Different Circumstances: Part 6B of ? by Marzee Doats
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Thursday, October 26, five weeks after the bombs
Jake stepped off the road and onto the grounds of the Jericho Airfield. He looked around, taking in the feel of the place. It appeared deserted, but then again, it had never been a busy place, really just an airstrip and a couple of hangars. His grandfather and a few other men had flown crop dusters out of this airfield, and there had always been a certain number of private planes coming in and out, but the best description for the Jericho Airfield had always been 'lazy'. Jake had loved spending time here, assisting his grandfather, listening to the stories he and others told. But it wasn't the place of his childhood any longer, Jake knew. Now it harbored a horse thief.
Eric and Jimmy had determined as much, insisting on stopping in at Bailey's as the first step of their investigation into the rustling of the Greens' horses. Jake had waited at town hall, surprised but relieved when Jimmy had returned with the news that Mary had overheard a man who said he'd bought a horse at the airfield. Now, Eric and Jimmy were parked just off the road a quarter of a mile away, ready to back him up. Jake, who had been ready to strike out after Mitchell Cafferty on his own an hour before, had to concede that he was reassured knowing they were there, ready to come in after him if he was gone more than twenty minutes. His was a reconnaissance mission, though if the opportunity presented itself, Jake knew he wouldn't hesitate to grab Mitchell Cafferty and haul him in.
He looked down, spotting hoof prints in the dust. They ran alongside the corrugated metal wall of the nearest hangar, disappearing around the corner. Considering the prints, he smoothed one of them away with the toe of his boot, and then, moving forward, glanced around the corner of the building. There was no one around. However, a couple of planes - small, two-seaters - had been rolled out of the hangars and onto the apron. That was enough to convince Jake that the airfield wasn't as deserted as it seemed. Slowly, he edged forward, looking around. There wasn't anybody to be found. Jake increased his pace until he was jogging slowly down the alley, staying close to the hangars that ran along one side. He reached the end of the row, and turned the corner.
Here were the Greens' missing horses. Jake moved forward, leaning over the rail of the improvised corral to pat Callisto, the chestnut mare that his grandfather had given to Heather the spring after they had become engaged. Grandpa had turned all naming duties over to Heather that year, and she'd started with the planets and moons of their solar system. This had so tickled Grandpa Green that he'd insisted thereafter that all foals born at the Green Ranch be named by Heather, who had soon needed to branch out into stars, constellations, and even comets.
"Hey, girl," he murmured to the horse, rubbing the diamond patch on her forehead. The Green Ranch was first and foremost a breeding operation, so there had always been a churn in the population of their barns as horses were born or acquired, traded or sold. The Greens had a reputation for providing good, quality, working horses, a customer base in four states, and were considered niche providers to competitors on the rodeo circuit. Jake couldn't identify all their horses by name, but he knew probably half. He looked over the horses, bunched in the pen. Ganymede, still saddled, was tied outside to the rail; Pluto was taking a drink of water; Hale and Bopp jostled nervously in the pen. Counting, Jake determined that nine of the stolen horses - out of twenty-two - were here. At least one had been sold already, but Jake still hoped they would be able to recover most of their animals.
"Jake!"
He turned at the sound of his name and, shading his eyes, saw Dale Turner heading his way. "What're you doing here?" Jake demanded, stepping toward the teenager.
"I'm so sorry," Dale sighed, shaking his head and frowning slightly. "I didn't know."
"Know what?" Jake asked, grabbing the boy's arm.
Dale's eyes widened, his expression turning dismayed. "Jake!" he shouted in warning.
But, it was too late. Jake, turning, actually moved into the butt of Mitchell Cafferty's shotgun. Mitchell wielded the gun like a club, striking Jake across the back of the neck. Knocked out cold, Jake fell in an ignominious heap on top of a pile of feed bags. Mitchell lunged after Dale. "What the hell d' ya think you're doin'?" he demanded, pulling the boy into a headlock.
* * * * *
Jake came to with the taste of blood in his mouth and dust stinging his eyes. Blinking and groaning, he concentrated on lifting his head up off the ground. He hurt. The back of his neck and head were burning with pain, and now, as he raised himself, ever so slowly, he realized that the blow he'd taken had been enough to scramble his vision, leaving it blurry and doubled, perhaps tripled.
He rubbed his neck, wondering how long he'd been out, and how long it would be before Eric and Jimmy came looking for him. This, Jake supposed, not able to muster the energy necessary to chuckle derisively at himself, was the reason Heather and his father hadn't wanted him to run out on his own. Tangling with the likes of Mitchell Cafferty was dangerous, and the bombs certainly hadn't changed that.
"Jake!"
He looked up then, squinting at Dale who moved toward him, only to be stopped by Mitchell. "You back away," Mitchell ordered, growling. He cocked his shotgun and pointed it at the teenager, emphasizing his command.
Jake forced himself to his hands and knees. He swallowed, trying in vain to rid his mouth of the tangy, iron flavor. He was pretty sure he'd only bitten his tongue, but the taste of blood, along with his swimming head and the literal pain in his neck, were all combining to make him feel sick. Panting, Jake ground out, "Get the hell outta here, Dale."
"No," Mitchell countermanded, his shotgun still aimed in Dale's direction. "Stick around. Think of this as initiation."
Struggling into a kneeling position, Jake snarled at Mitchell as he passed behind him. "You've crossed the line."
Mitchell leaned over, his head near Jake's mouth. "'Scuse me?" he prodded, pretending he hadn't heard.
"You heard me," Jake answered, drawing the words out, still struggling to catch his breath. He noticed then that there was a fourth person in the hangar. Glancing to the left, he identified Sean Henthorn, the kid who'd been claiming to be Dale's friend that morning. Jake sighed. He needed to have his wits about him, and the fact that he'd missed Sean's presence was not a good sign. He knew that he had to keep Mitchell talking. Eric and Jimmy would show up eventually, and as long as Mitchell was talking it might be enough to keep him from shooting anyone, especially Jake. "Comin' to our family's ranch," he managed to rasp out, hoping that Mitchell would take this as some form of bait.
Mitchell was pacing now, his shotgun clutched in one hand. "I crossed the line?" he demanded, leaning over Jake again, pointing a finger at himself. "I went to jail because of you!" he shouted. "My best friend had half his head blown off!"
Jake wanted nothing more than to rub the dust out of his eyes, but he resisted the impulse, and settled for trying to blink it away. "You went to jail 'cause you were stupid enough to try and rob a bank with half the Rogue River PD inside, cashin' their paychecks."
"Stupid?" Mitchell screeched, punching Jake in the back of the head, sending him reeling, the pain radiating up the back of his neck increasing a hundredfold. Jake saw nothing but stars. He clenched his jaw, forcing the bile that rose up from his stomach back down, refusing to betray any more weakness to this psychopath.
"Who's stupid now?" Mitchell yelled, resuming his pacing. "Where exactly are your horses again? How's your Mom, Jake?" He was practically crowing as he asked these questions, grinning maniacally at Jake. "How 'bout Teach? She's no Emily Sullivan, but she's easy 'nough on the eyes. She could warm my bed, that's for damn sure."
