Chapter 26 Return to the fold
I caught up with the kids after they had gone a couple of miles.
“All good?” I asked.
They had not heard me come up behind them; the girls squealed and the boys yelled.
“Glad you’re happy to see me,” I said.
I had collected as many water bottles as I could find as well, and helped myself to a long duster and brought an armful of woolly sweaters as well as the one I wore. I issued them around, and the kids were grateful to don them, badly fitting though they were.
I had already called Willow to let her know all was well; and then Tarquin so he could clean up the mess.
He had sighed, of course.
“Did you have to kill them all?” he asked.
“Did you really expect me to leave anyone alive to hunt down the kids in my care?” I asked. “They brutally murdered our bus driver. They thought they had murdered me. I still have a bullet in me.”
“I’ll sort it out,” he had said. I had given him the phone number of the ranch; he could find it from that.
I heard a helicopter go over, as I hiked with the kids.
“I wonder if that’s more people looking for us,” said Hank Wenlow, fearfully. He had been the main target.
“I called in the feds, so I’m hoping it will be them,” I said, calmly.
“Won’t they put you in jail for killing people?” asked Sausage. I felt there was a touch of malicious satisfaction in his voice.
“I doubt it,” I said. “I have a licence which permits me to sanction people who are in the way of the government. Mr. Wenlow’s father takes government contracts, and if he was to be forced to purchase substandard components for the rather specialised equipment he makes for our armed forces, that makes it a matter of treason. Mr. Moorcroft’s mother is close to the president and that puts POTUS in direct danger of what she could be forced to do for the safety of her son. Your father can only be leaned on for money, so I don’t suppose such things occurred to you,” I said, patronisingly. “You may each, now we are away, phone your respective parents and tell them that you have been exfiltrated from the danger zone. They you are safe and elsewhere,” I added, as they stared at me.
Paul phoned hurriedly; he knew what a vulnerable position his mother was in.
She cried at him, and he told her not to worry.
Hank’s father was so relieved he spent several minutes just saying his son’s name.
Sausage’s father demanded to know if this had all been a practical joke, and what the devil the boy meant by it.
I took the phone.
“Mr. Clinton, I am your son’s teacher and there is no practical joke. Anything but. Your son’s kidnapping was incidental to the seizure of a better-connected classmate, and James was merely collateral. We are returning to the school, and I expect the federal agents will want to talk to you about what was demanded. Good night.”
Sausage stared at me with his mouth open.
“I don’t think anyone has talked to my father like that,” he said. “He shouts and other people obey.”
“It’ll be a cold day in hell before he shouts at me with impunity,” I said.
Sausage shuddered, but looked impressed.
Then Miss Kershaw rang her parents.
“Dad?” she said.
“Marie, you tell those swine that whatever they threaten, I ain’t paying it. It isn’t as if it was Louise who’d be worth it. You can tell them to go to hell.”
He rang off before I could take over.
“His loss,” I said.
“Can I come and live with you and Ruth?” asked Kershaw.
“Welcome,” I said.
Yes, of course I had tapped and recorded every call on my pocket box.
I was planning on playing that to Tarquin who would help Kershaw – who would probably soon be Marie – to lawyer up appropriately.
“I did think to bring my quilt for warmth, and lots of water,” said Ruth.
“Yes, and you hid Paul’s knife. You can give it back to him,” I said. “If I had been dead, you could have used that on the first kidnapper to come in, or to take out mortar, or to barricade yourselves in the storm cellar and kill anyone who came down.”
“I think you know more about exfiltration than we do,” said Ruth.
“Most of it is common sense,” I said. “But if any of you feel a need to do wargames on how to get out of places, to help you deal with this, we’ll call it role-play for psychological evaluation and cathartic interaction to counteract deeply-seated trauma.”
Ruth giggled.
“That’s bullshit,” she said.
“No, Ruth; it’s carefully sculpted, impressive, jargonistic bullshit,” I said.
