His plan was to spend the next few hours collecting, buying, or trading for what he could on his parents’ list, and then he needed to talk to Shelby.
He walked home at a quick pace, deliberating the pros and cons of what he planned to do next. The ammunition store was on the northeast side of Abney, and based on what Charles Striker had said, he didn’t relish the idea of being on foot in that part of town.
Driving wasn’t a decision he arrived at easily. On the one hand, he could easily walk the distance, which was probably three miles. Even though his parents’ message through Jerry Lambert had explicitly told him there was no emergency, Max could hear a clock ticking in his mind. He could take two, three more days at the most, and then he wanted to be on Highway 281 headed north.
He didn’t need to look at his watch to know it was past four in the afternoon. The shadows stretching across the deserted roads told him that. If he hurried, he could walk to his truck, drive to Guns & More on the edge of town, and still pick up Shelby from her shift at Green Acres.
The drive to the edge of town was uneventful, but he came to an abrupt stop on the lane leading to the store. Guns & More sat at the top of a hill, little more than a rise off the flat highway heading east. Normally he would turn off the highway onto a caliche road, which led to the store and its gravel parking lot. Not today.
Someone had used a backhoe to the east of the caliche road and on the outside of the fence. Freshly overturned dirt covered a ten-by-twelve-foot area. There had always been a cattle guard leading onto the property—which had once been an old ranch—but he’d never seen the cattle gate closed, and certainly not during business hours. In addition, a wire fence had been stretched across the road, directly up against the cattle gate and extending off into the trees on the right and left. Behind the wire, a teenager sat inside a pickup truck, talking into a CB radio.
When the boy stepped out of the truck, Max saw he was carrying a rifle. He looked comfortable enough handling the weapon. Many kids who grew up in the country had been hunting since they were young, and this kid’s grandfather owned the only ammo store in town.
“Howdy, Mr. Berkman. Gramps said you could go on up.” Resting the rifle against the fence post, he fetched a key out of his pocket and opened a sturdy padlock that was holding the gate closed.
“Thanks, son.” Max slowly drove forward. He wanted to ask the kid what was going on, but he’d have a better chance of getting information from his grandfather.
The name Guns & More sounded like a seedy place, but the store was actually a member of the Abney Chamber of Commerce and known for donating generously to local groups. It was owned by a longtime Abney resident who was a few years older than Max. Stanley Hamilton was a solid guy—retired military, community volunteer, and grandpa of four at last count. Now Stanley’s grandson, a talented running back, was playing the role of armed guard.
Max parked his truck in front of the store. No one else appeared to be in the parking lot, and when Max tried the front door, he found it closed and shut up tight. Not a big problem, since Stanley lived in the old home positioned several hundred yards behind the store. Max walked back to the truck and locked it—which was probably ridiculous, since there was an armed patrol at the bottom of the hill. Regardless, he felt better with the old truck locked. Next he hustled over to Stanley’s home. He found the man on the east side of the house, in the shade of the building, planting a garden with two of his younger grandchildren.
Stanley was an average-sized guy—maybe five feet ten or eleven. He’d managed to stay in shape in spite of being on the north side of fifty. His look had definitely changed since he’d retired from the military. He sported long hair and a full beard. It now reached halfway down his chest and was more gray than black. A red do-rag held his shoulder-length hair back away from his face. He wore jeans, a T-shirt, and a pouch around his waist. He looked like an ad for Harley-Davidson motorcycles. The picture would have been complete if he’d sported tattoos down his arms, but he’d once confessed to Max that he had a strong aversion to needles.
“Max.” He pulled off a garden glove, and they shook hands. “How are you?”
“All right. Just closed up my place downtown.”
“Headed to High Fields?”
“I am. My folks…” Max pulled the list from his pocket. “They asked me to pick up a few things.”
Stanley studied the list, nodded once, and told his grandchildren to wait inside. “Tell grandma I’m going to the shop for a few minutes.”
When he turned toward the kids, Max noticed Stanley was wearing a paddle holster, and it held a Sig Sauer 9mm pistol. In addition, a mobile CB station was set up on a card table under the patio cover, which must have been how he’d answered his grandson at the gate.
The kids ran inside, and Stanley motioned toward his business. “I’m pretty sure I have what you need. Do you have cash?”
“I do.”
“Sorry I have to ask.”
“Not a problem.”
