I don't know how much time passed before I stopped kicking the door and screaming. All I know was that the sides of my wrists hurt from where I'd pounded them against the surprisingly sturdy wood. And Seth was staring at me like I was some kind of escapee from a lunatic asylum. Really. The kid looked scared.
He looked even more scared when I said to him, "Don't worry. I'm going to get you out of here."
Well, I guess I couldn't blame him. I probably wasn't exactly giving off an aura of mature adulthood just then.
I crossed over to where he was sitting and sank down onto the bed beside him. Suddenly, I was really tired. It had been a long day.
Seth and I sat there in the dark, listening to the distant sounds of the women banging pots and pans around in the kitchen. I guess no matter what kind of murder and mayhem was happening over in the barn, dinner still needed serving. I mean, all those men needed to keep their strength up for making the country safe for the white man, right?
Finally, after what seemed like a million years, Seth spoke. He said, in a shy voice, "I'm sorry about your friend."
I shrugged. I didn't exactly want to think about Rob. If he was dead, that was one thing. I would deal with that when the time came, probably by throwing myself headfirst into Pike's Quarry, or whatever.
But if he was still alive, and they were doing stuff to him, the way they had to Seth....
Well, let's just say that whether Rob was dead or alive, I was going to make it my sole mission in life to track down each and every one of the True Americans, and make them pay.
Preferably with a flame-thrower.
"How …" Seth scratched his head. He was a funny-looking kid, tall for his age, with dark hair and eyes, like me. "How did you find me, anyway?"
I looked down at my Timberlands, though I wasn't exactly seeing them, or much else, for that matter. All I could see was Rob, lying there with his head bashed in.
"I have this thing," I said, tiredly.
"A thing?" Seth asked.
"A psychic thing," I said. Which is another thing. If Rob were dead, wouldn't I know it? I mean, wouldn't I feel it? I was pretty sure I would.
But I didn't. I didn't feel anything. Except really, really tired.
"Really?" In the moonlight, Seth's face looked way younger than his thirteen years. "Hey, that's right. You're that girl. That lightning girl. I thought I'd seen you before somewhere. You were on the news."
"That's me," I said. "Lightning Girl."
"That is so cool," Seth said, admiringly.
"It's not so cool," I told him.
"No," Seth said. "It is. It really is. It's like you've got kid Lojack, or something."
"Yeah," I said. "And look what good it's done for me. You and I are stuck in here, and my boyfriend's out there bleeding to death, and another kid is dead, and possibly a cop, too—"
I saw his face crumble, and only then realized what I had said. I had let my personal grief get the better of me, and spoken out of turn. I bit my lip.
"You said he was all right," Seth said, his dark eyes suddenly swimming in tears. "That cop. You said he was okay."
"He is okay," I said, putting my arm around the little guy. "He is, really. Sorry. I just lost it for a minute there."
"He's not okay," Seth wailed. "He's dead, isn't he? And because of me! All because of me!"
It was kind of amazing that after what this kid had been through, the only thing that really got him upset was the idea that a cop that had been trying to save him had ended up catching a bullet for his troubles. Seth Blumenthal, bar mitzvah boy, really was something else.
"No, not because of you," I assured him. "Because of those asshole True Americans. And besides, he isn't dead, all right? I mean, he's hurt bad, but he isn't dead. I swear."
But Seth clearly didn't believe me. And why should he? I hadn't exactly been the most truth-worthy person he'd ever met, had I? I'd told him I was there to rescue him, only instead of rescuing him, now I was just as much a prisoner as he was. I'll tell you what, I was starting to agree with him: As a rescuer, I pretty much sucked.
I was just thinking these pleasant thoughts as the door to the room we were locked in suddenly opened. I blinked as the light from the hallway, which seemed unnaturally bright thanks to my eyes having adjusted to the dimness of our cell, flooded the room. Then a figure in the doorway blocked out the light.
"Well, now." I recognized Jim Henderson's Southern twang. "Ain't that cozy, now, the two of you. Like something out of a picture postcard."
I took my arm away from Seth's shoulders and stood up. With my vision having grown accustomed to the light from the hallway, I was able to see that Henderson looked slightly disconcerted as I did this, on account of him being only an inch or two taller than me.
"Where's Rob?" I demanded.
Henderson looked confused. "Rob? Who's Rob?" Then comprehension dawned. "Oh, you mean Hank? Your friend with the smart mouth? Oh, I'm sorry. He's dead."
My nose was practically level with his. It took everything I had in me not to head-butt the jerk.
"I don't believe you," I said.
"Well, you better start believing me, honey," Henderson said. His eyes, blue as they were, seemed to have trouble focusing, I noticed. He had what I, having been in enough fights with people who have them, call crazy eyes. His gaze was all over the place, sometimes on the boarded-up windows behind me, sometimes on Seth, sometimes on the ceiling, but rarely, rarely where it should have been: on mine.
See? Crazy eyes.
Unfortunately, I knew from experience that there was no predicting what someone with crazy eyes was going to do next. Generally, it was just about the last thing you'd expect.
I'd have taken my chances and reached out and wrapped Jim Henderson's crazy-eyed neck into a headlock if it hadn't been for Red Plaid Jacket standing there in the hallway behind him. Red Plaid had retrieved his rifle, and had it pointed casually at me. This was discouraging, to say the least. I had a bad feeling his aim was probably better than mine.
"You know," Henderson said. "It's not just minorities like the Jews and the blacks who are ruining this country. It's people like you and your boyfriend back there. Traitors to your own race. People like you who are ashamed of the whiteness of your skin, instead of being proud—proud!—to be members of God's chosen race."
"The only time I'm ashamed to be a member of the white race," I said, "is when I'm around freaking lunatics like you."
"See," Henderson said to Kerchief-Head, who was behind Red Plaid, and was watching her leader's dealings with me with great interest. "See what happens when the liberal media gets their hands on our children? That's why I don't allow the sons and daughters of the True Americans to watch TV. No movies or radio, neither, or any of that noise people like you call music. No newspapers, no magazines. Nothing to fog the mind and cloud the judgment."
I couldn't believe he was standing there giving me a lecture. What was this, school? Hello, get on with the torture already. I swear I'd have rather been held down and branded than listen to this dude's random crap much longer.
But unfortunately, he wasn't through.
"Who sent you?" Henderson asked me. "Tell me who you work for. The CIA? FBI? Who?"
I burst out laughing, though of course there wasn't anything too funny about the situation.
"I don't work for anybody," I said. "I came here for Seth."
Henderson shook his head. "So young," he said. "Yet so full of lies. America doesn't belong to people like you, you know," he went on. "America is for pioneers like us, people willing to work the land, people who aren't afraid to get their hands dirty."
"You certainly proved that," I remarked, "when you killed Nate Thompkins. Can't get much dirtier than that."
Henderson smiled. But again, thanks to the crazy eyes, the smile didn't quite reach all the way to those baby blues of his.