Camouflage (8 page)

Suddenly Pete nodded toward something behind Kyle. The music had changed—from country-western to slow rock—and the noise level in the room dropped.

Kyle swung around to see what had caught Pete's attention. Marta! Kyle's blood rose to his head and a sudden tingling began in his arms and legs. She walked quickly to the dance floor, followed by a man who looked to be in his thirties. She wore a cropped top and the same tight shorts as when she'd come to the house. Kyle began to sweat.

Other dancers moved aside as if they knew what was coming. Marie left the dance floor with her partner and came to stand behind Kyle's father, hands on his shoulders.

Marta's partner was tall and well built; he wore a crisp military uniform. Marta looked small and fragile beside him. How had Kyle ever thought she had a mouselike face? Tonight she seemed so beautiful, so sensual. Eyes closed, she swayed against her partner, waiting for the music to take control. Gradually, smiling slightly, she began to dance, arms, hands, hips, and torso so seductive that Kyle held his breath.

“That girl's asking for trouble,” Kyle's father murmured.

“Wouldn't mind some of that trouble myself,” one of the men at the table said.

“Her daddy's gonna whup the daylights out of her, hears about this . . .”

“Hey, kid,” Pete said. “Why don't
you
go ask her to dance? She's gotta be round your age!” He threw back his head and laughed. The other men laughed with him.

Kyle slunk low in his chair.

“Don't mind them,” Marie said, touching Kyle's arm. “They're just dirty old men.”

“Surprised she hasn't made a play for you, Ed. Or, has she?” Pete asked. “No offense, Marie.” He grinned. “She just likes older men, I reckon. Hangs around my place a lot.”

“Not 'cause she's after
you
, I wager,” Marie said.

“Nope. But that's where she met Sergeant Lover Boy there.”

Kyle clenched his fists under the table. What a slimeball, asking if she'd gone after his father! Of course not! She met Dad for the first time this afternoon, at the house!

He glared at Marta, remembering how it had been between them and getting hot all over again. And here she was—practically screwing that man right in front of everyone. Damn her!

Kyle thought he'd come to a nice quiet town where people lived simple and safe lives, like they did fifty years ago in L.A. On the surface it seemed so, but it wasn't. Kids did the same stuff as in the big city. Grown-ups criticized the government a lot and carried guns everywhere. People called his dad General! And that big “stuff” his dad and friends intended to buy must be big weapons—not just handguns or rifles. Why?

First chance he got, he intended to ask Dad some real, deep questions.

K
YLE AND HIS DAD
drove off early the next morning, windshield wipers swishing slowly across the gray mist covering the glass. His dad looked red-eyed and hung-over, so Kyle poured coffee from a thermos for them. They'd left the Hoot Owl well after midnight, escaping at last from the loud music, dense smoke, and sour smell of beer.

“See if you can get some news,” his father said when Kyle switched on the radio.

Kyle pushed buttons until he found a local station. “Thunderstorm activity is expected later today in central and upper Michigan,”; the announcer said, “so take your raincoats and umbrellas, folks.”

“Geez, raincoats and umbrellas!” his father exclaimed. “I've tramped fifty miles in the rain with a sixty-pound pack and bivouacked in the mud.”

“I never knew you were in the army, Dad!” Kyle turned to his father, surprised and excited. “Pete called you General last night! Cool! How come Mom never told me?”

For a long moment his father didn't answer, then he said, “I'm in a different kind of army, son.”

“Oh?”

“I'm a general in a militia. Remember from your history books how the early patriots formed militias to fight the British?” His father sipped from his coffee cup, then fit it into a holder on the dashboard. They were driving on a narrow road through rolling hills, and the sun had begun to burn off the fog. “We've got twenty-three brigades in the state and growing.”

“But, but—the militia was before we had a government, before we had a real army. We have one now, so why do we need a militia? Who are you supposed to fight?”

