Different Circumstances: Part 8A of ? by Marzee Doats
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Wednesday, November 1, six weeks after the bombs
Driving past Heather, Jake threw her a grim smile and gave a last wave. Heading east out of town on Route 40, they crossed the Tacoma Bridge, passing the sign indicating that they were leaving the Jericho town limits immediately on the other side. A minute or so later, they passed a mileage sign, reminding them that Rogue River was ninety-three miles away. Neither Jake nor Eric needed the reminder. Behind them, the sun had set in the west, and dusk was starting to fall.
"Jake!" Eric warned. It was nearly twenty minutes later, and they were about to come upon a wreck overturned in the middle of the highway.
"I see it," Jake muttered, his concentration fully devoted to road before him.
"Slow down!" Eric commanded.
Jake shook his head, clenching his teeth momentarily. "Not stoppin' 'til we get to Rogue River," he told his brother, veering around the vehicle and personal belongings - now trash - scattered across the highway, without slowing.
Eric looked back, spotting a woman, dead, lying beside the wreck. In the waning light he could see a suitcase, a pet carrier, an ice chest. "Can't just leave her lyin' there in the middle of the road," he protested.
Jake frowned, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. "Didja see the second set of skid marks in the road back there?" he demanded. "Someone forced her off the road and probably robbed her and killed her." His stomach roiled at the thought, but he took a deep breath, forcing himself to ignore it. "For all we know, they could be waiting out there to do it again." Jake glanced sideways at Eric for split second, before returning his gaze to the road in front of him. "I don't like it anymore than you do," he argued, "But if we don't make it, Dad dies and we widow our wives. We take care of our own. Period," Jake insisted. "It's the world we live in now," he sighed, his expression turning sour.
Eric continued to look back over his shoulder as the wreck slipped quickly out of sight. They fell into an uneasy silence, Jake concentrating on his driving, Eric finally turning around and pulling out a map. He studied it by the beam of a small flashlight for a few minutes, and then announced, "I've got a route to the county hospital in Rogue River. Take Cedar Run Road -"
"No good," Jake interrupted.
"You don't even know what I was going to say," Eric complained, glaring at his brother.
"Put the map away," Jake ordered, the set of his jaw brooking no argument. "We're takin' the back roads."
Annoyance flared in Eric's eyes. "Jake! Dad's on borrowed time," he reminded. "We need to get the medicine and get back."
"I spent most of my teenage years driving these roads," Jake declared. "We'll make up time."
"You always think you know better," Eric grumbled, glaring at his brother.
Jake ignored Eric's protest, reaching down for the rifle that was wedged between the seats. He lifted it, and without taking his eyes off the road, shoved it at Eric. "This thing's loaded?" he asked.
"Yes, it's loaded," Eric snapped back, aggravation coloring his tone. He took the rifle, clutching it tightly with both hands, missing the quick, appraising look that Jake gave him. "What're we gonna have to do, Jake?" he asked uneasily.
Glancing at his brother, Jake adjusted his hands again on the wheel. He didn't have an answer to that question, didn't have any idea, really, what they were getting themselves into. But if half of what Gray had reported about the world outside Jericho was true, Jake knew that they weren't getting themselves into anything good. "I dunno," he admitted. "But when it comes time to do it -"
"I'll be ready," Eric assured, cutting his brother off.
Jake nodded and then turned the car sharply onto the crossroad, heading south.
Rogue River was ninety-three miles southeast of Jericho by the state highway, but this part of Kansas was laid out almost completely on a grid system that was only altered for the rare, non-compliant topographical feature such as a lake or a bluff. Therefore, while the state highway was the most direct way, Jake knew at least ten different routes to Rogue River that simply involved making right turns on the grid to work his way south, and left turns on the grid to work his way east. The back roads would take a little more time - a tradeoff he figured was worth the safety it earned them - and a little more gas. Heather had solved his fuel problem, somehow providing a full tank, and if there was one thing Jake had learned driving trucks in Afghanistan and Iraq, it was to alter his route. It had been the contracting company's official policy; you could still drive into trouble by accident, but if they didn't know you were coming, at least they couldn't plan for you. For sheer, random attacks, the 'highways' in the Middle East had been the worst, and Jake guessed that was true now in Kansas, as the dead woman they'd seen on the side of the road confirmed. Adjusting his seat, Jake squared his shoulders; his stood by his decision.
They'd gone another fifteen miles without talking. Jake had made a left hand turn off of one farm road so unimportant it only had a number, not a name, and onto yet another numbered road. They were headed east again, driving between two abandoned orchards. The trees had dropped most of their fruit which now lay, rotting, on the ground. Jake risked a long glance at his brother. Eric was biting his thumbnail and staring, unseeing, out the window. "You haven't said anything for miles," Jake charged. "Stay sharp."
Eric started at the rebuke and Jake turned his gaze back to the road, exhaling an obviously frustrated breath. "'Take care of our own,'" Eric quoted then. "You said that," he reminded, "That we have to take care of our own. That's rich coming from you, Jake," Eric accused, fiddling with the rifle that now lay across his knees, though he still gripped it with both hands, ready, he told himself, for the first sign of trouble.
"Whaddya mean by that?" Jake demanded, confused.
"You don't take care of anyone but yourself. You got married, and three months later you were gone. South America? Europe? Africa? Who the hell knows," Eric complained. "You're gone all the time, and when you're home it's just to get ready for wherever you're goin' next. When Gramps was sick, we all took care of him, Heather included, but you didn't show up 'til two days before he died."
"Do you really think I didn't want to be here?" Jake ground out, his jaw clenched. "I was doing my job."
"Well, if you were doing your job, then I guess that makes it okay," Eric returned sarcastically. "Of course, your job is pretty much professional liar, so I don't know why I expected a straight answer. Forget I said anything," he muttered, raising the rifle so that he held it across his chest.
"You know, Eric, you're right," Jake retorted, "Working in undercover investigations probably does make me a professional liar. Go figure," he snorted, rolling his eyes. "And, I've lied to criminals without any regrets, and sometimes I've lied to good, innocent people because they were there and I didn't have a choice."
Jake paused abruptly. He could feel his brother's eyes upon him, but he ignored Eric, suddenly plunged into a memory of the last good person he'd lied to. Freddie Ruiz. They'd been friends in Iraq - really, Jake's only friend in Iraq - and Jake had always felt bad about the lies he'd had to tell Freddie, never more so than on his last day - his last hour - in Iraq.
He'd been in his dorm room, haphazardly stuffing clothes and his few other personal belongings into his duffle bag when Freddie had appeared at the door, obviously angry, trying to force his way past Corporal Bishop, the MP who'd been assigned as Jake's bodyguard until he left Iraq. Bishop, taking his assignment very seriously, had practically tackled Freddie, pinning his arm behind his back.
"Let 'im go, corporal," Jake had ordered. "It's okay. He lives here, too."
"Too?" Freddie had questioned snidely. "I know I live here," he'd muttered, "But you sure as hell don't. So," he'd continued, some of his initial fight flagging, "Is anything you've said or done true? Or is everything just one big lie with you, Jake? Hell, is that even your name?"
