by Jason Frost
"Right." Philip jogged off, somehow happier than before.
Eric walked around the building to the bicycle racks, trying to locate his old three-speed among the dozens of sleek new ten-speeds. Since the quake, many of the roads had been closed for sewer repair or repaving. Damage to several refineries threatened the gasoline supply, so many people had gone back to riding bicycles or mopeds. Bike accidents were becoming a major source of conversation.
Eric's bike was a rusty old hunk with chipped blue paint, a torn leather seat, and no kickstand. He spotted it leaning against the wall. When he walked closer, he stopped, his mouth tightened, his stomach clenched.
A note was pinned to the seat.
He approached the bike slowly, glancing around quickly for a suspect. He dropped his briefcase, circled the bike, studying it everywhere for a boobytrap. Nothing was out of place, no hidden grenades. Of course, there were other possibilities. Certain fatal poisons smeared on the handles to be absorbed through the skin. But that wasn't Dirk Fallows' style. At least not in this case. For Eric he'd want something more dramatic. More painful.
Eric flicked away the straight pin and grabbed the note, unfolding it roughly as if it were Fallows himself. His eyes lingered on each word. "The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers," Henry VI, Part II, IV, u, 86. Yours for justice, Luther Nichols.
8.
One of them had a 12-gauge shotgun. Remington 870.
The other an M3A1.45 submachine gun.
They were standing at Eric's front door talking to Annie and his mother when he rounded Blue Lake Drive. Immediately Eric jerked the handlebars, hopping the curb with a jolt. He pedaled furiously down the sidewalk, his legs pumping like steam pistons as he cut across his neighbor's immaculately manicured lawn, slicing a thin brown rut through the grass.
"Hey, buddy!" a harsh voice barked. "Hold up there."
Eric glanced over his shoulder, saw the two cars parked at the curb. A police patrol car and an army jeep. Three young soldiers were climbing out of the jeep, swinging their M-l6s in his direction. A uniformed cop leaning against the patrol car spit out his gum and unsnapped his holster.
The two armed men at his front door turned but made no move with their weapons. Eric could see Annie explaining to them who he was, her hands waving urgently. The man with the shotgun, also in police uniform, waved an okay to his partner by the patrol car. The man with the submachine gun, dressed in army khaki with a sergeant's stripes on his arm, nodded at his men by the jeep and they relaxed their weapons.
Eric squeezed the hand brakes, forgetting that the front ones were frozen with rust. The back brakes gripped the tire firmly, sending it skidding sideways in the grass. Eric climbed off the bike and let it drop onto the lawn. He left his briefcase stuffed in the bike's rear basket, leaving his hands free.
"What's going on?" he said pleasantly, but his eyes were dark, studying the men, the situation.
"Nothing," Annie jumped in quickly. She recognized Eric's calculating look, his measured walk. "This is Officer Perkins of the Irvine police and Sergeant Sutton of the army."
The uniformed men nodded politely. No one offered to shake hands.
"Are you Eric Ravensmith?" Officer Perkins asked.
"Yes."
Officer Perkins read from a wrinkled card in his hand. "We are authorized to search your house for any firearms," he recited with a bored monotone, "This is not to be construed as an accusation of any crime. Duly appointed officers are presently conducting house-to-house searches throughout the state in an effort to protect the health and welfare of all its citizens in this time of crisis. We appreciate your cooperation in this emergency." He tucked the card into his shirt pocket. "Questions?"
"You have a warrant? Something giving you the authority?"
"Yes, sir, we do." He nodded at Eric's mother who was peering through her bifocals at a piece of paper.
"Looks pretty goddamn official, Eric," she sighed, handing the paper to Eric.
He glanced at it quickly, turned to Annie. "Where are the kids?"
"Upstairs."
"Better check on them," he said slowly, his eyes fixed on hers. "Both of them."
"Okay," she said and disappeared into the house.
Eric handed the paper back to the policeman. "Statewide house-to-house, huh? Must take a lot of manpower."
Sergeant Sutton nodded, hooking his thumb over his shoulder at the parked jeep. "Yes, sir. That's why we've been using reserves to help out."
"They're a little trigger happy, aren't they?"