Mitchell stopped directly in front of Jake, aiming the shotgun at him for a moment. "Good with cars, too, ain't she?" he continued conversationally. Mitchell reached out, grasping Jake's chin none too gently, forcing him to look up. "Saw her out there today... thought about bringin' her along for a little fun," he muttered, a lecherous grin settling on his features. "So, she finally made ya come home, huh? Settle down?" Mitchell asked, shoving Jake. "Wants to raise a family? Getcha t' do a little farming?"
"You or anybody come near my family again," Jake began, his gaze narrowing dangerously. "Near my wife again," he added, enunciating each word deliberately, angrily. "I will kill you."
Grinning to himself, Mitchell leaned in close again, whispering, "Now that's the Jake I know." Chuckling, he slapped Jake on the back of the head, forcing him forward. "All right now," he continued, turning, "Get up! I'm takin' you to see Jonah."
He held out his hand to Jake, who grabbed it, pulling himself up. Taking advantage of his forward momentum, Jake kneed Mitchell in the groin and then threw a punch, half blind, at him. Jake still couldn't see well, and was trying to ignore both his churning stomach and spinning head. Mitchell cuffed him in return, landing a solid hit to Jake's jaw. They continued to fight, Jake noticing distractedly that Dale and Sean were also tussling on the other side of the hangar. Mitchell dropped the shotgun, and Jake stepped on it, trying to kick it out of the way. However, Mitchell shoved him, knocking Jake into the back wall before retrieving the gun. He aimed it at Jake.
Jake closed his eyes, waiting for the shot, regret washing over him. He'd assured Heather not two hours before that he wouldn't get himself hurt or killed, and now he was going to break that promise. He gritted his teeth, still waiting, but the shot never came. Jake heard a shout then - he knew it was a shout, though, to him, it was barely audible, and the only word he could make out was 'Stop!' He opened his eyes.
Jimmy and Eric stood in the middle of hangar, guns drawn. Mitchell turned on them, firing once before running right past them, out the door. Jake, gasping for breath again, took off after him, but there was no way he could catch up. Mitchell fired a parting shot at Jake, hitting the hay bale that Jake had ducked behind. He turned Ganymede then, kicking the stolen horse to force him to a gallop. Jake stood helplessly in the alley and watched him go.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Monday, October 22, five years before the bombs
Heather had just opened her front door when her cell phone rang, the first twelve notes of Take Me Out to the Ballgame - the song she'd programmed for Jake -blaring from somewhere inside her purse. She let go of her keys, leaving them in the lock, and squatted to set the vase of roses down on the porch. Take Me Out to the Ballgame trilled for the third time, and, somehow, Heather located her phone, pulling it out of her purse, spilling half the contents of her bag across the porch in the process.
"Dammit!" she swore, flipping the phone open before it could go to voicemail. "Aw, crap!" Heather groaned, watching her change purse fly across the porch, coins falling out in every direction. A brand new, just opened tube of lip gloss - the expensive kind - rolled right off the deck, landing into a puddle of rain water. "Sonofa -" she started, only to have the front door slam closed, hitting her in the head. "Ouch! Dammit all to hell! Ow!" She fell back on her rear, rubbing her head with one hand, realizing only then that she still had the phone in the other.
"Heather!" she heard Jake call out. Sighing, she moved the phone to her ear. "Are you all right?" he yelled.
"Just peachy," Heather muttered grumpily. "Hello, Jake."
"Hi," he answered, concern apparent in his tone. "What's wrong?"
Heather chuckled humorlessly. "I am having a really crappy day," she admitted, shaking her head. "I - I can't even go into it. I - I'm sitting on my porch and, somehow, my front door just hit me in the head, and -" She caught sight of her roses, which had miraculously survived both her exploding purse and less than graceful landing. "But my roses are beautiful," she murmured, the slightest of smiles touching her lips. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he answered. "And, I do miss you."
"I miss you, too," Heather sighed, sitting up on her knees. She reached up, gripping the door handle to help her stand. She looked around, shaking her head at the sight of her belongings spread across the porch. "You know, I probably won't even give homework tomorrow. My kids'll love me, and there won't be any chance of distraction on Wednesday." Heather bent over, scooping a comb and a travel-size aspirin bottle back into her purse.
"And, here I was hoping to distract you," Jake told her. She could hear the grin in his voice.
"Well, except for you then," she acknowledged, with a giggle. For a moment, the troubles of the day seemed very far away. "Trust me, I'm gonna need some distraction by then," Heather offered, making her way across the porch, bent at the waist, retrieving her spilled change. "I could use some distraction now."
"I'm at your distracting service then," he teased. "At least 'til my cell phone runs out, and there's always the phone in my room."
Heather dropped the last few coins directly into her purse, and then picked up her sunglasses case and a tissue pack. She looked around. The only thing she hadn't recovered was her lip gloss, and Heather, contemplating what was likely to be living in the puddle, figured that was ruined.
"Thanks," she chuckled, shoving open the front door. She took two steps in, set her purse down on the floor, and then returned outside to get her roses.
"So, in the interest of distraction, I have to ask," Jake began as she pulled her keys out of the lock. "Such ladylike language you were using. You don't say those things at school do you? Not exactly PTA approved, I'd guess."
She set the vase down on the coffee table, laughing. "Uh, no. I say 'shoot' and 'drat' and sometimes even 'fiddlesticks' at school."
"I dunno, 'fiddlesticks', that's still some pretty strong language," he joked.
"Yeah, well, you haven't heard what comes out of some third-graders' mouths these days," Heather countered with a sigh. "Not so bad in Jericho, but I have a couple of kids who've shocked me."
Jake didn't respond immediately, and Heather returned to the entry to retrieve her purse, dropping it on the table next to the roses when she came back into the living room. "So, you want to talk about your bad day?" Jake asked quietly as she plopped herself down on the couch.
Heather had allowed herself to forget about everything that had happened back at the school while they'd joked around, but now it all came flooding back to her. She frowned, rubbing her eyes with one hand. "This was more than a bad day, it was a crappy day," Heather complained, allowing a frustrated groan. "A really crappy day. And, I have to tell you, Emily Sullivan's a bitch, and I'm an idiot."
He waited again before responding, saying finally, "She sure can be. But I don't think you're an idiot." If Heather had thought Jake's tone was serious before, when he'd steered the conversation back to her day, that was nothing compared to how he sounded now. "What happened?" he demanded. "What'd she do?"
"It wasn't just Emily," Heather answered softly. She kicked off her shoes, planting her feet on the couch and hugging her knees to her chest. "I - she started it, but I - I said as much as she did." Heather shrugged, forgetting that he couldn't see her, tears flooding her eyes. She didn't want to tell Jake that she'd betrayed his confidence, but she knew she had to. Heather felt sick to her stomach. "I went - I went to the office to pick up my flowers," she started, and then stopped, the tightness in her throat overwhelming her for the moment.
"Emily came in," she continued, expelling a deep breath. "She came in to the office at school, and she heard Mrs. Crenshaw and Mrs. McVeigh asking me who the flowers were from. They wanted to know who my secret admirer - who my - my boyfriend was."
The stress dissipated from Heather's voice for just a few seconds, and in Denver, Jake could readily imagine the blush that was spreading across her cheeks as she stumbled over the word 'boyfriend'. "Did you tell 'em?"
