Marshall felt a clutch in his heart when he opened his eyes and felt the emaciated body beneath his. For a moment he panicked; he thought Armin wasn't breathing. But, holding his own breath, he saw and felt that the boy was breathing shallowly. Armin's face was placid, and Marshall tried to roll away without waking him. He lay on his back for just a few seconds before he heard the husky whisper, "Good morning. I slept so well."
"Good. I didn't want to wake you."
"I'm glad I woke up. I don't want to waste time sleeping." Armin struggled to sit up, and when he had managed, he looked at Marshall's midsection, smiling the small smile that Marshall now loved, and said, "You need to go to the bathroom; you can't walk around with that all day."
"How about you? You need to pee?"
"My kidneys aren't as efficient as yours. Maybe later."
"I'll be right back." Marshall didn't bother to try to conceal his erection. He returned to the family room after brushing his teeth.
"You look a little more comfortable," Armin said as Marshall returned.
"Actually, I was perfectly comfortable. So, what do you want to do today?"
"One thing I want is to hear the Gnossienne that you promised me. I think I'd like to go to your famous observatory one night. I'd like to talk with you about your life, and maybe ride a horse if Jim thinks that's okay. I want to hang out with you and your cousins, but I'll probably need to stop to rest once in a while."
"All right. All those things we can do … I think. The first thing you're going to do is: we're going to make breakfast. Mom and Dad get cranky if I don't feed them in the morning, and JG will expect waffles."
"JG?"
"Jim. We call him Just Grampa because his husband died. He and Vi, JT's grandmother, don't have partners."
"Jim was married?"
"Yeah. He's never talked to you about that?"
"No, but then I never asked."
"My grampa's name was Tom Jansen. I think he was the most important man in our family. He helped everyone, but especially Dad and Uncle Luke. I wish I had known him."
Armin felt the sadness in Marshall's musings. "Let's make breakfast after I clean up." Armin started to struggle to get up from the mattress. Marshall went to the side of the bed Armin occupied and held out his hands. Armin put his hands in Marshall's, and Marshall pulled the boy gently to his feet. He thought Armin might fall back, so he wrapped his arms around him, feeling his friend lean into him for support.
"Thanks," Armin whispered into Marshall's ear. Marshall would have gladly remained there, supporting Armin.
"Sure," Marshall whispered. He pulled his arms back, making sure Armin was not going to fall before leading him to the bathroom.
When Armin returned from the bathroom, Marshall told him, "Let's get the food started. Are you warm enough?"
"Yes, thanks. I'm fine — better than in a long time."
Bending over to get mixing bowls and the waffle iron from lower cupboards, Marshall began to hand the implements to Armin. "Just put them on the counter."
When all the crockery and the iron were out, Marshall pulled an eggbeater and some wooden spoons from drawers, tossing them on the counter. "Remember where these go; next time you can get them out." Armin smiled the little smile, and he knew that Marsh hoped there would be a next time, as did he.
Armin found himself pulled to the refrigerator. "Get out what you think we'll need. I'll find the vanilla extract." By the time Marshall came back to the counter with the extract, Armin had half-and-half and eggs there. "Nice," Marshall said, "but if Markie comes over, don't mention the cream."
The small smile appeared again. "Where is the flour?"
"Here's a big secret. We don't use flour; we use Bisquick. Yellow box in that cabinet," Marshall pointed to a cabinet over the sinks.
"Measuring cups?" Armin asked.
"Don't use them. Watch and be dazzled!"
Marshall began dumping ingredients into the large mixing bowl. Armin couldn't detect a system, and as he watched Marsh concentrating on the work, he made a decision. Marshall pushed the bowl toward Armin and handed him the eggbeater before standing behind him with his chin resting lightly on the boy's shoulder. "You mix for a while, and then I'll do some."
Armin leaned back slightly, and then pushed the eggbeater aside, reaching for a spoon. "I'll start with this unless you're trying to have me make a big mess."
"Cleaning up might be fun." Marshall blushed, not knowing why he had given that thought voice.
"Cleaning me up isn't that much fun. Let me work with the spoon." Armin gently folded the wet and dry ingredients together until they resembled a paste. Then he began to stir more vigorously. "More cream, please."
