“Hold a special town meeting!” Phil Watkins yelled, eliciting cheers from the citizenry.
“Order! Order!” demanded Hawthorne, banging his gavel. When the crowd quieted down he recognized Bill. Lucy shifted uneasily in her seat.
“As for the demand that the town order Downeast Mortgage to stop foreclosures,” said Bill, “I have to point out that there is simply no way we can do that. That is simply a matter of contractual obligations between private parties, and the town has no standing whatsoever in the . . .”
The crowd certainly didn’t like hearing this, especially not the SAC kids, who were muttering and booing. Lucy discovered she was holding her breath. She was so tense that her stomach hurt. It was killing her to sit there when she wanted to leap to Bill’s defense.
Gene Hawthorne called for order, once again, this time warning that he would have the room cleared unless the crowd observed the proper decorum. Receiving grudging acquiescence, he called for a vote on the motion. “All in favor,” he said, and the room fell silent as Frankie and Pam raised their hands.
“Against?” The three men on the committee raised their hands, and the audience immediately erupted with a unified roar.
In a matter of seconds everyone was on their feet. Cardboard coffee cups, balled up wads of paper, even chairs were hurled into the air. The committee members ducked behind their table. Lucy herself adopted a crash position, curling up and placing her arms above her head. Barney Culpepper was blowing his whistle, the meeting room doors were thrown open, and the Tinker’s Cove Police Department, all seven officers who had been positioned outside, poured into the room. Seeing the officers in blue, the Winchester group bolted en masse for a side exit. Local folk were more easily subdued, but Harry Crawford did attempt to punch Officer Todd Kirwan. Kirwan avoided the punch and Barney applied the handcuffs, hustling Crawford out of the building.
“Meeting adjourned,” Hawthorne declared, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, and the shaken committee members began gathering up their papers and belongings.
Hildy, the freelancer Ted had asked to cover the meeting, was already interviewing Hawthorne. “What’s your reaction to tonight’s events?” she was asking, as Lucy joined Bill, who was gathering up his papers.
Hawthorne shook his head. “We can’t have this sort of thing,” he said. “In future, we will have strict security at our meetings. The committee can’t work under these conditions, and I want to say that these committee members are struggling with a very difficult fiscal situation and doing their very best to make responsible decisions.”
Bill nodded in agreement. “It’s very different to be sitting on this side of the table,” he said. “We can’t be influenced by an unruly mob.” Then he took Lucy’s arm and they made their way through the overturned chairs and litter to the door.
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said.
“Bunch of hooligans,” Bill muttered.
“Those hooligans include your daughter,” Lucy said.
“She wasn’t here tonight,” Bill observed. “At least I didn’t see her.”
“No, she was probably back at the squat, building bombs.”
“Don’t joke about it,” Bill said sternly, as they climbed into the pickup. “It’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t joking,” Lucy said. “There are going to be repercussions, and if I were you, I’d be very careful for the next few days.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Bill shifted into reverse and backed out of his parking spot. “Everybody loves me.”
“Not anymore,” Lucy said.
Chapter Eighteen
T
hursday morning, Lucy was lingering in bed with a cup of coffee, watching a morning news show on the old TV that had migrated upstairs when they bought a new flat screen for the family room. The weather reporter was predicting more stormy weather when Bill stomped up the stairs and blew into their bedroom.
“Somebody slashed my tires!” he exclaimed. His tone of voice left no doubt that he was really upset. Also shocked, angry, and indignant. “Can you believe it?”
“Actually, I can,” Lucy said, recalling that she had predicted trouble after the contentious FinCom meeting.
He sat on the edge of the bed. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Somebody who’s mad at you,” Lucy said.
“Because of my vote?”
“Probably.” Lucy had a few ideas on the subject. “Or to make a point.”
“You know how much this is gonna cost us?” Bill asked. “And not just cash. Time, too. I’m gonna lose an entire day of work, getting new tires.”
“You should report it to the police,” Lucy said. “It’s not just property damage. You’re a public official. I’m pretty sure that attempting to intimidate a public official is a crime.”
“Somehow I don’t think I’m going to get much sympathy from the police department,” Bill said. “They’re town employees, too.”
“True,” Lucy said, patting his knee. “And to think, everyone used to love you.”
Bill scowled and scratched his beard, now mixed with gray. “At least I know I can count on you not to throw my own words back at me.”
“I would never do that,” Lucy said, throwing the covers back and getting up. As she stood Bill grabbed her by the hips and pulled her down; she laughed as she rolled back on the bed. “I can’t, Bill, I can’t. I’ve got breakfast with the girls in half an hour.”
“You’re going to be late,” Bill said, kissing her and groping for the buttons on her pajamas.
When she was in the car, on her way to Jake’s, Lucy suddenly changed her mind about meeting her friends for breakfast. The four friends had agreed early on that their Thursday morning breakfasts were such an important commitment that only serious illness or death counted as legitimate excuses for breaking the date. This morning, however, Lucy found herself calling Sue and begging off. There was something she wanted to do, something that wouldn’t wait.
