by David Wood
Two shapes emerged from the protective shroud of the bush. As they came into the light, Griffin stepped into the street and crossed over toward them.
“Mr. Butler...” Radar said, his voice apologetic.
“The Sheriff asked me to check on you,” Griffin said. “She’s the only person I’m going to report to.”
The boy relaxed, and the transformation made Griffin angry. What had the boy’s father done to make him so afraid? There were rumors, of course. Stories about belts and fists and the hiding of bruises, but they were such stereotypes, Griffin wasn’t sure which were real and which were inspired by a Lifetime Network made-for-TV movie. Rule knew more than most, but she wasn’t sharing, which was a testament to her professionalism, but since Radar still lived at home and his father wasn’t locked up, clearly nothing had been proven.
“Do—do you know what’s wrong with the sky?” Lisa asked. She held on to Radar’s thin arm like he was the only thing holding her to the ground.
Griffin turned his head to the night sky. It was still cloaked in waves of translucent red. The way they moved, sliding through the sky like a sinister fog, made him nervous. Made everyone nervous. And not just because it shouldn’t be there. There was just something...off about it. Something not right. He tried to sound casual and confident. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Do you think it could be, like a poisonous gas or something?” Radar asked. “A chemical attack?”
“You know I was in the military, right?” Griffin asked. Both kids nodded. “I can promise you both, Refuge has absolutely no strategic value. If there were a nuclear war, this would be one of the few places left untouched on the planet. Why do you think they named it Refuge?”
Radar half smiled. “I guess.”
“Might want to get inside soon, though,” Griffin advised. “Won’t be long before people start driving back from Ashland.”
“We were watching for headlights,” Lisa said, standing behind Radar. Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment. Watching for headlights wasn’t the only thing these two were doing inside the rhododendron. But it explained how he was able to sneak up on them. He smiled without realizing it.
“What is it?” Radar asked, sounding nervous, like he’d been caught doing something, which in a sense, he had been.
“Just realized I’ve seen you two playing inside and around that bush for most of your lives.”
Radar looked back at the big plant, then at Lisa. “Yeah...”
“Of course, I’ve never seen you come out looking so guilty.” Before Radar could react, Griffin burst out laughing. After everything that had happened that night, with Avalon, with the bell, and the stars, he needed a release and found it by teasing Radar. Happily, the boy was able to find the humor in the jab and joined in the laughter, followed by Lisa, who sounded a little less comfortable.
Griffin wiped a tear from his eye and controlled himself. “Listen, you guys can go to your separate houses if you want, or you can stay in the bush. It’s your call, but don’t leave, okay? Sheriff wants to know that you’re here and that you’re safe.”
Both nodded.
Griffin tilted his head toward his home, which was two houses down on the opposite side of the street. “I’m going to my house to pick something up. I’ll be in and out inside of ten minutes. With the phones out, if you need anything, or have an emergency, you head straight for the police station. If Frost or Rule aren’t there, I will be.”
Nods again.
“Good.” He took two steps away, heading for his house.
Lisa stopped him. “Is everything going to be okay? Are our families okay?”
“Everything’s going to be fine,” Griffin said. “Stranger things have happened.”
Lisa smiled slightly, in a way that said she knew he was lying, but that she appreciated it.
“Thanks,” Radar said, heading back toward the rhododendron.
Griffin made for his house. He glanced back over his shoulder. If Radar and Lisa were back in the bush, he couldn’t tell. They’re good at hiding, he thought, and he wondered how much of that was a learned defense for Radar.
He slipped past the open gate of his white picket fence that he’d been meaning to remove for several years. The iconic symbol of the suburban American dream just mocked him now. His daughter was a strung-out addict and he was a single father, who had failed miserably at helping his one and only child adapt to life without a mother.
He might have succeeded if Jess had died suddenly. He sometimes felt jealous of Becky. Her husband’s death was tragic, but it also gave her drive and purpose. He would never tell her to her face, but she’d become a better and stronger woman as a result. Jess’s death had been long and slow. The cancer had tortured her, and when she’d fought back, it fought harder. Two years of treatment, of long drives to Boston and of sleepless nights, had left him broken and weary—so much so that he’d never noticed how it all had affected Avalon. She was sixteen when Jess had been diagnosed. Eighteen when her mother had died. Avalon moved out a month later. Six months after that, she went to California with some friends. He fooled himself into hoping the change of scenery would do her good, but that clearly had not been the case.
The front door was unlocked. He didn’t know anyone in town who locked their house or car, unless they traveled to Concord or Manch-Vegas. At least not since Becky had become the sheriff. The town went through a few rough years, but they were in the past now.
The light switch just inside the door clicked beneath the weight of his finger, but it produced no results. Damnit, he thought, shaking his head. He’d been one of the few people to not retrofit their homes. It wasn’t because he disagreed with the effort; he just didn’t want to ruin Jess’s home. Perhaps it was time to move past his sentimentality.
