Deep Shadows (42 page)

But she had, and Shelby understood it wasn't the perfect domestic scene she was walking past. It was just people, trying their best to get by. How would they survive July? And what of August when most days topped one hundred degrees? How many of her patients—and they were her patients now, though she was only a lowly orderly—were not physically strong enough to withstand the heat?

Max interrupted her morose thoughts with a bump of his shoulder against hers.

“Bhatti delivered a baby today.”

“A baby?”

“One of the families staying at the hotel, the wife was pregnant with her first.”

“I remember seeing them at the town meeting. Alejandro and Maria—”

“Mendoza. Alejandro and Maria Mendoza, and now there is an Eleanor Mendoza, named after Alejandro's mom. They're going to call her Ellie.”

“She's… she's all right?”

“She's fine, Nurse Sparks. Has all her fingers and toes, and Farhan says she scored on the top of the Apgar scale.”

“That is good news.”

“Pastor Tony is trying to find them a home.”

“There are at least twenty empty homes in this town.”

“And more than twenty families who need them.”

“Why don't we just move people in? If the homeowners return we can always move them back out.”

“First of all, it's against the law.”

“Those laws don't make sense anymore.”

“I understand what you're saying, Shelby, but our laws are in place for a reason. We can't just operate in opposition to them because our feelings have changed.”

“More has changed than our feelings, Max, and you know it. The truth is, your legalistic brain hasn't gibed with the new world we live in now.”

“I won't deny that.”

“Your house would be perfect for the Mendoza family. If you're… if you're still going.”

“I'll leave at first light.” Max hesitated.

Shelby knew that he was about to ask her again. He wanted her and Carter with him at High Fields because he wanted to protect them—but he didn't understand that she had to put Carter's needs first. Their future lay in the opposite direction. She hadn't shared that with Max, didn't dare bring it up. He would try to talk her out of it, and he would present reasonable points against her plan. She could always count on Max to be reasonable and persuasive.

He shrugged and bypassed their usual argument. “I would be happy to loan my house to the Mendozas, but Farhan is living there at the moment.”

“One man versus a family.”

“You still don't trust him?”

“No, I don't.”

“He's done everything we've asked,” Max reminded her. “We need him—Abney needs him. I'd hate for him to catch a ride on the next vehicle that's headed out of town.”

“There are fewer and fewer of those.”

Shelby was surprised to see they were nearly home. A vigorous
argument with Max could do that to her—make time stand still and help her to forget how much her legs ached. Working as an orderly was certainly more physically demanding than hammering out ten to twenty pages of a romance novel on her computer.

As they turned the corner onto Kaufman, she saw Carter straddling his bike in the driveway of their house. He was talking to a pretty young woman wearing a Market T-shirt.

Shelby reached out and pulled Max to a stop. There was something about watching the scene unfold in front of them—something so natural and good and ordinary—that calmed her soul.

The girl laughed at whatever Carter said.

“Kaitlyn?” Shelby asked Max.

“I believe it is.”

“I still haven't had the chance to meet her.”

Carter saw them. He waved, and Kaitlyn looked up and smiled, pulling her straight blond hair back and away from her face. In that moment the two teenagers reminded her so much of herself and Max that regret resonated all the way to her bones.

She mourned the past that was between them and all that might have been. She mourned the future and the things this new generation would never experience—a normal passage to adulthood, dating, college.

And underneath both of those thoughts was the pulse of her pain—the knowledge that Max was leaving.

Carter must have said goodbye. With a wave, he turned his bike toward them at the end of the street. Kaitlyn watched him for a few seconds, and then she crossed the street, picked up a bicycle, and turned away in the opposite direction, toward the south.

In the next breath, an explosion erupted from the house in front of Kaitlyn.

Shelby instinctively shielded her eyes against the blast. Fear swelled inside her, overwhelmed her, and then she was falling. The last thing she saw was the structure engulfed in flames, and the houses on either side collapsing, like dominoes falling one upon another.

S
EVENTY

M
ax threw Shelby to the ground and covered her with his body, the backpack she always wore between them. From the corner of his eye, he saw Carter catapult off his bike, tumble toward them, and land in a heap in the middle of the street.

There might have been screams. There must have been. He could only hear ringing in his ears.

Shelby fought him wildly—her arms and legs pushing against him. He couldn't hear her cries as much as he felt them, deep inside his heart. When he was sure the explosions had ceased, he raised up, afraid he was crushing her.

“Are you okay?” he shouted.

But she wasn't listening. She was on her feet, running toward Carter, who now sat in the middle of the road, a dazed look on his face. Blood trickled from a cut above his eye. His legs were splayed out in front of him, and he swiveled his head left and right, as if he could make sense of the scene in front of him.

Someone ran up to Max, grabbing him by the shoulders and asking questions that he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears.

“Gas line exploded!” Max shouted, though to himself it sounded as if his voice came from some distant cave. He began to jog toward the house that had collapsed when Carter jumped up, stumbled, pushed his mother away, and ran down the street.

When Carter dropped to the ground, Max understood and raced toward him. Shelby was only steps behind.

Kaitlyn lay on the sidewalk, broken and lifeless.

Carter had drawn the girl into his arms, tears streaming down his face.

Suddenly Max's ears popped, and he could easily make out Carter saying, “No, Kaitlyn, please. Please wake up. Please, Kaitlyn.”

