Glen Tate - 299 Days - The 17th Irregulars

Todd Snelling was enjoying lunch. Well, not “enjoying.” He was having lunch. That was more correct. He missed all the normal foods he used to eat; all the organic and foreign foods. The high-end stuff, not the hillbilly food he had out at Pierce Point. Cornbread? Seriously? Might as well have a chicken fried steak at a truck stop. What he would have done for some fresh feta cheese and Belgian endive.

The internet was back up and he wanted to get online before it went off again. He was on the FCorps website getting updates. It looked like things were going well. The authorities were rounding up terrorists in big numbers. There were big raids in Denver and Boise. Not even redneck Idaho was a sanctuary for these teabaggers. Things were going well in Chicago. There were lots of stories about people there being thankful for all that the government was doing, like feeding people and protecting them. So much for those Neanderthals who thought all government was bad. Those limited-government types were so stupid. Everyone knew that there needed to be enough government to take care of all the hopeless people. That’s what government does. Look at all the happy people on the internet who were so glad to be taken care of.

Snelling was startled by a knock at the door. No one ever came to his cabin, except Abbott, and that wasn’t his knock. It was someone else. What could they want, he wondered as he walked to the door.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“Rich Gentry.” It sounded like him.

“Coming,” Snelling said. He unlocked the door and saw Rich. “What can I do for you?” Snelling asked, truly having no idea why Rich was there.

“I want to talk to you about Pierce Point.”

The teabaggers were coming to their senses, Snelling thought. They finally realized that his way was the right way.

Snelling let Rich in.

“What about Pierce Point?” He said, not even waiting to make small talk. Snelling was so excited to be having this conversation.

“I think you have some good ideas, Todd,” Rich said. “I don’t think you’re being listened to and I want to see if I can get a better dialogue going.”

“Dialogue?” That was a magic word. It meant that this was going to be done like things were done in Seattle: With dialogue, not guns. Snelling could barely contain his glee that the world was not upside down. There would be dialogue even out in hillbillyville.

“I can’t get a word in edgewise with that Grant Matson,” Snelling said and rolled his eyes. “He’s such a bully. Shutting me down all the time. I had pretty much given up. I wasn’t even going to bother going to the meetings anymore.”

“Oh, you should,” Rich said. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Of course,” Snelling said. He was going to enjoy this. Rich, the apparent teabagger, was coming with his hat in hand, ready to call a truce. Or maybe better. Maybe he was ready to let Snelling run things out there.

“Would you like something to drink?” Snelling asked.

“Water is fine,” Rich said. As Snelling was bringing the water, Rich looked around the cabin. It was amazing, and must have cost a mint. Snelling even had some art. Weird art, but it was art. Foofy Seattle art. No one else had art at Pierce Point.

When Snelling came back, Rich pointed to a copy of Architectural Digest on the coffee table. “I always wanted to be an architect,” Rich said. “What’s it like being one?”

Snelling’s eyes lit up. He talked for about fifteen minutes about being an architect and his work. He was so happy Rich asked him about it.

By now, Rich got up and was slowly walking and looking at all of the fancy art as Snelling was talking. He wandered from room to room looking at things and occasionally saying to Snelling, “Uh, huh. That sounds great.”

Pretty soon, Rich had inspected the whole cabin, and went into Snellings’ office.

Then he saw it. An old fax machine. It looked so odd—a 1990s fax machine there in the ultra-modern office. A copy of the newspaper with the picture of the hanging was next to the machine.

Suddenly Snelling appeared to get nervous.

“Let’s go back to the living room,” he said, realizing how defensive he looked.

Rich nodded and motioned for Snelling to lead the way.

“After you,” Snelling said. “You are my guest.” It was pretty obvious that Snelling didn’t want Rich walking around the cabin unescorted.

“Thank you,” Rich said. “You were saying that architect school was particularly grueling...”

Snelling started right back up where had left off. Something about how he loved to “express himself” in the buildings he designed, which was weird, Rich thought, because Snelling drew up the plans for a lot of post offices. There was not a lot of “expression” in those.

This was the oldest trick in the book, Rich kept thinking as Snelling continued to yammer about architecture. Get a suspect talking about themselves, walk around, and look at things. All in plain view. No warrant required. It worked like a charm.

Using this technique, Rich had now established that Snelling was the snitch.

Snelling’s wife came up to the cabin, returning from some yoga on the beach.

“Well, I gotta go,” Rich said. “I just wanted to encourage you to come to the next meeting and tell us your thoughts. I promise you that your opinion will be respected.” Rich hated lying to a guy, but this guy was trying to get Grant killed, and probably Rich, too. All is fair in love and war.

“Oh, I will be there tonight,” he said with a smile.

Rich thanked Snelling and his wife for the water and headed back to the Grange.

The five-minute ride back to the Grange was unsettling as Rich thought some terrible things. He was making a terrible decision. He couldn’t believe he was actually thinking these thoughts.

When Rich arrived at the Grange, he motioned for Grant and Dan to get into the truck.

“It’s Snelling,” Rich said, once they were in the cab, away from the listening ears of other people. He started driving in the general direction of the gate. “I saw the fax machine and the newspaper by it. He got nervous and shooed me out of the room.”

Grant had been quiet the whole time. He didn’t know what to do. He knew Snelling was basically trying to kill him. Now Grant was calmly debating with himself whether he should give his OK to kill Snelling. Grant kept thinking about what kind of example that would set: Mr. Constitution urging a political killing. Treason required two witnesses and a jury trial under the Constitution. There was nothing in that document that allowed offing a guy because he had a fax machine.

Then again, as Ted and the others pointed out earlier, this was war. The rules were different. The Constitution contemplated war and some extreme measures. Besides, they were in a survival situation. Snelling could kill them as easily as untreated water, lack of food, or lack of shelter could. A person is perfectly justified to overcome those kinds of threats. They would treat the water, gather the food, and build the shelter. However, overcoming those threats didn’t involve killing another human being.

Rich stopped the truck at the clearing near the Grange where they were doing all this discussing.

“Well?” Rich asked. They had all been waiting for someone to kick off the discussion. No one was too eager to start this conversation. It was still silent.

“Well?” Rich asked again. “What do we do about Snelling?”

“Something,” Dan said. “We can’t let him call the cops again. From what you described, Rich, we are stronger than the idiots in Frederickson, but…I don’t want to bury one of the kids at my gate unless I have to.”