One Second After Page 8

  “Pre solid-state electronics. I bet Miss Jen’s Mustang will run as well.”

  Her home was within walking distance of the campus. The realization caught him… everything was measured in walking distance now.

  “You dropping a hint, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. I am. It’d be good to have at least one vehicle up here so I can move around quickly if needed. Besides, once people start figuring things out, it’ll get stolen.”

  “She’ll kill me if I ever tell her, so it’s between us, Washington.” John fished into his pocket and pulled out his key ring and snapped one off.

  “That’s to her house. Security code number is…”

  He laughed softly and shook his head.

  “The key to the Mustang, well, I never had security clearance for it.” Washington laughed. “I can jump it.”

  “It’s yours for the duration,” John hesitated, “or until this old beast breaks down or someone gets it. Chief Barker and I nearly got on that very issue less than an hour ago. I managed to hang on to this monster, but Barker just might remember the Mustang, so I suggest you get over there now. Possession is always nine-tenths of the law.”

  “Deal, sir. I’ll take good care of her, no joyriding, sir.”

  “Come on, Washington. It’s ‘John’; cut the ‘sir’ shit. I work for a living now.”

  Washington smiled.

  “You said the duration, sir, when it came to the car,” and now his features were serious.

  Washington finally looked away from him and back to the gate.

  “Good position here, you know that,” Washington said.

  John had thought about it more than once on his drive up the Cove to the campus. The gatehouse was a stone arch over the roadway, a tiny stone building, with nearly sheer ledges to either side, the road having been cut through the ledge a hundred years back. Long ago, back in the 1920s, it had been the entry to a tourist road that weaved up the mountains all the way to the top of Mount Mitchell. The gatehouse was a quaint leftover of that long-abandoned road. To the east of the gate, Flat Creek tumbled by; to the west, a near vertical cliff cut through the descending ridge to open the lane for the road. There was only one way in and one way out, and it was here.

  Washington had obviously contemplated this fact long years ago.

  John said nothing and he drove off heading back into town, crossing State Street and over the tracks of the Norfolk & Southern. He passed the Holiday Inn. A number of people were sitting around outside; a group of kids were playing tag. Several grills were set up, food cooking on them.

  He slowed as he spotted someone standing down by the road, her arms folded, just gazing off towards the mountains. He pulled up, again a bit uncomfortable with how many people turned at the sight of his car.

  The woman looked at him. There was a flicker of recognition.

  “Ma’am, I owe you an apology.”

  “I think you do.”

  She was still dressed in her business suit, but the high heels were gone, replaced with a battered pair of sneakers.

  He opened the door and got out and extended his hand.

  “Look, seriously, I apologize. I had my kids with me, my mother-in-law, and frankly…” He hesitated.

  She relented and extended her hand and took his.

  “Sure; I understand. Guess I’d of done the same if the roles were reversed.”

  “John Matherson.”

  “Makala Turner.”

  “Curious name.”

  “My granddad was stationed in Hawaii during the war. Said it was a flower there. Talked my dad into using the name.”

  John couldn’t help but let his eyes drift for a second. She was tall, even without her heels on. Five ten or so, slender, blond hair to shoulder length, top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned.

  It was just the quickest of glances, but he knew she was watching. Strange. If you don’t check an attractive woman out, even for a second, it’s an insult; if you do, there might be a cold, icy stare.

  She smiled slightly.

  “Where you from?” John asked.

  “Charlotte. Supervising nurse for a cardiac surgical unit. Was coming up here to attend a conference at Memorial Mission Hospital on a new procedure for heart arrhythmias.

  “Now, could you do me a favor and tell me just what the hell is going on?”

  “That reminds me,” John said. “Look, I’ve got to do something right now. Will you be here in ten minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  He got back into the car, hesitated, and looked at her. “I’m heading to the drugstore right now. I need to get something. If you want, you can come along.” She didn’t move.