"You did this on purpose," Heather accused lightly. "You had to know that sending me flowers at school would be big news. I'm sure the entire staff knows by now. Mrs. Crenshaw probably sent out a mass email," she chuckled.
Jake thought it was more likely that half the town knew he'd sent Heather flowers by now. The Jericho rumor mill was efficient to say the least, and having taken her home for the proverbial 'meet the parents' dinner, he'd thought a public declaration of their involvement wouldn't be inappropriate. Besides, he'd wanted to send them, and not only because he'd known that he would miss her while he was in Denver. There was just something about Heather Lisinski that compelled him to seek her attention over and over. The fact that she gave him the time of day still surprised him a little, and Jake was trying hard to ensure he didn't mess this up. "We've got nothin' to be ashamed of," Jake reminded. "I don't care who knows that I'm your boyfriend."
"Staking your claim, huh?" Heather murmured.
"Guess I am," Jake returned. "Is that a problem?"
"Nope," she answered, "Not at all." Heather fell silent for a moment, though Jake heard her as she released a held breath. "But, anyway," she continued finally, her tone turning grim, "Emily told them before I could. She walked into the office, heard the question and said 'they're from Jake' before I could say anything." She paused for a few seconds, and then added, "She also said that you're always good for a romantic gesture."
He could hear the frown in her words, and Jake struggled with how to respond. "Heather," he began, but she cut him off.
"It's not even that what she said was bad, really. It was how she said it," she told him, her voice cracking. "Like I was an idiot for being excited that you'd sent them."
"You're not an idiot," Jake repeated. "I wanted to do something while I was gone. I wanted to make you smile, and I wanted to remind you that I'd be back soon," he told her. "And, I meant what I wrote. I miss you."
"Thank you," she whispered, resting her head against her knees, feeling the first prick of tears behind her eyes again. "And, I know it's stupid, but I - it bugged me, what Emily said, what she did." Heather's emotions were so close to the surface, and she felt shaky and wasted. Glancing sideways, she spotted her roses again, and it was enough to coax her smile back, but they did nothing to ease the guilt that had formed itself into a heavy ball in her stomach, nothing to drive away the tears that were threatening to spill.
"Jake," Heather began softly, "Can - can we do this in a little bit?" she asked. "Twenty minutes?" she added, keeping the sob that was welling up within her out of her voice by force of will. "I - I need twenty minutes," Heather declared, taking a long breath. "I think if I just eat something, maybe change clothes, then I can tell you all about this."
"Twenty minutes?" he replied. "I'll call you back in twenty minutes?"
"Yeah," she agreed. "Thank you."
* * * * *
In Denver, Jake heard the connection drop on Heather's end, and then punched the 'end call' button on his own phone. He looked at his watch, calculating that he could - would - call back at ten to six. Slumping in the one comfortable chair in his hotel room, Jake looked around, trying to decide what to do with himself during the intervening time.
Over the summer, once he'd started coming to Denver every couple of weeks, Jake had fallen into the habit of booking himself into a hotel downtown, a few blocks from the federal prosecutor's office, and walking back and forth each day. In July, August, and even into September, if the Rockies were in town, he'd gone to night games, buying himself the best ticket available along the third base line, a polish sausage, and a beer or two. He'd cheered on the Rockies and made small talk with the people around him. They were professionals still in their business clothes; old men, who followed the game intently, meticulously recording everything that happened on their scorecards; college and high school kids; couples on dates; women whose names he rarely learned, but who were happy to flirt with him for the three or four hours they were together in the stands. These were people who hadn't known or cared that he'd spent his day reconstructing in painstaking detail a timeline of his investigation into Jonah Prowse's criminal activities, and Jake had always been grateful during those months for the chance to be around people, but anonymous, for just a little while.
When the Rockies weren't in town, he'd always ordered room service and gone to bed early. That had been his plan for this evening too, ordering dinner in when he got hungry, and talking to Heather for as long as possible. But now, with twenty minutes on his hands, and his head full of worry about what Emily Sullivan had said and done to upset Heather, he found that the last place he wanted to be was his hotel room.
Pulling himself up out of his chair, Jake found the shoes he'd kicked off when he'd come in fifteen minutes before, and then retrieved his wallet out of his suit jacket. He left his room and wandered downstairs to the lobby, headed for the restaurant and bar. Happy hour was in full swing, business travelers and locals mingling together, trying to find some sort of connection within the sea of people. Jake bypassed all this, heading for the back of the bar where the party hadn't yet penetrated, and found an empty booth.
A waitress appeared at his side almost immediately, smiling at Jake and calling him 'hon'. He ordered a beer and asked for a pen. From her pocket, she produced one that had the hotel logo on it, and throwing him one last smile, promised to return with his drink. Jake unclipped his cell phone from his belt, placing it on the table, checking the time. He still had almost fifteen minutes to go before he could call Heather back. He reached across the table for a cocktail napkin, pulling it close, and started to doodle.
From the time he was a small boy Jake had always drawn airplanes, and that's how he started now, sketching out a machine that resembled Snoopy's Sopwith Camel. It was the first plane he'd learned to draw, studying a book of Peanuts cartoons he'd convinced his mother to buy for him. Later, his grandfather had given him an entire book devoted to drawing aircraft, but Jake still always started with his own version of the Sopwith Camel. His airplane complete, Jake caught himself doodling words. Names. He looked down and saw that he'd written 'Heather' and then 'Emily' beneath his airplane. 'Heather' was first and printed in bigger letters; but 'Emily' was there. Jake, recalling the previous evening, drew an oddly-shaped heart around 'Heather', and then crumpled the napkin in his fist, shaking his head. He was falling for Heather, hard, and enjoying every minute of it. But Jake also knew that he needed to deal with Emily, and that he hadn't.
"Here you go, hon," the waitress announced, placing a napkin in front of Jake, and then setting the beer he'd ordered down on top of it. "Waitin' for a call?" she asked, gesturing at the phone on the table.
"Waiting to make a call," he admitted, glancing at his watch to check the time again.
"I see," she murmured, noticing the crumpled napkin in front of Jake, and the pen which he now twirled with one hand. Smiling, she dropped another napkin on the table. "Well, can I getcha something to eat while you wait then?"
Jake pulled the bar menu out from between the salt and pepper shakers at the inside edge of the table, glancing it over quickly. "The roast beef sandwich," he decided.
"Fries, potato salad or coleslaw with that, hon?"
"Potato salad," Jake shrugged. He'd ordered more to get rid of her than out of any real desire for food.
The waitress nodded. "You got it," she told him. "And don't worry, hon. I'm sure she'll be there."
He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of her footsteps as she padded, tiredly, away. Out in the restaurant, at happy hour, a swell of raucous laughter reverberated. Jake sighed and, picking up his pen again, started to draw another airplane. He considered Emily. He would have to talk to her, an ordeal he'd avoided for months.
Prior to running into her at The Pizza Garden ten days before, Jake hadn't spoken to Emily since she'd screamed at him hysterically outside her brother's funeral. She'd laid into him, blaming him for Chris' death, for not protecting her brother, for not taking care of him. A vile string of accusations had spilled forth from Emily, and Jake, still on crutches because of his broken ankle, and still on painkillers for all his other injuries, had stood there and taken everything she'd thrown at him without comment and without defending himself. Eventually, Emily's aunt had shushed her niece, apologizing repeatedly, and then had forcibly dragged Emily to the car that would transport them to the cemetery. Jake had asked his mother if they could skip the graveside service and just go home. Three days later he'd moved out to the ranch, where he'd hidden himself away until the day he'd stopped to help Heather change her tire.
