by Kyla Stone
Bear whoofed.
“That’s what I thought.” She rubbed her weary eyes. It wasn’t even dark yet, but the northern lights shimmered bright in the sky.
Her stomach growled. Sweat broke out on her forehead. She felt a little shaky, too. Damn it. She’d forgotten to eat, so focused on driving that she’d missed her last meal break.
She had to be careful; she couldn’t afford to let her health slide. She checked her pump, then reached for an apple juice box and a package of crackers and cheese.
“Dinner of champions.” She glanced at Bear in the rear-view mirror. “Don’t judge.”
Even though she’d skirted the city, huge traffic jams outside of Detroit had slowed her down. She’d inched her way through Ann Arbor, where she’d attended the University of Michigan.
Most of the exits were backed up. It appeared that everyone was attempting to leave at once. She couldn’t imagine the state of things within the city itself.
She’d passed dozens of vehicles marooned on the side of the road, out of fuel. Hotel parking lots were overflowing as stranded people found themselves desperate for shelter.
On I-75, she drove through Flint and then Saginaw forty miles later. The further north she went, the more the traffic thinned.
A forest-green station wagon drove ahead of her. She’d kept their taillights in her sights for the last hundred miles.
Gradually, cities and towns faded away. The trees grew taller and closer together as the familiar woodsy scent of Northern Michigan hit her senses. It smelled like home.
Who was she kidding? She had no home anymore. She’d abdicated the places of her childhood and fled, intending never to return.
Yet here she was, ten miles from Mackinaw City. The nearly five-mile Mackinac Bridge separated the lower and upper peninsula, a stretch of steel that bridged two distinct worlds.
A twenty-three hour, sixteen-hundred-mile drive had turned into four days. How much faster could she have traveled if she hadn’t been alone, if she hadn’t needed to stop frequently to tend to her blood sugar and care for Bear, if more gas stations had been functional…
There were too many ‘if’s’, too many unknowns.
She’d done the best she could.
Trepidation snarled in her gut, her fingers taut on the steering wheel, her mouth dry. Once she crossed the bridge, she was one hundred and thirty miles from her destination.
She checked the fuel gauge; as long as she didn’t hit another traffic jam, she’d make it.
Bear gave an anxious whine. He stood in the back seat and nosed the window. She knew the Newfie like the back of her hand, knew his barks, whoofs, head shakes, whimpers and whines.
He was nervous. Concerned about something he could sense but she couldn’t.
She slowed. “What’s wrong, boy?”
Before he could respond, a loud boom echoed. Then another and another.
Ahead of her to the right, a power line exploded. Sparks flew. Smoke billowed, tinged red with fire. A second one. Then a third.
All down the line, flames and smoke and sizzling sparks exploded into the night.
Lena gaped in astonishment.
The station wagon slammed its brakes. It veered left, tires squealing as it skidded sideways and came to an abrupt halt in the center of the highway.
Lena hit the brakes. The Tan Turd squealed in protest. Her seatbelt jerked against her chest as her body was thrown forward. Bear growled, nails scrabbling. His big body smacked the back of her seat.
The SUV jerked to a jarring stop. Less than five feet of asphalt between the two vehicles. The Tan Turd was untouched.
Relief flooded her. For a second, she sat, stunned.
As far as she could see, power lines sizzled and buzzed, pulsing with powerful surge after powerful surge. It lasted fifteen, maybe twenty seconds. It seemed to go on forever.
Someone screamed.
It was coming from the station wagon. A woman sat behind the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. Two kids were in the back seat. One pounded on the glass with tiny fists, mouth opened. The aurora bathed their terrified faces in the red glow.
Adrenaline icing her veins, Lena made a quick visual check of the road for downed power lines to ensure it was safe, then bolted into action. She leapt from the SUV, grabbed her medic bag from the back, and dashed to the driver’s side of the Volvo.