"Yes, sir," Sergeant Sutton shrugged disgustedly. "But that's what they gave me."
"I haven't read anything in the papers about this?"
"No, sir," the sergeant said. "They didn't want to give everybody a chance to go bury their guns someplace. It's gonna be hard enough as it is, what with people warning each other by phone. There was even some talk of cutting the phone service for a couple days. Nothing came of it though. Red tape, I guess. Or politics."
"What's the point of all this?"
"Well, seems like we've had more than a little looting since the quake. Folks are damn near scared of anything that moves. People been shooting each other all up and down the state. Anything that goes bump in the night, including relatives, neighbors and pets. Grocery stores have been robbed a lot lately, with bands of people stealing all the canned foods they could carry. It's a mess in some places. I guess they don't want it to get no worse."
Eric nodded. "Okay, gentlemen. How do we do this?"
"Well, Mr. Ravensmith," Officer Perkins said, "we'd appreciate it if you'd just give us all your guns. You'll get a receipt for each, redeemable at a later date."
"What date, officer?"
Officer Perkins shook his head. "Undetermined, sir."
"So, if I tell you we don't have any guns, you're going to take my word for it?"
"Not exactly, sir." Officer Perkins nudged Sergeant Sutton, who gestured over his shoulder at the three soldiers. Each slung his rifle over his shoulder and reached into the jeep, pulling out portable metal detectors. Officer Perkins looked into Eric's eyes. "Just in case you overlook a gun someplace."
Annie reappeared at the door. "The kids are fine," she told Eric. "I checked."
Eric smiled. "Then let's not delay these gentlemen any longer."
"I hadn't counted on this," Eric said, leaning against the kitchen wall. Overhead they could hear the soldiers clumsily searching every room. Occasionally one of their metal detectors would bang into the wall or bump a piece of furniture.
"They're paying for every chip and scratch," Annie warned.
"It's the goddamnedest thing I've ever seen," Maggie Ravensmith said. "And in sixty-two years I've seen a hell of a lot."
Annie poured Maggie and herself a cup of coffee. "The sergeant told me that they've even cleaned out the gun shops and sporting goods stores. They figure that even if they miss a few guns at least there won't be any ammunition around."
"Makes sense," Eric said. "Most people don't know enough about guns to handle one properly, especially in a situation like this. They're more likely to shoot their friends than anyone trying to harm them. I just wish I'd predicted this last month. I'd have hidden those guns I bought instead of stashing them in the bedroom."
Maggie sipped her coffee, the steam fogging her bifocals. "Well, at least you were smart enough to have Annie check those two bozos out before you let them into the house. So I guess your brain hasn't quite turned to mush yet."
Eric looked surprised. "You knew?"
"Ha, are you kidding? 'Check the kids, Annie. Both of them.' Meaningful looks." She knitted her eyebrows in an imitation of her son. "You might fool those guys, but not your mother. Who'd you call, Annie?"
"Local police station. Gave them Officer Perkins name and description. They verified him and Sergeant Sutton."
"That's my little superspy," Eric smiled, opening the refrigerator and plucking out a can of Pepsi.
Maggie Ravens
mith looked at her son, then at her daughter-in-law. She removed her bifocals and began polishing them with the corner of her blouse.
"Uh oh," Eric said. "What's wrong, Mom?"
"What makes you say that?"
"The glasses-cleaning routine. You always do that when something's bugging you."
She frowned. "Now that they've taken your guns, where does that put you with Fallows?"
"Jesus, Mom, you get right to it, don't you?" Annie said.
"Have to, Annie. Not just for your sakes, but for the kids', too."
"We're covered," Eric said. "We've got alarms attached to every door and window. Nobody can get in without setting off the loudest damn siren you've ever heard."
"Yeah, but then what? How will you protect yourselves once they're in?"
"Excuse me, Mr. Ravensmith," Officer Perkins interrupted, stepping into the kitchen. "My men and I are done now."
"Find anything useful?"
"Nope. We checked the house and garage. The shotgun and the automatic you gave us were all you had. Except this." He opened his hand to reveal a gold earring in the shape of a palm tree.
"My God, I've been looking for that for six months," Annie said, taking the earring. "Where did you find it?"
