Camouflage (11 page)

Ready! Ready to find Verity and bring home a string of trout for dinner!

Kyle pedaled hard, a feeling of happy anticipation driving his legs. Strange that he wanted so much to see Verity, wanted so much for her to think well of him. At home he'd never paired off with any particular girl. Mostly he'd gone in guy groups to the mall, where they hung around with girl groups. He didn't know why he felt this way about Verity, especially when he knew what he could have from Marta. Out of breath from excitement, he stowed his bike under the bridge, grabbed his pole, and hurried downstream.

“Hi!” he called before Verity saw him, so he wouldn't scare her like he had the last time. She was bent over, threading bait on a hook. Her head shot up and a broad, welcoming smile lit her face. “Hi!”

Charlene rushed at him. “Look, Kyle!” She held out a hand. A worm crawled up her palm to her wrist, and she nudged it back with a finger.

“Hey, neat!” Kyle said, dropping his pack.

“We got lots more. Come see!” Charley ran down the slope and hurried back with a coffee can full of worms. “See? Verity grows them! She's got zillions!”

“Oh, Charley!” Verity chided as Kyle reached her side. “I don't have
zillions.
She loves to exaggerate.” Verity raised her pole and artfully cast the line toward a dark pool across the stream.

“I brought a fishing pole,” Kyle said, holding out the dusty pole he'd found in the barn. “Can you show me how to fix it?”

“Sure, give it here and hold my pole. If you feel a little tug, don't pull in the line until you're sure he's hooked.”

He divided his attention between the spot where Verity's line disappeared into the water and Verity, as she added a sinker, a bobber, and a hook to his line. Finally she dug into the bait can and pulled out a fat worm. “You want to cover the hook like this,” she said, “but leave just enough worm dangling so it looks appetizing to the fish. Then . . .” She paused, smiled warmly at him, and added, “Cast it into that pool, and maybe you'll catch a fish and maybe you won't. Here.” She held his pole out and reached for her own.

For a long time, while Charlene played nearby, Kyle and Verity stood side by side, not speaking. A gentle, sweet-smelling breeze stirred the bushes. Now and then a frog slid off the bank into the stream. Kyle stared unblinking at the red bobber floating on the light-flecked water. If it dipped, it meant he'd snagged a fish. Nothing else seemed to matter except that bobber, not even Verity's presence beside him. “I've got one!” he whispered, after a time, stopping an urge to jump up and down. A trout leaped from the water, twisted, then fell back, trying to escape the hook. “Wow! Did you see that! Did you?”

“I've got one, too! Look at that! Charley! Get the net!”

Two hours later Kyle's three trout and Verity's five cooled on a string in the stream. Kyle thought of the time Brian had taken him to a trout farm. The pond had been crowded with fish and it had taken no skill to bring in a string of them. What a difference from fishing here!

He proudly held up his catch and laughed. “Big white hunter! Me bring home the bacon for tonight!”

Verity laughed, too. “Big white hunter, you done good.”

Later, as they sat on the ground eating the lunches they'd brought, Kyle said, “Fishing's the only sport where you can spend hours thinking of nothing, just waiting for a bite. That's what my father says, and he's right.”

“Know what
my
dad says about fishing?” Verity asked, passing a bag of carrot sticks to Kyle.

“What?”

“He says fishing's like his job. When he goes after a bad guy he baits a hook, throws the line into the right place, and sits back to wait. Pretty soon the bad guy, just like the fish, gets greedy. He forgets the hook and goes for the bait. And then he doesn't have a chance; you've got him. That's what my father says.” She flashed him a shy, innocent smile and nibbled a carrot stick.

Kyle felt a quick stab of uneasiness. There was a warning in that story.

Charley crept up behind him, hugged him, and laid her cheek on his head. “Yuck!” she exclaimed, jumping away. “Your hair's like a—a
broom
!”

“Charlene, that's not nice!” With a twinkle in her eye, Verity bent forward and pressed a hand on his buzz cut. “Gracious, she's right! Why'd you ever go and cut it?”