Jake had ducked into his bunk to pull loose the photographs he'd taped to the underside of Freddie's bunk above. There were only five: three candid shots of Heather, one of them together, and one more formal picture of the entire Green family taken about a year before his grandfather's death. Shuffling them together, Jake had slid off the bunk, turning to face Freddie with a grim smile. "I'm sorry," he'd sighed. "I didn't like havin' to lie to you, Freddie, but I was doing my job. And, I didn't lie to you about anything important; my name really is Jake Green, and I really am married to Heather," he'd continued, holding up one of the pictures for Freddie to see. "She does teach the third grade, and we do live in Kansas, little town called Jericho - not New Bern, which you probably don't even remember me saying, but that's okay." Jake had paused, running a hand through his hair before squatting down to tuck the pictures into an empty pocket of his laptop case. Standing, he'd met Freddie's stony gaze once more. "I lied about why I was in Iraq, what I was doing here, yeah. But I didn't lie about anything important."
Freddie had looked down at his feet. "So Greg and Patrick? Hell, Ellison?" he'd asked, mentioning their now missing roommates and the transportation section boss. "They're all - They did what everyone's saying?"
"Yeah," Jake had agreed, not really knowing what was being said - he' been in a debrief for nearly eighteen hours - but figuring that at least some of it had to be true. The arrests he'd made had emptied out a third of the dormitory he'd been living in for six months. "Drug dealers and gun runners," he'd muttered. "All those times we were told to drive a truck, and that we didn't need to verify the manifest?" Jake had prompted, "Well, now you know why."
"God, what a mess," Freddie had complained then, pulling the chair out from the shared desk, and seating himself on it backwards. He'd watched as Jake checked his closet one last time, and then examined his bags. Bishop had started making noises about Jake missing his plane, and so Jake had sent him down to their humvee with those bags. "So, this is it, huh?" Freddie had asked, climbing back to his feet.
Jake had nodded, holding out his hand. "You've been a good friend, Freddie. A brother. You saved my life," he'd reminded, "And I won't ever forget that. Thanks," he'd murmured. Freddie had accepted his hand finally, and then had hugged Jake quickly, surprising him.
"Take care of yourself, Jake," he'd muttered taking a step back.
"You, too," Jake had replied, frowning. "And, Freddie, get outta here," he'd advised. "I know you need the money," he'd continued, cutting off his friend's protest. "I know you wanna give Ana everything she deserves. I understand that, trust me. But get as far away from Ravenwood as you can. Work for anybody else, but this company's rotten to the core, and they don't give a damn about you."
Freddie, who was rarely serious about anything, had nodded and given Jake a solemn smile. "Yeah, I'm kinda gettin' that vibe," he'd admitted. "And, you know, I haven't been home in seven months, so maybe it's time. I can always sign on with somebody else."
"Good," Jake had agreed, his relief evident in his expression. He'd reached for his computer case then, throwing the strap over his shoulder. "I gotta go. But hey, if you ever get anywhere near Kansas, come to Jericho. It's a small town, and my Dad's mayor for life, so you just have to ask around. If the first person doesn't know me, the second will," he'd grumbled, rolling his eyes. "Like I said, small town."
Chuckling, Freddie had agreed. "Sounds like a plan. I'll bring Ana with me, and I'll finally get to meet your Heather." They'd shaken hands again, and then Freddie had said, "Catch ya later, man."
"Catch ya later," Jake had echoed before running downstairs for his ride to the airport. He'd made his transport with less than five minutes to spare, and three plane changes and twenty-six hours later he'd landed in San Diego.
That had been just before midnight on Tuesday, six weeks before; the bombs had gone off just after six the next evening. Over the intervening weeks, Jake had barely spared a thought for his friend, whom he had to assume was still trapped in Iraq, very likely with Ravenwood. Now, he couldn't help but feel a strong pang of sorrow for Freddie, and an overwhelming sense of relief for himself, thankful that he'd made that plane and made it home to his family in time for the world to go to hell.
Jake took a deep breath, glancing finally at his brother. "You know what, Eric?" he inquired rhetorically, "I may be a professional liar, but I don't ever lie about anything important. So don't use my job as a yardstick when you're tryin' to convince yourself that at least you're better than me, and don't use me as an excuse for not getting on with your life."
"What's that s'posed to mean?" Eric demanded, glaring at Jake.
"It means I've never lied to my wife, and I've never cheated on her," he retorted. "And ya know, you wouldn't be the first guy to leave his wife, Eric." Jake allowed the car to slow almost imperceptibly as he looked over at his brother. Eric was quite obviously stunned, and Jake was glad for it. He'd avoided involving himself in his brother's mess of a life for weeks now, and he really didn't want to insert himself into it now, but he didn't see that he had a choice anymore. "Look," he continued, returning his eyes to the road, "I'm not tellin' you to leave her. April's my friend, she's Heather's best friend," Jake reminded, frowning. "I'm just sayin' -"
"You don't know what you're talkin' about, Jake," Eric interrupted, turning to stare out the window into the night that surrounded them.
"I'm talking about what you're afraid to say, what you're afraid to do," Jake responded. "You're paralyzed, Eric, and you're not bein' fair to either of 'em. Make a decision," he demanded, unable to keep his disgust out of his voice. "Life's too short."
Eric continued to concentrate on the silent, unattended fields that slipped past them in the darkness. "Well, don't worry about me," he muttered, not bothering to look at Jake. "Just drive."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sunday, October 28, five years before the bombs
"Jake?" Heather greeted, offering him a bemused smile as she accepted his hand, allowing him to help her out of her car. "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you," he answered with a shrug. She stepped out of the way, and he shut her door. Heather was hardly the first person to express surprise regarding his presence outside the Main Street Presbyterian Church, and her reaction was rather mild in comparison to some of the others. "I'm gonna go to church with you this morning," Jake announced.
"You're what?" Heather yawned, covering her mouth with her hand. "Why?" she added as they walked across the parking lot, toward the church, her hand still clasped lightly in his. The bell started to ring, warning them that they were about to be late.
It was just before ten in the morning, and they had parted company eight hours before, Jake having stayed long after his clothes had dried. He'd left only after Heather had fallen asleep practically on top of him, and he'd been forced to wake her, reluctantly, to remind her that his car was still quite obviously parked in front of her house, and that his grandfather was likely waiting up to hear him come in. Heather, blinking blearily, hadn't said anything, settling for simply giving him a rather sloppy kiss good night. Jake hadn't been able to help thinking that Heather Lisinski, half asleep at two o'clock in the morning, might just be the most adorable thing he'd ever seen. At his insistence, she'd walked him to the door so she could lock up behind him, and then Jake had driven back to the ranch with all the windows rolled down and the radio blaring to keep himself awake.
"I'm going to church with you," he repeated, offering Heather a sideways grin. "I was starting to wonder if you were gonna show though," Jake teased.
"Hit the snooze one too many times," she admitted, yawning again. "But why?" she repeated, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. Heather had the logy feeling that came with not having gotten enough sleep, and she really was having trouble following. "You - When was the last time you went to church?"
"April and Eric's wedding," Jake replied.
"Okay, that wasn't a wedding or a funeral," Heather countered.
"It's been awhile," he conceded, tugging her to a stop just before they reached the rear entrance to the church. "But I'm not a complete heathen, you know. I went to Sunday school when I was a kid. I can name most of the Ten Commandments," Jake claimed. "Seven or eight, not in order or anything."
Heather chuckled at that, shaking her head. "Jake, seriously, you don't have to take me to church," she assured him. "This isn't Little House on the Prairie."
Jake allowed a rather strangled cough, and then laughing softly to himself, brushed a quick, chaste kiss across her mouth. "Okay. The absolute, honest truth is that I'm here to protect my interests."
"Protect your interests?" she questioned, her expression quizzical.
