CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
December 14, 1947, 0645 hours
Eagle Rock Military Base
Terminate? Spade sat paralyzed in his chair, horrified at Ramey's announcement. They're going to kill him, he thought in disbelief, surprised to find that hot well of anger flaring again at the thought of John's death just like it had for Treyborn's. He glanced back and forth from Cavitt to Pierce, expecting a firestorm of protest....and found none.
"That would be unfortunate," Pierce said, in the tone of voice one uses when the ice cream parlor is out of your favorite flavor.
"But understandable," Cavitt added. "It's too risky to lose, and if it's too risky to keep, then the only alternative is to get rid of it. At least we'll still have its ship."
"I assume I would be allowed to conduct the autopsy?" Pierce asked.
Spade stared at both of them, thunderstruck. Not even a full minute after Ramey had uttered the word "terminate", and they were already divvying up the spoils. And what about his own spoils? With John gone, he'd finally get his wish—he'd be free, and so would everyone else in the compound. Not like this, he thought, echoing Yvonne last night. This time, the price of freedom was just too high.
"Doctor, let me make myself clear," Ramey said firmly. "I don't want it to come to this. I want you and your staff to spend every waking minute trying to come up with a solution. You found a way to hold him. Now find a way to identify him—and do it fast."
"Of course, sir," Pierce said promptly. "I'll do my best."
"Good. Dismissed."
Spade remained frozen to his chair as Cavitt and Pierce rose, gathered up the reams of notes they'd taken during all the various testimonies, and left the room as though nothing unusual had happened. No surprise, no outrage, no questions; just a mild sense of regret, so vague he might be imagining it. He looked at Ramey, also packing up to leave, wondering if he would be ice cold also. Cavitt was understandable; he'd said from the beginning that he'd kill the prisoner rather than have it escape or be rescued. Pierce was surprising because he should be more upset about losing such a valuable lab rat. But Ramey? Ramey was one of the few reasons Spade was still willing to put on his uniform every morning. If he'd turned to ice, it was all over.
"Lieutenant?" Ramey said, seeing that Spade hadn't budged from his chair. "You're dismissed also. Thank you for your efforts and your testimony. You look exhausted—go get some sleep."
"Sleep, sir?" Spade repeated in disbelief. "You just announced you were going to kill somebody, and everybody just kind of shrugs and says, 'oh, well', and now you expect me to sleep?"
Ramey stared at him levelly for a moment, then nodded to his aides, who set down the piles of notepads he'd handed them and took up positions on either side of the door. Ramey himself resumed his seat, sinking down into his chair with a heavy sigh, lacing his hands together in front of him.
"Son, I know you sympathize with the prisoner," Ramey said quietly, "as do I. But this one's out of your league."
"And what about your league?" Spade demanded. "You're a two-star general, and you're just going to kill somebody with no trial, no evidence, no formal charges even, no anything! Just kill them—just like that! That's not even legal! This is supposed to be the United States Army, not a goddamned hit squad!"
"Be careful, Lieutenant," Ramey warned.
" 'Careful'? I am way past 'careful'!" Spade said angrily. "I'm exhausted, fed up, disappointed.....and betrayed. I thought you were different. I thought you could actually see that 'person' is not necessarily synonymous with 'human'. God, was I ever wrong. You're just like the rest of them—you have principles when it's convenient, and when it's not, forget it!"
Ramey listened to this outburst impassively, his aides shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to another. "My turn," he announced when Spade paused for breath. "First of all, Lieutenant, let me assure you that it has never been 'convenient' for me to advocate for the prisoner. I've had to fight tooth and nail every step of the way for every comfort, every consideration, no matter how small, and I'm considered mighty strange for even bothering. I imagine you've encountered similar reactions."
Spade said nothing, his fingers tapping against the edge of his chair in a gesture born partly of anger, partly of exhaustion and too much coffee. Yes, he had experienced similar reactions for months, and so had Yvonne. He'd had no idea Ramey was being treated the same way.
