Different Circumstances: Part 6A of ? by Marzee Doats
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Thursday, October 26, five weeks after the bombs
"Mornin' Jake," Mary Bailey greeted, barely bothering to look up at the sound of the door opening and closing.
"Mornin' Mary," he returned, throwing her an absent and rather false smile, still preoccupied with thoughts of Dale Turner and the confrontation in the street outside. Jericho was changing, and certainly not for the better.
Jake crossed the space, looking around, taking note of the few patrons in Bailey's this morning. There were two, both alone, both hunched over their respective tables, both drinking. Jake no longer bothered to wear a watch, but even without one he knew that it wasn't any later than about eight-thirty in the morning. Still, there was always someone in Bailey's these days, drinking, trying to find some way to hold reality at bay. Jake shook his head, and then headed for what was now his usual barstool.
"Coffee?" Mary asked rhetorically, holding up the coffee pot. Jake nodded, and she grabbed a cup, taking two steps toward him. Turning the cup over, Mary filled it with coffee. "How's your brother?" she inquired, obviously trying to appear conversational, but failing rather spectacularly.
Jake picked up his cup and took a sip of coffee, studying her over the rim. The coffee was hot, amazingly so considering that Mary had been reduced to percolating it in an old aluminum pot over an even older camping stove that she'd found in the basement among her deceased father's things. But, he supposed, she knew when to expect him. Jake had fallen into the habit of coming in for coffee each morning, a precious commodity which Mary seemed happy to provide as long as he caught her up on the news from town hall. This was the first time, however, that she'd asked after his brother.
"Eric pretty much keeps to himself," Jake answered cautiously, still watching Mary closely. That much was definitely true. Jake and Heather were now living mostly out of his childhood bedroom, and although Eric and April were in the room next door, Jake went most days without exchanging more than a few sentences with his brother. "Spends a lotta time at work," he explained with a shrug. "Making sure the town stays on its feet."
Mary frowned, though Jake was sure she didn't know that she was doing so. "Really?" she mumbled, turning away so that he couldn't see her face any longer. Still, he could hear the sudden hitch in her voice as she continued. "That's odd. I just figured he'd be spending a little more time with his wife," Mary sighed. "You know," she clarified, stumbling over her words slightly, "Now that they've lost the house and all."
He realized he should have expected this, but two weeks of coming into Bailey's each morning without any questions about Eric had lulled him into a false sense security. "They seem pretty happy together," Jake answered, nodding once.
It wasn't an untrue statement as far as Jake could see. Eric and April weren't around one another much, and Eric always seemed distracted when he was at the house, but at least he'd stopped haunting Bailey's. Heather insisted that things were better between them than she'd seen in months, and Jake, still suffering from insomnia and wandering the house at a little after midnight two nights before, had heard enough coming from their bedroom to convince himself that Heather was right.
Mary, her expression falling, turned away, grabbing a carton of champagne bottles, heading Jake assumed, for the storeroom. He felt bad for her, and mad all over again at Eric for having allowed this situation to occur. Distracted by his own thoughts, he didn't hear the tavern door open, or look up from his coffee cup until he heard someone call out, "Mitchell, wait up."
Jake jerked his head up in time to see Mitchell Cafferty lope into the bar proper, his usual nefarious grin firmly in place. He slithered toward Mary, blocking her path. "Lookin' good, Mary," he leered.
"Uh-uh," Mary protested loudly, planting the box she carried between them, practically shoving it at Mitchell. "We aren't doin' this again, Mitch," she told him. "You're not welcome here."
"Ah, c'mon," Mitchell wheedled, his sickening grin widening. "After everything that's happened, we're just lookin' for a cold beer," he insisted.
That was enough to exasperate Mary and bring her out of her initial, somewhat fearful reaction to Mitchell's presence. "We haven't served cold anything for a long time," she practically snorted.
Mitchell shrugged, pretending nonchalance for just a moment. "All right," he told her, "Just give me whatever you got." His eyes bore into Mary's, and then he leaned closer, the volume of his voice dropping, his tone taking on just a hint of a threat. "Or, I'll get it myself," Mitchell assured her.
"You might want to rethink that," Jake announced then. He finished off his coffee, and now faced Mitchell with a steely, unblinking gaze. Jake watched as Mitchell turned slightly, obviously taken off guard. He ducked his head so he could see past the glassware hanging from racks above the bar, his eyes narrowing into a hard stare for just a few seconds.
Mitchell recovered from his surprise, pretending amusement, chuckling to himself. Mitchell Cafferty's laughter, even more than his normal speech, tended to betray his rather tenuous grasp on reality. Jake wasn't exactly afraid of Mitch, but he knew that Mitch didn't have a conscience, that he'd never felt a pang of guilt or a twinge of remorse in his life. Mitchell didn't care about anyone in this world but himself, and that gave him a certain advantage over Jake in all their dealings.
"Wow!" Mitchell declared, throwing his body back, mimicking surprise. "Here we all thought you went up in the blast." He walked around the bar, still acting as if this was all great fun. "But I knew you'd find a way to survive." He stood next to Jake now, holding out his hand to shake.
"Interesting," Jake mumbled, ignoring Mitchell's proffered hand. "Jonah musta forgotten to tell you I was alive and well," he added, throwing the other man a quick, appraising glance. Jonah Prowse, Mitchell's boss, was a violent, amoral, conniving son of a bitch, but at least he was sane. The same could not be said for Mitchell Cafferty. Plus, Mitchell had always had an overblown sense of his own importance to Jonah. If he wasn't vulnerable to even the occasional prick of conscience, he could at least still be victimized through his own overweening pride. "Jonah and I had a nice conversation, coupla weeks ago," Jake added, noting the twitch of anger that washed – just for a few seconds – over Mitchell's features. His blow had been well timed, and well placed.
