“This dance has no name.
It is a hungry dance.”
- Wallace Stevens, “Dance of the Macabre Mice”
Prologue
Am I alive? Rogers wondered as mortar shells burst all around him.
He was not sure, enveloped in a darkness so dense he could not make himself out, not a single finger of either hand as if he had vanished. He tried to say his name but didn’t know if he was able to because he could not hear a thing. Again he wondered if he had passed to the other side where all anyone saw was darkness.
Several minutes later, he felt something crawl across the bridge of his nose and, instinctively, brushed it off and realized he was not dead. Not yet, anyway. Rising a fraction on his left elbow, he saw that he was surrounded by bodies, all as still and silent as he was, then off to his right he heard voices, strange, incoherent voices, and hurriedly pulled one of the bodies on top of him.
Years ago, as a youngster, he used to play hide and seek with other kids in the neighborhood, and almost always was the last one found because he was so good at disappearing.
“You’re a ghost,” one boy complained. “You’re right in front of us but we can’t see you.”
Hiding was a curious skill that he perfected at home when his parents were quarrelling and he didn’t want to get involved. Wherever he was in the house, he imagined he was a safety pin tucked in the back of a drawer that only he could open.
And that was what he had to do now if he hoped to survive … disappear like a pin in a drawer.
Chapter 1
Sitting at a table with the other pallbearers, a wrinkled party cup of Irish whiskey in his left hand, Judah Rogers tried to recall the last time he set foot in the Chester Park Veterans of Foreign Wars Hall. Maybe three years ago, maybe a little longer, he thought, when he attended the reception for another close friend who passed away after a brief illness. To be eligible for the VFW one had to serve thirty days in a combat zone or be wounded in battle so he certainly qualified but he had never joined despite many invitations. He was not a person who joined organizations, believing there was enough to do at his apartment to keep him occupied.
“Well, I’m glad that’s over,” Nate Moulton grumbled as he sat down beside Rogers.
“Why’s that?” Clayton Hackett, who sat across from him, asked without bothering to turn around.
For a moment, Moulton just shook his head, slowly loosening the knot of his narrow black necktie. A volunteer member of the Honor Guard, which was a required presence in military burials, he had on his Army dress greens which still fit him as well as they did when they were issued to him many years ago at boot camp.
“Didn’t you catch it?”
“Catch what?”
“One guard’s rifle jammed up on him so he wasn’t able to squeeze off a shot during the three-volley salute.”
“I thought it sounded a little weak.”
Again he shook his head. “Just like a kid then,” he snickered, “he pointed his rifle and began making popping sounds with his tongue.”
“Are you serious?” Floyd Thayer, a past member of the Honor Guard, asked skeptically.
“Swear to God,” Moulton insisted, raising his right hand as if taking a pledge of some kind.
“Well, you have to give the guy credit for showing some initiative.”
“Not much, Floyd.” Then, raising his cup of whiskey, he said, “To Henry, a guy who never quit whatever the odds.”
“May he rest in peace,” the others at the table murmured, almost in unison, as they raised their cups.
Henry Hutchins died four days ago in a car crash only a few blocks from his home shortly after midnight. He slammed into a guardrail on a winding road he had driven across hundreds of times but he had not fastened his seat belt and was thrown through the windshield and died from severe trauma to his head. He had been drinking that night but his blood alcohol concentration was not above the legal limit. Many of his friends were surprised that he, of all people, would lose control of his car. A fighter pilot in the Navy for seven years, he was as competent and confident behind the wheel of a car as he was in the cockpit of a sophisticated aircraft.
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Hackett, who served four years in the “Screaming Eagles,” said, grinding his cigarette into an ashtray.
Jeb Stark, also a paratrooper, agreed. “He was too damn young to die.”
“Aren’t we all?” Thayer, who spent six years in the Navy as a medical corpsman, said mordantly.
“I’m not surprised about what happened,” Hackett grunted.
Rogers arched his left eyebrow. “You aren’t, Clayton?”
“Not one damn bit.”
Moulton nodded in agreement.
“Why’s that?” Stark wondered.
“You know why.”
“If I did, I wouldn’t have asked you, Clayton.”
“It’s on account of his house.”
“You really believe that’s what caused the accident?”
“You must not have spoken with him in the past few months.”
