Camouflage (3 page)

“Sure, Mom.” She probably had in mind every other day. He figured on once a week. Maybe.

“Well, bye for now, then. Love you, honey.”

“Love you, too, Mom.” He hung up and leaned forward to decipher the calendar markings. If small-town life was supposed to be dull, it sure didn't look like that for his father. There were at least ten days of the month marked with some activity or another.

It was bedtime but the air was too heavy and hot, the crickets were too loud, and Kyle was too exhilarated to sleep. He wandered into the living room and looked through his father's library. Books on American history, on warfare, on philosophy; National Rifle Association pamphlets; one shelf of fiction.

He chose a Tom Clancy paperback,
The Hunt for Red October
, and settled down on one of the couches to read, with Prince at his feet. He was well into the third chapter when Prince suddenly tensed, leaped off the couch, and with a low growl moved to the door.

“What is it, Prince?” Kyle asked, uneasy. He followed the dog and stood at his side. The threatening growl became a warning bark. Kyle hurried to a window and peered out. He saw the headlights of a car far down the dirt road, moving toward the house.

He pressed his fist against the pounding pulse in his throat. Who'd be driving up this late at night? His father's friends knew Dad was at work. Prince sensed something wrong. Who could it be? A thief? In L.A., maybe, not here! Who'd want to rob this place, anyway? Everything was worn and old. The only thing of value, probably, was Dad's gun collection. Cold sweat ran down Kyle's back. If only
he
had a gun and knew how to use it. He could scare them off!

The car stopped midway between the main road and the house, and the headlights went out. Kyle shivered. Why would the driver turn off the lights?

“Prince! Come!” Kyle whispered, as if the dog by his side would make him feel safer. Prince moved to his side, ears pointed like antennae toward the outdoors. “Sssh!” Kyle said as the dog snarled and barked and scratched at the window.

Kyle ran to the kitchen door and put the chain on, checked the windows, then scurried back to the living room. Whoever was out there was either still sitting in the car or circling the house by now. Oh, god, if only his father were home!

He heard footsteps on gravel. Someone was near! He waited at the window, perspiration dripping down his neck and back, barely breathing because he needed to listen.

Prince barked like a mad dog and rushed from window to door and back again. Kyle didn't try to stop him. Maybe whoever was out there would be frightened off.

His shoulder muscles ached from the stiff stance he took at the window. His mouth felt dry as paper. The phone! Why hadn't he thought of it? Brian would have said that was the first thing to do—call for help! He eased over to the kitchen and picked up the receiver. He was only three miles from town; a police car could be here in minutes!

No dial tone!

They cut the wires? He'd seen movies where robbers did that before breaking in. He whimpered and bit his knuckles.
Oh, Mom! What should I do?

When he returned to the window he could barely make out the shape of the car and a man beside it. Were there others? Were they leaving? He held his breath. And then the headlights went back on and the car slowly backed up the driveway to the main road.

Kyle slumped to the floor, held his head, and shivered. Who were they? What did they want? Would they come back? What if they'd left someone behind, someone who'd break into the house if he fell asleep?

K
YLE SLEPT FITFULLY.
He woke at every sound, even that of an owl hooting from a nearby tree. Then early in the morning he fell into a deep sleep and didn't wake until he smelled coffee.

Barefoot, he padded into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. His father glanced up from the newspaper, eyes brightening at the sight of him. “Morning, son. Sleep well?” Immediately his expression changed. “What is it? Something wrong?”

Kyle sat at the table opposite his dad and described the events of the night before. His dad listened without interrupting, holding the coffee cup in front of his lips with both hands, eyes never leaving Kyle's face.

“Did you get a look at the car?” he asked.

“Too far away and it was dark. Who were they, Dad? What were they after? Your guns?”

“Don't think so.”

“Then what?” His father looked away and Kyle had a sudden thought that Dad knew more than he'd say. “And, and . . . I couldn't use the phone,” he went on. “They must have cut the wires!”