  “I’m not trying to pick you up or anything. Really. I got to get some medication for my daughter. Just I can answer your questions while I drive.”

  “Ok. Don’t seem to be going anywhere else.”

  It was only several more blocks to the shopping plaza with Ingram’s market and the CVS drugstore. The parking lot was nearly full, but no one was about.

  He got out and looked at the drugstore, disappointed; it was dark. Damn, it must be closed, but then he realized the absurdity of that; all the stores were dark.

  “I think it was EMP, like I just said,” John said, continuing their brief conversation.

  “Had the same thought.”

  “Why?”

  She smiled.

  “I help run a surgical unit. We had a lot of disaster drills, especially since nine-eleven. We did a scenario on that one, EMP. It wasn’t pleasant. Kept me awake thinking for nights afterwards. Hospitals aren’t hardened to absorb it; the emergency backup generators will blow out along with everything else, and you know what that means.”

  “You’ll have to tell me more later on,” John said. He pulled on the door and it swung open.

  Inside was a minor bedlam, a harried clerk behind the counter shouting, “Please, everyone, it is cash only. I’m sorry, no checks….”

  John walked past her to the back of the store and the pharmacist counter. One of the regulars was there, Rachel, her daughter was one of Elizabeth’s friends. One of a line of a dozen people, a heavyset man in his early forties, bit of a tacky suit, tie pulled down and half open, was at the counter.

  “Listen to me!” he shouted at Rachel. “I need that prescription filled now, god damn it.”

  “And sir. I keep trying to tell you, I’m sorry, but we don’t know you, we don’t have a record for you on file, and that, sir, is a controlled substance.”

  “I’m from out of town, damn it. Don’t you hicks up here understand that? Now listen, bitch, I want that prescription.”

  John caught the eye of Liz, the pharmacist. She was in her early thirties and, John always thought, about the most attractive pharmacist he had ever laid eyes on. She was also married to an ex-ranger. Unfortunately, her husband was nowhere around and with Liz at not much more than five two and a hundred pounds, she was definitely way out of her league.

  Liz looked at him appealingly. John took it in, looked around, a book and magazine rack by the counter. Nothing he could use. The cooler for beverages, however, was about twenty feet away.

  He backed over to it, not many had hit here yet, reached in, and pulled out a liter bottle of Coors beer. Makala was looking at him with disgust, not understanding what was happening.

  Liz, coming up to the counter, tried to confront the belligerent customer, extending her hand for him to calm down.

  “Listen, damn it. OxyContin, you hear me. I’ll take thirty and you can call my doctor once the power comes back on and he’ll confirm it.”

  “Sir. Please leave this store.”

  “That’s it! Both of you bitches, get out of my way.”

  He started to climb over the counter, Liz backing up.

  John was up beside him and slashed out, the bottle smashing across the side of the man’s head, shattering.

  As he started to collapse, John pulled him back from the counter, flinging h
im to the ground, and for good measure stomped him in the solar plexus, doubling him up.

  The man was on the floor, keening with a high, piercing shrill. Everyone else stood silent, stunned. John looked over at Liz. Sorry.

  He actually felt embarrassed by what had just happened. He had broken a societal taboo; folks around here did not go around smashing beer bottles across a guy’s head, from behind, in the local pharmacy. John almost expected an alarm to go off, the police to come barging in…. There was only silence except for the pitiful cries of the man on the floor.

  Still silence. John looked at the others lined up. Several turned and fled. One woman was shaking her head.

  “Is this how you treat strangers in this redneck town?” she snapped. “I’ll be damned if I ever stop here again.”

  She stormed out.

  He recognized one of the men. Pat Burgess, a Baptist minister, part of his Civil War Roundtable club. Pat nodded.

  “Good work, John. Sorry, but with my heart, I’d most likely pitched a coronary if I had taken him on.”

  It snapped John out of the momentary haze, the shock, back to the reality of where they were and what had to be done, for that matter what he was here to do.

