There is a TV in the room; set on low, while some news channel is playing. I wonder quietly when I last saw actual news on the news channel. All they keep doing is reiterating that Marshal law is in effect and keep reposting curfew times. Even the political squabbling has stopped, I guess they have other worries for now.
But the absence of reporting is frightening, especially after everything we’ve been through, with not a word or blurb about it. All social media sites are heavily censored. I tried to post things about what happened at the school—every single time, they get rejected with a brief note about my post being too incisive.
Suddenly there is a picture of our plant. “Turn it up,” I demand.
Colin obliges. “... if you see this plant. Stay away. It is highly poisonous. Only approach it with proper nose and mouth protection and gloves. Please call this number,” an 800 number flashes across the screen, “if you come across one. Do NOT try to remove it yourself. Rewards are offered for finding them, ranging from fifty to five hundred dollars.
“In other news….” the reporter drones on about sharks having come too close to the coast in recent days and a few beached whales.
“Interesting,” Colin says as he turns the TV back down.
“Any idea what that was all about?” I ask.
“They are trying to contain the plant. They realize what it is and what it is capable of, but they won’t tell anybody.
“That’s what scares me the most,” I admit.
“Vivian,” Martin calls. “Come down here. Colin, stay out of sight.”
We exchange a worried glance before I jump up and bolt down the stairs; Martin is by the front door, about to open it; he gives me a warning frown. Two men, wearing the familiar blue jackets, with yellow stenciled letters spelling FBI, stand in front of the door. One has his hand raised, about to knock.
“Morning, gentlemen, what can I do you for?” Martin asks in his most pleasant voice.
I have never heard him phrase his words like this before. And I wonder if he is purposefully trying to portray himself as a country bumpkin to the men. My heart hammers fast like a machine gun. Rat-a-tat-tat! They can’t be here for Colin, can they? Wouldn’t they send army guys, or marines, or something? MP, I think. Definitely MP. My heart slows down just a little.
“I’m special agent O’Brien, and this is special agent Medford. Can we come in?”
Martin makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Please.”
He directs them into the family room. I try to take a cue from Martin; he seems affable, so I go with, “Do you want some coffee… uhm… special agents?”
“No, we are good. Thank you.” The shorter one says.
“What is this all about?” Martin asks again.
Special agent O’Brien looks stern; he is of average height but built like a barrel, and he uses every ounce to intimidate. “It has come to our attention that you and some of your family members have been busy making phone calls.”
It’s not a question. He lets the statement hang for a moment, hoping Martin or I will reply. When we don’t, he clears his throat and continues. “We need you to cease and desist with those phone calls immediately.” Not a request.
I feel my blood boiling in anger; they stopped reporting the news, censoring social media, and now we are not allowed to make phone calls?
“I’m sorry, sir,” I say in my sweetest girlie girl voice, ignoring the anger flaring up inside of me. “But we have a large family, and we needed to find out….”
Agent O'Brien raises a hand. “Before you commit a felony by lying to a federal agent, young lady, I want to point out to you that we are in possession of recordings of your phone calls to your family members. In which you are introducing yourself, which does not sound like you are speaking to a loved one.”
He makes a show of pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Vivian Allister: Hello, my name is Vivian; I’m from Bandon, Oregon. I was wondering if you would like to exchange some information….” He looks up at me. “Shall I continue?”
Martin’s face has turned beet red. “How dare you come into my home and try to tell me who we can and cannot talk to on the phone? We….”
“Please, sir. I understand you were a highly decorated officer with the Marine Corps. We do not want to cause any problems.” O'Brien says in a reasonable voice, which is in stark contrast to Martin’s outraged face.
“We are merely asking and appealing to your duty to your country. To maintain order and peace, we need you to stop inciting other people. Please, sir.”
Martin’s anger isn’t appeased; between clenched teeth, he asks, “Or what?”
O’Brian’s demeanor does not change one bit, he is still pleasant as pleasant can be, but his eyes narrow just a little.
“We understand that your son Colin Thornton is AWOL at this time. We could come back with a search warrant and search this house and area. We could talk to neighbors, friends, family.”
He clears his throat: “I also understand that Miss Vivian here has had some run-ins with the law lately. I heard rumors about shooting a man in California not too long ago. I believe your other son Blake Thornton was also involved in that. It would be a shame if the federal government would step in to investigate any of these allegations.”
“Get. Out.” Martin manages.
“Of course, sir.”
O'Brien nods at his partner, and they turn on their heels. They hesitate for a quick goodbye and leave. I lock the door behind them, realizing that I didn’t hear Medford say one word, not that it matters. O’Brian’s threats were quite clear.
“Bullshit.” Martin curses. “Complete and utter horse shit.”
I lean against the door, uncertain of what to say or do.
“Well, I guess that shuts your little telecommunication business down.” Colin laughs from up the stairs. I glare up at him.
“Better call everybody so that they don’t show up or do calls on their own.” Martin rubs his head, annoyed.
“They probably already had their visitors.” Colin is still laughing.
“What is so funny about this? This is an infringement….” I say, still outraged over what just happened.