Jake decided then and there that, while he'd allowed Emily to blame him for her brother's death - accepted that blame, even - he was not going to allow her to ruin what he had with Heather. He'd loved Emily once, and there was a small part of him that probably always would love her, but their relationship was in the past. Heather was very likely his future and he would protect that.
He looked down at the airplane he'd drawn on the new napkin. This time he'd sketched out a fairly generic representation of a military jet. Beneath it he wrote in big letters 'H.L. + J.G.' and then enclosed it in a heart. Chuckling at himself, Jake didn't ball this one up, and instead folded it carefully in half before putting it in the breast pocket of the dress shirt he still wore. Taking the other napkin, he smoothed it out on the table, working to brush the creases out with his thumbs. With his pen, Jake retraced the heart he'd drawn around 'Heather', darkening the line. Then, suffering only the slightest pang of regret, he put a single line through 'Emily'. He picked up his beer bottle and took a drink.
Looking at his watch, Jake realized that there was only a half minute to go on the twenty minutes he'd promised Heather. He watched as the last few seconds ticked off, and then pushed the speed dial button for her home number with his thumb, bringing the phone to his ear. The waitress returned, setting his sandwich in front of him. "Thank you," he murmured softly, listening as his call rang through.
She smiled at him. "Enjoy, hon."
Jake nodded, his own grin appearing when he heard the click signaling that Heather had answered her phone. "Hey, babe," he greeted.
* * * * *
Heather raised her head long enough to press the 'off' button on her cell phone and to fold it closed. She then rested her head against her knees once more. Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt the first few tears escape at the corners. Her lower lip began to tremble and, hugging her knees tighter, Heather gave in and let herself have a good cry.
By nature, she wasn't a crier. Her big brothers were four, six and eight years older than Heather and so, by the time she'd joined the family, theirs had been a fully formed society. There had been no offense worse in the eyes of the Lisinski boys than to be caught 'bawling like a girl'. Heather had learned this lesson early in life. She didn't cry if she skinned her knee or smashed her thumb. And, she didn't cry if someone was mean to her. This wasn't to say, however, that she came from an unloving family. The Lisinskis were an affectionate and caring clan. They were stable, solid. But, there had been very little drama in the household which had reared Heather, and that left her at a disadvantage when it came to dealing with the likes of Emily Sullivan.
She was also at a definite disadvantage when it came to understanding her own responses to Jake Green. Heather had always believed in the existence of romantic love, she'd certainly witnessed it within her own family, and she'd always expected to find it for herself one day. But, she had reached the ripe old age of twenty-two with her heart untouched. That is, until she'd met Jake. And, as much as she had been enjoying herself, tonight she was floundering. Tonight, she was experiencing the downside of opening herself up so completely to another person. So tonight, Heather Lisinski who rarely cried, cried.
Heather didn't allow herself to cry for long, however. She was cognizant of her limited time, and grateful to Jake for allowing her the twenty minutes she'd requested without question. When he called back, she promised herself she would be ready. There was a lot she had to tell him, none of it very pleasant. After that, Heather knew, she would just have to deal with the consequences. With all this in mind, she wiped her eyes with the heel of one hand, and taking a deep, calming breath, forced herself up and off the couch.
Her first stop was the kitchen to put the teakettle on to heat. Next, Heather headed down the hall to the bathroom, where she wet a washcloth, using it to scrub her face, itchy and puffy from her tears, clean. She studied herself for a second in the mirror, emitting a shaky sigh. She was glad that Jake was in Denver tonight, and wouldn't see her like this. Taking a deep breath, Heather brought the washcloth up to her face once more, pressing it against her skin before taking one final swipe, still trying to erase the evidence of her crying.
She continued on into her bedroom, stripping off her clothing as she went. Having spent so much time with Jake in the past week, Heather was falling behind on her laundry, and so she'd worn pants to school that day. She had still looked professional and, in her heart of hearts, Heather had to admit that she'd also done it as a quiet challenge to the PTA president. That, more than anything, was likely Jake's influence on her. Heather smiled at the thought. Now though, she just wanted to be in something comfortable. She found and donned a pair of flannel pajama pants and a well-worn Buffalo Sabres t-shirt that she had acquired from one of her brothers years before.
Heather realized that she was feeling a little better already. Quickly, she pulled her hair up into a ponytail and tugged on a pair of warm, fuzzy socks. From the kitchen, the teakettle whistled. Heather hurried down the hall to pull it off the burner. She went to work, measuring out dry cream of wheat into a bowl, and then finding a mug and tea bag. She knew she'd probably need some protein later, but for now comfort food was the order of the day. Stirring the cream of wheat, Heather added a spoonful of brown sugar.
Her dinner prepared, Heather carried it into the living room, snagging the portable phone off the kitchen counter on the way. She settled herself, cross-legged, on the couch, releasing a deep sigh. She lifted her bowl and took a bite, letting the mushy cereal sit in her mouth for a long moment before swallowing. The first taste didn't seem to unsettle her stomach, and in fact Heather found that she was actually hungry. She started to eat in earnest, glad for both the nourishment and the distraction.
The cereal was soon consumed, and Heather set the empty bowl down on the coffee table, reaching for her cooling mug. She caught sight of her roses once more, and took a deep breath, and then a testing sip of her tea. Heather recalled everything Jake had said about the roses and why he'd sent them. She clung to his words, believing that he meant them, and hoping he still would once she'd explained the afternoon's events.
The phone in her lap rang, startling Heather, who had just taken a gulp of tea. She gripped the handset, swallowing, and let it ring once more without answering. Finally, she lifted the phone, extending the antenna and pushing the 'answer' button. "Hey," she greeted softly.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Thursday, October 26, five weeks after the bombs
Jake knelt next to Sean Henthorn's seat, glaring at the teenaged boy. "Where's Mitchell?" he demanded quietly, not for the first time.
Sean's expression showed that he was more than pleased with himself. He grinned stupidly. "I dunno," he answered. Jake, giving into just a bit of his growing anger, shoved Sean's chair into the desk beside him.
Standing, Jake forced himself to take a step back. "I know you, Sean," he warned the teenager, who was now rubbing his side. "You're lyin'." He turned then, glaring at Dale who sat, slumping in his chair, at another desk. "Dale," he addressed the obviously nervous kid, "You're next." Jake walked away, knowing he needed to cool down and they needed to stew.
It had been over an hour since Jimmy had arrested Sean and Dale. Jake and Eric were both deputies now, with the full authority to do so, but they had deferred to Jimmy, who it turned out, had been the only one of them who had had handcuffs on him. Besides, the usually mild-mannered deputy had summoned up the inner strength and toughness that had originally led him into law enforcement, mustering a rather hard attitude toward Dale and especially Sean, whose arm he'd practically pulled out of its socket, trying to subdue him.
Under arrest, Dale had meekly offered to show Jake and Eric where the rest of their horses were. "Mitch'll make you pay for that," Sean had taunted then, drawing even more of Jimmy's ire down upon himself.