“It’s been a while, yes.”
“Losing his house is all he ever wanted to talk about, for Christ’s sake,” Hackett declared, after taking another sip of whiskey. “He was under a lot of stress because of that and just couldn’t think about anything else. So I have little doubt that is what was going through his mind when he hit that guardrail. He just wasn’t concentrating on his driving.”
***
A gangly guy, with thinning hair and saddle-brown eyes, Rogers was among the last mourners to leave the VFW Hall. He had a little too much to drink so he thought it wise to wait until his head cleared before he got behind the wheel of his vintage Mustang. He dozed off in a chair for almost an hour then downed a mug of black coffee. By then, it was pretty dark out when he climbed into his car.
He intended to drive straight home but, to his surprise, he found himself heading in the opposite direction toward Alexandria Street where Hutchins had lived since he was a young boy. He had not been by his friend’s place for a couple of months and was startled how desolate the street appeared. Not only had all the residents left but it looked as if no one had ever lived in any of the houses. Certainly they weren’t new, many needed painting, but they seemed to have been vacated many years ago as if the residents were afraid of something.
Surprising himself again, he pulled into Hutchins’ driveway, got out of his car, and walked up to the front door. On it still hung a Thanksgiving wreath even though Thanksgiving passed more than a month ago. He remembered then that Hutchins kept it there year round because it was the last decoration his wife put up before she passed away the year before last from pneumonia. It was in shreds, the two red ribbons little more than threads as they fluttered in the evening breeze. Leaning across the brass mailbox, he peeked through the large bay window and saw there were only a few pieces of furniture in the living room. He understood Hutchins’ sister and brother-in-law were responsible for taking care of the house and assumed they already had started removing things from the place.
Walking around to the backyard, he smiled when he saw the now sagging badminton net beside the brick grill. He had spent many an afternoon playing intense matches with the Naval aviator who was definitely the most competitive person he had ever met. He hated losing a single point, let alone a match, and always played with reckless ferocity. One afternoon he crashed into the elm tree behind the grill as he lunged to keep the shuttlecock in play and fractured his left wrist.
“What’s going on here?”
Startled, Rogers spun around and saw a hulking guy in a dark blue security jacket pointing a flashlight at him. A small badge was pinned above his left pocket.
“Well?”
“Nothing really,” Rogers answered. “Earlier today I was a pallbearer at the funeral of the man who lived here and I don't know why but I thought I'd stop by on my way home.”
“Are you a relative?”
He shook his head. “Just a good friend.”
“I drive by here a couple of times a night, checking on the houses because there been a number of break-ins since everyone moved out,” he explained. “And when I saw your car in the driveway I figured I should see who was here.”
“Of course.”
“It's a damn shame that the government can force people out of their homes because of whatever you call it.”
“Eminent domain.”
“Whatever.”
“Believe me, Henry, who lived here, didn't want to leave even though he was offered a reasonable price by the people in charge. He fought the order but, because of the principle of eminent domain, he was never going to prevail. He knew it but still he fought. You see, his father built the house, and, except for a stint in the Navy, Henry lived here all his life so it's full of memories.”
“As I said, it's a damn shame.”
Rogers nodded and returned to his car, convinced like Hutchins there was really no way the government can take into account the memories associated with a home and arrive at a fair price. You just can't put a price on memories.
***
Moulton, lying prone on the ground, peered at the prairie dog through the sight of his rifle then slowly squeezed the trigger. The critter was a couple hundred yards away but, almost at once, it burst into what Hutchins used to describe as “red mist.”
“You ruined his day!” Stark cracked as he got ready to shoot.
Then, just seconds later, he fired, and the dog he hit sailed through the air and he groaned with pleasure.
Hackett fired next, just missing, then Rogers, who nailed a dog as it started to crawl back into its hole.
“I think that one thought he was going to get away,” Thayer chuckled.
Rogers agreed, sighting next on a dog the size of a throw pillow.
For the past six years, a month or so before the start of deer hunting season opened, the five friends honed their long range marksmanship skills by shooting prairie dogs which were much more difficult to hit than a bunch of paper targets. As usual, they drove out to the Winding Trails National Forest in the eastern half of the state which was infested with prairie dogs. The animals were not really dogs but rodents and lived in closely spaced burrows known as “towns” that comprised intricate networks of interconnecting tunnels. Often they spent a couple of days in the forest, driving from one prairie dog town to another.
