Time to Run (9 page)

Socialist?
Sara turned to take it from him. "Oh, my goodness."

The catalogue sold every type of Nazi paraphernalia imaginable, from sound recordings of Hitler's famous speeches, to T-shirts proclaiming white supremacy, to Nazi flags. She put it down with disgust. "Don't touch any more," she warned her son.

Chase reappeared bearing a metal filing saw. Working it into the crack between the cabinets, he sawed away at the lock while Sara took closer stock of the room. "Chase," she hedged, hoping it wouldn't make him angry, "your stepfather was a white supremacist."

"I know." He put the saw on the desk and pulled the cabinet open, plucking out a rifle. Handling it with casual precision, he checked it for ammunition.

"Honey, why don't you play in Chase's old room for the rest of the evening," Sara suggested to Kendal.

"Oh, Mom!" Kendal protested, sounding truly put out. "I wanted to catch some crickets."

"There's plenty in the closet to play with," she insisted. She'd peeked in there this morning, seeing collector's cards, old comic books, and toy cars.

"Fine," he relented, stomping down the hall to disappear into the next room.

Sara went to stand next to Chase as he took out the next rifle. "This isn't anyplace for a child," she said quietly.

His hands stilled. "Never was," he retorted. "Not after Linc moved in."

"Maybe you should call the police," she suggested, postponing what she really had to say.

"I will," he promised. "Don't need a bunch of cops gettin' a look at you right now."

"We should probably leave then." There. She just came right out and said it, even though a large part of her quailed in protest. Leaving Chase meant putting herself in the real world, alone. It meant vulnerability, and a loneliness that she didn't anticipate.

Chase put the gun back in the cabinet. With a sigh, he turned to face her. "I told you, it's not safe to use public transportation. Let me fix up the truck. I'll work on it tomorrow."

"How long will it take to get it running?" she asked him, turning toward the window.

"I don't know," he said almost irritably. "Couple days, at least. In the meantime, I'll keep this room locked."

Sara nodded, relieved that leaving right away was impossible, anyway. Besides, Chase still needed her help here.

"Do you think those people are going to come back?" she asked, peeking through the blinds.

He'd reached for another gun. "Most likely."

"Maybe you should leave those guns outside for them to take."

He went perfectly still. "I don't put guns in the hands of terrorists," he replied.

"Of course not." She realized that she had spoken thoughtlessly. Chase had made a career out of beating back terrorism. He wasn't the type to give in to bullies. She ran a sweeping gaze over the room. "I just can't believe all of this." There were actually Americans who believe in the supremacy of the Aryan race. "It seems so un-American."

"Pretty fucking unbelievable," Chase muttered, opening the chamber of the rifle in his hands. "Sorry," he added, shaking pellets into his palm.

"Loaded," Sara commented with dismay.

He dropped the pellets into his pocket and reached for the fourth rifle. Watching him manipulate the machinery with such practiced ease drove home the differences between them. She was from a privileged background. He'd had to fight for everything he had. It was inevitable that they would go their separate ways soon.

"I'm going to see what Kendal's doing," she said, heading for the door with a heavy heart.

With a mutter of disgust, Chase replaced the pamphlet on Linc's desk and rotated his stiff neck. It was nearly dawn. He'd stayed up all night, puzzling through the propaganda that littered the room, unable to shake his suspicion that the guns in the cabinet were intended for some ultimate battle.

According to the trifold pamphlet he'd just read, Linc and his cohorts were members of the Fists of Righteous Americans, a subgroup of the National Socialist Party. They'd gone to the trouble of publishing brochures to increase their ranks—although, in order to become an officer, you had to be a direct descendent of one of the first white pioneers to settle in Oklahoma. Every member had to shave his hair right down to the scalp.

The FOR Americans advocated violent removal of the dark-skinned immigrants—Mexicans, blacks, and Arabs— who "usurped the white man's hard-earned positions in the job market, corrupted the language, and lowered the standards in schools."

"Son of a bitch," Chase growled, pushing to his feet. He prowled around the cramped office, pausing before a plaque that declared Linc Sawyer honorary member of the FOR Americans. A swastika symbol was etched beneath his name. Linc hadn't been an officer because he'd hailed from Kansas.

