“I needed that. Thank you.” His voice was a croak.
Though they weren’t close friends, he and Frank Geary had shared a few drinks together over the years. Terry knew Frank was serious about his job as the town’s animal control officer; he knew Frank had a daughter he believed was a pretty terrific artist; he remembered that a drunk had once suggested to Frank that he should leave some irritation or another up to God, and Frank had told the drunk to put a sock in it, and as well-sauced as the drunk had been, he’d caught the warning in Frank’s tone and had not made a peep the rest of the night. In other words, Frank had seemed to Terry like a right enough guy, just not someone whose balls you’d ever want to bust. That Frank was black might have played into a certain sense of necessitated distance, too. Terry had never actually considered the possibility of being buddies with a black guy, although he had nothing against the idea now that he did consider it.
“It’s no problem,” said Frank. His cool, straightforward manner was reassuring.
“So, everything’s . . .” Terry had another swallow of the juiced coffee. “The same?”
“As yesterday? Yeah. Which means everything’s different. For one thing, you’re acting sheriff. Station called looking for you a few minutes ago. The old sheriff has gone missing.”
Terry’s stomach sent up a bubble of nastiness. “Lila missing? Jeez.”
“Congratulations, huh? Big promotion. Cue the marching band.”
Frank’s right eyebrow was wryly arched. They both broke into laughter, but Terry’s dried up quickly.
“Hey,” Frank said. His hand found Terry’s, squeezed it. “Keep it together, okay?”
“Okay.” Terry swallowed. “How many women are still awake?”
“Don’t know. It’s bad. But I’m sure you can handle this.”
Terry wasn’t. He drank his doctored coffee. He chewed his bacon. His dining companion was quiet.
Frank drank from his own coffee and looked at Terry over the rim of his cup.
“Can I handle it?” Terry asked. “Can I really?”
“Yes.” There was no doubt at all in Frank Geary’s voice. “But you’ll need all the help you can get.”
“You want me to deputize you?” It made sense to Terry: besides Lila, they were down at least a couple of officers.
Frank shrugged. “I’m a town employee. I’m here to pitch in. If you want to give me a star, that’s fine.”
Terry took another slug of the laced coffee and got to his feet. “Let’s go.”
2
Aurora had knocked out a quarter of the department, but Frank helped Terry fill out a roster of volunteer deputies that Friday morning, and brought in Judge Silver to administer their oaths on Friday afternoon. Don Peters was one of the new hires; another was a high school senior named Eric Blass, young but enthusiastic.
On Frank’s advice, Terry posted a nine PM curfew. Two-man teams began canvasing Dooling’s neighborhoods to put up the notices. Also to settle folks down, discourage vandalism, and—another notion of Frank’s—to begin cataloging the whereabouts of the sleepers. Frank Geary might have been a dogcatcher before Aurora, but he made a helluva law officer, with a terrific sense of organization. When Terry discovered he could lean on him, he leaned hard.
Almost a dozen looters were collared. This really wasn’t much in the way of police work, because few bothered to hide what they were doing. They probably believed their behavior would be winked at, but soon learned better. One of these miscreants was Roger Dunphy, Dooling Correctional’s AWOL janitor. On their first Sunday morning cruise around town, Terry and Frank spied Mr. Dunphy blatantly toting a clear plastic bag filled with necklaces and rings that he’d lifted from the rooms of the female residents at Crestview Nursing Home, where he sometimes moonlighted.
“They don’t need them now,” Dunphy had argued. “Come on, Deputy Coombs, gimme a break. It’s a clear case of salvage.”
Frank seized the janitor by the nose, squeezing hard enough to make the cartilage creak. “Sheriff Coombs. You’ll call him Sheriff Coombs from now on.”
“Okay!” Dunphy cried. “I’ll call im President Coombs, if you’ll just leave go of my schnozz!”
“Return that property and we’ll let this ride,” Terry said, and was gratified by Frank’s approving nod.
“Sure! You bet!”
“And don’t you fuck the dog on this, because we’ll be checking.”
The great thing about Frank, Terry realized during those first three days, was that he grasped the enormous pressure Terry was functioning under in a way that no one else seemed to. He never pressed, but he always had a suggestion and, nearly as important, he kept that leather-encased silver hip flask—very cool, maybe it was a black thing—at the ready for when Terry got low, when it seemed the day would never end and his wheels started spinning in the awful, surreal mud of it all. He was at Terry’s elbow the entire time, stalwart as hell, and he was with him on Monday, Aurora Plus Five, outside the gates of the Dooling Correctional Facility for Women.
3
Acting chief Coombs had tried several times over the weekend to convince Clint that he needed to release Eve Black into his custody. Rumors about the woman who had killed the meth dealers were circulating: unlike all the others, the stories went, she slept and woke. At the station, Linny Mars (still hanging in there; you go, girl) had received so many calls regarding this that she had taken to hanging up on anyone who asked. Frank said they had to find out if the rumors were true; it was a priority. Terry supposed he was right, but Norcross was being stubborn, and Terry was finding it increasingly difficult to even get the annoying man on the phone.
The fires had burned themselves out by Monday, but the countryside near the prison still smelled like an ashtray. It was gray and humid and the misty rain that had been falling off and on since early Friday morning was falling again. Acting Sheriff Terry Coombs, feeling mildewed, stood at the intercom and monitor outside the gates of the Dooling Correctional Facility for Women.
Norcross still wasn’t buying the transfer order that Judge Silver had signed for Eve Black. (Frank had assisted with that, too, explaining to the judge that the woman might possess a unique immunity to the virus, and impressing on the old jurist the need to act quickly and keep things calm before a riot started.)
“Oscar Silver’s got no jurisdiction in the matter, Terry.” The doctor’s voice burbled from the speaker, sounding as if it were coming from the bottom of a pond. “I know he signed her in at my wife’s request, but he can’t sign her out. Once she was remanded to me for evaluation, that was the end of his authority. You need a county judge now.”