Deep Shadows (29 page)

“And you're the police chief. In a case like this, with no judge to mitigate, it's within the mayor's authority to make the decision. As long as the plaintiff agrees to the suggestion, it's perfectly legal for you to impose community service.”

Bryant nodded, obviously relieved that he had a way out.

“Stone won't like it,” he said.

“Well, Stone isn't the mayor, and he certainly isn't the chief of police.” Grateful that both of those sentiments were true, Max left the building and returned to the job of closing down his business.

F
ORTY
-S
IX

S
helby fought the urge to scream.

She'd arrived at her bank—the one that had not burned—an hour and a half before it opened. Her timing had been a gross miscalculation. She should have arrived the night before. From the looks of things, some people had slept out on the lawn. The mood was decidedly grim, and she heard several dire predictions from people who thought the bank wouldn't be opening as promised.

But it did, straight up at nine o'clock. The president of First Texas stood there shaking hands with folks, thanking them for coming, and never once letting on that an economic catastrophe had occurred. Shelby assumed that Wall Street was closed. How could it not be? What had happened to pension funds and IRAs? Was this worse than the stock market crash of 1929? And how would common, everyday people—folks like those standing in front of and behind Shelby—survive with only 2 percent of their money?

The line slowly unwound until she found herself waiting in the doorway of the building. At least they were still open. From the door the single line split into two—one for cash, and the other for people who wanted to access their safety deposit boxes. Shelby didn't have a safety deposit box because she didn't have anything of value. The small diamond Alex had bought her all those years ago? It was in the back of her jewelry box. The car titles were in a fire-safe box under her bed. She did, however, need some cash.

She half-expected them to run out of money before she stood in front of one of the three tellers.

“Plenty of signs so we don't forget the rules,” the woman in line behind her said.

Indeed there were. Large signs written on white poster board with colored markers. They looked more like high school football posters than banking directions.

You may withdraw 2 percent from each checking account.

The balance of your funds will be available once we have resumed communication with the Federal Reserve bank.

How long had it taken someone to write out those posters? It wasn't exactly a five-word slogan, but then this problem couldn't be easily chiseled down to a catchphrase.

“How do they even know what our balance is?” Shelby asked.

“What I heard is that they're giving everyone the same amount—200 bucks. If you're a customer in good standing.”

Shelby turned to study her. The woman's professionally colored hair was teased and sprayed, her makeup was applied to perfection, and her nails glittered with red polish. Shelby tried to remember if she'd pulled a brush through her own hair. Yes, she had. Before she had donned the baseball cap. She told herself that she was simply adjusting more quickly than others to their new situation. It made her feel better about the lack of makeup and hair spray.

“My 2 percent is more than 200 bucks,” said an old gentleman in overalls. He raised his voice as he became visibly more agitated. “The sign says 2 percent, and that's what I expect to receive.”

The manager of the bank hurried over to them, his eyes nervously darting up and down the line.

“Is there a problem?”

“She said we'll only get 200 dollars.” The old guy jerked a thumb toward the perfectly made-up woman.

“No, sir. We've done the calculations, and we have enough cash for everyone to receive 2 percent.”

“Even if my balance is more than twenty thousand?”

“Yes, sir. Regardless of your balance, you will be allowed to withdraw 2 percent. Of course, if you choose to leave your money in the bank—”

“Humph. You're keeping 98 percent. Think I'm going to give you the other 2?”

“We're not exactly keeping it, sir.”

But the old guy wasn't listening. The person in front of him had left the line, so he turned his back on the bank manager and shuffled forward.

Shelby had her own questions for the manager. “How do you know what our balance is? I brought my most recent statement, but—”

“That's not necessary, ma'am. Few people print their statements anymore.”

Few people bothered to balance their accounts, either, but Shelby was old-fashioned about that. Instead of arguing the point, she asked again, “So how do you know our balance?”

“We have a backup generator. Most banks installed them after Hurricane Ike and Hurricane Sandy hit. We learned from those terrible events, so we have backup data here on-site and at a remote location.”

“But why wasn't your system knocked out by the flares?”

“Wasn't plugged in.”

“You unplug it every night?”

“Yes, though we weren't thinking of a solar flare. Our concern was power surges and the cost of replacing compromised equipment. In this case, it's been a real lifesaver, as we can see exactly what everyone's balance was at the end of the day on Friday.”

Shelby had never realized how much disaster planning went into the average business. As a writer, the biggest disaster she had to plan for was a hard drive failure. Not even cloud backup would do her any good now.

Nodding her thanks, she moved forward, surprised to see that she'd actually made it into the bank.

That's when a man pulled his gun. “Everyone down on the ground!” he hollered.

Shelby dropped like a stone, trying to flatten herself against the cold lobby floor.

“Stay calm, now. I'm not after your money, folks. You didn't rob me, but these people? Bankers and their supposed rules? Well, I'm getting what's in my account—all of it.”

Scuffed up work boots strode past her, continuing toward a teller. Then she heard the man say, “Open your cash drawer and put all of it in a deposit bag.”

She could feel her heart hammering against the ceramic tile, beating in rhythm with her prayer:
Please don't let me die. Please don't let me die here. Please don't let me die.

“Drop!” someone commanded, and Shelby looked up to see the teller drop to the floor. Bob Bryant had stepped up behind the robber, his service revolver hovering only inches from the man's head. “Set your weapon down on the counter… slowly.”