Chase faced the room with a scowl. Obviously, he needed to alert the authorities, but not until Sara was safely launched for Dallas, and he wasn't in any special hurry to launch her, either. While she was certain that Garret would not uncover the secret of her birthmother, Chase was not so cavalier.

On the other hand, given the fervor of the skinheads to get their hands on their guns, this wasn't the safest place for mother and son to stay. All he wanted for them was a respite from their troubles, peace of mind. But he couldn't give her that, not with the skinheads posing a menace.

Obviously, Chase needed to get Linc's truck running so that she could be on her way, leaving him here to face his demons. How ironic was it that, even dead, Linc was messing up his life?

"Fucker," he muttered, considering the guns. No way in hell was he going to let them fall into the hands of Linc's close-minded friends. He'd disassemble every one of them if necessary. But until he found the time for that, he'd hide them.

Kendal was hiding again. "Kendal!" With a sigh of exasperation, Sara pushed through the screen door at the rear of the house and called her son.

The roar of a sit-down mower muted her cry. Chase cruised into view, cutting a swathe through the prairie grass at the driveway's edge. Catching sight of her, he cut the motor and rolled to a halt. Sara approached him, fighting to keep her gaze from dropping to his gleaming, sun-kissed torso. In deference to the heat, he'd shucked his shirt, leaving him naked from the waist up. Though the house was slightly cooler, she wished enviously that she could do the same.

"Have you seen Kendal?" she asked, raking the open space for any sign of him.

Chase seemed more intent on remarking the streak of ash that grimed her cheek. "You been play in' in the fireplace?" he asked her.

"Sweeping," she corrected him. "Where's Kendal. I told him to play inside this morning."

"You can't keep a boy indoors, Sara," Chase admonished gently. "Ken's over there by the tree line." He gestured with his head.

Sara stood tiptoe to peer over the grass that was as yet uncut. "What's he doing over there?" she asked anxiously.

"Bein' a boy, I reckon," Chase replied.

She looked back at him and sighed. "You think I'm overprotective, don't you?"

"It ain't gonna hurt to let him wander a ways," he drawled.

"I'm worried about those squatters coming back," she explained.

Chase smiled faintly. With the gun peeking out of the waist of his camo pants, he looked infinitely capable of defending them. "Don't be."

She glanced at Kendal one last time, giving her cheek a self-conscious swipe. "Will you keep one eye on him?" she asked.

"You bet." Chase's warm, blue gaze lingered on her flushed face. "Take it easy in there, will you?" He glanced at the porch where the carpet was slung over the porch rail.

"I'm having fun," she assured him, surprised that she was actually telling the truth. Who would have thought that sweeping out a hearth choked with ashes, beating a rug, and scrubbing oak floorboards could be enjoyable? "How about you?" she asked. "Are you going to cut the whole field?" She cringed for the sunflowers standing in full bloom.

"Just edgin' the driveway for now," he told her. "Gotta get more gas before I mow the field."

She nodded her understanding. "You want some lemonade?" she asked him.

Before he had the chance to answer, Kendal emitted a wail, then another one. With a gasp, Sara started toward him.

Chase leapt from the mower and sprinted ahead of her. As Sara chased him across the field, struggling through the tall grass, possibilities raced through her mind: Kendal had been bitten by a snake; stung by a bee; twisted his ankle.

By the time she caught up to Chase, Kendal had stopped crying, although it was probably his fear of angering Chase that had him biting his lip. To Sara's consternation, she saw bright red blood dripping from Kendal's left hand. "What happened?" she gasped.

"He's usin' tools that he doesn't know how to use," Chase retorted grimly. "Take your shirt off," he added, helping Kendal to pull it over his head, "and wrap it around your finger."

Sara helped him while trying to assess how badly he'd cut himself. Her gaze fell to the small box of tools at Kendal's feet. She guessed by their shape and size that they were tools for whittling. Kendal had probably found them in Chase's closet. "Oh, honey," she admonished, darting a worried look at Chase's set face. "You should have asked first."

Chase bent down and closed the box. "Come into the house," he said shortly. He led the way, carving a path back across the field.