In truth, Jake and Jonah's conversation had been anything but nice and friendly. They had met up in a stand-off out on the highway a week after the bombs. Jake, with the help of his brother, Stanley and Jimmy had been working to retrieve Jake's belongings from his wrecked car, as well as tow the Roadrunner back to the Green Ranch. Stanley had a tow bar and enough horsepower in his old truck to handle the job; Jake had asked Eric and Jimmy along both to help deal with the accident victims he'd left out there, and to have two more guns along. Jonah and four of his goons – men that Jake didn't know – had shown up just as they finished burying the two corpses a few feet back from the road. Jake and Jonah had exchanged words, and Jonah had been put at a disadvantage when one of his men began making noises about just shooting them all, and taking both vehicles – Stanley's truck and Jake's car – for themselves. Jonah had had to shout the other man down, admitting out loud that he didn't want to invite the trouble down on himself that would come with killing either of Johnston Green's sons, let alone both. Jonah and his gang had backed off then, Jonah making a quiet promise to Jake that nothing was settled between them.
"Oh, c'mon," Mitchell tried a few seconds later. He appeared mostly recovered from Jake's revelation, though there was a note of not quite panic in his tone that told Jake he was unsettled by this news. It wouldn't matter now, even if Jonah bothered to explain to Mitchell what had happened – and the chances that Jonah Prowse would ever be willing to explain himself to Mitchell Cafferty were exceedingly slim – because it was obvious Mitchell already felt betrayed.
"Let's not do it like this," Mitchell continued, trying to affect a relaxed tone. "'Sides, anyone should have a grudge, it's me right?" he reminded, his voice taking on a hard quality. "You're the one who came after me."
Jake, pushing himself off the bar, stood up. "You know, you're right." He watched Mitchell for a moment, and then started to move past him. "Don't make me kick your ass again."
Mitchell grabbed Jake's arm, squeezing hard, forcing him to a stop. Robert Hawkins appeared next to them then, surprising them both. "Hey," he greeted cautiously. "Is everything all right?"
"You travel with your own, personal bodyguard now?" Mitchell asked Jake, chuckling soundlessly. He spared Hawkins a single, quick glance, his focus all on Jake. He still hadn't let go of Jake's arm. "That's probably not a bad idea."
Hawkins took another step toward the other two men. "What's the trouble here, Jake?" he inquired.
"Oh, no trouble," Mitchell answered, not looking at Hawkins. He and Jake were now embroiled in what amounted to a staring contest. "We're just two old friends, catching up," Mitchell insisted lightly, poking Jake in the chest with two fingers and then gesturing to himself.
"Well maybe you should do that some other place," Hawkins suggested, now standing at Jake's elbow. He faced Mitchell, his expression brooking no argument. "And, some other time."
Mitchell let go of Jake's arm finally, and then clapped him none too gently on the shoulder. "See you soon, pal," he promised before moving around both Jake and Hawkins to collect his silent companion, and then exit the bar.
* * * * *
Eric Green entered his parents' house quietly, hoping to keep from alerting anyone to his return. His plan was to be in and out, on his way back to town hall before anyone realized he'd been there. To that end, he closed the front door with deliberate slowness, cringing even at the soft sound of the latch catching. Unfortunately, Eric was out of luck; he turned around, only to come face to face with his mother. "Hey, Mom," he greeted with as much enthusiasm as he could muster before heading into the living room.
"Hi!" Gail Green returned, smiling warmly at her son. "What're you doin' home?" she inquired, following Eric, dust rag in hand, into the next room.
"I'm just snaggin' another citation ledger," Eric answered distractedly as he went through the secretary's desk that had, for his entire life, served as the catchall location for storing anything coming into the Green home that no one could quite decide what to do with. He shook his head, pulling a drawer out and then rifling through it. "Takin' more complaints these last few days than we normally do in a month," he explained.
Gail nodded, still watching her son's back. "Well, Jake, Heather and I are goin' out to the ranch to feed the horses in a bit," she began, dusting the tiffany lamp on a side table. "Heather's still workin' on cars out there, so if you'd like to join us, I'm sure Jake'd be just as happy to stay with her, and maybe you and I could talk."
"I'm sorry, I can't," Eric sighed, finally finding what he was looking for. He extracted the citation book from between a copy of the 1998 Jericho Town Budget and a thirty year old French dictionary. He faced his mother now. "With Dad down, I'm strugglin' just to make sure things don't fall apart out there," Eric shrugged.
She waited until he was about to walk past her, and then stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. "How 'bout things closer to home?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Eric snapped without meaning to. He'd just wanted to find the citation ledger and get back to town hall. He had more than enough to deal with there.
"How are you and April doing?" Gail asked then. She caught Eric's eye, offering him a sympathetic smile, but he quickly looked away.
"Why?" Eric demanded, expelling a frustrated breath. He still wouldn't meet his mother's gaze. "Did she say something?"
"Eric!"
His mother wasn't yelling exactly, but her tone made Eric feel all of ten years old again. He glanced at her finally, and then quickly looked away, his attention drawn by the creak of the door between the dining room and kitchen.
Heather entered the dining room, pausing a few steps into the room, hands on her hips. "You're not Jake," she informed Eric unnecessarily.
Usually, Eric bristled at even the slightest, most innocuous comparisons, good or bad, anyone made between his brother and himself, but at this moment he was grateful for his sister-in-law's presence, and perfectly willing to shift the subject of conversation to Jake. "Sorry, just me," he answered, saluting her with the ledger he'd come home to retrieve. "And, I'm on my way out," he added, trying to step around his mother.
"Stay another minute, please, Honey," Gail instructed, patting Eric with the hand she still had on his arm. "I sent Jake out to run an errand for me," she told Heather, who had now moved into the living room.
An amused grin found its way onto Heather's lips and, crossing her arms, she raised a questioning eyebrow at her mother-in-law. "Going to Bailey's for his morning coffee now qualifies as an errand?"
"Bailey's?" Eric repeated, ready to kick himself before the word was completely out of his mouth. He'd avoided the tavern for two weeks, and it was a shock to hear that Jake had been going in his stead. Luckily, his Mother and Heather didn't seem to think there was anything odd about his question.
"Bailey's," Heather confirmed. "Jake seems to think I'll be mad at him if he has coffee and I know about it." She shook her head, chuckling softly. "I really don't care, and I think I'm past the caffeine withdrawal period. It's been a month. I just didn't see why I should have to figure out how to make it without Mr. Coffee's help when I wasn't going to be drinking any, so I told Jake he was on his own."
"You do not get to drink coffee," April called out, two steps from the bottom of the staircase. She finished her descent, and then crossed the entry to join them.