“Awe, little girl can’t play with the big boys.” Colin antagonizes.
“Didn’t you just hear them threaten us? They are supposed to be on our side.” I sputter.
“Since when?” Colin counters.
“Since… always,” I say, feeling like a petulant child. The familiar anger towards Colin rises inside of me for always making me feel…. second? A child? Or because he is forcing me to act like one?
“Are you really that naïve, Tinker Bell?” I don’t even have to look up at him to know that his stupid eyebrow is raised all the way into his hairline.
“I’m not…. and quit calling me that.” I barely stop myself from stomping my foot. He is so insufferable.
“Whatever you wish, princess.” He laughs.
“Go check on Ben,” Martin says, but to my annoyance, he is trying to hide a grin. I shake my head in disbelief and irritation.
“And to think that I just started to like you,” I mutter.
Martin laughs out loud this time; he even slaps his leg in amusement.
“Whatever,” I yell.
These men are dreadful. Dreadful people and I don’t understand why I have to put up with them. It’s hard to say if I’m a glutton for punishment or just a sucker, but I make my way back into the room where they put Ben, despite Colin still sitting in there. I try my best to ignore him as I navigate websites and social media on my phone, but I can sense him staring at me.
I finally raise my head and meet his eyes. His lips curl into the usual arrogant Colin smile that makes my blood boil.
“What?” I ask exasperated.
“Anything interesting?” He nods towards my phone. On the bed, Ben moan’s quietly.
“Nothing, unless you want me to tell you about Maggie’s Pedi, which she got from Caren.” I dare h
im to say something snide. He just looks amused. I sigh.
“There is nothing about anything on here. Except, people are talking about the flowers.” I offer, trying to be the bigger person.
“What are they saying?” He wants to know.
“It’s hard to tell; there is so much censoring here. People are commenting on things that were already deleted. It’s frustrating.”
Ben moans a little louder.
“Is he waking up?” I move closer.
Colin gets up and adjusts the I.V. drip a little. Ben is still getting a mix of antibiotics and saline to replenish his liquids. His skin looks even paler in contrast with Blake’s dark blue pillow. Gently, I push some of the boy’s hair out of his face.
“At least he is clean,” I say.
“The smell was pretty bad,” Colin adds.
He checks on the leg, propped up on pillows. As long as Ben is not moving, Doctor Paton did not put a bandage on it, so we can easier access and clean it. The wound has been stitched but is still an angry red. Red lines have not yet fully retreated, but we marked the locations with Sharpie and can tell they are going down.
Ben’s eyelids flutter.
“Hey,” I say softly and stroke his hair.
His eyes open; they are such a pretty honey-brown color, so sweet and innocent. Confusion is written all over his easy to read face; I can tell the moment it’s all coming back to him as his eyes fill with pain and tears.
“It’s okay, Ben, you are safe,” I reassure him.
“Hey dude, want some water?” Colin asks in a voice so soft it has me look up in surprise.
This is a new side of him. I never met caring Colin before. He grabs a glass of water with a bendy straw and gently lifts it to Ben’s lips. The boy takes a few deep sips before indicating that he had enough.
“Ben, is there somebody we can call for you? Your dad? Any family?”
We shamelessly searched his dirty clothes before we threw them out, but there was nothing there, no wallet, no phone. Which probably shouldn’t have been a surprise since his clothes looked like pajamas.
Ben nods. “My old man. Can we try him?”
I pull out my phone, and he gives me a number. It rings a few times; I’m just about to give up; after all, what is the probability that his dad didn’t turn too when a male voice comes on the line. The man sounds tired as if it takes a big effort to answer.
“Hi, my name is Vivian Allister. I think we found your son… Ben?”
There is a moment of silence, in which I swear I hear a sob. “Ben?”
I hand the phone over to Ben. “Dad?”
Colin motions for me to leave the room with him to give Ben some privacy, patiently we wait in the hallway, trying hard not to listen to the mumbling voice inside the room. After a few minutes, Ben calls us in to ask for our address.
Since it’s easier, I take the phone and talk to his dad, Adam Riker, and give him directions. He lives just a few miles from us in Prosper and promises to be right over. What are the odds? I think, amazed.
“Go talk to him first.” Colin nudges me after we hang up; again he surprises me with his thoughtfulness.
I give Ben a quick kiss on the cheek and promise to bring him some food along with his dad. He smiles tentatively up at me. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to do anything again.”
“I know; I still would rather Colin stay with you for a little while, though, if you don’t mind.” And after a quick glance at Colin, I add. “I know he is a pain.”
Ben closes his eyes in exhaustion, but a small smile forms on his lips. I hurry down the stairs to make good on my word to fix some food. I’m just finished with a sandwich when I hear a car arriving at the front of the house—I hurry to get to the front door. I want to prepare Ben’s dad before he sees his son.
A black Mercedes comes to a screeching stop, the motor is barely off, before an older version of Ben jumps out of the car, “Vivian?”
Before I can reply, he engulfs me in a giant bear hug that leaves me almost breathless. “Thank you.” He cries.