"Protect my interests," Jake repeated, sighing. "If you're gonna go to church with my whole family, then I figure I better be here to hear what they all say. Gramps, always tryin' to steal my girl," he continued, winking at her, "And I know Mom's just dyin' to tell you a story about diaper rash - or worse - show you pictures." Jake rolled his eyes. "Like I said, protectin' my interests."
Chewing her lip in a vain attempt to prevent a giggle, Heather studied Jake closely for a few seconds. "As much as I love your grandfather," she told him, standing on tiptoe and bracing her hand against his shoulder so she could kiss him softly, "I'm really never gonna dump you for him. And," she continued, stepping back, "I have a pretty firm policy against looking at any and all pictures of rashes." Heather grinned. "There are just some things I don't need to see."
"I don't want them scaring you off," Jake said then, his tone turning serious.
"And, I don't scare easily," Heather assured him.
The bell has stopped ringing, meaning, Jake knew, that they were now late. "C'mon," he smiled softly, reaching for her hand. "We better get in."
Jake led the way into the church building, then down the hallway past the office, nursery and Sunday school rooms, and finally into the narthex. Still holding hands, they entered the sanctuary. The congregation was singing the opening hymn. Jake guided Heather up the left side aisle to a pew in the middle of the church.
"Hi," April whispered, moving over to allow them both room. "He found you," she smiled, handing her hymnal to Heather and leaning against Eric's arm so she could read along with him. Eric glanced over the top of her head, nodding a greeting to Heather and Jake, before wrapping his free arm around April's waist.
"Mornin'," Heather returned quietly. She found her place in the hymnal, and pointing it out to Jake, began to sing.
The elder Greens were a pew ahead, and Grandpa, hearing Heather's voice, looked over his shoulder, smiling. Spotting Jake, he couldn't disguise his surprise and, he shook his head knowingly, his grin spreading. "Heather, Jake," he chuckled softly, turning back around.
Gail, hearing her father-in-law's greeting, stopped singing and spun around - robbing Johnston of his access to the hymnal they were sharing - to gape, open-mouthed, at her son. Jake, continuing to sing, rolled his eyes, but otherwise refused to acknowledge her astonishment. Johnston found another hymnal in the pew rack and leafed through it, finding the correct page just as the organist played the concluding notes of the song.
Reverend Young offered a prayer, and then invited the congregation to greet one another. Gail whipped around, pulling Heather into a hug over the back of the pew. "Mrs. Green! Good morning!" Heather laughed, obviously startled.
April, taking advantage of Heather's predicament, slipped around her to greet Jake. She kissed him on the cheek, whispering in his ear, "Wipe your mouth. You're wearing lipstick." With that, she glanced at Johnston who was smirking. "Morning, Dad," she grinned.
Eric was the only member of the Green family even attempting to exchange greetings outside of their group; whether he was successful or not was open to interpretation. While Eric traded handshakes with Mr. Crenshaw, his wife seemed much more intent on pushing past Eric to watch and listen in on Gail's conversation with Heather.
Gail had let go of Heather though she kept hold of her hand. "Call me Gail, please! And, you do know you're to come to dinner tonight, right?" she asked.
April, climbing around Heather to get back to her place beside Eric, muttered, "Told you so." She'd warned Heather the night before that she was now expected to attend the Green family Sunday dinners.
Jake coughed and covered his mouth, scrubbing his hand across his face. Johnston, taking advantage of the fact that Heather was distracted by the female members of the family, leaned over to quietly address his son. "Good idea. Not really your shade," he snorted.
"Let 'er go, Gail," Grandpa Green ordered. "I get a hug, too. Good morning, sweetheart," he grinned, holding his arms open.
Giggling, Heather stepped into his embrace. "Hi, Gramps."
"This is a bit of surprise," Johnston drawled, looking sideways at Jake. "I'm thinkin' I like your Miss Lisinski."
"Well, I know I do," Jake returned, grinning.
The parishioners were starting to take their seats again, and Heather, moving back beside Jake, overheard his exchange with his father. She started to blush prettily, prompting Johnston to wink at her. "Good to have you with us, Heather," he told her before turning and re-seating himself.
Reaching for her hand, Jake laced their fingers together. He stepped closer, pressing a kiss to Heather's temple, and then offered her a gentle smile as they settled themselves on the pew bench. The service continued: Gracie Leigh read the morning's Bible passage to the congregation; the children's lesson was given and the kids were sent, running, off to Sunday school; the choir sang and the offering was collected; finally, Reverend Young delivered his sermon. Jake, stroking his thumb over the back of Heather's hand, managed to pay attention for the first ten minutes or so. His mind soon wandered though, and he started to fidget, which distracted Heather even more than his presence beside her, or the touch of his hand on hers, already had. Jake couldn't keep from moving around, rocking the pew, and he spent a good five minutes rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, only to immediately roll them back down. When he started to tap his foot impatiently, she laid her hand on his knee, forcing him to stop, and offered him a tight smile. Jake mouthed 'sorry' and pressed his own hand over the top of hers, tracing the word out on her skin with his index finger. Heather managed to stifle her giggle, but not without attracting the interest of both Eric and April. Eric coughed to cover a chuckle, and rolled his eyes. April, laughing noiselessly, tucked her arm through Eric's and, scooting closer, laid her head against his shoulder. They were all quite thankful when Reverend Young pronounced the benediction.
As soon as the congregation had been dismissed, Jake was standing, tugging on Heather's hand. "We'll see you all tonight for dinner," he announced to his family, pulling her out of the pew. He hurried her down the aisle, and had just convinced himself that they'd gotten away with their quick escape when they ended up stuck in the line of parishioners waiting to speak with Reverend Young. Gail and Johnston stepped into line behind them, effectively preventing Jake from changing course. He was left with no choice but to wait with Heather for the line to advance.
"Miss Lisinski, isn't it?" Reverend Young greeted warmly, shaking her hand. "It's nice to have you worshipping with us today. And you too, Jake," he added throwing the younger man a questioning look. "Here I thought we'd lost you forever over the 'omnipotence' debate we had during your confirmation class."
"Still have trouble with the whole omnipotence thing," Jake answered. "But it's nothing personal, Reverend."
Reverend Young's lips twitched into a smile. "Never thought it was," he assured, shaking Jake's hand.
"I'm very happy to be here, Reverend," Heather said then. "This is all a little different from what I'm used to, but I'm getting the hang of it," she sighed. A beat later she blurted out, "I'm Catholic!"
"Well, you wouldn't be the first that we've taken in here," Reverend Young declared, smiling at her kindly. He reached for her free hand - noting how the other was clasped firmly in Jake's - and squeezed it. "Isn't that so, Gail?" he asked, glancing past Heather and Jake to include his parents in the conversation. "Jericho has always lacked for a Catholic church. Have you been to Saint Matthew's in -"
"Fielding?" Heather filled in. "The demographic was ... a little skewed," she decided. The one time Heather had attended mass at Saint Matthew's she'd been the only congregant under the age of fifty. "Besides, I kinda like going to church in my own neighborhood."
Gail stepped forward, wrapping her arm around Heather's shoulders. "I grew up Catholic myself," she interjected. "In Rogue River. Lots of Irish, you know, from building the railroad. Six of us kids in the O'Brien family, and five of us married Protestants." She started to walk Heather away from Reverend Young and Jake, who was forced to let go of Heather's hand or risk pulling her arm out of its socket. "The Greens and the Johnstons are a mix of everything, including Scotch. They were Presbyterians, so I ended up one, too."
"Church of Scotland," Heather nodded.
