Hank:

We were back in Joan’s secret lair, at least, that’s how I liked to think of it. It had taken a couple of hours to get all the traps set out. Our knees were covered in that white rock dust from burying the spikes. I sure as shit was glad to be sitting down with a glass of water and a peanut butter-jelly sandwich. I was on the couch with the TV turned to some hockey game I didn’t really care about. It made for calming white noise though. Joan was sitting on a bar stool finishing up her sandwich. I’d learned we both made PB&J’s very differently.

“Why are you getting out a frying pan for PB&J?” I’d asked when we were using the kitchen.

She smiled mischievously, “You’ve never had a grilled peanut butter and jelly?” So now I had a warm, triangle cut “grilled” PB&J in front of me. I hesitantly picked up one half, careful not to spill, and took a bite.

“Damn,” I thought, “I get it.” The gooey peanut butter and melted jelly combined into a delicious ecstasy. “Mmm,” I murmured thickly through the sticky sandwich.

“Mmhmm,” Joan returned, chewing thoughtfully. Wish I had a glass of milk with this.

“You know when I was a kid, sometimes I would put PB&J on saltine crackers as a snack,” I said to Joan.

Joan licked her lips free of peanut butter, “Really?” she asked.

I nodded, “Yah, nice combination. Stuck your mouth together like cement though.”

Joan gave a short laugh, “I’ll have to try it sometime.” And back to comfortable silence. Well, at least, she seemed comfortable eating in silence. I was still nagged by my unanswered questions. Finishing my sandwich I picked up my plate and went to collect Joan’s too.

“I’ll wash these in the sink, when I get back I want you to tell me the whole story,” I stated as I picked up her plate. She looked about to protest but I turned and carefully climbed the stairs before she could refuse. The plates didn’t really need much scrubbing. After a few minutes, I was finished and the plates and frying pan were drying on a towel. I dried my hands and went back down to the lair. Joan had moved to the armchair and was loading a shotgun. One of the handguns was resting on the coffee table along with a couple ancient looking cans of beer and a bottle of Wild Turkey. I cleared my throat, “what’s all this?”

Joan glanced up briefly, “Packing it in for the night. If you need anything from upstairs get it, I’m bolting the door once you’re done.” Damn, she was blunt. Sometimes I felt like I was kid and she was the adult. It wasn’t comforting, I didn’t like the fact that she was already hardening up for a fight. Maybe I was just an old, soft-minded optimist, but I think kids should be kids as long as they can be.

I shook my head, “I’m good. Anything you need me to do?”

Joan laid the shotgun carefully on the floor and got up, “I need you to watch me demonstrate how to use a firearm.” She walked up the steps and pulled the door shut. There was a lever next to the handle, and she pushed a literal steel bolt into place.

“Alright, but only if you explain everything about you and Big Dic Energy,” I returned firmly. She looked at me blankly for a moment. After a long pause she nodded and gestured at the table. I went and sat back down on the couch and grabbed one of the beers. It looked like something my dad or granddad had drunk back in the day. I put it to the side and examined the pieces of the gun before me. Joan knelt on her knees on the opposite side of the coffee table.

“So first thing you need to know about any gun are its working parts and how to put it together,” she explained.

I put up a hand, “Wait a moment, I’m thankful you want to teach me but I already know how to load, unload, and point a gun. Most importantly I know how to keep the safety on.” Joan looked put out.

She frowned, “I just wanted to get you past your skittishness, the last thing I want is to worry about a jumpy trigger finger.” Picking up the pieces, she began to put the gun back together. With a huff, she went on, “Aunt Carol got me over my fear of firearms this way, by explaining the way it was built and the function. It’s a tool, a dangerous and effective tool that anyone can become fluent in using.” She snapped the hammer back in place.

I nodded and gently took it from her hands, “I’ll load it later, no need right now.” She stood and tossed a box of ammo at me from her pocket. “

Your funeral,” she retorted and slumped on the armchair. Joan wasted no time loading her own shotgun. She smirked when the loud click of the bolt sliding in place made me flinch a bit.

“Ok tough guy, talk,” I said gruffly, grabbing one of the ancient beers. It was flat but I didn’t care. Joan stood up again. I think she likes moving around when she’s uncomfortable or when she’s being confronted. She swung the shotgun over her shoulder and grabbed the bottle of bourbon with her free hand. I took it from her grip and put the other can of flat beer in her hand.

“What the fuck man!” she protested.

“We’re done measuring dicks, you’ve officially got the biggest balls in any room. Now prove it by being straight with me. And no liquor when there’s guns present,” I said gravely. I walked the bottle back to the bar shelf and waited with my back to Joan. It was something I learned when dealing with strays or any dog that had been put through the mill. You offer them food (or a flat beer) and you sit nearby with your back to them. That way the dog feels they can approach because a back of a man is much less scary than a front. You get someone to feel like they can be vulnerable if you first show vulnerability. There was a long silence but I expected that. I heard her sit down, still I waited for her to speak before facing her.