It takes a few minutes to fill Adam in on what happened to his son. The man sobs the entire time openly. I take his hand in both of mine, assuring him that his son is alright for the time being.
After I show Adam the way to Ben’s room, I return to the kitchen. I might as well fix some food for all of us. I don’t want to interrupt father and son right now, even though Ben can surely use the nourishment.
I check the fridge and freezer and find the ingredients for chicken noodle soup. Just as I start chopping, Colin comes in and wordlessly grabs a knife to help me.
Chapter 29
The next few days pass without incident. Martin invited Adam to stay with us until Ben is better and able to travel. Doctor Paton comes by almost every day to check on him, and afterward, he and Martin drink a beer or two on the back porch. Turns out Doctor Paton was in the Marine Corps too, and he and Martin have a lot in common.
Martin resumes the training, and since I’m still hurt, all I’m able to do is watch unless we work on target shooting, for which I’m cleared to participate. I’m not a humble person, so when it’s my turn, and I keep hitting the bullseye on my target no matter how far Colin moves it, I grin fully and revel in his astonishment.
“Seems even princesses have their usefulness,” he smirks.
But even his comment can’t take away from the fact that I know I have impressed him. I don’t understand why it’s important to me, but I still enjoy it.
The weather is heating up with every passing day and doing anything outside is almost unbearable. Thank God Martin was able to talk Joe, the owner of a local gym, into letting us use it. The gym, like so many other businesses, is closed, and Joe is more than happy to allow us to get some use out of it and is even willing to help us. As a former kickboxing champion, there is a lot he can teach us.
To everybody’s surprise, Maggie is really good at kickboxing. I enjoy watching her and the others, and my fingers itch to join in. Who would have thought I would ever enjoy physical activity, but punching that bag looks like a lot of fun. Just thinking about hitting it, imagining it’s Colin, gets me into a better mood.
I pay close attention to what Joe is teaching. In my mind, I repeat his instructions, commit them to memory so that, hopefully, the moves will be easier for me to pick up once I’m cleared for physical exercise again.
My ribs are slowly getting better. The bruises are all colors of green and yellow and begin to fade. Having my arm in a sling, pressed against them, also helps. It eliminates sudden moves that would hurt me. Doctor Paton looked at them this morning and announced that by next week I should be able to join the training.
It’s late in the afternoon, and we are devouring a huge take out feast from Long Hu in our backyard. How Martin talked them into catering for our group almost every day (alternating with Don Alfredo’s fine Italian cuisine) is a mystery, but I’m grateful. Both restaurants enjoy feeding our growing group. We are nearly forty people strong now. Mostly kids from school and a handful of adults who have joined us as well.
It’s a pleasant afternoon; the temperatures are still higher, much higher than what we are used to, but a little lower than it was during the last few days. Most likely, thanks to the slight breeze coming from the ocean.
Our yard leads up to a small forest, which it shares with the neighbors across from us. If I crane my neck just right to the left, I can see some blue of the sea. I have always loved this backyard.
“Hey, squirt.” I turn annoyed towards Colin, who leans in right next to me. “How long are you going to use those ribs as an excuse not to train?” He nods at my sling.
I scowl at him. “Doctor Paton said I should be fine next week.”
He raises an eyebrow: “Whatever, sissy.”
“Excuse me, what is your problem?” I demand, feeling the familiar heat of my blood boiling.
“Nothing.” He leans back against the deck’s railing.
He looks
so relaxed and nonchalant that I just want to kick him. There is not a hint in his posture about his words goading me.
“What should be the matter? Just making conversation.” He states lazily.
“It’s not a conversation; it sounds like you are accusing me of something.”
“And what would I be accusing you of?” He looks genuinely surprised.
“I don’t know…… slacking off?” I try.
“Do you feel like you are slacking off?” The amusement playing along his lips makes me want to smack him.
I ball my hand, the one that is not in a sling, into a fist, preparing to follow through with the tantalizing daydream. “I’m not slacking off. I’m hurt.”
“I know. You have bruised ribs. Legitimate excuse.” He stuffs an egg roll into his mouth.
His words sound honest, but his whole arrogant posture and the tone of his voice speak an entirely different language.
I take a step forward; I’m so tempted to help that egg roll down his throat.
“It hurts.” I defend myself.
“I’m sure it does.”
I grind my teeth.
“And we don’t want the princess to hurt more.” He lifts his beer to wash the eggroll down.
“Leave her alone; she went through enough.” Martin comes to my defense.
“See,” I shout triumphantly.
He raises his hands in defense: “Hey, I haven’t said anything. If she is reading into my words….”
“We all know that you always manage to have people read into your words.” Blake makes quotation marks with his fingers in the air.
I feel validated. Both Colin’s father and brother come to my defense.
“She is not a soldier,” Martin adds, and I nod.
“No danger of getting that confused.” Colin laughs.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I puff myself up. It’s hard to be intimidating when you are only five foot two.
“Just a statement, doll face.” Have I mentioned how much I hate that smug expression on his face?
“Again, with the nicknames. Arrgghh!” I can’t help but stomp my foot.
The Rain | Part 1 | The Beginning Page 25