"Exactly!" Gail smiled at the younger woman. "Coffee hour's downstairs in the social hall. Let's get a cup, and maybe a cookie," she suggested, steering Heather through the narthex and toward the stairs. "The Harvest Festival is next weekend, and I'd like you to meet some of the committee. We'd love to have you join us." Gail stopped and looked back over her shoulder at her husband and son. "Johnston, Jake, come on now."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wednesday, November 1, six weeks after the bombs
"What time is it?" Jake asked, breaking the deafening silence that had settled between him and his brother for, he guessed, the past hour. Jake had given up wearing a watch, but Eric still had an analog one that worked.
"Eight fifteen," Eric muttered, turning on the flashlight long enough to check.
"Made pretty good time, then," Jake shrugged, glancing out the side window. He hadn't realized immediately when they'd reached the outskirts of Rogue River. Here on the town's edge, the houses were all on half or three-quarter acre lots, widely spaced and set back from the road. In the darkness - in the stillness - there was nothing to distinguish the town from the surrounding countryside. But they were definitely passing houses now.
Eric craned his neck, looking out the window. "We're in town?" he asked, his forehead, wrinkled in consternation. "There aren't any lights."
"The EMP got Rogue River, too," Jake reminded. "And, we were on County Road 107, which is maybe three miles south of Route 40?" he guessed. They'd safely crossed over Route 40 about an hour back. "Turns into O'Dell at the city limits," Jake added, slowing the car. He risked flicking the headlights on long enough to check the street signs at the next intersection. "O'Dell Road and Telegraph Avenue. Old part of town," he added unnecessarily, turning the lights off.
"The Farrows lived on Telegraph, before they moved to Dallas," Eric recalled, naming old friends of their parents. "And, O'Dell crosses Fremont three blocks off Main. April's apartment was on Fremont," he muttered. "You'll wanna turn right on Fremont."
"Okay," Jake agreed.
Less than two minutes later they were on Main Street. Both Jake and Eric were growing more and more uneasy over the stillness, the emptiness of the town. In the moonlight, they could see that there wasn't a car parked on Main Street for blocks, and the stores in the retail district were locked up tight. Jake stopped the car, but didn't turn the headlights on. Eric reached down near his feet, producing a giant flashlight. "Look around?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure," Jake agreed, frowning. He popped open his door, and then looked back at his brother. "Where'd you find that?" he added, gesturing at the flashlight in Eric's lap.
"Your trunk," Eric answered. "I just hope it works."
"It does," Jake assured him. "Appeared back there years ago, and it's never died."
They both got out of the car then, but neither was willing to take more than a few steps away from the safety of the vehicle. Eric turned on the flashlight, aiming it at one of the storefronts. "Everything's fine," he muttered, turning the beam on the next window. "I'd almost feel better if they'd been looted." He clicked off the light, turning to face Jake over the top of the Roadrunner. "Where is everybody?"
The moonlight, though fickle, was strong enough to highlight the worry in Jake's expression. He shook his head, unwilling to voice his own misgivings over the situation. "C'mon," Jake insisted, opening his door. "Let's get to the hospital."
Turning off Main at the next opportunity, Eric directed Jake through another residential district toward the hospital. Jake knew generally how to get there, but he was willing to concede to Eric's greater knowledge of the city itself; he'd practically lived in Rogue River, commuting to Jericho, the year he'd been engaged to April. Making a right turn onto Nineteenth Avenue - a straight shot to Hospital Road from there, according to Eric - something shiny in front of a house caught Jake's attention. He stopped the car again. Without saying anything, Eric cranked open the window, shining the flashlight at the house, the beam playing over an abandoned child's bicycle before coming to a rest on the front door which was marred by bright orange spray paint.
"See those markings?" Jake asked. Eric nodded. "These homes were evacuated ten twenty-five by FEMA."
"Ten twenty five?"
"That means they came through a month after the bombs," Jake said, thinking out loud.
"Well, if FEMA was here, at least there's still some sorta government," Eric reasoned, his tone turning somewhat hopeful. He turned, glancing at his brother, who was staring out the other window, trying in vain to make out in the moonlight the writing on the door across the street.
"As of a week ago," Jake muttered, clearly implying that he didn't share Eric's optimistic outlook.
Eric moved the flashlight beam over the markings again before turning it off. "What are the other numbers?"
"Zero is the number they found alive," Jake muttered.
"And the two?"
Jake released the break, giving the car some gas. "Number of dead," he said, frowning.
Turning into the driveway of the Fillmore County Hospital, Jake pulled through the ambulance bay and into the service area at the back of the main building. The hospital had been built during the Great Depression under the auspices of the WPA, and had then undergone extensive renovations - including the addition of a wing - during the seventies. This was the hospital where Gail O'Brien had trained as a nurse, caring for, and thoroughly entrancing, Private Johnston Green while he'd recovered from an appendectomy. It was on the grounds, in the memorial rose garden, that Johnston had proposed marriage, and then - thirty-four years later - on the cafeteria patio at sunset, and in front of half the hospital's residents, that Eric had proposed to April. This was the hospital where Gail Green had given birth to her sons; the hospital where Eric's tonsils had been removed and where Grandpa Green had received chemotherapy; the hospital where Jake had spent two days after Jonah Prowse had tried to have him killed. This was the hospital where they needed to find the drugs that would save their father's life.
Turning off the car, Jake addressed his brother. "We're gonna go in, we're gonna get the medicine, and we're gonna get out."
"Okay," Eric agreed, and they both opened their doors, climbing out the car, each carrying a rifle. Eric also brought along his small flashlight, pointing it at the ground. A flyer, printed on bright yellow paper, blew by him at his feet, and Eric stooped down to pick it up. Standing back up, he angled the flashlight so he could read the paper to Jake.
"'The Federal Emergency Management Agency has determined that radioactive fallout from the blast in Lawrence, Kansas has contaminated the water table of this region. Under no circumstances should water from any taps or wells be consumed,'" Eric recited, "Signed, FEMA." He sighed. "Well, I guess that explains why this place is empty." He raised the flashlight, shining it in Jake's direction. "If the water's contaminated here, don't we need to worry about that in Jericho?"
"We're a hundred miles farther from Lawrence," Jake shrugged, "And, the Geiger counters haven't -"
A shot rang out and the next thing they knew a bullet struck the driveway a few feet away. Instinctively, Jake and Eric both ducked. "Kill the light!" Jake shouted.
They ran for the shelter of the building. "What the hell?" Eric demanded, panting. "Where's that coming from?" Jake and Eric waited against the wall of the building, both trying to take in their surroundings. "We gotta get inside!" he urged.
Jake nodded, and then tapped Eric on the arm, figuring that his brother might not have seen the gesture in the dark. "Stay close," he whispered.
Pressed against the building's wall, they moved quickly toward the emergency department entrance. The automatic doors had been locked open and Jake, his rifle raised, ducked through them, followed closely by Eric. Inside, there was a complete lack of light; the moonlight that streamed into the waiting room through the windows there didn't penetrate more than a few feet. Jake took a deep breath, considering how to proceed. "Turn the flashlight on. Two seconds," he ordered Eric.
They hardly had time to take everything in, but what they saw was enough. Equipment and supplies were overturned and scattered all the way down the corridor. "Oh my God," Eric muttered, clicking off the light. "What happened here?"
Jake felt the wall he was pressed up against, finding pockmark after pockmark, each caused, he knew, by a bullet. Eric moved next to him, accidentally elbowing him in the side. "You okay?" Jake whispered.
"Yeah," Eric answered, his voice overly amplified in the otherwise quiet hallway. "Where d'ya think those shots came from?"