His father shook his head, lit a cigarette, and blew the smoke toward the window. “You've been reading too many spy stories, son. Truth is, phones aren't too reliable here. Phone's working fine now. I used it this morning.”

“Oh. Shouldn't you call the police?”

“Nope.”

“But, but . . . they walked right up to the house! I was so scared!” He didn't go on when he saw his dad's scowl. “If it hadn't been for Prince I think they'd of—”

“Simmer down! You're making too much of this. It was probably something very ordinary. Some guys took the wrong turn, that's all. When they realized it, they backed out. End of story. Now, why don't you pour yourself some juice and join me.” His father held out sections of the newspaper. “Want the comics or the sports section?”

Kyle took the comics, not satisfied with his father's answers. Whoever had driven up last night seemed to know the place, seemed to have a purpose in coming, and he suspected his father knew it. Still, maybe he
had
overreacted. In the light of day, the events of last night seemed unreal. Maybe he'd been too quick to assume the worst, as if he were back in the city.
Forget it
, he told himself.
Let it go.

“Where's Prince?” Kyle asked, sipping his juice.

“Outside. He only stays inside at night.” His dad's face stayed behind the newspaper. “Just listen to this,” he said irritably. “Fella I know—Ron Taylor—got a field full of lupine that he wants to plant in winter wheat. Government says he can't.”

“Why?”

“Some dumb little endangered blue butterfly that no one gives a damn about lays eggs there. It's Ron's land, for god's sake! I ask you, what right's the government got to tell him what to do with his own land?” His father glared over the paper at him; a muscle twitched in his cheek. “Next thing you know they'll be telling us when to go to the can!”

Kyle nibbled his crust of bread and suppressed a laugh because his dad looked so serious. Was this the time to ask about learning to shoot? After all, if someone tried to break in last night, shouldn't he have a way to defend himself? “So what are we going to do today, Dad?” he asked.

“Soon as I finish here, I'm going to get me some shut-eye. Why don't you look around, take your bike—it's in the barn—and go into town. Need money?” His father reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet.

“No, no! I'm fine.”

“Well, okay, but make yourself a lunch. There's bologna, peanut butter, stuff like that in the fridge. Bread's in the bread box. Be home by four, though. I'll be up by then.” He took a drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out and smiled mischievously. “Maybe, if you're not all tuckered out from so much fresh air . . . I'll give you your first gun lesson.”

“Wow!” Kyle cried.

“Yeah, wow!” his father said.

Kyle put on the camouflage jumpsuit and went into the bathroom to the small mirror over the sink. What little he could see looked
good.
The jumpsuit had pockets all over, even in the pant legs. He went into the kitchen. “What do you think, Dad?”

His father turned from the sink and grinned. “Not bad. Like a soldier of fortune.”

“Yeah?”

“But take it off. No need to make a show of yourself around town in that.”

“Why?” Kyle could hardly keep the disappointment from his voice. Why had his dad bought it if he couldn't wear it?

“Some people might get the wrong idea.”

“About
what
?” he asked belligerently.

“Don't argue, just
do
what I said. There'll be plenty of other times you can wear it.”

“Like when?”

“Like—when I say. Now, go change.”

Kyle changed into tan shorts and an oversize white T-shirt, grumbling inwardly. He made himself two sandwiches, found cold juice in cartons, some potato chips, bananas, and cookies, and loaded them into a day pack. Then he went outside. Instantly Prince loped toward him from the direction of the barn. Kyle bent to scratch the dog between his ears. “Wanna show me around? Huh, Prince? Sure you do!”

First he headed for the corral. He could hardly wait to see Blackie, his dad's horse. He'd brought a carrot for him, and Kyle stood on the wooden rail holding it out until the big animal ambled over. “Good Blackie,” he said softly. The horse snorted, turned away, then came back and looked him over. Finally he took the carrot. Kyle laughed. Maybe his dad would teach him how to groom Blackie and maybe he'd get to ride him. Man, this was the life. Out in the country with horses and dogs! He might not want to go home after the summer, no matter what Mom said.

