Liberty or Death (23 page)

Proffit raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "Take it easy, buddy," he said. "It's not up to us, you know. It's in the DA's hands now."

"You want to get your boy back, you'd better let him go."

"Buddy," the other trooper said, "give it a rest. We just came here to eat."

"Better keep an eye on the dining room," I told Theresa. "You've got two state troopers out there and a bunch of guys in the bar who want to make trouble." I leaned against the wall and rubbed the small of my back. It had been a long day. The thought of lifting another heavy tray made me want to cry.

"Thanks for telling me," she said, scooping up an armload of plates. "I'll take care of it." Theresa was small and rather frail looking, but though my experience was limited, I'd already concluded that she could handle most anything that came along. There were enough people at any given time who were regulars so that an unspoken code of conduct seemed to apply in the restaurant. People knew how she ran things. Knew her rules about causing trouble.

I gave the troopers' orders and paused by the stove to talk to Clyde. "Do we have any special policy about feeding cops? I mean... I don't want to do anything stupid... but do we charge them for meals like everyone else?" I honestly didn't know. I knew cops weren't supposed to take freebies, but what people were supposed to do and what the practice was were often quite different. Some business people got genuinely offended if the cops didn't take their offerings.

"When they're done, Theresa will take them their check." And that's all he said, so I knew no more than before I'd asked. I also realized that it was going to be hard for Roland to slip me a note, in case that was what he was planning to do. I'd just have to find a way to communicate while I delivered their food.

"Things go okay last night?" he asked. "Stuart's usually more bluster than bite, but I know you've had it rough."

What about this morning,
I thought.
Are you blind?
But I didn't say anything about that. Maybe Clyde didn't know. He hadn't been in the dining room like Theresa and Kalyn. Maybe he thought I ran through kitchens and smashed coffeepots against Dumpsters all the time. Or maybe he thought it was a hormonal thing and that was territory he didn't want to explore. Besides, after working breakfast, lunch, and now dinner, I didn't have the energy to finesse, so I just answered his question. "He scares me witless, Clyde. First he locked me in a dark closet and then he kept swinging this hunk of pipe in my direction. If that's bluster, I'd hate to see his bite."

I thought I had seen his bite—in his eyes, in his intrusive hands, and in the vicious little degrading assault today by one of his goons. "I don't believe that man is a minister," I said. "He doesn't act like any Christian I've ever seen." Leaving Clyde to ponder on that, I ladled up two bowls of clam chowder, dished up four slices of fresh raspberry pie, scooped ice cream onto three of them, and headed back into the dining room.

In the brief time I was in the kitchen, things had gone from bad to worse. My table full of whiny brats was quiet, which might otherwise have been a blessing, but their silence was the result of all three staring, mesmerized, at my nemesis, the Reverend Stuart Hannon, pastor of the New Life Church, the camouflage-clad leader of the late-night meeting I'd observed. My charming host of the previous evening.
Colonel
Hannon, who had whacked me in the nose, albeit unwittingly. He was standing on a chair, staring down at the troopers, ranting about a jealous God who will smite his enemies. He must have arrived already wound up, because he hadn't had much time to get started and the words were pouring from his mouth like soda from a shaken bottle.

"...and it is the right, nay, it is the duty, of every Christian man to take up arms, when necessary, against the depredations of a wrongful government!" he thundered, "to strike down the instruments of oppression and seize back the power and authority which reside in each and every free man as the basis of his citizenship. To protect our organic constitutional rights against an unconstitutional government."

It was comfortably cool in the restaurant but he'd worked up quite a sweat. Already, there were visible beads on his high, domed forehead, and dark half-moons beneath his arms. He paused for a chorus of amens, pulled out a handkerchief, and mopped his face. It was clear that the instruments of oppression he was referring to were the two troopers. A grim-faced Theresa stood before him, trying to get his attention, but he was steadfastly ignoring her.