Marshall slowly poured more liquid, some half and half and some water, into the bowl until the batter formed the right consistency. He noticed that the speed of Armin's stirring was slowing. "Let me do a little."
Armin pushed the bowl to his right, and Marshall picked up the eggbeater as Armin leaned on the counter with his elbows, his head down. Marshall began to turn the handle and the whirring of the blades as they burbled through the batter, and the occasional clack of the beater against the bowl filled the kitchen. This noise was usually the signal for his grandfather, mother, father, and Vee, were she there, to come down for breakfast, so he didn't try to be quiet. Armin reached to scoop some batter that had splashed on Marshall's right hand and sucked it from his finger. The small smile told Marshall that he liked the taste.
In a few minutes, the boys heard the adults drifting down the stairs. Jim was in shorts and a T-shirt, as was North. Annie was in sleep shorts and a wife-beater with a sports bra underneath. Marshall noted that they were all wearing more clothes than was common, and he was happy they weren't taking a chance on embarrassing Armin.
His grandfather laughed and asked his grandson, "Put the guest to work, have you?"
"He needs to earn his keep, like everyone else."
The small smile.
Annie said, "Why don't you three go to the table. Your father and I will cook the waffles and cut up some fruit."
The two boys and the grandfather walked to the dining room and sat at the table, the boys sitting side by side and Jim sitting across from Armin. Jim asked his patient, "You feeling comparatively okay?"
"Yes, sir." He nodded to Marsh. "I had a wonderful sleep; I didn't wake in the night at all."
Jim rose and walked around the table to the boy, reaching for his left wrist and checking his pulse. Then he reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out a tympanic membrane thermometer. From a tightly closed box he took a cover and put it on the tip of the thermometer that would go in Armin's ear. "You mind?"
Armin hesitated because he worried what the instrument would report. "No, go ahead."
After the thing beeped, Jim read it, as Armin looked at him with a question on his face. "Not bad, Armin. Nothing to get upset about."
"How much?"
"99.7."
Marshall saw Armin relax a bit, and he realized as he also relaxed that he had been anxious as well. Jim looked at his grandson's reaction, which he thought might mean that Marsh was becoming too attached to Armin. He knew that too deep an attachment would soon become a font of sorrow, but for now he knew that both boys were happy.
While he observed Marshall, Marshall was observing his grandfather. The moment became one in which a boy is stunned by the virtue of a parent or grandparent. Marshall thought about how many kids his grandfather must have cared for as they died, and he understood the strength and the toll that kind of caring took. He loved JG more now than ever.
His parents interrupted the examination by loading the table with waffles and fruit along with a small pitcher of warm maple syrup. As North and the rest dug in, Armin hesitated. Marshall saw the reluctance and asked, "Would you like something else?"
Armin tried to think of how to tell Marsh that he couldn't eat very much because the drugs had shredded the linings of his stomach and bowels — that he had to be very careful. Jim saw Armin's problem, and suggested, "How about a little ice cream mixed with maple syrup? You need calories."
The small smile, and Armin nodded. Marshall went to the kitchen and returned with a small bowl of vanilla ice cream. Armin poured a little maple syrup into the bowl. "Thanks, Marsh." Then the family had their usual unusual breakfast, talking about what they had read or seen or listened to. The adults discovered that Armin was bright and well-read. Breakfast taught Marshall why his friend was as thin as he was.
Breakfast ended with the adults asking what the boys had planned. "I'm going to play for Armin." Annie looked at North with surprise. Their son rarely played for anyone but himself unless he played duets with Sam.
The front door suddenly banged open, and the contingent from Turing House thumped in, ready for food.
Jerry looked approvingly at the few remaining waffles. "Hope there's batter left."
Annie replied, "Enough. You'll have to make your own, though."
After Lucas and Sam made another plate of waffles, the family hung around the table while the newcomers ate. A delirious look spread across Markie's face as she ate the first mouthful of waffle on which she had heaped fruit. "These are so good, and so light."
Marshall turned to look at Armin. The small smile.
#
Kesh and the tribal cop approached the campsite from opposite sides, moving from tree trunk to tree trunk for cover. The Homeland Security agent carried his UMP, and the Indian carried an S&W AR-15. The scene didn't resemble the SWAT or Special Operations scenes in television shows or movies — no helmets or shields, although both men wore body armor.