Next he went into the barn, where he found a hayloft, a stall for the horse, and a large canvas-covered mound against one wall. He wondered what the canvas protected but he was more interested in checking out the ten-speed his dad had gotten for him. It was almost new, with a racing seat and neat handlebars.

Kyle rolled the bike out into the early morning sun to admire the iridescent green finish. Then he climbed on, told Prince to stay, and pedaled down the dirt road.

At the main highway he paused, one foot on either side of the bike. Town was to the left; the road to the right might take him by other homes, maybe the house of those guys who took the wrong turn last night. He pedaled toward town, the sun at his back.

After riding about a mile, Kyle stopped on a wood-plank bridge to look at the stream below. Trees shaded the bank and fish darted in and out of the weeds. He saw a line flick out over the water downstream but couldn't see the fisherman.

On impulse he rolled his bike off the bridge and down the bank. There, in the dappled shade of a tree, he lay on the ground, arms crossed under his head. The air smelled sweet—moist. Water sparkled and gurgled over submerged rocks.

Kyle thought about his father not letting him wear the camouflage suit and decided he must have his reasons. He thought it odd, though, how his dad had taken the news of the car coming down their road last night. Suddenly, above the wind and water sounds, he heard girl voices coming from downstream. Curious, he left his bike under the bridge and quietly made his way toward the voices, coming in above two girls.

“The net, the net! Quick, Charley, get the net!”

He could see only the back of a girl about his age. She was slender and tall, with a long switch of hair sticking through the back of a visor cap. Her big shirt hung loosely over her short shorts.

A smaller, younger girl squealed happily and ran back and forth in a frenzy before finally scrambling into the water, shoes and all, holding out a net.

Kyle crouched uphill from the two, watching. A big fish jumped and twisted in an effort to free itself from the hook. Its sleek body glistened in the sunlight as it fought against the pull of the taller girl's line.
Wow!
he thought,
she's one terrific fisherman!

“Good! That's it!
Now!
Net it, Charley! That's it!”

The smaller girl waded out of the water holding high the net with its wiggling catch. Grinning, she brought it to the older girl.

“Just look, Charley! Look what we caught!” Kyle heard the older one say. “That makes three!”

Now he could see the one called Charley more clearly. Her eyes looked different, kind of slanted, and she had a round face.

The older girl took the fish from the net and, holding it firmly with one hand, undid the hook while Charley danced happily around her. Kyle watched in awe as the girl gripped the squirming fish behind the gills and hit it a hard blow to the head. Then she looped a line through its gills and added it to a string of fish floating in the water.
Wow
, he thought again.
She's something!

As the older girl came back up the bank, wiping her hands on her shirt, she glanced up and saw Kyle. She stiffened and put a hand out behind her to keep the younger girl from moving by. Her eyes blazed. “Who are you? What are you doing spying on us?”

“I . . . I . . . wasn't spying. I was just . . . curious,” Kyle said, rising to his feet.

“Liar! You were spying! I'm sick of you dumb boys always watching us.” She moved closer and Charley peeked around her. Kyle's eyes darted from one to the other and then he realized why the younger girl looked odd. She had Down's syndrome.

“What are you staring at?” the older girl demanded. “Get out of here and leave us alone!”

“Look—I wasn't spying and I don't know what you're so mad about,” Kyle explained in a reasonable tone. “I was just curious. Only fishing I ever did was at a trout farm where you paid for what you caught by the inch. I thought you were great!”

The girl's suspicious attitude didn't change. “You're not from around here. Who are you?”

“I'm from Los Angeles. Just got here yesterday. I'm visiting for the summer. Name's Kyle.” The girl seemed so paranoid that he didn't offer a hand or move closer.

“Kyle, Kyle, Kyle, Kyle,” Charley sang, coming out from behind the older girl.

“Hush, Charlene!”

“So, her name's Charlene?” Kyle said. “Your sister?”

The girl didn't answer. Her eyes swept the slope behind Kyle as if she was expecting to see others.