'Something's coming' was all she had time to say.
HAROLD WITTIG slammed the gearshift into park and draped his wrists over the pickup's steering wheel, his lips tightened in annoyance. He lifted one arm and wiped his sweaty forehead on his sleeve, promising himself for the hundredth time that he was going to junk this damn truck and get one of the big new Fords with an air conditioner that would turn a two-dollar whore frigid. Damn, it was hot, and the day had been one disaster after another.
First a flat tire on the way into Rockville this morning, then Fleet Farm hadn't had Tommy's birthday bike assembled and they'd had to wait two hours while a couple doofuses fumbled around with Allen wrenches and a forty-page instruction manual, then Jean got her period and made him run into the store to buy a box of Tampax and he thought he'd die right there at the checkout when the pretty young cashier had smiled sweetly and said, 'Just the Tampax? Is that it?' and now this. Christ, what a day.
He glared out the dusty windshield at the empty jeep on the side of the road and the two orange-and-white sawhorses topped with blinking yellow lights, blocking both lanes. Two men stood in front of the roadblock, wearing camouflage and combat boots and the earnest expressions of little boys playing soldier. M16s that Harold dearly hoped weren't loaded with live rounds were slung over their shoulders. The way his luck was running today, one of them would probably walk up to the truck and shoot him in the head.
Jean was leaning forward in her seat, as if another inch closer to the windshield would make the reason for the peculiar roadblock perfectly clear. Her face was dewy with the heat, and her lips were folded in on each other in that slightly alarmed expression she always wore when something didn't make sense. 'What are they? Soldiers?'
'Looks like. Probably Guard.'
'What are they doing? Why do they have the road blocked off?' Her voice was rising up the scale as a seed of panic germinated, and Harold knew her imagination was already running wild, manufacturing improbable scenarios of tornadoes, floods, riots, and any of the other disasters that brought the National Guard out into the civilian world.
'Relax, honey.' He laid a comforting hand on her knee. 'They're just weekend warriors, and they've got to practice somewhere.' But the truth was that he felt a little tickle of unease on the back of his own neck as one of the young men headed toward the driver's side of the truck. This one was fair and freckled and sporting a brand- new sunburn, but he had the bearing down pat: straight back, clipped movements, and that tucked chin you see only in the posture of a military man at attention. 'Afternoon. What's up, soldier?'
The soldier stepped right up to Harold's open window, his rifle now casually at his side, and gave them a friendly nod. 'Afternoon, sir, ma'am. I'm afraid the road's closed temporarily. We're detouring traffic up to County S-'
'What do you mean, the road's closed? Why?'
'Military maneuvers, sir. Your tax dollars at work.'
Jean breathed a sigh of relief, then felt irritation rise to fill the empty space where panic had lived just a moment before. She'd been prepared to deal with catastrophe, but not inconvenience. She brushed a clump of damp blond curls from her forehead and started fanning her face with the Fleet Farm sale flyer. 'What do you mean, military maneuvers?' she snapped at the young soldier, and Harold had to smile as the man's brows shot up in surprise, almost pitying him for being stupid enough to put a roadblock between Jean and her shower on the first day of her period. 'We live on this road and there were no military maneuvers going on here when we left this morning.'
Harold started to give the soldier an apologetic grin, but something in the man's face made his smile falter. The stoic, soldierly countenance was suddenly gone, replaced by a ripple of confusion and maybe even a little fear, and that made him nervous. Men in uniform weren't supposed to be confused or fearful, and when they were, bad things happened. 'Uh . . , you say you live on this road, ma'am?'
'That's right. About a half a mile the other side of Four Corners. The big farm on the left. And now we'll thank you to move that little barrier out of the way so we can get home to our son.'
The soldier was very still for a moment, then he took a breath and put the tough face back on. 'I'm very sorry, ma'am, but I can't do that. We have orders not to let anyone by.'
'You haveorders to keep me from going home?' Jean asked incredulously, leaning forward in her seat so she could shoot a withering glance in the soldier's direction. 'I don't think so. Now let us by or we'll drive right over you and your roadblock.'
Oh, this was just terrific,Harold thought. He was planted smack-dab in the middle of a firing zone between a raging woman and a stressed-out kid with a firearm. He gave Jean a warning glance, then turned back to the soldier, forced a thin smile, and tried his best to sound reasonable, even though his patience was fraying. 'Listen, soldier, we just want to get home to our boy. Surely you can understand that.'
'I do, sir, but we have our orders,' he repeated.
'And just what are we supposed to do? Drive around until you're finished playing your war games?'
'That's up to you, sir. I'm just doing my job.'
'This is not your job. I want to speak to your commanding officer right now. And if you don't make that happen, I'm going to turn this truck around, find the closest phone, and you can make your explanations to the Missaqua County Sheriff's Department.'
The soldier was clearly distressed now, his eyes darting back and forth between them, and Harold thought he saw a flicker of guilt and remorse in his eyes. 'Would you wait just a moment, sir, ma'am?' I'm going to have to call this in.' And with that, he spun smartly on his heel and double-timed it back to the sawhorses where the other soldier stood watching.
Startled by his sudden departure, Harold felt the little tickle on the back of his neck intensify, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when Jean touched his hand.
'Something's wrong,' she whispered, and he heard the tremor in her voice and felt its echo deep in the pit of his stomach. 'Something happened, something they won't tell us. ...'
'Honey, take it easy.' Harold covered her hand with his and squeezed, trying to dredge up a reassuring smile. 'These boys can only do what they're told. If he has orders to block the road, he'll keep his own mother out, but a higher-up will straighten him out.'
He watched the two soldiers through the windshield. Freckle-face was over at the jeep, talking to somebody on the radio; the other one kept his eyes trained on the pickup.
Harold rubbed at the sweat trickling down his neck. Damn truck was a sweatbox when it wasn't moving, and this was taking too damn long. 'Wait here. I'm going to see what the holdup is.'
Freckle-face had just signed off the radio when he heard the long screech of the truck door opening on rusty hinges and saw Harold Wittig step down onto the road. His first thought was how much the man looked like a comic-book Superman, with a curl of black hair over his forehead and the arms and shoulders of a weight lifter. His second thought was barely a thought at all-just an animal's instinctive response to stimuli. He spun in place like a deadly ballerina, swinging his rifle around to point directly at Harold Wittig's mid-
section, and even before he had completed his turn, his partner was down in a crouch with his rifle aimed. 'Hold it right there!'
Harold stopped dead and gaped at the rifles in utter disbelief. He finally remembered to blink when his eyes started to burn. He closed his mouth to swallow, then asked quietly, 'Are you boys out of your minds? What the hell do you think you're doing?'
The soldier's voice was a little shaky, but the muzzle pointed at Harold never wavered. 'We're just doing our job, sir.'
Harold stared at him, incredulous. 'Your job? It's your job to point a weapon at an unarmed civilian? It's your job to keep people from going home?' He started to take a step forward.
'Sir!'The soldier rattled the strap on the Ml6 as he jerked it to brace on his hip.
Harold froze.
'Please don't move, sir.'
Goddamn weekend warriors, Harold thought, suddenly furious that a couple of toy soldiers who came out only once a month to play had the nerve to point guns, loaded or not, at one of the taxpayers who paid their salaries. He squared his shoulders and dropped his head and looked from one to the other. 'You boys have just bought