"You're an idiot," Jimmy had proclaimed, accidentally but purposely shoving Sean too hard as they started to lead the boys away. "Mitchell Cafferty left you both behind to take his fall."
Jimmy had stayed with Sean while Dale had taken Eric and Jake to the other side of the airfield where they found another makeshift pen containing seven more horses. Having now recovered fifteen of the twenty-two stolen horses, they knew that they needed to get them off the airfield and back to the ranch before Mitchell returned with friends. Jimmy had loaded the two boys into his squad car, and returned with them to town while Jake and Eric remained behind on guard duty. While they waited, Eric had asked about what had happened with Mitchell, but his brother hadn't admitted much. "You look like hell," Eric had informed Jake finally, and that had been enough to prompt Jake to make a half-hearted attempt at washing up.
Reinforcements arrived from town a half hour later. Jimmy, who'd returned with a group of five men, had handed Jake an aspirin bottle. "Dale said Mitchell smacked you pretty good," was his only comment. Jake had taken two pills, dry, and then had returned the bottle to the deputy.
Robert Hawkins had come out with the group from town. He had claimed he couldn't help with the horses, joking that he was 'city boy', but he'd offered Jake a ride back to town. Eric and Jimmy had told him to go. With the four other men, they had five to wrangle the horses back to the Green Ranch, plus Jimmy would drive along in the squad car to bring them all back to Jericho afterwards.
Back in town, Jake had pulled the two boys out of the separate holding cells Jimmy had left them in, cooling their heels. Hawkins had gone back to front desk duty, handling the irate citizens of Jericho who were still wandering in with complaints, though the flow had slowed to a trickle now that it was afternoon. Jake had started questioning Sean first, but the kid was all sneering bravado and no brains.
Hawkins had been monitoring Jake's progress with half an ear, a fact that had not escaped Jake. He crossed the small bullpen, approaching Hawkins, who, now without customers, was openly observing the goings-on in the corner. "What am I gonna do about this?" Jake asked, half of himself, half of Hawkins. He couldn't stay still, moving around, pacing a half circle around Hawkins. As he continued, his frustration with the situation was more than apparent. "Can't charge 'em with anything, and the nearest judge is in the county seat, and we don't even know if that exists any more," Jake complained in a rush of breath.
"Is this about these kids?" Hawkins asked. In contrast to Jake, he was the picture of calm. "Or Mitchell Cafferty?"
Jake started at that, obviously surprised by the question. But, when he answered a second later, he managed to suppress at least some of his righteous indignation. "He stole my mother's horses, and he could've gotten her and my wife killed."
Hawkins emitted a soft chuckle. "Oh, you had run-ins with this guy long before that, Jake," he said. "I read his file. You arrested him five years ago," Hawkins reminded, studying Jake carefully. "He's gonna be a problem, right?"
"Yeah, he's gonna be a problem all right," Jake conceded quietly, crossing his arms over his chest. He eyed Hawkins warily for a moment. In the two weeks since the EMP, Jake and Hawkins had worked alongside one another cautiously, each feeling the other one out. Jake knew he didn't trust Hawkins, and that there had to be more to the man than the 'ex-cop from Saint Louis' that he claimed to be. He still remembered what he'd seen from the top of the pump station. Jake was pretty sure that Hawkins felt the same way about him, but he'd thought he could at least rely on the other man's advice in this particular situation. Now though, the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end.
"I never arrested Mitchell Cafferty for anything," he informed Hawkins, his expression hardening. "And, it doesn't say that I did in his file. Who've you been talking to?" Jake demanded.
"Well, after your encounter with Cafferty this mornin' at Bailey's," Hawkins shrugged, "I asked your brother about him. Don't worry," he continued, holding up a hand to forestall Jake's protest, "Eric wasn't too helpful. But then I talked to Jimmy. He filled in some of the blanks. Seems to me, Cafferty's been a problem in this town for a long while."
Jake shook his head, allowing an irritated sigh. Jimmy Taylor was a friend, and he wasn't the only one who credited Jake with Mitchell Cafferty's arrest - hell, Mitchell himself blamed Jake. He wanted to be angry with Jimmy for spreading the story, but Jake knew he really couldn't be. The federal gag order was long gone, and it had never applied to Jericho's gossips anyway, only to Jake. There was no way that Jimmy, who trusted everyone until they gave him a reason not to, could know that Jake didn't trust Hawkins. He hadn't told anyone of his suspicions regarding the other man, not even Heather. "Jimmy's got his facts wrong," Jake muttered. "Mitchell Cafferty was arrested by the Rogue River PD, trying to pull off the world's most inept bank robbery. I had nothin' to do with it."
"Hmm," Hawkins acknowledged with a nod. "So you're not DEA?" he questioned.
"You really think there's still a DEA?" Jake asked in return, shrugging. "Look, the only thing I am these days is a volunteer deputy in the Jericho Sheriff's Department, same as you. And, with the sheriff and half our real deputies dead, Mitchell and his kind are gonna prey on this town like locusts," he assured. "We need to stop them now."
"Well, if it's information you want, first thing we do is separate them," Hawkins reminded. "You know that. Or don't you do interrogations in the DEA?" he asked, pitching his voice lower.
"They're kids," Jake protested, gesturing widely with his hands. "Sean's an idiot and a bully, but he's a kid. And, I've known Dale since he was baby," he continued. "Hell, I taught 'im how to swim."
Hawkins allowed a bark of laughter. "You really are a pool guy, huh?"
Jake rolled his eyes. "Nah, just did my time as a lifeguard at the community center." He sighed, speaking quietly. "My Mom used to babysit Dale. He's practically a member of the family."
"A member of the family who got himself mixed up with Mitchell Cafferty," Hawkins reminded, his expression grim. "These aren't kids. Not anymore. They're your future locust."
Jake nodded, acknowledging the truth of Hawkins words. The Greens hadn't had that much to do with Dale over the past few years. When he'd turned ten his mother, Annie, had decided that he didn't need a babysitter anymore, even one who was unpaid. Gail Green had tried to stay involved in the boy's life, and he'd shown up occasionally at her dinner table, but usually he was too busy, either at school or working. By age eleven, he'd been taking any odd job he could find, and at fourteen, he started working for Gracie Leigh after school and weekends.
Annie Turner had been all of seventeen when Dale was born. She'd dropped out of high school and had gone to work as a waitress at the truck stop outside of town, never advancing past that position. Dale's father, the son of Gray Anderson's predecessor at the salt mine, had been quietly sent off to boarding school back east when news of Annie's pregnancy had started to circulate; he'd never returned to Jericho. Annie had loved Dale fiercely, but she had never been anyone's idea of a good mother. Now she was gone, and Dale was essentially on his own. Right after the bombs, Jake's mother had tried to get Dale to come stay with the Greens, but Dale was proud, and had refused. He was also devoted to Gracie Leigh, and therefore willing to do anything for her, including it seemed, getting involved with Mitchell Cafferty. Jake admitted to himself that he didn't really know how to handle Dale.
"All right," Jake decided, "I'll take Sean into the hallway."
