Deep Shadows (20 page)

The fire appeared to be under control. It was burning itself out, though hot spots occasionally still emerged. Max saw a paramedic load a firefighter into the ambulance and drive away. Another emergency worker knelt beside an injured woman.

He and Patrick walked in the opposite direction, circling the block and heading toward the park and springs.

Two lines of people stretched a quarter mile, running from the springs at the city park to the northeast corner of the fire and back again. One line passed buckets of water toward the fire. The other line passed empty buckets back toward the springs. Each person stood facing the north, legs spread, arms ready to receive and pass the bucket along.

Max and Patrick stood staring, heads swiveling from the human chain to the fire and back again. “I've never seen a bucket brigade,” Patrick said.

“How much water do you think each bucket holds?” Max asked.

“Not much, but their intent isn't to put out the fire.” Patrick and Max gazed at the now-smoldering buildings. “With a fire this size and no water pressure, the best they could ever hope to do was contain it. See? Most of the water from the brigade is soaking the area around the fire, not the actual buildings.”

As Max watched, the person at the end of the line threw the bucket of water on the base of a tree. He saw the line slowly inching west, and when it reached the end of the block, everyone turned and made their way back again. This way, they kept the ground around the buildings saturated in spite of the scope and intensity of the flames.

Ten minutes later, Max and Patrick sat next to the creek. The water from the underground springs bubbled up and into a giant cistern made of rock. When it reached 80 percent capacity, it flowed out through openings that deposited the water into Sulfur Creek, which joined the river.

“I wonder how long ago that cistern was built,” Patrick said.

“Eighteen hundreds,” said Shelby as she collapsed between them.

Her hair had frizzed into a torrent of black curls, and her voice sounded raspy. Max was able to make out her expression from the light of the blaze that continued to leap up occasionally. The only other source of light was from camping lanterns that had been hung from nearby tree limbs.

“My parents said their grandparents worked on it.”

“And still it stands.” Max handed a jug of water someone had given him to Shelby. She took a long swig and passed it to Patrick.

Max nodded his head toward Shelby. “Remember how she used to refuse a drink from an opened bottle of water?” he asked.

“Yeah. She caught me offering Carter the rest of my Dr Pepper once and nearly came unglued. Something about germs and transmittable diseases.”

“Fine. Laugh at me. I'm too tired to care.” Shelby flopped back onto the grass and looked skyward. “I can't believe we lost the bank, the Western wear store, and the flower shop tonight.”

“Don't think anyone will be buying flowers anyway,” Patrick said.

“You know what I mean.” Shelby rubbed at the soot on her face, succeeding in spreading it around even further.

“We lost a lot, but we saved three sides of the square and the courthouse.” Max glanced around them. In every direction he saw dozens, possibly hundreds, of people—all there to save the town square. His thoughts flashed back to the two thugs he'd seen breaking into the jewelry store, but he pushed that image away.

“This proves we can do it.” Shelby sat up and looked around. “We can survive. We're capable of putting our neighbors' needs first.”

“Folks are pulling together now,” Patrick agreed. “But will it last when they get hungry and desperate? Because if it doesn't, putting out a fire will be the least of our worries.”

T
WENTY
-N
INE

S
helby felt numb and exhausted. Her muscles hurt, smoke burned her eyes and throat, and she felt dirtier than the time she'd agreed to help Max pull his truck out of the mud when they were in high school.

She was a mess then, and she was a mess now.

At the same time, part of her felt more alive than ever. As she'd stood in the bucket brigade line, she'd felt part of something. Together they had managed to keep the fire from spreading.

They rounded the corner and made their way back toward the downtown square, intending to check in with Castillo. Instead they stopped short, and all Shelby's good feelings evaporated in an instant.

In the middle of the road was an ambulance, and beside it were two stretchers. Each stretcher contained a body, covered from head to toe with a sheet.

Shelby felt the world tilt, and Patrick and Max rushed closer to support her on both sides.

“I'm fine.” She shrugged them off. “I'm fine.”

Even to her own ears the words rang hollow.

“Who… who is it?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Dailey,” said a woman who held a blackened blanket. “Guess they lived upstairs.”

“Over the flower store,” Patrick said. “Mrs. Dailey always reminded me of the time she'd waited on Matt Damon. She kept a clipping of the newspaper article right beside the register.”

And now they were dead?

Shelby heard a ringing in her ears, and the palms of her hands suddenly felt slick with sweat. She pushed her way through the crowd to the curb outside the courthouse and plopped down, putting her head between her knees.

She closed her eyes and tried to shut out the smells and sounds and sights of death and destruction.

“Are you all right?” Max's voice in her ear pulled her back to the present.

She glanced up at him and nodded. Patrick slipped the bandana off his head and handed it to her. It was dirty and smelled of smoke, but she used it to wipe the perspiration off her forehead and across the back of her neck. She did so slowly, stalling, using the time to gather her wits about her.

What wits?

People were dying right and left.

In Abney, Texas.

“I have to get home,” she muttered as she jumped to her feet.

As they walked, the wind shifted and carried the smoke away from them. Shelby tried to focus simply on breathing, on pulling in clean gulps of air. She tried to recall the words she'd read in the Bible just a few hours ago—about Job, his losses, and God's plan for his life.

“I'll see you in the morning,” said Patrick. He pulled her into a hug and nodded at Max, and then he turned toward his street.

