Deep Shadows (32 page)

“You killed them? You killed all four of them?”

“I protected my wife and property.” In spite of the steel in his voice, Stanley stopped to wipe the sweat rolling down his face. “Next day I put up the fence, insisted my son and daughter-in-law move back here with the grandkids.”

“And the people you killed?”

“You mean the robbers who trespassed onto my property armed and intent on doing me bodily harm?” Stanley stopped now and looked Max directly in the eye. “I buried them near the road. Haven't had any trouble since, which doesn't mean I won't.”

Stanley nodded toward the back door and they both walked out, each carrying half of the supplies. Max wasn't sure what his responsibility was here. Stanley had just confessed to killing four men and burying their bodies. But if it had happened as he said it had—and Max had no reason to doubt him—it had been a clear case of self-defense. Max worked in family law, but he had friends who had tried plenty of murder cases. What had happened to Stanley would never make it past a grand jury. It would never be tried.

They loaded the supplies behind the backseat and covered them with an old tarp that Max kept there.

“It bothers me, you know.” Stanley stared out toward the road. “Don't think it doesn't. A thing like that, killing a man—it's not something to be done lightly.”

“I know that.” Max climbed into his truck. He tried to say the next words with conviction, but they came out more of a question. “I know that you did what you think you had to do.”

“What? You think that I could have talked them down?” There was no malice in the words. Stanley grinned, slammed the door shut, and waited for Max to roll down the window. When he did, Stanley crossed his arms and leaned onto the sill. “You be careful out there, Max. The world? It's changed, and we have to adapt. Adapt or die. It's the oldest law of nature, and maybe of God too. Check your Old Testament.”

“Yes, but—”

“Most of us are more comfortable with the Gospels,” Stanley admitted, stepping back. “But the world that the Old Testament prophets lived in was a tough place. And the world we live in? Well, it's starting to look the same.”

F
IFTY
-T
WO

T
he third time she tripped on nothing, Shelby knew she was too tired to keep working.

“Girl, if you drop those supplies, we're going to be in a world of hurt.” Elena was one of the aides who had shown up, with the disclaimer that she could only afford to work three hours a day for free.

“Yes, but you need help with—”

“Go on home. We'll take care of this. Connie is coming back in for the night shift.”

“She only left at noon.”

“I know that, but have you ever tried to talk Connie out of something she sets her mind to? Easier to change the direction of the wind.”

Shelby laughed and hugged Elena. It was surprising how close she'd become to these women in such a short amount of time.

“Go home, be with your kid, and come back tomorrow when you can. We appreciate you.” And with that, Elena took the tray of snacks and padded down the hall.

Shelby retrieved Carter's medicine from the refrigerator. Unzipping the pack, she checked the supply of insulin—it was nice and cold. That brought a smile to her face and gave her the extra jolt of energy she needed to walk home.

She nearly passed Max's old truck without recognizing it. He was parked at the corner of the nursing home's property, and when he tapped the horn, she practically jumped out of her skin.

“Want a ride?”

He gave her that slow, easy smile she'd known all of her life. This time it caused her pulse to jump—another indication of how tired she was. Normally she was immune to Max's charm.

“Why are you driving?”

“Long story. Get in and I'll tell it to you.”

As they sat there watching the light fade from the sky, Max told her about Charles Striker, the note from his parents, the blockade at Guns & More, and the robbery.

Shelby could only stare at him, her mouth dropping open when he reached the part about Stanley waiting on top of his roof for the robbers to return.

“He shot them?”

“Killed all four and buried their bodies outside his property line—a clear warning to anyone else who might try to rob him.”

“Stanley?”

“I know.”

“He came to see me after Alex died—tears running down his cheeks.”

“Same Stanley.”

“Wow.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Shelby hesitated, and then she asked, “Should we tell the authorities?”

“I considered that, but it's a clear case of self-defense.”

“
If
it happened like he said.”

“We have no reason to doubt him, and who is going to investigate? It's not like we can send a forensic team to his place to check the direction of blood splatter, exhume the bodies, and try to re-create what happened.”

“No. I guess not.”

Neither said anything for the space of a few moments, and then Shelby cornered herself in the truck to study Max.

“Did you talk to Bhatti?”

“Not yet.”

“But you will?”

“Yes.”

She sighed and stared out the open window. “It's like… it's like we've been dropped into the past, somewhere in the Old West, where it's still each man for himself.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Carter insisted on taking my dad's old Winchester on patrol this afternoon.”

“Always was a good rifle.”

“He cleaned it and set it by the door—”

“I'm glad he remembers how. It's been awhile since I took him out to sight it in.”

“My son is on patrol, at a roadblock in our neighborhood, carrying a Winchester rifle.”

Max nodded and changed the subject. “My parents, they asked me to remind you about Granny's house. It's there if you—”

“We've already been over this.”

“I know we have, and I know how stubborn you can be—”

“Do not start with me, Max.”

“When you make up your mind about something.”

“You think this is mere stubbornness?” Heat crept up Shelby's neck. She could feel her temper rising, and she struggled to tamp it down. She did not have the energy to argue with him now.

“I don't think you realize how bad this situation is or how much worse it could get.”

“You know what? I can walk home.” She started to open the door, but Max reached across and stayed her hand.

