Part of growing up a tomboy was that Red developed a love for cowboy movies and television shows. When someone asked whether she preferred John Wayne or Roy Rogers she chose the Duke.

  “I like Roy. He’s better looking than John Wayne and he can sing. But he’s not tough enough to be a Texan. A Californian, maybe. But not a Texan. His silk cowboy shirts and all the fancy colors always reminded me of a honky tonk cowboy.”

  When asked which John Wayne movie was her favorite she always said, “All of ‘em.”

  Of course, she and Butch watched television westerns too.

  Her favorites were Gunsmoke and Bonanza. Gunsmoke because it struck her as the way a real western town must have been.

  And Bonanza because she thought Little Joe Cartwright was “dreamy.”

  But nobody had anything on Marshal Dillon, Gunsmoke’s resident lawman.

  To Red, James Arness was just as tough as John Wayne, with something extra. She viewed him as ruggedly handsome. Something nobody ever accused Wayne of being.

  She’d seen every episode of Gunsmoke a dozen times or more. Enough times to have all the storylines memorized. In her mind, Dillon was the consummate professional. Honest, fearless and headstrong. Tough but with a kind heart.

  When the city council of Blanco asked her to become the chief of police she hearkened back to the days when she was a little girl watching Marshal Dillon on a VCR and eating popcorn with her father.

  She chose Dillon to emulate in her new job because… well, what better lawman was there?

  Marshal Matt Dillon always walked the boardwalks of Dodge City in the evening, pulling on doors to make sure they were locked and looking for any signs of trouble.

  Every once in awhile he found it.

  He did the same thing each morning before sunrise, just to make sure no one had messed with his town while its residents slept.

  One of the first things Police Chief Red did was to start walking Blanco’s business district in the same manner.

  Blanco was sleepier than Dodge City. All she’d found thus far were a couple of doors accidentally left unlocked by their owners.

  Still, she was out there, twice a day, ready to do battle with evildoers when necessary.

  On this day she found nothing and was heading back home for breakfast when she encountered Dave out for a stroll.

  “Good morning, Red.”

  “Good morning, Dave. How are you this morning?”

  “Fine but bored stiff. What can a guy do around here to make himself useful and kill a Saturday?”

  She smiled broadly and said, “Boy, did you come to the right place.”

  Chapter 48

  “Okay,” Dave responded. “How so?”

  “I can keep you busy every Saturday this winter. Sundays too, if you want.”

  “Sorry. I’m old Southern Baptist. Sunday was God’s day of rest. And if it’s good enough for Him it’s good enough for me too.”

  “Now, this would be charity work. If you’re looking for paid work, this ain’t it.”

  “I like doing charity work.”

  “You in a hurry to get back?”

  “Nope. Not at all.”

  “Follow me.”

  They didn’t go far. Down to the end of the block and about half a block up.

  On the way Red explained to Dave what he’d just volunteered for.

  “A few days after the blackout the mayor called a town meeting in courthouse square. At that time we didn’t yet know the extent of the blackout or how long it was going to last.

  “The rumor was it was local, and extended from just this side of Austin to just a few miles west of here. It was said that a booster station caught fire and was destroyed, but that it could be rebuilt within a matter of days.

  “The mayor told everybody that his primary objective was to take care of the town’s citizens, with neighbors being paired up to help each other, whether the power was out for a couple of days or a couple of weeks.

  “Obviously by the time a couple of weeks were up we knew we were in it for the long haul. He called another meeting and told everybody he was going to change tactics.

  “Instead of two neighbors being responsible for one another he said he was going to take the most vulnerable individuals and consolidate them in one place. That way the whole town could help them out in a more organized and efficient manner.

  “The town had seven widows and one widower who lived alone. Also, there were four folks who were either bedridden or who struggled to get around.

  “They were all moved to a single block of houses the town either purchased or leased on Elm Street.”

  She waved her hand in front of them like a tour guide presenting a tourist site.

  “These houses right here.”

  “So all of the town’s vulnerable live here?”

  “Yes. Most of the townsfolk call this Widows Row, but don’t use that term with old Fred Wiley. Fred’s the widower who lives in the blue house on the left. He’s a grouchy old soul who doesn’t like it when someone implies he’s a widow.”

  “So where do I come in?”

  “Most of their needs are met. Our chief handyman checks each of their houses once a week and schedules any routine maintenance that needs to be done.

  “Our volunteer lumberjacks placed two cords of firewood by the back doors of each of the houses. They also built a common firewood pile on the vacant lot over there. It’s free for the taking for anybody who’s running short.

  “We have medical professionals, nurses and medical technicians who go by each house in the mornings and evenings to administer meds and breathing treatments and anything else that’s health-related and needs to be done.

  “The cooks at Mrs. Montgomery’s go in an hour early each day specifically to prepare meals for Widows Row. Three meals for each of them, and they’re delivered by other volunteers.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got everything covered, Red. What’s left for me to do?”

