Deep Shadows (4 page)

“That is not what the castle law says,” Max said.

Patrick put a hand on his arm, as if to pull him back.

“And who are you?” The man's tone and expression were far from friendly.

“Max Berkman. We live over in Abney, and I'm a lawyer.”

“Is that so?”

“It is, and you should each realize that the castle law is basically a stand-your-ground law. It means you do not have to retreat if you feel threatened in your place of residence.”

“Or my truck or my place of work.”

Everyone started talking again, but this time Max silenced them by taking another step toward the center of the room.

“You're right about that, Mr.—”

“Jim. That's all you need to know.”

“All right, Jim.” Max glanced around the room. He'd meant to stay
quiet, but he'd never been able to abide people misinterpreting the law. “You are only authorized to use deadly force if there is imminent danger. That doesn't include someone passing across your field.”

“How do I know they're not coming to kill me?”

“Stop stirring the pot, Jim.” Toby glanced out the window and then back at the group. “Hasn't even been a couple of hours, and you sound like you're making a second stand at the Alamo.”

“Maybe I am, and maybe you need to take this a little more seriously. You know as well as I do that there are folks who wait for situations like this so they can prey on the weak.”

“Which we are not,” Toby muttered.

“No, but some of us can be gullible.” Sam stepped forward, shouldering Jim out of the limelight and throwing a pointed look at the teenagers. “This ain't the zombie apocalypse. It's real and it's happening now. If the electricity comes back on, even for a few minutes, use the time to fill what containers you can find with water—”

“My well has never gone dry,” said the woman with the shotgun.

“True, but unless it's hooked up to a windmill, you won't be getting any water out of it. Most of the wells around here are basically small pipes dug deep into the ground and operated by electrical pumps. Without electricity, we're going to have a problem.” This caused a smattering of conversations to erupt.

Max could only make out what the people standing closest to them were saying, and they were debating everything from ammunition to water supply to anarchy.

“Go home,” Sam said more loudly, his tone silencing everyone in the room. “Watch for strangers, don't trust anyone you don't recognize, and we'll meet back here at six tomorrow evening. By then we should know more.”

A few folks had additional questions. One or two on Max's side of the room turned and glanced their way.

Max touched Shelby's arm and motioned with his head toward the door. He didn't want to still be in the building when the impromptu meeting broke up.

“Not exactly a welcoming group,” Patrick said. “And I thought we were going to play it low-key.”

Max shrugged. “That was the plan.”

“Well, someone forgot to follow it.”

“I was clarifying the law.”

“You could have picked a better time.”

The four of them hurried toward the truck, piled in, and pulled back onto the two-lane.

“People need to understand that the law doesn't change simply because there's an emergency.” Max pushed the transmission into drive and accelerated as fast as he dared. He'd feel better once they were within the town limits of Abney.

F
IVE

S
helby tried to tamp down her impatience. They'd driven away from the store and turned east, toward Abney. Patrick and Bianca were discussing what they'd learned back at the store.

Max caught her eye and said, “Carter is going to be fine.”

“I know he will.”

“But you're worried.”

“Yes. Of course I am. That's what a mother does. We're bred to worry.”

“He hasn't had… any episodes in a long time.”

“I know that.”

“He's a man now.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do. He'll be going off to college in a few months—”

“Not now.” The realization tore at her heart. “Not now he won't.”

“We don't know that. Regardless, he will handle his condition. He's a smart guy.”

She was about to argue with him—to point out that insulin was going to be a problem. And balanced meals? Well, that might very well be a thing of the past. But before she could raise her objections, he was braking and pulling over to the side of the road. To their left a sedan had plowed through a fence and was resting against a pecan tree.

“This isn't a good idea, Max,” Patrick said.

“So what, we just leave them here? Somebody could be hurt.”

Max was out of the car without another word, hurrying toward the driver who had creaked open the door and was tumbling out of the car.

Shelby hesitated. She wanted to be in Abney. She needed to hurry this up. Patrick had gotten out of the truck and followed Max, though she couldn't see him from where she sat. She glanced back at Bianca. “Should we go with them?”

“We might be able to help.”

They picked their way across the field, a disorienting maze of darkness and light. She could just hear Max calling out to the driver, “Do you folks need some help?”

“We do. I must have taken my eyes off the road for a minute. My friend, I think he's hurt.” The man was in his twenties, with longish brown hair.

Max followed him around to the passenger side of the car, and Shelby noticed the driver step back as Max opened the door.

“Hands up, and I'm going to need your wallet.” The driver had pulled a handgun and was pointing it at Max.

Bianca jerked on Shelby's arm, pulling her to the ground.

“We have to help him,” whispered Shelby.

Instead of answering, Bianca nodded toward the east, where Patrick was stepping out from behind a tree. He moved without hesitation and was behind the kid in seconds, his own pistol drawn and pointed at the punk's head.

“Drop it.”

Even from where they lay, she could hear the calm, cold certainty in Patrick's voice.

The thief—because that was what this was all about, Shelby realized with stunning clarity—dropped his pistol. Patrick kicked it away, and Max scrambled after it.

When Shelby glanced back at the supposed wreck, the driver and the passenger stood with their backs against the car.