The hunters only got a few shots off before the prairie dogs disappeared into their burrows. So they piled into Thayer's rusted station wagon and drove to another town nearly two miles down the road. They positioned themselves even farther away than they were at the first town but still everyone managed to get at least a couple of confirmed kills.
“The longer the shot Henry had the more he liked it,” Moulton recalled, adjusting the sight of his high-powered rifle.
Rogers concurred. “He was something all right. He could flat out miss a dog just fifty yards in front of him then nail one four hundred yards out.”
“It was just more of a challenge for him to shoot from long distances.”
“Remember that time when he brought down that wild pig?” Hackett laughed.
“Christ,” Stark sighed, “it must've been three or four hundred yards out.”
“At least.”
“That's when Floyd started calling him 'Chingachgook.'”
Thayer smiled. “Yeah, I couldn't believe he shot it from so far away.”
“God, I miss the guy,” Moulton groaned, slipping a flask out of a pocket of his canvas jacket.
Hackett nodded. “We all do, Nate.”
“I know,” he said, after taking a swallow of whiskey. “It's just not right that he's gone. And it sure as hell isn't right that the government forced him out of his home so it can build another goddamn parking garage for its cars and trucks. Christ, it's got garages all over town.”
“It sure seems that way.”
“Hell, wherever you turn there's a garage owned or operated by the government. I believe it just wanted Henry and the other people who lived on his street out so it can have another piece of property to do with as it sees fit. The pricks.”
No one disagreed with him and just stood in silence for a minute, passing around the flask, then they got back in the station wagon to drive to another prairie dog town. Thayer drove slowly, feeling a little light-headed from all the whiskey he drank. After nearly three miles, he came upon the Colton Creek Ranger Station and was surprised to see that it was boarded up with a “NO TRESPASSING” sign posted on the front gate.
“That's strange,” Thayer muttered, idling in front of the gate. “It was open a few months ago when I drove by here.”
Rogers shaded his eyes from the sunlight. “I heard a new station might open over near Dexter Lake but I didn't think that was for another year or so.”
“Another example of the government wasting money,” Moulton fumed. “There's no damn need for a new station. This one is still in perfectly good condition.”
“People always want something new.”
“Not everyone,” he barked as he climbed out of the station wagon.
“Where are you going, Nate?”
Not answering, he slipped a round into the chamber of his rifle, exhaling slowly, then raised the rifle to eye level and fired a shot through the sign on the gate.
“That's for Henry.”
The others then got out, loaded their rifles, and fired at the wooden sign until it fell to the ground.
Chapter 2
Lying on the rickety brass bed, his chin cupped in his left hand, Moulton watched Kelsey undress in front of the wall mirror near the window. Her back was to him, her cloud of light auburn hair scattered across her shoulders. Bending over, she drew the gray as rain turtleneck over her head and tossed it onto the rattan chair beside the chest of drawers then removed her bra which she also threw onto the chair. Her pendulous breasts trembled as she bent even lower to squirm out of her clinging jeans then, even more quickly, out of her panties. Briefly she stood in front of the window, letting whoever was outside see all there was to see of her.
Turning around, she did not cover the patch of shade between her legs as she did when they first started sleeping together but walked to the bed with her hands at her sides. He smiled. Both twice divorced, they were as comfortable with one another as a married couple but they were not interested in getting married. They just enjoyed one another’s company.
The bed creaked when she slid next to him because she was such a large person with thick arms and ankles and a belly as round as his and a bottom as broad as a snow shovel. She was nearly the same weight as he was, he believed, though he had never asked her. Always he was surprised by the paleness of her skin, which was so bright at times he had to close his eyes.
“I see you’re all set,” she whispered, sliding a finger along his member, which was as rigid as a ruler.
Smiling again, he sank his head between her breasts, delicately licking her left nipple. It tasted like an almond, he thought, wondering if her lips also tasted like almonds. But he could never bring himself to kiss her on the lips because it seemed too intimate somehow.