"Back of the closet in the master bedroom," he smiled. "You'd be surprised what we find sometimes. Fillings. Bear traps."
"Bear traps?" Maggie asked.
"Yup. Seems some old geezer over on Alton thought he might catch his wife's lover if he ever tried to hide in their closet." He looked at Eric. "In your case we also came across these." He waved at someone behind him. One of the young soldiers came in carrying Eric's longbow and crossbow. "You a hunter, Mr. Ravensmith?"
"I have hunted."
"The reason I ask, this crossbow looks pretty new."
Eric drank from his Pepsi and shrugged. "So?"
"Nothing. It's just that I want to caution you about these things. They're as dangerous as rifles, but since we've been told to collect only firearms, I'm not taking it." He looked at it with appreciation. "It's a beaut, though. What kind?"
"Barnett Commando. Hundred-and-fifty-pound draw. The frame is aluminum, the barrel and cocking mechanism is brass."
"Cocking mechanism?"
"Yeah, instead of pulling the string back by hand, it has a break-action like a shotgun."
"Jesus," he whistled. "Looks like something outta Star Wars." He hesitated, as if hoping they could go on talking about bows and earrings and bear traps rather than searching another hostile house where somebody would scream in his ear about the Constitution and their rights, calling him Gestapo and worse. But when no one spoke, he shrugged, handed Eric a receipt. "You'll need this to redeem your guns. You'll get a notice in the mail. Thanks for cooperating."
"Sure thing," Eric said, ushering him toward the front door. As he closed the door behind Officer Perkins, Eric could see the crowd of neighborhood residents arguing with the soldiers. Before the earthquake, most of them wouldn't have even considered raising their voices at a policeman. But things had changed, more than just property damage and injuries. Attitudes.
Eric returned to the kitchen, opened another Pepsi. He'd decided not to tell Annie about the note he'd found pinned to his bike. She was already pretty jittery, and now that their guns were gone, the situation was worse. He would just have to lake more precautions now. Be extra careful.
He shoved his hand into his pocket, felt the crumpled note nestled among loose change and keys. Just touching it made his skin burn. A quote from Shakespeare. That was Fallows all right. He'd confided in Eric once that he'd been thrown out of three colleges before his wealthy father made a sizeable donation for a new library wing at a prestigious university. Young Dirk Fallows was immediately admitted and finally graduated from there two years later. He never mentioned what his major was, but even in Nam he was always quoting from Shakespeare. Not to show off, but almost as if in his violent rages he was unable to find his own words. That made it all the more frightening, because everything he quoted sounded sinister, evil. It was quite a sight to see this grizzled face leading an attack on Charlie, spewing obscenities and Shakespeare with equal skill.
Eric touched his scar, felt its shiny unnatural smoothness. What were the last words he'd heard Fallows say that day of the Easter Massacre, the hot, bloody bayonet still clutched in the bastard's hand? He was laughing. "Come not between the dragon and his wrath, Eric ole buddy. King Lear, Act I, Scene i, line 124." Then he'd stopped laughing, grabbed Eric's hair and jerked his sagging head upright. Even bound as he was to a hitching post, his face seared and bleeding, Eric had tried to lunge at Fallows. Fallows' face had darkened, his voice sharp and hard, but so quiet only Eric could hear it. "You were different than the rest, Eric. I was patient with you, tried to teach you, confided in you. I tried harder with you than with anyone else. Ever." He'd tightened his grip on Eric's hair, forcing his head back against the post. He spoke rapidly now through clenched teeth, but there was a hint of sadness in his voice. "I've never looked for a friend, never needed one. But you might have been. We could've owned this pissant country. What would it have cost you? Some respect, that's all. Was that too much to ask?"
Eric's throat was leathery, dry, his face aflame with pain. But he managed to choke out one word. "Yes."
Fallows' eyes widened with hate, his lips curled back into a death skull's smile. "How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child." Then he snapped his knee into Eric's crotch, lifting him off the ground, driving him into the post. Eric had mercifully slipped into semi-consciousness, though he could hear some of the other Night Shift soldiers gasp. "Remember," Fallows had said, though at the time Eric wasn't sure whether he'd been speaking to the men or to Eric. It didn't matter. Neither forgot.
