“Yes. Evidently that’s the kind of people they are. That’s a real bad way of thinking because violence leads to more violence. Besides, if you settle differences with a gun, there’s no justice, no moment of peace, no hope. You follow me?” j “I guess so. But what’s the other worst kind of bad thinking?” I “Pacifism,” she said. “That’s just the opposite of the first kind ” of bad thinking. Pacifists believe you should never lift a hand against another human being, no matter what he has done or what you know he’s going to do. If a pacifist was standing beside his brother, and if he saw a man coming to kill his brother, he’d urge his brother to run, but he wouldn’t pick up a gun and stop the killer.”
“He’d let the guy go after his brother?” Chris asked, astonished.
“Yes. If worse came to worst, he’d let his brother be murdered rather than violate his own principles and become a killer himself. “That’s whacko.”
They rounded the point of the ridge, and the road descended into another valley. The branches of overhanging pines were so low they scraped the roof; clumps of snow fell onto the hood and windshield. Laura turned on the wipers and hunched over the steering wheel, using the change in terrain as an excuse not to talk until she had time to think how to make her point most clearly. They had endured a lot of violence in the past hour; much more violence no doubt lay ahead of them, and she was concerned that Chris develop a proper attitude toward it. She did not want him to get the idea that guns and muscle were acceptable substitutes for reason. On the other hand she did not want him to be traumatized by violence and learn to fear it at the cost of personal dignity and ultimate survival. At last she said, “Some pacifists are cowards in disguise, but some really believe it’s right to permit the murder of an innocent person rather than kill to stop it. They’re wrong because by not fighting evil, they’ve become part of it. They’re as bad as the guy who pulls the trigger. Maybe this is above your head right now, and maybe you’ll have to do a lot of thinking before you understand, but it’s important you realize there’s a way to live that’s in the middle, between killers and pacifists. You try to avoid violence. You never start it. But if someone else starts it, you defend yourself, friends, family, anyone who’s in trouble. When I had to shoot those men at the house, it made me sick. I’m no hero. I’m not proud of having shot them, but I’m not ashamed of it, either. I don’t want you to be proud of me for it, or think that killing them was satisfying, that revenge in any way makes me feel better about your dad’s murder. It doesn’t.” He was silent.
She said, “Did I dump too much on you?” “No. I just gotta think about it a while,” he said. “Right now, I’m thinking bad, I guess. ‘Cause I want them all dead, all of them who bad anything to do with . . . what happened to Dad. But I’ll work on it, Mom. I’ll try to be a better person.” She smiled. “I know you will, Chris.”
During her conversation with Chris and for the few minutes of mutual silence that followed it, Laura continued to be plagued by the feeling that they were not yet out of imminent danger. They had gone about seven miles on the ridge road, with perhaps another mile of dirt track and two miles of pavement ahead before they connected with state route 38. The farther she drove, the more certain she became that she was overlooking something and that more trouble was drawing near.
She suddenly stopped on the spine of another ridge, just before the road dipped down again—and for the last time—toward lower land. She switched off the engine and the lights.
“What’s wrong?” Chris asked.
“Nothing. I just need to think, have a look at our passenger.”
She got out and went around to the back of the Jeep. She opened the tailgate, where a bullet had punched through the window. Chunks of safety glass broke out and fell on the ground at her feet. She climbed into the cargo bed and, lying next to her guardian, checked the wounded man’s pulse. It was still weak, perhaps even slightly weaker than before, but it was regular. She put a hand to his head and found he was no longer cold; he seemed to be afire within. At her request Chris gave her the flashlight from the glove compartment. She pulled back the blankets to see if the man was bleeding worse than when they had loaded him into the Jeep. His wound looked bad, but there was not much fresh blood in spite of the bouncing that he had endured. She replaced the blankets, returned the flashlight to Chris, got out of the Jeep, and closed the tailgate.