"No, I'll do it," Hawkins contradicted. His tone was bland enough, but the look he shot Jake allowed no room for argument. "You take Dale," he ordered. "Just remember. This isn't the pool and he's not five." Jake watched as Hawkins slowly sauntered across the bullpen, coming to a stop in front of the slouching, smirking Sean. "Get up," he commanded quietly. "We're goin' for a walk."
"Screw that!" the teenager retorted. "I don't hafta -" He broke off when Hawkins grabbed him by the neck, pinching hard. "Ow! Ow!" Sean squealed as Hawkins forced him to stand. "Ow!"
"Walk."
Jake watched, somewhat amused, as Hawkins marched Sean, yelping the entire way, out of the bullpen and back down the hallway towards the holding cells. From his place, leaning back against the front counter, Jake observed Dale. He'd looked up, eyes wide, when Hawkins had come to get Sean, but otherwise his gaze was firmly concentrated on his hands in his lap. Jake figured he was scared, but he recognized that he couldn't know that for sure. He might have known Dale all his life, but these days he didn't know Dale at all.
Finally, forcing himself back across the room, Jake sat down on the edge of what was nominally his desk. Before the bombs it had belonged to Bruce Riley, and it was still full of his personal affects. Jake stretched his legs out, crossing them, and faced Dale. "I don't know how you got mixed up with Mitchell," he began quietly. "But you need to stay away from him." Dale looked up for a second, and then back down at his hands. "I'm serious," Jake sighed. "You could wind up in jail or a lot worse." He paused for a moment, hoping his words were getting through, even just a little bit. "You're not stupid, Dale. So what's goin' on?"
Dale, not surprisingly, didn't answer. Jake studied the teenager for a long moment, wishing he could figure out what he could say that would have some impact. "Are you lookin' for trouble?" he demanded, exasperated. Dale still didn't say anything, but this time at least he shook his head 'no'. Jake let out the breath he'd been holding. This was progress at least.
Before he could build on that progress, however, Skylar Stevens came running into the bullpen, obviously upset. "Dale!" she exclaimed, surprising Jake. This was Jericho, and there were social classes. Jake wouldn't have guessed that Skylar even knew Dale's name. "Why are they keeping you here? What did you do?"
Jake stared at the girl for a moment. "Hey, I'm just talking to him," he defended, pulling his legs back in, and sitting up straight.
"Well, you can't talk to him without an attorney," she insisted, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at Jake.
"We're just havin' a friendly chat," he protested, frowning softly.
"I'm bailing him out anyway," Skylar declared. "I know the machines are down but you have to take it." She thrust her hand forward, brandishing, of all things, an American Express Platinum card. Jake honestly didn't know whether to laugh at her, or ask her what planet she believed she was currently living on.
Jake glanced between the two teenagers, studying them both. It still blew his mind to have Skylar Stevens, princess of the S&A Mining Corporation, in the Jericho Sheriff's station defending the company's dirty little secret. He stood up, looking down at Dale. "Get outta here."
The boy's expression betrayed his surprise, his voice rising as he asked, "You're letting me go?"
"Yeah," Jake nodded. "I was just trying to talk some sense into ya." He waited while Dale climbed to his feet, and then caught his eye. "Believe me," Jake insisted, "You don't wanna go down this road."
Dale acknowledged Jake's advice with the slightest of nods, and then began to walk away. He managed three steps, before he turned around, addressing Jake hesitantly. "I think I know where Mitchell is." He took a breath and offered, "I'll show you."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Monday, October 22, five years before the bombs
"Hey," Heather said softly, answering the phone on the third ring.
"Hey, babe," Jake returned, his grin starting to form at the mere sound of her voice. Greetings exchanged, both fell silent for a moment until Jake, clearing his throat, asked, "Feeling better?"
Heather sniffed, but then replied affirmatively. "Yes. Thank you. Jake, I'm sorry I -"
"Hey, you don't need to be sorry," he assured her, interrupting. "I'm a big boy," he joked, though his tone was hesitant. "I can handle being sent away, long as you tell me when I can come back."
"Thank you," Heather repeated softly, letting out a held breath. She stood up, then re-seated herself on the couch, snuggling back into the corner, pulling a throw pillow onto her lap and resting her head on the back of the sofa. "Where are you?"
"Denver?" Jake responded, not sure what she was getting at. He retrieved his fork and took a bite of the potato salad, and then a sip of his beer.
She laughed, and he sighed in relief. There was something in Heather's laugh that was pure and wonderful, and Jake felt his clenching stomach muscles begin to relax at the sound of it. "I mean, where in Denver are you right now?" she clarified.
"Oh. Hotel bar," he answered. "That probably doesn't sound too good," he admitted with a chuckle, "But happy hour's taken over the restaurant, and it's quiet in here." Jake looked around. The same three solitary patrons whom he'd identified when he'd come in were scattered around the room. Two sat at the bar, ten stools apart, and the third sat in a booth at the opposite end of the row from Jake. They were all watching the Arizona/Atlanta National League Championship game on the television. It was a game that Jake had wanted to see, but it didn't seem important right now, and he didn't even bother to check the score. "It's just me and a couple of other anti-social people. Baseball fans," he told her, dropping the volume of his voice so he wouldn't be overheard. "And, the waitress, who keeps calling me 'hon'," Jake complained.
"Okay," Heather murmured.
"It's just weird, that's all," Jake grumbled, finally picking up his sandwich and taking a bite, chewing quietly.
It finally occurred to Heather that he was actually annoyed by the waitress, and she laughed again. Jake, she had realized pretty quickly, was a natural, though harmless, flirt. It was the reason he was generally adored by the females who knew him, everyone from Bonnie Richmond to Mags Henry, not to mention, she thought, amending her mental list, Mrs. Crenshaw and Mrs. McVeigh. "It bothers you that she's calling you 'hon', doesn't it?"
"She's said it at least five times already," he muttered.
"Well, just so I understand this," Heather said then, "Is it 'hon' you object to, or this waitress? I mean, would it bug you if I called you 'hon'?"
"You can call me 'hon'," Jake answered, his voice taking on the husky quality - unmistakable even over the phone - that always sent delicious shivers running up and down Heather's spine.
"I'll keep that in mind then," she replied, then added a testing, "Hon."
Jake sat back in the booth, smiling to himself. It was a few seconds before he managed a teasing, "You do that, babe," prompting a throaty giggle from Heather. "So," he continued, "You ready to talk about what happened?"
"Sure," Heather responded, almost tersely, the playfulness that had crept into her voice, suddenly gone. "So, I told you that Emily came into the office," she started, trying to marshal her thoughts. "And, she told everyone that my roses were from you. They - Mrs. Crenshaw - said something about how that explained why you were at school with your grandfather last week," Heather recalled, fisting her hand in the pillow on her lap. "Then I said something. I don't even remember all that I said," she admitted, exhaling softly. "I know I said that you're romantic."
She paused momentarily, and Jake, the bite of sandwich he'd just swallowed sticking in his throat, tried to figure out how to respond. Nothing seemed appropriate, and he settled for making an encouraging noise.
"I grabbed my roses and left the office," Heather continued. "But then, Emily followed me back to my classroom -"
"Please tell me that you're kidding," Jake interrupted, his disbelief more than evident in his tone.
