Ed stated coolly, “You’re under arrest, remember?”
Max said, “It’s for my own good, right?”
“Have a seat,” Ed said, expressionless.
“Can’t,” Max said. “Miles to go and promises to keep. Take care of yourself, Mr. Boswell.” He turned again and walked away.
“I mean it!” Ed shouted. Only then did he hear the distant whacking of helicopter blades.
57
Gathering Stormers
Speeding out of the west came a mass of dark, threatening clouds. Knowing rain was imminent, the spectators in the town square scattered for cover. Curious reporters wondered how the storm would affect the intractable youths, for it promised to be quite a big storm. They retreated to their cars and mobile units, prepared their reports, and waited. The media made bets amongst themselves; most of the reporters were certain that a good downpour would flush the kids out and put an end to the whole silly business.
But when the first drops began to splat on the sidewalks, the youths mobilized. After only minutes of well-orchestrated teamwork, the youths tied together numerous sky-blue tarps, fastened them to the cord that ran the length of the flagpole, and hoisted a capacious tent into the air. They pinned the shelter’s triangular sides to the ground, and in no time the grassy island was water tight. The tent also hid the youths from the media’s sight.
It rained for the rest of that afternoon and through the night. The mayor, his lawmen, and a number of outraged citizens saw this as an opportunity to collect their wits and figure out a strategy to bring a halt to a situation already out of hand. Humiliated and furious, they feared that if something were not done soon, Pinecrest would become the laughing stock of the entire country, if it hadn’t already, for the story was making national headlines and had appeared on the evening news.
All construction in Pinecrest had come to a halt, not only at Moonridge, but also at the many other sites in and around town. The heavy machinery that had been rumbling through the city for the past months now plugged the central artery and caused dozens of traffic jams, as well as a few fender benders. The post office fell behind in its deliveries, shop owners whined about lost revenues, and further complicating matters, a power line downed during the storm had left a quarter of Pinecrest in darkness and without telephone service.
Mayor Fitch and a select group of town leaders argued and hollered among themselves in the mayor’s third-floor office overlooking the town square. They banged fists on the diminutive furniture—a constant embarrassment to the mayor, and a relentless reminder of the troublemaking Max Stormer—cursed furiously, and interrupted one another with upsurges of accusation and indignation. Meanwhile, across the way, under the sky-blue dome, the group of young rebels plotted their next move in calm deliberateness.
“The way I see it,” Regina said, “tomorrow they are going to send in the goon squad and we’re all going home or to jail.”
“Same thing,” Jake snickered, getting a round of chuckling agreement.
“But before we go,” she went on, “we have our objective.” The others responded with knowing nods. “And the one thing we have going for us is that nobody out there has any idea what that objective is.”
“The press is dying to talk to us,” Alex said.
“I know,” Regina said, “but we don’t have anything to say to them. To them we’re just mouse clicks and tweets.”
Steve said, “They think we’re looking for attention and that we should all be goo-goo about them gracing us with their presence.”
“Still,” Brandon said, “we are news now whether we like it or not, and tomorrow they’re going to come after us all the harder.”
“Which is why we must continue to ignore them,” Regina said. “People would rather be hated than ignored.” She smiled. “It’ll drive them nuts.”
“What I want to know,” Jake said, “is what do we do if the mayor starts getting belligerent on us. Do we resist, or do we go…peacefully?” He spoke the word as if it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“No violence,” Steve said.
“But what if someone swings a club at your head?”
“Duck,” Cheeks said.
They heard a bark from outside the tent. Alex lifted the bottom of the tent and a soaking wet Beowulf crawled in to greet them. Everyone cheered, called his name, and reached to pet him. Beowulf shook from head-to-tail and sprayed all around him, triggering peels of laughter.
Beowulf was their chief smuggler and messenger boy, and on his back he wore a pair of saddlebags. He had been running supplies and messages between the group and Mr. Brodie all week, scampering back and forth between the island and the Brodie place on the edge of town.
