Grace in the Shadows

by Karon Ruiz

  A hot cup of coffee sounded good right now, but he’d make Carla some tea first. He filled a pot with water and lit the burner. While the water heated, he flipped on the radio’s toggle switch. Hearing the crackly air, he smiled. The short-wave worked. That was a relief. With everything else out, Matt was surprised. He scanned the channels. The little unit emitted foreign broadcasts. After several attempts at positioning the antenna, Matt finally heard English. A British broadcaster announced, “America seems to be affected most,” he said. “Our contacts in Washington report most of the nation has no power. Officials agree this could last for months. Already our Prime Minister has deployed troops as requested by President Turner. Most members of NATO are sending aid.”

  Months with no power? What was going on? What had happened? Had the country been hit by a terrorist group?

  “NASA is sure the worst is over,” the broadcaster continued. “Scientists around the world agree this was the worst CME on record.”

  CME? That had something to do with a solar flare, Matt remembered, recalling a documentary he watched about a year ago.

  Matt hung his head. With all that he’d gone through the past two days, now this. This couldn’t be happening. What would he and Carla do if there was no power for months?

  Matt counted four fuel canisters. Not enough for a few weeks, let alone a few months. He must get to town. Maybe he could beat the panic and hoard a supply before his neighbors realized the urgency. He clicked off the gas, drenched a Chai bag with water, then returned to an empty kitchen. He opened the fridge and he pulled out an egg sandwich from a container one of the church ladies had left. He placed it and the steamy mug on a plate, then headed toward the bedroom.

  When Matt entered the room, Carla’s back was to him. She lay on her side.

  Matt carried the plate to the bed and sat. “You need to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry, Matt. Please go.”

  The lump in his throat grew larger. “Don’t shut me out, Carla. Not now.”

  She twisted to her back and leaned on a pillow. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I need to be alone.” Her eyes filled. He yearned to hold her but she wasn’t ready.

  “All right. We’ll talk later.”

  “Thanks.” She offered a weak smile. “It was nice of you to bring me tea.”

  Matt set the plate next to her. “I’ll leave the sandwich. Take a few bites. You’ll feel better.”

  He left the room quickly, gently closing the door behind him.

  A knock at the front door startled him. What now? He wasn’t in the mood for company.

  When he opened it, Amanda Benson, one of Carla’s church friends, extended a shopping bag.

  “It’s not much,” she said. “With the power out, I couldn’t cook so I put together some sandwiches from last night’s barbecue. Keep them in your freezer until you’re ready to eat them.”

  “That was kind of you,” Matt said, taking the bag. “I’d invite you in but Carla is resting.”

  “That’s okay. Is there anything else I can do?”

  Make my wife better. Give me my child back.

  “No, you’ve done more than enough, thank you,” Matt said. “I would like to know one thing, though. Do you have any information about what is going on? I heard we might lose power for months. Is that true?”

  “I thought you knew,” Amanda said. “We’ve been hit by some type of solar flare. It’s really bad. We’re having a meeting at the church on Thursday with more information. Everyone’s invited.”

  Though he said he’d try to be there, he lied. He’d never set foot on that church property again. He’d have to find out about the catastrophe from someone else.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard about Pastor Dalton,” she said.

  “Pastor Dalton?” The sound of the creep’s name notched his anxiety.

  “He was arrested for embezzlement. He stole over four thousand dollars from the church and used the money to buy illegal drugs.”

  Heat warmed Matt’s face. Why hadn’t he been arrested too? Surely Baxter had ratted him out by now.

  “He turned himself in a few hours ago,” she said. “I’m a council member, that’s why I know. I still can’t believe it.”

  Matt was surprised too. Baxter had quite a con going.

  “You and Carla don’t need to worry. Martin Fernández will figure things out.”

  “Worry?”

  “About Charity’s service,” she said. “The church will take care of everything.”

  Not on his life. He’d handle his daughter’s burial himself.