A mockingbird called out from a nearby tree, and the normalcy of that sound hit Max like a punch in the gut. Nothing about their life was normal now. It seemed that everything had changed, and their lives had begun to feel like a doomsday movie.
“I was afraid you might be sold out.”
“I’ve sold a good bit, but I still have about half my stock. Folks don’t have much cash. What they do have they’re spending on food or seed.”
“You’re not taking trades?”
“Not yet, but I might—eventually.”
“When did you start wearing a paddle holster?”
“Two days ago, when a customer tried to rob me.”
“Is that why your grandson is standing guard?”
Instead of answering, Stanley unlocked the back door of the shop. The room was pitch-dark, but he reached for a battery-operated lantern and flipped it on. He handed the list back to Max and pointed toward the workbench, where another lantern waited. Max walked over and turned it on.
Stanley proceeded to walk through the supply room, gathering up shotgun shells, rifle cartridges, and several boxes of handgun ammunition.
“Things went south here pretty quickly.” He pulled a gun cleaning kit off a shelf and added it to the stack of supplies.
“We hadn’t heard.”
“No time to notify the authorities, and I doubt they could or would have done anything if I had.”
Max didn’t know how to answer that, so he kept quiet, trying to process what Stanley was describing.
“Your parents are doing okay?”
“They are. I received that note from them earlier today. I was a little surprised Pop wanted this stuff. You and I both know he keeps plenty at the ranch.”
“He’s thinking long-term. Your pop, he isn’t one to paint a rosy picture if there are storm clouds on the horizon.”
Max thought about that as Stanley walked to the front counter, where the last of the day’s light pierced the front windows. Something had happened here. On the one hand, Max wanted to know the details. But on the other hand, he was still a lawyer. He’d dedicated his life to upholding the law.
What Stanley was about to tell him was probably outside the boundaries of the law. If so, Max would have to decide whether to choose the side of the law or support his friend.
FIFTY-ONE
Stanley tallied up his purchases by hand on an old-fashioned receipt book and then circled the total. Max pulled the requisite bills from his wallet. Stanley unzipped the pouch he wore and made change, and then he tucked the money Max had given him into the bag and zipped it shut.
“What’s going on, Stanley? Your grandson is standing guard at the road, you’ve installed a perimeter fence, your shop is locked up, and you’re carrying a pistol on your hip and your money in a bag around your waist.”
Stanley ran his fingers through his beard and studied Max. Finally he nodded toward the back room. “Let’s talk back there. I don’t like standing near the windows an
y longer than I have to.”
When they’d reached the back room, Stanley pulled an empty clip from a box and a tray of ammo from a shelf. As he talked he thumbed ammo into the clip.
“Two days ago a skinny, drugged-up kid from the east side tried to rob me. I clipped him on the side of the head and kicked him out of my store. Later that night, he came back—this time with three of his buddies.”
Max’s mind immediately shifted into lawyer mode. He wanted to stop Stanley, ask questions, get the details, and somehow create a complete picture of what Stanley was describing. But he didn’t.
“The store was locked up and darkness had fallen by the time they returned, but I was sitting in the bed of my truck. It was parked to the east side of the building. You know I have a floodlight on the top of that truck.”
“For when you go hog hunting. I remember.”
“When I spotlighted these fellas, one pulled a handgun and started shooting.”
“And you shot back?”
“I did, though I didn’t aim to kill him—after all, he was just a kid.” Stanley shook his head and reached for another clip. “That was my first mistake. Thinking the old way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Max. We both realize no officer is going to arrive and arrest that kid or his buddies, plus I couldn’t even call 9-1-1.”
“So you shot one of them. What happened then?”
“These punks had never thought through what they were doing. I guarantee you not a single one of them had envisioned bullets coming toward them. They scampered out of here the minute the first kid was hurt.” Stanley shook his head. “I know better than to make that kind of mistake. The last thing a person needs in this environment is enemies—especially young, stupid ones.”
Max pulled out a stool from under the counter and sank onto it. “So they came back?”
“The same four guys, and this time they were sporting rifles, shotguns, and a few handguns.” He glanced at Max and shook his head. “Rather ironic that they were willing to use so much ammo in order to steal ammo.”
“What did you do?”
“I knew they’d hit that same night. Cowards like those four avoid the light. They think the darkness is their friend.” He filled another clip and tossed it into a bin. “This time I was on the roof, wearing my infrareds. They didn’t have a chance.”
“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.”
FIFTY-TWO
The 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 rif
le.”
“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?”
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