Here I am, an eighteen-year-old who never even did ROTC, trying to sneak into an armed compound. It was one of these private-army guys who shot me—almost killed me—while I was escaping my house with Juneau. I’m sure this front-gate guard won’t hesitate to fire if he spots me. A crippling wave of panic almost makes me turn around and slink away, back to the safety of the truck.
With much effort, I ignore the flashing red lights of my innate fear, shoving my emotions aside, and try to focus on what will further my goal. Damned if I don’t remind myself of someone.
I inch closer to the security booth, while still hiding from the range of the guard’s viewpoint. I watch him intently, waiting for him to bend over or turn the other way. All I need is for him to be distracted for a few seconds, and I can be past the booth and out of his line of sight.
I pull the crossbow pieces out of my bag. Slotting them together, I cock the bowstring, then load it with a bolt. I aim at the guard’s Coke bottle.
It’s so small. How am I ever going to hit it?
Concentrate, I think. I squeeze the lever, and the bolt goes flying straight toward the bottle. It misses by just an inch and lands in the trees on the other side of the security booth. I exhale, brush aside my disappointment, and aim. I pull the trigger. To my amazement, the Coke bottle flies up into the air, lands with a loud clang on the pavement, and begins rolling away.
The guard swears and, stepping down out of the booth, chases the bottle down the drive. I dash out from behind my tree, crouch as I run under the toll-booth arm, and sprint into a thicket of tall bamboo plants on the other side. I watch from my vantage point as the guard scoops up the bottle and carries it back to the security booth. As he leans down to throw it into a trash can beneath the window, I turn and run at full speed away from the front gate. My arms pump by my sides as I dash through some pine trees and, at the point where the trees grow thin, throw myself (a little too forcefully) to the ground. Having knocked my breath out, I crawl panting to the point where the trees meet the road.
And there I see the ranch spread out before me. From where I lie, the road winds through pine trees, spans a river with a flat metal bridge, and leads to a big white McMansion with an American flag hanging on the porch.
Behind the mansion is a one-story L-shaped building with lots of windows and doors—kind of Motel-6 looking. Several Land Rovers and jeeps are parked outside. That must be where the guards stay, I think. Judging from the number of doors and vehicles, I estimate that up to forty men could be housed there.
The sun is just going down over the horizon. I decide to make my way through the trees up the hill and wait there until dark before crossing the river and making my way to the main house.
But what I’ll do once I get there . . . I have no idea.
33
JUNEAU
THE CLAN CONVERGES, EACH WANTING TO HUG me: the children excitedly, the elders with sorrow in their eyes. A few even murmur, “I’m sorry,” as they embrace me. The truth is out, then. I am torn by so many different emotions that I can’t talk. I let the hugs speak for me—words will come later.
Finally, I follow my dad back to his hut. I gesture at the sparse furnishings. “Pretty basic,” I comment, not knowing what else to say. I’ve never felt uncomfortable around my own father before.
Dad feels my tension, and plays along with my empty conversation. “One of the guards told me that Hunt Avery took these abandoned adobe huts, patched them up, and uses them to house the guests who want an ‘authentic living-off-the-land experience.’”
I nod mutely and lay my weapons inside the door.
My father sits on the smooth clay floor, and gestures for me to join him. His expression is grave, and he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. We sit in silence, until finally he says, “Go ahead.”
“What do you mean, ‘go ahead’?” I ask.
“I mean, go ahead. Scream. Shout. Tell me I’m a liar. Tell me you hate me. Say whatever you’ve been wanting to say for the last few weeks.”
I close my eyes and breathe deeply. And when I open them, they are wet with tears. “Quite honestly, Dad, I’m pretty much equally divided between wanting to hit you and wanting to hug you. There’s hate and love and relief and betrayal, all battling each other inside me. If I let myself feel it all, I’d probably explode.”
“I don’t blame you for hating me,” he says, and the sorrow on his face is clearer than any apology he could make.
“You lied to me,” I say. “Not just you. All of the elders lied to me. But you . . . you’re my father. How could you have raised me, cared for me, taught me right from wrong, and all the time have lied through your teeth?”
“Juneau,” my dad says. “You don’t have to accept my justification. But in this particular situation, I had to make the welfare of the world—of humankind and all living things, of the future of our planet—more important than my obligation to you. If lying to you meant ensuring your survival and that of your descendants, then I was willing to sacrifice my soul and lie to you and the other children.”