"I'm afraid we're in the minority," Ramey continued. "We can see past species, past the obvious differences to the similarities—but most others can't. They see at worst a monster, at best a zoo animal. They haven't talked to the prisoner like you and I have. I've encouraged many of the people who visit the observation room to speak with him, and they've all declined. They don't want to, most likely because they're afraid....and not necessarily afraid of him personally, thought that would be understandable. No, they're afraid of identifying with him, of seeing something in him they're not prepared to see. It's so much easier if they think of him as a creature instead of a person. That perspective avoids so many messy questions, so many ambiguities. If he's not a person, they can do anything they want with impunity....or so they think. Like ignoring the due process you so rightly claim he deserves. Or ordering his execution and viewing it as little more than putting a dog to sleep."
"If you really feel that way, then why are you doing this, sir?" Spade demanded. "What you're saying doesn't match what you're doing, which can only mean one thing—you don't mean what you say."
Ramey eyed Spade in silence for a moment before turning to his aides. "Leave us."
They left immediately, closing the door behind them. Ramey locked the door behind them and leaned against the edge of the table, facing Spade. "You've been honest with me before, Lieutenant. So now I’m going to be honest with you. But what I'm about to tell you doesn't leave this room. Understood?"
Wordlessly, Spade nodded. What was this? Was this about whatever was hidden down in Dr. Pierce's lab?
"I lied to Majors Pierce and Cavitt a few minutes ago," Ramey said bluntly, as Spade's eyes widened. "My orders were to ask Dr. Pierce if we had a fast, simple, foolproof method of identifying the aliens, and if he said 'no', to have the prisoner terminated immediately. As of now, I have disobeyed those orders."
Spade felt his throat constrict. Here he'd just virtually called Ramey a liar, and it turned out his real orders were even worse. God, had he made a mistake.
"It's always easy to be a Monday morning quarterback," Ramey continued, easing himself onto the table. "No doubt you're thinking the people who issued those orders are monsters, much the same way as those same people think the prisoner is a monster. And you're both wrong. Last night, when word reached Washington that this facility had been attacked, news was hard to come by and we feared the worst...and not without reason, I might add. The orders I received right before I left for New Mexico reflect that fear.
"However, after hearing testimony from those of you left standing, I'm convinced we overreacted, and I made the judgment call to extend the deadline for those orders and give Dr. Pierce at least a little time to come up with a solution. I'll be making myself conveniently unavailable for phone calls for the rest of the day, something I guarantee I'll have to explain when I get back to Washington."
"But why five o'clock?" Spade asked. "Why is that the magic hour?"
"Because it's before the sun sets, Lieutenant. I believe the aliens won't return until after dark. They obviously have some means of seeing in the dark, so I believe they'll try the same thing tonight that they tried last night, waiting for dark and cutting our power. And they'll succeed, unless we have some way to keep them out. As you said yourself, once they're inside, it's too late. Once the power's cut, we're at a crippling disadvantage. Don't take this the wrong way, but it was sheer luck that you and your men managed to repel them at all."
And a little help, Spade thought guiltily, remembering the alien's bloody nose. "Maybe they won't be back tonight," he argued. "The sedative may not have worn off completely. That would give Dr. Pierce another whole night and day to come up with something before we have to resort to murder."
Ramey shook his head. "I can't be sure they won't be back tonight. Can you? What if there are more of them, as Major Cavitt suggested? I can't justify expending more human lives in defense of a facility I know is indefensible. You lost your first man last night. Care to repeat that?"
Spade looked away, Treyborn's white face flashing through his mind. "Then give them what they want, sir. Let them have the prisoner. Let him go. That's probably all they wanted anyway, given the way they attacked. Just throw in the towel and let him go, and no one else has to get hurt on either side."