"Top floor," Jake replied quietly, inching his way along the wall, his hands brushing the bullet holes that didn't seem to end, carefully kicking things out of his way.
"Who the hell'd be shooting at us?" Eric demanded, still speaking too loudly.
"I dunno," Jake murmured. "But," he reasoned, "If they have any Cipro, it's probably upstairs. Two more seconds of light," he suggested, reaching back to tap his brother on the arm.
Eric's flashlight revealed that the next ten feet or so of the corridor was reasonably clear, and Jake pushed himself away from the wall, his rifle raised and at the ready. Eric looked back over his shoulder, bringing up the rear a few seconds later. Jake, remembering what he'd seen in the burst of light, made his way around an overturned cart, but Eric caught his foot on it and fell, sprawling into the cross-corridor. His hand brushed across a cold face, and he knew instinctively that it was a corpse. It took all his effort not to lose his last meal.
Jake, reaching over Eric, forced his brother to turn on flashlight again. In the beam they could both see that the hallway was littered with bodies. Eric pulled back, throwing himself against the side of the counter that ran the length of the hallway. "My God," he whispered, finally extinguishing the light.
Leaning against the wall four feet across the corridor, Jake felt the floor around him, coming up with a handful of spent shell casings. "Hand me the flashlight," he instructed Eric, sliding across the floor toward his brother. He knew he was risking a lot to basically stand down at this point, especially with at least one gunman upstairs, but he had to get a handle on the situation, and in the dark they were literally working blind. Eric fumbled around, finally managing to get the flashlight into Jake's hand. Jake turned it on, cupping his hand around the beam to block most of the light, although there was enough still escaping that he could see the panic on his brother's face. Quickly, he examined one of the shell casings, holding it up so Eric could see. "They're from an automatic weapon."
"Maybe they belong to these guys," Eric mumbled, his voice cracking. He was breathing hard, and Jake was afraid he was about to have a full blown panic attack. "I didn't know that Rogue River had a SWAT Team," he whispered, sniffling.
"They don't," Jake returned, his tone turning grim. He moved away from Eric, examining the vest on the first body by the light reflecting off the shield of his hand. "These guys aren't cops," Jake explained, "They're government contractors, a private army." He ran his hand over an all too familiar patch, a bitter taste pervading his mouth as he muttered, "A firm called Ravenwood."
"What are mercenaries doing in Kansas?" Eric questioned.
The name 'Ravenwood' obviously had no meaning to him, as it hadn't for Jake a year before. He'd first heard about Ravenwood in December, two weeks after Thanksgiving, and two weeks before Christmas. Gretchen, his boss, had taken him to lunch - polish sausages from the wiener wagon outside the federal building where the DEA's field office was quartered - and informed him that it was time to put his truck driving skills to use again. The Pentagon was suspicious of one of their contractors, an outfit called Ravenwood out of Boulder that provided logistics, transportation and security services in both Afghanistan and Iraq. "You've gotten a little too comfortable as the wealthy American with a wad of cash and his own private plane," Gretchen had informed him. "And, maybe a little too well known. This is a good place to put ya."
Jake had balked at the assignment, even threatening to quit, which had earned him one of Gretchen's rather derisive chuckles. "One day you're gonna quit on me," she'd conceded with a shrug. "Probably sooner rather than later. But, not yet." In the end she'd been right, and he'd taken the assignment, presenting himself in the interview as a down on his luck rancher from Kansas with some past experience as a long-haul truck driver - thanks to his time with West Kansas Shipping and Freight - and a strong desire to earn some money quickly before the bank could foreclose on him. The Ravenwood recruiter had thought he was a perfect fit, and he'd been promised a position on a crew being sent to Afghanistan at the beginning of February.
A month into his assignment in Afghanistan, Jake had enough evidence to convict two or three low-level managers for distribution of both illegal drugs and weapons, but not enough to go after anyone higher up the food chain, and especially not after anyone in Boulder. On the phone with Gretchen at three AM, Jake had shared his suspicions that Afghanistan was just the tip of the iceberg, and that if they really wanted to get this group, then they needed to start investigating in Iraq. Gretchen had agreed, ordering Jake to do whatever he needed to do to get himself transferred to Iraq.
"I 'ppreciate everything you've done for me," Jake had told Frank Montrose, the contracting boss in Afghanistan five hours later. "I do. But, I need money, and you make it faster in Iraq," he'd argued. "I've got the bank off my back for now, but they still own half my ranch, and my wife wants kids," Jake had confided, frowning. "A year in Iraq is worth eighteen months, here, and I don't wanna be doin' this for the rest of my life," he'd muttered, adding a quick "No offense," that Montrose had waved off with a put-upon snort. "I've done a good job for you here," Jake had reminded. "If you recommend me, they'll take me."
A week later, Jake had been on a flight to Iraq. He was assigned to a dorm room, sharing it with three other truck drivers, including Freddie Ruiz. He'd hit it off from the beginning with Freddie, less so with the other two, Patrick and Greg, whom Jake quickly came to suspect were well aware of, and involved in, Ravenwood's more elicit activities. In the end, Jake had spent nearly six months on his investigation in Iraq, managing to keep his anniversary date with Heather in Hawaii only by killing his grandfather off for a second time and then claiming the need to return home for the funeral. In the end, his instincts about Patrick and Greg had been proven right, and he'd arrested them and ten other contractors along with a nearly equal number of military personnel.
If there was one thing Jake knew about Ravenwood, it was that they were the most mercenary of the military contractors, and their people were as corrupt as any he'd ever met. He didn't want to think about what they were doing in Kansas, and he really didn't want to tangle with them. He turned off the flashlight, handing it back to Eric, and then lifted his rifle, aiming it down the body strewn corridor. He couldn't see a damn thing but, irrationally, it made him feel safer.
"Same thing they've been doin' in Iraq and New Orleans," he explained, glancing at where his brother was, barely able to make out his profile despite the fact that less than foot separated them. "The military's been stretched so thin the past few years, mercenaries became a commodity. The real question is," Jake muttered, staring down the corridor into the darkness, "Did they kill these people?"
In the stillness, Jake could hear Eric panting, though he seemed to be getting his anxiety under control. "Look," he suggested, taking a deep breath, "Let's just get the drugs and go."
"You're right," Jake agreed quickly, nodding. "You ready?"
"Yeah," Eric mumbled.
Jake had Eric turn on the flashlight just long enough so they could determine a path down the corridor. The center of the hallway was mostly clear - at least of bodies - and they hurried along, Jake sweeping his foot back and forth across the path to clear it of debris. Reaching the stairwell door, he pushed it open, halfway, with the barrel of his rifle. Holding his breath - feeling Eric's breath on his neck from behind - Jake waited an endless ten seconds, straining to hear anything from inside the shaft. Finally, exhaling softly, he slipped through the doorway.
Moonlight filtered in through windows that were placed in the outside wall at four or five foot intervals for three stories. Jake sighed, grateful for even that weak light after the horrors of their trip through the emergency room. The stairwell, thankfully, was free of bodies, but otherwise it was in worse shape than the suite they'd just left. Equipment had been spilled and shoved into the small space making it an accident waiting to happen. Jake could see now that an empty linen cart had been wedged into the corner, and it was that which had stopped the corridor door from opening completely. Climbing over abandoned equipment, Jake led the way to the stairs. "All right, stay close to the wall," he advised Eric, mounting the first step.