The youths heard more barking and exchanged baffled looks. Jake lifted the flap and in crawled a large pack of dogs. The mangy creatures, thin and wiry, were the marauding dogs that had been running rampant about the town for the past many weeks.
Dawn said, “Looks like Beowulf made some friends.”
“The town’s been trying to catch these guys for a long time,” Jake said. “I go out at night and smash the traps and leave them food.”
Indeed the dogs seemed to recognize Jake. Three of them pounced on him, barked and licked at his face.
“What did Beowulf bring us?” Regina asked.
Steve reached into Beowulf’s saddle bags and pulled out bread and cheese and other foodstuffs. He passed them around to the others. In a Ziplock bag at the bottom of one of the satchels he found a letter. He read it, smiled, and handed it to Regina. Everyone saw the same cheering, mischievous smile float across her face.
“What is it?” Dawn asked.
“The gods are swift,” she said. “Athena, Demeter, and Isis.”
“They’re here?” Dawn said, overjoyed. “They made it?”
Regina grinned and nodded, touching off a round of cheers. The kids partied late into the night, feasting on bread, cheese, and soda that Mr. Brodie had also sent along.
The town was awoken at daybreak by Sinbad’s jazzy rendition of reveille. The youths lowered the tent and in its place raised two flags—The Stars and Stripes and the U.S. First Navy Jack with its motto “Don’t Tread On Me.”
The rain washed away the last remnants of snow on the ground. The sky was overcast and the air nippy. The youths didn’t know what the day might bring, but they felt electric and brimmed with good humor. The dogs had left to return to their marauding, except for Beowulf, who had an unending number of playmates.
The reporters and cameramen arrived first on the scene. The youths disdainfully ignored them. Frustrated and indignant, the defeated journalists and newscasters retreated to the sidelines. Then the youths’ parents poured in, pleading with their kids to return to their senses and come home before they got any deeper into trouble.
“Sid,” Mr. Kelpy said sternly, walking up to the island’s lawn, “you’ve had your fun, now come home.” Mr. Kelpy was the town pharmacist: tall, lean, with short, springy gray hair and a mustache. Sid knew that his friends were all within earshot, but they pretended to go about their business.
Sid looked sheepishly at the ground, shook his head and said, “Sorry, Dad, but I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?” Mr. Kelpy retorted. “Look at me when I talk to you.”
Sid looked up. “I want to be with my friends.” His voice caught as he spoke.
“Friends,” Mr. Kelpy scoffed. “These people aren’t your friends.”
Sid shrugged. He didn’t know what to say. The accusation seemed too ludicrous for a reply. Finally he repeated, “They are my friends.”
“Come home, Sid. That’s an order!”
Sid shook his head regretfully.
“Your mother is very upset about this. Why do you want to keep torturing her?”
“I’m sorry, Dad, but I have to stay. It’s-it’s important to me.”
“Important? Graduating is important. Getting good grades is important. Keeping your nose cle
an is important.”
“Standing up for what you believe is important, isn’t it?”
Mr. Kelpy paused thoughtfully, and then changed his tone to condescending understanding. “Sure, son,” he said. “I won’t argue that. You should stand up for things that are important. But this,” he said with a sweep of his arm, “…this is childish and doesn’t prove a thing.” He stepped forward to put his arm around his son’s shoulder but Sid slunk out of reach. “What, Sid?” he said indignantly. “Are you telling me I’ve been a lousy father, that I raised you so poorly…?”
“No, Dad—”
“Your mother and I are just terrible people, is that it?”
“No, Dad. I love you and Mom!”
“And this is how you show it?”
On the verge of tears, Sid felt that if he tried to speak he would start bawling. He looked about him and saw his friends consolatory looks. He drew courage from them. They knew. They understood. “I do my best,” he said. “I can’t be everything to everybody.”
“This?” his father said mockingly. “This is the best you can do? Haven’t your mother and I taught you anything?”
