Chapter Nineteen
The men who had gathered in the bank parking lot looked as crude as their friend Lawrence. They all looked to be between the
ages of twenty and forty, though it was hard to tell when personal hygiene wasn’t high on anyone’s list. Ted did his best
to ignore their rough appearance. They might’ve looked just this way before the CME, but then again, they might’ve been clean-cut
upstanding young men before the shit hit the fan.
No, not that much time had passed. This was a tough and not-very-upstanding crowd, he admitted it to himself. Still, in times
of crisis . . .
The events of the morning still stung, more than a little. He kept seeing Sela Gordon’s middle finger thrust into his face.
How dare she? And people around them had laughed! Not at her, of course not, but at him. That hurt as much as anything else.
He wasn’t accustomed to being humiliated, and he damn well didn’t like it.
Ted shook off the annoyance and tried to focus on the future. Maybe Sela and her pals didn’t appreciate him, but this bunch
did—or would. Sela could keep her damn patrol. He could bring these men in line, the same way he had with the employees at
his tire stores. Some of them had started off pretty rough, too, but his guidance had brought them around. Sometimes. Some
people were lost causes.
Lawrence introduced Ted to the others. The men who wanted to join them in this new organization were a cousin, friends, a
brother, a neighbor. Unsavory appearances aside, they were friendly enough, and seemed to look up to Ted. They saw him as
a leader, they needed him.
His pride swelled. Here he was appreciated.
One of the younger men, Lawrence’s cousin Patrick, took a step forward and winced as he almost stumbled. It was only then
that Ted noticed that the jeans high on one thigh fit tighter than at the other. A thick bandage underneath, perhaps? That,
and the wince, and the paleness around the man’s eyes . . . he’d been hurt.
Patrick could’ve injured himself any number of ways. For a second, maybe two, Ted considered ways in which the young man might’ve
hurt himself—but, damn, he couldn’t fool himself for long because he wasn’t an idiot. Ted’s heart crawled into his throat.
These were the men who had tried to rob the gas station, who had shot at Sela and the young girl, Olivia. These men had shot
up Sela’s store.
Ted didn’t ask Patrick if he was okay; instead he concentrated on not revealing anything he’d just figured out. He kept his
expression interested, not suspicious. He looked them in the eyes when they spoke. As the men discussed plans for organization,
Ted casually wandered closer to their vehicles. There were some small holes, maybe bullet holes, in the bumper of one truck
but again he did his best to make it look as if he hadn’t noticed them.
At quick glance he noted that all six of the men were armed. He wanted to believe that they were here because they were willing
to see that order prevailed in their community, that they felt unappreciated, as Ted himself did, but his gut said that they
were dangerous and not well-meaning.
They all appeared to be flattering him, asking for his opinions, and for the first time he asked himself the obvious question:
What did they want from him? He wouldn’t have gone along with them stealing the gas, shooting at women, and they had to know
that.
As he talked to them he tried to memorize every name. As he mingled he sized each man up. It was easy enough to tell which
ones were leaders, and which were followers. A couple of them were high on some kind of drug, he could see it in their eyes.
One man, a neighbor of Lawrence’s named Wesley, was drunk.
Ted’s thoughts whirled. Instead of planning how he’d form his own organization to help them all survive this crisis, now he
tried to think how he could maneuver himself out of this mess. He had no intention of joining this crew, not that he was dumb
enough to say that aloud and think they’d let him walk away. Maybe they would—but maybe they wouldn’t.
What was he supposed to do with the information he possessed? He needed to think.
“We need a place to meet,” Lawrence said. “A kind of headquarters.” Now that keeping in touch by phone wasn’t possible, they
had to physically meet. In different circumstances, with a different group of men, Ted would’ve suggested his own house so
he could be in the thick of things, but thank goodness he’d figured out what was going on before he’d taken that step, and
also that he hadn’t agreed to let them meet at his house today! He didn’t want these men within a mile of Meredith, much less
in her home.
It did make sense to suggest that they should meet at a place more convenient for the volunteers, something central, perhaps
near the school. He nodded; he wanted it to look as if he was participating.
As they were discussing the matter, Wesley the drunk spoke up in a voice so loud it might have carried across half the county.
“I’ve got a friend whose mom owns that crafty shop up by the pizza place. I’ll talk her into letting us use it. It’s just
sitting there, empty.”