"I'm not! I haven't!" Heather protested, holding her hands up in defense. "I'm just sayin', my husband doesn't need to sneak out to get coffee," she grumbled. "He's perfectly welcome to drink it at home."
"This is what happens when you're pregnant, and you have a well deserved reputation as a caffeine fiend," April teased, a fleeting grin softening her concerned expression.
Heather laughed at that, rolling her eyes. "Some friend you are," she complained.
"It may just be that Jake needs to get out for a bit," Gail suggested, removing her hand from Eric's arm. "We're all living on top of one another right now, after all," she sighed, earning emphatic nods of agreement from the other three. They were all having to learn to cope with the close quarters. Turning her gaze onto April, Gail asked, "How's Johnston?"
The grin disappeared from April's face, replaced by a frown. "I wish I had better news," she admitted, shaking her head. "His fever's getting worse." She glanced at Eric, then Heather, and finally at her mother-in-law again. "I'll try to dig up a stronger course of antibiotics at the med center," April promised, "But we're running low on supplies."
"If I could just get him to eat something!" Gail protested, worry slumping her shoulders. She looked at Eric. "Can you stay?"
Shaking his head, Eric pressed a kiss to his mother's forehead. "Don't worry about me, Mom," he told her. "There's a box of protein bars at the station. I'll just grab one of those."
"Okay," Gail conceded. She picked up her dust rag off the coffee table, and then headed into the entry, Heather following.
April, taking advantage of the opportunity, stepped into Eric's path, offering him a tentative smile. "If you wait ten minutes, maybe we could walk together?"
"I gotta go," Eric returned, his expression unreadable. "There's an important meeting."
Well, that's where you should be," April sighed, obviously disappointed. She held his gaze for a moment longer, asking hopefully, "Talk tonight?"
Eric didn't answer, just made a non-committal noise, and then, stepping around April, walked toward the door. In the hallway, Gail and Heather exchanged a worried look.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Monday, October 22, five years before the bombs
The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. Heather, heaving a sigh of relief, found herself having to raise her voice to be heard over her chattering students. The last part of the day had dragged, but now the children's flagging enthusiasm had been rekindled. Not quite shouting, Heather reminded them to take their math and science books for homework, and to not run in the hallway, and to please, please use their inside voices! Soon, they were in a reasonably straight line, ready to be escorted to the front of the school and their waiting buses and carpools. "Remember everyone," Heather admonished with a smile, "We're going to walk in the hallway. And, we're all going to stay in line today, right?"
Twenty-six third graders replied energetically, "Yes, Miss Lisinski!"
Opening the door, Heather waited while her students filed out, and then lined up as they were supposed to against the wall. Grabbing her clipboard with the school bus rosters off the hook just inside the classroom, she closed the door and locked it, spotting a folded note in the 'Communications Clip'. The Jericho Independent School District was fairly well modernized, with computers in all the classrooms, and email communications amongst the staff and parents, but they still utilized the time-honored method of clipping correspondence to the door. Student hall monitors carried attendance sheets, memos, and other notes to and from the office regularly throughout the day. Heather was sure there hadn't been anything clipped to the door an hour earlier when she'd brought her class back in from their two o'clock recess, but there was now. She retrieved the slip of paper, noting that her name – Miss Lisinski – was written across the front in the school secretary's handwriting. Pocketing the note, Heather hurried to the front of her class's line, and led them out of the building.
Once they were in front of the school, her students scattered, all semblance of order tossed away in honor of the early fall sunshine. Shaking her head at their antics, Heather couldn't help but smile. They'd been a wild bunch the entire day, and while she loved them all, she was more than happy to send them home. She knew it was partially her own fault; she'd stayed on the phone with Jake for nearly an hour after he'd called, safe and sound, from Denver. He had been the one to end their conversation, telling her gently to go to bed, but Heather had still arrived at school that morning operating on only four hours of sleep. Her kids had sensed her exhaustion, and then had spent the day testing her.
Heather walked the bus lines, checking that everyone was in the correct one, occasionally scolding a knot of students for roughhousing. Remembering the note, she pulled it out of her pocket and opened it, tearing the paper around the staple. Reading, she actually squeaked in surprise, drawing the attention of a group of eighth grade girls who were hanging back, waiting until the last possible moment to board their buses. "Girls," Heather intoned, shaking her head, "In line, please."
Emitting identical annoyed huffs, the three girls trudged toward their lines. Heather looked back down at the note in her hand, re-reading it. 'Miss Lisinski,' it said, 'You have a delivery. FLOWERS!!' This was all written in Mrs. Crenshaw's rather proper handwriting, though she'd abandoned decorum long enough to underline the word 'flowers' three times. 'Come pick them up in the office,' the note concluded. It was signed 'Mrs. C.'
She had no doubt that the flowers were from Jake, a thought that caused a wide smile to bloom on her face. Refolding the note, Heather put it away, and then went to check in with each driver so that the buses could depart. Five minutes later, the driveway in front of the school was clear, and Heather was headed for the office.
"Miss Lisinski!" Mrs. Crenshaw, the school secretary, called out, spotting Heather almost before she came into the room. "Come look at these roses," she insisted, turning to retrieve them from her desk. She placed the vase on the counter, and smiled at Heather. "Who are they from?" Mrs. Crenshaw asked, gazing appreciatively at the bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed red roses. "Or, do you have a secret admirer?" she teased. "There's a card."
Heather felt the eyes of everyone in the office – Mrs. Walker, the sixth grade teacher, Mr. Rennie, the music teacher, and Mrs. McVeigh, the principal – upon her. She began to blush. "I'm sure they're just from my father," Heather lied.
"Red roses?" Mrs. Crenshaw questioned, her expression skeptical. "Miss Lisinski, no one's father sends red roses. Your boyfriend sends red roses. Red roses are romantic – they're the flower of love!" She shook her head at Heather, pushing the vase forward an inch. "Open the card!"
Grinning, Heather gave in almost immediately, pulling the card out of its plastic holder, unable to resist pausing for a second to smell one of the roses. The bouquet was truly beautiful. She couldn't believe that Jake had done this. She opened the little envelope, extracting a handwritten note. Her pounding heart began to race just a little faster. He had to have arranged for this before he'd left town, on Saturday, she guessed, in order to include a handwritten note. She read it. 'I miss you. No tests on Wednesday, okay? Just us. Jake.'