Several cars whizzed past, driving onto the shoulder to avoid them. No one stopped. Most cars were full of suitcases and boxes. More and more people were getting the hell out of Dodge.
She pounded on the window. The woman turned her head, blinking and dazed. She was in her early thirties with short brown curly hair and scared eyes.
When she noticed Lena, she unlocked the door. Lena opened it and peered inside. “You okay, ma’am?”
“I—I think so.”
Lena looked her over, checking for injuries or signs of shock, asking her a series of questions. She was alert and oriented. And unhurt, just startled. Normally, Lena would call 911 and get them to a hospital just in case. That wasn’t happening now.
After checking with the woman, Lena offered the kids some fruit snacks, then gestured for her to step out of the vehicle.
“What—what just happened?” the woman asked.
“The geomagnetic storm overloaded the transformers. It probably happened across the country. Do you have somewhere safe to go?”
“We’re on our way to my brother’s house in St. Ignace.”
“Get there as quickly as you can.”
The woman stared at her. Then she looked at the sizzling transformers and back to Lena. “It’s real, isn’t it? It’s really happening.”
“It’s real.”
“I’ve been listening to the news every day. It’s hard to know what to believe. But I thought it was better to be safe than sorry, so we left Atlanta.”
“Good thinking. Buy whatever supplies you can. Whatever’s left.” Lena held her gaze. “Get ready for all hell to break loose. Protect your kids.”
“Okay,” the woman said, steeling herself. She straightened her shoulders, mopped her face, and glanced back at her children. “Okay. I will.”
Lena got back in the Tan Turd. She watched the mother return to her vehicle and comfort her scared kids. They looked at her with total trust.
Lena hoped they would be okay.
There was no coming back from this. What came next would be pure chaos.
Bear chuffed in her ear as she started the engine.
“Strap in,” she told Bear. “From here on out, it’s gonna be a bumpy ride.”
45
JACKSON CROSS
DAY SIX
The smell of motor oil and cigarette smoke wafted through the empty front office of Fred Comb’s Automotive Body Shop.
Jackson scanned the waiting room—scratched linoleum, a couple of metal chairs, car magazines scattered across a coffee table. No secretary sat behind the yellowed counter.
Behind the counter, a door dented from decades of use led to the shop. It was unlocked. Jackson and Devon let themselves in, Devon trailing behind Jackson.
They maneuvered past bays with various vehicles on hydraulic lifts, stacks of tires, work benches laden with tools, and a couple of rolling creepers shoved against the wall.
The mechanic was leaning over a rusty Jeep, the hood up, a wrench in one hand. A battery-operated lantern provided light. He turned as they approached.
“Nice to see you, Fred,” Jackson said.
“What’da want?” Fred Combs was an old goat in his mid-seventies, with grease beneath his fingernails and liver-spotted hands. A halo of stiff white hair billowed around his head like Einstein.
Devon showed him the wrecked ATV pictures on her phone and explained the situation. “We were hoping that you could help us.”
He barely glanced at the phone. He spoke with a heavy Yooper accent. “Yeah, I got customers. They got cars and trucks in all sorts of colors. What’s it to you, eh?”
“
We need a name and address of anyone who owns a vehicle in this particular color. That’s all.”
He grabbed a grease-stained towel from the rolling table beside the Jeep, scattered with wrenches, screwdrivers, a socket set, and a drill. “My customers appreciate their privacy, don’t ya know. I don’t go ‘round giving personal information like that. I might lose customers if word got out that I was doin’ that sort of thing.”
Jackson gritted his teeth. “You want a murderer loose in the community? That affects everyone, even you.”
Combs scowled. “We already got one. You ain’t done jack squat to solve that problem, now have you?”
“Eli Pope has been contained. He’s not going to be an issue.”
Combs gave a disbelieving grunt. “I’ll believe that when I see it. Damn Redskins, always up to no good.”
Jackson stiffened. “What did you say?”
