"Damn," she muttered.
"What?" Balfry asked her.
"Go to hell," she told him. She ran through the doorway.
Chapter 57
She was tired. "Paul—you asked to take my pack—take my pack—please," she said.
Rubenstein turned toward her. She stopped walking, feeling herself sway a little.
Rourke asked her. "You all right?"
"Of course she isn't all right—takin' a damn Commie woman with us was fuckin'
stupid, Rourke!"
She watched Rourke—he closed his eyes. He opened them—he bit down hard on the stump of cigar in the left corner of his mouth—despite the cigars, his teeth were white, even, "No, John—I can—"
"I know you can," he said through his teeth.
He turned around. She could see Cole's face past his back. Rourke was shifting out of his pack.
"You want me to take your pack, too," Rubenstein asked, trying to make a joke, she thought. It wasn't funny.
Rourke dropped the pack. "No," he said quietly.
"We havin' a damn rest break here—should I tell everybody the smokin' lamp is lit?"
She watched Rourke, the muscles in the sides of his neck.
"Cole—I make it we've got a day's march left to Filmore Air Force Base and Armand Teal—but I just can't take another day of your mouth."
She looked at Cole—he didn't move. Then, "Yeah— well, too fuckin' bad, Rourke."
Rourke shifted his shoulders. She could hear the zipper in the front of his bomber jacket opening. "I thought you'd say that," she heard Rourke's voice murmur.
"What?"
"Thought you'd say something like that," Rourke said again, louder this time.
"John," she whispered. "Leave it alone."
Like he'd told Rubenstein with the back pack—"No."
"You lookin' for a fight, Rourke?" Cole shouted, laughing.
Natalia watched Rourke's head—it nodded once, slightly. She heard him say, his voice barely audible, "Yeah."
"Well," Cole smiled. "Well—you gonna take off your coat and your guns?"
"Won't need my guns—and no sense taking off my jacket for something that won't take much time."
"Wise ass, huh?"
Rourke said nothing. He started walking, slowly.
"John!" It was Rubenstein.
"I know," Rourke answered slowly, still walking, toward Cole. "But it can be your turn next time."
He stopped in front of Cole. Natalia saw movement at the corner of her right eye—Rubenstein setting down her pack, halving the distance between them. She rested her right forearm across the M-she carried slung cross body, her forearm just ahead of the carrying handle.
"Now look, Rourke—we got a job to—"
"Shut up," she heard Rourke say.
"The hell—" She saw Cole move, his right fist drawing back. Rourke sidestepped, turning half away from Cole, Cole's left hammering forward, Rourke's left foot snapping out—a double kick into Cole's midsection and chest. Cole stumbled back, Rourke bringing his left foot down, wheeling, his right foot snapping out, catching Cole in the chest and the left side of the face.
Rourke didn't turn around—he started walking. Back toward her.
She smiled—Lieutenant O'Neal was trying to stifle a laugh. He wasn't doing a good job of it.
Chapter 58
"What's the matter, Momma?"
She looked up, Michael slightly above eye level as she sat on the running board of the old Volkswagen beetle. The irony of where she sat, Michael coming to her to ascertain what was wrong, the complete role reversal—it was not lost on her.
"Nothing—not really."
"I saw you come out of the house—is it Professor Balfry?"
"Sort of," she told her son, not really knowing what else to tell him.
"Daddy'll find us—especially here. All the resistance fighters going in and out all the time—all of the stuff goin' on here. He'll find out that we're here and come and get us."
She looked at her son—his eyes. She wanted to ask—why are you so sure? But she looked more deeply into his eyes, watched his face—she didn't think his eyes-were light sensitive like those of her husband. He didn't squint against the light like John had always done—like John did. But he looked enough like his father to be his clone.
"When do you think Daddy will find us?" she asked instead.
"Probably not for a while yet. He's gotta first find out where we are, then he has to get here to get us. Might be a while yet. Maybe a few weeks."
She hugged her son to her. "Maybe in a few weeks," she whispered, believing it then.
"Momma—is everything—"
"Fine," she whispered, not letting go of him . . .
Millie Jenkins had left the refugee camp with Bill Mulliner and his mother—to pick blackberries. Michael hadn't wanted to go. He didn't like blackberries and liked the thorns less. Annie had gone with them though.
Sarah sat by the edge of camp with Michael, the wounded and injured under Reverend Steel's care for the moment. "What are you thinking about?" she asked her son.
"I don't know," and he laughed. She hadn't seen him laugh for a while.
"I like seeing you laugh. Your father doesn't laugh much. You laugh more. That's good."
"What'll we do after he finds us?"
She folded her left arm around the boy. "I guess—well, I don't know."
"Go and live in the Survival Retreat?"
"I guess so—at least for a while. Until the Russians are forced to leave, maybe.
Maybe after that we can find a place and settle down there—just like pioneers,"
she added, her voice brightening. "Build a cabin—get some horses again. Maybe grow our own food. Like that?"
"No electricity."
"Your Daddy is pretty smart—he can probably find some land near a fast running stream and make our own electricity. Eventually, the cities will start up again and the factories—make things we can use."
"Will Daddy go back to work—and be gone all the time again?"
"I think—I don't know. It'll be a long time before we get rid of the Russians—"
"I hate the Russians," the boy said with an air of finality.
"You shouldn't," she said after a moment. "They're people, just like we are.
Very few of the Russians are really Communists—it's the Communist government.
They run Russia—they started the war. You shouldn't hate the
Russians."
"Well, I hate the Communists then."
"Well—I don't think it's going to hurt the Communists half as much as it's going to hurt you if you do."
She looked at him—he was looking at her. "What do you mean?"
"Well—we've gotta fight the Communists. We've gotta win. But if they make us all live for hate, then maybe they'll win—even if we kick them out of our country.
If we love freedom—being free to do what we think is right—it has the same effect as hating the Communists—but a good thing, not a bad thing. Hate won't do us any good. First thing you know—we'll spend all our time hating and we won't have time to fight the Communists and win. Like that."
"Maybe that's like telling a lie," he told her, his voice very serious sounding, his eyes hard. "You know—you spend so much time telling lies you can't remember what's the truth."
"Maybe," she nodded. "Maybe."
She reached into her pocket, found the liberated Tudor wristwatch and checked the time. "I've gotta go and help Reverend Steel—but I'll see you at dinner tonight—okay?"
The boy smiled. "Okay—I'll walk you over there!"
"Okay," she smiled.
"I'll help you up!" The boy was standing already and reached out his hand, Sarah taking it, letting Michael help pull her to her feet.