Divided We Fall (20 page)

Schmidty put everything but the nine-mil shells back into the safe and locked it. He went to what I guess was the kitchen area and groaned as he sat down on a metal folding chair next to the table. “You know, the assholes in DC are always saying that America loves peace. But I’m fifty-seven years old, and even in my lifetime, this country has been at war for all but …” He looked up and squinted his eyes as if trying to figure it out. “All but about twenty-eight years. Half my life. Six different wars. And I’m not even counting when we sent troops to Panama or Bosnia, or when we send our drones or missiles flying in to kill people in Pakistan, Syria, Yemen, Somalia, and half a dozen other places. If they’re so committed to peace, but have failed so miserably the last fifty years, the last
century
, what makes you think they’re going to figure a way out of this mess without fighting?”

That was different, I thought. America had been forced into all those wars. Things had been wrong somewhere in the world and our soldiers went to fix it. This was the United States. My squad had screwed up and fired in Boise. None of what happened meant that there had to be any fighting. “Things will get better,” I said at last. They had to get better. “You’ll see.”

Schmidty shook his head and stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his boot. “Come on. We have some work to do. I want to put some improvements in on the Beast. Reinforce the body and frame.”

“What?”

He stood up. “Will you just let me do this? What I gotta do will take a few days, probably, so in the meantime you can borrow my Dodge Stratus.”

“Oh, come on, Schmidty, I’ll be lucky if that old rust bucket even starts. It has no balls.”

“Yeah, but it ain’t been on the news like your bright red Blazer. You might trick a few reporters by switching vehicles. More important, I have to fix up your truck in case you’re messing with your girl in there some night and another crazy shooter shows up. You may think
you’re
invincible, but at least let me help make JoBell safe.”

I hated arguing with Schmidty. Worse, I hated when he was right.

Later that afternoon, JoBell called and made me delete about everything I’d ever posted online. Then she walked me through closing out my FriendStar, Shout Out, Amazon, and about every other online account I ever had. She said the news was using all that stuff to make me seem bad. At least I didn’t have to delete my playlists. Still, the whole process took forever.

After I’d practically gone Amish, I left the shop in Schmidty’s stupid brown Stratus, driving across the grass through back lots to come out on a different street. The car smelled like a nasty old ashtray, but switching vehicles threw the media off for a little bit, until their curiosity about any vehicle leaving the shop made them catch on. I tried to outrun them, but when I laid on the gas in the pussy four-cylinder Stratus, the engine would whine real loud as the car made a pathetic attempt to speed up.

“Come on, you piece of shit!” I slapped the dusty dashboard as I headed toward Becca’s, whipping tight corners on streets I knew better than the media did. When I finally reached the highway that led out to Becca’s farm, I thought I’d be free, but they followed me out there too, snapping photographs as they passed me in Schmidty’s weak, slow, worthless car. Finally, I lost them on Becca’s gravel driveway, closing the gate behind me and leaving my pursuers back on the road.

Becca’s family owned a ton of land, the perfect place to take a break from all the cameras and reporters. Years ago, her dad had bulldozed a berm in the back wooded part of the property and set a plank up with an empty fifty-gallon barrel under each end. All we had to do was stick a few bottles and cans on the plank and we had the perfect shooting range.

When I arrived, JoBell was getting ready to shoot her dad’s awesome semiautomatic Springfield Armory M1A Scout Squad rifle that he’d bought back before assault rifles were outlawed. The thing had a twenty-round magazine and fired a 7.62-millimeter round, the same type of bullet used in the Army’s M240 machine gun. Becca and Sweeney sat on a log about a dozen yards behind JoBell. Becca had disassembled and was cleaning the parts of her dad’s .45. We were just missing Cal, who was at work at the lake.

I stood off by myself, leaning against a boulder. I knew what my friends were trying to do in insisting we come out here today, and I was grateful that they cared, but as much as I loved shooting and rodeo, I doubted their efforts to get us back to our normal lives were going to work.

“What’s the matter, Wright?” Sweeney said. “You love shooting. We thought this would cheer you up.”

“Would you all shut up?” JoBell shouted back at us, keeping her rifle aimed downrange. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

Becca smiled, but didn’t look up from her work. “Like you need us to be quiet so you can shoot.”

From the standing position, JoBell fired off five quick shots, and one-two-three-four-five, cans went flying off the plank almost all at once. She went down on one knee and fired off ten rounds with almost no hesitation. Ten bottles exploded. She lowered herself to the prone position, careful to keep the rifle out of the dirt, and quickly shot down five more cans. Then she dropped her magazine and cleared her rifle before she stood up. “We’re going to need a tougher range,” she said.

