Between his job, which was running on as erratic a schedule as ever, and the anti-park campaign, which was gobbling up most of what time was left, Dave hadn't shot a picture in weeks. Not that it was his biggest regret: his biggest regret was there at NOH-WAI headquarters, lining up speakers, coaching the canvassers, greeting him with a too-casual smile and every now and them sneaking off for a whispered one-on-one conference with . . . Brad. Argh.
Jenny hadn't forgotten what happened that night at her apartment -- anyone who listened to their stilted conversations must have known that something was up -- but she seemed determined to let Dave know that it had been a mistake. And as much as the simple fact of not having her tore at him, her attitude made it worse. It's not that I want something more, he thought, it's that she does too and she can't even admit it.
But in fact, she could admit it, and did -- not openly but subtly, in small ways that only Brad could see. "It's obvious you've got a thing for him," he said one night after everyone else had gone home. "What the hell has that townie got that makes him so special to you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she said, straightening up her desk with sudden violence. "I appreciate Dave's enthusiasm, is all. But in the end, he's just a volunteer, like anyone else."
"Then why do you treat him differently from the other volunteers?"
"I do not treat anyone differently from anyone else. Except you." She looked up at him, her expression gone from angry to weary. "Come on. Let's go home."
Brad seemed to take things pretty well from that point on -- although he and Jenny spent that night, and the few that followed, on opposite sides of the bed, and although he became what Dave regarded as suspiciously friendly. "Hey, buddy," he said, grinning, the next time their paths crossed, "hear you're quite the photographer." While the last thing Dave wanted to do just then was smile and chat, there was no pretext he could think of to do otherwise, especially if he wanted to avoid a complete freezeout. And so began what evolved into a three-way acquaintance in which every one of the three participants was forcing it. There were days Dave wanted to run out screaming, but he held on, for the glimmer of hope with Jenny and for the cause.
"This is our chance," he announced, bursting in one afternoon. "Spencer's actually gonna appear at a foreclosure."
Jenny turned away from her work. "At a what?"
"A foreclosure. Of a ranch, I should say. Most of 'em have been sold directly to a holding company, but this one just failed and the bank'll put it up for grabs. Spencer's pitch is gonna be, see what happens without the park, why don't you follow me into a bright new future, yadda yadda . . ."
"As if the park will make things better. What gall."
Dave shrugged. "Politics. This guy Spencer is proving to be a natural."
"So how do you know about this?"
"It's in my neighborhood."
Jenny flushed a little. "Sorry," she said, then regained her composure. "Our chance for what?"
"Our chance to point out directly what a jerk he is. What if, instead of the usual pack of reporters, he had to face a protest?"
"I don't know, Dave. Those things have to be handled just right . . . "
"But who's to say we can't?" Brad, who'd heard the tail end of things, came in and set his things down at Jenny's desk. "Dave's right," he said. "Sometimes you have to stick your neck out a little. Spencer and the park are both cruising in the local polls right now, and we need to break their momentum."
"But we're not running the electoral campaigns," said Jenny. "We are here to create awareness and let people do things for themselves."
"And I am one of those people," said Dave, looking her hard in the face. "I can do this on my own anyway. Let me do it with the organization's support. Please."
Jenny looked back and forth between Dave, who stood implacably, and Brad, who nodded his consent solemnly. "Okay," she said. "But let's plan this like choreography. It has to go smoothly."
This was enough to fill Dave with genuine warmth, at least for the moment; he smiled at Jenny, shook Brad's hand, and went off to start making phone calls. Brad and Jenny exchanged looks -- Brad's aimed at reassurance -- then retreated into their own stack of tasks. Eventually, Jenny and the volunteers went out canvassing, leaving Brad to man the phones. The first thing he did was make a phone call, cupping his hand over the receiver as if afraid of being overheard.
"Ms. Spencer," he said. "Have I got news for you."
