Page 58 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
“He looks hale and hearty. There’s nothing illegal about being part of a militia, although,” he waved, gesturing toward the perimeter, “the park department is going to hit you with a serious fine when they see the clearing you’ve done.”
Dillon returned and clanged a fork next to Russ, who held up his mug. “Could you top me off, please?” Dillon’s face reddened. He looked to the militia leader, who nodded. The man stomped back off into the mess tent. Russ dug his fork into the eggs. “I’d also tell them I don’t know how he’s supporting himself, since I don’t think you’re paying for the troops here.”
“Some things are more important than a job, Chief.” Kevin braced his hands on the table. “What areyoudoing to support yourself? Now you’ve been kicked to the curb after thirty years of serving your country and your community?”
Russ took Kevin’s comment as a well-placed hint on what the captain would like to hear. “I’m doing exactly nothing.” He speared a sausage. “Honestly? That’s why I agreed to find you for your parents. I had a clearly defined purpose for the whole of my adult life. It’s turning out to be damn hard to figure out a new one.” He blinked at the raw truth that just spilled out of his mouth. He covered his discomfort with another forkful of eggs.
His unwilling waiter returned with Russ’s mug, full and steaming. Russ winced a little at the bitterness, but decided asking Forrester for sugar would be pushing it too far.
“What do you think of our operation here? Besides the illegal tree cutting.” The captain looked amused.
Russ put his coffee down. “Good perimeter. Sound logistical layout. I’m guessing you mix patrols and routes up, although you could use more training for some of the men.” He picked up his fork again. “The food is decent, hot, and there’s a lot of it, so your supply lines are secured.” He looked around the camp, where a couple men were sitting outside their tents cleaning their weapons and another pairwere getting ready to set off into the woods. “I haven’t seen anybody with signs of frostbite or exposure, so either you’ve recruited all experienced woodsmen or they’ve gotten good cold-weather training.” He looked at the militia leader. “Were you with the Tenth Mountain Division? Trained at Fort Drum?”
The captain smiled openly. “Security keeps me from confirming or denying that.”
“I told you he was good,” Kevin said.
The captain held up his hand. “And what do you think of our mission?”
“I don’t know what your mission is. Rick Smith talked about white rights, which”—Russ shrugged—“I think I’ve got plenty of rights already.” He speared another sausage. “I believe in law and order. It’s what I’ve built my life around.”
“Law and order, but not necessarily rules, according to Flynn, here.”
Russ seesawed his hand. “Once you’re old enough and experienced enough, you know the difference between rules that exist for a good reason, and rules that are there because some bureaucrat had a hard-on.”
The militia leader stifled a laugh. “I think I like you, Van Alstyne.”
“Thanks.” Russ scraped the bottom of his plate, collecting the last of the eggs.
“I’d like you to stick around for a bit. Find out more about who we are and what we’re doing.”
Russ set his fork down. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not really. But I’d like to have you on your parole, not close-held as a prisoner.”
Russ swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Okay. On one condition.”
“A condition. Well, I can’t say you don’t have balls.”
“This should be an easy one, if you got in touch with Rick Smith to get my bona fides. His wife is friends with mine. Have her contact Clare and tell her I’m okay. Our code word is ‘quilt.’”
“That’s it? You’re okay? Nothing else?”
“My wife trusts me. She just needs to know she doesn’t have to send out the National Guard to rescue me. Which she would do.”
“I can vouch for that, Captain. She’s…” Kevin paused. “Formidable. In her own way.”
“All right.” The captain stood. Russ and Kevin followed suit. “We’ve already sent a man down to make contact today, so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow. But we’ll get a message to your wife.” He smiled, amused again. “The last thing I want is to have a ‘formidable’ female sending in the cavalry.”
3.
Hadley woke blearily from one of the worst night’s sleep she’d had in a while. She and Paul had elected to wait out the snowfall in the chief’s truck, which was a luxury cruiser compared to the DEC-issued rattletrap the ranger drove. But even comfortable front seats made lousy beds, especially when you were in a sleeping bag. She spent half the night trying to turn and stretch out, only to wrap the bag around herself like a spool of Christmas ribbon and lurch awake. The ranger apparently hadn’t had her difficulties; he was snoring gently with his thick bedroll tucked beneath his chin. A thick layer of snow on the windows kept the cabin dim and hushed.
She wriggled out of her sleeping bag and opened the door, wincing at the bright sunshine. She stepped down shakily and stumbled into the woods to relieve herself—another thing she really, really disliked about camping. Once duty was done, she surveyed the stretch ahead of the truck. The snow was six or eight inches deep as far down the road as she could see. She pulled the door open and climbed in.
“What’s it look like?” Paul had tossed his bedroll into the back and moved the driver’s seat forward. His face was sunburnt and unshaven and his clothes looked like he’d been in them for three hard days, which, of course, he had. Hadley was sure she didn’t come off any better.
“Clear and sunny, but we’ve got a good half foot of fresh snow on the ground to get through.”