Soon he was inside her, inside the familiar heat of her enormous body, and for a moment did not move as he savored the scent of her skin. Then, arching his back, he began to move back and forth until the springs of the brass bed creaked so loudly he could no longer hear the leaf blower across the street. He seemed to have disappeared, taken somewhere far away from this cramped little bedroom.
Moments later, lying beside her, he noticed a photograph propped against a perfume bottle on her dresser. At first, he assumed it was a picture of her house then, squinting a little more, he saw that it was some other structure located in what appeared to be a pretty desolate area.
“What’s that?”
She turned toward him. “What’s what?”
“That picture on the dresser?”
“Oh, it was sent to me by a cousin of mine who lives in Oregon.”
“Is that your cousin’s home?”
“No, that’s one of the buildings at the wildlife sanctuary taken over by some ranchers from Nevada. My cousin, who’s as curious as an alley cat, spent a couple of days there the other week.”
Silent, he stared at her blankly.
“Haven’t you been following the takeover in the paper?”
“You know I only look at the sports page, if that.”
“They’ve been there for three or four days, maybe a little longer.”
“What are they there for?”
“As I understand it, they want the government to turn over control of land in the area to the people who live there,” she said, fingering the hairs around his navel. “It’s like it must’ve been in the Old West when men in boots and spurs stood up to the federal government and said enough is enough.”
“It sounds like you’re talking about something in a movie.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
Again he stared at the photograph, curious to find out more about the takeover in Oregon.
***
Moulton worked as a security guard at Eiger’s Supermarket, and as soon as he finished his shift the next day, he walked over to the library branch a couple of blocks down the street from the store. Until it was converted into a library a year ago, the modest one-story building was for a long time an all-you-can-eat diner he had frequented half a dozen times. There was no one at the front desk when he entered but there was a small hand bell on it next to a sign that said “Ring for Assistance.”
He rang it but no one appeared for a few minutes until a bearded guy in a wrinkled plaid shirt approached him with a pencil tucked behind his left ear.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for a librarian.”
“Yes?”
“You’re a librarian?” he said, surprised that someone who looked as if lived on the street worked at the library.
He nodded, clearly irritated by the question. “I am.”
“Oh, I’d like to know where I can find some old editions of ‘The Examiner’?”
Brusquely the librarian pointed a finger to a shelf behind the copying machine. “The past two weeks of newspapers can be found there.”
“Thank you.”
The librarian turned and walked away without saying a word, his ginger-colored ponytail hanging limply over his left shoulder.
Sitting at the end of a long table, the stack of old newspapers in front of him, he read through one account after the other of the takeover of the wildlife sanctuary in eastern Oregon. Just as Kelsey said, some ranchers from outside the state took over the sanctuary to protest the federal government’s management of public lands. However, their immediate reason for the takeover was to pressure the government into releasing two Oregon ranchers incarcerated for setting fires on lands controlled by the government. Their broader aim was to compel the authorities to return these and other public lands to individual ranchers to manage.
Many of the occupiers, according to several articles, were devout Mormons who claimed they were inspired to take the drastic action they took by the example of Captain Moroni. A skilled military commander mentioned in the Book of Mormon, Moroni became concerned about imminent threats to the freedom of his fellow citizens and raised a banner he called a “title of liberty” to motivate them to defend their freedom. One occupier even identified himself as Captain Moroni to the media.
As a youngster, Moulton regularly attended Sunday services with his family, but after he got out of the Army, he just did not see the need to go to church. Sometimes he wished he did, but he didn’t, so it was difficult for him to identify with the religious component involved in the takeover. Many at the sanctuary believed they were guided by divine providence, challenging the federal government, in the words of Moroni, “In memory of our God, our religion, and freedom, and our peace, our wives, and our children.”
Moulton could not deny their commitment, though, and wondered if he could again find in himself a similar kind of commitment.
***
After work, on Wednesdays, Rogers often stopped by Budnick's Bar and Grill where he ate some chicken wings then shot pool at one of the three tables in the back room. He was there again tonight but could not play because he badly bruised two fingers on his right hand and was unable to hold a cue stick so he sat at a corner booth and watched others play. It was a busy night with all the tables in use and several patrons waiting to play. He knew everyone there except for a hefty guy with fierce sideburns who made one tough shot after another with scarcely any change of expression as if he expected to make them. He smiled, thinking maybe he was fortunate he hurt his hand because he wouldn't look forward to playing that guy.
