Mary Daheim - Scots on the Rocks

“We could shoot them,” Renie suggested. “Maybe there’s a weapon in here someplace.”

“You’re kidding, I trust,” Judith said, creeping along so slowly that the speedometer barely registered. “A cop wouldn’t leave a gun in a vacant car. According to the map, Monk Road is about a quarter of a mile from here.” She made a disgusted face. “Damn, this is the dumbest idea we’ve had yet! What were we thinking of?”

“It’s all this fog,” Renie said. “Our minds have gone. Besides, I kind of enjoy a good riot. We haven’t had one at home since the WTO dustup, and I had to watch it on TV. It’s not the same.”

“Sometimes you’re too weird even for me,” Judith muttered. “I’ll bet MacRae and Ogilvie are somewhere along the way, afoot or—” Loud sounds like gunshots interrupted her. “Now what?”

The parade of putative avengers appeared to wonder the same thing. The chanting stopped abruptly, some drivers honked their horns, and the people on foot ebbed and flowed, with a few ducking for cover. A moment later, two more shots were fired. Several people ran, plunging off the road to seek safety.

“Whoever’s firing that gun did us a favor,” Judith said, stepping gently on the gas pedal. “The crowd’s thinned out a bit so we can move.”

“We can also get shot,” Renie pointed out. “Oh well.”

The marchers had lost momentum, though at least forty people and a couple dozen cars were moving, albeit more slowly, along the road. Judith saw a trio of bicyclists, a skateboarder, and several pedestrians heading back toward the village. The cousins had gone about fifty yards when Judith spotted the signpost for Monk Road.

“Maybe we should see what’s going on at Hollywood House first,” she said, “especially if MacRae and Ogilvie might be there ahead of us.”

“On roller skates?” Renie remarked with a sidelong glance at Judith. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve hijacked their transportation.”

“We borrowed it, remember?” Judith snapped. “Besides, it was your nutty idea.”

“At least they’ve stopped shooting,” Renie said. “Hey—listen!”

Judith heard the sound, a faint but angry cry of shrill voices. The car kept moving, following the diehard crowd, which had now reached the gates of Hollywood House where vehicular traffic stopped.

“Damn!” Judith braked, trapped in a virtual blockade of the road. “We can’t turn around. We’re hemmed in on every side.” She stopped, letting the engine idle. “The gates must be locked,” she said, “but it sounds as if most of the noise is coming from closer to the house. The protesters or whatever you’d call them are scaling the walls.”

“Shall we get out?” Renie asked.

“I guess so,” Judith said, turning off the ignition, “if we want to—excuse the expression—see what’s happening.” The cousins got out of the car. “I hate to leave a police car in the middle of the road, but I don’t have any choice.” A whirring sound overhead made her look up. “My God!” she gasped. “It’s a chopper, and it’s practically on top of us!”

“Cops, maybe?” Renie shouted as the helicopter came closer. “With this mist, the visibility must be worse than mine.”

Most of the other onlookers were staring up, too. The copter’s rotors drowned out the voices of the marchers, who apparently had invaded the grounds of Hollywood House. After a final swoop the chopper gained altitude and flew away.

The throng that had just preceded Judith and Renie was at the iron gates. A few persons were trying to climb up the sturdy bars, either to get a better view or to leap onto the driveway. Judith, being taller than Renie, could see some twenty or thirty people in front of the house. They’d resumed their chanting as soon as the helicopter had departed.

“Guilty, guilty, guilty!” cried the crowd. “Jezebel, Jezebel, Jezebel!”

Renie managed to squeeze between a man and a woman who were shouting themselves hoarse. “Blind person coming through!” she shouted, extending a hand behind her to Judith. “Cripple on my rear!” She lowered her voice a notch and turned to Judith. “Do I detect some good old-fashioned John Knox Presbyterianism running amok?”

“What?” Judith responded. “I can’t hear you!” She stumbled and fell against a young man. “Oops! Sorry!”

“That’s okay,” the young man said, turning around. “Mrs. Flynn!”

“Barry!” Judith exclaimed. She noticed that Alison was next to him and offered a weak smile. “What’s happening?”

“Protesters, just like a real city,” Barry said, leaning close to Judith so he could make himself heard. “Never seen the like. I dinna ken half these folk. Auld Jocko got the Highlands riled up, didn’t he?”

“You mean these aren’t all villagers?” Judith asked in surprise.

Barry nodded. “More strangers than locals.”

“Do you agree with Jocko about Moira?” Judith inquired.

He shrugged. “Better than watching the telly on a Monday night.”

“We heard what sounded like shots,” Judith said.

Barry nodded. “It was shots, all right, fired by that butler when some of the mob climbed over the wall. Didn’t do much good, though. Think he shot a duck.”

The crowd suddenly grew silent, all eyes riveted on the front of Hollywood House. Judith stood on tiptoe to see what had captured their attention. A hazy figure on the second-floor balcony was outlined against the light that came from inside the open door.

“What is it?” Renie asked. “I’m half blind and too short.”

Before Judith could answer, a woman’s shrill voice split the swirling mist. “Why? Why? Why? I’m your friend, your neighbor! You know me! I’m innocent!”

A chorus of damning denial erupted from the crowd. “Moira,” Judith said in Renie’s ear.

“It doesn’t sound like her,” Renie said.

“She’s distraught, wringing her hands, pulling at her hair.” Compassion welled up inside Judith’s breast. “She’s…unhinged.”

Renie shook her head in disgust. “As my father would say, that’s ungood. It won’t help her with this bunch.”

Moira was trying to speak again, but the angry mob wouldn’t shut up. A new chant was emerging, though Judith couldn’t make it out. It sounded to her like “Caravan,” which made no sense. On the balcony, Moira bowed her head and gripped the rail. The cries of the crowd swiftly changed to “Jump, whore, jump!”

“Horrible!” Judith exclaimed. “Where are the police?”

“Looking for their car?” Renie suggested.

“Shut up.” More guilt overcame Judith. “What are they yelling besides ‘Jump’? ‘Caravan’? ‘Caveman’?”

“Cameron,” Renie said. “Now they’re shouting ‘Butcher!’ They must think Moira and Patrick conspired to kill Harry Gibbs.”

“I can’t hear you!” Judith cried as the noise grew to a fever pitch and the crowd pressed forward. “Let’s go before we get trampled!”

“How?” Renie yelled. “We’re stuck! Where are Barry and Alison?”

Judith couldn’t see them. She was being pushed closer to the gate, as if the mob intended to crush the iron bars with sheer force. Meanwhile, the driveway was becoming clogged with trespassers who had gone over the walls.

Judith’s view of the house had been blocked for the last couple of minutes, but while struggling to keep her balance, she got a glimpse of Moira. The anguished widow looked as if she was weeping, her head in her hands, her hair streaming around her hunched shoulders.

Suddenly the sound of sirens was heard over the crowd’s relentless roar. “Cops?” Judith mouthed to Renie, who listened and nodded.

It occurred to Judith that the police might use tear gas or some other unpleasant means to disperse the mob. Somehow, she realized, there had to be a way to escape the crush of irate people. “Can you crawl?” she whispered to Renie, augmenting the question with hand motions.