She took a deep breath, “I was an intern. No one important, just there to learn the policies concerning renewable resources and the plans for a more sustainable future.” Her voice was quiet and fragile sounding. “Turns out that sustainable future came at a price,” she cleared her throat. I slowly turned to face her, careful not to shatter the delicate atmosphere. Her eyes were wet but her voice stayed steady, “A friend of mine worked in the labs, she loved her job so much. But one day she came to me very disturbed. She wouldn’t talk about what troubled her for many days and avoided me a bit. Then, late one night, I got a call from her. She had to show me something urgently and moments after we hung up she was at my door. We drove to the offices and parked in the back by the shipping entrance. It felt like walking into a horror movie, which is more or less what happened. I don’t know what I expected an energy conglomerate lab to look like, but it certainly destroyed any of my expectations.” Here she paused, like she didn’t know how to continue. “There was-” she choked and stifled a sob. I walked over to sit on the couch to face her. She opened the beer and took a swig. She made a face at the can.

“Pretty sure that beer was in its prime a decade ago,” I said taking a swig from my own. She nodded and took another sip. I let her have a moment before nudging her to finish. “What was in the labs?” I asked as delicately as possible.

Joan stared at her hands a moment before continuing, “Animals in cages. In awful conditions, the kind of stuff you see only in dramatic news stories.” Tears spilled down her face, “chimpanzees and other monkeys mostly, B.D. wanted to see how there new plastic hybrids would affect human health so naturally they went after our closest cousin.” I gripped the side of the couch in anger, those evil bastards. She sniffed, “they were shaved and their skin was raw and angry from whatever they were testing. Some of them had manacles on and all of them looked miserable.” She sniffed and wiped her face with her sleeve, “I pulled out my phone and began to take pictures, seemed like the thing to do. I wanted proof of what B.D. was doing. We left quickly and went back to her place to think. I wanted to publish those pictures immediately but she suggested we send resignation letters and thoroughly look into the legal ramifications first.” Joan rolled her glistening eyes and shook her head, “I should have sent the pictures to the local paper at the same moment I quit. I woke up the next day to a threatening voicemail requesting my immediate presence. At least I was wise enough to avoid the office, Sharon wasn’t. They threatened to ruin her, apparently her employee contract contained fine print stipulating the strictest secrecy be maintained, even after leaving B.D.’s employment.” Joan gripped her hands into tight fists, I realized I had been doing the same. “Is that when you booked it?” I asked. Joan nodded, “yah, pretty much, had to keep myself and those pictures safe. I knew HR and the execs’ would pull the same ‘negotiating’ tactic on me.” I rubbed my eyes with one hand and sighed, “so where does the lab explosion come into play with all of this?” Joan grimaced, “That came as a surprise. I’d only been on the road a day, planning to see some out of town friends or family, when Sharon called and told me the lab I’d photographed had been destroyed.” “You’re kidding?” I quizzed in disbelief. Shaking her head she continued, “I wish, apparently if I tried to release the pictures they would formally level a charge of eco-terrorism at me.” Joan took a long sip and paused. I did the same with my beer. Finishing it off, I cleared my throat and said, “that’s what I call being stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

I folded my house in my lap, “And you really think B.D. will chase you all the way out here?”

Joan shrugged, “I don’t know,” she answered honestly, “I hope not. Or maybe I do…I haven’t thought much farther ahead,” she stumbled to explain.

I nodded in response. I hadn’t really thought much further ahead either. Shit. I realized I’d just been following along with Joan’s plan without trying to form my own. She was one hell of a confident leader, that’s for damn sure. She was also a scared and lonely kid, facing something most grown adults couldn’t handle. It was my turn to lead and try to lessen the burden on her shoulders.

“Alright, how about this,” I began, “we get some rest and wait the whole day tomorrow for those scumbags to show up. If nothing happens we make a new plan. Sound good?”

Joan held my gaze intently, “You actually use scumbag as an insult? Like an old TV detective?” I rolled my eyes as her face broke out in a grin and couldn’t help but smirk back.

“Alright, it sounds like a start at least,” she agreed with a yawn.

I checked my watch, it was almost 1:00 AM. I stood up from the couch and walked to the pile of blankets to grab a few to make the couch a makeshift bed. Joan sensed what I was doing and took the decorative pillows off so I could arrange the blankets. Once that was done, I pushed the comfy chair over to the stepladder. Whoever sat in it would hear and see any potential intruder immediately, plus it faced away from the bed. I figured Joan would share my discomfort of having a person staring over you as you slept.

“I’ll take first watch,” I said while grabbing my own pillow and blanket. Joan nodded, clearly tired from the long day. I turned off the lights and positioned Aunt Carol’s metal baseball bat beside the chair. “Maybe I’m a foolish softy,” I thought, staring up at the trapdoor, “but having a loaded gun in my hands doesn’t make me feel an inch safer.”