“Who's Minnesota Fats?” Amy, the lone barmaid, wondered as she brought Rogers another beer.
“I don't know. I've never seen him before.”
“He looks a little too good to be playing here.”
“He does.”
“He should be playing over at the Emporium if he wants to make any serious money.”
He nodded as he watched the guy stretch across the threadbare table and bank the eleven ball into a corner pocket.
A little after eight, Hackett entered the tavern, carrying in his left hand a faded leather case in which he kept his prized maple cue stick. Right away, he spotted Rogers and walked over to his booth.
“You waiting for a table?” he asked as he sat down across from his friend with the case in his lap.
Rogers shook his head, holding up his two bandaged fingers.
“What happened, Judah?”
“I slipped off a pole and fell on them.”
“Christ, that must've hurt.”
“It didn't feel too pleasant. That's for damn sure.”
“I can imagine.”
“Can you?”
“Yeah, I slipped on some ice last winter and broke my wrist, remember?”
“Oh, that's right,” he said, watching the hefty guy run the table without taking any significant time between shots.
“He any good?”
“If he's not, I'm sure not much of a judge of talent.”
Hackett, after taking a sip of the beer Amy served him a moment earlier, leaned back in the booth. “Have you spoken with Nate recently?”
“No, not since the funeral.”
“He called me the other afternoon so I figured he probably called you as well.”
“Nope.”
“Well, you're not going to believe what loony notion he's come up with now.”
Rogers took a sip of beer. “There's always something stirring him up, isn't there? What is it this time?”
“You remember that closed ranger station we drove past when we were out looking for prairie dogs?”
He nodded. “At Colton Creek?”
“That's the one,” he said, shifting his beer bottle back and forth in his hands. “He wants to occupy it.”
“What do you mean 'occupy it'? I don't understand.”
“Are you familiar with those ranchers who took over that wildlife sanctuary in Oregon?”
“Oh, I saw something about it on the news one night but I didn't pay much attention to it.”
“Well, that's what Nate wants to do,” he said, wrinkling his forehead. “He wants to take over that ranger station.”
“Whatever for?”
“In honor of Henry is what he told me. It's his way of protesting the grief the federal government caused Henry by making him sell his home.”
“That's ridiculous.”
“That's what I told him but he seems to have made up his mind to go through with it and he invited me to join him.”
“You're not going to, are you?”
“No. I might not be the brightest bulb on the shelf but I'm not the dimmest, either.”
Rogers took a large swallow of beer. “He's had some crazy ideas over the years but this one is the craziest by far.”
“I'm sure he'll be calling to see if you want to join him in taking over the ranger station.”
“He better not because, if he does, he's going to hear an earful from me about how lame this idea is.”
Chapter 3
One rung at a time Rogers climbed up the utility pole, his thick rubber gloves squeaking each time he grabbed the metal bars. He grinned faintly. It was so early in the morning scarcely anyone was awake to hear the noise they were making. An apprentice powerline technician, he was often one of the first linemen sent out when an outage was reported in what another worker referred to as the “mineshaft dark hours.” Clenching a penlight between his teeth, he checked for loose or broken wires and found a damaged one and peeled back the insulation and respliced the wire.
When his work was finished, he didn’t climb down the pole right away. Instead, he remained there for a couple of minutes and watched as lights came on in one house after another. “You’re welcome!” he shouted, after putting the penlight back into his pocket. He knew no one would ever thank him in person so he pretended they did when they switched on their lights.
Just for him, he thought, grinning broadly.
***
After he got out of the Army, Rogers went to work in his Uncle Ramsey’s paint shop but quickly realized how uncomfortable he felt being around a lot of people again. It reminded him of his time in the service and now he preferred to be on his own so when the opportunity to become a lineman presented itself he took it. Out in the field he didn’t have to make small talk with others, laugh at remarks he didn’t find funny, agree with opinions he regarded as objectionable. Out in the field he was often all alone, entirely dependent on his own ability to get the job done, and when he did he felt a genuine sense of satisfaction. He was near the end of his second year and figured in two more years he would qualify as a journeyman lineman.