"At this very moment," he continued, "our brother Jed Harding is languishing in a jail cell, twice a victim of the very government which he nearly lost his life serving... the very government whose use of poisonous chemicals without any thought for the risks has already condemned our brother Jed to a lifetime of anguished pain and suffering... a government..." here he paused for effect "...that has condemned not just Jed himself, but his innocent only son, Lyle, a poor little wretch crippled as a result of his father's chemical exposure, condemned both father and son to lifetimes of suffering..."

He stomped his foot down angrily on the chair. Theresa winced, gave up trying to get his attention, and headed for the kitchen. "Tonight, as he has been for many nights, Jed Harding is shut up in a jail cell, far from home and family. Why? Because he had the temerity to demand from his government... from our government, though it is clearly no longer a government of the people, by the people, and for the people... because Jed Harding had the nerve to demand medical coverage for his poor little child, medical coverage which the government has already agreed that it will provide in cases like this... medical coverage which the government, our government, in all its power and wisdom and goodness and mercy, refused to Jed Harding and his pitiful little son."

He paused again. "Jed Harding is in jail tonight because when the government, which hurt him so badly already, refused one last irrational time to give him the help he sought, he decided not to take 'no' for an answer."

Man, but the guy could speechify, though I didn't believe a word of it. I knew just how kind he could be, how concerned for others. He slammed his fist into the palm of his other hand and then spread them wide, as though giving the room his benediction. The whole restaurant had fallen silent. No one was eating. Most people were staring curiously, but a few tables, obviously of summer people, were beginning to shift restlessly and looked irritated. One was trying to signal for a check. Hannon was oblivious.

"Brothers and sisters, Jed Harding is in jail tonight because he decided to take matters into his own hands. Because he decided he'd had enough of the runaround, enough of the bureaucracy, enough of having his basic rights denied. Jed Harding was doing nothing more than you or I would do. He was fighting for the rights of his child. He was fighting to give his son a fair chance at life. A fair share of the pie. A decent shake for once instead of bureaucratic runaround."

Again he paused, his sharp, quick eyes circling the room to be sure that people were with him, quelling the few people who were trying to ignore him and enjoy their dinners, glaring at the man who was again signaling for his check. Hannon had a sharp nose, bushy black eyebrows, and a narrow, almost lipless mouth. His eyes were deep-set and dark. His head narrow and his face long and bony. An unattractive, mean-looking man. The whole damned town was full of 'em. This one looked like he would have taken great pleasure in prosecuting the Salem witches. And he would have been unwavering in his certainty that he was right.

He cleared his throat loudly and resumed his oratory, clearly in love with the sound of his own voice. "When Jed Harding had finally had enough and couldn't take it anymore, he pointed his gun at the lazy, lying, corrupt bureaucrat who was refusing medical treatment for his son, and demanded what was rightfully his. Oh, he had asked and he had begged. He had filled out their endless forms and stood in their endless lines and shown that he had almost endless patience. To no avail. In the end, that patience ran out because he couldn't bear to see his boy suffer any longer."

He held his arms out to the crowd, palms up, as if in supplication. "Now I ask you. I ask you to ponder upon what I have said, and tell me: Which of those men belongs in jail—the humble father, trying to care for his handicapped son, or the corrupt representative of an arrogant, too-powerful government? Who has lost their way? Jed Harding, an honored veteran and a hardworking citizen or the corrupt bureaucrats who put their time, not into serving the people, but into consolidating their power into an ever more centralized and indifferent government? A government whose various arms are so bent on amassing power they can't be bothered to work for the safety of all the people, never mind protecting the interests of one small child."

He shook his head as if in disbelief. "No. If we want a country that's safe for our women and children and fair to the little guy, we're gonna have to take care of it ourselves..."

There was a scattering of applause. One of the men who had been muttering earlier, a stocky redhead with a trim beard, a big, round head, and an expansive gut, stood up and said, "Well, hell, we got us two representatives of that government right here. Why don't we take them hostage, too? Keep on taking hostages until they let Jed go?"

But Jed Harding doesn't want to be let go,
I thought. I almost said it aloud.

"Hostages, hell!" It was the guy with the Randy Weaver T-shirt. He and his two buddies had moved to a table in the dining room. "Let's hang 'em from the nearest bridge."