He didn't look back until he'd reached the relative safety of the mid-floor landing. Eric seemed rooted to his spot on the first stair, and annoyed, Jake motioned him forward with his hand. "C'mon," he whispered, "C'm'ere." Finally, his brother began to carefully climb the stairs. On the landing, Eric moved next to Jake, pressing his back into the wall. Jake fished his keys out of his pocket and tried to hand them to Eric. "Here. If somethin' happens to me, get in the car and go, all right?" Eric was not handling their situation, and Jake didn't figure he'd come across a safer place to stash his brother than this. "Find another town, search house to house if you have to."
Eric shook his head, pulling his hand back from Jake's. "Jake, nothing's going to happen to you," he insisted, muttering, "Nothing ever does. Besides, no way in hell am I goin' home and telling Heather I left you behind."
"She knew this was dangerous," Jake contradicted, forcing the keys into Eric's pocket. "She won't blame -" He cut himself off at the sound of something metallic striking the steel of one of the steps. There was a flash of sparks above them, on the next flight, and then the ominous clink-clink of something rolling down the stairs. Jake shoved Eric ahead of him, back toward the first floor. "Go!" he shouted, "Move!"
Somehow they managed to get to the bottom of the staircase, and then to shelter somewhat effectively beneath it, before the device went off. There was a bright flash and a deafening noise that left them both seeing stars and with ringing ears, but at least they were relatively unharmed. "You okay?" Jake whispered to his brother a long moment later.
"You say something?" Eric replied loudly. His expression was pained, and he pointed to his ear, adding rather unnecessarily, "All I hear is ringing."
"It'll pass in a minute," Jake assured, looking up through the three inch gap between the parallel flights. But, the moonlight was fickle, and he was still seeing spots, making it next to impossible for him to make anything out.
"Who's down there? Freeze! Drop your weapons!"
Jake, still peering up the stairwell in vain, shouted back. "No! We're here for medicine," he continued. "It's an emergency. We don't want any trouble."
"There's no medicine here," the man called back. To Jake's ears he sounded stressed, almost as if he were crying.
Taking a deep breath, Jake yelled up, "We wanna look for ourselves. We can trade'ja for food."
The man wasn't interested. "We have everything we need. Go away!"
Shaking his head in frustration, Jake tried to maneuver around his brother and get out from underneath the stairs, but Eric grabbed his arm. "Jake!"
"What!" he snapped in return, tugging loose.
"Are you crazy?" Eric demanded, stumbling after Jake.
"Didn't you hear 'im?" Jake whispered urgently, pointing up the stairwell. "He's scared."
Eric expressed his displeasure with a tight-lipped frown. "He threw a grenade," he complained.
"That was a flash bang, not a grenade," Jake countered, exasperated. "It's just loud and bright to scare us," he explained quickly. "If he wanted to kill us, he would've." Jake took a step out into the open. "We're puttin' our weapons down and comin' up," he called out, propping his rifle against the far wall.
"You come up and I'll shoot you!" the man yelled back. He sounded more in control of himself.
Jake, taking a deep breath, mounted the first step, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. Behind him, he heard Eric sigh, and then a scraping sound as he leaned his own weapon against the wall. The two climbed the first flight quickly, slowing as they passed the second floor and then proceeded up to the third. The stairs continued up to the roof, but Jake turned, pulling open the corridor door and stepping through. He found himself facing an automatic weapon, the red laser guide light bouncing across his chest. Sensing Eric step into place next to him, Jake raised his hands up higher.
"That's far enough!"
The man was in his mid-twenties with close cropped hair, dressed in what Jake knew to be standard issue gear for Ravenwood Security Services personnel. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked like hell. Realizing that Jake was studying him by the moonlight seeping in through the hallway door, the man stepped back, into the shadows, still holding the automatic weapon on them, switching nervously between Jake and Eric.
"You're with Ravenwood," Jake said slowly, modulating his voice so that is was as calm and inoffensive as possible.
The man let out the breath he'd been holding, asking, "How'd ya know?"
Jake waited a moment, considering what he could say. He had to win this man's trust, and he just didn't know what would do it. He decided to go with a close approximation of the truth, telling him, "I spent six months in the Green Zone, runnin' a supply rig up and down Route Irish to BIAP."
Brow furled, he took a step forward, back into the diffuse moonlight. "You were in Iraq? Soldier?"
"I just drove a truck," Jake shrugged. "Transportation division, but I met a lotta guys from Security Services. In housing, and they'd ride along sometimes." Jake could see that he was losing his audience as the man glanced left, squinting into the darkness. "Where were you?" he asked, regaining the man's attention.
"Fallujah," he offered reluctantly.
"Man, I thought I had it bad," Jake said, making a sympathetic noise.
"Thought it was the worst thing I ever live through," he admitted, his voice shaking. He took another step toward Jake and Eric, wincing. His leg was bandaged around the thigh. "'Til now," he sniffed.
Nodding slightly, Jake gestured at the weapon. "Mind puttin' that thing down?" he asked, still holding his hands up. "We're just here for medicine," he explained slowly. "We don't have a lotta time." The man's expression softened slightly and Jake sighed, pointing to his left. "This is my brother, Eric. I'm Jake." The man didn't respond, and Jake vented a little of his anxiety, demanding, "Come on!"
"Randy Payton," he mumbled, finally lowering his gun. He limped across the space that separated them and made a half-hearted attempt at checking both Jake and Eric for weapons. He faced Jake, his eyes, lifeless. "I'll take ya to see the doc."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Sunday, October 28, five years before the bombs
"Hey," Jake murmured into Heather's ear, coming up behind her and laying a hand on her arm. It had been fifteen minutes since his mother had absconded to the basement with her, and this was the first time Gail had left Heather alone long enough for Jake to get anywhere near her.
Heather shivered slightly at his touch, but when she turned around a second later she was all smiles. "Hey," she returned.
"So, is it just me, or is this coffee really bad?" he asked, holding up a paper cup with one hand and reaching for hers with the other.
"Church coffee," Heather pronounced authoritatively. "Bad the world over in my experience. And, really, not even worth it, 'cause it's always decaf."
Jake made a face. Pulling her along with him, he wound his way through the crowd to a garbage can, tossing his cup away. "There," he proclaimed. "Ready to blow this joint?" he inquired, his tone quietly teasing.
"Sure," Heather nodded, grinning. "Where're we gonna go?"
"Pizza Garden?" Jake suggested. "This is Mindy's last weekend in town for awhile. I'd like to say good-bye."
"Sounds good," Heather agreed. She and Jake started for the stairs but had only made it three or four steps when twenty-four pounds of two and a half foot boy ran into them, tangling between their legs. Heather watched in dismay as the little boy fell backwards, landing on his bottom, though luckily not on his head. The child's lower lip immediately began to tremble. "Oh, sweetie," Heather declared, scooping him up.
"Lose something, Jimmy?" Jake asked, one eyebrow raised, when Deputy Taylor rushed up to them a few seconds later.
"I am so sorry!" Jimmy gasped out. "I - He just took off on me. Are you okay, Miss Lisinski?" he inquired, reaching for his son. "How 'bout you, buddy? You okay?" he murmured, lifting the little boy from Heather's arms.
"I - I'm fine, Deputy Taylor, thanks," Heather stammered out. She hadn't seen him since the night he'd caught her and Jake at town hall, and she couldn't help but remember that he knew that she and Jake had been out - illegally - at Bass Lake on Wednesday night. She certainly hadn't expected to run into Deputy Taylor at church. "I think he just scared himself," Heather explained, touching the little boy's leg. "You're okay, aren't you, sweetie?" she asked then, offering him a gentle smile. He stared back at her with big eyes, his thumb finding its way into his mouth.