"I wish I was," Heather grumbled. "Apparently that's why she was at the Elementary. She'd come down to talk to me. Walking into the office while I was there picking up the flowers was just a really bad coincidence," she sighed. "Anyway, she told me that she'd wanted to talk to me since last week, and that she just didn't know what to say," Heather explained. "She said we were friends, and I don't think she liked it when I called her on that one," she added, allowing an aggravated chuckle.
"Not that it made any difference. She still kept at it," Heather continued. "She told me she wanted to be my friend, and that there's a lot I don't know about you. She wanted to warn me about you. She said that you're sweet and charming." Heather exhaled audibly, and then closing her eyes, quoted Emily, hating the fact that she could remember, word for word, what the other woman had said. "She said: 'He's great at candlelight dinners, and flowers, and winning teddy bears at the county fair, so that the next thing you know, you've fallen in bed with him.'"
Her eyes were suddenly itchy with tears she refused to let fall. Heather swiped at each eye with the heel of her hand, which seemed to help, and cleared her tight throat. She couldn't bring herself to say the rest; that Emily had assured her that Jake would break her heart.
"Heather, I never made Emily a candlelit dinner," Jake began quietly. He knew he had to refute some, if not all, of the claims Emily had made, trying to hurt Heather. Jake took a long drink. "I don't cook. That's why Gramps is always there when you come to dinner," he joked weakly. "He makes it, so I really can't ask him to leave. Though, Friday night, I have to tell ya, I'm the one that nuked the corn."
"The corn was good," she conceded softly, but Jake was still unsure of her mood.
"And as for winning stuffed animals," Jake continued, silently damning Emily for her interference, "I'm just really good at knocking over weighted milk bottles."
He heard her take a deep breath. "Not to brag or anything," Heather teased then.
Jake chuckled, relieved. "Right," he agreed. "Not to brag." Taking a quick bite of his dinner, Jake explained, "Gramps and I spent the whole winter I was ten or eleven trying to figure out how to beat that game. I'd lost twenty bucks at it that summer, and I didn't like it. That was a week's worth of lawn mowing money. It was a lotta work, but we got it eventually. I've been cleaning up at the fair ever since," Jake claimed. "This summer, one night, I won stuffed animals for Bonnie, April, my Mom, and a little girl who'd dropped her ice cream and was cryin' on the midway."
"So, what you're saying is, if you ever win a teddy bear for me, I should be completely unimpressed," Heather joked.
"Well, if I do it throwing a baseball anyway," Jake agreed. "Strong man contest, something along those lines, you can still be impressed by that."
"Okay, I'll keep that in mind," she decided, giggling softly.
Jake waited a few seconds, letting the lilting sound of her voice wash over him, echoing in his head. He finished off the first half of his sandwich, popping the last piece into his mouth. "Heather," he began finally, knowing he couldn't delay the rest of his explanation, though every bit of him screamed that he should. "I told you that Emily and I dated in high school, and that's true. But, what I didn't say is that she's the only girl I dated in high school." Jake took a deep breath, and playing with his fork, moved potato salad around on his plate. "There were a couple of times we broke up, and she'd go with someone else for awhile, but she was always sorry about it, and then we'd end up getting back together. I was - I don't know - twenty, probably, before I ever kissed anyone who wasn't Emily."
Heather slumped on the couch, closing her eyes. "Wow," she murmured. It struck her suddenly that there was something she actually had Jake beat on, experience-wise; by her count, Heather had kissed three boys by her twentieth birthday. The difference was though, she acknowledged to herself, that Jake had done a whole lot more with Emily than she'd done with any of those three boys or with Mark Metzger, her only truly serious relationship prior to Jake. Heather hadn't really thought about Jake and Emily all that much - not after he'd told her they'd dated, not even after seeing their prom picture the night before - but as soon as Emily had talked about 'falling into bed' with Jake, Heather had known without a doubt that Emily had slept with him.
"We did sleep together," he said then, quietly, confirming the direction her thoughts had taken. "I'm not gonna lie and say we didn't. But it was a long time ago," Jake insisted. "And, we've been over with for a long time. Really since high school, though we got together a few times after that when I was home. School breaks. Emily and I have been over for a long time," he repeated. "And, I don't know why she thought she needed to warn you, except she really is still upset with me over what happened to her brother."
"Yeah, she said that, too," Heather responded, clearing her throat and forcing herself to sit up. She blew out a nervous breath. "Jake, I kinda told her off," she admitted. "I said that her brother got killed because of her dad, and not because of you. She realized pretty quickly that I knew about what happened." She broke off for a few seconds, and when she spoke again, Jake could hear the apprehension in her tone. "I am so sorry," Heather apologized. "I don't know what got into me," she added her voice cracking softly. "You have every right to be mad -"
"Heather - babe - I'm not mad," he insisted, raising his voice to talk over her.
She wasn't deterred. "But what if she tells someone?" Heather demanded. "The judge? You could get in trouble, and it would be my fault."
Jake shoved the uneaten half of his dinner away, absently reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. "I don't think Emily would go to the trouble," he decided finally. "It'd take more effort than I think she'd be willing to put in to report it. And, if she does, so what?" Jake argued. "You're not a reporter - you're my girlfriend. If the judge is gonna throw me in jail for talking to my girlfriend," he grumbled, "Oh well." Jake sighed, and then told her firmly, "Babe, don't worry about this. Nothing's gonna happen."
"But -"
"Heather," Jake interrupted, "Don't worry about it. Please," he added, his voice softening. "I'm sorry that this is why you had a bad day," he apologized. "I - I'm just sorry. I miss you," he murmured, emitting a frustrated groan that expressed his longing as eloquently as anything he could say. "I wish I was there with you."
"I miss you, too," Heather assured him, "But, I'm kinda glad you're not here," she admitted. "I look like I've had a crappy day," she told him, chuckling quietly.
"Impossible!" Jake countered. His tone was teasing, and she could hear his grin in his voice. "I'm sure you look great."
"Yeah, in my flannel pjs."
Jake groaned again. "Now see, you just keep taunting me with these flannel pajamas of yours," he complained. "You've got a mean streak, Heather Lisinski."
Heather laughed outright. "I do, don't I?" she agreed, her tone turning just the slightest bit smug. "So, I have to tell you," she continued a few seconds later, "My stock at school has really gone up, at least with Mrs. Crenshaw. She and Mrs. McVeigh are apparently quite fond of you."
"Mrs C!" Jake declared, "She's the best. No matter what, she'd always hear me out," he explained. "Didn't keep me from getting in trouble, but she'd at least listen."
"Well, she said you were a sweet boy, even when you were in trouble."
"Sweet?" he questioned, grumbling. "She really called me sweet?"
"It was a compliment," Heather reminded him. "And," she added, affecting a sultry tone, "I happen to like sweet."
"Okay," Jake conceded with a chuckle. "I can live with 'sweet'. You know," he added a moment later, "I really was in trouble a lot."
Heather snorted softly. "Yeah, I've picked up on that," she assured. Heather had also guessed that a large part of Jake's childhood troublemaking was likely the result of having been a bright kid who was under-challenged by his environment. She had a couple of those kids in her class, and it was a struggle to keep them productively focused. "And that's what Mrs. McVeigh said about you," Heather added. "That you were in trouble 'more than most'. But she likes you, too."