Max didn't speak. He knew her well enough to understand she needed silence. When they turned the corner of their street, something deep inside her gut relaxed.

“He's fine,” Max assured her.

And that was all he said until she started up the steps of her house and unlocked the front door. Before she went inside, he put his hand on her arm, and motioned toward the rockers set to the side of the porch.

She wanted to say no. She didn't have the energy to comprehend one more thing. But Max laced his fingers with hers and tugged her toward the chairs. She sank into the one nearest the front door and groaned.

“You'll have even more aches when you wake up,” he said, sitting down in the other rocker.

“Fought a lot of fires, Berkman?”

“No. That was my first.”

She knew by his tone of voice that a frown was forming lines between his eyes.

“Reminds me of football, though. At first you don't think you can do something, but then you get caught up in it. You tell yourself to keep going. Eventually it's as if you reach a…” He paused, glancing out at the street where they could see the silhouettes of others straggling home.

“A rhythm,” Shelby said. “You reach a rhythm. It becomes automatic.”

“Exactly. But the next morning? You pay the price.”

She set the rocker in motion and wondered if she could sleep there, as the slight breeze cooled her skin.

“Take two ibuprofen when you go to bed. I'd tell you to take a hot bath, but I guess those are things of the past.”

“I studied it, researched it, even wrote about it. This flare—it shouldn't have come as a surprise to me. The Carrington Brides, that's what I called the series—a name dangerous and hopeful at the same time. They were some of my bestselling books, but I didn't… I never understood what I was writing about.”

“Studying a thing is not the same as living it.”

“Not even close. I had no idea how much it would hurt, inside.”

“We're going to make it through this, Shelby.”

“You can't know that.”

She turned toward him in the dark. She could just make out his profile by the light of the nearly full moon, something she hadn't even noticed until this moment. Max always reminded her to take time for the good things in life, to step away from her computer and writing deadlines and take the time to live.

There had only been one time in her past when he wasn't there, and it was the worst time of her life.

“We are going to make it,” he repeated.

“So you're telling me that you know we won't die in a fire like the Daileys.”

“That's not what—”

“Or that we won't be killed by someone who wants our car.”

“Shelby—”

She was suddenly very tired, and the certainty of what she needed to do came back to her full force. She'd had nothing short of a revelation
while sitting by the window and reading Job. It was born of desperation, but it dictated her path nonetheless.

“I can't talk about this right now.”

“Look, it's late, and I know that you're exhausted. But there's not going to be a good time to say this. Things are moving quickly now, and they're not likely to slow down.”

“So say it.” She turned her gaze to him, willing him to voice the fears tapping on her heart.

“Things are going to get worse around here, much worse, before they get better. Folks in Abney are pulling together, something I'm very happy to see. But they're not hungry yet. They're not fighting one another for the last can of beans, shooting the deer that moseys into their front yard, eating their neighbors' pets…”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I want you to come with me to High Fields. Ride this thing out there. My parents will be happy to have you and Carter. There's plenty of room, and if I know my folks—an adequate supply of food.”

“I can provide for Carter.” Even as she said it, she wondered if it was true.

“At High Fields you won't have to sleep with your windows closed because you're afraid someone's going to break in.”

So he'd noticed that. No surprise. Max missed very little.

“Are you finished?”

“No. I'm not.” He stood and paced in front of her. Finally he turned, crossed his arms, and studied her. “I want you and Carter with me.”

The words were a confession, a plea, a caress.

She pushed herself up and out of the rocker and walked over to where he stood. Standing close enough to catch the scent of sweat and smoke, she also smelled something that was quintessentially Max.

Was there anyone on earth who she understood better than Max Berkman? Even her son puzzled her at times, but Max… she could read him like a familiar passage in her favorite book. If she were honest, High Fields sounded like the perfect place to be—a refuge, a place to weather the storm. But the insulin Carter needed was in Austin. Their future lay there.

“Thank you, Max, but no.” She placed her hand on his chest, felt his heartbeat pulsing under her palm. “We won't be coming with you.”

Without another word, she turned and walked into her house.

T
HIRTY

B
y the time Max walked into his home, he wanted to fall on top of his bed fully clothed and sleep for twelve hours. Instead, he turned on the battery-operated lantern he'd found among his camping supplies. He walked to his bathroom, dipped a washcloth in the pail of water Carter had filled, and began to clean his face and hands. He glanced once at the bath, thought briefly about how nice a long, hot shower would feel, and then he nearly laughed at himself. They had taken so much for granted.

Hot water? No problem!

Sore muscles? Take some ibuprofen.

Hungry? Go to the pizza parlor.

As he scrubbed away the soot and sweat, he acknowledged to himself that he was much more dependent on modern conveniences than he'd ever realized.

Staring at the filthy cloth, he debated whether he should dip it into the pail again, but he wasn't willing to dirty his limited water supply. Instead he walked to the kitchen, retrieved a cup, and poured clean water over the soiled cloth.

Why hadn't he bought a generator?

Why hadn't he laid in more supplies?

Dropping his grimy clothes into the laundry basket, he wondered how he would ever wash them. That was one problem he could put off for a few days. He donned fresh clothes and walked to the kitchen. His home looked different in the soft light of the lantern, and it was strikingly quiet. He'd never been one to watch a lot of television, but most evenings
he enjoyed listening to a ball game on his iPhone or satellite radio. Now he heard only the chirp of crickets outside his window and a dog barking down the road.