Resolution: Evan Warner Book 1 (10 page)

“Exactly.”

“Whatever,” she said. “As long as you feel confident.”

I nodded. I did.

“The phone number thing sort of bothers me,” she said.

“You can change it after.”

“But I like my number.”

“Not more than your dog.”

“No.”

“Know what I’d like?”

She made a little fist, said, “One of these?”

“My food. This place smells great.”

Kendra went away to wait on a few customers. I waited a few more minutes and then she brought me my calzone. Once I was eating I lost track of what was going on around me. It was a good place and a good atmosphere, and the calzone was excellent. I put a hundred dollar bill on the bar after I was finished.

“I’ll take care of it,” she said.

“It’s on them,” I said.

She took the money with a sheepish smile. Then she took her break and came outside with me to the parking lot. We rehashed everything again. She was nervous and I understood why she felt the need to keep on talking. It was unfamiliar territory, shaky ground. I kept reminding her that the Bensons would be just as nervous. Probably more so. They were the ones who had started all this by stealing Simon in the first place. Evidently they were used to getting away with it. Being robbed out of the blue might be even more shocking to them than most people.

“I’m nervous and scared and happy all at once,” Kendra said. “I doubt I’ll sleep a wink.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d sleep just fine.

16

My headlights washed over Uncle Danny’s dark-shingled house as I climbed his gravel driveway. The inside was dark except for a faint light in the living room. That was normal for him. I knew he’d be up reading in his chair. No need to leave a bunch of lights on.

“You look a little cooler,” he said when he met me at the door.

“Any news?”

“Yeah,” he said, standing safely aside as Frank rushed by him. “Jeremy Conner’s father was detained by a trooper a few hours ago.”

“Good,” I said. “Now if we could just get his mother picked up, the kid might stand a chance.”

He didn’t acknowledge me. Just closed the door and turned slowly to face me. He looked tired and heavy on his feet. He had changed out of his uniform into some sweats and a waffle shirt. Out of uniform, he didn’t look like the same man.

I asked, “Did I wake you up?”

“I dozed off reading, I guess.”

“New or Old Testament?”

“Historical overview of the new. On Paul. Remarkable man.”

“We’ll let you get back to it,” I said. “I just wanted to check in.”

“No trouble.”

“You’re sure?”

He gestured and said, “Let’s go out to the war room.”

We went through the kitchen to the living room. Through the side door to the porch. His war room. Where all his best thinking and planning was done. He took a seat on one side of a table and I took one on the other side. He picked up his pipe and bag of tobacco. Opened the bag and carefully packed the pipe. I lit a cigarette and watched him.

He was patient and methodical. Unlike a cigarette smoker. Part of the pleasure was the careful routine, the aroma of the opened tobacco bag, the striking of the match, and finally the delayed gratification of the first puff and the plumes of sweet smoke. It’s hard to fault the man for holding onto a comforting routine, albeit an unhealthy one. He’s seen a lot of shit in his days. Been through a lot at home, too. And he hadn’t planned on being a bachelor in his sixties.

“I didn’t go near Lucy’s mother,” I told him.

“Good,” he said between puffs.

“I drove by. That’s all.”

“How’d it look?”

“Seemed quiet.”

“It’s early yet.”

“Are you still in touch with the Franklin chief?”

“From time to time.”

“And?”

“He hasn’t a shred of hard evidence to implicate Lucy’s family for anything other than petty bullshit.”

“Hasn’t got the manpower to watch them.”

“Not even close.”

We fell silent. The night was cool and clear and the peepers were making their music. It was a good place for sitting still. Relaxing quietly. Even Frank thought so as he lay by Uncle Danny’s feet.

“Sorry for giving you grief,” I finally said. “Obviously none of this is your fault. I’m just pissed off.”

He grunted and puffed a big cloud of smoke. Said, “There’s nothing I can say to set you at ease. I mean that in the most literal sense.”

“I know.”

“I’ve never suggested that you should be happy about the way things are.”

“No,” I said. “It just seems that way sometimes.”

