Deep Shadows (28 page)

She pulled her hands away. “Is that why you're leaving?”

“I'm leaving because my folks aren't as young as they once were—and while they'll try their best to outlast this thing, I need to be there to help them.”

“You're going to become a farmer?” She raised her eyes to his, tears welling and threatening to spill. She glanced away quickly and shrugged. Max sat back and aimed for a casual posture.

“Think I can't do it?”

Shelby shook her head, turned over his hand, and rubbed the center of his palm. “Lawyer hands. No calluses.”

“I suppose it's time that changed.” When her mood still didn't lighten, he added, “There won't be any legal work for me to do here.”

“You don't know that.”

“And besides, I don't like crowds. If the military moves in, I'd rather be somewhere else.”

“They're not going to move in to Abney.”

“Probably not.”

“But it sounds as if they'll take whatever we have that's worth taking.”

“If that happens—and I'm not saying it will—there will be trouble.”

She stood, tossed what was left of her coffee into his rosebushes, and thanked him.

But he couldn't let her leave, not on that note. He had to try one more time. “That's the real reason Danny came, isn't it? To tell you to leave?”

She was halfway across the yard when she turned around. “Talk to Bhatti, or get a shovel. But figure out what is going on with him and figure it out soon.”

F
ORTY
-F
OUR

M
ax cleaned up, putting on a pearl snap shirt, his best jeans, and his good boots. He'd walk to the office instead of taking the truck. Bhatti had already left, as had Shelby, though there was a good twenty minutes between when she hurried off and when Bhatti followed. Max imagined Dr. Bhatti would be avoiding Shelby Sparks today.

He enjoyed the walk to the office, realizing that it could be his last walk through Abney. If things went well, he could leave first thing the next day.

The neighborhood patrols he passed reported no trouble. Maybe things would settle down. Maybe the world would leave Abney alone to recuperate as best as it could. That fantasy lasted until he approached his office on the square. One of the deputies was standing out front waiting for him.

“The mayor wants to see you.”

Twenty minutes later he was in an interview room at the jail, sitting across from one Charles Striker, accused of attempted armed robbery. The man was forty-six years old according to his file, and he had the look of a mechanic or factory worker—big muscles but no tan line. Not a farmer. Also not a burglar, if Max were to guess.

The interview room was hot, though it was still early in the morning. Lights powered by the emergency generator buzzed, giving Max the faint beginnings of a headache.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“Can you get me out of here? Do you know how hot it is in those cells? No air-conditioning, no fans, and barely any food. This is a civil suit waiting to happen, man.”

“Supposing you're correct, it might be awhile before you have a chance to file that suit.”

“Well, I can't just sit in there and rot. You gotta do something.”

Max felt his eyebrows rise. At least, the skin above his eyes rose, considering some of his eyebrows had been singed off during the fire blast on the town square. “I don't have to do anything since I'm not technically your lawyer, Mr. Striker. The mayor asked me to check in on you, and I agreed because she is a friend of mine.”

“All small towns are the same. Old boy's club—”

“Actually, the mayor is a she. Why don't you tell me what happened.”

“I live ten miles outside of town, on the east side.”

It was an unincorporated area, which meant there was an odd combination of old mobile homes, RVs, and the occasional prefab house. Not a good neighborhood, and technically not a part of town at all since Abney had decided not to annex it two years earlier. The place was something of a dump, and the mayor hadn't felt optimistic about taking on the problems there—especially with Eugene Stone breathing down her back.

“And?”

“And there are some real lunatics living out there. Came home Friday night, nothing was working, folks sitting around speculating, but no one knew what happened. Then Larry—he's the only one with a CB—he starts talking about riots in Austin, complete road closures in Houston.” The man's hands began to shake, so he clasped them together. “And Dallas? Well, apparently it's burning.”

Max's heart rate accelerated at the news. The mayor had hinted that the urban situation had taken a turn for the worse, but she hadn't shared any details.

“After that everything turned crazy. Folks were arming up and going out in pairs—taking whatever they could find in abandoned cars, looting people's houses—and I'm telling you, it was every man for himself.”

“So you decided to come and rob houses in Abney?”

“No! That wasn't it at all.”

Max opened the file folder the police chief had handed him and spun it around to face Striker. He tapped the part where it listed possessions—a Remington 870 pump shotgun, a switchblade, and a pair of brass knuckles.

“Yeah, okay. That stuff is mine. A man has to be prepared to defend himself.”

“Defend yourself?”

“I wasn't about to let anyone get a jump on me.”

Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he wasn't.

“Tell me what happened when you approached the roadblock.”

“I turned around. I tried three different ways to get into town, ended up having to cross through a pasture off Old Mill Road. Nearly bottomed out my truck.”

“Where were you headed?”

“A house over on Avenue K.”

“I know the area.”

“Well, a… a friend of mine used to live there, but it appeared to be deserted.”

“Go on. You're in the house and—”

“I'm looking around, thinking maybe I'll stay there. It's plain as day no one was living there. I wasn't going to rob anybody, but if the stuff is just sitting there and no one is using it…”

“What happened next?”

