Camouflage (12 page)

“Sorry, sir,” the trooper replied. “Can't come in. This property belongs to the U.S. government now!”

Kyle sucked in his breath. Where were the Johnsons? Hiram and his sisters and brothers? How would they live?

“You don't say!” His father sounded furious. Without another word he swung the truck around and hauled back up the road, cursing under his breath.

“What now?” Kyle wanted to ask, but the look on his father's face discouraged him. About a half mile from the farm entrance his dad made a sudden sharp left. He crossed over the oncoming lane, flew over the gully below the road shoulder, and bumped into the cornfield. Kyle let out a scared yelp as the truck barreled over the corn rows until the Johnson barn came into view.

His father killed the engine and sat for an instant as dust drifted into the cab.

“Wait here!” he said, reaching back for his rifle.

“I'm coming with you.” Kyle started out of the truck.

His father shrugged and hurried off through the high cornstalks with Kyle following close behind.

Where were Hiram's dogs? Kyle wondered as they neared the farm buildings. They should be barking to wake the dead with all the strangers around. He sure hoped they were tied up. He didn't want to run into them.

They crossed a wide clearing just behind the barn. There, about thirty men had gathered, men Kyle knew by sight from his dad's gun club.

“General!” Pete saluted as Kyle and his dad approached.

“Fill me in,” Kyle's father said. “How many are there? Where's Earl?”

“About fifty. Federal marshals, ATF, state police, even Sheriff Bray,” Pete said. “Armed to the teeth, too. Earl's inside with his wife and kids. Doesn't look good.”

“Earl Johnson!” a voice suddenly boomed, startling Kyle. He looked to the front of the farmhouse, where a man wearing a blue windbreaker was speaking into a bullhorn. “I am IRS Special Agent Tom Wilson. I know you're in there. We don't want to hurt anyone. Come out with your hands up!” The man paused, spoke to someone beside him, and then continued. “Earl Johnson! Your property has been seized by the IRS for nonpayment of federal income taxes. You were notified to make payment and ignored all warnings. This property now belongs to the United States government. I order you to vacate immediately!”

“Go to hell!” Mr. Johnson yelled. “You got no right to tax me. It ain't legal! Read the Constitution! I got a copy right here!”

Kyle thought back to what he'd read about taxation at the library, only days ago. An amendment gave the government the right to tax its people. Had he read it wrong?

“Earl!” a new voice called. “Earl, listen!” The man who stepped forward wore a jacket with the initials of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.

“We're friends and neighbors,” he shouted. “Put down your rifle and we'll work things out!”

“Stay out of this, Mathers!” came Johnson's sharp reply. “You ain't my friend! Never was!”

Kyle froze. Verity's father? “Dad!” he whispered urgently. “Do something!”

“Sssh!” his father warned.

“Earl, don't do this,” Mr. Mathers urged. “You've got a wife and young children. Think of them.”

“I'm thinking on them! It's my kin I'm protectin'! Get out of here, all of you! I'm aimin' straight for your head, Mathers. Got grenades and bazookas, and I'll use 'em if I have to! And if I go down, my kids know how to use 'em, too!”

“Killers!” Hiram screamed, in a voice Kyle could hardly recognize for its pain. “You murdered my dogs!”

Kyle stiffened. Although he couldn't see Hiram, his voice seemed to be coming from beside Mr. Johnson.

“Is it true?” Kyle asked the man beside him.

“The hounds went after the government guys soon as they came on the property.”

Kyle swallowed a hard lump in his throat. Mean as they were, Hiram had loved those dogs.

“Give up, Earl; it's the end of the road. We got a search warrant. I know all about those weapons you got hidden,” Mathers said. “They're illegal and you know it! Come out or we're going in!”

“Over my dead body!”

“Five minutes, Johnson; that's it! Then we're coming in!” a new voice shouted.

Sweat ran down Kyle's neck and chest. He glanced at his father's tense face. Hadn't they come to help? Why didn't Dad do something?