  “Pat, can you see to him? Get a belt or something and tie his hands first. Maybe somebody can look at his face and see if I cut his eye.”

  “You did, you goddamn bastard. I can’t see! My lawyer’s going to rip you an extra asshole!”

  The man started to scream again and John tapped him with his shoe. He cringed, falling silent.

  John leaned over.

  “Listen to me. You threatened these women. One more word and I will cut your eyes out,” John said, and the man fell back to crying, clutching his face, blood leaking out between his fingers.

  John looked back at Liz, then stepped around behind the counter.

  “Liz, can we talk for a moment?”

  “Sure, John.”

  He motioned to the back corner of the pharmacy area and the two went into the locked area and half-closed the door.

  “Thank God you came in, John,” Liz whispered hoarsely. “I’ve had three like that already. We bluffed the other two out, but that guy was crazy. Most likely addicted. Doesn’t travel with any in case he ever gets stopped, and his supply is at home.”

  “Look, Liz, I need a favor.”

  Liz fell silent, the look of gratitude disappearing.

  “I think we got a bad situation,” Liz said quietly. “Don’t we?”

  “I won’t lie to you. I think we do.”

  She looked back towards the counter, the line of customers, more coming in and queuing up.

  “I’ve been here all night,” she said wearily. “I live in Asheville, nothing was moving, I was hoping Jim might come to get me, but he hasn’t shown…”

  Her voice trailed off.

  “How long before the electric comes back on?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How long?”

  “A month, maybe a year or more.”

  “My God,” Liz sighed.

  “Exactly, and you know what I am asking for.”

  “John, I have exactly forty vials in stock. There’s one other kid in this town with the same thing your girl’s got. Over a hundred adult diabetics with varying degrees of insulin needs.

  “I’ve had four folks down here this morning already asking for extras. I can’t give them out, John. I’m responsible to everyone here, not just Jen….” She hesitated. “Not just you, John.”

  “Liz, we’re talking about my daughter, my little girl,” and his voice began to choke.

  She pointed towards the neatly arrayed cabinets with medications.

  “John, I’ve got hundreds of people I’m responsible for, and if what you said is true a lot of them will die, some in a matter of days. We just don’t keep that much inventory in stock anymore. None of the pharmacies do; we rely on daily shipments.”

  “There won’t be daily shipments for quite a while, Liz.”

  “Then my patients with pancreatic enzyme disorder? They don’t take their pills daily they die. If what you told me is true, Mrs. Sterling will be dead within a week….” Liz’s voice trailed off and she stifled back a sob.

  She took a deep breath and looked back up at him.

  “Severe hypertensions, arrhythmias, we got five people on anti-rejection drugs for transplants. Jesus Christ, John, what do you want me to do?”

  He hated himself for doing it, but now started he couldn’t stop.

  “I lost Mary already, Liz. Please, dear God, not Jennifer, too. Not that.”

  He lowered his head, tears clouding his eyes. He wiped them away, struggling for control.

  He looked back into Liz’s eyes, shamed… and yet, if need be, determined.

  Liz looked straight at him and John could see that her eyes were clouded as well.

  “It’s going to get bad, isn’t it, John?” He nodded his head, unable to speak.

  Liz continued to gaze at him, then sighed, turned, and opened the refrigerator. She pulled out four vials, hesitated, then a fifth.

  John struggled with the horrible temptation to shove Liz aside, reach in, and scoop all of them out. The temptation was near overpowering.

  He felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder and started to swing, wondering if somebody was pushing their way in. It was Makala. She gazed at him and said nothing.

  Liz quickly closed the refrigerator, opened a cabinet, took out a box of a hundred syringes, then bagged the vials and box up, wrapping several extra layers of plastic around the package.

  “Maybe I’m damning myself for doing this,” Liz said quietly. “That’s five for you; there’ll be five for the Valenti boy, and one each for the remaining thirty that come in here.”