“Honey, she's gone.” Shelby knelt beside him.

“I have to wake her up. Kaitlyn, wake up.” Carter pushed her hair away from her face, cradled her head in the crook of his arm. He touched her cheeks and lips, and then ran his fingers down her arm.

Max checked for a pulse, though he already knew what he'd find. Her neck had been positioned at an unnatural angle, and her eyes stared up at the sky—unseeing, unknowing.

An explosion large enough to level three houses would have killed her instantaneously. “I'm sorry, Carter. I'm—”

“Don't say that! Do not say you're sorry. Do not say…” He dissolved in a river of tears, hovering over the girl, holding her hand, touching her face.

“Stay with him,” Max said to Shelby. “I need to check for survivors before the fire spreads.” He stood and canvassed the area, trying to figure out who and where he could help. The house that had exploded was completely engulfed in flames. The houses on either side had fallen flat and were heaps of rubble. Even across the street, houses had been damaged—including Shelby's and his own.

Max turned toward the house behind him, which looked as if a giant hand had flattened it. There could be survivors under the rubble. They would need to get them out before the fire engulfed it as well. He wasn't worried about additional explosions because whatever had caused the rupture in the gas line had released all of the built-up pressure.

He ran toward the house, called out, stopped to listen, and then he moved a few feet and called out again. When no one responded, he went to the house on the south side of it. The northern wall had been pushed over, but the southern portion of the structure was still standing. Some part of his mind realized that people were streaming in from all directions. The crackle of the fire, smell of smoke, and shouts of dismay all seemed to come from a great distance, but this time it wasn't because of his hearing. His arms began to tremble, and it occurred to Max that he was probably in shock, his body and mind trying to catch up with the horrific event.

He needed to push forward, to look under the debris, to call out for survivors. Stumbling, he made his way around to the back of the house.

“Hello? Is anyone in there? Holler if you can hear me.”

A trampoline sat in the corner of the lot, and the tire swing hanging from the live oak tree proclaimed that all was well. But it wasn't all well. The gas lines had ruptured, but why? Was it a result of the solar flare? Would they see the aurora again when the sky grew dark? He glanced up, saw only a deep blue sky.

He called again and again, stopping every few feet, looking for any sign of survivors. Was theirs the only neighborhood with damage? How many were injured? How many killed? Glancing toward the next house, he heard screams from the backyard. A woman was frantically clawing through the debris.

She looked up, saw Max, and screamed, “I can hear her. I hear my daughter!”

Max darted back out to the street. “We need help over here!”

He didn't stay to see if anyone heard him, or if they would come. There wasn't time.

When he reached the back of the house, the woman was still hysterically pulling at the wreckage. Smoke pushed toward them as the initial fire spread. People with blankets and buckets stood between this house and the one closer to the explosion, trying to create a firebreak.

Max realized he knew the woman. Of course he knew her—she was his neighbor. The family had been living there when he moved home seven years ago. Agnes Wright and her daughter Courtney. Mr. Wright had moved away five years ago.

Her home had fallen like a house of cards. Bricks, wood, and other debris littered the yard. A lawn chair sat inexplicably on top of her roof, high atop the pile of rubble.

He reached for a board that Agnes was attempting to yank out and saw that her hands were bleeding. He wanted to tell her to stop, to let them handle it. Now there were a half-dozen men behind him accepting the boards, helping with the heavier pieces.

The air was filled with cries from the injured, the scream of an EMS vehicle, someone calling for a doctor. Max closed his eyes, shut out everything else, and listened.

He thought he heard—

“Everyone quiet.” He moved closer and stepped on a dresser that shifted, nearly causing him to lose his balance. If they moved the wrong board, if they put weight on something with an air pocket under it, they might bury Courtney more deeply under the pile of debris. They might kill her.

The scene took on an otherworldly quality. A mockingbird sang. A dog barked. A slight breeze stirred the leaves of a tree—and then he heard it. A faint cry to the right.

Agnes leaned over as if in pain, crying over and over again, “Please, Jesus. Help us to save her. Please, help us.”

“How old is your daughter, Agnes?”

When she looked up, her face had blanched whiter than snow in winter. Max worried that she might be about to collapse, that the shock or the fear might be too much.

“She's fourteen. Courtney is fourteen.”

“We're going to get her. Okay?” Max looked behind him and surveyed the group that had assembled. He turned back in the direction of the small cry he'd heard. “Courtney, we're going to get you out.”

The group gathered around Max grew silent, and his throat was suddenly dry. He coughed once and tried again.

“Courtney, we need you to stay very still so nothing moves. When I call your name, just answer
here
so we'll know we're getting close.”

There was no answer. Praying that God would save this one, that he would shower mercy on this young girl, Max said, “Courtney?”

“Here.” The voice was small, weak even, and no doubt terribly frightened.

The men behind him began slapping one another on the back.

“Let's get her out.”

“We can do this.”

“Hang in there, Courtney.”

Max knew there were others who needed their help, that they were working under a ticking clock. He was nearly overwhelmed when he allowed his mind to picture the block of homes now destroyed. How many people were buried alive? How many could they save?

One person at a time. That's how the world is changed, son.

His father's voice in his ear, clear and calm and steady.

“Ma'am, if you could move back and let… let Coach Parish stand up here with me.” He hadn't realized who the man was until that moment. Parish nodded and took the mother's place.