She giggled, and so did the others.
A little nervously.
They were re-evaluating Sir, especially Sausage, who had had me down as a milk-sop.
A drone buzzed us.
“Hello, dear,” I said. “Nice tracking. Tell Tarquin we’re heading for town and we’ll find a hotel for the night – on the guvmint. They can pick us up there.”
She nodded the drone and it rose in the air.
She’d be keeping an eye on us, of course, but that was good.
Doubtless Puss and Amy were complaining that Daddy wasn’t home; Orville was a happy little blighter who was fine as long as someone fussed him.
“Willow!” I called, “Did you let Hana know?”
She came down to bob again. She could have spoken in my ear... oh. No, it was probably out of range or there was too much interference.
It was well after midnight when we hit the first lighted streets.
“Now, listen to me,” I said, “We had a vehicle accident in our school bus and the driver died at the scene. Without the bus to shelter in, because it burned, we decided to walk to the nearest town. Not a word about terrorists or kidnapping.”
“Why not, sir?”
Inevitably, it was Sausage who asked.
“Well, now, Mr. Clinton, if we told strangers about the kidnap, what could go wrong?” I asked.
He stared, blankly.
“They might be in league with the kidnappers, or rather, might gossip and someone who was in league with them might hear,” said Marie Kershaw.
“Or there might be someone who figured that if we were kidnapped once, it might be worth their while doing a little freelance kidnapping,” said Ruth.
“Or they might tell their local newspaper and we’d be pestered non-stop,” said Paul, who probably knew a thing or two about newspapers pestering people.
“All correct,” I said. “We will release a government-vetted statement in due course, but not before. And if any of you little perishers jumps the gun with that, you may be sure that I will bring retribution swift and hard upon your heads, and though I have limits over what I may do, I have a better imagination than those who set the limits. Capiche?”
They got it; even Sausage.
I didn’t mention to them that any self-respecting hotel might turn us away with what sounded like a thinner story than our fiction, because we looked like a bunch of refugees from band of travellers, expensive clothing notwithstanding. They were all tear and snot stained, their anoraks were plucked in places, they had mud on their shoes and trouser-legs, and all were in jeans because I had asked for it, and to the uninitiated, jeans are jeans. I was all over dust from my wild ride on top of the truck, and the time of night was not auspicious. But to have escaped and come so far, that would be the final let down.
We ignored the motel; not enough security. A police car pulled in ahead of us.
“All right, what’s going on here?” demanded the cop.
“We had an accident coming home from a school trip,” I said. “The bus driver died at the scene, and the bus went on fire. I’m trying to find somewhere a bit more secure for the kids to sleep until we can alert the proper authorities.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You have girls; where’s your female chaperone?”
“She was the bus driver,” I said. “One of the girls is my sister.”
“Well, I think we’d better take you in to the station; I have to say, mister, I think that a very dodgy story.”
“Well, if that’s the way you want to play it, I’m going to invoke a code 404,” I said, with a snap. “So you can just smarten up, officer, stop slouching around sneering at whatever smutty little thought has been titillating your wild and filthy imagination, and you can bloody well call for a couple of unmarked cars to take us to a hotel and we will talk to the Feds tomorrow morning, capiche?”
He goggled at me.
“But a code 404 is....”
“Yes, and you have no idea who some of these kids are, and believe me, officer, you do not want to know,” I snapped. “Why are you not getting our cars for us?”
“Uh... yessir,” he said, returning to his radio.
I settled the kids down on the blanket I had taken for myself, on the sidewalk and the girls clung to me, one each side. Ruth started crying, and I cuddled her.
They all sort of huddled up to me, as if they were five, not fifteen.
The officer was arguing with the radio.
Then I heard the copter.
“Oh, thank fuck,” I said.
Copters are always bigger than you’d think, and it set down, black and intimidating, in front of the police car.
Tarquin, looking his immaculate self, in tails with a topper of all things, jandered along, and shoved his id under the cop’s nose.