  “That’s fair enough,” Makala whispered.

  Liz looked at her, didn’t say anything, then turned away.

  “Stop at the cooler; there still might be some ice there. Grab up whatever candy bars are left as well. Go straight home, John. They should be kept stable at forty degrees; every ten-degree increase cuts the shelf life in half. So go home now. Once you run out of ice, try and find the coolest spot in the house to store them.”

  “Thank you, Liz. God bless you.”

  “Please leave, John. I got a lot to think about, to do today.” John nodded, still filled with a sense of shame.

  “You want me to stop at the police station and bring someone back?”

  Liz shook her head. “I’ll send Rachel into town to get some help. She rode her bike in here, so she can be there nearly as quick as you.”

  Liz then opened a drawer in the locked room and pointed down. Inside was a .38 Special.

  “It was against company policy, but my husband insisted I keep it here. You know how he is, ex-ranger and all that. I’d of used it if you hadn’t showed up,” and her voice was now cold. John wondered if he had tried to shove Liz aside, would that .38 have come out? From the look in his friend’s eyes, he knew it would.

  “Some advice, Liz.”

  “Sure.”

  “Get out of here.”

  “You know I can’t do that, John.”

  “I mean once it starts to run short. Load up what you think you’ll need for you and your family; then get out. When you start running out, it could get ugly.”

  She looked up at him and smiled, all five foot two of her standing with shoulders back.

  “Jim taught me how to use that gun,” she said. “I’ll see things through.” John squeezed her shoulder.

  “God bless you,” and he walked out. The line behind the counter was growing. There were several nods of recognition; some were silent. Apparently everyone in line knew what had just happened with the bloody man whom Pat had thoroughly trussed up with, of all things, a roll of duct tape.

  One woman saw the bag John was carrying.

  “Matherson, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She looked past John to Liz.
“What did you give him back there?”

  “Just some syringes for his little girl, that’s all, Julie.”

  “I don’t want to hear tell of any special treatment going on here, Liz. If so, I’ve been a customer of this firm for twenty years and let me tell you I have a list here….”

  John went down aisle four. Surprisingly, there was a whole stack of one-pound Hershey bars, and without hesitating he scooped them all up and dumped them into the bag. The high-school-aged girl behind the counter saw him do it, not sure what to say as he walked by.

  “Don’t worry. Liz said I can take them now and pay later.”

  The girl nodded, his action setting off an argument with a customer who had no cash and wanted cigarettes.

  Outside John opened up the ice cooler. There were still a dozen ten-pound bags inside. He unlocked the car, opened the back door, and went back, pulling out four bags and tossing them in, went back again, and started to grab four more, then hesitated, looking at Makala.

  He took just two, closed the lid, tossed them in the car, and slammed the door shut.

  John got into the car, took a deep breath, started it up, and lit another cigarette.

  “That’ll kill you someday,” Makala said quietly. He looked over at her, unable to speak.

  “You did the right thing. And so did Liz. Any parent would have done the same.” John sighed.

  “Remember the old movies, the old cartoons from the Second World War. All the stuff about food hoarders.”

  “A bit before my time.”

  “Hell, I’m only forty-eight; I remember ’em.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Your girl has type one diabetes, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “You better get home now like Liz said.”

  Makala reached over the backseat, and he felt like an absolute bastard, for he found himself looking at her as she stretched, dress riding up to midthigh.

  She caught his eye as she pulled a bag of ice over, and said nothing as she broke it open. She dumped the box of syringes out of the plastic bag and then gently laid the bag containing the vials atop the open ice.

  “That should do till you get home. Don’t pack them inside the ice; they’ll freeze and that will ruin them. Try wrapping insulation around the ice, but keep the top open and have the vials on top. That should keep them at roughly the right temperature. Stash the remaining ice inside your freezer; that’s the best-insulated place for them.