His father slowed as they entered a small town. Its streets were empty and its shops closed, but families dressed in their Sunday best were gathering at the church. “It's not so much who as
what
we're against. Our rights are being taken away, one by one, slowly but surely. From the minute we're born, the government controls us. Gotta have a birth certificate, Social Security card, this and that license. We're told how fast to drive, how many fish we can catch, and how many deer we can shoot. They want to know how much money I make and then they take a good part away in taxes! They pass laws to stop us from owning firearms.” His father's eyes never left the road but his voice grew angry. “Know why? So we'll be powerless when they come to take our property! Shall I go on?”

“But, Dad? If you don't like what the government's doing, you can vote out the guys who are making those laws.”

His father snorted. “It's all corrupt. The new guys are just as bad after a few years.”

Kyle didn't know what to say. He'd never heard anyone talk so hopelessly about the government. “What do you do in your militia?” he asked finally.

“Prepare. For when the government goes too far.”

“Do you mean that?” Kyle turned to look at his father.

“I sure do!” Mr. Klinger lifted his eyes from the road and smiled at Kyle. “Marie says I should have been a preacher. Says she's gonna buy me a soapbox. I do go on, don't I?”

Kyle didn't answer.

“Not everyone agrees with what I say, son, so watch who you talk to. And for heaven's sake, don't tell Angie or she'll scream bloody murder and yank you home faster than you can say jackrabbit!”

“Sure, Dad.” For the rest of the drive Kyle stared out the window without seeing. He wished he'd been reading more than just the comics and sports pages of the newspaper. Maybe he'd know enough to poke holes in his dad's arguments. And he thought there had to be holes, lots of them. It just couldn't be okay for Americans to form their own little armies to fight against their own government.

“How much farther, Dad?” he asked.

“Couple of miles.”

Kyle shivered. It was too much to take in—Dad's gun club being a militia. He needed time to understand it all. But now, almost to the swap meet, his thoughts turned to what he'd see. There'd be more weapons than in any gun shop. His fingers itched to get around the trigger of each and every gun he'd see.

Suddenly he had an idea. While his dad was busy, he'd go off and
buy
himself a gun, one he chose and paid for all by himself. Brian didn't want his sixty bucks back anyway. Kyle would put it toward the purchase. Wouldn't that piss off Big-Shot Brian?

Helium balloons and flags flew over the fairgrounds where the swap meet was being held. From the dusty parking lot half full of vans, pickups, and cars, Kyle could hear the music of a small carnival and could see a Ferris wheel turning.

They parked beside a family having breakfast on their truck's tailgate. A jar of peanut butter, sliced bread, a big box of Cheerios, and a platter of doughnuts sat on the red-checked cloth covering the gate. Three small children played nearby.

“Howdy, Ed!” the man called when Kyle and his dad climbed down from the truck. “Join us for coffee?”

“Thanks, just had some, Matt. Hello, Jessie. Want you to meet my boy, Kyle, visiting from L.A. Kyle, these are my friends Matt and Jessie Warner.”

“Fine-looking boy,” Jessie said. “Looks a lot like you, Ed.”

“So I'm told. Poor fella.”

Kyle rolled his eyes.

“We're going to the carnival,” Jessie said, “me and the boys. Want to come along, Kyle?”

“Thanks, Mrs. Warner, but I want to help my dad.”

“Give you a hand unloading?” Matt gulped the last of his coffee and approached their truck.

“Much obliged. Son? Find us a wagon, will you? Should be some near the entrance.”

Kyle brought back a flatbed wagon and helped his father and Matt unload the truck. They hauled their loads into the fairgrounds, to a booth manned by Pete, the gun shop owner.

On the grassy field inside the grounds, people had put up trestle tables and sturdy booths in orderly rows. Some rows were for weapons, some for survival equipment. Kyle could hardly wait to break away and explore.

“Go ahead, son. We can manage. Browse all you like. I can see where your head is,” his father said as he began unpacking the boxes.

Kyle joined the growing crowd of men and women wandering among the displays. Food booths sold spicy-smelling hot dogs and buttery popcorn. Carousel music came faintly from the carnival nearby, and a loudspeaker broadcast occasional announcements of afternoon events and special offers at different booths.