“Move out!” his father said at last, motioning with a hand. “You men back up Earl; go in through the storm cellar. The rest come with me.” There was a sharp edge to his voice that Kyle recognized as fear. “We'll double around behind the feds, squeeze them—Earl and you guys in front, and us in back. Kyle, stay close. Okay, men, move it!”

Kyle ran hunched over behind his father through the high corn. Sweat ran down his neck and chest and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. In a few minutes they came up behind the armed government forces, which were moving in a semicircle slowly toward the Johnson house.

Now he could see the front porch and the Johnsons. Hiram stood beside his dad, pointing his rifle this way and that as if expecting someone to jump him at any moment.
Poor Hiram. Poor Johnsons
, Kyle thought. Even with the militia here, they didn't stand a chance.

“Okay, they're in!” Kyle's father whispered. For a second Kyle didn't understand what he meant, then realized that the rest of Dad's militia must have made it into the house. “Move up! Kyle, stay back!”

Kyle moved behind the others. What could he do without a gun? Would he even use it if he had one? He moved forward slowly, legs wobbly, breath coming in gasps, eyes on Hiram and his father.

Hiram suddenly swung to his left and seemed ready to fire.

“Don't!” Kyle screamed.

A shot rang out.

Kyle clamped a hand over his mouth. Who fired? Hiram? Mr. Johnson? The ATF? Or could it have been one of Dad's men?

Hiram gripped his chest and fell to the ground.

Mr. Johnson uttered a harsh scream and bent to help his son.

In that moment of confusion the government agents rushed forward, rifles at the ready.

W
HEN
K
YLE WOULD LATER TRY
to recall those few minutes of warfare, all he could remember was chaos. Gunfire. Orders shouted. Local police and government agents running toward them. Men falling. Others running away. His father yanking him off the ground where he'd fallen when he tripped, pulling him back through the cornfields to the truck.

The truck's bed had filled quickly with retreating militia members. At the last moment, with the vehicle already in motion, a burly man jumped in beside Kyle, squeezing him against his father. Then his dad took off across the fields, back to the main road.

The man peered around Kyle to see his father. “You can't go back to your place now. They're sure to search there first.”

“I
know
that, Frank! Think I'm a fool?”

Eyes on the speedometer, Kyle tried to ease his body away from his dad, scared by his high-pitched fury.

“I'd put you up at my place, but there's Sara and the kids to consider.”

“I
know
that, Frank! Did I ask?” His father's voice rose.

“No, but there's gonna be serious trouble. Where will you go, you and the boy?”

“I've got plans, not to worry, I always plan ahead!” Kyle's father leaned over the wheel and the speedometer rose to seventy-five.

“Send the boy back to L.A., Ed. Keep him out of this.”

“That's none of your business!” His dad turned briefly in his direction. “You want to go home, Kyle?”

“No!”

“See?” His father's lips curved into a tense smile and he patted Kyle's leg.

“For god's sake, slow down, will you?” Frank cried.

“Yeah, Dad,
please
?” Kyle echoed. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth so hard. “Was Hiram badly hurt, do you think?”

“Hurt? He's
dead
, don't you know? Shot by those friggin' feds!”

“You can't be sure of that!” Frank said.

“You going soft on me?” Kyle's father demanded. “You questioning my judgment? I'm telling you, the Johnson boy's dead! And it was the feds did it, not us! I'm telling you, Frank Watson. You doubt that and
watch out
!”

Kyle shuddered. He'd never seen this side of his father: He not only didn't care about Hiram, but about anyone who might disagree with him. Hiram was just a kid, for god's sake, not much older than Kyle. It was almost as if Dad
wanted
Hiram dead so he could whip up his militia to hate the government more!

Nothing seemed real; only yesterday Hiram had been working at the carnival, had joked with him. Now, all he could see in his head was that horrible moment when Hiram slumped to the ground.

Suddenly Kyle
wanted
to go home. How could he have ever said otherwise? Everything seemed so out of control. His dad's nerves were as frayed and dangerous as a live wire. He pulled his knees up and hugged them, scared at what would happen next.

“All right, out, Frank, and take the others with you!” His dad suddenly slowed and pulled off the road near a farmhouse. “I'll get in touch when I've got a fix on how many of us they've taken out, and what they know.”