When the tribal officer, who was working where he had no jurisdiction and was on his own time, had notified Kesh that he thought he had found the campsite, they had no time to assemble a tactical team. That would have required half a day in this rural setting; there was only time to notify the sheriff and move in. Kesh hoped he wouldn't end up feeling like Custer's first troops encountering the Sioux encampment on the Little Big Horn.
They moved toward the tent, noting that the fire ring twenty feet away still had glowing embers. Kesh positioned himself more toward the rear of the tent. If a firefight ensued, he didn't want his line of fire to cross the Indian.
The tribal cop was moving more quietly than he was, even though the DHS agent was trying his best to be noiseless. Then there was the plan. When he had met the tribal officer a mile from their present location, they had agreed on a plan, and part of that plan was that they would both go home, even if Kesh's home was a motel now, at the end of the operation. Kesh would move to the rear of the tent, careful to avoid alerting any occupants by making a shadow on the tent wall, and would begin firing only if necessary after trying to collapse the tent. He and the Indian officer would then take what they hoped would be two occupants into custody or, if necessary, end the matter.
Sheriff Morgan and a WSP trooper were on the way, but Kesh didn't think they had the luxury of waiting. He needed to know if both suspects were here, and if only one, to interrogate him.
To collapse the modern tent, he needed to pull one of the crossing curved poles forming its roof out of the grommet at one rear corner. He had decided to do that as quickly as he could. Kesh signaled to his partner that he was about to pull the pin. Kneeling at one rear corner of the tent, he listened for any activity inside the shelter. He heard nothing and hoped that maybe he could catch them sleeping.
The tribal officer seemed calm and ready, his AR-15 ready to sweep up and fire. Kesh stepped on the fabric at the tent's corner and quickly pulled the pole's tip out. The back of the tent collapsed slowly, floating on the air trapped inside. Kesh was deflated when nothing happened inside the tent. When the collapse was complete, the absence of either suspect was plain. The Indian turned the tent inside out.
"We just missed them," the tribal officer said. Holding a note and a National Socialist flyer in his gloved hand, the Indian added, "These show that they don't intend to survive this."
The note was a short, rambling, homophobic rant decrying the fading of Christian culture and the coddling of liberal perversion. The last paragraph implied that the two culture warriors would attack in two days and kill these fags — or die trying.
"Damn!" Kesh said, a rare curse for him. He pulled out his satellite phone and pushed the speed-dial digit for Chertov, while his associate opened the tent.
From the phone Kesh heard, "Tell me you got them, Ted."
"No. They left their tent and a note, I think as a distraction. They want us to think we have time and to stay out here searching. Keep your people indoors."
#
Later in the morning around the breakfast table, the kids agreed to spend some time in the barn behind Turing House in the early afternoon. Marshall and Armin dressed, and Armin choked the morning meds down. He had trouble swallowing because of the ulcers produced in his throat by the chemo drugs. He wondered if they would have time to heal, and he dearly wished that he would be able to eat again without problems. When he and Marsh were dressed, Marshall led him out to the barn behind the farmhouse where they were staying.
Marshall carried his guitar in a soft case slung over his shoulder along with a lightweight chair he used for practice and play. He settled Armin on a bench at one end of the barn, which was almost empty. Although Vi and Rodrigo used the land for growing hay and paid Jim for its use, they didn't store any of it here. Marshall set his chair down five feet in front of his friend and turned to remove his guitar from its case.
"That's beautiful. It looks old."
Marsh brought the guitar to Armin and after sitting for a few minutes on the bench beside him, told him about the instrument. "This is a classical guitar made by the Peruvian luthier, Abraham Falcón García. It's not that old. He died a while ago, but I fell in love with the sound of his guitars when I first heard one, and Mom found one for me and one for Sam. See how the saddle under the strings is straight? Feel the wood; the body is mahogany and the top is spruce, but from Europe. This one was made in the early 1980s."
Armin ran his fingers over the top and partly traced the rosette with his thumb. "It's marvelous. You must be good."