A lot of climbing is required in line work, especially by apprentices, so it is crucial that linemen be in good physical condition. As an Army Ranger, Rogers always was in shape and he continued to stay in shape after his discharge. He did some climbing in the service but not very much so on the advice of his supervisor he practiced climbing trees after he got off work.
Late one afternoon, when he was about a third of the way up a towering elm tree behind his apartment building, a little girl watched him for a minute then hollered out, “You Tarzan!”
He smiled. “Sorry, I’m not.”
“You Tarzan!”
He realized then she was not asking him but telling him and, somewhat embarrassed, he tried to ignore her even though she continued to holler at him until her older sister appeared and led her away.
After that incident, he decided it might be better if he practiced climbing after dark and not in his neighborhood. He never drove too far away, maybe a couple of miles at most, just far enough that he was sure no one would know him. Night after night, for close to a month, he scaled one tree after another, often with a rucksack on his back filled with stones since linemen always carried a lot of gear when they climbed utility poles. He knew the sight of a grown man climbing a tree was a little peculiar so he was much more relaxed climbing at night because he didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing him and trying to engage him in conversation. He was practically invisible, he believed, except for the penlight he turned on occasionally.
Sometimes he felt like an intruder when he was up in a tree, a spy even, watching people in their homes without their knowledge. He saw families saying grace at the dinner table. He saw a mother spank her son red. He saw a man press a woman against a closet door and run his hand under her dress. He saw two women kiss so hard he thought they might draw blood. He saw an older woman fold laundry while her husband trimmed his toenails into a copper bowl. He saw a couple scream at each other while their children cringed under the staircase.
He saw a lot but he never looked for very long except one night when he watched a woman dancing in her living room. He was high up in a cedar tree, only fifty yards from her front window whose shade was not drawn. She had on very short shorts and an oversized Tahitian shirt that was barely buttoned. Her shimmering blond hair was tied in a ponytail that hung to her waist. Not tall but not short, she had long fingers and a pouting lower lip that reminded him of a girl in high school he had a huge crush on but never had the nerve to ask out. Her name was Mariah so he thought of the dancer as Mariah too.
Furiously, as if being chased by someone, she whirled around the room, brushing past tables and chairs, snapping her fingers in time with the exotic music playing on her turntable. Her eyes were often closed, her face glazed with perspiration. Around and around she went, her shirttails flapping behind her like wings. She moved with a fierce grace, as buoyant as a butterfly, and any second seemed on the verge of floating away. He could not stop watching her even though at times he became so dizzy he was afraid he might slip from the limb he was perched on and fall to the ground.
Some twenty minutes later, exhausted, she collapsed on the couch, breathing heavily. Still he watched her, imagining he was sitting beside her with his arm around her shoulders. She remained there almost as long as she danced then got up and shut the shade.
“Mariah,” he whispered longingly as he made his way down the tree.
He returned the following night to her street but no lights were on in the house. None were on the next night, either, or the night after that so he assumed she must have gone away on a trip. He returned a week later and still the house was dark, and he wondered if he had imagined seeing her dancing in her living room. Then realized how foolish that was, almost, he thought later, as foolish as Moulton’s scheme to take over that park ranger station.
***
Bent over his laptop, sipping an Ethiopian blend of coffee, Rogers stared at the image of the man on horseback. He had on chaps, a pale Stetson hat, and a blue jacket with an American flag sewn on the back. In his left hand he carried a pole with a much larger American flag drooping from it. All around him was sagebrush, making him look like one of the cattle drivers in the film Red River, but in fact he was one of the people who took over the wildlife sanctuary in eastern Oregon.
Weeks ago, he saw a report on an evening newscast about the takeover but didn't pay much attention to it because it happened hundreds of miles away. And until Hackett brought it up when he told him about Moulton's crazy notion, he had forgotten all about it. Now, for the past couple of nights, he had been reading articles on the internet about the takeover and was puzzled that seemingly responsible ranchers had resorted to such a desperate measure to bring attention to their grievances with the federal government. And he was surprised how many of them carried rifles and handguns as if any moment they expected to be involved in a violent confrontation with government agents.
The other day, as Hackett foresaw, Moulton called to tell him about what he was thinking about doing, but before his friend had a chance to ask if he would be interested in joining him, Rogers made it clear what he thought of the idea.
“It's stupid, Nate. It's one of the goddamn stupidest things I've ever heard.”
