Meg Cabot - Sanctuary

That night, however—even though it was a Saturday—the place was pretty much devoid of customers. That was on account of all the snow. It was no joke, trying to ride a motorcycle through a foot and a half of fresh powder. Rob thankfully hadn't even tried it, and had come to get me instead in his mother's pickup.

But he had been one of the few to brave the mostly unplowed back countryroads. With the exception of Rob and me, Chick's was empty, of both clientele and employees. Neither the bartender nor the fry cook had made it in. Chick hadn't been too happy about having to make his own sandwich. But mostly, if you ask me, because he was so huge, he didn't fit too easily in the small galley kitchen out back.

"Don't tread on me," Rob repeated, for my benefit. "Remember? That was printed on one of the first American flags, along with a coiled snake." He held up my drawing, but tilted it the way Chick had. "That thing on the end isn't an arrow. It's the snake's head. See?"

All I saw was still just a squiggly line with an arrow coming out of it. But I went, "Oh, yeah," so I wouldn't seem too stupid.

"So, these True Americans," I said. "What are they? A motorcycle gang, like the Hell's Angels, or something?"

"Hell, no!" Chick exploded, spraying bits of meatball and bread around. "Ain't a one of 'em could ride his way out of a paper bag!"

"They're a militia group, Mastriani," Rob explained, showing a bit more patience than his friend and mentor, Chick. "Run by a guy who grew up around here … Jim Henderson."

"Oh," I said. I was trying to appear worldly and sophisticated and all, since I was in a bar. But it was kind of hard. Especially when I didn't understand half of what anybody was saying. Finally, I gave up.

"Okay," I said, resting my elbows on the sticky, heavily graffitied bar. "What's a militia group?"

Chick rolled his surprisingly pretty blue eyes. They were hard to notice, being mostly hidden from view by a pair of straggly gray eyebrows.

"You know," he said. "One of those survivalist outfits, live way out in the backwoods. Won't pay their taxes, but that don't seem to stop 'em from feeling like they got a right to steal all the water and electricity they can."

"Why won't they pay their taxes?" I asked.

"Because Jim Henderson doesn't approve of the way the government spends his hard-earned money," Rob said. "He doesn't want his taxes going to things like education and welfare … unless the right people are the ones receiving the education and welfare."

"The right people?" I looked from Rob to Chick questioningly. "And who are the right people?"

Chick shrugged his broad, leather-jacketed shoulders. "You know. Your basic blond, blue-eyed, Aryan types."

"But …" I fingered the smooth letters of a woman's name—BETTY—that had been carved into the bar beneath my arms. "But the true Americans are the Native Americans, right? I mean, they aren't blond."

"It ain't no use," Chick said, with his mouth full, "arguin' semantics with Jim Henderson. To him, the only true Americans're the ones that climbed down offa the Mayflower … white Christians. And you ain't gonna tell 'im differently. Not if you don't want a twelve gauge up your hooha."

I raised my eyebrows at this. I wasn't sure what a hooha was. I was pretty sure I didn't want to know.

"Oh," I said. "So they killed Nate …"

"… because he was black," Rob finished for me.

"And they burned down the synagogue …"

"… because it's not Christian," Rob said.

"So the only true Americans, according to Jim Henderson," I said, "are people who are exactly like … Jim Henderson."

Chick finished up his last bite of meatball sandwich. "Give the girl a prize," he said, with a grin, revealing large chunks of meat and bread trapped between his teeth.

I slapped the bar so hard with the flat of my hand, it stung.

"I don't believe this," I yelled, while both Rob and Chick looked at me in astonishment. "Are you saying that all this time, there's been this freaky hate group running around town, and nobody's bothered to do anything about it?"

Rob regarded me calmly. "And what should someone have done, Mastriani?" he asked.

"Arrested them, already!" I yelled.

"Can't arrest a man on account of his beliefs," Chick reminded me. "A man's entitled to believe whatever he wants, no matter how back-ass-ward it might be."

"But he still has to pay his taxes," I pointed out.

"True enough," Chick said. "Only ol' Jim never had two nickels to rub together, so I doubt the county ever thought it'd be worth its while to go after him for tax evasion."

"How about," I said, coldly, "kidnapping and murder? The county might think those worth its while."

"Imagine so," Chick said, looking thoughtful. "Don't know what ol' Jim must be thinking. Isn't like 'im, really. I always thought Jimmy was, you know, all blow and no go."

"Perhaps the arrival," Rob said, "of the Thompkinses, the first African-American family to come to town, offended Mr. Henderson. Aroused in him a feeling of righteous indignation."

Chick stared at Rob, clearly impressed. "Ooh," he said. "Righteous indignation. I'm going to remember that one."

"Right," I said, slipping off my barstool. "Well, that's it, then. Let's go."

Both Chick and Rob blinked at me.

"Go?" Chick echoed. "Where?"

I couldn't believe he even had to ask. "To Jim Henderson's place," I said. "To get Seth Blumenthal."

Chick had been swallowing a sip of beer as I said this. Well, okay, not a sip, exactly. Guys like Chick don't sip, they guzzle.

In any case, when I said this, he let loose what had been in his mouth in a plume that hit Rob, me, and the jukebox.

"Oh, man," Rob said, reaching for some cocktail napkins Chick kept in a pile behind the bar.

"Yeah, Mr. Chick," I said. "Say it, don't spray it."

"Nobody," Chick said, ignoring us, "is going to Jim Henderson's place. Got it? Nobody."

I couldn't believe it.

"Why not?" I demanded. "I mean, we know they did it, right? It's not like they tried to hide it, or anything. They practically hung up a big sign that says 'We Did It.' So let's go over there and make 'em give Seth back."

Chick looked at me for a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed. A lot.

"Give the kid back," he chortled. "Wheredja get this one, Wilkins? She's a riot."

Rob wasn't laughing. He looked at me sadly.

"What?" I said. "What's so funny?"

"We can't go to Jim Henderson's, Mastriani," Rob said.

I blinked at him. "Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, Henderson shoots at the water meter-men the county sends out," Rob said. "You think he's not going to try to take us out?"

"Um," I said. "Hello? That's why we sneak in."

"Little lady," Chick said, stubbing a finger thickly encrusted with motorcycle grease at me. I didn't mind him calling me little lady because, well, there wasn't much I could do about it, seeing as how he was about three times as big as me. Mr. Goodhart would have been proud of the progress I was making. Normally the size of my opponent was just about the last thing I considered before tackling someone. "You don't know squat. Didn't I hear you say these folks already shot up a cop earlier today, on account of not wanting to give up some kid they got hold of?"

"Yes," I said. "But the officers involved weren't prepared for what they were up against. We'll be ready."

"Mastriani," Rob said, shaking his head. "I get where you're coming from. I really do. But we aren't talking the Flintstones here. These guys have a pretty sophisticated setup."

"Yeah," Chick said, after letting out a long, aromatic belch. "You're talking some major security precautions. They got the barbed wire, guard dogs, armed sentries—"

" What ?" I was so mad, I felt like kicking something. "Are you kidding me? These guys have all that? And the cops just let them?"