"Please, call me Jimmy. And this little bruiser's name is Woody," Jimmy explained, kissing the little boy on the top of the head. Woody twisted in his father's arms, burrowing his face against Jimmy's shoulder.
"Well then, call me Heather, please," she returned, frowning sympathetically at Woody. "Poor baby," she crooned. "We embarrassed him."
"Jimmy, is he okay?"
Woody perked up as soon as he heard that voice. "Mama!" he cried out, reaching for the extremely pregnant woman who had waddled up next to Jimmy.
"Oh, baby," she sighed, catching and then kissing one chubby little hand. "Let Daddy hold you, please." Woody returned to sucking his thumb and laid his head back down against Jimmy's shoulder.
"Margaret, this is Heather," Jimmy introduced quickly. "Heather, my wife Margaret."
"Well, it's very good to meet you, Heather," Margaret Taylor smiled, holding out her hand. "Not only did you dust off our boy," she said, glancing fondly at Woody, "But you actually got Jake Green to come to church." Her gaze shifted to the subject of her statement. "You know, Jake, it's not nice to give a pregnant woman such a shock. You could've sent me into early labor." She chuckled softly, pressing her hand to the top of her pregnant belly. "Of course, I would've probably thanked you for that."
Jake's lips twitched as he fought a grin. "I'm sorry?" he responded, drawing another breathy chuckle from Margaret.
"It was a complete shock to me, too," Heather offered as Jake's arm snaked around her waist. She looked up at him, teasing, "He didn't say a thing about it last night. I thought I was imagining things when I drove into the parking lot this morning, and there he was, waiting for me."
Jake shrugged, not bothering to argue. "Supposed to be a surprise," he told her, their gazes locking for a few seconds. Jimmy and Margaret exchanged their own significant look and smiles.
"Hi!" Woody exclaimed then, startling all four adult as he pushed off his father's chest with one hand and leapt at Heather, his arms out-stretched.
Instinctively, she stepped forward and caught the little boy under the arms. Jimmy still had a good grip on his waist, but Woody was wiggling, obviously intent on getting to Heather. "Is this okay?" she asked, just as Jimmy let go and she found herself holding Woody.
"If you don't mind, we don't mind," Margaret answered with a sigh. Heather lifted Woody against her chest, and his mother moved next to them so she could brush his bangs out of his eyes. "I think he's feeling neglected. Having a Mom who's nine and a half months pregnant is no fun for any of us, huh?" she asked smiling tiredly at her son. Woody chose that moment to press a very slobbery kiss to Heather's cheek. Margaret groaned an apology. "I'm sorry," she said, producing a tissue from her purse.
"Not necessary," Heather assured, accepting the tissue but not bothering to wipe off her face. She adjusted her hold on Woody, moving him to her side so she could see his face. "Well, aren't you just the little charmer?" she asked. "And, you've got your Mama's beautiful brown eyes, doncha?" she added, grinning at the little boy who grinned back, happy for the attention. Heather glanced at Margaret next, inquiring as delicately as she could manage, "You're not really nine and a half months pregnant, are you?"
Margaret chuckled, shaking her head. "Thirty-seven weeks, though it's starting to feel like forever at this point. Luckily," she continued, "This baby's a girl, so I never have to do this again."
Heather nodded. "Congratulations," she laughed softly, starting the bouncing sway that anyone who has spent any time with small children knows well.
Jimmy Taylor had been married for five years, and he'd witnessed the birth of his son; he was now immune to any embarrassment over the subject of pregnancy. Still, he recognized the uneasiness in both Jake's eyes and his stance over the turn in conversation. "Looks like you've got some competition there, Jake," he joked, nodding at Woody, who was now content to rest his head on Heather's breast.
"Trust me, he's not the first," Jake grumbled good-naturedly, leaning over to tickle Woody's tummy, which got the little boy giggling and squirming. "Heather's got more than a few admirers," he teased, winking at her.
"Jake was at school the other day and found, ah, shall we say, an admiring note from one of my students on my desk," Heather explained, rolling her eyes.
"It was a love letter," Jake interjected. "Short and misspelled, but definitely a love letter."
"It was from an eight year old," Heather argued, chuckling.
Both Jimmy and Margaret laughed. "Well, what did it say?" Margaret questioned.
"That she's pretty and nice and fun, and that she's the best teacher ever," Jake supplied. "All points I absolutely agree with," he added, throwing Heather a look that left her blushing.
She took a deep breath before jutting her chin out challengingly. "So, you memorized the letter?"
Jake shrugged, his gaze never wavering. "It was short, easy to memorize."
Margaret and Jimmy shared another significant glance. They had both grown up in Jericho, and had both known Jake since elementary school, but neither had ever seen him like this. He was quite definitely pursuing Heather Lisinski, and it was a sight to behold, to say the least.
* * * * *
Halfway across the church hall, Gail Green, well aware of the quality of church coffee, stood with Johnston and Grandpa Green, nursing a cup of fruit punch. She was carefully observing Jake, Heather, and Taylor family, noting how little Woody Taylor had taken to Heather immediately. And earlier, Gail recalled, while she'd been introducing Heather around, Gail had seen how easily she interacted with two of her students, little girls who had been excited and surprised to realize that their teacher actually existed outside the confines of Jericho Elementary. Gail glanced up at her husband. "Heather's really quite wonderful with children," she murmured taking a sip of her punch.
"That's not exactly surprisin'," Grandpa Green observed dryly, startling his daughter-in-law. His hearing was better than Gail ever credited it as being. "Her chosen profession is the teachin' of children," he reminded.
Johnston shook his head. "Don't go trying to imagine that girl pregnant, Abigail," he warned with a snort, popping the last bite of his macaroon into his mouth.
"That's not what -" Gail broke off as her eyes met her husband's knowing gaze. "It's too soon to be thinking babies," she claimed, though neither man believed that she meant it. "They should get married first, for one," she decided.
"They've known each other for two weeks," Johnston reminded. "Little early to be plannin' a wedding, doncha think?"
"I'm not!" she protested, earning disbelieving smirks from the two men. "Besides," Gail continued, "You proposed to me six weeks after we met, Johnston Green."
"That's true," Grandpa confirmed, apparently switching allegiances.
"Well then, give it a month," Johnston suggested, rolling his eyes. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, pulling her close so he could press a kiss to the top of her head. "And, no pushing," he advised gently.
"They'll get where they're goin' in their own time," Grandpa assured. "And it sure looks to me like they're headed exactly where you'd like," he chuckled.
Gail shrugged, leaning against Johnston. "Who's pushing?"
* * * * *
Woody rubbed his eye with one hand and then reached for Heather's necklace, a plain gold chain with a pendant cross. "No Woody!" Margaret and Jimmy gasped out in unison with Margaret adding, "Don't touch."
"It's okay," Heather murmured her eyes on the little boy. "Gentle," she instructed. Holding Woody's gaze with her own, Heather waited until he gave her a solemn nod, and then she smiled at him, repeating, "Gentle."
"Gen'le," he agreed, letting go of the chain. He giggled and grinned at Heather, patting her clumsily on the shoulder before laying his head back down.
Openly gawking at her, Jimmy demanded, "How'd you do that? What'd you do? It's like you hypnotized him," he said, his tone full of awe.
"I didn't do anything, really," Heather argued, rubbing her hand in circles on the little boy's back. "I just have years and years of babysitting and camp counseling experience. And, of course, the teacher voice," she joked.
"Still," Margaret muttered, "That was amazing. How soon can we invite you over for dinner?" she asked.