The day of the protest, Dave gathered together a stack of hand-lettered placards and tossed them into the back of Roy's spare pickup, the one he now borrowed without Roy's noticing, much less caring. Technically, they could be evicted at any time, but the holding company had no use for the land unless (until, they were wagering) the park became a reality, and throwing people out made for bad public relations. So they stayed on, Roy deep in a funk, hardly leaving the place, and Dave doing the opposite, losing himself in other concerns. He was almost set to go then, as an afterthought, went back and grabbed his camera and zoom lens. This ought to be interesting at least, he thought, bumping his way along the gravel path that led off the property and to the road.
Although the place that Spencer was descending on was nearby, Dave had to go into town first to pick up some of the crew at NOH-WAI and go over the details one last time. But he arrived to find Jenny and Brad both missing. Apparently, explained one of the high-school kids who were the only ones there, Brad had rushed in babbling about "an important meeting" across town and dragged Jenny off with him, promising to finish up in time to make it to the event. "So what do we do now?" the kid asked, as the others circled around expectantly.
Dave suddenly remembered Jenny's apprehension and wondered if she hadn't been prophetic. If this was the best the opposition could do, they might as well start lining up for rides now; he felt like a chaperone at a dance, not a protest leader. But they had to try. "We go ourselves," he said.
They never made it there.
Spencer's appearance at the ranch, like all his campaign appearances, had the kind of organization Jenny had wished for aloud -- "like choreography." The usual galaxy of press outlets (most of which had repeatedly stuffed NOH-WAI's attempts to land a story) were assembled; the citizens' group headed by Dave's uncle Mike was alongside, albeit in a kind of shotgun marriage; the ex-owner of the land had been recruited to deliver a "don't let this happen to you" warning; and even sight lines and lighting had been accounted for. The moment thus constructed was intimate, meant to create a feeling of closeness among the tightly ringed crowd or, better, the greater numbers who would view it later at home, transported by the camera's magic into the front row. Even from a slight distance, it was an impressive sight, the participants in perfect geometric formation like a marching band, the rows of sound vans and transmitters flanking the path like an honor guard . . . but they never got there.
About half a mile from the site, Dave spotted a van half-on, half-off the roadway, and a tall heavyset kid with a wispy beard beside it flagging him down. He was worried about the time, but the kid in the road looked frantic, so he pulled up behind them and put the truck into park.
"I'm just gonna see what's up," he said, opening the door while leaving the truck idling.
"Hey," said one of the kids, "I know him. He was a grade ahead of me in school till he dropped out."
"You wanna talk to him?"
"No. The guy's an asshole, Dave."
Dave just shrugged; you couldn't drive by someone in trouble just because he wasn't a Boy Scout. He got out and started walking toward the van, the kid in the road looked at him as if trying to determine who he was, and it was when he got close enough to see well that all hell broke loose. The kid wheeled around and banged a meaty fist on the side of the van and suddenly the back doors opened and half a dozen other guys, every last one bigger than Dave, came charging out. Dave saw them rushing back to the truck, grabbing the placards from the bed, tearing them to pieces, swinging at the terrorized kids through the open windows; he chased after them, jumping on the leader's back and flailing away with his fists, before being caught and flung to the pavement. What happened next wasn't clear, but he could remember the sky tilting dizzily as he fell, the dull thumping of the kicks to his ribs, the warmth of blood trickling down his face, the struggle to stand and, dazed, stagger to the truck as his attackers dropped back.
"We've got to get out of here," came a panicky voice from the back seat.
"They're still in our way," said someone else. "Maybe we can back out of here."
"Which way is the hospital? He looks real bad.
Dave listened to this seep into his brain; he realized that he was the "he," and remembered that the hospital was straight ahead, past the turnoff for the ranch and, more important, past the knot of thugs that now stood in the road, waiting to see what he'd do.
"You go on home now, girls," the leader yelled, pointing back where they'd come from. God, thought Dave, they think they're in a damn schoolyard, they think it's a game. He sat, slumped over the wheel, wondering if, like Roy, there was nothing left for him but to go home and give up.