"I wish I could," Ramey replied, "but I concur with those of my colleagues who feel that the prisoner is an unacceptable security risk should he escape or be rescued. Especially if he's rescued. My first duty, Lieutenant, and yours, is the defense of the United States Government and her territories. How well are we doing our jobs if we just let the prisoner walk out the door?" Ramey sighed, folding his arms in front of himself. "Between you and me and the fence post, I don't think these people are here to hurt us. I also don't believe they're here by accident, but I've never gotten the impression they meant us harm, and last night only confirms that. But that's just a gut feeling—I have nothing to back it up. And the aliens aren't helping their own case. If they approached us, attempted to talk to us, to explain why they're here and what's going on, then maybe things would be different. Until one of them shows a willingness to communicate, I have to assume they may be hostile despite my feelings to the contrary....and act accordingly."
One of them did, Spade thought wearily, and I blew him off. Should he admit to Ramey that he'd been in contact with the aliens? Never in a million years had he ever thought he might one day contemplate doing that, but if it came to that.....if Pierce was unable to come up with something that would stay the executioner's hand.....would it be worth the resulting trip to a military prison to save John's life?
"So five o'clock it is," Ramey said. "That's as long as I'm willing to gamble with the lives of the men under my command. And believe me, Lieutenant, I am gambling. If I'm wrong, and the aliens return before nightfall, it's your life on the line too. And if we make it to five o'clock with no progress, I will carry out my orders with regret....but no apology. My conscience will be clear."
"What if we do come up with a way to identify them, and you're still ordered to kill him?" Spade asked.
"Come again?" Ramey asked, resuming his seat on the other side of the table.
"You said there was a faction that wanted the prisoner dead," Spade said slowly, a horrible dread growing in the pit of his stomach. "What if Dr. Pierce actually comes up with something, and you're ordered to kill him anyway? Will your conscience be clear then, sir?"
Ramey stared at him in silence, his face inscrutable. "One thing at a time, Lieutenant. I think we have enough problems without you dreaming up new ones. Dismissed."
The note of finality in Ramey's voice made it clear that the leeway he'd granted was over. Spade rose stiffly to his feet, muscles complaining from fatigue and being in one position for so long. He had his hand on the doorknob when Ramey spoke again.
"And Lieutenant? I realize you're exhausted and upset, so I'll cut you a pass—this time. But don't you ever speak to me in that tone of voice again, or I'll see to it that's the last thing you ever do. This is the Army, not a kindergarten. Throw your tantrums elsewhere, not with superior officers."
Spade swallowed hard and answered without turning around. "Yes, sir."
******************************************************
10:30 a.m.
Proctor residence
"Wow!" Peter exclaimed, gazing up at Dee's dining room wall. "That's a bullet hole! A real bullet hole!"
"Did you think it was a fake bullet hole?" Ernie Hutton asked, eyeballing another in the living room.
"A bullet hole? Eww!" was Rachel's contribution to the discussion.
"Did the burglar go from the living room to the dining room, or the dining room to the living room?" asked Mary Laura, studying the progression of holes studding the walls in the two rooms.
"Who cares?" Rachel asked, hugging herself and looking away. "It's creepy."
"Aw, what would you know. You're just a girl," Ernie shot back in disgust.
Standing off to one side of the pack of variously interested neighborhood children, Dee rolled her eyes. The neighbors had descended upon the Proctor household at precisely 10:15 that morning, suggesting that everyone had virtually run home from their various Sunday services to be the first to arrive and see the results of last night's excitement, much of which wasn't that exciting. The broken door in the grandfather clock and the broken dining room window elicited no interest, as virtually every child there had broken something made of glass at one point or other, whether it was a drinking glass, a pair of eyeglasses, or a window with a baseball. The staved in plaster in the kitchen and behind the front door had drawn only a bit more interest. But the bullet holes in the living and dining room walls had proven to be quite the tourist attraction....for some, anyway. Peter and Ernie were fascinated, Rachel was revolted, Mary Laura was behaving like a pint-sized police officer, and Anthony.....Anthony was hovering silently toward the back of the crowd, staring at the bullet holes with wide eyes. Poor Anthony. After she'd left him the way she had last night, it was no wonder he was so upset. He was the only one in the group who had some idea of what had really happened.