"No. To use my dad's description, I'm workman-like. I have to work very hard to learn pieces, and my playing is a little mechanical. Playing music doesn't come very naturally to me, but I'm a good listener, and playing makes me happy."
"I don't know any other American kids who could play Satie, much less on a guitar."
"Sam and I do the transcriptions together, although there are a lot of good transcriptions out there. Satie is a real challenge for me because of the chords he uses in his openings. Two hands on the piano to one hand on the guitar is a stretch sometimes, but at least most of his pieces are short. They sound better as duets, I think."
Armin was warmed by his friend's obvious enthusiasm. "So you are an amateur in the strict sense?"
"I suppose so." Marsh took his seat on the chair, resting his left leg on the brace and cradling the curve of the guitar body on his thigh. He would have been too embarrassed to play this solo for anyone else, but he didn't have any anxiety about sharing it with Armin even though he knew he would make mistakes. He knew now that although sex with his friend wasn't in the cards, playing for him might be as intimate.
He tuned the guitar with an electric tuner to cross-note A. "Here goes. Number four was the hardest one to transcribe. The piano score is marked lento, and I'm still trying to find the right tempo."
Armin wanted to watch Marsh's hands, but Marshall looked at his eyes, and Armin couldn't break from that gaze. The beginning of the piece was tentative. At one point, Marshall stopped and, smiling, started again. Looking into Marshall's eyes, Armin heard the subtle trills on the bass strings and the deliberate pace of the picking on the higher strings that would have been the right hand on the piano. The piece wasn't technically dazzling, but the tempo was a delicate thing that required constant attention.
As he played, the A-minor tuning of the instrument brought some emotion to the surface that had been hiding in both boys. The music was elegiac in a way, but playing for Armin didn't overwhelm Marshall with sadness. For his part, Armin deeply appreciated that Marshall was sharing something with him in a way he had never shared with others, even his cousins — except Sam — or parents. The tone of the Peruvian instrument was astonishing — rich and full of light.
In two and a half minutes Marsh finished the piece, the last note gently faded in the barn, and Armin began to cry silently. Between sniffles, he told Marshall, "Sorry to get so weepy."
Marshall leaned the precious guitar on his seat and hurried to the bench. "I didn't mean to make you sad." And now, Marshall began to weep.
"You didn't. I feel loved by another person, another man, in a way I never thought I would have time for. I'm happy."
Marshall put his arm around his friend, "I do love you. I'd love you even if you weren't sick, you know?"
"I know," and the small smile replaced the tears. The door on the far side of the building opened.
"You both need to stay here for a while." Then, North was out the barn door, closing it behind him.
#
Chertov was still at his hotel when he ended the call from his partner. He felt what he always felt before a fight: increased mental acuity and deadly calm. They're coming. He called the sheriff and told him that the issue would be forced. Then he dressed, changed his belt holster for a tactical holster and placed his Glock in the holster on his thigh. He attached a bipod to the bottom accessory rail on the H & K and checked the optic before threading a suppressor on the barrel. He was wearing desert tan so that he wouldn't be very obvious to anyone, either as he walked or when he concealed himself.
He made another call and headed for the place in which he had decided to await the hunter. That killing another human now felt mechanical no longer bothered him. Moralists could debate the issue after Dr. Jansen and his family were safe.
As he drove the van to a place on the county road running in front of the farms, he descended to quietude — or maybe he arose to it. He parked a mile from the farms. Jeff knew he might have to make this journey each day for a while.
After placing five magazines for the UMP in his tactical vest along with four pistol magazines, he inserted a magazine in the UMP and pulled the bolt back, letting it slam forward, charging the chamber before he started the trek. The vest also held his satellite phone, and over his right shoulder and his chest ran the strap of a Maxpedtion Versipack with first aid and orienteering supplies. The pack was secured to his left hip with an auxiliary waist strap.
He was using high velocity DPX hollow points with all-copper Barnes bullets in both weapons. He had with him two straight knives and a telescoping wand — business as usual when he was on an errand for the men in the offices in D.C. As he moved through the brush and trees, he held his submachine gun butt-up in the sling-ready position with his shooting-gloved right hand on the grip and his bare trigger finger on the receiver. The weapon was set to semi-automatic.