I clapped as JoBell took a little bow. “You’re a better shot than any of my drill sergeants.”

JoBell waved my compliment aside and looked down at her rifle. “Please, you all only qualified with wimpy little M4s. You need a real weapon like this baby.”

“You know, for as liberal as you are, you sure do like guns,” Sweeney said.

She started back to us. “Don’t box my politics. Besides, even though my father and I disagree on more and more lately, we’ve had shooting in common since I was old enough to hold my first BB gun. We go to the range, and all our arguments fade away. There’s only him, me, our weapons, and the targets.” She put the rifle back in its case.

“It is not fair to ask of others what you are unwilling to do yourself. I am willing to show you some news alerts that have come in, JoBell,”
said Digi-Eleanor. JoBell reached for her pocket.

“Don’t!” Becca said. “You promised. No news. No politics. Today it’s just shooting and then the rodeo.”

“Come
on
,” she said. “I want to see if there are any developments about that psycho shooter last night —”

“Sorry, babe,” Sweeney said, pulling a pop from the cooler. “You promised.”

JoBell pressed her lips together and blew out through her nose. “Eric, you call me ‘babe’ one more time, and I swear I’ll put a couple seven-six-two rounds through you.”

Becca had the .45 back together. She carried the pistol and a magazine up to the shooting line and slapped the magazine in. She pulled back and released the slide to chamber a round, then widened her stance and aimed the gun with her left hand over her right to steady her shot. Firing the ten rounds in her weapon’s magazine more slowly than JoBell had, Becca shredded seven cans before dropping the mag and clearing the handgun.

“Guess I need more practice,” she said.

Sweeney, who never shot much, took his turn next, trying out JoBell’s dad’s rifle. We loaded him up with ten rounds. He hit four cans.

“You have another magazine for that rifle?” I asked JoBell.

She handed me the M1A, which I immediately cleared before she gave me a twenty-round magazine. “Good luck,” she said.

I couldn’t hide my grin as I walked to the firing line. This was a sweet rifle, and I hadn’t gone shooting since basic training. I hoped I wasn’t too rusty. Slapping in the magazine and chambering a round, I started from the standing position. I centered the front sight post on a bottle, breathed in, exhaled,
in and hold
. I squeezed the trigger and the bottle shattered. I aimed at another and fired again, missing. I might have jerked the trigger too hard that time, pulling my shot off. I focused on my shooting fundamentals again and fired, dropping another bottle. I relaxed and kept taking out cans and bottles, loving that feeling of smooth unity with the weapon, that power to hit anything.

When I fired off my last round, I listened, as I always did, for the satisfying sound of my shot echoing into the distance. Instead I heard the rough sound of helicopter blades chopping the air.

“Danny, stop!” Becca yelled, pointing up to the sky above the clearing. “We’ve got company.”

A copter-cam drone hovered there with its camera pointed right at me.

How could I have been stupid enough to think we were free from the press? “Damn it! Why can’t you just leave me alone!” I shouted.

A woman’s voice rang out from a speaker on the drone.
“We’d be happy to leave you alone if you’d just answer a few questions for ABC News.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sweeney said. “They want to do an interview via drone?”

“I’d be happy to talk to you in person.”

“This is private property,” Becca shouted up at the machine. “Get out of here!”

“We should just shoot it down,” Sweeney said quietly.

The copter-cam descended a little.
“Oh yes, please. Shoot up this drone. That would make
such
a great story!”

I dropped the magazine and cleared the rifle. JoBell stepped up beside me to whisper in my ear. “They have footage of you shooting. They’ll get a whole story out of that. We should get out of here.”

I hated that we were in this situation, but she was right. I nodded and then held my finger over my lips. Becca and Sweeney got the message. We packed up and went back to clean and lock up the weapons at Becca’s house. The copter-cam followed us the whole way.

“Maybe we should just skip the rodeo, guys,” I said later while we all sat on Becca’s screened-in porch. “The media will be all over it, just like with everything else.”

“Come
on
, man!” Sweeney said. “Becca called the rodeo association. They aren’t letting reporters on the grounds, and the canopy over the whole arena ought to keep out cam drones. It will be great. Even if the reporters do get footage, they’ll have to run the story of the wholesome, all-American cowboy kid.”

“Or else they’ll report on the animal rights abuser,” JoBell said.