"So, who are they from?" Mrs. McVeigh asked then, joining Mrs. Crenshaw behind the counter. Heather glanced to the right and saw that Mrs. Walker and Mr. Rennie were both obviously listening in.
Tucking the card back in the envelope, Heather took a deep breath, and then licked her lips. Before she could answer, someone else did. "They're from Jake, right?"
She turned around in time to see Emily Sullivan approaching the counter. Emily offered Heather a bright, if somewhat fake, smile. "He's always been good for a romantic gesture," she added. "It is Jake, right?"
"Jake Green?" Mrs. Crenshaw asked, giving Heather an appraising look. "No wonder he came to visit with his grandfather on Thursday. You're quite sneaky, Miss Lisinski," she teased.
Heather, still reeling from Emily's sudden intrusion into the conversation, not to mention what felt like such a mean attack, could only nod, confirming Mrs. Crenshaw's guess. Jake had said that Emily wasn't above making a scene, and Heather figured this proved it beyond any doubt. It hurt. It hurt, and it made her mad. What right did Emily have to try to ruin this for her?
"And, quite lucky, too," Mrs. Crenshaw continued, smiling. "He was always such a sweet boy, even when he was in trouble!"
"And, he was in trouble more than most," Mrs. McVeigh laughed, prompting a snort of agreement from Mrs. Walker. "But, he and I always had good chats," she added, nodding. "And, he's certainly turned out well."
"Jake did turn out pretty great," Heather declared, surprising herself. "And, I didn't know him when he was a kid, but I've seen the pictures, and I've heard some of the stories," she chuckled. "Absolutely adorable." She glanced sideways at Emily, her chin jutting out slightly in challenge. "And, you're right. Jake is rather romantic." Heather returned her attention to the secretary and principal. She reached for the roses, lifting the vase off the counter. "They are lovely, aren't they?" she asked, grinning.
Mrs. McVeigh and Mrs. Crenshaw met Heather's gaze with identical approving looks. "Quite," Mrs. McVeigh confirmed.
"Excuse me," Heather said, turning on her heel and heading for the exit.
"So, Miss Sullivan," Mrs. Crenshaw sighed. "What do you need?" she inquired indifferently.
* * * * *
Heather stood in front of her classroom door, carefully juggling the vase of roses as she tried to retrieve her keys from her pocket. She found herself grinning. The roses were absolutely beautiful – and rather ostentatious. Jake had to have known they'd be noticed, and she could only assume that's what he'd intended. Heather didn't think he could have caused a bigger stir amongst the staff at Jericho Elementary if he'd tattooed 'Jake Green' on her forehead. Besides, she thought, giving in to the urge to smell one of the buds again, sending her roses was much classier than a tattoo.
Just as she fitted her key in the lock, Heather heard Emily call out her name. Emitting a frustrated noise, she tried to steel herself for whatever would be coming next. "Yes?" Heather responded, her guard up, turning to face Emily.
"Heather, I'm – I should have come to talk to you last week, but I really didn't know what to say."
Heather hefted the vase in her hands, almost dropping her clipboard, which she'd tucked under her arm. She caught it by clamping her elbow against her side, and then, grumbling, met Emily's appraising stare. "You don't need to say anything," she assured her. "Trust me."
"I think I do," Emily argued. "As your friend –"
"We're friends?" Heather asked, truly stunned that Emily would even think to say so. They had attended a class together, driving the forty minutes each way to the county seat for a week. They had talked – 'airplane' conversations, her father would have called them – on those trips, but aside from the fact that they were both teachers, they hadn't had a lot in common. Emily had taken six years to get through college, and she'd seemed to have simply fallen into teaching, more as a default than out of any true sense of purpose. She'd told Heather that she liked teaching English well enough, and at Jericho High she could also be the cheerleading coach. Heather – serious, studious Heather – couldn't really comprehend such a meandering path to one's career.
"We carpooled for a week to a class," Heather reminded. "We went to lunch. It's not like we found a lot to talk about."
Annoyance flashed across Emily's face, but she appeared to recover quickly. "Somebody has to warn you, and apparently the old biddies here aren't going to do it. I'd like to be your friend," she insisted, "Whether you believe that or not. And, I don't want to see you get hurt, but I know you're going to." Emily sighed. Her expression was now the picture of concern, and Heather didn't trust it at all. "There's a lot you don't know about Jake."
Heather stared at Emily for a long moment, trying to decide how to respond. 'I know everything I need to know about Jake,' sounded defensive and wasn't exactly true; there was so much more that Heather wanted to know about Jake, but she also wanted to learn it on her own, with him. 'Maybe not, but I'm having fun finding out,' was flip, and more than Heather was willing to reveal to Emily. Taking a deep breath, she did the only thing she could think to do, and turned the tables on Emily. "So, tell me then, what, exactly, is it that I need to know about Jake?" Heather demanded.
"Well – What – You're not taking this seriously," Emily sputtered, shaking her head. She took a deep breath, studying Heather closely. "I've been where you are," she tried a few seconds later. "Jake can be wonderful. He's sweet, charming, fun to be with. He's great at candlelight dinners, and flowers," Emily said, gesturing to the vase in Heather's hands, "And winning teddy bears at the county fair, so that the next thing you know, you've fallen into bed with him. It's great while it lasts," she sighed. "But it won't last, Heather. Trust me, it won't."
"Is that all?" Heather asked when Emily paused. The vase was heavy in her hands, and she moved it, propping it against her shoulder, taking care not to slosh out any of the water. She waited another few seconds for Emily to continue. She certainly looked like she had a lot more to say, but nothing came out. "Okay, Emily," Heather sighed, "Are you finished?" Silently she added 'I hope,' feeling catty as the thought crossed her mind, and then deciding that she didn't really care. She'd heard Emily out, which frankly, Heather thought, was a lot more than Emily deserved. "If you were looking to do your good deed for the day, consider yourself covered. You've warned me," she assured. "I don't agree with you," Heather admitted, annoyed with herself when she shrugged automatically, jostling her vase, "But I heard you out. So, if you're done, I've got things to do."
"My brother is dead because of Jake Green," Emily muttered then. "You can't rely on him," she added, her eyes suspiciously bright. "And, in two or three months when he's broken your heart, don't say I didn't warn you." Emily watched Heather for another moment, and then expelled a pent up breath, starting to turn away.