  “I’ll stop by tomorrow.” Amanda interrupted his thoughts. She flipped up a kickstand from her bicycle and climbed on. “The solar flare zapped my car but a little exercise never hurt anyone. See you soon.”

  ***

  Dalton struggled to breathe, coiled on the cement floor. His heart ramped and he trembled. Temperatures inside the dank cell had to be close to one hundred degrees. It didn’t matter. Dalton felt cold.

  His cellmates had made their disgust known hours ago. They lobbed expletives his way each time Dalton let his insides explode in the toilet. He didn’t care if they pounded him. Death would be better than this. No intestinal flu ever felt so bad.

  “Help me, Deputy,” Dalton shouted. “I need a doctor!”

  “What’s wrong with you, dude?” T.T. asked, leaning over him. “Are you contagious?”

  Dalton vomited his answer, projecting dry heaves over T.T.’s feet. The fat man backed away, cursing at him. Dalton hugged his knees tight, hoping to stop the shivering. He yearned for the blanket wadded in the corner.

  When Dalton heard the jangle of keys, he lifted his face. Deputy Chachu appeared at the jail door. He unlocked it, slid in a water bucket, then relocked the cell. “You’ll need this,” he told them. “Pour in some water when you flush or else things will back up.” He covered his nose. “By the smell of things in here, I couldn’t have come sooner.”

  “Something’s wrong with that guy,” Bulldog said.

  “Hey Baxter … what’s wrong with you?” the deputy asked.

  “I’m sick.” Dalton twisted his face and begged, “Get me to a hospital …”

  “Sorry. We can’t. Due to the outage, we’re short-handed. You’ll need to stay put for a few more hours.”

  Dalton rolled over and looked at the barred window in back. Waning light formed crosses over his knees. Would he even last a few hours in here?

  ***

  After Amanda left, Matt went to the kitchen. He wrapped his legs around a barstool and sipped whiskey from a paper cup. He stared into the cup, then swirled the magic gold. He tipped the Dixie, taking a generous sip. The alcohol heated his throat, calmed his anxiety.

  Why hadn’t the police come? Were they too busy with the power outages to bother with him? Had the dots between him and Baxter remained unconnected? Time was running out. Carla was at a breaking point. The alcohol helped him to make a decision. He’d put his plan into motion. He’d act now, before Charity’s funeral on Saturday. Leaving McCormick with all its memories was the only way forward.

  Hopefully someone would bail the preacher out. Then Baxter would have to come face to face with what he did. They’d share a lifetime of sorrows once Matt followed through on his plan.

  Wednesday

  “There is no pit so deep, that He is not deeper still.” Corrie ten Boom

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Rescuing Dalton

  _________________________________________________________

  Wednesday, 1 a.m.

  Baxter Home

  Humidity wrapped the desert in a wet blanket. The night seemed to swallow Samantha, drowning her in misery. Her arms ached. Her wrists were sore. From Gordy’s green notebook she’d learned how to keep the toilets flushing. Thank goodness they didn’t have horrible plumbing problems like other folks on the city water system. Like their well, the septic tank had been a God-send. The
only drawback was the endless chore of pumping water and lugging it upstairs. The family soon learned it was better to use the downstairs bathroom when nature called. Hauling water at ground level was easier. Carrying heavy buckets upstairs was tiresome. Suddenly back-breaking work went hand and hand with the simple things she’d once taken for granted.

  As hard as she tried, sleep refused to come. Moonlight silhouetted the shape of an alarm clock on her bed stand. The glow of florescent digits was gone. Not seeing their greenish glow left her distraught and full of worry. She rolled over, burrowing her face into a pillow. She felt lost. The dawn’s early light couldn’t come soon enough.

  Though the temperatures outside dropped to ninety-two degrees, the stifling air felt unbearable. If this was the new normal, she’d have a hard time getting used to it. She threw off the sheets and stared at her ceiling fan. It mocked her with its lifelessness. Funny, how the paddles’ spinning noise had once annoyed her. She’d give anything to hear them again.