“You taught me to fear you and to feel stupid and embarrassed in front of you,” he retorted. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. The shock on his father’s face was no less than that on his own. Sid immediately thought of apologizing, but he didn’t. There, I said it. It’s done. And it’s true.
“Fine,” Mr. Kelpy snapped—hurt, disappointed, and angry. “I won’t forget this.” He turned and started away. But he had one last word, and he addressed the whole lot of them when he shouted it. “You’re all a bunch of ungrateful, spoiled brats! Wait till you have kids of your own. I hope they make you suffer!”
Regina strolled over to Sid and put an arm around his shoulder. She walked with him to the flagpole where the others were chaining themselves back up.
Steve said, “We wouldn’t have held it against you, Sid.”
“I know. Give me some of that chain.”
More parents and townspeople approached the youths with various pleas and compromises, but their kids were unresponsive. Again rose the chants:
We’re not talking till Stormer’s walking!
Moonridge is sacrilege; leave our mountain as it is!
Anything you can do, we can do without!
New signs and placards were waved:
Stuff Your Stuff
Boycott the Briefcase
Young and Stupid. What’s Your Excuse?
Keep the Pine in Pinecrest
We Reject Your Rejection!
The press returned to badger the youths for an interview but the kids remained uncompromisingly aloof. The reporters found this very annoying.
“By denying us an interview,” one peeved reporter said, “you’re not doing your cause any good. If anyone can help you, we can.”
“This is not a cause,” Regina snapped. “It’s an effect.”
It was the first and only time Regina broke her silence with the press. The reporter, try as she might, could not get another word out of the girl.
The drivers of the trucks and transports loaded down with earthmovers and other heavy-duty machinery were equally vexed. Their vehicles had been sabotaged during the night. Someone had slashed their tires, and under many of the machines were large puddles of oil. The trucks were not going anywhere, and neither was any other traffic. By mid-morning, vehicles trying to circumvent the town center jammed every side street in Pinecrest. Worse yet, the main highway that passed through the center of town was also feeling the pinch. By noon, traffic was backed up in both directions for ten miles outside of town.
Megaphone in hand, Mayor Fitch approached the group of youths and demanded that they disband immediately or else be arrested and dragged off. To show that he meant business, the entire Pinecrest Police Department stood lined up behind him. That was, everyone not searching for Max Stormer, which left a half-dozen men.
The youths fell back and regrouped around the flagpole. They chanted louder and more fiercely than ever, their faces locked in grim defiance. Cameramen took their positions, kneeling with their cameras set on their shoulders like bazookas.
The mayor nodded to the lawmen to proceed. “Go get ‘em boys, but remember there are cameras watching, so try to keep the violence to a minimum.”
The deputies advanced in a line across the slick, cluttered street. They squeezed between the stalled vehicles and the mountain of junk that had grown still larger in the intervening hours. Billy clubs dangled from their belts, and in their hands were pairs of large bolt clippers. The youths dropped their signs, locked arms, and formed two circles—those chained to the flagpole, and a second outer ring. They jeered at the advancing lawmen and braced themselves.
A commotion erupted among the crowd of bystanders. A moment later a group of thirty children stormed through the ranks and dashed toward the flagpole. The kids were led by a floppy-haired youngster shouting orders for the others to grab arms and form a third circle. Their leader was Timmy Duncan, captain of the Pinecrest Pop Warner football team—the same lad who with his friends had helped to free the stalled truck from the mud days earlier. He looked much like Max Stormer did when he was a boy, and to the town’s chagrin, was already earning a similar reputation for delinquency.
The lawmen exchanged uneasy, wary glances. They turned and looked back at the mayor who stomped his foot in anger. All eyes were on him. Fitch looked around, sneered, and waved the deputies forward. The deputies shook their heads in dismay and continued their cautious advance. Cameramen and photographers darted about for pictures as the anxious crowd murmured their concerns.