Kyle passed bins of freeze-dried foods and examined tents, backpacks, and sleeping bags, supplies for wilderness camping or surviving disasters. “Wow,” he kept saying under his breath. “Cool.” Stand after stand displayed guns, rifles, flak jackets, and knives of every kind—even military-type binoculars that made it possible to see people in the dark.

He hefted a heavy rifle at one of the booths. “What's this one for?” he asked the salesman.

“Deer hunting. That's a thirty-aught-six rifle, lever-action.”

Kyle whistled. He checked the price tag and whistled again. He looked through the sight and narrowed his eyes, pulled the trigger and said, “Pow-pow-pow.”

He laid the rifle down, picked up others, and checked the price tags. “What's that big thing? A rocket launcher?”

“Uh-huh.” The salesman drew a rifle from a box and set it among the others.

“No kidding. It's legal? You can buy those things?”

“It's surplus. You can get practically any kind of military equipment, if you know how. And what the government won't let Americans buy, it sells to foreign countries, even enemies. Figure that one.”

Kyle shrugged. “Who'd need a rocket launcher here, anyway? I mean, you don't hunt with one. Do you?” He laughed uneasily.

“Did you want to buy something, son?” the salesman asked, staring hard at him while he wiped a rifle barrel.

“Uh-huh, sure.”

“You're under twenty-one, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You should know better. Gotta be twenty-one to buy a gun. Save your money and use your daddy's guns.” He turned away to wait on another customer.

Disappointed, Kyle left the booth, idly fingering the bills in his pocket. Now that he couldn't buy a gun, the fun was gone. All the booths seemed to carry many of the same firearms; the weather had become hotter and more humid and the crowds denser. He might as well go back to his father and see what was up.

At least a dozen men hung around Pete's booth; they wore white T-shirts and jeans and heavy boots. Some seemed to know each other, joking and talking, while others examined the guns on display. Pete looked happy, ringing up the cash register while Matt wrapped firearm purchases.

Kyle squeezed in between two men and called, “Mr. Warner? My dad around anywhere?”

“Went for coffee! Back soon!” he answered.

Kyle strode off to the refreshment stands, bought himself a bag of peanuts, then wandered around looking for his dad. If his father didn't need him, maybe he'd go check out the carnival. Or maybe they'd let him help out at the booth.

He saw his father, at last, lounging against a fence, eating a hot dog and talking with a short, pleasant-looking man whose belly hung over his belt. Not wanting to interrupt, Kyle ambled over to the fence just behind his father, cracking peanut shells, waiting.

“Now, Bud,” he heard his father say, “don't be greedy. We've done a lot of business together and I expect we'll do a lot more in the future, but we're not the Bank of England, you know!”

“I know, Ed! But it's
my
hide if I get caught. These aren't popguns you want. Government don't take it lightly when assault weapons disappear from inventory.” He lowered his voice when he caught Kyle staring. “If you find someone who can get them for you cheaper—go for it!”

“I thought you were with us on O. D.,” his father said.

“You know I am!” Bud nodded toward Kyle, so that his father glanced behind him.

“Kyle!” His dad seemed flustered. “You need something?”

“I just wondered if I can help at the booth.”

“Oh. No, don't think so. Seen enough?”

“Sort of. How long we staying?”

“Till closing. Five. Marie's joining us later. Tell you what. Why don't you go over to the carnival? Johnson said his boy's working at a booth there. Maybe you'll see other friends.”

Bud had turned his back and gone to the fence, studying his nails. Kyle wondered why he hadn't been introduced.

“Here.” His dad pulled a wad of bills from his pocket and handed Kyle a ten. “Get something to eat. I'm going to be busy here for a while.”

“Okay.” Kyle pocketed the money and turned away, conscious that his Dad and Bud were probably watching him and wondering how much he'd heard.

And what
had
he heard? That Bud was supplying illegal military equipment—big guns used in wars—to his dad's militia.

What were they planning? And what was “O. D.”?

O.
D., O. D.
The letters kept turning over in Kyle's head as he made his way through the crowded parking lot.
Overdose?
Sure, he'd heard those initials a zillion times on the news. But, no. That couldn't be it.