That was the end of it. We were solid again. Just a few words and it was that easy. We were more like friends than relatives. We could disagree sharply without slipping into resentment or animosity. Besides, I knew that my uncle held back with me. He’d told me a few horror stories from his trooper days. But he kept the majority of his experiences to himself. Like a war veteran. If he could live with the knowledge of all those nasty circumstances that were beyond his control, and keep the frustration from destroying him, so could I.

But that didn’t mean for a second that I would give up on Lucy Kurtz. I wouldn’t. It only meant that I acknowledged my fault in taking out my frustrations on my uncle, my friend.

“That’s life in an imperfect world,” he said.

I couldn’t argue.

“I was on the evening news,” he said in a lighter tone. “Briefly.”

“No kidding.”

“Not the first time, actually. The reporter called and showed up here a while after you left. Asked about the mystery man who stopped the kidnapping.”

“What’d you say?”

“Told them you wished to remain anonymous. Off camera I elaborated that there was no point in trying to seek you out. You were the dangerous backwoods type. Better off left alone.”

“Well played. Thanks.”

We sat and talked for another half hour. About this and that. Nothing significant. Just talking and smoking and relaxing. It was getting on towards ten when Frank and I headed home.

I stopped by my parents’ place to see how the evening had been. It was hot and stuffy inside, as usual. Doreen Warner was reading one of her Fabio paperbacks in her rocking chair. Jack Warner was sleeping in his recliner with his shotgun across his lap. An episode of
Sledge Hammer
was playing on the boxy 90s TV.

Sledge
was one of my father’s favorites out of his collection of 80s television shows he kept on VHS. Come hell or high water, Dad was bound and determined to hold onto his VCR. DVDs and digital copies were sacrilegious apparitions to his eyes, foreign and untrustworthy. He was old school. Appliances were supposed to be purchased once and last a lifetime. Like a Craftsman screwdriver or an Estwing hammer.

Personally, I enjoyed those silly old shows, even though I had a great time ribbing Dad for his devotion. The humor was more relaxed, less forced. Many of the plots were steeped in intense cold war paranoia. Shows like
Airwolf
and the
A-Team
. On top if it all, the 80s commercials were priceless.

“Quiet night?” I said to Mom.

“Thankfully,” she said.

Dad snorted himself awake at the sound of our voices and looked at me.

I said, “Don’t get up.”

Before he could speak, Frank charged over and gave him a giant kiss. Dad battled his way to a vertical position and said, “Evan. Yuck. A box got delivered for you. Frank, ugh. Good grief. I forgot to tell you earlier in all the excitement.”

“It’s a huge box,” Mom said, just before Frank got to her. “We left it in the corner of the garage.”

I turned and went out to the garage and found the box. I knew exactly what awaited me. After dishing out a silly amount of money, I’d been waiting weeks for my prize to cross the Atlantic. Mom and Frank followed me out. They watched me tearing into the box with Christmas morning fervor.

Inside the shipping box was a much narrower box wedged between wads of plastic bubbles. I extracted the narrow box. Laid it on the floor and, kneeling, carefully cut the tape with my Swiss Army knife. I rolled back the cardboard flap and my heart skipped a beat. An instant lump formed in my throat. It was even more beautiful than I’d expected.

“What is it?” Mom asked.

I stood up with a heavy scabbard in my left hand and a Scottish claymore broadsword in my right hand. Not a scale replica. The real deal. I shook off the cardboard blade guard and admired the shine of the polished steel and the leather grip. The craftsmanship and attention to detail was stunning. It was a menacing instrument of death. Fashioned beautifully with the utmost care and skill.

“Good lord,” Mom gasped.

Frank sniffed the empty box.

“See that?” I said to Mom. “The sword William Wallace used to decimate King Edward’s northern army.”

“
Who
?”

“You know, Braveheart …”

“Oh …”

I slung the scabbard strap over my shoulder and gripped the sword with both hands. Held it high, like Lion-O wielding the Sword of Omens. It was six pounds of steel designed specifically for dispatching enemies with a single blow. An astonishing weapon. The sort of weapon wielded by fearless men who defended their families and defied tyrants, and in so doing redirected the course of history. The mere sight of it was enough to conjure up boyish delusions of joining history’s great fraternity of legendary warriors. Hefting it made me feel like Conan the Destroyer.

“Is it real?” Mom asked.