He took the stairs two at a time, each one groaning under his weight. The old Victorian home had been Jess’s dream house. It wasn’t exactly Griffin’s style, but he couldn’t bring himself to sell it, and the large rooms made for excellent studio space for his large paintings. He didn’t make a lot of money, despite being well known and respected in the art world. His work had even been compared favorably to Bosch. But not many people could afford what he charged for his fifteen-foot long monstrosities. He only needed to sell a few every year to make a living, which was another benefit to staying in Refuge. Everything was so damn cheap.
He paused in front of his studio door, looking into the dark space. Moonlight streamed through the windows, creating rectangles of light on the dark hardwood floor. A shiver ran up his back. He couldn’t see the recently finished painting, but he could see the twisted, dark image in his mind’s eye. After the strange night he’d had, that kind of darkness, inspired by his very real past, was not something he wanted to dwell on. He took a long deep breath through his nose, letting the familiar scents of oil paint and turpentine return a sense of normalcy to his mind, and then he headed for the bedroom.
After gathering two flashlights and a strap-on headlamp from the top drawer of his bureau, he moved to the closet. He hadn’t had any need for the satellite phone in years, but he knew exactly where it was. He slid a box of Jess’s clothing to the side—he’d manage to box it up, but resisted bringing it to the Salvation Army—and pulled out the fireproof safe.
It had been four years since he’d last opened the safe, but he quickly entered the combination and opened the lid. Inside was a stack of bills—$10,000 for emergencies—his passport, the satellite phone, his dog tags, an M9 handgun, a holster, three magazines and a box full of 9mm ammunition. He took out the phone and pressed the power button. As expected, it was dead. He’d have to recharge it back at the station.
He slid the phone in his pocket, rested his hands on the safe lid and looked down at the handgun. It had been a long time since he’d held it and even longer since he’d shot it. He reached for it, but stopped short.
Don’t be stupid, he told himself, you can’t shoot at a different moon.
The lid slapped closed, but he stopped before locking it. People in town were going to panic. It seemed obvious to him. Something in the world had gotten screwed up, and someone was going to do something stupid as a result. And if he was going to be manning the station while Rule and Frost dealt with the town...
He opened the safe and picked up the M9. He loaded the magazines and slapped one into the handle of the pistol, but he didn’t chamber a round. The two spare magazines went in his jeans pocket, which was already full with his wallet. But the other side now held two phones and his keys. He considered breaking out his old cargo pants, but opted for simplification instead. He removed the wallet, but kept his driver’s license, in case State Troopers showed up. He put his key chain, which held ten different keys and a collection of tiny knickknacks on the bureau, but kept his car key. Better, he thought, and then he clipped the now holstered gun to his belt where everyone could see it.
As he left the house, he considered walking back to the station. It wasn’t far. But he opened the silver Ford Fusion’s door and started the engine for the same reason he’d taken the gun. If shit started flying in the town of Refuge, he wanted to be able to move himself—and Avalon—out of the way quickly.
Chapter 12
Rule sat behind her desk in the wide, open, front room of the station. She hadn’t moved since placing herself in the seat and leaning back. Normally she resisted sitting. Unless there was paperwork on the desk and a pen in her hand, sitting felt stagnant. Like a swamp. And Rule hated swamps. Mostly because they stunk, a fact she learned as a child when she slipped off a log and landed in some old brown water full of very green and slimy frog eggs. That’s what sitting felt like to her. But tonight, she welcomed the chair’s support.
She needed to talk to someone. Verbalizing always helped her sort things out. But Frost was in the back, checking on Avalon. Winslow was bent over a desk, scribbling something like words onto a piece of paper. That left her with Dodge, who was basically the last person with whom she wanted to talk.
“How long are we supposed to wait?” Dodge asked. He’d been pacing by the door for ten minutes, muttering to himself, and that made her nervous. The muttering, more than the pacing.
“Isn’t patience a virtue, Pastor?” Rule asked, hoping to distract the man from wearing down a circular path in the linoleum.
“Ugh.” Dodge rolled his eyes so hard his whole head swiveled around like a bobble-head figure. “That’s not from the Bible. It’s a fifth century poem.”
“Well,” she said. “It shoulda been in the Bible.” She wasn’t sure why she was egging the man on. Probably because she needed to release some tension. She didn’t feel like she could be serious with him, and he was an easy target.
Dodge turned to her. “‘Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.’ Romans 12:12. That’s just one of many actual Biblical references to patience.”
“In that case, Pastor, I don’t see you smilin’, or prayin’, or—”
“I haven’t stopped praying, Sheriff.”
So that’s what he’s been doing, she thought, and decided to give him a break. While her faith was about as solid as a Jell-O block, she appreciated that he was putting his to work on their behalf. Of course, she had no idea what he was praying for, but he was a good man. Despite his propensity to cry Devil, Dodge had done a lot of good for the town over the years, and he had helped keep people rooted during the tough times that had predated her reign in the town. In a way, the pair of them kept the town in order using a combination of the world’s law and God’s law. He wrote prayer requests. She wrote tickets. He carried a Bible. She carried a gun, and cuffs, and mace, and a—well, she liked to think she was prepared for the end times Dodge preached about regularly.