"Your brother is not dead because of Jake," Heather retorted, exasperated. Jake had made the same claim the night he'd told her about the DEA, Jonah Prowse, and Chris Sullivan. She hadn't been able to understand why – still didn't, really – he took responsibility for Chris's death, but now Heather realized that Emily must have played a significant part in inducing his sense of guilt.
"I have all the sympathy in the world for you, Emily, about your brother. I don't know what I'd do if anything happened to any of my brothers, and especially my baby brother," Heather told her. She spoke quickly, her tone forceful, brooking no argument or interruption. "But in what world could Jake possibly be responsible for getting your brother killed?" In her frustration, she started to gesture widely with her hands, forgetting momentarily the vase in her arms, almost dropping it. She caught it against her chest, allowing the clipboard to slip out from between her arm and her side. The clipboard hit her on the leg as it fell, and then clattered loudly on the floor at her feet.
"That's all on your father," Heather insisted. "My father wouldn't send me alone to the store to get milk after eight at night because he worries for my safety. Your dad sent your brother to rob a bank," Heather reminded, shaking her head at the thought. "That makes him responsible. Not Jake."
Emily gaped openly at Heather, who shifted uncomfortably on her feet. "Jake told you that?" she asked.
Heather didn't answer, remembering belatedly her promise to keep in confidence everything Jake had told her that Saturday night at town hall. She knew, of course, that Emily was aware of the details, but she also knew - and Emily surely knew - that, legally speaking, Heather wasn't supposed to know about any of that. Mentally berating herself for her carelessness, she took a deep breath, meeting Emily's hard stare evenly. She didn't say a thing
Finally, she bent over, careful not to upset the vase, and retrieved her dropped clipboard with her free hand. Righting herself, Heather tucked it under her arm again. "Goodbye, Emily," she muttered. Then, turning away, she pulled the classroom door open, and slipped into the room. She waited for the sound of the latch clicking into place, then reached behind, pushing the button to lock the door. Sighing, Heather closed her eyes, and leaned back, allowing the solid wood of the door to prop her up, just for the moment.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Thursday, October 26, five weeks after the bombs
"Well, one thing that hasn't changed," Gail began, hoping to entice her son into a conversation. She pointed at the bales of hay around them, the barn, the trees and tall, golden grass, even the view. "All this."
It wasn't exactly true. Things had definitely changed at the Green Ranch, starting with the management of the horse business. Tony, their foreman had quit the week before, packing up his teenaged son, Eddie, and all the belongings they could fit into their ancient truck. Tony had been very apologetic when he'd come to tell Gail and Johnston that he was leaving, but after the EMP he'd decided to strike out for his sister's in Oklahoma. The Greens had known there was nothing they could do to tempt him to stay; they'd always been generous with Tony's wages, and they would have doubled or tripled them on the spot if it would have meant anything. But their money was worthless now, and they were as short on food and fuel – the only commodities that seemed to mean anything anymore – as everyone else. The Green Ranch had changed; for the first time in nearly fifteen years, the only people working it were Greens.
"You remember when you first started ridin'?" Gail asked Jake, trying a different tack. He carried another bale of hay over for her, making eye contact, but otherwise didn't acknowledge her question. "Took to it like a fish to water," she continued, not willing to give up quite yet. "You know, if you favored your father a little less, and your dinky Uncle Dennis a little more, you would've been a helluva jockey." Gail waited a moment, but Jake continued to respond only with silence. "Talk to me!" she demanded. "I'm tired of hearing my own voice. You okay?"
A ghost of a smile passed over Jake's face, disappearing so quickly that Gail almost thought she imagined it. "You seriously wish I'd been a jockey?" he asked.
"Maybe not," she admitted, smiling fondly at him. "Just tryin' to find something that'll get you to talk to me."
Jake sighed, turning away to grab a couple of lightweight pails. "I'm fine, Mom," he told her quietly. "I'm just tired." He held up one of the buckets and said, "I'll get the water."
Gail nodded. She knew that she wasn't going to get any more than that out of Jake, at least not until he was ready. They were all struggling with the changes that had been wrought in their lives over the preceding month, and as much as Gail wanted to take some of that burden off the shoulders of those she loved, she also knew that the Green men were both stubborn and old-fashioned enough to refuse her help, even an offer to just listen.
She watched Jake go around the corner of the barn, and was about to return to the task of breaking up the hay, when the sudden cacophony of whinnying and snorting horses distracted her. Gail started toward the barn. In the next instance, she found herself rooted in place, unable to move despite the fact that a thousand pounds of wild-eyed, spooked horse was headed in her direction. Before she really knew what was happening, Gail was knocked to the ground.
Jake had taken two steps around the side of the barn, on his way to the spigot, when the sound of skittish, panicking horses reached his ears, causing the hair to stand up on the back of his neck. A second later, he heard pounding hooves. Dropping the buckets, he dashed back in time to see his mother fall. "Mom!" Jake shouted out in warning. She was struggling to get out of the way of the horses. "Stay down!"
In all reality, the stampede probably lasted no more than thirty seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Jake, standing helplessly to the side. He could do nothing for his mother but pray for her safety until the last horses, both bearing riders, cleared the barn. Jake ran to her side, and began to check her for injuries. "Who are those guys?" she cried out.
"I don't know, Mom," he mumbled, watching as twenty good horses – more than a quarter of the Green family's current wealth, Jake knew – disappeared up the road. He found himself concentrating on the hair, the form, the clothing, of one of the riders; Jake was sure it was Mitchell Cafferty. That thought was enough to make him see red, but it was his next thought that made Jake's blood run cold. Heather was up at the garage, working on his car and an old truck of his grandfather's that they'd never bothered to have hauled off. The rustlers would be passing right by her in no more than a minute.
Jake scrambled to his feet, and then leapt over his still supine mother, desperate to get to the salvaged radio he'd abandoned on top of a hay bale ten minutes earlier. He grabbed the unit, pressing the transmit button with his thumb. "Heather!" he yelled into the microphone. "Heather! Heather, get in the truck, now!"
"Jake –"
"Get in the truck now!" he interrupted, still shouting, though the sense of relief he felt at the mere fact that she'd heard him and responded weakened his knees. "Rustlers!" Jake shouted. "Get in the truck! Lock the doors!"