“Suddenly a couple of trucks pull up. Guys told me to get out of the house, which I did, and then two guys jumped me from behind.”

“According to the officer's statement you exited the home with your rifle raised and said…” Max spun the folder back around so he could read the statement word for word. “ ‘Back away before I shoot something up.' ”

“I guess I could have said that. I don't remember.” Striker blinked rapidly, his right knee jiggling.

He raised his hands in surrender, which might have been amusing since he was wearing handcuffs. But nothing about this was amusing. Max was suddenly tired, and he hadn't even made it into his office yet.

“Okay. Probably I did. I was desperate, man.”

“Which doesn't justify your actions.”

“You don't know what it's like out there. You don't know what people are doing.” Striker had been staring at the wall, but now he turned his gaze on Max. “Step outside Abney and you'll find out. If you don't have someone watching your back, if you're alone, you don't stand a chance. I didn't have any choice. A man will do what he has to do to survive.”

F
ORTY
-F
IVE

M
ax closed the folder and didn't speak until the battery-operated clock on the wall ticked off another three minutes, which in an interview room seems much longer. Sweat was running in rivulets down Striker's face by the time Max cleared his throat.

“It seems to me you have three options.” Max ticked the first off on his index finger. “Plead innocent and wait for a trial, which as I stated, could be a while.”

Striker gave one short, definitive jerk of his head.

“Second choice.” Max touched his middle finger. “Plead guilty and hope the judge, when we find the judge, is lenient and gives you probation.”

Again Striker immediately dismissed the idea.

“Or ask the mayor for leniency.”

“She could do that?”

“I don't think Mayor Perkins wants you living in our jail any more than you want to be living here.”

“I'll do it, though I doubt I'll be treated fairly.”

Max's temper exploded. He slapped his palm down on the table and leaned forward, not even bothering to mitigate the anger pounding at his temples. “You came to our town, a town with law-abiding citizens who are trying to pull together and make it through this catastrophe, and you showed a willingness to break and enter—”

“The door was unlocked.”

“Take what wasn't yours—”

“I didn't have a chance to take anything!”

“And use a lethal weapon. What is fair, Mr. Striker, is that you be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

He sat back and stared at the man in front of him. Was he an evil man? Maybe. Maybe not. But he was desperate, uneducated, and lacked a proper respect for any type of authority. How many more just like him were circling the edges of Abney?

“You know what? Forget those three options. We don't want you in our jail, and we don't need the responsibility of feeding you. I'm going to suggest that the mayor do one of two things. We can escort you to the border of Abney and let you go—but if you show up here again you will spend at least a month in our jail. I can guarantee that, and I can also promise you that there will be even less food and the cells will be even hotter.”

“Is that the only option I got?”

“No. Maybe, just maybe, Mayor Perkins would allow you to work in exchange for a place to stay within the city limits. Provided, of course, that you are willing to relinquish your weapons.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you have betrayed the civil trust, Mr. Striker.”

The man had stopped jiggling his knee, and his defiant look evaporated. “What kind of work?”

“Does it matter?”

“No. No, I suppose it doesn't.”

Max stood and walked to the door. He tapped on it to indicate that the officer should let him out, and then Striker spoke up again.

“What am I supposed to eat? While I'm working off this supposed crime?”

“I don't know, Mr. Striker. Whatever you can find? If you're lucky, maybe one of the local churches will take compassion on you and share some of their supplies.”

“And if I'm not… lucky?”

“Try the next town, I suppose.” Max turned to study the man one last time. “If that's what you wind up doing, I suggest you not threaten to shoot them before you ask for help.”

He stepped out of the interview room and strode toward the front of the building. The police chief was in, and when he looked up and saw Max, he motioned him into his office.

“Get anything out of him?”

“Enough.” Max repeated the story that Charles Striker had told him.

“You believe him?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Are you saying that as a lawyer or as a good citizen of Abney?” Bryant ran his hand over the top of his head, which glistened with perspiration.

The office was hot, though not nearly as hot as the cells would be. At least he had a window that was open, though little breeze actually came through it.

“Both. You know, as I know, that the conditions in those cells are not acceptable.”

“What's not acceptable is a man trying to rob another man's dwelling and threatening my officers. If we don't get a handle on this, the scumbags in our county are going to kill us in our sleep. We won't have to worry about starving to death.”

“Striker is scared and he's stupid. If that's a crime, you might as well arrest all of us. I'm going to suggest Perkins give him community service and a place to stay.”

“We're providing lodging now?”

“Our church has set up a shelter. Let him go there, sleep on a cot, get at least two meals a day. If he makes another mistake, drive him to the city's edge and let him go.”

Bryant's face turned a dark shade of red. If the police chief didn't find a way to bring down his temper, he'd stroke out before anyone could kill him in his sleep. But Max knew the anger wasn't directed at him. He and the chief stood and shook hands, and as they were walking toward his office door, Bryant said, “Eugene Stone stopped by here. He wants us to make an example out of Striker. Put the fear of God into the people.”

“Sounds like something Stone would suggest.”

“I've got enough on my hands without babysitting a numbskull from the east side.”