Sharon Kamen woke up irritated with herself. She hadn't been coping well. She was being paranoid and realized it, and she'd taken everything that happened as a personal defeat. She was mad at her fears, mad at the cops who were probably making jokes about the gun-slinger with the big boobs by now. Mad at her father. Mad at herself for being mad at her father, but when she looked at his things neatly spread out in the room, she knew she had to get moving, get out of there and do it now.
She threw some clothes on and set out to find the local post office, which was all of ten blocks away. The Bayou City post office smelled like the motel room, a lovely aroma of tobacco, disinfectant, and carpet cleaner. She stood in line behind what must have been every other soul in the town.
The sound of a drum beat made her turn and look back in the direction of her car. A parade of sorts—a dozen or so people in uniform, Bayou City cop cars, probably every one the town owned, fore and aft. She left the line and went out on the sidewalk, wondering if she should try to move her car.
Young men with shaved heads. Someone carrying a bright red Nazi flag and wearing armbands. One of them was shouting something over a bullhorn. She caught the word Jews and it exploded inside her head as she saw the dreaded symbol on their flag. Her mounting anger, paranoia, fear, anguish, sadness, worry, confusion, and irritation blew up in a furious rage as she ran to pull the awful obscenity down. This nonviolent woman, once again, had been pushed over the edge by circumstance into an act of violence.
Meara was getting into his pickup parked in front of the hardware store when he saw a fabulous-looking woman come running out in the street and grab at the pole supporting a large Nazi flag one of the skinheads was carrying. Nazi flags didn't do anything to Ray one way or the other, but when the woman grabbed at the flagpole the kid holding it put his hand into her face and pushed her down into the street. The people watching from the sidewalk roared with laughter.
He couldn't believe it. These jerks thought they were at a damn circus! They laughed at a woman getting hurt as if it were a clown act. He churned out into the makeshift parade like a madman, a newly purchased shovel at port arms, smashing through skinheads to try to reach the woman, who was still down on the pavement.
As is the case with all violence it happened too quickly to sort out. Later, he'd retain an impression of people coming into the streets blocking off the cops on either side of the Nazis.
“Come on,” he said, roughly, “I'll get you outta here,” pulling her through the crowd of milling bodies and noise. He saw the face of that grinning kid, the one with Sandy out at the barrow pit, the kid trying to grab at him as he pulled her through the mob scene, and he brought that hardwood handle sharp into the kid's solar plexus, the two of them running through the screams.
“Slide over,” he said, throwing her halfway across the front seat. No time for social graces as he pulled out into the alley next to the bank, watching the mirror for cops, who'd almost certainly be hard on their tail. He mumbled something about getting her to a hospital.
“No!” she yelled, with startling force. “No hospital. Please.” She had a vision of The Woman Who Shot The Guy, complaining her father was missing, talking of Nazis, now starting a fight at a parade. My God! They'd lock her in an asylum.
“You sure?'
“I'm all right, really.” She felt a drafty shiver of worry blow through the truck. He glanced over at her. A real stunner, but kind of folded in on herself, hunched over, legs pressed together, clothing torn and dirty, hair a mess. But she was captivatingly gorgeous, scared body language or not.
“My name's Raymond Meara.” He said it in as calming a voice as he could, putting a smile on his scarred face. “Don't worry,” he said, because it was the only thing he could think of.
Everything was spectacular. He didn't let himself really look over at her yet. The long neck. The beautiful face. The shapely body. Long, fabulous legs. A high-class woman sitting beside him.
Sharon just wanted to go back to the motel and sleep. She was halfway through framing her demand that he stop the truck when the man's name found its way through her fog.
“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” she said. “Did you say your name was Raymond Meara?'
“That's me.'
“I'm Sharon Kamen.'
“Sharon,” he said, obviously not making the connection. “It's real good to meet you. You're not from here, are you?'
“I'm Aaron Kamen's daughter, Mr. Meara.'
He didn't say anything for a moment, then said, too brightly, “Oh!” Clearly he didn't know her dad.
“I guess I may have the wrong name. My Dad said he was talking with a man named Meara about this missing woman he was looking for.'
“Oh, sure! I'm sorry,” Meara said, snapping out of it. “I'm not too good on names. Yeah, sure. Mr. Kamen. Yeah, I just saw your dad a few days ago. How's he doing?'
“I don't know,” she said, in a hollow, pained voice. She told him everything, and he listened carefully, sympathetically, not paying attention to where he was going as he automatically headed back toward the farm. She stopped her running narrative, finally, and realized that she was more addled than she'd thought, and also had no idea where they were.
“Where are we, Mr. Meara? I need to go back,” she said.
“Uh, we're on the way to my farm. I didn't know where else to go.” He shrugged. “Listen, could I make a suggestion?'
“Okay.'
“I know you don't want to go to the hospital but I don't think you should—That is, why don't we go on to the farm? We're not that far away, you can take it easy for a bit, we can talk about Mr. Kamen, and when you feel up to it I'll run you back anywhere you say. How's that for a plan?” he asked. He took her shrug and sigh for a yes.
Sharon Kamen did pretty well until Meara escorted her inside the house. She tried to protest when he wrapped her in a heavy quilt and tucked her into a big easy chair, but she was very ill all of a sudden and she felt both nausea and a terrible chill that had her visibly shaking under the warm cover.
“I'm so c-c-c-cold,” she said in a quiet voice.
“Um,” Meara said, thinking it might be shock as he examined her head gently. “I don't think you busted anything. ‘Course, the sidewalk was cracked pretty good.” The house was uncomfortably hot, if anything.
“Thanks a lot,” she said, laughing through a shudder.
“Just sit here and relax,” he said, moving into the kitchen and putting water into the coffee pot, “you'll be okay.'
“What was all that about back there?” Sharon asked.
“Huh?'
“Nazi flag ‘n’ stuff?'
“Skinheads. They got a permit to demonstrate. I don't follow politics much.'
“Can I use your bathroom?” she asked in a small voice.
“Sure. Right through there and the first door to the left.'
She struggled up out of the quilt and found her way into the bathroom, which was surprisingly clean and homey, with cattails-and-ducks wallpaper.
She came out in the kitchen without the quilt, a bit warmer, but still shaking inside. “I appreciate you helping me like that. It was kind of you.'
“Sure,” he said. The swirling hair and lovely face had him speechless, as if his ideal woman had materialized out of nowhere.
“As long as I've forced myself on you this way,” she said, “I'd be grateful if you'd let me pick your brain a little more, Mr. Meara.'
“Please, it's Ray.'
“Thanks. I'm Sharon,” she said, smiling in a matter-of-fact way. “Ray, I'm at loose ends with Dad being missing. The police don't seem to know anything.” She gestured with only her fingers, the pressures evident in every aspect of her demeanor.
He nodded. “I already told the cops what little I know. I had a call yesterday from our police chief. He said Mr. Kamen had been tracking a guy who was a wanted war criminal from the Nazi era. He asked me a bunch of questions and that was about it. Sure a lot of Nazis all of a sudden. Nazi demonstrators, a Nazi flag, a Nazi war