Then he turned to us.
“Rick! Ruth! Mr. Moorcroft, I know you, and... ah, yes, I could not mistake Mr. Wenlow, you are the image of your father but for having your mother’s eyes. I think we can do better than a hotel in the middle of the night; I’m sure you’d all rather be back in your own dormitories.”
“I didn’t dare hope you’d have mopped things up in time,” I said.
“I haven’t; but Willow relayed the radio chatter of the local morons,” said Tarquin, seeming unaware that the local cops could hear him.
“We’d be very grateful,” I said.
We piled into the helicopter.
“Now, Rick, I believe you have a bullet in you,” said Tarquin.
“Yes, it skinned between my ribs and fetched up just below my scapula,” I said.
The kids stared, wide eyed and open mouthed.
“You... you hung on the top of the truck, killed those men and rescued us, all the time with a bullet in your chest?” said Marie.
“Wasn’t anyone else going to do it,” I said, shrugging on my good side. “Ask your medic to keep it for me; I have a museum of weapons that didn’t kill me.”
I would like to say I hardly felt a thing, but it hurt worse coming out than going in. I was well soused in medical alcohol, and patched up with more finesse than I usually manage. I managed to take it without a noise, though; no point scaring the kids.
Bless the poor little sprouts, they dozed off; and several brawny men carried sleeping teens to their dormitories when we got back to the school; they went out like lights as soon as they were safe in the helicopter, being soothed by its gently throbbing engines. The feds have some very nice stealth copters and they went onto silent running for us, which was considerate.
I was half asleep myself.
oOoOo
I wrote a full report the next day, not omitting sanctioning all those I found who were involved. If I was an active agent I might have been rapped metaphorically over the knuckles for failing to keep the bossman undamaged enough to question, but I was retired, so they had to suck it up.
Tarquin came with a lady from his office to talk to the kids, and they told their stories and had them written down.
I gave Tarquin the recording of Marie’s father’s response.
He frowned.
“I think we can prosecute him for child endangerment,” he said. “I’ll write an order for you to take Miss Kershaw into foster care.”
The hell! The last thing an assassin needs is to have care of three adolescent girls.
On the up side, Auntie was bored living in the lap of luxury, and Willow had persuaded her to ask me to buy her a large house to turn into a very exclusive girls’ school-cum-refuge, so that at the end of this year, Ruth and Marie could go on to do senior high with her.
And I’d be helping out the days I wasn’t teaching Junior high; I’d been volunteered.
I’d be too busy to even do pro bono jobs.
Well, maybe not.
But life was not going to be dull.
oOoOo
I expect there’s at least one person wondering if the kittens learned to talk.
They needed a mod to do so but indicated their willingness. Puss gave me a look, and I knew it meant that she considered herself perfectly capable of communication anyway. Orville and Amy learned to talk, and to use a headset to present their thoughts written on their own pocket boxes.
Oh, you want to know about the baby? He was born whilst the kids were doing their exams, and came out red and angry.
“Tarquin Natter,” I said.
“I thought you’d agree,” murmured my tired little wife. “Was going to be Felicity if she was a girl.”
After Auntie, that was.
I wasn’t going in for ‘Extreme’ again; nor was Dave, nor his Julie; and nor was Elizabeth, whose sister was now walking after her operation.
I accepted her for Auntie’s senior high.
What else could I do?
Oh, the kidnappers? Turned out that the boss in the ranch was the brother-in-law of some member of The Syndicate, and with the implications of the demands to take cheap, shoddy chips, Tarquin was able to get that cell entirely closed down on charges of treason for attempting to sabotage the army of the United States. I was at the trial, with the kids, who wanted to see him go down; expecting to be charged with felony, kidnap, and to plea bargain, his face when the charges were read out was a study. He’d be bound for the Helium 3 penal mines on the moon.
And I could relax and enjoy family life.
Maybe.
that's all folks - for now.