Woody, who was facing Jake, yawned and rubbed his eyes with one pudgy fist before sticking his thumb in his mouth and closing his eyes. "I think we're losing someone here," Jake observed, nodding at the little boy, who truth be told, Jake couldn't help feeling a little envious of at this moment.
"Yeah," Margaret agreed with a sigh, "Time to get him home for his nap."
"Probably a good idea," Heather responded, a hint of reluctance in her tone. She kissed the top of Woody's head, and then slid him into Jimmy's arms. "We wanted to get over to the Pizza Garden before Melinda Henry leaves for school, anyway."
"Great idea!" Eric declared, clapping his brother on the shoulder. None of them had noticed Eric's approach, but now he stood next to Jake, grinning. "April wanted to know if you two were interested in going to lunch," he explained, glancing between Jake and Heather. "The Pizza Garden's perfect." Eric turned around and waved April over. Then, for good measure, he waved at his parents and grandfather. "We can all go."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Wednesday, November 1, six weeks after the bombs
Jake jumped down the last half flight of stairs, amazed that he managed to avoid stumbling on something unseen in the weak moonlight. He'd sent the other three on ahead, staying back to lay down cover until the weapon that Payton had supplied had run out of ammunition. Now, it was wedged in the third floor stairwell door, a last ditch effort to slow down the Ravenwood goons. Jake felt along the wall at the foot of the stairs, quickly finding - incredibly - the rifles that he and Eric had left there less than an hour before. He picked one up, cocked it, and fired a shot blindly up the stairwell, hoping he wouldn't be so unlucky as to have it ricochet back at him. He grabbed up the second rifle and headed back into the emergency department corridor.
Jake's memory of the floor's layout proved, thankfully, to be true, and he jogged along, kicking, he knew, the occasional corpse in the process, but otherwise without incident. Within a matter of seconds, he came upon the admissions desk, now bathed in the faint light of the rising moon. Payton was there, crouched in a defender's stance, his weapon trained on the corridor Jake had just traversed.
"It's me," Jake declared, skidding into Payton's line of vision. He ran past the other man, calling back over his shoulder, "Hey! Let's go!"
"Go on!" Payton shouted back, his voice echoing through the otherwise silent space.
Jake spun around and yelled for Payton again. "C'mon!" he urged, "Car's out front!"
"No!" the other man denied, shaking his head. He glanced at Jake, momentarily abandoning his self-appointed surveillance task. "No! This is on me."
Annoyed, Jake ran back to him, grabbing his arm and tugging on it roughly. "Hey!" he barked out, "They'll kill you. C'mon!"
"I can't," Payton argued, shaking his head again. With mere inches between them, Jake got a good look at the other man's eyes.
When he'd heard Payton's voice from the top of the stairwell he'd determined that the other man was scared; soon after, when Jake had gotten his first good look at Payton, the only adequate description of his expression had been lifeless. But later, when Payton had declared, "You wanna live? Stand up and fight!" it had seemed to Jake that a spark of something had come back into the man. Now though, he realized, standing in the middle of the Fillmore County Hospital emergency room, that it hadn't been life that had reanimated Randy Payton; instead it had been a hunger for death.
"I deserve this," Payton gasped out, his eyes flooding with tears. "I emptied my gun up there, too," he confessed.
The admission tore at Jake, and he wanted to argue that Payton couldn't take this on himself, that there were others who were responsible, that Ravenwood - the entire, corrupt, corporate entity - was responsible. But Jake also knew there was no taking that pain away. He wouldn't stop Payton from making things right in the only way he had left to him, and in the only way he knew how.
"Now go," Payton ordered, taking a fortifying breath. "Let me do this." He turned away and began to watch the corridor again, his gun ready, his companion forgotten.
Jake ran from the building. Outside in the cool air he couldn't help but gasp for breath, inhaling deeply. The air in the hospital was stale and, on the upper floors, rank with the telling scent of the slaughter that had taken place there. Eric roared up in the Roadrunner then, headlights blazing, catching Jake in their glow. He jogged forward, yanking open the door. Doctor Dhuwalia squeezed over as far as he could in the bucket seat, and Jake forced himself in next to him, wrenching the door closed.
"Where's Payton?" Eric demanded.
"He's not coming!" Jake yelled in return. From inside he thought he could hear the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire, and he closed his eyes, saying a silent good-bye, a silent thank you, a silent prayer to and for Randy Payton. "Go!" Jake screamed when Eric didn't immediately drive off. "He's not coming," he repeated. "Go!"
It was nearly a half hour before they stopped. Jake had told Eric to kill the lights, a dead giveaway of their location if Ravenwood was following, and then, after a minimum of discussion, Eric had picked a circuitous route out of town, one that they hoped would convince anyone they might happen to pass that they were headed southeast toward Wichita rather than northwest to Jericho. Within fifteen minutes Jake had been sure that they weren't being followed, but he'd waited another ten before finally telling Eric to pull over. Now they found themselves outside of Rogue River on another deserted farm road which offered at least the illusion of safety.
Jake popped open the passenger door while the car was still rolling to a stop and, disentangling himself from Doctor Dhuwalia, climbed out. "Usually, I have to be dating someone to sit that close," Jake muttered, stretching his arms over his head. Dhuwalia, stepping out of the car, didn't even crack a smile. "Of course, my wife doesn't really approve of my dating these days."
"Funny," the doctor told him, flatly, after an awkward ten seconds of silence. "Or it would be if things were different." In the darkness, Jake could barely make out that Dhuwalia was frowning. "He was the only one that I was able to save," he mumbled, staring past Jake and into the night. "And now he's dead anyway. What's the bloody use?"
"Yeah," Jake sighed. There was no point in telling Dhuwalia that he'd saved the wrong man, and that Randy Payton's fate had been sealed the moment he'd turned on his compatriots, or perhaps even earlier, in the moment he'd signed his contract and pocketed his bonus. "When - When did it happen?" Jake asked then, not really sure why he wanted to know.
"Do you mean the massacre of one hundred and forty-two patients and thirty-seven staff at the Fillmore County Hospital?" Dhuwalia questioned harshly. "Floor by floor? Forty minutes of hell? You would like to know when that occurred?"
Eric had come around the front of the car and now stood next to Jake. The Green brothers faced the doctor with matching grim expressions. Jake nodded, his lips pressed tightly together. "Yeah," he said, clearing his throat.
"I don't remember," the doctor admitted with a sour chuckle. "Yesterday? The day before, perhaps. Does it matter?"
"No," Jake conceded, letting out the breath he'd been holding.
Next to him, Eric shuffled his feet. "We need to go, Jake," he reminded. "Dad needs the -"
"Okay, yeah, we're goin'," he answered, his attention still focused on their new companion. "It'll be fine. What time is it?" Jake asked, glancing at his brother.
"Just after ten," Eric replied, clicking his flashlight on long enough to check his watch. "We gotta go," he repeated.
"How far is it?" Dhuwalia inquired softly.
"Another two hours, a little more, maybe," Jake shrugged. "April said he had twelve hours. It'll be seven by then."
Dhuwalia threw his shoulders back, and although the moonlight was fickle, Eric and Jake both witnessed the transformation as his expression went from defeated to determined. "Well, we can still save your father," the doctor announced. With that, he turned back toward the car, and yanking the door open and the seat forward, climbed into the back.
Jake looked at his brother. "Here," Eric muttered, holding up the Roadrunner's keys. "No way in hell was I telling Heather or Mom that I left you behind." He dropped the keys onto Jake's palm. "You drive."
"Yeah," Jake agreed, his fist closing around the keys. "Let's go home."
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