too, or did until she wasn’t able to get up and out as much as she used to.
Despite Mary’s desire to cook and prepare everything for the holiday meal, I always insisted on bringing a dessert. Usually a pumpkin or apple pie. Jerry was always fond of mincemeat, but as I couldn’t stand the taste, I never made the attempt. I always told him I’d never know if it turned out right or not.
The Monday before Thanksgiving Day, Martin walked in the door at eight o’clock. I frowned because I hadn’t heard him leave, and had assumed he was sleeping off the bourbon and beer from the previous night. He must’ve had less than I’d imagined—less than I had, at least—because he walked in briskly with as hearty a “Morning!” as I’d heard him say in years.
“Morning, yourself. Thought you were still in bed.”
He shook his head. “Nah. I been up since six. I left some coffee for you.”
“Tossed it. I thought it was from yesterday.”
“Probably old anyway. You make fresh?”
I poured him a cup. He sipped it gratefully, then said, “Get your coat. I want to show you something.”
“Dude, I’m not even dressed yet.”
“Well, throw some pants on then. Better get some shoes, too. It’s cold outside.”
I cradled my coffee back upstairs and threw on yesterday’s jeans, and was just slipping into my shoes when he stuck his head through the door. “You coming?”
“Give me minute! Sheesh!”
I was still tucking my shirt into my pants when I followed him outside. He was right. It was cold. I could see steam rising from the back of his flannel to mingle with the overcast sky. My own breath was a dissipating vapor in the morning light. The sun was barely a splash of brilliance in the eastern sky. All else was a dull, whitish gray. Morning frost still clung to the grass, and it crushed beneath our feet, leaving defrosted footprints to mark our path.
He brought me around to the trunk of his car, which he opened with a flourish and stood beside proudly. I took a sip of coffee and hugged myself tighter, wishing I were still inside. The morning chill did not compare to what I saw in the trunk.
Two M107 sniper rifles with infrared scopes, front-mounted bipods, and matte-black flash suppressors menaced the trunk. Several boxes of ammunition lay scattered to one side. I stepped back as if they were alive, and turned to regard my brother.
He grinned wryly and said, “Whaddya think? Ain’t they beautiful?”
I swallowed. “Sure.”
He slapped my shoulder. “Merry Christmas, bro.”
Some of my coffee spilled over my hand, burning me. I licked my wound. “Thanks. I was going to get you a sweater—what did you get me this for?”
“What do you mean, what for?”
“Did I ask for a gun?”
He reached in and pulled one from the trunk. “Well, this way we don’t have to share. I got some targets, too. Figured we could practice together in the back yard, get the feel for the weapon.”
He handed the rifle to me, keeping hold of it while I wrapped my hands around it. The gun was huge with the flash suppressor attached, and it felt like it weighed a ton. “This thing is a beast.” I sighted down the barrel, feeling powerful.
“Here. Check this out.” He opened one of the boxes and pulled out a .50 caliber round. The bullet looked more like a small missile. It was easily as thick as my thumb and about twice as long. They shoot this at people? I breathed out a blasphemy. Martin nodded appreciatively. “Can you imagine one of those things punching through your gut? That thing travels at 2,700 feet per second. The gun can fire ten rounds in less than ten seconds.”
The very thought was horrific. “That’d split someone in half.”
“You bet it would. .50 caliber round will punch through body armor. Hell, you could probably punch a hole in an engine block.”
I whistled. “Recoil’s gonna be a bear.”
“Uh-uh. This thing’s built with so many springs inside you’ll barely feel it.”
“No kidding?”
He grimaced. “Just don’t drop it in the snow.”
“There ain’t any snow,” I sighed.
“Good thing,” he harrumphed. Last time we went out shooting with Jerry, he brought with him a pistol grip, pump action shotgun loaded with armor-piercing rounds. We went out into the deep woods, where an old Volkswagen Beetle decayed in a pit. Most of the car was rusted, broken, and beyond recognition, but the engine block still lay exposed in the back end. After receiving careful instructions, I took the first turn and aimed at the car. When I squeezed the trigger, the cannon I’d mistaken for a gun flew out of my hands and landed in the snow, effectively ending our practice until Jerry could clean and dry the weapon.
Martin never let me forget it.
I pushed from my mind any inklings of what Martin intended for the guns. The thought of target-shooting with such an incredible weapon was thrilling, and I didn’t want to consider anything else. Martin picked up the targets from where they’d lain under the guns and a box of ammo. Together we headed for the back woods.
“How’d Jerry manage to get a hold of these things?”
Martin smirked. “He knows his business. It cost me a little extra, but it’s worth it.”
I frowned. “How much did these cost?”
“Believe me. You don’t want to know.”
I stopped. “How much?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve. Hundred?”
“Grand. Twelve grand.”
“Twelve thousand dollars?!”
“Apiece.”