The worst part of the note had been signing it with Luther's name. More of Fallows' black humor, Eric had felt personally responsible for Luther's death, and no amount of rationalization had been able to lighten that burden. Fallows would know that. He was not a stupid hick ex-soldier. He was the cleverest, most resourceful man Eric had ever met. Also the crudest, most ruthless. As a young kid in Nam, Eric had been tempted to accept Fallows' friendship. The patronage of an older, more experienced fighter, regardless of his methods, could mean the difference in how you got home: alive and with all your parts working, or an ugly, rotting lump in a body bag. For Fallows protected his followers with the same enthusiasm with which he destroyed his enemies. But somehow Eric had sensed it was not the way to go. That it would be the first step down a dark, winding road from which there was no return. That had only made Fallows more insistent. It became an obsession, a crusade. Until that last day.
Eric let his fingers skate across the icy surface of the scar again. He had to forget the past, ignore the future. Just concentrate on the present. Protecting his family. Staying alive. Don't let the rest of them know how he felt. He pulled on a casual smile, turned to his mother. "What time's your boyfriend coming over, Mom?"
"For God's sake, he's not my boyfriend," she scowled, but her eyes crinkled with delight. "Trevor and I have known each other since graduate school, before I even met your dad. Hell, the old fart helped me get my job. And yours too, I might add, young man."
Eric held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay."
"Besides, Trevor's brilliant in the one thing everybody wants to know about these days."
"What's that?" Annie asked.
Maggie smiled. "Earthquakes."
Eric stood silently outside the door and listened.
"Cmon, one game. Please?"
"Get lost, creepface."
"Be a sport. Jenny. One lousy game, then I'll leave you alone. Promise."
"Grow up or get out. Can't you see I'm trying to make a phone call?"
"Big deal. Big deal phone call."
"I don't see anybody calling you up."
"Nobody's calling you either. You're the one making the call."
"At least I have frien
ds to call."
"I have friends," Timmy protested.
"I mean normal friends, not those jerks you hang around with. Talking chess all the time. The Sausilito Defense and stuff."
"Sicilian Defense. And it's better than talking about who's wearing whose letter sweater at school. Or who kissed who."
Jenny giggled. "You won't think so in a couple years, gargoyle breath."
"How about a game after you're done with your call? I'll spot you a rook and a bishop."
"Unh uh, no deal. You'd win anyway. Why don't you play with that chess computer Dad got you? I thought you liked it."
"Yeah, I do. Only I like playing real people better." There was something sad in his voice that vibrated through Eric's stomach, caught in his throat.
Jenny must have heard it too. "Okay, as soon as I'm done talking to Lisa. But only if you're quiet while I'm on the phone. And one game, Timmy, I mean it. No begging afterwards."
"Great!"
"But I want a rook, a bishop, and a knight."
"Okay, but I get white. And no more-"
Eric moved away from the door and continued on down the dark hallway, smiling. This was one of his favorite pastimes, watching the kids from a distance, overhearing them playing or arguing. He wasn't spying, just delighting in their presence, an invisible observer to a world that made all others seem silly and useless by comparison. It wasn't innocence exactly; in Nam he'd seen enough of what horrors children could do under the right conditions. It was something else. Vulnerability? Trust? Yeah, maybe that was it, trust. Their innate trust that parents always knew what they were doing. It made you want to be more than you were, somehow better. To live up to their image.
It didn't matter that the kids weren't his biologically, he loved them as much as was possible, had even gotten used to thinking of them as if they really were his. They were young when he'd married Annie. Jenny was four and Timmy was two. Timmy had accepted him right away, curling up in Eric's lap every night and drooling on his pants. Jenny had been more reserved, even hostile, certain that her real father was coming home from Vietnam no matter what anyone said. Unfortunately, Eric knew differently because he had seen Lt. Stephen Finnegan's charred corpse still smouldering among the scattered pieces of twisted metal that once had been a helicopter. It was Lieutenant Finnegan's third mission as a chopper pilot. A barefoot woman not even five feet tall, with an AK-47 strapped to one shoulder and a three-month old daughter strapped to the other, had brought it down with three shots.