He left Sara in the kitchen to wash and tend Kendal's cut while he went to retrieve a first-aid kit from his car. Sara was relieved to see that the nick in Kendal's finger wasn't so deep that it required stitches. Wrapping it in a paper towel, she turned to accept the bandage that Chase handed her.

They stood there in an uncertain knot as Sara waited for the bleeding to stop. Kendal stared at the door like he couldn't wait to dash outside again. Both he and Sara waited on pins and needles for Chase to start lecturing.

Sure enough, he was the first to speak. "You still want to learn to whittle?" he asked.

Kendal lifted a startled, questioning look at him. "Yes, sir," he murmured.

Sara held her breath, ready to defend her son if the need arose.

"You think you should have asked first before you took the tools?"

Kendal tucked his chin to his chest. "S-sorry," he stammered.

A tense silence stole around them.

"Apology accepted," Chase finally answered, cutting a measuring look at Sara. "With your mother's permission, I'll show you how to whittle tonight."

Kendal shot her a pleading look.

"That's fine with me," Sara said, in a voice breathy with relief. "Just be careful," she added.

"Take care of that finger," Chase said to Kendal. And then he turned away, slipping out of the rear door with barely a sound.

As it tapped shut, Kendal and Sara shared a look of mutual wonder. Neither of them needed to say out loud what they were thinking:
Chase wasn't anything like Garret.

Kendal watched Chase unscrew the nut that held the cover down on the truck's carburetor. Morning sunlight blazed through the cracks in the barn's eastern wall, laying a stripe of gold across Chase's scarred knuckles.

"You ever work on engines, Ken?" Chase had asked when Kendal wandered into the barn that morning.

"No," Kendal had replied, trying to back away.

"Grab that stepladder. I could use your help."

With a heavy heart, Kendal had toted the ladder to Chase's side. Last night, Chase had taught him how to whittle pine, and even though he was clumsy, following Chase's directions with difficulty, the man had never yelled at him. It wasn't wariness that made Kendal drag his feet. It was his reluctance to leave. He didn't want Chase to fix the truck.

With a dull mind, he listened to Chase explain what the various components of the engine were. The realization that he was expecting him to keep the truck running after they left made his stomach hurt.

"Old filters get clogged," Chase was saying. "All this black stuff gums it up, and the engine can't breathe. When it starts to cough, you spray the filter with this." He snatched up a can that rattled as he shook it. "Here, you try."

Kendal took the can reluctantly. He had to stand tiptoe on the rickety stepladder.

"A little more," Chase prompted. "I'm gonna leave an extra can in the glove compartment. Go ahead and put the lid back on."

Kendal slid the cover into place. Given the Band-Aid on his finger, it took several attempts to thread the nut onto the bolt and screw it down tight.

"Done," said Chase. He moved to the front of the engine, making it necessary for Kendal to pick up the stepladder and follow him. Chase removed a black cap and pulled out a long, metal stick. "This here's the oil gauge."

It took a second to realize that Chase was saying "oil" and not "all."

"Old cars and trucks burn oil, so you got to check the oil level. Like this." He snatched up the rag that lay on the fender, swiped the stick, then stuck it all the way in and out again. "The oil level ought to be between these marks." He showed it to Kendal. "What do you see?"

"There's not enough," Kendal guessed.

"Right—10-W-40," Chase instructed, holding up a plastic bottle. "I'll leave two of these in the glove compartment along with the filter spray."

His baritone drawl reminded Kendal of a cat's purr.

He watched as Chase poured amber liquid into the opening. It went
gallup, gallup, gallup.
Kendal's gaze slid up Chase's arm toward the muscle made evident by the cutoff sleeves of his T-shirt. He wondered if he'd ever have muscles like that.

Or a tattoo like that. He'd seen it a number of times, but for the first time, he noticed that the skeleton with flowing, black hair was holding a baby, and his thoughts flashed to the gravestones outside. It was then that he made the connection.

If that was Chase's mother, then the one with the headdress had to be his grandpa, which meant that the big one was Chase's father, who'd died when he was a boy.

"Somethin' you want to ask me, Ken?" Chase asked, intercepting Kendal's stare.

Kendal jerked his gaze away. "No, sir."