"So now I have the Jericho Elementary School seal of approval?" Jake joked. "I didn't think that was possible. I'm still surprised they let me back on the grounds."
"Well," she chuckled, "As long as you don't start a food fight in the cafeteria, I think you've got amnesty."
"Hey!" he protested. "I only ever started one food fight at the Elementary."
"Uh-huh. And, how many did you participate in?" Heather asked. "How many did you start at the High School?"
"I think I better take the Fifth on that one," he teased. "Spent the whole day with lawyers, and never got to say that." The waitress appeared at Jake's elbow then. She gestured at his empty beer bottle and half-eaten sandwich, and then showed him his bill, raising a questioning eyebrow. "Hold on a sec," Jake said into the phone, smiling at the waitress. He took the bill from her and then set the phone down on the table. Sitting forward in the booth, Jake retrieved his wallet from his back pocket, pulling out two twenties and handing them to the waitress. He picked up the phone. "This is my girlfriend," he told her, holding the phone out to her. "We've got this thing about how I always try to impress her by leaving big tips," he added, grinning.
The waitress laughed, hesitating only a second before accepting the phone. "Hey there, hon," she said. "If you can go by tips, then your guy's a keeper. So, if he did somethin', if you're mad at him, give 'im a break, just this once."
Laughing, Heather inquired, "How big was the tip?"
"Almost a hundred percent," the waitress responded.
"He's not in any trouble," Heather told her then. "And, you're right. He's definitely a keeper."
"You have a good night, hon," the waitress said, handing the phone back to Jake. "You, too," she added smiling at him.
Jake grinned in return. "Thanks." The waitress nodded, and walked away. "So," he addressed Heather, "Feeling better?"
"I am," she declared. "And I just realized that I haven't even asked how your day went. How was it?"
"Boring," he assured her, reaching for the uneaten half of his sandwich. "I talked, and I read my notes, and I explained my notes, and then two lawyers kept picking at my notes. So, actually, it was worse than boring. It was really boring," he grumbled. "We should talk about something else," Jake argued, taking a bite of his sandwich. "Like, what color are these flannel pajamas you're wearing?"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Thursday, October 26, five weeks after the bombs
Jake sat in a chair in the Sheriff's office, watching his mother pace back and forth in the tiny space. This wasn't something he was used to seeing from her; his father paced, and Jake himself paced, but Gail Green was, almost always, the calm one in the family.
He caught himself awash in a memory from fourteen years before, sitting in this very same room, perhaps in this very same chair. He'd been eighteen and under arrest, only that morning - and it was morning by the time they'd gotten around to dealing with him, Jake recalled - it had been Johnston Green who was pacing. Sheriff Dawes had been standing where Eric was now, and his mother had sat silently in the chair across from Jake, not smiling, not frowning, not reacting in any way, really, just providing a soothing presence in the otherwise overcharged office.
Jake remembered Johnston shouting at him, and he remembered yelling back, the two of them arguing heatedly over whose fault it was that Eric had rolled his car, wrecking it, not to mention breaking his arm and getting a concussion in the process. Gail had tried to calm her husband, laying a hand on his arm, telling him that Jake and Eric were just boys and that they had done a stupid thing. "They're eighteen, and that makes 'em adults according to the state of Kansas," Johnston had barked in return. "And it's damn well past time you stopped coddling them," he'd bellowed. It was the first and only time Jake ever saw his father plainly attack his mother. Johnston had turned to face Sheriff Dawes then, grinding out, "Lock 'im up, Henry. Let's see what a weekend in jail does for his attitude."
The weekend in jail had turned into three days, giving Jake enough time to scratch the words 'Screw this town. Jake Green '92' into the bench inside the cell where he'd been held. After three days though, Henry Dawes had refused to keep Jake without charges and without transferring him to the county jail, not even for a good friend like Johnston Green. Jake had been released into his mother's custody and, after a few cautionary words about what he should and should not say to his father, Gail had driven him home. It'd turned out that he didn't need her warnings; Johnston Green had simply ignored his eldest son until he and Eric had left for the east coast where Eric had enrolled at Brown. Jake and Gail had left for Arizona the next day, and it was Thanksgiving before Jake and Johnston, both finally cooled off, had spoken.
"So," Gail exclaimed, interrupting Jake's musings about the past, pulling him once again back to the present. She pointed out the office door at the holding cell which currently contained Mitchell Cafferty. "What are we gonna do about him?"
"We lock him up for now," Eric suggested. "Maybe we can send someone to Fielding, see if the courthouse is still running."
"His friends aren't gonna let this go," Gail insisted, drawing the gazes of both her sons. They all three knew that by 'friends' she meant Jonah Prowse.
Jake looked down at his hand, resting on the arm of the chair. He wiggled his aching fingers, recalling each punch he'd managed to inflict upon Mitchell before his brother had pulled him off. "I can handle it," he declared, his expression stony.
"Yeah," Eric interjected, his tone accusatory. "You handled it real good back at the barn."
"I shoulda killed him," Jake muttered in return. When he'd hit Mitchell, Jake had demanded to know what Mitchell had done with the food. But, what he'd wanted to say, what he'd hoped to convey with every blow was 'Stay away from my family. You even think about my wife again, I will kill you.'
His mother, however, was having none of it. "Stop it, Jake!" she shouted, spinning around to glare at him. "You're not that guy! You're not a murderer!"
"It's only murder if you kill a human being, and Mitchell Cafferty doesn't qualify," Jake responded, crossing his arms over his chest in a display of Green male obstinacy.
Gail's expression was one of pure disappointment, and that was usually guaranteed to bring him back in line, but today Jake wasn't all that interested in garnering his mother's approval. He knew Mitchell Cafferty, knew just how wretched and worthless of a human being he was, and Jake's only concern was protecting Heather, his mother, and the rest of Jericho from that animal.
Shaking her head, she turned away, looking through the window into the hallway where they'd left Sean and Dale, sitting on a bench. "What about these two?" she asked tiredly.
"Now, I can see letting Dale go," Eric suggested, "But Sean helped steal the horses."
Still facing away from her sons, Gail argued, her voice straining with worry and fatigue, "He's still a boy."
"A boy who could've gotten you killed, Mom," Eric practically snapped, exhibiting his own flavor of Green male obstinacy.
She turned around, this time casting an angry glance at her second son. "Well, it doesn't matter, Eric," she decided. "'Cause I'm not pressing charges." Gail's gaze moved on to Jake. "That cell is too small to hold everybody who ever made a mistake," she insisted.
If Jake had been in a better mood, and if his head hadn't still been pounding despite the second dose of aspirin he'd bummed off of Jimmy, he would have grinned at the irony. He was grateful for his own three days in that cell, though he'd never told anyone that, and certainly not either of his parents. Three days in that holding cell, bored out of his skull, had been enough to convince Jake that, if nothing else, he wanted to avoid incarceration. It hadn't exactly put him on a straight and narrow path, but it had helped shape his thinking; as his father had suggested, it had done something for his attitude. He'd made a mistake, but three days in that cell had kept him from making a lot more mistakes during the intervening years.
"What do you suggest?" Eric asked softly, a note of defeat ringing in his tone.
Gail turned again, and stood watching the two boys through the window. "Rehabilitation," she answered firmly.
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