“Well, this is a fine howdy do,” Sue said, sounding annoyed. “Rachel’s already called and said she’s simply got too much to do to make it.”
“Oh.” Lucy felt a twinge of guilt but brushed it aside. “I hope this isn’t a trend.”
“Well, it is only a few days till Christmas.” Sue sighed. “Pam called last night and said she could only stay for half an hour. She wants to get to an early bird sale at the outlet mall.”
Lucy knew that Sue was a dedicated shopper. “Why don’t you go with her?” she suggested.
“I think I will,” Sue said. “But no excuses next week, right?”
“No excuses,” Lucy promised, closing her flip phone and making the turn onto Shore Road.
Glancing out over the ocean, Lucy saw the sky was full of thick gray clouds, hanging low. The water itself was slate gray and choppy. It was the sort of scene that made you fear for anyone out on the sea and, living on the coast, Lucy knew there were plenty of fishermen, coast guardsmen, sailors, and merchant seamen who braved the waves every day. Lucy thought of the plaques on the walls of the Community Church, engraved with the names of those who had gone to sea and never returned: Isaiah Walker, who fell overboard in pursuit of a whale, Ephraim Snodgrass, who contracted yellow fever en route to Manila, and Horace Sanford, USN, whose troop ship was torpedoed by a German U-boat. She shivered, thinking of those poor souls, and the many others who met their fate in the cold depths of the North Atlantic.
Turning into the driveway at the squat, she saw, as before, it was filled with numerous cars. She marched resolutely up to the porch, pushed open the unlocked door and stepped inside, where she was immediately met by Seth Lesinski.
“Here for a reaction to the FinCom meeting?” he asked, with a wide grin. He was holding a big mug of tea in one hand, a laptop computer in the other, and seemed terribly pleased with himself.
“Not exactly,” Lucy said, following him into the library, away from other members of the group who were gathering in the living room.
Seth seated himself at a card table and opened the computer, then leaned back in his chair and took a long drink of tea. “So what can I do for you?” he asked.
“You can stop this campaign of intimidation, that’s what you can do,” Lucy said, picking up steam.
“I’d call it information, not intimidation,” he said.
“My husband’s tires were slashed last night,” Lucy said in an accusatory tone, “and I think you know all about it.”
Seth’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t.”
“I don’t believe you,” Lucy replied. “And I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to learn you were behind the bombing that killed Jake Marlowe.”
“That’s crazy,” Seth said, looking both shocked and troubled. “How could you ever think I wanted to kill that pathetic old man?”
“I don’t think you intended to kill him. I think you meant to frighten him but things went wrong. You’re a combat veteran—you know all about guns and explosives. . . .” Lucy said, only to be interrupted.
“Yeah, I know about explosives, but from the wrong end. I’ve lost good friends, seen them literally ripped apart by IEDs. I would never . . . I’m a patriot, no matter what you might think. I love this country and that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. I’m trying to save it from the greedy bastards who are sucking it dry.”
Lucy felt herself falling under his sway. She was almost convinced, actually feeling rather ashamed of her suspicions, when she caught herself. He was clever, she reminded herself, a master manipulator who had seduced her daughter mentally, if not physically. Sara! She suddenly had an urgent, overwhelming need to contact her daughter. Where was Sara?
“Is my daughter here?” she asked in a no-nonsense tone.
“Sara?” he asked.
“Yes, Sara! You know, Sara!”
He shook his head. “I haven’t seen her this morning.”
And I hope you never see her again, Lucy thought, turning on her heel and heading for the door. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught a glimpse of his computer screen: it pictured a classic comic book bomb, a sinister black globe with a sizzling wick, in front of a waving American flag, and the words
Extremism in the defense of liberty is no vice!
Her eyes widened and she suddenly felt justified. So much for Seth Lesinski and his protestations of patriotism, his denial of violent tactics! The man was a domestic terrorist and he was seducing decent kids with social consciences to join him. He had to be stopped, she fumed, yanking the car door open and jumping inside. She was going to go straight to the police, she decided. This had gone far enough. It was time for the grown-ups to take charge.
When she marched into Police Chief Jim Kirwan’s office, she was surprised to see that Ben Scribner was already there.
“That house belongs to Downeast Mortgage and I demand police action!” he was saying. “Those kids have moved in like they own the place. The utilities are off, you know. No water, no power, no heat. You can only imagine what’s going on, the damage they’re causing.”
“It’s worse than that,” Lucy said, eager to join the discussion. “They’ve slashed Bill’s tires, and they’ve got bombs on their computers. . . .”
Both Scribner and Kirwan looked at her. “Bombs?” the chief repeated.
“Bombs!” Lucy declared.
“What’s this about tires?”
“All four tires on Bill’s truck were slashed this morning,” Lucy said. “And you heard Seth Lesinski at the meeting last night, all but predicting violence if their demands weren’t met.”
“That’s not proof,” the chief said.
“It’s proof enough for me!” Scribner declared. “It’s my property and I demand action! I’m a taxpayer, probably the town’s biggest taxpayer, and I want those hooligans out of there by the end of the day!”
The chief scowled in concentration, considering his course of action. Finally, he nodded. “Okay,” he said, and reached for the phone.