Kyle ran a hand over the stubble. He wanted her to like how he looked, to like him. And his dad, too. “All the guys around here wear their hair this way! I like it,” he said, but without conviction.

“It's just that I thought you were different.” Verity touched his arm as if to console him. “See, around here—that cut's a
sign
, like a gang color. It means the guy is probably one of these antigovernment types—like the men who belong to that ‘gun club' your dad runs. You're not like them, are you?” She stared hard at him.

“No, I'm not! But wait a minute! I know those guys and they're great. They may not care for some of the things the government does, but that doesn't make them criminals. If you've got something against them, let's hear it!” Annoyed, he rose to his feet and started to gather up his things.

“Wouldn't do any good, Kyle. You're biased. You don't want to believe anything bad about your father, so it's no use my saying. You wouldn't believe me anyhow. I guess you'll have to find out for yourself.” She sighed and stood up. “If you do figure it out, and you don't know what to do about it—come talk with my dad . . . Charley! Time to go! Come on!”

On the ride home, with his trout packed in wet paper towels in his day pack, he felt very different than he had on his way to meet Verity. No longer exhilarated and expectant. Worried, instead, angry and hurt, as if he'd just learned a secret society he longed to join had turned him down. Verity had a way of getting to him like that, throwing him off balance and leaving him unhappy.

The heck with her! She'd said nothing about going fishing again, and he'd said nothing about seeing her again. Miss High-and-Mighty didn't like
anybody
, as far as he could tell—not Dad, or Dad's friends, or
his
friends, and probably not even him. Saying this to himself didn't help. He still hurt.

He didn't notice that Prince wasn't around when he reached home until he leaned his bike against the picnic table and took off his backpack.

“Prince!” he shouted, looking around for the dog. “Hey, Prince!” He whistled.

A frenzied barking answered from the barn. “Prince?” The dog had been outside when he left to go fishing. His father had gone to work before that. How'd he get into the barn?

He ran across the field and opened the side door. Prince zoomed out, nose to the ground. He rushed to a bush, stopped to sniff, then rushed on to another bush. Suddenly, as if he'd caught a scent, he charged across the clearing between the barn and the house and threw himself at the back door, barking and clawing.

Cold sweat poured down Kyle's back. He glanced behind him to the firing range, scared that someone was there, watching. He scanned the nearby grove of trees. He looked back toward the corral and ahead to the house and dirt road. Nothing. But—someone must have been here, someone who shouldn't have been. He ran across the field to the house.

He grabbed Prince's collar and yanked him away from the kitchen door, wanting to get inside fast. He pulled the key from his pocket, but as he plugged it into the lock, the door swung open!

A knifelike terror tore through him. His legs nearly gave way. Was someone inside?

“Sic 'em, Prince!” he whispered, opening the door wider and releasing the dog.

Prince bounded to his father's desk, sniffed around with frenzied intensity, then flew into his dad's bedroom. Kyle followed, hardly daring to breathe. Someone had been here for sure. Someone had locked Prince up so he, or they, could go into the house and look over Dad's papers. Maybe it was the same people who had come that first night he'd spent alone. Whoever they were had left, maybe only moments before he got home.

He dropped down onto a kitchen chair, waiting for his pulse to slow. Who'd do this? And why? Who'd be so sloppy as to leave every sign that he'd been here—like the unlocked door, like leaving Prince in the barn?

One thing seemed sure. Whoever had been here
wanted
his dad to know.

K
YLE COULDN'T BRING HIMSELF
to go outside again, not even to clean the fish stiffening in his backpack in wet paper towels. He wrapped his arms around himself and went from window to window, peering out for signs of movement. Even the house felt unsafe. He shivered as Prince came to stand beside him, ears turning like radar at the slightest sound.

Maybe he should call his father, he thought, but Dad wouldn't like hearing he was scared. Maybe he should call Mom. But she'd tell him to come straight home. Brian? Maybe. He wouldn't tell him everything, just enough to get some perspective on what to do, or not do. And he might know about things like this. Yeah. Had he thrown out that card Brian had stuck in his pack at the airport, the one with the precinct phone number? “Hello? This is Kyle Klinger,” he said. “Is Brian Dougherty there? I'm calling from Michigan.”