Sweeney stood up from where he was sitting. “It won’t be like that. This will —”

“Can we just do this?” Becca cut in. “Please? After the car chase and the guy who tried to shoot Danny last night, I need something good, something normal.” She looked intently at me. “
You
need this.”

Becca can be persuasive, so after the news drone had given up and flown away, we helped her get her horse ready and loaded, and then her dad drove us to the arena. If I’d had the Beast, I would have towed the horse trailer myself, but that Stratus couldn’t tow so much as a Radio Flyer wagon.

Me, JoBell, Sweeney, and Mr. Wells took our seats on the wooden benches as the sun dipped below the mountains beyond the arena. Becca was back at the trailer with her horse. Sweeney and Becca had been right. The rodeo grounds were huge, and the North Idaho Rodeo Association was a private organization, so once again I got a break from the media.

The announcer came on.
“Howday, folks. We’re fixin’ to get started with some rip-roarin’ rodeo action as soon as our cowgirls are in place for the grand entry. I want to remind you all, ladies and gentlemen, if you have not had the chance to mosey on over to Eddie’s Bar-Be-Cue, you need to giddyup and git yerself some. It’s the finest eatin’ in all of Idahayew.”

Sweeney laughed. “Is this guy for real?”

Almost everyone I ever met in Idaho talked normal, like the people on the news or on the sitcoms. No accents. But Rick Hayes somehow managed to come up with a hick backwater voice all his own every time he announced a rodeo.

Hayes went on,
“I also want to remind everyone that this is a private club rodeo, and the NIRA asks all members of the media to report to the announcer’s booth for a press pass. Any reporters or photographers working without a pass will be politely escorted from the premises. Rodeo is about family and fun, not trying to snag a story.”

I was relieved to hear that.

The grand entry started as the first girl rode in and circled the arena, holding a flag for Dinkins Family Dentistry as she galloped around the ring. The girl rode okay, but bounced a little in the saddle. This didn’t bother Sweeney at all.

“She’s a beauty,” he said.

“Lot of muscle in the flank,” Mr. Wells agreed. “Could be a good barrel horse.”

“She’s got a lot of jiggle in her,” Sweeney said. “I like that.”

Mr. Wells frowned and looked from Sweeney to the horse and back. Then he shook his head. “Eric, did I ever tell you never to date my daughter?”

Sweeney gave a little chuckle. “Several times, sir.”

Mr. Wells nodded. “Good.”

One girl after another rode out, each displaying a different flag for the sponsor she was promoting.

“Ladies and gentlemen, next up is Becca Wells, carrying the beautiful dark blue flag of Idahayew, proudly displaying our state motto
Esto Perpetua
, which is Latin fer ‘Let it be forever.’
”

Becca and Lightning came out of the gate and rode around the arena at a fast gallop, but unlike a lot of the other girls who bounced around and sometimes lost their hats, she rode smooth and fluid. She smiled the whole time, with her belt buckle shining and her reddish-brown hair and that big Idaho flag both fluttering in the breeze. She went through the center of the sponsor line and stopped her horse a few paces in front.

“And Idahayew will be forever, ladies and gentlemen, no matter what problems this great state may face. Idahayew will be forever because all of us as the people of Idahayew will continue to work to make this state great. That’s why we take this moment to salute all of Idahayew’s brave men and women, and all of America’s brave men and women who are serving in our armed forces tonight. Whether they are serving in Iran, Pakistan, or right here at home, they are fighting fer our freedom, so that we all might live our lives as we wish. They make it possible fer us to enjoy the heritage and traditions of our wonderful sport of rodeo, and so, as Miss Layna Thompson enters the arena carrying Old Glory, our American flag, won’t you join with me in standing and removing yer hat, as Layna’s sister Laura sings fer us our national anthem.”

The girl in the announcer’s booth sang sweeter than I’d heard our anthem in a long time, even without music to back her up. As I listened, I wanted to get back to that pride I’d felt when I first enlisted, but the memories of Fed troops trying to arrest the governor, of being chased by the FBI, and of Schmidty’s secret war bunker and all those things that he’d said kept creeping into the back of my mind.

I tried to shake off these thoughts and enjoy the rodeo. After the calf roping ended, JoBell stood up. “I’m going to see if Becca needs help getting ready.”

I watched her go, admiring her butt in her cowgirl jeans.

“Hey guys.” Cal sat down with a Mountain Dew in one hand and a paper plate with a massive cheeseburger in the other.

“Whoa!” Sweeney said. “Got yourself a double, big guy?”