"No," he said, aloud. "No way." He shifted the truck into reverse and began backing up, slowly, as if he were giving the thugs what they wanted; then, he slammed it into forward gear, hit the gas, and barreled down the fifty yards or so separating them. If they'd held their ground, he'd have been happy to run them down, but they scattered to the side of the road, some diving. When he was clear of them, he stopped the truck, climbed out, and doubled over as if about to collapse to the pavement; they gathered themselves together and charged again, this time with true anger and not just for sport; and as they did he straightened up, camera at the ready, and started clicking away. He got about five or six shots off before they began closing, then jumped back into the cab and zoomed off, at first soaring on adrenaline then beginning to feel the pain of his injuries for real. It was all he could do to keep driving, knowing they didn't have far to go to reach safety.
"When we get to the hospital," he sighed, "make a couple of calls for me."
Jenny was the second call, after Roy. She was still sniping at Brad for wasting her time with the "important meeting" that turned out to be nothing, a glass of iced tea with some nice old lady who promised to write them a check later, when she got the word. "Dave was ambushed," she blurted, hanging up the phone. "He's in the hospital."
"Hospital?" Brad's face went nearly white. What? Why?"
"Someone didn't want him to get to that protest," she said, looking around for her bag and car keys. "It was like someone knew."
"No kidding." She looked at him then, at his stricken face, at his shaking hands, and suddenly she was the one who knew something.
"Oh, no," she gasped. "You didn't."
"They were just supposed to harass them, scare them off," he said weakly. "I never thought they'd put him in the hospital."
But they did; he'd paid them; and that was the end for Brad and Jenny. He packed his bags and went back to Tucson that evening, leaving without saying a word or looking her in the eye. Jenny appeared at the hospital the next day, while Dave was admitted for observation, and chatted with Roy, but Dave didn't have much to say to her after she'd explained. She left feeling responsible for everything that had happened, and wondered NOH-WAI should (or could) continue.
Dave, meanwhile, needed some time to rest. He stayed at home for several days, reading up on the election and talking to Roy (who seemed to perk up from having him there), removing himself from the heat and bustle of canvassing and rallies. He didn't come to any sudden revelations, but he felt better able to absorb developments, even to contemplate a future in which they lost and things turned out okay. It's funny, he thought. Once you've really seen (and felt, literally) how unfair life can be, you're a little less likely to wail about how life is unfair. We'll try our best and we'll deal with whatever happens.
Which didn't mean he was overly philosophical about what had happened to him. He had the photos, on a roll with some shots of a rally from the previous week, and if they came out well he could use them to exact . . . well, something. The police didn't seem too optimistic about any of the thugs getting much more than a slap on the wrist, considering their ages, and if he gave them the pictures he'd never see them again. Finally, he thought he'd try something else. He got the shots developed, saw that they were not only clear enough but filled with the energy of the moment, enough to send a fresh chill through him, and sent the prints with a brief note off to one of the Tucson dailies. A couple of days later, the metro editor of the paper called.
"These are dynamite," the editor said. "How come no one knows about this?"
"Everything's focused on the official campaign," said Dave. "That's what we always complained about in NOH-WAI. No one seems to want to hear about anything else."
"Well, they will now. We'll send a writer up to talk to you about what happened. But how would you like to help cover the background to the campaign for us, as a stringer? Keep sending us your photos, and if we like them we'll keep buying them."
Dave didn't answer right away, only because this was more than he'd ever expected. Certainly there was nothing to really think about. "Sounds like a deal," he said, practically laughing with disbelief. When he hung up the phone he thought, for a moment, about calling Jenny. He formed an image of her, working into the night, smiling as she took the call from her little illuminated corner of headquarters . . . but the image wouldn't hold; it began to fade and crack before his eyes, and he put it aside to look for Roy.