I was so scared for Roland and the other trooper, I felt like I was going to be sick. I had stomach cramps anyway, probably from something I'd eaten. Or hadn't eaten. I'd only nibbled on the breakfast Clyde had sent up and skipped lunch to save time.

Theresa had returned with Clyde and they both carried baseball bats. She slammed hers down against the floor beside the redheaded man's foot. "There will be none of your damned rabble-rousing in here, Joe Parker," she said. "You can sit down and eat your dinner quietly or you can leave right now. You can start your wars on your own time. I'm not having this kind of disturbance in my place."

Joe Parker looked around for support, but found few people to meet his eyes. There might be a ton of support for Jed Harding in the room, but not many people seemed interested in showing that support by attacking two armed, uniformed state troopers in their favorite local restaurant. It was impossible to tell whether it was fear of authority, or fear of Theresa and of being banned from the dining room, or whether they were just hungry, but something was keeping them in line.

"Hell, Theresa," he bellowed, "whose side are you on, anyway?"

Theresa planted her hands on her hips and looked up at him solemnly, her face all points and angles, her voice hard and harsh. "I'm on the side of trying to make a livin' and trying to let people relax and enjoy their meals, Joe. I'm on the side of running a nice, peaceful restaurant where people will want to come and eat. I'm on the side of you taking this ruckus outside where it belongs and letting these poor hungry folks eat. And that's all. This ain't about politics."

Joe Parker spat, "Fucking government bastards," and a few other worn epithets at the troopers, and took his seat.

Theresa turned to the Reverend, who was still standing on the chair. Even though I was mad at Theresa, I liked what she was doing. I was silently rooting for her to whack him one with the baseball bat, but she didn't. "Come on down off that chair now, Stuart, and cut out this disturbance. I'm trying to run a business, here, and these people are trying to eat their dinners. You want to preach, you've got yourself a pulpit, which this place isn't. You want to start a war, you find someplace else to do it. There's hundreds of miles to chose from out there."

She smiled wryly and made the first joke I'd ever heard her make. "This is a demilitarized zone."

The Reverend Hannon climbed down off his chair and stood glowering at her. "Sister McGrath, sometimes I fear for your soul..."

In response, she only thumped her bat on the floor again. "Then maybe you'd better go home and pray for me, Stuart, because I'm busy serving mammon here. We all of us have to do a bit of that, or you wouldn't have a church or a house or a pot to pee in." Hannon, his nose in the air, turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. I didn't believe it. I kept expecting him to whip out his menacing piece of pipe or summon his goons, but he didn't.

"Stuart," she said loudly, "this isn't a soup kitchen. You have to pay for your dinner just like the rest of these folks. No one eats here for free."

It was a lie, I knew. Kalyn had told me that in the off-season, Theresa often gave people credit when they needed a night out and a good meal. But she liked to chose her charities, not have them decide for themselves. He pulled out his wallet, gingerly tugged out a five, and dropped it on his table. Then he turned and left. Theresa picked up the bill, looked down at his check, and shook her head. "Two dollars short," she said, "and that's before the tip. I wonder what his god thinks of that."

I delivered the chowder and the pies, gave the check to the anxious man in the back, took a few orders, cleared off two tables, and staggered back into the kitchen under a load of dishes that would have given Samson pause on a good day. Theresa was standing in the center of the room, her eyes snapping, obviously at the end of a tirade. "...Ever since that Hannon boy found himself a jealous god and a bunch of morons who'll listen to him, he's been insufferable! Another outburst like that and he can find a new place to eat. They all can. This ain't exactly a thriving metropolis. Those boys ought to understand that. Politics are fine in their place, I don't blame some of 'em for being mad at the government, even if I don't agree with how they're going about it, but around here, we've got economic reality to deal with."

She shot a challenging glance around the room, as if we'd dare to disagree with her. "I've got a few months to make most of a year's living. A couple outbursts like that will drive the tourists away and then where will I be? They can... you all can... do what you want on your own time, but I don't need any damned militia types giving speeches in my restaurant and I sure as heck don't need no state cops showing up like they didn't know they were walking right into a hornet's nest."