Two sheriff’s cars pulled up and parked in the red along Vince Ross Village Square. Ted watched the four deputies get out, recognizing the black man as the one who had pulled him over for the brake light and given him the sobriety test in broad daylight, though his most recent drink had been half a year ago. One of the deputies was older, one was a stocky Latina, and the other a young white man. They strolled casually toward the square. Magnus seemed to stop what he was saying, then smiled and acknowledged them. Many of the bystanders turned as the deputies worked their way into the crowd.
Ted felt his indignation march in, and his vision beginning to constrict, and his heart rate climb. He trained his gun-barrel vision on the deputy who had written him the fix-it ticket — the black one, hiding behind the sunglasses. Anger overtook indignation. Ted felt that he had to do something. Should he go tell the deputies that this was a peaceful demonstration? Should he ask them why it takes four of them to raid Village Square when not one showed up when he was robbed at gunpoint two days ago? Should he tell Magnus he respected his right to stand up to the government and exercise his constitutional rights?
Ted got out of his truck and locked up and headed up the sidewalk toward the square. As he walked past, Cade glanced at him, as did two of the deputies and some of the crowd. Their eyes were hard on him and with every step Ted felt less protected — no layer of glass to shield him — and his anger and indignation fled. In their place he felt a constricting panic, almost like being lost. He thought of the box of.40 caliber shells in his truck. Was that a crime? Without breaking stride he passed the square, turned the corner, and kept going. When he felt safely past it all, he turned for a look behind him and saw a tall man in a black suit standing on the sidewalk, looking into the front window of the candy shop. From this distance, he looked like the man from Open Sights just an hour ago. Impossible, thought Ted.
His heart was racing by the time he got to Gulliver’s Travels on Main. Mary Gulliver had no customers and she stood and smiled at Ted when he came through the door. Behind her was a wall of travel posters for exotic destinations. She specialized in cruises. To Ted, Mary was a beautiful woman, full-bodied, fragrant, always groomed to perfection. He had seen her around town for years but had talked to her for the first time only two weeks ago.
“Hello, Ted.”
“Hi, Mary. Busy? I just came to... say hello.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Light-headed. I don’t know why.”
“Sit down, I’ll get you some water.”
He sat in front of her desk and looked up at a poster of Mykonos. He focused in on one small white building in the crowded cliff-top village. His carotid throbbed. She came back with a bottle and handed it to him, then sat down. “You might be feeling all that ash still in the air,” she said.
“Probably.”
“I’m so sorry to hear about the farm.”
The water bottle was cold in his hands and his thoughts were swimming. He took a deep breath and let it out in a long fluttering exhale. “Mary, may I take you to dinner at the Cafe des Artistes tonight? The food is wonderful and they have very good wines. I’d like your company. I’ll meet you there or pick you up, whatever’s best for you. It’s very French.”
She smiled a troubled smile. “That is so sweet of you. But I’m not dating, Ted.”
“Oh, I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be, there’s no—”
“You just never wear a ring and last week you mentioned going out with your sister. So I thought maybe you had some time on your hands.”
“You are so sweet, Ted. That is so sweet.”
“I’m really sorry.” He stood.
“No, I’m really sorry... I just... well, Ted, I’m easily twice your age.”
“I know. It was stupid. I’m stupid.”
“I’m flattered.”
Ted mustered a smile and saw the concern on her face. Her eyes were wet but nervous at the same time. “Maybe you can send me to Greece someday,” he said.
“I’d love to.”
“Do you like the Greek restaurant here in town?”
She was about to speak, then stopped herself. The phone rang. “I should take this.”
“Bye, Mary,” said Ted with all the good cheer he could pretend. “I’ll see you around.”
“Stop by anytime!”
He walked all the way down Main to the GasPro store, where he bought and drank a small, powerful energy drink. He talked briefly with the Iraqi-born manager, Ibrahim. Ibrahim was big and strong and usually good-humored and helpful. But today he looked at Ted with a piercing suspicion. Ted felt as if Ibrahim knew everything about him: his anger and fear, his new gun, his overpowering urge to... do something. Ted dropped his change into a Muscular Dystrophy collection jar. Standing outside, he leafed through a free pamphlet of cars for sale. Ibrahim looked at him through the window. Ted walked back toward his truck way down on Alvarado, keeping to the opposite side of the street from Gulliver’s Travels, pausing at some windows to look in. He saw himself and felt shame. His collapsed and graceless feet hurt again by then. When he passed Village Square there was no sign of Magnus or the protesters or the sheriffs.
Ted took a back way onto the Norris Brothers property. Bouncing along the dirt road he saw Patrick and his father two hillsides over, stooped to some task at ground level. He felt surprisingly secretive about having bought the gun and he certainly didn’t want them to know about it, or see the ammunition. He swung over the rise and down into a swale and parked by the bunkhouse and barn.
Ted hustled the plastic bag into the barn and looked for a good hiding place. He thought of stashing it inside one of the bags of the pole pickers, which were leaning against one wall. They wouldn’t be used again for three years. Or, with the fire, he thought, maybe never used again, period. He considered the fuel canisters and the many crates of fertilizers, soil amendments, vitamin additives, and pesticides. There were also vehicles and heavy machinery — two tractors, a flatbed Ford with fold-up sides for hay bales or crated fruit. Ted looked at the two dune buggies, the wood chippers, the Bobcat, and various tractor attachments — disks glinting faintly, a mower, a ripper, a front loader. Not here, he thought.
One shelf was taken up with his brother’s fly-fishing gear. It was all covered by a blue tarp that was cinched down by its grommets, but Ted knew exactly what was there: dozens of rods in their tubes and reels in their pouches and waders and boots and vests and so many fly boxes it seemed that every earthly insect and baitfish must be represented. Ted didn’t feel right about stashing his ammo there.
The quad runners were parked in the back, along one wall. This section of wall was Peg-Board with moveable hooks for sundry items — extension cords, shop lamps, rolls of Weedwacker line, hats, mechanics’ overalls in several sizes. Ted thought for a moment then hung the bag of ammo eye-high, between the shop lamps and the weed string. Here, he decided, a white plastic bag meant nothing.
Chapter ten
Evelyn got to Anders Wealth Management early the next day and checked the S&P 500, up two points after yesterday’s eight-point skid. The domestic tech sector was holding its own. The munis and state bonds looked as good as bonds could look, given that soon-to-be-bankrupt cities and states were, in her opinion, the dirtiest little secrets that financial professionals were trying to keep.
She saw that the foreign stock markets were all down except Brazil’s. Almost all of Asia was a wreck, looking much like the U.S. markets had looked in ’08. The roller-coaster lines of the Morningstar graphs taunted her from the screen, crazed and unpredictable. The Thomson-Reuters year-to-dates on three of her favorite large cap funds were depressing. Evelyn ate some of her low-fat scone and sipped a nonfat latte from Caffe Primo, knowing that those zigzagging fortunes on the graphs belonged to actual people, some of whom were trusting her to steer their ships between the clashing rocks of the great recession.