"Holy cow!" Ernie exclaimed, his eye to one bullet hole like he was looking through a telescope. "The bullet's still in there!"
"Really? Lemme see!" Peter said, trying to push Ernie aside.
"Shove off, Parker!" Ernie growled. "Go find your own bullet hole!"
Peter did, heading for another in the dining room and excitedly reporting that that one also contained a bullet. Mary Laura peeked primly into a third, getting up on tiptoe in the patent leather Mary Janes she'd worn to church. Rachel sighed. Anthony looked stricken.
"I heard your Dad had a gun too!" Peter said enthusiastically. "Is that true?"
"Yeah, he did," Dee answered, thinking of the tension still simmering between her parents about the gun. "But he didn't fire it," she added, sticking to the family-approved story.
"Too bad," Peter said regretfully. "And you didn't get to see any of this?"
"No. I was upstairs in the attic with my mother."
"I wouldn't have stayed in the attic. I would have come down here and blown that burglar's brains out," Ernie announced, making his hands into the shape of a gun and adding pow noises for emphasis.
"Wow!" Peter repeated, peering into another bullet hole, virtually beside himself with awe. "That deputy actually shot a gun off in your house! That is just so neat!"
"It's not that neat," Ernie countered. "He missed."
Daddy didn't, Dee thought silently, remembering the pile of alien dust on the dining room floor, and thinking again of what none of the Proctors wanted to talk about: Brivari wasn't back yet. She knew her parents were diplomatically not voicing their fear that he was dead, but Dee didn't share their pessimism. He's all right, she thought fiercely, unwilling to even consider another outcome. She knew he was all right. Brivari had been through so much, and he always came out okay. This time should be no different.
"Why was the Army here last night?" Mary Laura wondered out loud. "Why would they be interested in a burglar?"
Dee shrugged. "We don't know," she answered evasively. "I guess only Sheriff Wilcox would know."
"Maybe it was an alien burglar!" Ernie exclaimed, off and running on his favorite subject. "Maybe they're trying to catch it so they can experiment on it!" As he spoke, he crept silently behind an unsuspecting Rachel and clamped his hands over her eyes.
"AAARGH! Ernie!" Rachel shouted, twisting away from him. "I swear if you do that one more time, I'll.....I'll......."
"You'll what?" Ernie challenged, supremely confident that the answer was 'nothing'.
"I wouldn't worry about what Rachel would do," Dee said sweetly. "But you should be worrying about what I would do."
"You wouldn't dare hit me again!" Ernie announced, backing up as he spoke.
"That's what you said the last time she hit you," Mary Laura said dryly.
"Dee won't have to hit you!" Rachel said crossly. "I'll do it myself!"
"Oh, sure," Ernie scoffed. "You're a weenie, Cavuto. You'd never have the guts to hit me."
Dee was about to enter the fray when someone grabbed her arm and propelled her backwards; a moment later, she found herself in the kitchen facing a very worried Anthony. Adult voices floated through the side door; they'd had so many visitors descend so quickly that her parents were talking to everyone outdoors, it being about fifty-six degrees and sunny. "I wasn't going to hit him," Dee assured Anthony, assuming that was why he'd pulled her away. "Yet, anyway."
"I don't care about Ernie," Anthony said, his voice low and urgent. "Are you all right? I had no idea all this was going to happen!"
"We're fine," Dee assured him. "Well, I'm fine. And Daddy's fine. Mama, I'm not so sure about.
"Why?" Anthony asked in alarm. "What happened to your mother?"