The man apparently didn't comply because Bryant added, “You don't have a move here and you know it. Put the weapon down, back up three steps, and kneel. Do anything else, and you will die right here, right now.”

The man deflated—Shelby could see the fight drain out of him. He didn't argue, didn't attempt to explain what he'd done. He set down his gun, and Bryant cuffed him and marched him out of the lobby.

The bank manager raised his voice to be heard above the crowd. “It's all right, folks. We anticipated someone might try something today.”

A few people left, mumbling that 2 percent wasn't worth being shot over, but Shelby needed her money. If there was any chance of bartering for more insulin, she would need all the cash she could get her hands on. Legs trembling, she stepped up to the teller window.

“I always suspected that guy was a jerk.” The teller looked to be about nineteen, but she wasn't intimidated by what had just happened or by the size of the crowd. Shelby gave her bonus points for that. “I just need to see your identification.”

Shelby pulled out her driver's license and handed it to the young woman.

“We show your balance was $4,235.68 as of Friday. Does that sound correct, Ms. Sparks?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.” She'd received and deposited a royalty check on Thursday. This morning she should have been paying bills online, but that wasn't going to happen.

The teller counted out $84.71 and pushed it through the window. The sum of two hundred dollars had been running through Shelby's mind since the perfectly made-up woman had uttered it. But of course 2 percent of $4,235.68 wasn't that much. It was only $84.71. The cold, inflexible rules of math temporarily stunned her.

Less than one hundred dollars was supposed to see her and Carter
through—until when? Until the government reestablished some sort of monetary solution? Shelby shoved the money into her purse, thanked the teller, and hurried out of the bank. She told herself,
I will not cry. I will not
.

But as she made her way toward Green Acres, tears coursed down her cheeks and fear wormed its way into her heart.

F
ORTY
-S
EVEN

F
or Carter, the day had been far from perfect, but it was definitely taking a turn for the better.

His shift at the Market had been a bit depressing. Mr. Graves was sticking to his rules: only ten customers at a time, a limit of twelve items, cash only, and the right to refuse service. None of those rules were a problem. In Carter's opinion, they could have scratched out one and two—there wasn't that much left on the shelves to sell. There was also no line outside the store.

“I guess folks know there isn't much to buy,” Kaitlyn said as they stood at their registers and waited for a customer.

“Graves had a shipment of dry goods scheduled to come in Friday night.”

“A lot of good that does us.”

Graves usually stood at the front, watching them closely. Carter thought his boss was losing his grip on the situation. He knew for a fact that Graves was sleeping at the store. He'd seen the man's cot near the front door when he'd first arrived. Graves had sent him off on some bogus errand and stored the sleeping bag and fold-up cot before any customers arrived. He'd always been a bit cranky and distant, but over the weekend those personality traits had grown even more prominent. His eyes didn't seem able to focus, he constantly snapped his fingers as if to remind himself of something, and he smelled terrible. Had he even tried to clean up since the Drop?

Carter almost laughed at that thought. Jason's crazy slang had a way of sticking in his head.

Carter moved closer to Kaitlyn's register, pretending to clean a display that was completely empty. “I heard that he hired some guys to go out and find the shipment that was coming from the warehouse—it was supposed to arrive Friday night but never did. Maybe he thinks it was close.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. Promised them 20 percent of whatever they found.”

“If they found a truckload of food, why would they bring it back to him? They could keep it and get 100 percent.”

“Graves thought of that. He told them that there were at least three trucks headed this way and he knew their route and approximate location. If they came back with the goods from the first, he'd tell them the location of the second.”

“How could he know that?”

Carter shrugged. “I worked shipping and receiving a few times. The guys from our regional warehouse have a pretty routine schedule, and we know who was supposed to show up Friday evening.”

Graves had appeared at that point and barked, “Back to your register, Sparks. I'm not paying you to chat.”

Carter wanted to walk out. There wasn't enough left on the shelves to make it worth being open—some jars of jalapeños, most of the spices, and a display of summer stuff no one had wanted to spend money on. Who needed sunscreen and sandals? Food was the priority.

Carter would rather be home helping with the latrine. He'd stopped by on his way into work, and the digging was going well. Ed said they had hit more dirt, having worked through the layer of rock the day before. Rhonda was already working on the frame, and Frank had brought by a toilet that had been delivered the week before to a house under construction. Not much chance a partially constructed house was going to be finished, so the builder had said they could salvage anything there.

When Mr. Graves ordered him to get back to work—as if there was any work to get back to—Carter almost took off his name tag and walked away. He thought of that truck of dry goods. If it was true, if the guys Graves hired brought it back, employees would be allowed to purchase three items off the truck first. Graves had said as much. He'd also announced when they'd walked in that he was paying them twenty dollars in cash each day. That was half what Carter made from a normal six-hour shift before,
but he'd heard about the lack of cash at the bank. Graves was flush with cash, and Carter knew his mother needed whatever he could earn.

So he didn't quit his job.

He managed to tell Kaitlyn about the Brainiacs, and she'd acted interested in joining him. When their shift was over, they collected their 20 dollars and headed out the back door.

Carter wasn't sure how successful the Brainiacs would be, but nothing could be more depressing than standing in an empty grocery store as people searched for food.