“Nothin’, just like I got nothin’ to say to cops.” Hostility radiated from the old man’s every pore. Wrinkles radiated like spiders’ webs across his hard leathery face.
Jackson appreciated the benefits of life in a rural, isolated, half-wild place. Its insular nature. Its privacy. That close familiarity. The safety of neighbors who would look out for one another.
There were also folks who disliked authority. Fiercely independent, used to doing their own thing, they wanted the government to stay the hell out of their business. Law enforcement were outsiders, even if they were their own sons and daughters.
“This perp ran a little girl off the road.” Jackson got up in his face. Combs flinched, tried to back away, but the Jeep prevented him. He had nowhere to go. “He’s still out there.”
Combs turned his head and spat tobacco on the oil-stained concrete floor. “Just like your daddy. Coming in here like you’re owed, you’re entitled. You and your family believing you’re above the law, that you make the law. You don’t got everyone in this county in your pocket, Cross.”
He felt the ticking clock in his blood. He couldn’t see the timer, didn’t know where the bomb was, but he knew it existed.
It was counting down. He was running out of time.
They needed a break. Just one little break.
Helplessness and frustration bubbled in Jackson’s gut. Investigating a case was difficult when the world worked as it should. With the DMV down, they had no way to search registered vehicles.
It should be a simple matter to narrow it down. Instead, they were no further than before.
This ornery knucklehead had the information they needed tucked inside his liver-spotted, frizzy-haloed skull. And he wouldn’t give it to them.
His hands clenched into fists, tendons standing out on his neck. “I know you know who owns that truck.”
Combs patted the breast pocket of his grease-stained overalls like he was searching for a pack of cigarettes. “I don’t owe you a damn thing. Get the hell out.”
Jackson’s frustration seethed into anger. It flashed hard and bright. He took a lunging step and jabbed his finger in the old man’s chest. “You know, damn it! You can help us and you’re refusing! You know this truck!”
There were answers here. The answer they so desperately needed. In that moment, he was willing to do anything to get what he needed. What Shiloh needed.
“Tell me!” he shouted into Comb’s face. Spittle struck the man’s whiskered cheeks. “Who owns the damn truck?”
Comb’s breath came in uneven wheezes. His weathered face reddened with anger. “Yeah, sure, I know who owns that truck. I’ve got what you need and you’re never gonna get my help. How you like them apples, eh?”
Jackson stepped back, breathing hard. His anger had startled him. How fast it had surged. He lifted his hands, showed his palms to the old man, the best apology that he could muster.
Combs gave him the finger. “Get the hell out of my shop before I report you.”
It was an empty threat. He was old school; a man who took care of his own business and didn’t want the aid of law enforcement. He wouldn’t go crying to Sheriff Underwood. And he had no reason to—Jackson had controlled himself, if barely.
“Thank you for your time,” Devon said sweetly.
“Don’t come back!” Combs snarled.
Jackson stalked from the shop into the waiting area and shoved through the front doors into the cool late evening air. Devon followed him.
His stomach grumbled, but he was too upset to eat. Besides, most of the restaurants were closed. There was no power. Generators were running out. No supplies had been delivered for days, either.
They stopped on the sidewalk, halfway to the patrol truck. Sweat beaded his brow, beneath his armpits. Dusk was falling; the aurora already danced in the sky, brighter than he’d ever seen it. Long blood-red shadows stretched across the grass.
He felt shaky. He needed the calm and quiet of a river and a fly-fishing rod, some peace and time to think. But there was no peace to be had.
Devon watched him. “You okay, boss?”
“I’m fine.” His hands were trembling. He shoved them in his pockets.
“You got him angry enough to get us what we needed.”
Jackson shrugged, reluctant to admit how angry he’d been, too. He felt himself losing it. Losing himself.
The law was logical. It was cerebral. It was about following the rules. It offered control.
But he did not feel in control.
“We have enough for a warrant,” Devon said. “You did good.”