Now he was waiting again, counting the seconds off in his head. "Lock the doors!" he repeated, still screaming. "Get down! On the floor!" he added. If this was Mitchell Cafferty – and there was no doubt in Jake's mind that it was – then Heather was absolutely in danger. His only hope was that she could hide in the truck, and that Mitchell would never even know that she was there.
Finally, just as Jake silently counted twenty-three, a burst of sound came over the radio in his hand. "I'm in the truck," Heather said quietly, her voice cracking slightly with fear.
"Doors locked, and on the floor?" Jake demanded softly.
"Yes," she sniffed. "But – but Baron's still outside," she told him, her voice full of worry. "Rustlers, Jake?" Heather questioned with her next breath, obviously shocked at the very idea.
"Rustlers," he confirmed. "They got about twenty of our horses."
"I hear them," she said, and then the radio went silent.
Jake had no choice but to wait yet again, ticking off the seconds under his breath. Gripping the radio tightly, he returned to his mother's side, helping her as she struggled to sit up. He sat down in the dust beside her, both of them straining to hear something, anything, from Heather over the radio.
"They're gone." Heather spoke so quietly that she was barely audible, but it was enough. Jake let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding.
"Okay," he answered, his voice croaking slightly. "Mom's hurt. Can you drive down here?"
There was a pause, and then a much more confident-sounding Heather replied. "I'll be right there, Jake," she promised. "Hang on."
She arrived at the barn just over a minute later, pulling Johnston's old truck up alongside the bales of hay Jake and Gail were now sitting on. Baron, their dog, was riding in the back and he barked excitedly when he spotted Jake. "It's okay, boy, easy," Jake told him moving to the side of the truck and reaching in to pet Baron behind both ears, "Hush." When he and Heather had moved into town they had made the hard choice to leave the dog out at the ranch, and Jake still wasn't sure they had made the right one. But, as much as Heather had hated leaving him behind, she had argued for the decision, reminding Jake that Baron was used to having the run of the ranch, and that they couldn't take that away from him and lock him up in the yard at his parents'. Now, Baron seemed to live for visitors, practically howling in excitement whenever anyone was out at the ranch – and they did have to come every other day at least – and lavishing them with affection. Quieting down, Baron put himself to the task of licking Jake to death, which prompted a short laugh from his master. "Down," he ordered, still chuckling. Jake patted the dog on the head and scratched his chin in reward when he complied. "Stay," Jake added, turning back toward Gail.
"How are you?" Heather demanded as Jake opened the passenger door, and helped his mother climb up into the cab.
"I'm fine, sweetheart," Gail assured her. "Had the wind knocked out of me, and I don't know that I've ever been quite so scared, but I'm fine."
Jake shook his head. "Her arm's hurt," he contradicted. "Check behind the seat," he told Heather. "Dad's gotta have a first aid kit in here somewhere. I'm gonna run up to the other barns," he informed them next. "Make sure they're locked up."
"Feed the horses, Jake," his mother instructed. "I'll be fine, waiting, while you do. Take care of the horses."
"Okay," he nodded, nudging her so that she was completely inside the truck. Jake closed the door, then looked past his mother, meeting Heather's gaze.
She offered him a weak smile, and held up the large first aid kit she'd found under the driver's seat; this was the truck that Johnston Green took on his hunting and fishing trips, and he was always prepared. "I'll be right back," Jake promised, a grim expression settling on his features. "Lock the doors, and if anyone you don't know, or don't trust, shows up, take off."
"Jake –" Heather and Gail both protested.
"Take off," he interrupted loudly, shaking his head, obviously unwilling to entertain any argument. "Run 'em over," he continued. "I don't care what you have to do, just get yourselves safe."
Heather nodded slightly, agreeing, if only so he'd go. "Okay, Jake. Okay. Just go. But take Baron with you," she instructed.
"Babe –" he started to protest but she cut him off.
"Please, just in case. For me," she requested. "We'll be waiting right here."
"Okay." He called Baron and then reached through the open window and pressed the door lock down. Flashing the two women a distracted and dour grin, Jake turned and with the dog trotting beside him, headed toward the trail that led to the other two barns at the Green Ranch.
Gail's wrist was already swelling visibly by the time Heather opened the first aid kit and began inventorying its contents. She extracted an ace bandage, an instant ice pack, and a single dose packet of aspirin. Heather made her mother-in-law take the pain reliever, and then set to work wrapping her wrist in the bandage. Gail's entire arm was obviously bruised, and she grimaced, whimpering softly when Heather touched it.
"Sorry," she apologized, frowning, as she secured the end of the bandage. Heather tore open the ice pack, activating it, and handed it to Gail. "Hopefully April can fix anything I did wrong."
"You did fine, sweetheart," Gail assured. "Thank you," she smiled at her daughter-in-law, placing the ice pack on her forearm. She turned sideways, facing Heather, so she could rest and elevate her arm on the back of the seat. "I'm just feeling a little silly. I heard the horses, I knew they were upset. I should have known better than to get myself right in their path if they were spooked."
"No reason you should think that someone would steal your horses right out of the barn while you were here, working, either," Heather argued. "It's crazy!"
"It is crazy," Gail murmured, distracted. She stared past Heather, grimacing absently. "It's hard to get used to, all the changes," Gail admitted with a sigh. "But we will. And, this won't happen again, either. We'll all see to that."
They fell into a companionable silence, Gail leaning forward to rest her head against the seat back, still managing somehow to keep her arm elevated and reasonably immobile. She closed her eyes, the pain and stress having tired her out. Heather kept a silent, vigilant watch, anxious for Jake's return. He was back within a half hour, which was hardly enough time to do what needed to be done in the other barns, but neither Gail nor Heather said anything.
Heather surrendered the driver's seat to Jake, figuring he needed the distraction. He kissed her quickly, pulling her into a tight embrace as she climbed out of the cab. He was reluctant to let her go, but mindful of his mother's injuries, did so, waiting until Heather had gone around the front of the truck and climbed in through the passenger door before getting into the cab himself. They dropped Baron back at the garage – he'd always slept in the house but had now been demoted to the garage which Heather had insisted on fixing up with his bed and all his favorite toys – and drove back to town without conversation.