I stared, mouth agape. “You spent twenty-four thousand dollars on a couple of guns?! You could’ve bought a truck for that!”
He shrugged. “Don’t need a truck.”
“You could’ve lived for a year on that!”
“It’s my money.”
“Marty!”
“What is your problem, bro? I don’t tell you how to spend your money.”
“That’s ‘cause you don’t have to. I spend my money wisely.”
“Doing what? Supporting your hobby? You forget, I have an income. While you were typing away at your little computer I was getting shot at by bad guys. I got paid pretty good money to be a target. And the house is paid for. Got no family but you. It’s not like I got something else to spend it on.” His eyes held mine for a moment, then he spat to one side. “You got your hobby. I got mine.”
He turned and kept walking.
“Yeah, but how am I supposed to pay you back for this?”
“It’s a gift, dummy. You’re not.” He took out one of the paper targets and tacked it to a foot thick tree trunk several yards away.
“Yeah, but—you said ‘Christmas,’ right? What am I supposed to get you now? I mean, it’s not like a sweater’s gonna cover it.”
“Is that what’s eating you?” He walked back toward me.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll think of something.” He tugged me back. We moved several hundred feet away from the target.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s give this a shot.”
I watched as he dropped the clip and began loading the heavy shells into the cartridge, pressing them against the spring until they clicked into place. I followed suit, slipping the clip into place and chambering the first round. Martin extended the bipod and lay down on the ground. From where we stood, we could barely see the black circle of the target against the white paper tacked on the tree. I raised the scope to my eye to get a better view.
“I wouldn’t,” Martin warned.
I kept my eye trained on the target. “I ain’t. I’m just watching.”
Martin said nothing, but clicked off the safety. In a moment, I heard a series of rapid cracks from the ground beside me. In my scope the target exploded, splinters of tree flying out behind it as the rounds penetrated the wood and shattered the trunk. I stared at the carnage my brother had unleashed. I could see daylight through what had once been a solid trunk of wood.
I exchanged a glance with my brother. Martin grinned and rose to his feet. He set his weapon on his shoulder and marched down range to the tree, pulling out a fresh target. When he was about ten feet away, a ponderous groan echoed through the woods. Martin stopped and stared as the top of the tree bent forward, as if bowing in greeting, before it snapped clean of the trunk and fell on top of him.
“Marty!” I ran toward him. He lay pinned beneath the trunk, pushing uselessly against the log, which pressed him into the dirt.
“Get this frickin’ tree off me!” he hollered. I set the gun down and bent to lift the tree off him. I started laughing as I pulled.
“You dummy!”
He rolled out from under it and glared as I dropped it.
&nb
sp; “You okay?”
He shook his head, then started laughing. “Stupid tree.”
“I don’t know, Marty. You’re the one who shot it in half. Seems to me the tree got you back the only way it could!”
We laughed together a bit more, and then he scrambled to his feet and checked the remains of the tree, where the .50 caliber rounds had blasted through the trunk. “Isn’t that something?” he whispered. He looked at me. “Come on, let’s set up a new target. Your turn.”
“Fine. Let’s just make sure the tree don’t fall on me this time.”
***
Later, we stowed the guns and the remaining boxes of ammo in the attic. We’d shot through a box apiece, and toward the end were both becoming quite confident with the high-powered weapon. I found myself grinning boastfully when I proved my third target had a tighter circle than Martin’s. He acknowledged the accomplishment begrudgingly, but some- where in his eyes I witnessed pride.
I fixed us some lunch and sat down with him at the table.
“I’ve thought of something,” he said.
“What’s that?”
He wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. “I’ve thought about what you can do. To repay me. Call it a Christmas gift, if you like.”
I frowned. “Okay.”
“I’m not good with words. Not like you.”
“Yeah?” I nodded for him to continue.
“I want you to write something for me. A statement. Longer than that. I’m not sure what the word is.”
“What sort of statement?”
“About why. About getting our country back. Taking it back from the socialists and liberals.”
“A manifesto.”
“Yeah. That’s it. That’s what I mean.”
“What do you intend to do with it?”
“I want you to put it on the internet. One of them blog things, like yours. Or something like that.”
Manifesto? I felt like Kazinsky’s brother. What sort of idle ramblings and psychotic rants did Martin have in mind?
“Marty,” I began, “I don’t know...”
“Look, Petey. I’m not some sort of nut job here—”
“Sure about that?”
“Cute. It’s me. I ain’t crazy.” His eyes were feral. He held mine for a moment before I dropped my gaze. I didn’t trust his sanity. I didn’t see how I could and still keep my own. The simple truth was that sometimes I didn’t recognize him at all. Whatever it was that had happened to him in Iraq had changed him in ways I couldn’t begin to measure. I kept hoping if I humored him this would all go away. I’d wake up from this nightmare, and he wouldn’t be a terrorist. I’d have my brother back.
The Spirit of Resistance Page 3