Lone Wolf

from the Star Wars movies.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand and then Dad’s.

He was a handsome young boy, shiny blond hair swept to one side, a look of innocence in his eyes.

“Hello,” I said. “Nice TIE fighter. You got an Imperial soldier inside the cockpit there?”

Jeffrey brightened. Imagine an adult knowing such a thing. “Wow. No, I haven’t got one of those yet. You like Star Wars?”

“I love Star Wars,” I said. “I love all sorts of science fiction. I’ve even written a few science fiction books.”

“No kidding? Were they made into movies?”

“No,” I said.

“But they were optioned, at least, weren’t they, son?” Dad asked.

“No, Dad, none of them were optioned.” To Jeffrey, I said, “My whole office at home is filled with sci-fi toys. Star Trek, Lost in Space, all kinds of stuff. I’ve never really grown up.”

Jeffrey giggled at that. “I haven’t seen you around very much,” he said. He nodded toward my dad. “I’ve seen Mr. Walker down by the cabins, but not you. Are you renting a cabin?”

“I’m borrowing one. I’m Zack Walker. That’s my dad.”

Jeffrey nodded, then frowned. “I guess you heard about Morton.”

“Yes,” I said. “We have.”

“He was looking for a bear and it killed him. That’s what happened.” He said it with conviction.

“How old are you, Jeffrey?” I asked.

“I’m ten,” he said. “I don’t go to school. I learn right here at home. My mom teaches me, and Grandpa helps prepare lessons for me.”

“Isn’t that great,” I said.

Jeffrey said he had to go and ran off after Dougie. Timmy smiled proudly as I sat down on the couch. “He’s a great kid.”

“Who’s that?” Dad said, pointing to the McVeigh portrait. Jesus, Dad, don’t go there, I thought.

Timmy smiled reverently. “That’s Timothy McVeigh, a famous fighter for freedom. You must have heard of him.”

Dad, who’s never been quite as plugged into the news as I, might not have recognized the picture, but he had no trouble with the name. “Christ, he’s the one blew up that building, isn’t he?”

Timmy shook his head sadly. “That’s what they’d have you believe, but there are a lot of interesting questions about that day. Did you know that?”

We shook our heads.

“Well, one big question is, why did some federal employees who did FBI work not come to the Alfred P. Murrah Building that day? Huh? Did you know that a lot of them didn’t report for work? Pretended to be sick? Do you know why? It’s because they knew something was going to happen, that’s why.”

I leaned forward on the couch. This was not something I’d heard before. “What are you getting at, Timmy?”

“What I’m saying is, they had to have been tipped off by the military. You see, the amount of damage done to the building could never have been accomplished with the kind of bomb they say Mr. McVeigh had in that cube van. Absolutely impossible. Had to be something much bigger, something that detonated either instead of, or in addition to, that rental truck.”

“I’m a bit confused,” I said. “You’re saying the military, the U.S. government, knew the bombing was going to happen, and got some of its people out of there, but let the rest die?”

“They didn’t just know about the bombing,” he said, and paused. “They’re the ones that did it.”

I was speechless for a few seconds. “The government bombed its own people?”

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Wickens said, as if sharing in my astonishment. “There are a lot of parallels between that event and what happened at the Twin Towers. You know how they pancaked down, one floor collapsing on top of another?”

The unforgettable images flashed in my mind. “Yeah,” I said.

“That was because there were already bombs in the buildings. That’s how they came down so perfectly, like when those demolition experts go in and drop a building, you know.”

I paused. “You noticed those two planes, right?”

Timmy smiled and waved his hand at me. “Anyway, with the Oklahoma City thing, it just shows you what lengths the government will go to.”

“To do what?” I asked. “What lengths?”

“To discredit honest, hardworking people, patriots, people like Timothy McVeigh, people like us and yourselves. You know,” he said, smiling, “I’ve always found it a curious coincidence that he and I share the same first name.”

“I’m still not sure I follow,” I said. “How did this discredit people like McVeigh, and you?”

Timmy Wickens nodded patiently, as though he’d had to explain this to others many times, and was willing to go through it as often as was necessary to get his message out there. “The government, when it becomes too powerful and strives to interfere too much in people’s lives, by tracking their movements, their financial transactions, by taking away their ability to defend themselves by bearing arms, will go to drastic measures to turn the public against those people who are fighting back to reclaim their constitutional rights and stop this country from slipping into moral bankruptcy and the watering down of the races.” He was jabbing a finger in the air at me to make his point. “What are we to make of a world that lets colored people run rampant and turn our cities into jungles, that lets faggots get their own TV shows and lets them live together without no shame at all? Did you know, right here in Braynor, the faggots want to put a float into the parade? And that the town, our white mayor, who is married to a colored, is probably going to let them? Can you imagine such a thing? They’ll probably build a huge purse and ride in it.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“So,” he continued, “they find people like Timothy McVeigh, who fight back against the government, who fight against the suppression of the truth, who fight to preserve decency and the family and preserve moral values, and frame them for monstrous acts like what happened at Oklahoma City. Mr. McVeigh was the kind of person with the courage of his convictions, who was willing to strike back at the government to let them know that they can’t get away with these kinds of things.”

“What you’re saying is,” I said slowly, “Timothy McVeigh didn’t do it, he was being framed, but it was the sort of statement he would have wanted to make, and if he had, that would have been okay?”

Timmy thought about that for a moment, pursed his lips out, and nodded. “I think you’re starting to get the idea.” He slapped the tops of his thighs as though congratulating all of us. “Some people, it takes them a lot longer to get their head around this. You got it right away.”

“Dinner!” shouted Charlene from the kitchen.

Timmy motioned for Dad and me to follow him. When Wickens’s back was turned, Dad sidled up next to me and twirled his index finger beside his head, the international “they’re crazy” gesture.

“Stop it,” I whispered.

There was a long wood table in the oversized kitchen, up close to an open window that looked out toward the barn. Everyone was gathered there, taking their seats.

Timmy glanced out the window, toward the barn. “Dougie,” he said, “is that the van I see sitting out there?”

Dougie craned his neck to look. “Appears to be.”

“Didn’t I ask you to back it into the barn?”

Dougie, in an exaggerated display, bounced his fist off his forehead. “I forgot.”

“Jesus, Dougie, you’d forget your ass if it wasn’t already in your pants.”

Charlene, at the stove, whirled around. “You leave him alone!”

“Fine, fine, whatever,” Timmy said. “Dougie, run out there, put away the van, and let the dogs out of the barn. We can toss them some dinner scraps out the window.”

Dougie excused himself, and a few minutes later I could hear Gristle and Bone charge toward the house, then gather under the open window, growling and snorting. Then there was scratching outside, as the dogs jumped up