A few of the volunteers nodded in agreement, and once more Ted joined in. He didn’t care where they met so long as it was
far from Meredith.
They set a time to meet at their new headquarters—the day after tomorrow, which would give Wesley a chance to gain permission
and a key, and perhaps to sober up—and it was done.
As the others wandered off, again in small groups, Lawrence placed a hand on Ted’s shoulder. It took everything Ted had not
to shake that hand off. “You might be tempted to quit the community patrol and tell Sela Gordon and her folks to stuff it,
and I sure wouldn’t blame you, but don’t do that just yet.”
Here it was, Ted thought, the reason he was here.
“You see, they don’t trust me, they don’t trust any of us. But you, Ted, they trust you just fine.”
“I don’t know about that,” Ted replied, letting his resentment toward Sela show. Likely Lawrence had heard about the confrontation
at the store, and he’d be suspicious if Ted pretended all was well. “That bitch—well, never mind.”
“Just keep it cool, man. We’ll need you to let us know what’s what. Food’s going to get more and more scarce. Ammo too. Meds
are already running really low, and I figure you can find out who’s got what and where it’s all stored.”
It seemed right to show at least a touch of indignation. “You want me to spy.”
Lawrence smiled. “We want you to gather and share important information. You can call it spying, if you want to, but I see
it as another step in ensuring our survival. Survival of the fittest, and all that. We also need more men to join us. You
appeal to a different element of our fine community, you can convince others to be a part of our efforts.”
Ted nodded, but didn’t smile. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Half that bunch acts as if they’d rather I dropped out,
anyway. Let me think about it. I don’t think they’re telling me everything, so I don’t know how much use I’d be.” Yes, that
sounded about right, to keep Lawrence from getting suspicious.
“Don’t think too long, Ted. We need you.”
Ted turned away and headed for home. The walk up the hill to his house was becoming less and less arduous, as he built up
the muscles in his legs. He no longer gave the effort much thought at all. Besides, he had other things to think about this
afternoon. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what Lawrence wanted, and why. People would be hurt. The men he
had just left wouldn’t mind that at all. They might even enjoy it.
He needed to take this information to . . . someone. Mike Kilgore, maybe, even though they hadn’t gotten off to the best start.
It would be a little humiliating, but Mike would know what to do. But not now, not today. He suspected Lawrence or one of
his cronies was watching right now, waiting to see how he would respond to their request. The best thing he could do was go
home and not do anything unusual.
They didn’t want a leader, they wanted a patsy. They wanted a traitor. If he turned back now, if he showed any indication
that he intended to share what he knew of their plans, he’d be in serious and immediate danger.
He hated Sela Gordon—truly hated her, especially now. But he didn’t want her dead, he wouldn’t have been a party to robbing
and shooting at her, and if Lawrence had his way there would be more of the same coming.
Ben let the dog out of the truck at the Livingstons’ house, and the animal began running around sniffing at everything as
he reacquainted himself with the area. Jim and Mary Alice came out of the house next door. They both looked more worn and
defeated than he’d expected. The dog dashed over to Mary Alice and she crouched down to give it some loving and croon to it
in the way women naturally did with babies and animals.
“Came by to see how you’re doing,” Ben said unnecessarily, because obviously he was here, but it was an opening for them to
talk about what was bothering them.
“Can’t complain,” Jim said, though his gaze slid to his own house, a sorrowful expression crossing his face. Behind them,
the neighbors came out of the house, too; the woman coming to stand beside Mary Alice and lightly rub her shoulder. “We’re
alive.”
“I can’t bring myself to go back in there.” Mary Alice kept her head down, looking at the dog as she continued to stroke him.
“I keep seeing . . .”
“Honey, it’s cleaned up,” the neighbor woman said. “If you’d just take a look—”
“No, I can’t. I’m sorry. Not yet. I don’t want to impose on you, we’ll go somewhere else—”
“Mary Alice Livingston, you know that isn’t it at all! I just want you to feel okay.”
Ben decided to head that off, because he didn’t want to get embroiled in conversations about feelings. “How about I take the
dog in, look around? You know about Sela Gordon distributing her stores of gas from the underground tanks, right? I brought
extra storage cans full, and a portable generator. If you two men will help me get the generator hooked up and fueled, we’ll
turn on the heat and get your house warm.”