CHAPTER 7
My limbs are weak. My muscles won’t stop trembling. And my pride is seriously damaged.
Though it took me only an hour to hike in to where I found the raccoon, the hike out took almost two. I had to stop—frequently—to slip the gloves back on to give the kit water. But more than that, to give my weary arms a rest.
An extra ten pounds might not seem like much, but when you’re carrying it in front of you, and trying to do it gently, for miles, it adds up. By the time I reach the trailhead, my arms are shot.
I set the carrier on the ground beside the mailbox where the trail log is kept, my cramped hand barely managing to grab the pen inside and illegibly scrawl the time I’m leaving to sign out.
Before I close the door on the notebook, I shake my head in admiration at Amelia Owens and Danielle Fuller, the two hikers who checked in before me and are still out on the trail in this heat.
Only, as I pick the raccoon back up and reach the small dirt parking lot, I realize that my car is the only one there.
The same was true when I arrived. I guess they must have forgotten to sign out, which means that I was on the trail alone the whole time.
The thought further unsettles my already upset stomach, but it’s too late to worry about my foolishness now.
Though I’m anxious to get going, I blast the air conditioner for several minutes, cooling the sweltering interior of the vehicle before I place the carrier in the back seat, strapping it in place with the seat belt.
I can’t wait to get home, drink a gallon of water, and try to work the knots out of my shoulders under the spray of a steaming hot shower.
Unfortunately, I have to make a stop first.
By the time I turn off the Tamiami onto the narrow road leading into Gator Glade, I’m no less exhausted, but at least my clothes have almost dried, although they’re uncomfortably stiff with sweat.
But it was all worth it—the heat, the strain, the fatigue.
Because as I pull into the parking lot of the small pharmacy in town, the raccoon is chittering away. It’s music to my ears.
I’m glad the little guy is feeling better, especially considering that the vet finally returned my text, responding that he wouldn’t be able to stop by until tomorrow morning. Until then, I’ll do my best to keep the sanctuary’s newest rescue as happy and comfortable as I can.
Which is why I’m here. Though I suspect the kit’s eye infection will require antibiotics to clear up, the least I can do is get some saline to flush them.
With an ounce of luck, I’ll be able to remove enough of the crust and goo for them to open.
Leaving the car running with the AC on, I lock the doors and go inside.
Instantly I find myself overcome by the sensation that I’ve been transported back into the past, and not just because I haven’t been in here since I was a teenager. It doesn’t appear like much, if anything, has changed.
To my left is the same ancient gumball machine that I used to beg dimes off my grandfather for.
The poster of a man in a yellow coat and brown slacks eating ice cream still hangs behind the ice chest beside the front counter.
Even the smell, a curious mix of camphor and bubble gum that calls to mind the taste of the medication that made getting an ear infection seem like a treat as a child, is the same.
I make my way slowly down the aisles, scanning the shelves for what I need.
Smile as I spot a little girl standing in line with her mother near the pharmacist’s counter at the back, watching me.
She ducks her head behind her mother’s leg to hide, but just before I turn the next corner, she looks at me again and offers a shy wave.
Waving back, I make eye contact with her mom. The woman looks familiar. Many of these people do. And the man behind the counter? To my surprise, it’s Phil Johnson. The pharmacist must be over seventy now. I’m surprised he hasn’t retired.
But that’s the way it is here in Gator Glade. It’s a small town. The kind that doesn’t have enough to offer to bring a new generation of fresh blood in. Chances are, when Mr. Johnson finally decides to stop working, the pharmacy will close. I feel a pang of sadness at the thought.
“Oof.”
I’m knocked backward as a man rounds the corner, banging into me.
“Sorry,” I say, though the incident wasn’t my fault.
I watch his back as he continues on without acknowledging me.
“Rude,” I mutter to myself, then forget my indignation as I finally spot the saline solution, down on the very bottom shelf. I wince, my stiff muscles straining as I reach for it. Straighten up, still empty-handed, as a collective gasp rises from the back of the store.
A loud voice rolls over the aisles like thunder. A teenager runs by me, racing out the front door. Something in my gut tells me I should follow.
But do I? No. Though I never considered myself as lacking common sense, today’s obviously an exception. I head toward the trouble, instead.