  Red smiled in a way which could only be described as a wicked grin.

  “Before I tell you, just remember you signed up for this. I didn’t ask you. You volunteered.”

  “Uh, oh. Now I’m starting to worry just a little bit. Should I be? Worried, I mean?”

  “Not really. Not as long as you don’t hate painting.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Before my dad was murdered he ran a hardware store. The only one in town. After he died the store just kind of sat there for awhile. Lilly and I finally got around to inventorying everything a couple of months ago. The stuff without a shelf-life we put into storage.

  “I donated the paint to the Widows Row project. You see, most of the houses on Widows Row are in various stages of disrepair. And nearly all of them can use fresh paint, inside and out.

  “The problem is all our handymen hate painting.

  “At least, that is, until you came along.”

  “Peachy,” Dave muttered. “Just peachy.”

  Truth was, though, that Dave didn’t mind painting.

  It just wasn’t his favorite thing to do.

  He’d much rather work on Widow Johnson’s squeaky doors, or build her a new rocking chair. Dave once fancied himself a capable carpenter and furniture maker when the world was still sane. Yes, such a project would be harder and take longer without power tools, but he was up to the challenge.

  Being stuck in Blanco over the drawn-out winter, he was not unlike a man in prison for an extended sentence.

  He had nothing but time.

  But then again, he was missing the point.

  Every charitable transaction, be it for money or time, requires two entities: there’s the giver and there’s the receiver.

  A giver who puts restrictions on his giving or contribution isn’t really a giver; he’s a stipulator, and he’s putting his own needs on an equal level or higher than the receiver’s needs.

  Dave realized that he wouldn’t be very charitable if he went to Widow Johnson and told her, “I’ll do this or this for you, but I won’t do that.”

  That wouldn’t be cool.

  Instead, he’d bend over backwards to do for Widow Johnson what she really wanted or needed done.

  If she needed the interior of her house painted, then by God, Dave would do it. And he’d make it the very best paint job he’d ever done.

  Chapter 49

  When Angela burst out the kitchen door of the death house and onto the back porch she thought she was alone on the property.

  She certainly didn’t expect to run headlong into someone with almost enough force to knock them down.

  Especially not someone she knew as well as her sister, the one and only person she had left in the world.

  Angela was spent. Just being in the midst of so much death and misery was difficult in itself. It was made much worse by being light-headed and a bit woozy; both were a direct result of trying to breathe in as little of the putrid air as possible.

  When she almost knocked Kristy down she instinctively reached out and wrapped her arms around the older girl.

  Kristy followed suit, and for several seconds they stood there and held one another. Angela burst into tears without quite knowing why.

  They’d discuss it much later and determine it was her way of releasing a world of stress she’d been holding in her tiny frame. Stress from worrying about the condition Kristy was in. Stress and outright fear from traveling dangerous streets. The terror of encountering the bodies in the living room, and discovering one of them belonged to a girl she knew.

  Angela was a tiny girl who wasn’t strong enough to process such stress or to handle such pressure.

  It all came out of her at once as she melted into her sister’s arms and digressed.

  Digressed from the strong young woman she’d convinced herself she’d become and back to the frightened little girl she really was.

  Actually, truth be known, she was both.

  Which one showed itself at any given time depended on the circumstance.

  Alone, in the house filled to the brim with death, she mustered up all her strength. She was a strong young woman not necessarily because she wanted to be, but because she had to be.

  Because the continued survival of Kristy and herself required her to be.

  Now, in the arms of a sister she’d worried about for two weeks, who appeared to have climbed out of the deep depression she’d been in, Angela could drop the façade she’d built just a bit.

  She’d reveal herself to be the scared little girl she knew deep down inside she really was.

  As for Kristy?

  She was just filled with relief.

  For she’d found the little sister she was just sure was dead.

  It was a rather odd place for a joyful reunion, with rotting corpses not far away and the stench they rendered surrounding them.

  But it was what it was; it was joyful nonetheless.

  Chapter 50

  As it turned out, Angela’s decision to leave their house and to gather food herself forced Kristy’s hand.

  The last thing Kristy wanted to do, the last thing she would have done, was to leave the house and go on another mission. She was in a very bad place, and as many bad memories as the house held for her it was still their home.

  She still felt safe there.

  Angela certainly didn’t want to push her sister or to force her to come to terms with her demons.

  She wanted to help Kristy; certainly not to make a desperate situation worse.

  It was her intent to go on her mission and to return before Kristy knew she was gone.

  If she’d been successful in doing that, she’d have a made a second trip the day after that. And a third trip the following day.

  Over the course of a week or two, if things had gone according to plan, she’d have seamlessly replaced Kristy as the family’s provider.