Brian came on almost immediately. “Kyle? Hey! You okay? What's up, fella?”

“I—I just thought I'd call. Someone broke into Dad's house. I wasn't home. Nothing's been taken, as far as I can tell. Should I call the police?” As soon as he asked the question he knew the answer. If the government was involved, the local police might be, too.

“Where are you?”

“Home.”

“Get out of the house and go someplace safe. And phone the police. Where's your dad?”

“At work.”

“Call him, too!”

“Yeah, okay. Thanks,” he said, angry with himself for making the call and knowing he'd do none of those things. “Listen, I'm sorry I bothered you. Don't tell Mom. She'd only worry.”

“Kyle! Wait! Before you hang up, listen! Let me know what's happening and if I can help. Okay?”

“Yeah. Sure. Thanks. Bye.”

Kyle hung up and stared at the phone. He'd better pull himself together, bring in the fish and clean them, and stop acting like a scared little kid.

He ran outside as soon as he heard a truck rolling up the dirt drive. “Dad! You're home early! Boy, am I glad to see you!” he cried.

His father leaped from the truck and in quick strides headed for the house. “Damn!” he exclaimed, face furrowed with anger.

Kyle ran after him. “What's wrong? Dad—slow down! I want to tell you something!”

His father went straight to the gun cabinet, unlocked the glass door, yanked out a rifle, and began loading it.

Kyle's mouth went dry. “Someone broke into the house while we were gone!” His father must have already known or he wouldn't have gone for the gun.

“Damn government!” his father muttered. “What?” He stopped in the middle of the room and glared at Kyle. “How do you know? Did they take anything?” Kyle started to explain about Prince being in the barn and the door to the house being open when his father interrupted. “I haven't time for this now. Government's moving in on Johnson's farm right this minute.” He clicked the rifle safety bolt on. “Gotta go.” His father strode back out, climbed into the truck, and started the engine.

“Wait! Let me come!” Kyle called.

“Get in then! Hurry!” his father said. “May as well see for yourself what this is about!”

Kyle ran around the truck and climbed in. Even before he'd slammed the door, his dad started making a tight circle and careered down the road to the hardtop leading into town.

His father bent over the wheel, leaning forward as if to push the car faster. Kyle held on to the seat with both hands, lips tightly pressed together. The speedometer moved from sixty to seventy, seventy-five . . . edged toward eighty! Kyle braced his feet against the floor and finally said, “Dad, slow down!”

“So, they broke in. Figures,” his father said, slowing only briefly as they flew through town. “Didn't find anything, though. I'm not so dumb as to leave stuff around.”

“
Who
broke in?”

“FBI. ATF, maybe.”

Kyle drew in his breath. “Why?”

“They're after our weapons. And it's them that's breaking the law! Breaking and entering is what they did. Seems the law's for everyone else, except them. Anyway, what matters now is Johnson's farm. We can't let them take it.”

His father swerved around a big semi, pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and closed the gap between them and an oncoming car. Kyle forced back a scream as they made it back to their own lane just in time.

Kyle wiped his wet hands on his jeans and, when the speedometer had dropped to seventy, made an effort to sound normal. “What are you gonna do, Dad? What's the gun for? You won't shoot anyone, will you? Who's going to be there? The militia? You can't fight the whole government, Dad. That's crazy!”

“It's crazy that they dare take away a farm that's been in Earl's family since before the Civil War!”

“But, Dad!”

“When we get there, you stay back, understand? I don't want you hurt.”

“But, but . . . !”

“
Understand
?”

Kyle nodded and gripped the door handle. It felt like they were in an out-of-control rocket ship. Any second they'd crash.

A barricade closed the road leading into Hiram's father's farm. Two armed troopers stood at attention, guarding the entrance.

“They're here already! Damn!” his dad exclaimed. He rolled to a stop and stuck his head out the window. “What's up, officer?” he called.

One of the troopers approached the truck.

“Something wrong? This is Earl Johnson's farm and I've got business with him.”