“I don't believe Henry would've thought that.”
“Oh, I beg to differ. He, more than any of us, knew what made sense and what didn't. And, trust me, he would be the first one to tell you you're out of your mind.”
“I don't think so, Judah. I don't think so at all.”
“Well, I do, and if Henry were still with us, he would too,” he said adamantly. “Becoming some kind of an outlaw is not the way to pay tribute to Henry or anyone else for that matter.”
“Outlaw?”
“That's damn well what you'll be if you go ahead with this harebrained scheme of yours.”
“All I'm interested in doing is making a statement. That's all.”
“You'd be trespassing, Nate, pure and simple.”
“No, I wouldn't be,” he insisted. Then, recalling an argument raised by one of the occupiers in Oregon, he added, “Since the station has been abandoned, I could say I was trying to claim the place on the basis of 'adverse possession.'”
“What the hell is that?”
“It's a principle of common law, as I understand it, that permits a person to acquire title to a piece of property by openly occupying the property for a significant period of time.”
“Well, I don't know anything about that but I have no doubt the government is going to regard anyone occupying their property as trespassing. That, sure as hell, is how those occupiers in Oregon are regarded.”
“That isn't how I see it, Judah, and I don't think that's how Floyd and Jeb see it, either.”
“Are they really going to join you in occupying the ranger station?”
“They're considering it.”
“Well, if they do go along with you, they're as crazy as you are.”
“Is that so?”
“You damn well better believe it is.”
***
The last line job Rogers had the next morning was less than half a mile from the Tire Arcade where, for the past three years, Thayer was a sales associate. So, after he completed the job, he swung over to the store to speak with his friend who also was a former Army Ranger. They never served together but they knew some of the same people in the Rangers.
“You looking to buy some tires for that rig you're driving?” Thayer asked as soon as Rogers pulled into the parking lot.
“They could use some, all right, but that's a purchase the county makes not yours truly.”
He nodded, grazing a thumb across his stubbled chin. “You just come by for a cup of coffee then?”
“You know me, Floyd. I never turn down a cup.”
Thayer, dressed like all the sales associates in a short-sleeve white dress shirt and a skinny black tie, walked over to the coffee pot on the counter beside a stack of brand new radials, poured his friend a cup, and handed it to him with two packets of sweeteners.
“I think I know why you stopped by this morning,” he said, after taking a sip of coffee from his Styrofoam cup.
“Is that so?”
“It's about Nate and that insane plan of his to take over that park ranger station.”
“Insane is the word all right.”
“You think he'd actually go through with it?”
“I don't know,” Rogers sighed. “He's done his share of wild things but never anything of this magnitude.”
“You know Henry was probably his closest friend, and I suppose he feels some guilt that he didn't recognize how much the guy was hurting.”
“Oh, he knew that, Floyd. We all did.”
“Yeah, we knew he was hurting but I don't think any of us thought he was hurting enough to take his own life.”
“He didn't do any such thing.”
“Didn't he, Judah?”
“He lost control of his car. That can happen to anyone on a dark night.”
Thayer disagreed. “He lost control because he was so eaten up by anger because the government was forcing him to sell his home. That's kind of an unintentional suicide, if you ask me.”
Rogers shrugged, still finding it hard to believe someone as strong as Hutchins might have done such a terrible thing.
His head inclined, as if not wanting to see the pain in his friend's eyes, Thayer took another swallow of the lukewarm coffee.
“Nate said you and Jeb are thinking about joining in his occupation of the ranger station.”
“Jeb, maybe, but not me,” Thayer said emphatically, surprised he left such an impression with Moulton. “I just let him talk but I didn't give any indication I was going to go along with him.”
“But you think Jeb might?”
“You know Jeb. He's like everyone's kid brother who's always going to do what his big brother is doing.”
“I know he pretty much does what Nate wants but, still, I thought he had enough good sense not to get involved in such a ridiculous undertaking.”
“You'd think so, wouldn't you?”
Idly the lineman looked around the showroom which was nearly as bright as it was outdoors. “Then again,” he said, “maybe we shouldn't be surprised. Jeb is one of those guys who's forever challenging himself to do things others would never dream of doing. Maybe he sees this takeover as another challenge to tackle.”
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