It took me a moment to step back out of my thoughts and say, “Of course it’s real.”

“W-w-what do you need a huge sword for, honey?”

I looked at her as I lowered the blade, pondering her and her strange question. What
didn’t
I need this sword for?

“I can wear it while I patrol the grounds,” I told her. “It’ll be a deterrent and a conversation piece in one. And, if the need happens to arise, I can cleave a man’s limbs clean off with this baby. One swing.”

Up till then my mother had stood calmly, wearing an expression of surprise and confusion. But then all at once she lost her composure and a sort of sad despair took her over. Like she’d tripped and fell suddenly into a hopeless pit. Her breathing changed. She swayed slightly, as if she’d just been confronted with some devastating news.

I wasn’t exactly sure what was happening. Obviously it had something to do with my sword. So, being the good son that I am, I slid it carefully into the scabbard and pushed the whole apparatus behind me, across my back. Out of sight, out of mind. Then I went over and put my arm around her. She’s barely five foot two. It felt kind of like hugging a kid.

“You okay?” I asked.

“N-no,” she said in a shaky voice.

I leaned over for a closer look. Her eyes were welling up. She was sniffing. Within seconds I figured there’d be a waterfall.

Frank, with his acute canine senses, detected the coming storm as well. He nudged her hand with his cold nose and whined.

I gave Mom a little squeeze and said, “Hang in there. Okay?”

“No,” she said again, slowly shaking her head. “That’s just it. I keep hoping it will be okay. I keep hoping you’ll grow out of this fascination with weapons and—”

“I doubt it,” I put in, but she couldn’t hear me.

“—battles and fistfights and confrontations. Guns, knives, axes. Now
swords
. Treating the campground like a warzone. It’s always something! And I just keep dreaming that you’ll settle down with Laney Holt before she gives up on you completely. And move out of the cabin and into a regular house. And have a child. At least one child. I’ve always wanted grandchildren, Evan. You know that. I’m not asking for three or four. Only one!”

I said, “Mom, you’ve gotta be reasonable.”

“You be reasonable! I’ve got a husband watching
Sledge Hammer
with a shotgun and his belly sticking out. And my son is unboxing medieval weapons in the middle of the night. I’m not the crazy one!”

“In all fairness,” I calmly pointed out, “Dad’s belly is only sticking out because you feed him too much. And because you keep the house as hot as a Mexican prison. No way can the poor guy button his shirt. Cut him some slack, ma. You’ve been roasting him for the past thirty years. He’s done well to last so long in that oven. Realistically, you should be thankful he wears pants.”

After that she started sobbing and sniffing to the point where I couldn’t understand her. I had to walk her back into the house. Frank remained in the garage to sniff all the empty packaging. Dad sat up sharply in his chair when he realized Mom was crying.

“Good Christ,” he said.

“Just us,” I assured him.

“What’s wrong?”

Mom tried to answer, but only managed to muster a few squeaky sounds before she darted to the kitchen for a box of tissues.

I said, “She’s just a little nervous about my new toy.”

Dad leaned way over in his chair, straining to see into the kitchen, where Mom was blowing her nose. Then he looked at me.

“What the hell have you got now?”

I turned my back towards him and said over my shoulder, “William Wallace’s claymore.”

“No kidding,” he grinned.

“Don’t even ask what it cost.”

“I don’t wanna know.”

That was no understatement. Aside from the considerable costs of building and maintaining the campground, my father was famously tight with money. In a little wooden box on his dresser he stored some keepsakes dating back to his youth. Including a tarnished quarter minted in the late sixties. One of two he’d earned at ten years of age, in the early seventies, as payment for mowing old Jon Stall’s massive lawn with a manual push mower. More than once he’d proudly shown me that quarter. It was an example to prove his great understanding of the value of a dollar.

All joking aside, I respected him for it. Usually I’m cheap with my own money. Except for certain necessities.

I looked into the kitchen at my mother. She was leaning against the counter, dabbing her eyes. Probably wishing she could go back in time thirty years and join a nunnery.

“She’s a little tense about today’s incident,” Dad said quietly.

“Understandable.”

“Well, not only because of the kidnapping attempt. She’s afraid that one of these days, one or the other of us will get hurt.”