The lawmen were about to enter upon the grassy island when they froze in their steps. Mouths agape, the astonished deputies saw an army of youths stream out of the side streets and into the main corridor. Shouting slogans and waving placards, they swarmed over the town square like ants. Dozens fell upon the mountain of junk and began piling on more and more items.
Steve and Regina turned to one another in surprise. These youths were not from Pinecrest. They recognized them as friends and acquaintances from Morning Creek, Stillwoods, and other nearby towns. Many of these new arrivals had joined the Olympians in their mountain escapades with Aidos. Still, the Olympians were as amazed as the rest of the town at this turn of events. The media could not have been more pleased. They knew now that they had a major story on their hands.
Chaos enveloped the town. Everywhere youths shouted, cheered, and celebrated. The law officers spun panic-stricken circles. They turned to the mayor but he had slunk off. The situation hopeless, the deputies walked discreetly away.
Regina tugged on Steve’s sleeve and pointed. Through the confusion they saw three pretty coeds holding hands and strolling nonchalantly down the sidewalk.
“Now’s the perfect time,” Steve said.
“They know the plan,” Regina replied with assurance.
April Jarrett, Patty Kimball, and Katie Austin sauntered through the noise and bustle of the square. They looked about in wonder and laughed merrily. They never stopped to stare. Instead, they picked up their pace to a brisk amble. When they cleared the town center and turned onto Ash Street, they broke into a run.
58
The Good, the Bad, and the Lovely
Gloria Goodbea, the wife of retired Army Colonel Alexander Goodbea, lived in a large, two-story, white Victorian house on the edge of town. An energetic woman, she looked younger than her sixty-five years. She seemed always to be smiling, but rarely out of mirth. Mrs. Goodbea liked to dress well, as if she were on her way to a tea party, which she often was.
Gloria Goodbea founded the Pinecrest Ladies Auxiliary: a club dedicated to the advancement of moral and ethical citizenship in the town of Pinecrest. The duties of the elite club of thirty members consisted mainly of fund raising for charities and other good causes in the town’s interest. Her group got out the vote at election time, secured the town
Christmas tree, kept the editorial pages of the Pinecrest Tribune bubbling with pride or bristling with indignation, whichever the case may be, and staunchly supported the town’s expansion and related tourism industry. The Auxiliary threw bridal and baby showers, picnics and tea parties, and was the self-appointed Welcome Wagon for the ever-increasing number of new residents.
It was Mrs. Goodbea who initiated the idea to erect the bronze lumberjack statue in the town park. She modeled it after her grandfather, and meant it to symbolize both the founding and future of Pinecrest. The lumberjack’s ax was still welded between the figure’s buttocks, and not a day went by that she didn’t curse the hoodlum Max Stormer for the heinous desecration.
Colonel Goodbea, to his wife’s irritation, was neutral on the Stormer affair. The colonel disapproved of the situation in town, but he responded unemotionally, stating that he would judge the boy by the facts as they came out in trial. Retired, the colonel figured that he had already dealt with his share of problems. Now he was interested only in raising bees—his hobby and his love.
Colonel Goodbea had hired Max Stormer for numerous odd jobs on his house and cars over the years, and he had always found the lad’s work painstakingly well done. This commended Max to the colonel in a soldierly way. Max had also helped the colonel to construct many of the elaborate and experimental beehives in his two-acre backyard. That the boy showed an earnest curiosity in the colonel’s hobby was another reason for his neutrality. Max Stormer had spunk, and the colonel liked spunk. The man detected a martial streak in the youth and he thought the kid possessed a warrior’s soul. The colonel liked that too. The lad had never been rude or disrespectful to him, so why should he hate him?
Because no suitable living relatives could be located to care for the two Stormer children, Ricki and Samantha, they found themselves in the charitable arms of the Ladies Auxiliary. Max sent the Auxiliary an eloquent letter defending his right to raise the children, but Mrs. Goodbea considered the epistle contemptible and preposterous, and pitched it into her fireplace.
Stormer’s Pass: Aidos Trilogy: Book 1 Page 30