Creeping to the end of the aisle, I peer around the corner. My eyes are immediately drawn to the little girl I’d seen earlier. Once again, she has her head hidden behind her mother’s leg. This time, she has a reason.
I pull out my phone, intending to alert 911 before I take any action, but there’s no time.
A cry of fear comes from the small crowd cowering in front of the pharmacy counter as the man trespassing behind it—the same one who knocked into me only moments ago—racks the slide on the firearm he holds before shoving it against Mr. Johnson’s temple.
“Hurry up, old man.”
A surge of anger ignites beneath my skin. Mr. Johnson’s hands shake as he pulls boxes from a shelf, transferring them to the bag the man holds. As the man jabs the gun harder into the pharmacist’s head, one of the packages misses its intended destination and falls to the floor.
My gut knots as I see that it’s a generic allergy medication. One that contains pseudoephedrine, an ingredient used to make methamphetamine. I swallow hard as I step out from the aisle, revealing myself.
If the man holding the gun is tweaking right now, coming down off his last high, that makes him incredibly dangerous. Not just impatient, but irrational, violent, possibly even paranoid.
He curses, gesturing for Mr. Johnson to pick up the dropped box. The elderly man trembles as he spreads his legs, grabbing onto the shelf for balance as he tries to reach the floor.
“Hurry up, hurry up.”
“Here.”
I hold my hands up as I approach, trying to signal that I mean no harm. But it’s a lie. I totally do.
There are seven rounds in the small pistol concealed beneath my shirt, and I’ll gladly put every single one of them into this guy’s skull if it means keeping any of the innocent people here from being hurt.
“Let me,” I say, slowly approaching the open counter gate.
The man eyes me warily as I step through the gap. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Cassidy,” I say calmly. “I want to help.”
“No.” The way the man shakes his head, too fast and erratically, one shoulder twitching with the motion, suggests that he is, indeed, tweaking right now. “Get over there with the rest of them. I want him to do it.”
Mr. Johnson’s eyes flash with fear, but as they meet mine, I see something else in them, too. Recognition.
“I’m not sure that he can,” I explain. “It can be hard for an older person to get something off the floor. Please, let me help.”
The entire time I talk, I continue inching forward. The man shifts the gun’s aim from Mr. Johnson to me as I come to a stop several feet away. Slowly, hands still held out, I start squatting.
“I said no!”
Given how hard the strike hits my cheekbone, I’d be willing to bet it was the firearm and not the man’s fist that made contact.
Neither changes the fact that I’ve been knocked off my feet, flying back to the other side of the counter, bottles of alcohol and hydrogen peroxide scattering across the floor as I hit the endcap where they were displayed.
Fireworks explode inside my head. My face throbs. And my anger turns to rage.
I take a deep breath as I lie on my side on the floor. Place one hand in front of me, ready to push myself up, the other behind me like I’m going to grab the shelf against my back for support. But I tell myself to wait.
The man curses again. The gun wavers through the air, bouncing from me, to the terrified shoppers, to Mr. Johnson, then finally toward the ceiling as he clutches at his hair with both hands. I may not get a better opportunity than right now.
In an instant, I’ve drawn my weapon and pushed myself into a sitting position. Slapping my left hand over the fingers of my right, already curled around the grip of my gun, I aim the pistol at an invisible X I imagine on the center of the man’s skull.
“Drop your weapon.”
His eyes widen. I can see the gears turning inside his head. This isn’t going to end well.
Slipping my finger inside the trigger guard, I give him one final chance. “Put it down now.”
A high-pitched shriek sounds from my left. I glance toward it, trying to stay on top of the situation. Spot the little girl, now watching, her mouth open wide with fright though the rest of her cries are silent.
In an instant I return my gaze to the gunman. His top half has already disappeared into the aisle I vacated only minutes ago as he leaps toward escape. And though I yearn to pull the trigger, to sink a chunk of metal into his hindquarters to impede his progress, I don’t.
It’s too late. His steps are loud and heavy as he runs to the front of the store. Then he’s gone.
I screwed up. I just let a very dangerous man get away. Which means the already hazardous world is that much more unsafe. And if that man sees me again, and recognizes me, so am I.