A shadow bounced back and forth on the windows of the station’s front double doors. Someone was running up the steps. She sat up, for some reason expecting a screaming panicked person. Instead, it was Griffin. He yanked open the outer door, stepped through the foyer, opened the second set of doors and entered the office with a confidence she wished she felt.
Dodge glanced at Griffin, gave him a once over and stepped back. “You have a gun?” He looked at Rule and pointed at Griffin. “He has a gun.” The words came out as part declaration, part warning, like Griffin might go on a shooting spree. Rule half expected Dodge to dive for cover, but this was Griffin and not the Devil, so he stood his ground, waiting for Rule’s response.
“He’s also got a permit to carry that gun,” she said, deflating Dodge’s inflating anxiety balloon. “And if he didn’t bring it, I was going to give him one.”
This surprised both men until she reached down to the desk, picked up a circular deputy’s badge and tossed it across the office. The circle-encased star looked like some kind of Japanese weapon as it spun through the air, but Griffin had no trouble catching it.
He held the badge up. “You sure about this?”
“If anyone comes in here while we’re gone, they’re going to feel better seeing that badge on your chest.”
“People here know me,” he said. It wasn’t necessarily a protest. More of a clarification.
“It’s all about marketing. Perceptions. If you need to make a call, that badge will make people listen faster than the gun on your hip or your good reputation.”
“If they don’t listen to me, they’ll have to answer to you, is that it?” Griffin smiled, and Rule joined him.
“Exactly.” She waved him over. “Did you find the phone?”
“Needs to be charged,” he said.
“Don’t you need to swear him in or something?” Dodge asked, taking a circuitous route to the side of her desk, opposite of where Griffin now stood.
Rule grunted. It was a technicality. She trusted Griff, and that was good enough for her. “Do you swear?” she asked him.
“All the time,” he replied.
She smiled at Dodge. “Good enough for me.”
Griffin crouched by her desk and plugged the phone’s charger into the surge protector, which was zip-tied to the desk leg. He attached the charger to the phone and was happy to see the screen light up green. “You know what,” he said. “I think we can use it while it’s plugged in.”
He handed the phone to Rule. She looked at the numbers, wondering who to call. FBI? Homeland? NASA? The damn White House? She opted for the State Police, punched in the number and lifted the phone to her ear. It shrieked at her, a wailing cry so loud that she yanked the phone away from her ear and dropped it on the desk.
The high-pitched tone could be heard clearly from the desk. Then it stopped.
Griffin put the phone to his ear and shook his head. He hung up and hit redial. “Nothing. Same as the cells and land lines.”
“What was that sound?” Winslow asked.
“Sat-phone,” Griffin said.
Winslow scratched his gray hair. “Sounded like interference.”
“Whatever it was, it’s gone now, but we’re not getting a signal.” Griffin turned to Rule. “Looks like you’re going for a drive.”
Rule got Griffin situated, pointing out a few things around the office with which he might not already be familiar. She told him to stick with the solar flare story if anyone asked, and to send people home. If there was an emergency...well, he’d have to handle that as best he could. She decided to take two cars. Dodge would ride in her patrol car. Winslow with Frost. As soon as they reached Ashland in one piece, she’d send Frost back. She finished detailing her plan by handing him a radio. They seemed to work, but she couldn’t depend on that continuing, since every other mode of modern communication seemed to be on the fritz.
“Stay safe,” Griffin said, as Rule headed for the door with Frost, Dodge and Winslow. She hung back while the others exited.
“Listen, Griff...” She spoke quietly. Secretive. “My personal opinion is that whatever happened has probably affected a lot more people than just us. There were thousands of people in Ashland. And no one’s come h
ome. If people there panicked...” She let that linger. “If that’s what we find, and some kind of craziness spills over into Refuge, you have my permission to take Avalon and get the hell out of town. Head up to that cabin of yours.”
“I will,” he said. “Just as soon as you and Frost get back safely.”
She smiled and gave his face a playful slap. “Question is, which one of us do you have a crush on? Unless it’s both of us. Wouldn’t put it past you.”
Both of Griffin’s cheeks turned red despite only being slapped on one side. His grin confirmed her suspicions. She kissed his cheek where she slapped him. “Jess would approve.” She headed for the door. “Back in a jiff.”
Chapter 13
Dodge had remained quiet for the first few minutes of the ride, but Rule could see him growing antsy. She really didn’t want to get into an argument with the man. It wouldn’t do anyone any good. So don’t argue, she told herself. Let the man speak his mind and just nod.
Dodge pulled his eyes away from the green and brown blur of the pine forest they sped through and swiveled toward her exactly when she expected him to. But his words nearly caused her to yank the steering wheel and plow the police cruiser into a tree. “I want to apologize.”
She glanced at him. “’Scuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said, willing to apologize, but not repeat the words. But then he elaborated, and Rule felt like she’d been transported to another world. “I overreacted.” The words came out slowly, begrudging more than thoughtful. “I jumped to conclusions. I haven’t ruled out the supernatural, mind you, but I should have withheld judgment until I had all the facts.”
Rule nodded slowly, waiting for a punch line, but it didn’t come. “Appreciate you saying that, Pastor.”