Jackson nodded. “We have probable cause. We know what he has and where it’s located. He has material evidence in a felony assault investigation and is refusing to turn it over.”
“Then let’s go find a judge.” Devon strode past him. “I assume you have someone in mind.”
Jackson hurried to keep up. “I do.”
46
LENA EASTON
DAY SIX
Lena drove up the winding driveway leading to Jackson’s house. She’d barely made it.
The gas gauge ticked at empty, the Tan Turd struggling with every mile as she passed the places of her childhood. The familiar roads. The forests that stretched for hundreds of miles.
At last, the big stone house appeared at the top of the ridge. Behind it lay Lake Superior, glittering crimson as it reflected the northern lights. The aurora was so bright, it might have been sunset rather than ten p.m.
Jackson stood on the porch of his parents’ house as if he’d sensed her arrival. He wore civilian clothes, faded jeans and an Alice in Chains T-shirt, still with that boyish smile, that rumpled sandy hair.
He looked older though, and sadder, like life had dealt him a nasty blow that he’d never recovered from. Her chest squeezed with long-dormant affection.
He lifted a hand and waved.
Bear leapt from the backseat and trotted beside her as she made her way up the driveway. His tail wagged, excited to meet a new person, to make friends. Lena felt the same urgency.
With every step, she felt herself returning to the past. Rewinding time, the months and years and days flashing past. Four best friends laughing together, weeping together, arms entwined, a thousand memories of hot and sparkling summers, cold winters spent sledding, cross-country skiing, and snowmobiling, huddled close before a warm fire, unspooling stories and songs and half-drunk dreams.
They’d been her escape, as they’d been Lily’s. Each of them had found solace in the others for their own reasons, a solace none of them could find at home.
It was the reason she’d come here first instead of the rambling white farmhouse she’d grown up in. It would be empty and silent, her father dead and the kids missing.
Lena paused at the top of the driveway, her feet rooted in place.
“Hey you,” she said.
Jackson said, “Welcome back.”
With a grin, he bounded down the porch steps, his strong arms opened wide. He drew her into a bear hug. At first, she stiffened. And then she allowed herself to melt into his arms.
In his familiar embrace, the stress of the journey leaked out of her. He held on tighter. Warm and strong and comforting, like a fuzzy blanket on a cold night.
He had been her confidante, her best friend. They’d understood each other. Where things with Eli had been hot or cold, a rollercoaster of love and heartbreak, Jackson had been calm, even, dependable. A lighthouse in the storm.
Years of loneliness washed over her. How could she have forgotten? How she’d missed this. Missed him. She loved this man like a brother. “Jackson.”
“Lena.” His chest vibrated against her cheek as he spoke. “It’s been a while.”
She choked out a half laugh, half sob.
For the first time in nearly a decade, she felt it. That pull. That connection to her soul she thought she’d lost. Maybe it had just been misplaced.
She was the prodigal daughter returned.
“I’m so glad you came, Lena. I really am.”
She pulled back and gazed up into his face. “You look so old.”
He managed a tight smile. “And you look the same as the day you left.”
“How are things here?”
“Better than out there, but not by much.”
“Tell me you have Shiloh and Cody.”
His face fell. “Not yet. We’re getting close. We have a lead. The grid down is making everything harder, but this is my job.” He squeezed her shoulders. “I promise you. I will find them.”
“I can help you. Bear and I, that’s what we do. We find the missing.”
He smiled wearily. “Get some rest, first. You look exhausted. Stay here with my parents for the night. Tomorrow will bring enough troubles.”
“I know.”
Jackson released her and took a moment to greet her dog. He bent on one knee and reached out a hand for the Newfie to sniff. “This must be Bear.”
Bear perked up. Tail wagging, he slurped the side of Jackson’s face with his pink tongue.
“Well, hello to you, too. I think he likes me.”
“Don’t get cocky. He likes everyone.”