The burly man dropped from the truck, waved to the men on the flatbed, and ran toward the farmhouse. His father sped off. Kyle looked back to see a half dozen men running behind Frank.

“We're going to Marie's,” his father said after a while, his face grim but calmer, as if he'd come to a decision.

“But, but . . . Won't they look for you there, too? I mean . . .” Kyle didn't finish his thought. His father reached for the car phone, punched a button, listened for an instant, then said, “Code red, code red. Engage phase one.”

What did
that
mean? All this secret stuff—“Code red.” “Phase one”! Kyle glanced uneasily in his dad's direction. “If we can't go home, who'll feed Prince?” he asked, a lump of tears in his throat. “And Blackie? And what about clothes? Everything's back at the house!”

“Right now we have to take cover, regroup, and
avenge
that boy's death!”

A chill went down Kyle's back and settled like ice in his stomach. He squeezed his hands between his knees. “Avenge”! What could his dad be thinking?

The “safe house” they came to, a small cabin hidden in a stand of trees above a lake, belonged to Marie. They'd passed other cabins, fishing retreats, his dad said, but saw few people. His father parked the truck where it couldn't be seen from the road or sky, took a crowbar from the back, and motioned for Kyle to follow.

We're fugitives!
Kyle thought as he climbed the deeply rutted path, looking neither right nor left, just straight ahead at his father's back.

He'd imagined, before leaving L.A., coming to just such a place as this. There'd be a rustic cabin on a lake, a boat to fish from, a porch where he'd sit with his dad at night and talk, surrounded by fireflies, hearing the wind in the trees. He'd get to know his dad. He
needed
to know his dad—not through his mother's eyes and experience, but through his own. He'd yearned for that closeness to a father he could love and admire.

But this was not that man. Because of him they were running from the law. Dad and his militia had shot at government agents. Hiram was dead; maybe others! It made no sense, no matter how Dad justified it. For a moment Kyle wished he could talk with Brian. Brian would know what to do. He realized with a clutching horror that he was afraid. Not just of what might happen next, but of the man on the path just ahead of him—his own father.

“Pull those boards back as I pry them away!” his dad ordered when they reached the cabin. “That's it. Now, climb in the window and unlatch the door!”

Kyle climbed into a square room smelling of mouse droppings and dust. He crossed the floor to unlatch the front door, letting in daylight. The room held two beds stacked with extra mattresses, hooks for clothes, and an old dresser. The kitchen, against one wall, consisted of open shelves with only a few cans of food, and dishes, a small sink and drain board, a woodstove, and an icebox. A picnic table and benches stood near a boarded-up window.

“How long do we have to stay here?” Kyle asked when his dad joined him. “There's no food and it stinks and there's no bathroom, even.”

“Outhouse in back,” his father said, pushing a mattress away so he could sit on a bed. “And quit the whining! You're beginning to sound just like your mother! If you don't like the smell, there's a broom. Sweep up!” He lit a cigarette.

Burning with shame, Kyle turned his back, vowing not to speak again. He sat on a bench and gazed around for something to do. If they were going to stay for a while they had to eat. The food in the few dusty cans on the shelves wouldn't go far. It would be dark soon. Maybe he could find a fishing pole and dig up some worms.

“Don't talk to anyone,” his father warned as he left the cabin. “And if you see anything suspicious, come back right away.”

“I
know
that!” he said, with the same sarcasm his dad had used when he'd spoken to Frank. “Think I'm stupid?”

“Don't smart-ass me, boy! I won't have it! Now go out there and catch us some dinner if you want to eat!”

Kyle returned from the lake just as the sun set, with one good-sized crappie on a string. For two hours he had sat at the end of a small dock, focused on the point where his line entered the water. It seemed a year since he'd fished with Verity, yet it had only been that morning. He wondered what she'd say about all this. Would she even talk to him again, once she heard from her father about the militia raid? He thought about his mother, and Brian. If Dad had had these mood swings with Mom, he could see why they'd divorced. Maybe she would be happier with Brian.