Back in Jericho, Jake headed immediately for the med center. Gail argued that she didn't want to go in, that she just wanted to go home, and refused to get out of the truck. Heather, to keep the peace between mother and son, ran into the building, and found April, inventorying the now sparse pharmaceutical supply at the clinic.
After the EMP, April had asked Johnston to force Mr. Williamson, the town pharmacist, to turn over all the prescription drugs he had in his control. The pharmacy had already been broken into once by Victor Miller, the refugee from Denver, April had reminded, and it would be safer to keep all the pharmaceuticals at the med center. Mr. Williamson had resisted at first, but the combined pressure of Johnston and Jake, his DEA badge prominently displayed had been enough to convince him. The citizens of Jericho were coming to the realization that, for the moment, there was no government outside of the one at town hall, at different rates; luckily, Mr. Williamson had been a little behind the curve, and had given in rather easily to the threat of an inquiry into his pharmacist's license. Jake, Eric and Jimmy, supervised by April, had moved everything to the med center one night under cover of darkness and armed guard. The infusion of supplies had kept the clinic going for the intervening two weeks, but now April was starting to run out again.
"I'm trying to find something stronger to give Dad," she explained, her expression harried, admitting Heather to the drug closet. April, working somewhat secretly on her inventory of the remaining pharmaceuticals, had locked the door behind her, and had been prepared to ignore the person pounding on it until Heather had identified herself. "What are you doing here?" she asked, pulling her sister-in-law into the confined space, and then relocking the door.
Heather shook her head. "Believe it or not, we had horse rustlers – rustlers? Thieves, anyway. At the ranch," she sighed. "Gail was trampled, but she won't come in. I wrapped her wrist and put an ice pack on it, gave her some aspirin. But you need to look at it. She's out in the truck, in the parking lot –"
"Rustlers?" April interrupted, her eyes wide. "Seriously?"
"Yeah," Heather confirmed. "Can you come take a look? I don't know if it's broken, or sprained, or just badly bruised."
"Let's go," April declared. "There's really nothing here that I need to do, it's been a pretty light day so far, and I can't find anything to use for Dad," she grumbled.
They left the clinic, April locking up the drug closet, and then raiding a nearby supply room for those things she thought she might need to treat Gail. On the way out, she stopped to tell the charge nurse to send someone to the Green house if anything came up that required a doctor. Jake was pacing in front of the truck when they came out. "Can you come with?" he asked April, and she nodded. Jake looked at Heather. "You drive," he instructed. "But go to town hall first. We need to get Eric." He opened the driver's side door for Heather, handed her in, and then climbed into the truck bed.
At town hall, Heather parked in the spot reserved for the mayor, flashing Gail a sheepish grin. "Johnston won't mind," her mother-in-law assured with a weak smile.
Jake hopped out of the back of the truck and came forward to talk to them all through the open window. "I'm just gonna get Eric, and then we go home. We need to decide what we do next."
"Hurry," Heather insisted. "I don't want Bill giving me a ticket."
That was enough to earn her a distracted grin from Jake, and he leaned in, kissing her softly. "It's still Dad's truck," he reminded. "Even Bill isn't dumb enough to ticket Dad's truck."
Eric and Jake came jogging out of town hall less than two minutes later. They climbed into the back of the truck, and then Jake knocked on the side of the cab. "Go," he shouted to Heather.
They were at the Green house within four minutes. Jake and Eric helped their mother into the house, seating her in a chair in the living room. April went right to work, examining her arm. Heather bypassed the living room, heading upstairs to rouse Johnston from his nap. It was time for a Green Family Meeting.
"Hey," Heather greeted softly. She'd knocked perfunctorily on Gail and Johnston's bedroom door, and then had stuck her head in. Her father-in-law was sitting on the side of the bed, dressed, panting hard. "We're home," she told him, smiling gently, "But something's happened, and we need you downstairs." Heather entered the bedroom then, crossing to Johnston's side, holding her hand out to him. He didn't demand to know what had happened, and that was all the confirmation she needed in order to know that he truly wasn't himself. It scared her to see Johnston Green like this: obviously ill and gasping for breath. "Can you come down?" Heather inquired.
Johnston nodded, and then climbed to his feet, teetering on them slightly. Heather reached out, touching him on the arm, trying to help steady him. He waited a moment, but then started to walk forward, though to Heather, it looked like he was expending a great deal of energy and effort just to lift his feet a few inches off the ground. She moved next to him, threading her arm through his. Johnston stopped, looking down at her. "I don't need help," he complained.
"I know," Heather agreed with a shrug, "But I do. I'm having a hard time keeping my balance these days," she lied, prompting a strangled, disbelieving snort from Johnston.
He took a step back, looking her over, one eyebrow raised in question. Heather was nearly four months pregnant, but she wasn't showing yet, not really. She'd started wearing the roomier of her clothing, and now as he watched her, she smoothed a hand self-consciously down her front, pulling her blouse momentarily taut over the slight swell of her belly. "I see," he murmured wryly. Johnston shook his head, fighting the urge to roll his eyes, and offered Heather his arm. "Well, in that case."
Heather led her father-in-law out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the living room. Spotting his wife, and noting the care with which April manipulated her arm, Johnston pulled away from Heather, lurching toward Gail. "Sweetie! What happened?"
"Mitch Cafferty happened, that's what," Jake answered for his mother.
"We don't know that, Jake," Gail admonished, throwing her husband a weak smile. "I'm fine, Johnston. April just needs to check me out, to make sure."
"But you're hurt," Johnston complained, reaching out an unsteady hand to cup the side of her head.
"It's nothing, I'll be fine," Gail told him.
Johnston frowned, worry evident in his eyes. "You're sure?" Gail nodded, and then Johnston went into a coughing fit. Heather moved to her father-in-law's side and, taking his hand, led him to the couch which had been his station these last few days since his flu, from which they'd all thought he'd recovered, had returned with a vengeance, worse than before. "What happened? What does Mitch Cafferty have to do with this?" Johnston questioned, glancing at Jake, while Heather forced him to sit, and then seated herself next to him.
"Mitch Cafferty and a buddy stole twenty-two horses, right outta our barn," Jake declared, starting to pace the living room. "Drove 'em out, right over the top of Mom. Knocked her down, coulda gotten her killed."