  If that plan had played out, the pair would have plenty of food and water. Kristy could have taken as long as she needed to come around; to conquer whatever it was which was bothering her.

  That first time out, when Angela left the note for he sister, it was purely an afterthought. She almost didn’t leave the note.

  She’d only done so because she imagined how badly Kristy would freak out if she awoke and discovered her missing.

  In the end, writing the note was absolutely the best thing she could have done.

  It forced Kristy to shake off her depression and to put on her boots and to venture back out into the world. For it gave her a totally new mission, and no option to decline it. The new mission was vastly more important than gathering food, even as critical as that was.

  The new mission was find her sister and to rescue her.

  And she couldn’t not do it.

  So she forced herself out into a world she used to be comfortable in but which now terrified her.

  She still hadn’t come to terms with killing another human being.

  Still hadn’t made herself right with God. Still hadn’t decided whether she was going to heaven or hell someday.

  That was something she’d continue to struggle with in the weeks and months ahead.

  But in this moment; at this place in time, all that was irrelevant.

  At this place in time she couldn’t worry about it. She had to find Angela and make sure she was safe.

  On the back porch of the Morgenstein home she held her sister as though it would be the very last thing she ever did.

  Her tears flowed freely, and she felt so ashamed. Not ashamed for crying, but for placing her sister in such a terrible position; a position in which she felt she must become the gatherer. That she must go out into a world that she too must certainly have feared.

  But she’d done it anyway.

  Kristy wanted to yell at her. But at the same time she wanted to tell Angela how proud she was for stepping up.

  But all that would come later.

  She held Angela’s face in her hands and looked at her. She seemed so tiny in the moment, and she just then noticed that Angela was crying too.

  Angela started to say something, but Kristy hushed her.

  Little sister had stepped up and done a good job in assuming the role as provider.

  But Kristy was back on her game and retaking control.

  “Save it for later, sis,” she said. “We need to get out of here. It’s not good to stay in one place too long. That’s how people become targets.”

  Angela didn’t argue.

  As thrilling as it was to prove her worth; as empowering as it was to show she could go on a mission and conquer her fears, she was still glad to relinquish control.

  She followed Kristy through the yard and out the back fence into the alley.

  She let Kristy lead her through the alley, past the fly-covered corpse of a man who’d once threatened Kristy’s life.

  Behind her sister, she couldn’t see the look on Kristy’s face.

  It was a look of hatred for the man who’d provided her such agony in recent days. Who’d planted the seeds of self-doubt in her mind and made her question her own destiny.

  He undoubtedly got the worst deal from their encounter a couple of weeks before, for only one of them survived it. Kristy, as much internal turmoil as she’d gone through, would live to fight another day.

  She’d eventually get past her depression. She’d grow to a ripe old age.

  He’d turn to dust long before she’d draw her last breath. So she was the definite victor in the encounter.

  That didn’t mean he didn’t hurt her.

  Later, back at the house as Kristy relaxed and Angela cooked their dinner, the two talked.

  Kristy never told her she’d killed the man they stepped over on the way home. She was still ashamed and still unsure where that put her come judgment day. It was something she’d eventually admit. But only when Angie was big enough and mature enough to handle the news.

  For now it was Kristy’s full intention to hold as a secret to her dying day.

  “I want to make a big change,” Kristy said. “Since you’ve proved yourself capable of going out too, I want us to start going together.”

  Angela stepped away from the fire just long enough to go to her sister and hug her. They boo-hooed together again. To Angela it was a right of passage. It was like being moved up from the little kid table to dine with the adults.

  It was like finally being accepted for her abilities and strengths, instead of just being recognized for her age and nothing more.

  For Kristy it was something else; for Kristy it was essential for their survival.

  Chapter 51

  Kristy wasn’t finished making changes, though. Not quite yet.

  Her decision to start going out as a team was surprising enough, for she’d always insisted Angela stay behind where it was safe.

  But she’d been thinking for some time about making a drastic change to their situation. Even before the incident which cost a man his life and caused her so much internal strife.

  “Angie… who was that girl you did that school project with on Bolivia last year?”

  The question came out of the blue. And it made little sense to Angela.

  “What? Bolivia? What in the world are you talking about?”

  “You remember. The teacher assigned the two of you a project together. She couldn’t work on it at her house because her father was a dirt bag or… something. So she came over to our house to work on it.”

  Now the light came on in Angela’s little head.

  “Oh. You’re talking about Amy. Amy Martinez. Yeah, we had to do a report together. Only it was on Argentina, not Bolivia. What about her?”

  “Didn’t you say she had a big brother? And that they hated their father, and that they wanted to take their mother and run away from him, only they didn’t have the guts to actually do it?”

  “Yeah. Only it was a little brother. I don’t remember his name, but I think he was like a year younger than her.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, crap. I could have sworn you said her brother was older. Never mind.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18