  If only she could take a dip in the pool, now tightly protected with a cover. Gordy had seen to that. He warned them that the water was to be only used for drinking and necessary cleaning of dishes and clothes. Nothing else. The way he took charge reminded her of Dalton, once upon a time. Gordy assumed command of their listing ship, the SS Baxter, determined to get them righted again. Come hell or high water, he took the helm and forged ahead into an unknown future. For that she was incredibly proud. How she and Dalton had managed to raise such an amazing young man was beyond her.

  Hours later when sunlight finally streaked over her mattress, Samantha stirred awake. She looked at the 1968 Timex watch loosely strapped to her wrist. “Thanks, Daddy,” she said as she kissed its glass.

  Seven-thirty. Samantha couldn’t remember when she’d fallen asleep.

  She studied the frayed leather band strapped to her wrist.

  She’d been at her wit’s end with insomnia when she remembered the watch. She’d ravaged through her drawers with a flashlight locating the Timex behind her socks. Seeing it woke up many memories. Her dad’s favorite time piece, a gift from her mother—became a gift her mom gave Samantha the day her daddy died. Upon finding it, she put it on, guessed the time and wound it tight. After climbing back into bed, she laid her wrist near her ear. The rapid ticking quieted her soul and lulled her to sleep.

  She’d need to synchronize it with Gordy’s atomic watch later. One of Gordy’s most prized possessions, the fancy watch had been on the top of his Christmas list last year. When he pulled it from the make-shift Faraday cage after the EMP, he lit up like a Christmas tree. It worked fine.

  Samantha entered the breakfast room. Gordy, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt, sat at the table. He pushed the remains of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich into his mouth and drained a glass of milk. He got up, gave her a hug before picking up the milk carton and walked to the kitchen where he quickly stuffed it inside the freezer.

  “We’ve got a lot to do today,” he told her. “I better get dressed.”

  “Wait, Gordy,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about your dad. He’s got to be having terrible withdrawals by now. What if he can’t get help?”

  “Not our problem.” Gordy frowned, wagging his head. “He brought this on himself.”

  “No argument there but he needs medical attention. Martin and Jeremy told me last night, they’d drive up there to check on him. I was hoping you’d go with them.”

  Gordy let out a long sigh. “I guess. I just can’t promise I won’t lose it when I see him.” As he walked to the foyer he called out, “Let me know when they’re here.”

  ***

  Loud banging jarred Dalton awake. He lifted his head and squinted against the morning sunlight. He clutched his knees, pressing against the pain that tormented his gut.

  Bulldog shouted obscenities and T.T. bashed the plastic bucket against the metal. No one came.

  “Stop that! My head hurts,” Dalton yelled. The noise was too much. If he could, he would climb out of his own skin and run away.

  “Oh … you’re finally awake.” Bulldog crouched in front of Dalton. “Are you a priest?” he asked.

  Where’d he get that idea? Dalton shook his head.

  “You were talkin’ in your sleep last night. Something about absolving sins.”

  Dalton’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t recited the Confession in three years, the same weekend he’d abandoned his clergy shirt.

  “Reminded me of my church days as a kid,” Bulldog continued. “My ma made me go to confession every Saturday.”

  Dalton tried to remember. Bits and pieces of dreams floated to the surface. He’d been serving the communion, wearing the chasuble. The voluminous outer garment hadn’t been a part of his service in a long time. Why would he dream about it?

  “What gives you the right to forgive sins? I thought only priests did that?”

  “I … uh … I-I don’t know …” Dalton stammered. A wave of nausea assaulted him but he had no strength to run to the toilet.

  “Well … are you a priest or not?” Bulldog demanded.

  “I’m a pastor …” Dalton managed. “We’re not Catholic … uh … but we use the liturgy. At least we used to.”

  “Liturgy? What’s that?” T.T. asked.

  He had no energy to explain but eked out a few words. “It’s … a type of … uh … formal … church service.”