"Jake, we don't know that it was Mitchell Cafferty," Gail argued. "When I asked, you said that you didn't know who they were, and we only saw them from behind," she reminded.
"Mitch was in Bailey's this morning. I saw him there," Jake explained, shaking his head. "The guy ridin' off on Ganymede was wearing the same clothes that Mitch had on earlier, and the hair was the same. It was him." He shook his head, clenching his jaw, obviously unsettled. "I need to get cleaned up," Jake ground out, turning on his heel, stomping up the stairs. Heather, biting her lip and feeling distinctly helpless, watched him go.
"I can't believe it's not broken," April sighed, adjusting the sling she'd fitted Gail with. Shaking her head, she exchanged wan smiles with her mother-in-law. "I'll get you some more aspirin for the pain and swelling," April offered, squeezing Gail's good arm. "I'm sorry I can't offer anything stronger."
"It's okay, honey," Gail replied, patting April's hand. "I don't need anything else."
"Don't argue with her, Gail," Johnston coughed, watching April head into the dining room, on her way to the kitchen. "Doctor's orders," he insisted. Johnston shook his head, glancing sideways at his other daughter-in-law, still seated next to him. "Damn bastards," he grumbled, earning a nod and a sympathetic look from Heather.
Jake came pounding down the stairs then. There really hadn't been enough time for him to 'clean up' and he was, Heather noted as he flashed by, still in the same clothes he'd dressed in that morning. Without even glancing into the living room, he headed for the front door, yanking it open, stopping only when both Heather and Gail called out his name.
"Jake," Gail repeated when he turned to face her, his expression full of barely contained anger. "Where'r you goin'?"
"To find Mitch," he barked out.
Johnston struggled to his feet, staggering away from the couch and toward his son. "And then what?" he demanded, his voice raspy.
"I don't know yet," Jake admitted, letting a long breath out through his teeth so that he hissed softly.
Eric, who had remained silent up to this point in the conversation, forced himself away from the wall he was propping up, turning to follow his father into the entry. Heather brushed past him, causing Eric to draw back for a second. He trailed behind her, addressing his brother. "Hold on, Jake. You don't know for sure he's behind this."
"It was him!" Jake insisted, shaking his head.
"Jake," Heather started quietly, only to be interrupted by Eric.
"You didn't even get a good look!" Jake's brother protested.
Deliberately, Johnston stepped between his son and the door, pushing it closed. "Now look," he instructed, clearing his throat. "You know I'd like nothin' better than to string up the guys that did this, but that's not the way we do things," Johnston reminded. "Last time you were mixed up with Mitch Cafferty, you ended up beaten half to death on the side of Route 40."
Heather flinched at that. The first time Jake had told her the story of his involvement with Jonah Prowse and Mitch Cafferty, he'd left out the fact that Jonah had had him and another federal agent roughed up before tossing them off his compound. She'd learned the true story in bits and pieces, first just from the allusions members of the Green family made to the events of that night, then from the few pictures of Jake in April and Eric's wedding album, and finally during Jake's testimony at Jonah Prowse's trial. He'd suffered cracked ribs, a broken ankle, a myriad of cuts and bruises, internal bleeding, and a concussion. Jake had refused to go to the hospital until he'd personally arrested Jonah Prowse, and then had ended up spending two days there, released just in time to serve as the best man at his brother's wedding. The last thing Heather wanted to think about was her husband putting himself into that sort of danger yet again.
"I survived," Jake muttered.
"Yeah?" his father countered, reaching around to pull a pistol out of the back of Jake's jeans. "Let's just keep it that way."
"If I don't take care of him, he'll come back," Jake argued.
"We've got to do this right!" Johnston countered, his frustration with the situation readily apparent.
"He could be out there –"
Johnston shook his head, starting to cough again. "If this family starts breakin' the law, how're we supposed to enforce it?" he demanded.
"This is still Kansas, right?" Jake asked, spinning to face his brother. Eric had gone to law school in Lawrence, and he'd passed the bar, but never actually practiced. "You're tellin' me that there aren't still laws on the books that say how I can deal with a horse thief?"
Eric shrugged. "You can hang 'em, maybe," he admitted, glancing at his father, who'd mentioned, and then dismissed, his own desire to do so a few minutes before. "Probably can't shoot 'em."
"Fine," Jake shrugged, "Works for me. I'm flexible."
"Jake!" Heather and Gail both objected. Heather moved toward her husband then, forcing him to take one step back, and then another. "Please, don't go out and do this," she told him quietly. "Please, just stop. You're angry, and you have every right to be, but please don't go do whatever it is you're thinking of doing."
Johnston was surprised by Heather's intervention in the situation. In five years, he'd never seen her correct Jake about anything of any importance. She'd always put up with Jake's choices, Jake's decisions, Jake's job. But here she was, arguing with him, trying to stop him, and doing a better job of it than he had. Johnston was stunned – and ever so grateful to his daughter-in-law.
"He could've killed Mom," Jake protested, balling his fists. "And, you were there, too," he continued, still angry. "He could've hurt you, or –" he broke off, shaking his head. "I can't let this go. I can't let him stay out there, doing whatever he wants, not when he's a danger to our family."
Heather placed a tentative hand on Jake's arm, relieved when he didn't shake it off. "We're fine, Jake. Nothing happened to me, and your Mom's gonna be okay." She moved a step closer, placing her other hand on his shoulder. "We're fine," Heather repeated. "And, if you go out there, after him, then something could happen to you. You could get killed, and –" She stopped, biting her lip, her eyes flooding with tears.
"Babe," Jake muttered, the fight in him beginning to flag. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "Nothing's gonna happen to me. I'm not gonna get killed or hurt," he assured her, kissing the top of her head. "I promise."
"Don't go, not by yourself," Heather whispered against his collarbone. "Please."
Johnston, leaning back against the front door, sighed. "Listen to Heather, Son," he advised quietly. "If you've gotta do this, at least do it right. You're a federal agent, and God help us, a deputy sheriff," he reminded. Johnston had sworn in Jake, along with Eric and Robert Hawkins, as deputies the night of the EMP. Jake hadn't really wanted the job, Johnston knew, but he'd given in, recognizing his father's need, and appreciating that his father had asked.
"Go with Eric, Jake," Johnston continued. "Find Jimmy. Do this right."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *