True Light

by Terri Blackstock

  Ellen’s face slowly showed recognition, but she didn’t slow down. “Yeah?”

  “I’m Deni Branning. Jeff’s sister.”

  “I know.” Ellen kept walking and pushed through the door into the first-floor lobby.

  Deni hoped she didn’t spot Mark standing beside the door. “Is there any change in Zach?”

  “No, he’s still unconscious. I’m just going out for some air. This place smells terrible. It’s making me sick. I don’t know how anybody can get well here. If Zach were awake he’d be fighting to get out.”

  “A lot of people are praying for him. We’re so hoping — ” Deni saw Ellen’s gaze connect with Mark, and her words trailed off.

  Slowly, Ellen’s teeth came together in a tight clench.

  Uh-oh. Here we go.

  “What are you doing here?” Ellen shouted.

  Mark stiffened. “I just came with Deni.”

  “To do what?” Ellen roared. “To finish what you started?”

  A vein in Mark’s temple began to swell. “Mrs. Emory, I didn’t have anything to do with — ”

  “Get out of here!” Ellen cried. “Security! Someone call security!”

  Mark started to back out of the building, but rage shot through Deni, and she stepped in front of the crazed woman. “Look, I know you’re upset, but it won’t do any good to accuse Mark. You don’t want them to arrest him just to lock somebody up. You want them to find the person who really did it, and I’m telling you, it wasn’t Mark.”

  “You go with him,” Ellen bit out. “And don’t you come back here!”

  All eyes in the waiting room watched them, frightened, as if they were armed killers. Deni decided the best response was to make a quiet exit.

  “All right,” she said quietly, “we’re going.”

  “They should lock you up, Mark Green!” Ellen shouted as he and Deni went out the door. “They should put you in jail with the other criminals and show you what it’s like to suffer!”

  Mark was familiar with suffering, Deni knew, but it wouldn’t help to tell Zach’s mother. The wind assaulted them as they hurried back to their bikes. Some key part of Ellen’s brain must have snapped with the news of Zach’s shooting, Deni decided. She’d always had a reputation for being volatile and angry, but right now she seemed beyond that.

  “She’s crazy, Mark!” Deni said as he unlocked their chains. “I can’t believe she did that in front of all those people.”

  Mark’s face was pink, but he didn’t look angry. “Her son is struggling for his life, Deni. She has every right to be upset, especially when she thinks I did it.”

  “But she’s wrong! She slandered you in public!”

  Mark got up. “I appreciate your indignation, Deni, but this isn’t about me. God knows I didn’t do it, and when Zach wakes up — ”

  “What if he doesn’t, Mark?”

  He was quiet for a moment, his breath clouding in front of him. “We’ll deal with that then.”

  She wished she could be more like him. “Mark, aren’t you scared?” Her voice shook with the question.

  “Yes.”

  She hated that pain in his eyes. It wasn’t fair. Ellen Emory had no right to say what she’d said, even if her son was dying.

  They were quiet as they pedaled home, and Deni’s mind buzzed, compiling a list of people she could talk to to help clear Mark’s name. Time was running out. The people of Oak Hollow would take matters into their own hands if they thought the law wasn’t handling it.

  Innocent or not, that could cost Mark his life.

  FOURTEEN

  ZACH HEARD VOICES, MUFFLED AND GARBLED, LIKE THE teacher’s voice in Charlie Brown. Waaaw-waw-waw. Waaaw-waw.

  His chest was on fire, and his throat was tight around some object in his mouth. He opened his eyes.

  “Waaaw-waw-waw . . . He’s waking up . . . Waw-waw . . . Can you hear me, Zach?”

  He tried to focus through the haze. His mother’s face moved closer. She’d been crying again. At least she was out of bed. He tried to whisper Mama, but that thing in his mouth choked him.

  Something was clamped to his face . . .

  “Hey buddy, you’re in the hospital. You’re gonna be okay.”

  It was Jeff, standing over him, looking worried.

  “Zach, you were shot.” His dad now. “Wake up, son.”

  He clawed at the thing on his face, pulled it away . . . gagged. His chest felt shredded, lungs ripped apart. Fire. Help —

  “Honey, you can’t breathe on your own.” His mother sounded sane; he must be dreaming. “Leave the mask alone. The tube in your throat is helping you breathe.”

  He swung his arms, pushing her back, fighting.

  His father wrestled him, and they were all pulling him down, fighting him . . . shoving the tube deeper . . .

  Smothering him until he slept again.

  FIFTEEN

  SHERIFF SCARBROUGH’S THROAT HURT. HIS HEAD FELT as if it had been slammed with a sledgehammer, and he couldn’t stop coughing. He must have the flu, but he had to keep going. His staff needed payroll, and somehow he had to get to Birmingham to pick it up. Thankfully, his old van did have heat, but it was almost out of gas again. The three gallons he’d put in earlier had already been used up. Though he was thankful for the working van, it was a 1964 gas guzzler and gulped fuel almost as fast as he could put it in. Now he had to figure out where to get more. If he could make it twenty more miles, he’d be able to pump it from the state police’s filling station, where an early twentieth-century gas pump had been installed. It operated much like a hand water pump. It pumped fuel into a glass globe, then discharged it directly out of a nickel-plated spigot. State engineers had copied the design from the exhibit at their local agricultural museum and were trying to reproduce it across the state. But getting gas to the pumps was another thing altogether. Mechanics were working on converting fuel trucks, but without electricity, oil refineries were still shut down. Half the time, if he did make it to the pumps, he found them empty.

  But today, he knew he’d run out long before he reached it.

  No, he would have to find gas some other way, and quickly. He pulled into a parking lot in front of a manufacturing plant, hoping to find an abandoned vehicle that still contained some fuel. Most of the cars that had stalled on the roads on May 24 had been towed away by now. The government had cleared the roads to make it easier for their own vehicles, as well as horse-drawn carriages, wagons, and bicycles to get through.

  But the cars that weren’t blocking the roads had been left where they were, so many of the parking lots were still full.

  Getting his gas can, he lay down on the snow-covered pavement and slid under a Lincoln Town Car. Pulling the knife out of his pocket, he stabbed the fuel tank and quickly slid out of the way. Only a trickle came dribbling out, but he caught it in his container. Either the car had been low on gasoline when the Pulses hit, or it had already been siphoned empty.

  He slid under the next car, a Chevy Malibu, and stabbed the tank. A healthy flow streamed out, and he knew he’d hit pay dirt. Lying on his back, trying not to breathe too deeply because he would cough if he did, he waited, shivering in the icy wind sweeping under the car, until the stream of gasoline filled up the three-gallon container. Then he slid out, got another can, and pushed it under the flow, trying to waste as little as possible. By the time the fuel tank finished trickling, he had about eight gallons.

  When someone had first suggested stabbing a hole in the tanks to drain them, he’d balked at the idea. He wouldn’t do it if he thought he could siphon the fuel out. But the fact was, these cars were never again going to run — not without a lot of work. All modern internal combustion engines, which relied so heavily on electronics, had been fatally damaged. And what the pulsar’s gamma rays hadn’t destroyed, vandals had. Many of the cars had been stripped of their radios and stereos, their navigational equipment, their radar detectors, their tires, and sometimes their seats. There were people who had enti
re warehouses full of useless stolen equipment from these cars. He supposed they thought they’d be able to sell them after the Pulses stopped.

  Maybe one day the thieves would be rounded up and locked away, but meanwhile he had to do his own share of vandalism to get the gas out.

  Finally able to fill his tank, he got back in and started the engine. The motor rumbled and died, rumbled and died, then finally, caught and started. One of these days it wouldn’t. Then he supposed the government would give him another clunker, and he’d spend his days coaxing it along.

  When he’d first been elected sheriff of Jefferson County, he’d signed up a volunteer force of reserve deputies, and there had been a few times over the years when he’d been able to call them into service. But now communication was the major problem. It wasn’t like he could pick up the phone and ask the volunteers to report for duty. Besides, people were willing to volunteer their services when they had another source of income and extra time on their hands. Right now, very few had an income, and survival was such a struggle that there was no extra time.

  He made his way into Birmingham, dodging the horses and wagons and bicycles and pedestrians walking on the interstate even in the snow. Now and then he saw another vehicle from one of the police forces or ambulance services, or a government employee. But motorized vehicles were few, and most of the slower traffic had gotten out of the habit of yielding right of way. Getting from one place to another without killing someone was quite a challenge.

  He decided to swing by the hospital to check on Zach Emory on the way to his downtown office. If the young man would wake up and tell him who had shot him, he could make an arrest and call it a day. Plus, he would love to take the heat off Mark Green.

  The ground seemed to tip as he got out of the van, and he closed his eyes, fighting the sudden rush of vertigo. He touched the hood to steady himself. The snow was coming down harder, and bitter wind blew through his coat. He shivered and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  Trudging through the powder, he made his way through the emergency entrance. A coughing fit overcame him as he got inside, but no one noticed. The lobby was full of moaning, bleeding, injured patients. Doctors in scrubs went from patient to patient, assessing their condition.

  He hesitated at the door and tried to cough his lungs clear. A nurse hurried toward him. “Afternoon, Sheriff. Respiratory infections go down that hall and to the right.”

  He sucked in a searing breath. “I’m not here for me.”

  “You sure? You should get that checked.”

  “It’s probably just an allergy.”

  She snickered. “Yeah, there’s a lot of ragweed growing up through that snow.” She grabbed a box from a nearby table and pulled out a pair of gloves. “Put these on, and get a mask from that table over there.”

  “Thanks.” He pulled the gloves on then went to the table and looped the surgical mask around his ears. Not certain whether it was to keep germs in or out, he started up the stairs.

  As he went up, he stopped and caught his breath at every landing. Stopping on the third floor, he leaned against the wall.

  He’d never had a cold do such a number on him. He wanted to sit down, right here on the floor. But there was too much to do. Steadying himself, he launched out again and made it to the fourth floor.

  He found the waiting room and looked in. The Emorys weren’t there, but he saw Jeff Branning and his friend Brian sitting on the windowsill.

  They saw him as he came in and shot toward him. “Sheriff, Zach woke up!”

  Scarbrough would have celebrated if he could have worked up a smile. “He did?”

  “Yeah. Came to long enough to wrestle the ventilator off. But they finally settled him back down.”

  “Did he talk?”

  “Not yet. He was out again before we could really communicate.”

  Just his luck, Scarbrough thought. “Is he still in ICU?”

  “No, they moved him to 412. His parents are in there with him.”

  “Good. I’ll go talk to them.” He started down the hallway.

  “Hey, Sheriff, you think you could give us a ride home? It’s really cold out there.”

  “Sure,” Scarbrough said. “You’ll have to wait while I make a stop on the way home.”

  “No problem.”

  Sheriff Scarbrough found the room, but it was a little crowded. They’d moved Zach into a small room with a roommate, and his parents and brother had squeezed in and were standing over his bed, among the family members of the other patient. A nurse swept in past him. “Okay, this crowd has to go. Two visitors at a time! That’s it.”

  Scarbrough waited outside as Zach’s parents came into the hall. They too were wearing masks. “I heard the good news,” he told Ned and Ellen.

  Ned’s face looked much less tense than it had yesterday. Ellen’s eyes were swollen from crying, but she was smiling now. “He’s still in critical condition, and he can’t breathe on his own. But the doctors think he’ll survive.”

  So it wasn’t going to be a homicide he was investigating, and chances were Zach would name the perpetrator soon. “I want to talk to him as soon as he’s able.”

  Ned nodded. “He’s in and out of consciousness. I’m not sure he even knows his own name.”

  “Meanwhile, you’d better get Mark Green off the street,” Ellen said. “He’s already been here this morning, if you can imagine the gall.”

  Something about that didn’t sound right. “Really? He came here?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “With Deni Branning. Probably intended to finish the job.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He didn’t get to say anything. The minute I saw him I lost it, and he ran out.”

  He didn’t want to set her off by interrogating her, but he made a mental note to get to the bottom of it as soon as he got back to Crockett. “Look, I don’t know why he was here, but there’s no solid evidence that he shot Zach.”

  “You got the deer, don’t you?” Ellen demanded loudly.

  “Yeah, but Mark’s not the only one who came home with a deer yesterday.”

  “Oh, I see what we’re dealing with here,” Ned said. “You’re one of his buddies, aren’t you? What did he do, bring you food? Build you a wagon? Did he butter you up so you wouldn’t arrest him when his true nature was exposed?”

  Scarbrough didn’t have the fight left in him for this. “That’s not how I work, Ned. If I get a case against Mark Green, I’ll take him into custody. Not before.”

  He was glad to finally leave the hospital with Jeff and Brian, and he headed over to his downtown office. Leaving the boys in the van, he went in. Like every other building in town, the place was freezing, and he trudged up the stairs to the second floor where the county’s comptroller worked. Thankfully, Andy Truett had stayed on board, but he had a thankless job. Scarbrough tried not to give him too much flack when things didn’t go the way he wanted.

  Andy sat behind his desk, papers covering its surface. He wore a big parka with the hood up. He was blowing on his hands when Scarbrough came in.

  “How’s it going, Andy? You got the payroll ready?”

  “Yeah, such as it is, Sheriff.” He turned his desk chair around, pulled out a big envelope, and thrust it at Scarbrough. “They’ve cut everybody’s pay again.”

  “No way.” Scarbrough snatched the envelope. “Nobody told me.”

  “They said they were going to tell you but they hadn’t been able to get over to Crockett. They were waiting until you came in.”

  They’d already cut their pay by 90 percent, Scarbrough thought. How would he keep anybody working if they lowered it any more?

  “We’re now officially at 2 percent of our pay scale, and the county supervisor said you should take it up with them if you don’t like it. Seems they’re not getting paid a thing.”

  “Yeah, well, they’re not out risking their lives chasing bad guys, either.” He opened the envelope and looked inside. “Just make sure you get w
hat you’ve got over to the substations, even if you have to take it yourself. We’ve got to pay them something to keep them from walking off the job. I’ve got hundreds of prisoners in jail that I can’t keep if I can’t pay people to guard them and feed them.”

  He stormed out of the office and up the stairs again, hoping someone in the county supervisor’s office was still around today. He had to stop on one of the landings and catch his breath. Lightheaded, he tried to regain his equilibrium, but he feared he would pass out. The coughing started again.

  He tried to pull himself together, wishing for a drink of water, but he’d have to wait. He finally reached the county supervisor’s office. Joe Hamilton sat behind his desk, looking as haggard as Andy.

  “Joe, what do you think you’re doing?” Scarbrough demanded in a raspy voice.

  Joe looked up at him, unsurprised. “I was waiting for you, Sheriff.”

  “Well, you should have been waiting for me. How did you think I was going to react?”

  “Sheriff, you’re lucky you got anything. It’s not like I can reach into my own pockets and pull out the cash. We take what the feds give us, and even then it has to trickle down through the state agencies.”

  “I don’t care about the state agencies,” Scarbrough said. “I have to uphold the law and keep prisoners locked up. In case you haven’t noticed, crime’s at an all-time high and you need me and my force. I already have enough problems keeping a staff as it is. Now you’re doing this?”

  “I’m sorry, Ralph. It’s the best I can do.” He rubbed his unshaven jaw and raked his hand through his unkempt hair. “Believe me, I know how you feel. I’m working for free, just trying to hold things around here together. I’m doing everything I know to do — ” His voice broke off, and his mouth trembled. Scarbrough knew he was about to lose it. They all were.

  There was no point in chewing him out. It wouldn’t do any good.

  He looked down at the envelope in his hands. “So this is the best we’ve got?”

  “That’s it,” Joe said. “Ralph, I promise you, if any other funds come up, I’ll be sure and direct them to your department. You just can’t get blood out of a turnip. The country’s in a crisis.”