"Nothing 'happened' to her," Dee said. "She and Daddy are barely speaking to each other because Mama didn't know Daddy had a gun in the house until last night, and she doesn't like guns because my Uncle James killed himself with a gun. And she's all worried that Deputy Valenti is going to tell on us. Every time the phone or the doorbell rings, she jumps a mile."
At the mention of Valenti's name, Anthony's face went white. "So that's why the Army was here! He called them, didn't he?"
"I don't think so," Dee answered. "Valenti and that nasty officer had a fight. He wanted Valenti to let him into Mac's house even though Mac wasn't home, and Valenti wouldn't do it. That officer wanted him to break the law, and I know how Valenti feels about that from all the times I talked to him. I don't think he'll tell."
"But then how did the Army know?"
"I don't know," Dee said, "but it doesn't matter now—we're all okay. We were always okay. We were all up in the attic, even Daddy, because......"—she hesitated, finally deciding it was safe to continue—"because we were told we'd be safe up there while...other things were going on."
"Then why did your father come downstairs?"
"Because he heard the gunshots," Dee explained. "That's when he came down and got his own gun. Mama was all upset, and she was going to follow him, but I stopped her....until we heard a gun go off again after he'd left, and then she just bolted down the ladder. But it's all right," she added hastily, as Anthony's eyes widened in shock. "We're all right. I promise."
"What are you two doing out here?" asked a suspicious voice behind them. It was Mary Laura, arms crossed across her starched Sunday dress.
"I needed to use the bathroom," Anthony announced, heading out of the kitchen just as Dee was about to tell Mary Laura to mind her own business.
"You'd better get back in there," Mary Laura said to Dee. "I do believe Rachel is on the verge of actually popping Ernie."
"Good," Dee muttered, pushing past her as she headed back toward the latest war in her dining room.
******************************************************
Eagle Rock Military Base
"Anything yet?" Pierce asked.
Corporal Brisson looked up from his microscope and sighed as Dr. Pierce entered the main lab. "Yes....and no."
"What does that mean?"
"Well, Lieutenant White and I have had some success at making the blood test easier and faster," Brisson explained. "We've perfected it to the point where all you need is a sample from a finger stick instead of a venous draw."
"That's encouraging," Pierce replied, taking a seat across from Brisson, "and I sense a 'but' coming."
"But," Brisson continued, "reading that sample is still a problem. We could do a blood smear, but that takes practice and training to learn how to spread the sample to just the right thickness. That's always tricky, and now it's harder than ever because the sample's so small."
"Or?"
"Or we could dilute, like we do for a white count. That requires use of a pipette, which also takes training and practice, but it does make the sample much easier to read. The good news is that once we come up with a readable sample, virtually anyone can see the difference between human and alien blood cells. It's the process of obtaining that readable sample that's still stumping us."
Pierce shook his head. "Good work, Corporal, but I'm afraid this won't do. Both methods still require equipment and specialized training. And even though a finger stick is much better than a venous draw, I can't imagine getting stuck every single time I go upstairs or downstairs."
"No, sir," Brisson said glumly.
"What about x-rays? Any luck there?"
"X-rays show more promise," Brisson answered. "Obviously we can't wait for them to develop, but we could install fluoroscopes at key points in the compound and have people step behind them. Unfortunately, the guards need to know what they're looking at. We could have a human x-ray handy for reference, but the procedure would still take several minutes, and the equipment is bulky and fragile."
"Closer," Pierce murmured, "but not close enough."
"What if we approach one of the companies that makes x-ray equipment and ask them to make us something special?" Brisson suggested. "Something smaller, in a sturdier housing perhaps?"
"That would be possible if we had more time," Pierce replied, "but we don't. General Ramey was very clear on this point—whatever we come up with has to be in place and useable by 5 p.m. today. Even if I could get a company interested, you know how long Army paperwork takes. We'd be lucky to have it by next year."
Brisson was quiet for a moment, staring despondently at the myriad blood samples on the counter in front of him. "We're not going to make it, are we sir?"