  A type of service he’d abandoned over three years ago, along with the stiff white collars, black shirts, and long embroidered stoles. They were casualties of modernization, replaced with fancy Brooks Brother suits and Florsheim wing tips. The ancient attire, seething with moth balls, hung in a rickety armoire deep within the church’s basement.

  What a joke. To think that he could absolve anyone of anything.

  “I’ve got no room for the likes of you,” Bulldog continued. “How about we have a little fun with this preacher man, T.T.?”

  Dalton no longer cared. Anything inflicted upon him by these two would be nothing compared to the agony wrenching his body.

  A pair of sneakers stood in front of his face. Dalton looked up. T.T. stood over him.

  “He smells like puke,” T.T. said. “Leave him alone.”

  “I can’t stand preachers,” Bulldog growled. “They’re phonies. They think they’re better than everyone else. I wanna teach this guy a lesson.”

  “He’s got the shakes,” T.T. said. “He’s coming off something. Give him a break.”

  Dalton peeked through steepled fingers. Maybe he’d been spared.

  “He’s coming off Oxy.” Bulldog sneered.

  “How do you know?”

  A blanket was dropped over him. Dalton opened his eyes and mouthed a “Thank you” to T.T.

  “I’m a dealer, remember? Got busted yesterday,” Bulldog said. “Did a drop with one of my best customers in Prescott. He got all whiney on me. Said his kid was dying and could he pay me after the score. Never saw him again. That’s what I get for trusting people. Somebody must have seen the drop and snitched. The cops came to my house right after that.”

  Bulldog was Matt’s supplier. How in the world had they ended up in the same cell? Talk about crazy. Dalton frowned.

  “Whata you lookin’ at? Are you judging me?” Bulldog’s knotted fist was inches from Dalton’s face.

  Dalton braced himself to be hit.

  “I said, leave him alone!” T.T. shouted.

  “What gives?” Bulldog scowled. “You going soft on me?”

  “I’m a PK.”

  “A what?”

  “Preacher’s kid. My dad still has a church in the Midwest.”

  Bulldog laughed. “That’s too funny. You must be one helluva disappointment to your folks.”

  “Probably. I ain’t been home in years.” T.T. sat on the bench behind Dalton. “They don’t even know they have a grandson.”

  “That’s a bummer, man. What are you in for this time?”
r />   “Petty theft. I’m lookin’ at a felony since it’s my third offense.”

  “What’d you steal?”

  “Same thing I always steal. Food and a little booze from some liquor stores around town.”

  “Haven’t you heard of food stamps?”

  “I’m not a charity case. I can do for myself and my family.”

  “Tell him what the good book says, Preacher Man.” Bulldog glared at Dalton. “Pride goeth before a fall, don’t it?”

  Dalton nodded. Even in this desperate dungeon, the scripture pierced him like a sharp knife. The avalanche accident six months ago on the backside of Agassiz Mountain had only been the beginning of a long and prideful descent.

  Had he finally hit bottom? Dear Lord, he hoped so.

  God, please help me, he prayed. I can’t go any lower than this.

  ***

  Wednesday, 1:00 p.m.

  McCormick, AZ

  Time to get on the road.

  Jeremy climbed into the back of the old VW while Martin took shotgun. Gordon eased the clutch, pressed the gas pedal and the van rumbled to life. It bounced and jostled over the rocky driveway before Gordon turned onto Casa Blanca Road. The 1970 van seemed like a good alternative since Martin’s Fusion, though operable, was running low on fuel. Besides, it offered more room. They were hauling some equipment they might need.

  The gas tank had been filled the previous morning so if they were careful, it would get them back and forth to Saguaro Junction at least twice. Hopefully, due to the power outages, the cops would release his dad into his family’s care, making any future trips north unnecessary.

  “My mom made us some grub. It’s in the back.” Gordon pointed to an Igloo chest on the bench seat.

  “Not hungry. Maybe later.” Martin said.

  “I ate with my family an hour ago,” Jeremy added. “Natalie’s pushing the fridge food before it spoils.”