Radical (37 page)

After a shower, before I get into bed, I pull Joan’s business card out of my new wallet. Her cell number is written on the back.
Just in case
, she said, right before she hugged me good-bye. I run my finger over the numbers and then put it away.

I need another pill. I don’t like taking them, but Dr. K. says, for now, brave is accepting when I need help.

I made my choices. Now I have to live with them.

“Bex,” Mike says, coming around the truck in his bay and pulling me into a hug, a hard one that almost lifts me off my feet, oblivious to how much he’s freaking me out. “Look at you.” He smiles big like I’ve been away at college or camp. “You’re taller? And skinny. Man, we are going to have to get my sister in here cooking for you.” He’s so happy. And Mr. Heinman and Mr. Henderson. So happy it’s overwhelming. I didn’t think anyone besides Uncle Skip would really be happy to see me.

“Come on back,” Uncle Skip says.

Mike’s grinning like he’s in on the joke, whatever it is.

I don’t like surprises.

I step out the back of the service-bay doors and stare at the broken-down heap sitting there. “I know it’s not much to look at right now,” Uncle Skip says, “but it’s solid underneath the dings and missing parts. It’ll be beautiful when we’re done. When
you’re
done.”

I’m rooted to the ground. But they’re all looking at me, so I force myself to walk around the shell of a truck. I thought it would take a year to earn enough money again, months to find something I could afford. They did this for me, so I’d have something to do, something of my own.

“When the weather turns,” Uncle Skip says, “if you’re still working on it, we’ll make room for you inside. But for now . . .” He looks so uneasy. “You said you wanted to be outside. I thought maybe . . .”

“It’s great,” I get out before my throat closes. I step closer to the truck so he can’t see my face, keep nodding so he knows it’s okay.

“I already started tracking down some of the parts,” a voice says behind me, and I whirl around in shock.

Cammie. Standing in the doorway. Hair back in a ponytail, in jeans and a shirt with the station’s name. Holding a stack of papers. Like she belongs here. Like she belongs here more than me.

“Not anything . . . cool,” she says. “Just the obvious, like new bumpers. And a door. And . . .” She trails off. “I’ll just . . .” She points behind her. “Welcome home, Bex.” And then she’s gone.

Was she even real? Did they see her, too? I turn to Mike and Uncle Skip, but Mike already went inside.

Uncle Skip rubs at the back of his neck. “She kept showing up. Asking about you, wanting to do something or be helpful. I told her to go away, but she kept coming back.”

“So you
hired
her?”

“She was there. After they took down the police tape. After the windows were busted out, both times. After the vandalism. I’d turn around and she’d be there, cleaning up, making calls, getting supplies. She’d show up with food and things we didn’t even realize we needed. Said she had to do something. And she kept asking about you, over and over . . .”

I can’t feel my feet. Or my hands.

“Eventually, she got it out of Mike, that you’d want this,” he says, waving at the truck. “And then she was here even more, with ads and online listings and questions. She was going to do it no matter what I said,” he says, looking at me. “So I let her. She found it.” He turns to look at the truck.

“I can’t let her pay for this.”

“Oh, she didn’t pay. I paid. Long overdue. And you’ll work off the parts,” he adds, waving off my objections. “But she found it, made them hold it until we could get there, begged and pleaded and pushed until she got it.” He smiles. “Relentless, actually.” I can imagine. “And somewhere in all that she started answering the phones and making the coffee. The guys thought she worked here. I couldn’t
not
pay her.”

I can’t reconcile having her here. I thought I’d never see her again, or if I did, it would be bad. Ugly. That she’d hate me. When I heard Clearview continued, I figured they’d bought Riggs’s talk and I’d be the only bad guy left, the one who collaborated with the government.

“She looked lost, Bex,” he says. “After the arrests. She was worried. About you. And when it became clear that . . .” That I wasn’t coming home. “Her grandfather called me. Said she wanted to do something. And . . .” He takes a deep breath and blows it out. “I couldn’t do anything for you, but I could for her, who was trying to do something for you.”

Uncle Skip goes back inside, and I sit on the picnic table they dragged back here for me and stare at the truck. It feels wrong for her to be here. Wrong to let her buy me off or whatever. It feels wrong to want to accept it. It feels wrong for
me
to even be here.

I feel wrong.

I thought I’d get free, and come here, and it would feel real. This would feel right. The only place I trusted would feel right.

Maybe
I’m
just wrong.

The door opens and closes.

“I thought maybe you could use a pop,” Cammie says. She has one for herself, too. “I didn’t know what kind you’d want.” There’s none of the take-charge Cammie here. I don’t know this Cammie. But I don’t see pity or fear. And I am thirsty. I take one of the cans. But immediately it feels like being back in the interrogation room. I put it down instead of drinking it.

“I wanted to see you. I tried, but they wouldn’t let me,” she says. She takes a big sip from her can. “If you want me to go, I will. But this is a coming-home present. Nothing more.”

But it is something more. One more person who got caught in the crossfire of this mess. One more person who wants to fix me. And one more person who stood by me, even if I didn’t know it.

When Cammie pulls up outside an indoor range sandwiched between a gas station and a plumbing supply store, I start to doubt whether I’m ready.

“It’s just like riding a bike,” she says. “Or maybe easier. I don’t know. I never learned to ride a bike.”