Lucy enjoyed a few moments of self-righteous satisfaction as she made her way to the
Pennysaver
office, congratulating herself that she’d actually managed to help convince the chief to take the correct action. It wasn’t until she was walking into the office that it occurred to her to wonder at the strange turn of events that had caused her own interests to align with those of Ben Scribner. That was when she began to doubt she’d done the right thing, but by then it was too late. The police scanner was already buzzing as forces assembled and prepared to raid the squat.
Lucy covered it, of course, standing by the side of the road and snapping photos as uniformed SWAT team members from the state police deployed, accompanied by local officers, and stormed the shingled cottage. The squatters were brought out with their hands fastened behind their backs in plastic snap ties, their coats over their shoulders, and loaded into a school bus. Lucy was clicking away when Sara’s face appeared on the digital video screen and she had the sickening realization that her daughter would probably never forgive her.
Once the house was emptied of squatters a team of crime scene investigators went to work, and Lucy also photographed them removing boxes and bags of material. When she asked if they had found evidence of domestic terrorism all she got was a stern “No comment.”
Following up at the police station, Kirwan would only say that “the material taken from the squat will be analyzed for evidence of domestic terrorism.” For the moment the squatters would be charged with trespassing and the arraignments were under way in Gilead. Lucy raced to the courthouse in the county seat, arriving just in time to produce bail for Sara.
Sara, much to her mother’s irritation, did not express gratitude for the hundred dollars in cash that Lucy had extracted from the conveniently located ATM in the courthouse lobby. “I missed a poli sci quiz, ’cause of those cops!” Sara fumed. “And I studied and everything.”
“I’m sure you can make it up. Maybe even get extra credit for getting arrested,” Lucy said. “You got firsthand experience of the justice system. You should offer to write a paper for extra credit.”
Sara narrowed her eyes. “Don’t be all snarky, Mom.”
“I’m not. I’m serious,” Lucy said.
“The judge was horrible. He acted like we were criminals or something.”
“You broke the law,” Lucy reminded her. “Trespassing is a crime, and after last night’s meeting, they’re going to suspect the group of doing more than just squatting. You know your father’s tires were slashed? Do you know anything about that?”
“No. Of course not. Seth wouldn’t have anything to do with violence. He said he saw it firsthand in Iraq and Afghanistan and it’s made him a committed pacifist. He believes in passive resistance. When the cops came he told us to go limp and let them arrest us, not to struggle or anything.” Sara turned her head and stared out the window of the car, apparently fascinated by the snowy fields and bare trees along the road. “It was you!” she suddenly declared, whirling around to accuse her mother. “You’re the one who got the cops to raid the squat!”
“Not really,” Lucy said. “I reported the tire-slashing—of course I did. Your dad is a public official and this is intimidation. It’s illegal, and it was my duty to report it.” She paused, but Sara’s expression remained angry and accusatory. “I think it was really Ben Scribner who convinced the chief. He demanded action and he’s got friends in high places. I don’t think the chief had any alternative, really. It was a question of property rights.”
“Private property is theft,” Sara declared.
“Well, then I guess you won’t mind sharing your Uggs with Zoe and letting her wear them every other day, will you?”
Sara didn’t have an answer for that, so she turned her head once again and watched the scenery roll by.
Lucy also was silent, wondering if her suspicions about Seth Lesinski were indeed correct. Sara was young and easily influenced, but she knew that her daughter was really a good person at heart. She wouldn’t condone violence—she wouldn’t have anything to do with it, of that Lucy was convinced. Maybe Sara was right about Seth Lesinski, and maybe she herself was wrong. But if that was so, who had sent the bomb? And did the same person slash Bill’s tires? Were they going to find a brightly wrapped bomb in their mailbox, too?
That night was the dress rehearsal, the final run-through before the weekend performances. Florence had finished painting the scenery, which was still wet, in fact, and Rachel warned everyone to keep clear of it for fear of staining their costumes. Even so, Lucy found the addition of the subtly designed scenery and costumes transformed the show and made it much more believable. Now, Bob wasn’t Bob reciting odd, old-fashioned language, he was Scrooge, complete with mutton-chop whiskers, an enormous pocket watch with a massive gold chain and fob, and a high top hat. And she found it easier to believe herself in the role of Mrs. Cratchit, thanks to the long, full-skirted dress and lace-trimmed mobcap.
Lucy knew she was not really much of an actor, but when she played the Christmas Yet to Come scene in which Tiny Tim is predicted to have died, she found tears welling in her eyes. Her voice broke as she gazed at his crutch leaning on the wall, no longer needed, and recalled how Bob Cratchit had found his crippled son “very light indeed” when he carried him on his shoulders.
Rachel gave her a big thumbs-up when she exited the stage, but her thoughts had strayed from Victorian England to the present. It was the possibility that Tiny Tim might die that finally melted Scrooge’s hard heart, and Lucy wondered if learning that Angie Cunningham was actually in danger of dying might work in some way to soften Ben Scribner’s heart. Or not, she thought, remembering how adamantly he’d insisted that the police clear his property of squatters.