“I care about you, Shelby.”

His voice was a soft caress, and for just a moment her barrier of self-righteous indignation fell.

“I know that.”

“You're an amazing woman, and I have no doubt you can make it on your own.”

“I've been making it on my own for years.”

“But…” Max rubbed his thumb back and forth over her fingertips. She couldn't focus when he touched her like that.

“If men are willing to kill for ammo, don't you think they'll also kill for medical supplies? You're walking around town carrying Carter's meds on your back, and you're a clear target.”

She snatched her hand away. “I can't leave the insulin here or at home. I suppose you have a better suggestion?”

“Come with me.”

“No.”

“Come to High Fields.”

She shook her head. What was she supposed to say? She couldn't explain her plan to him. If he even suspected that she was contemplating going to Austin, he would probably hog-tie her and drag her to High Fields. But she would find a way. There were pharmaceutical distribution centers in Austin, and she would beg or barter. One way or another, she would get more medicine for Carter.

She pulled in a deep breath, smiled, and said, “You can't bully me into changing my mind.”

Max's hand was still on the door handle, where hers had been. He was so close that she wondered if he would kiss her—and instantly she was in high school again, surrendering her heart and dreams to him.

But he didn't kiss her.

Instead, he scooted back to his side of the truck and started the engine. “Will you at least think about it? If not for me, then for my mom and pop?”

“Of course.” That wasn't a lie. She always considered Max's suggestions, but this time she knew he was wrong and she was right.

He flashed her the cocky smile of his youth and drove toward their street. It was when they had turned the corner and were approaching the roadblock that they saw a jeep hurtling toward them, a police car and SUV in hot pursuit, and then they heard the ring of gunfire.

F
IFTY
-T
HREE

A
fter the officer shot out the jeep's two rear tires, everyone started shouting at once.

Mrs. Plumley had her shotgun raised to her shoulder. She stared through its sight at the jeep that had careened to a stop in front of their roadblock. The shots had come from a police officer's vehicle, and he had stopped, jumped out of the cruiser, aimed at the tires, and hopped back in the vehicle when he saw that he'd incapacitated the jeep. It was possibly the coolest thing Carter had ever seen.

The officer and SUV driver braked suddenly, their vehicles positioned nose to nose across the road to block any possible escape. Both of the drivers jumped out of their vehicles and raised their weapons. To his left, Max drove up—and suddenly Carter's mother was running toward them, screaming for Carter to get down.

Before he could say anything, Max had knocked his mom to the ground, covering her body with his.

The person driving the jeep raised his hands in surrender, and Carter noticed someone slumped over beside him in the vehicle.

“Keep them up high!” The officer slowly approached the vehicle from the left, and the SUV driver approached from the right, his handgun raised and aimed at the driver of the jeep.

Max remained on top of Carter's mom, who was squirming and waving, still trying to get him to drop down. But he was on patrol. He didn't think he was supposed to hide behind the cab of the truck. So instead he
raised his granddad's old Winchester Model 94 and trained it on the guy driving the jeep.

“Just keep him in your sights, Carter. Finger next to the trigger but not on it. We don't want anyone shot accidentally.” Mrs. Plumley didn't sound at all rattled. Her steadiness helped to calm Carter's nerves, which were jumping like popcorn in a pan.

The officer opened the door of the jeep with his left hand, his right still holding his service revolver, which was pointed at the driver. He pulled the guy out, pushed him to the ground, and then he cuffed his hands behind him. The man was large with a giant belly, and Carter had the random thought that it must have been a tight fit behind the steering wheel. From where he stood, he could also see a string of tattoos reaching from the man's shirtsleeve to his wrist.

Max jumped up and ran to the passenger side of the jeep.

“We need a paramedic over here!” he shouted.

Mrs. Plumley nodded toward Carter, so he put down his rifle and picked up the radio. “We've got… uh… a situation.”

Frank came back over the radio. “Tell me what's going on.”

“Some guy just ran through the roadblock in a jeep. The police have the driver on the ground, but the other guy in the jeep—Max says he needs a doctor.”

“Paramedics are on their way. Do you need assistance?”

Plumley shook her head, so Carter said, “No. Everything's under control now.” His heart was still hammering. He could feel the sweat slicking his palms, but no one seemed to be in danger.

Carter heard the approach of the ambulance at the same moment his mother made it to the back of the pickup. She jumped up into the bed and ran her hands up and down his arms.

“Are you okay?”

“Mom, I'm fine.”

“No one shot you?”

“Mom, stop.” He put one hand on each of her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. “I am fine.”

She nodded twice and sank into the bed of the truck. “I think I had a heart attack.”

At that point Dr. Bhatti arrived on the scene. Carter had no idea who had called him. Maybe he had just heard the ambulance, which was pulling up. The ambulance cut its sirens and its lights.

A crowd of folks was steadily gathering on the sidewalk, but everyone was silent—stunned and trying to piece together what they were seeing.

Bhatti was halfway inside the jeep, but he popped back out and shook his head.

“GSW. Abdominal cavity. No exit wound.”

The paramedics had a gurney next to the jeep. One began to open an emergency medical kit, but Bhatti stopped him. “Save your supplies.”