“You crashed your car? So you could rob me?” Max held the man's gun down at his side.

The passenger, who was even younger than the driver, shrugged.

“You need to start talking,” Patrick barked. He still hadn't lowered his weapon.

“Can't think straight with that pointed at me.”

“Well, you should have considered that before you started down this path. Now talk.”

“We weren't going to hurt anyone. Just needed a little more cash, what with this… this thing happening.”

“So you wrecked your own car?”

“It isn't really wrecked. We drove it through the fence so someone would think we'd crashed. Obviously it worked.” The kid sounded almost proud of himself.

Max removed a clip from the semiautomatic. From where they were lying on the ground, Shelby could see Patrick shift his gun to his left hand and hold out his right. He deposited the thief's gun and clip into his pocket.

“You can't keep that, man.”

Patrick must have told Max to pat them down. When he indicated they didn't have any other weapons, Patrick barked, “On the ground. Hands behind your back. I don't want to see you so much as twitch.”

Patrick nodded to Max, who jogged back toward the truck.

Shelby and Bianca scrambled after him.

Once Max had the truck idling, Patrick leaned down, said something else to the two thieves, and then he jogged back toward the car.

“What did you say to them?” Max asked.

“I told them if they moved or tried to come after us, I was going to come back and put a bullet in their heads.” Patrick clipped his seat belt into the buckle, his eyes still on the two men lying in the field.

Instead of reprimanding him, Max said, “You shouldn't have taken their gun. Legally it's their property.”

“I was supposed to let them keep it? Let them rob the next car that comes by?”

“I don't know, Patrick, but it wasn't ours to take.”

“In case you haven't noticed, we can't exactly call 9-1-1.”

“I'll give it to the sheriff when we get back in town.”

“I have a feeling the sheriff is going to have his hands full.”

“Patrick's right,” Bianca said. “They looked like stupid kids, but they could have hurt someone.”

“Kids is right,” Max muttered.

“The rules have changed.” Shelby stared out the window. “In the blink of an eye, everything has changed.”

She knew Max didn't agree with her, but he floored the accelerator and focused on getting them back to town.

The second time they stopped was a quarter mile west of Lynch Creek. An older man and woman stood beside what appeared to be a brand-new car. Max pulled to the side of the road when the man stepped out into their lane, waving his hands.

“I can't believe we're doing this again,” Patrick said, but everyone tumbled out of Max's truck, each person pausing to stare up at the sky once more.

The car had been purchased the week before and had “just quit,” according to Dale Smitty, who introduced himself and his wife with a nod toward the ladies and a handshake for the guys.

“I suspected the newfangled thing was a bad idea. Today's cars have more computers and less reliability. Have you seen the spare? My grandson's bike tire is bigger. I was happy with the Chevy we had, but the wife wanted something new and shiny.”

Joyce Smitty didn't bother responding to that. She did turn to Shelby and say, “Our phones don't work either. It's the strangest thing. Happened when we first noticed the lights.”

A weathered hand motioned toward the sky.

“We can give you a ride into town,” Patrick offered.

“Oh… we thought perhaps your cell phone would work. I'd feel better if I could stay with the car until a tow truck arrives.” The old man glanced from one member of the group to the other, awareness slowly dawning in his eyes.

“No one's phone is working. We suspect there's a problem with the cell towers.” Max stuck his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans.

Shelby thought it made him look ridiculously like a character from a western. Her mind turned again to Carter, and she had to fight the urge to stomp her foot and tell everyone to get back in the truck.

“We'd be happy to take you into town,” Max said.

Dale nodded, and without another word Max transferred the Smittys' baggage to the truck bed. Dale slipped into the backseat, and Bianca slid over into the middle. Shelby moved next to Max to make room for Joyce. Max offered her a reassuring smile, but she only shook her head, willing the truck forward. Until she laid eyes on Carter, until she saw for herself that he was okay, the anxiety clawing at her throat wouldn't recede.

What if he had been driving and the traffic signals had gone out?

What if a transmission line had sparked, causing a fire?

What if he were trapped in the grocery store inside the freezer? It was an absurd thing to worry about. He didn't work in the frozen food section, and even if he did, there was an emergency release handle in the freezer—he'd told her that the first week he was employed at the Market.

Her mind darted over her real concern, shied away, then turned and met it head-on. What if he'd forgotten to check his sugar level and was at that very moment sliding into a diabetic coma? He wouldn't be able to call 9-1-1 with the phones out. How would he get to the hospital?

It had only happened once, but she didn't think she'd ever forget the sight of her son, collapsed on the kitchen floor. She had been unable to wake him.

She glanced over at Max. He smiled, as if he could read her thoughts. Maybe he could. She'd known Max a long time. They'd grown up together and been sweethearts in high school, but then Max Berkman had abandoned her. Her seventeen-year-old self, the girl who had written letter after letter, seemed like a different person entirely.

All water under the bridge. Max had eventually moved back to Abney, and they'd been next-door neighbors since.

Max had heard her shouts the day she'd found Carter lying on the floor. He'd rushed over and sat by her son as she'd dialed the emergency number. Over the years he had been a good friend to them.