"Don't despair, Corporal," Pierce said soothingly. "I've been on the phone for the past couple of hours calling in every favor I can."
"Did you get the death sentence repealed?" Brisson asked.
"No," Pierce allowed. "I don't have that kind of clout, more's the pity. But I made certain our work will go on, even if the prisoner doesn't."
Brisson blinked in confusion. "But....don't you want the prisoner alive, sir?"
"Of course I do," Pierce replied, "but in times of crisis, one puts first things first. I'd love to see the prisoner live, but I have to be practical. There have always been those who felt it was too dangerous to keep, serum or no serum, and I completely agree with those who feel it's too dangerous to lose. And even if this hadn't come up, other things might have. There have always been plenty of reasons why it may need to be put down. Now," he added, glancing around the lab as Brisson stared at him in shock. "Where is Lieutenant White?"
"She....she went to visit the prisoner, sir," Brisson said. "She's very upset."
"Understandably. Is it still unconscious?"
"Yes, sir."
"How's Major Lewis' new room working out?"
"It's okay....I suppose," Brisson said doubtfully.
"Something wrong?"
"No. No, it's just so....white. I feel like I'm inside a refrigerator when I'm in there. No door, no windows, nothing but white walls....it gives me the creeps," Brisson admitted.
"Cheer up, Corporal. If things continue as they are, we won't be needing that room anyway, except for the autopsy. Poor Bernard," Pierce added, chuckling. "Major Lewis has tried every way he can think of to insert himself into this operation, and he's relegated to building manager for a room that probably won't be used. No doubt he's out there now, having a heart attack because Ramey's locked the place down and he can't get in. He won't even be allowed at the autopsy—that was one of the favors I called in. I don't want him to see what we're harvesting. Did you start the new cell samples, by the way?"
"Yes, sir," Brisson answered, perplexed, "but should I be spending my time doing that when the prisoner's life hangs in the balance? I had to move Lieutenant White to another lab so she wouldn't see, and it's all pointless anyway if the prisoner dies, isn't it?"
"No, it isn't," Pierce answered, smiling broadly. "I told you I was calling in favors, and I only wasted one making sure Lewis won't get what he wants. The rest I used to insure our little endeavor will continue, prisoner or no prisoner."
"But I don't see how we can do that, sir," Brisson protested. "I mean, I know we have plenty of the alien's cells on ice, and we could get more from an autopsy...but what about Lieutenant White? Won't everyone be reassigned if the prisoner dies and the operation is discontinued?"
"Everyone but Lieutenant White will be reassigned," Pierce said with satisfaction. "I had to pull some mighty heavy strings for that one, I can tell you, but I managed it in the end. Lieutenant White will remain assigned and accessible to me. Granted, she'd be very upset at first, and that could throw things off for a month or so. But eventually she'd calm down, things would return to normal, and we'd be able to continue. Thank goodness."
"So you're planning to go ahead with the first trial tomorrow in spite of everything that's happening?" Brisson asked in amazement.
"Absolutely," Pierce said firmly. "That's more important now than ever. Once we've actually started, it'll be all the harder to shut us down."
"But...what if we wind up losing Lieutenant White anyway?" Brisson asked. "Wouldn't it be safer to wait and see if you really manage to hang on to her? If you do need to choose another subject, that could take months, and—"
"I've thought about that," Pierce broke in. "I pride myself on planning for every eventuality. I've already put out feelers with prisons and mental hospitals, both of which are controlled situations with captive audiences. And both of which would be easier, in the long run, and yield more subjects, but....well, we've spent months collecting data. It would be a real shame to have so much of it go to waste by having to choose a new subject. And Lieutenant White represents such a sterling specimen, especially when compared to convicted felons or mental patients, don't you think?"
"Of course, sir," Brisson said faintly.
"Well," Pierce said briskly, rising from his chair, "back to work. I just wanted to see how things were going and to let you know that your position is secure no matter what happens. What's wrong?" he added, when Brisson didn't jump for joy at this news. "Is something bothering you?"