“I can teach you to ride a bike.”

“I’d like that,” she says, and I suddenly want to, and the warm feeling has me confused and squirming and not looking at her at all.

I work on the truck as much as I can, in between days I do real work for Uncle Skip and days when I’m too in my head to do much of anything. Cammie does at least half the haggling and driving to find parts. A lot of hours of the two of us in her car. Even more of Cammie keeping me company while I work. Somewhere in there we became friends for real.

“You have to face this,” she says.

I force myself to get out of her car. I wait while she gets her gun case and range bag, trying to make myself breathe slowly.

Inside, I see why she was so sure it would be fine. Randy’s working the range check-in. And the way he doesn’t react when he sees me, only nods, makes it clear he knew we were coming. I guess he doesn’t think I was involved with Mark and them, and doesn’t think I’m a collaborator, either. I don’t know what the others think. Karen’s family moved to Texas soon after the arrests. There’s been an exodus from Clearview. No one decent wants to be involved with a place that’s had so much bad publicity. Too bad there are three of the wrong kind who want in for every one of the right who wants out. I don’t know what happened between Cammie and Karen, but I know they haven’t talked since Karen left.

Randy and Cammie talk while he checks us in. Something in the way he acts with Cammie makes me wonder if Randy owns this place. She signs us in, pays, and gets us down the hallway and in side-by-side lanes. The other people in the range are finishing up.

Soon, it’s just us. I know Randy’s watching from somewhere, but I can’t see him. All I can see is Cammie. And the guns.

She places the rifle on the shelf in front of me in my lane, places the ammo beside it, and hands me my earmuffs. She’s brought a nice bolt-action rifle — exactly what I would have packed for myself. I didn’t know she’d paid attention to what I like.

She doesn’t force me or try to convince me. She leaves me to face it myself, loading hers and getting ready to shoot.

“Eyes and ears,” she says when she’s ready.

I put my shooting glasses and earmuffs on and wait.

Her first shots make me flinch. She reloads and goes again. And again. Until I stop flinching.

And then I’m doing it. Checking the rifle to make sure it’s empty. Loading the magazine. Taking sight down my lane toward the target. I can’t see her or hear any shots. I know she’s waiting, maybe even watching, but it’s just me and the rifle.

My hands are shaking, but I steady them and fire. The first. The second. And then the rest of the magazine. Forget accuracy. This is about feel. How it feels. How I feel.

I shoot until I stop thinking about the fact that I’m shooting. Long after Cammie’s retreated to the bench behind me to watch.

My accuracy is for shit, but the thrill is still there, under the lingering anxiety, doubts, and fears.

I could be good at this again.

I used to think that if I prepared enough, I could keep bad things from happening. That maybe the preparation itself would be like a barrier, keeping the bad stuff out.

I went to sleep every night knowing — knowing with absolute certainty — that something terrible was about to happen.

And then it did.

And I caused it, at least part of it, by doing the very things I thought could protect us.

I could have killed Mark. He was out of control, but in a way, I was, too.

Dr. K. asked me about why I was so scared, about whether it’s possible that what I was really afraid of was me, was knowing, deep down, that what I was doing in the name of that fear was itself dangerous. If maybe something bad happening was inevitable, because I was so focused on something bad happening.

I still don’t know the answer to that.

Maybe I never will.

What I do know now is that there isn’t enough preparation in the world to control everything. And it can’t prevent really bad things from happening. But
thinking
I could control everything was part of the problem.

How many people could Mark have killed if Riggs hadn’t asked me about him and I hadn’t asked Mark and Mark hadn’t panicked? Was it really all talk and one-upsmanship? Or would they have actually tried to go out in a blaze of glory if the government hadn’t stopped them? And if they were serious, their big plan was destined to fail. They’d be dead or in prison, and a lot of innocent people would be dead or hurt, and nothing would have changed.

Dr. K. says I’m not responsible for Mark’s actions. And I know I’m not. He is. But none of this happened in a vacuum. We started out reading the same sites, watching the same videos. There are some real things to be scared of. But the websites and forums were a rabbit hole that sucked me in deeper and deeper until any crazy theory seemed possible, seemed real. Uncle Skip tried to tell me that, but I couldn’t hear it. Maybe Mark’s rabbit hole was even deeper and darker than mine. Because someone modified that gun or showed Mark how to do it. Whoever was egging him on, whoever was helping him — did they know what they were doing? Were they looking for guys exactly like Mark, with nothing better to do with his life? Yeah, had Mark gone through with this, he’d have been responsible, but there were other people who would have carried some of the guilt, too.

I’ve never been more sure that the government doesn’t play fair. I still believe that I have the right to own guns. But if we’re down to guns as our weapons, we’ve already lost. They can’t save us from those who lie to us, who preach that we are the front line all the while believing us to be expendable. And if the government ever really turns on us, we’ll need something smarter than an AR-15. We’d need an army of Joans. People like Joan. Maybe people like Cammie and me, who have seen both sides.

I still think we’re headed to some kind of crisis, eventually, if things keep on this way. But I no longer go to bed every night thinking tomorrow might be that day, or that I might have to fight my way to safety next week. And until that happens, I’m going to have a life worth living.

When I turn around, Randy is waiting with Cammie.