The brisk walk was pleasant if a bit warm. His polarized shooting glasses cut the glare without distorting his view. The man was all attention to his surroundings as he moved in a broken diagonal toward his final position. He would approach from the south and be in place in thirty minutes.
At Turing House, Lucas saddled and prepared his horse for a ride. Once mounted, the rider guided the horse at an amble out the open door. The horse was uncharacteristically agitated, and his rider leaned forward to comfort the animal. Even in the heat, the rider wore a denim jacket and jeans; his longish dark hair was loose about his face. He rode along the north edge of the property for half a mile before turning south across a recently harvested field. He worked the horse there, turning him in wide circles and occasionally brought him to rest.
Chertov had stopped about fifty yards from where he thought the shooter would try to attack, at the place he had identified a few days ago. His view to the fence line of the Jansen property was clear, and low sage bushes and a few scrub trees covered him. The satellite phone vibrated in its pocket. He let the sling take the weight of the long gun and whispered into the phone, "Go."
Mark Morgan spoke quickly. "We have a call for an armed robbery at the pizza place in town. I've got to send our people over there."
Chertov smiled. Now he knew he would face only one and that he would likely face him alone. He could see the horse and rider moving about the field, and he waited, fleetingly hoping that the rider's position would force the shooter to the place he was watching.
In twenty minutes he saw movement near the fence line where he had predicted the attack would take place. A figure carrying an assault rifle with scope and wearing olive drab and camo moved into position. His cover was imperfect; Chertov had a clear line of fire from his position.
The shooter's shaved head glistened in the early afternoon, and his T-shirt was sweat-stained at the armpits and over the back. Chertov moved his weapon to the firing position and steadied it against a tree. Through the optic, he could see the suspect's face clearly; he placed the sight's red dot on the middle of the man's torso and took the safety on his weapon off. The shooter watched the lone rider for a couple of minutes and then raised his rifle.
Chertov called out to the shooter, "Stop!"
The shooter, startled, turned toward the agent, his rifle's muzzle inscribing in the air a horizontal arc. Before that arc intersected Chertov's position, two dull thuds issued from the UMP and the Barnes hollow points tore into the shooter's chest. Between Chertov's first and second shots, a span of less than two seconds, the would-be assassin's rifle discharged into the clear sky as he fell back onto the dry ground to lie face up, eyes to the sun. As Chertov rushed to the attacker's side, the rider reined the horse and galloped to the fence close by. Chertov kicked the rifle slightly away from the body as the rider dismounted, a Beretta 92fs in his right hand.
Chertov called Sheriff Morgan to say that one shooter was down and was told that deputies responding to the armed-robbery call had killed the other shooter. The sheriff said he'd send a deputy to take care of the crime scene and get the body moved.
The rider calmly holstered his pistol and removed his jacket. The tribal police badge glinted on his belt. "Tell me you'll never ask me again to be the designated rider. It's too damned hot to be wearing this thing," the man said, removing a ballistic vest with ceramic plates front and back. "Everything good?"
"Both bad guys down. Get back to the barn and tell Dr. Jansen that he can let his people resume their lives. Tell him not to let anyone come out this way for a while." The rider remounted, and before he began cantering back to the barn from which he had come an hour earlier, Chertov said, "Thanks." He realized his heart rate was almost normal.
#
When North had shut the door after leaving, Armin's face was full of questions. "I don't know," Marshall said, "but he sounded serious, so I guess we'll stay put.
Armin had learned not to delay asking for what he wanted. "May I kiss you?"
Instead of answering, Marsh leaned over and touched his lips to Armin's. He hadn't had a lot of experience at making out, but he wasn't entirely a novice except with boys, other than some experimentation with JT and Sam when they were younger. Since he knew this interlude wouldn't go beyond kissing, he wasn't hurried and tried to pay attention to all the sensations. The boys would stop occasionally and sit quietly.
After breaking apart the last time, Armin said, "Thank you for that."
Marshall didn't know the right response, so he just replied, "I think I should thank you."
A few minutes later, the door to the barn opened, and North stuck his head in to say, "You guys can head back to the house now. Don't wander off." He hoped he hadn't been obvious when he observed that his son was desperately trying to hide a hard-on.