"I was just wondering," Brisson said slowly, staring at his hands, "if....well, if I was expected to....you know.....if it comes to that....if 5 o'clock rolls around and......" He stopped, looking supremely uncomfortable.
"Don't worry, Corporal," Pierce said kindly. "I'll take care of it—humanely, of course. I'll use a lethal injection; it'll probably still be unconscious at that point, and if it isn't, it'll just think it's another dose of serum. It'll never feel a thing."
"No, sir," Brisson whispered as the door closed behind Pierce. "And neither will you."
******************************************************
Proctor residence
Anthony bolted up the Proctor's staircase two steps at a time, Dee's and Mary Laura's voices fading away behind him. Careening into the bathroom, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, his heart pounding in his chest. This is all my fault, he thought, feeling downright panicky. Almost every single thing that had gone wrong was his fault. He should never, ever have called Deputy Valenti.
Things certainly hadn't looked that way last night when all that noise had been coming from Dee's house after she'd warned him away. Anthony had been so happy to see Valenti arrive, had waited impatiently for him to go inside, and was thrilled when the men from the neighborhood headed over after the gunshots. Whatever was going on at Dee's house, at least she wasn't alone and defenseless. Then more Sheriff's deputies had arrived, responding to everyone's phone calls, and Anthony had cheered again. Whatever alien war had descended on the Proctor's house wouldn't last when challenged by that many determined humans, including his own father.
But then events had taken a turn for the worse. The Army had arrived, sending a neighborhood on the edge over the edge. The Evans' phone had rung off the hook as one neighbor called another, speculating on the reason for the Army's presence. Anthony's mother had been so agitated that she'd shipped him off to bed, ignoring his strenuous protests; he'd stayed there for exactly three interminable minutes before slipping outside again, binoculars in hand, to continue monitoring the situation at Dee's house.
Time had passed. Sheriff Wilcox arrived and disappeared inside the house with his deputies and the Army officer, leaving awhile later looking furious. The officer left shortly after that, and only then did the neighbors disperse. Anthony's father had headed back for the house, meaning Anthony had had to scramble back inside and content himself with trying to overhear his parents' conversation. Apparently Mr. Proctor has insisted on waiting for Sheriff Wilcox's arrival before he'd let the Army officer into his house, but once inside, no one had found anything unusual. "We stayed until that officer left," his father had told his mother. "We don't trust him. He's the one who locked up Mac Brazel for a week with no charges or anything." Anthony had listened to every word, noting that even though his family was new here, his parents sounded every bit as personally insulted as those who'd lived here for years.
Anthony had crawled back into bed when his parents finally retired, spending a sleepless night turning everything over in his mind, trying to convince himself he'd done the right thing by calling Valenti, without success. By daybreak, he was in such a state that he'd wanted to run right over to Dee's, but he'd had to wait, of course. I should never have called him! Anthony thought fiercely, plopping down on the toilet lid, his head in his hands. Someone else had been looking out for the Proctors; they'd been safely stashed away in the attic until Mr. Proctor had heard the gunshots. It was those gunshots which had sent Dee's father from the safety of the attic....and those gunshots had come from Valenti. Dee's mother was upset with her father about a gun she didn't know he'd had, a gun he'd pulled out because he'd heard gunshots from Valenti. And if Valenti had seen something in this house last night that the Army would be interested in.....oh, if only he hadn't called Valenti, most of what went wrong last night would never have happened.
Silent and miserable, Anthony sat on the toilet lid for a good while longer before reaching a decision. He stood up, swiping irritably at his eyes as he checked the mirror over the sink to make certain no one would be able to tell he'd been crying.
"You made this mess, Evans," he said severely to his own reflection, "so you'll have to clean it up."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'll post Chapter 77 next Sunday.
Thanks, Majik! I really appreciate it! *Hugs*
Off to read more. :D
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