Page 72 of Desperate Creed

“No problem. We all have secrets.”

It was a strange thing to say, but Maggie expected the woman might be in shock. After what they’d all been through it was no surprise that emotions would be skidding a bit over the edge by now. She was fighting her own battle with claustrophobia.

“Maybe we can keep each other updated,” Maggie told her. “If we get a connection.”

“Sure.” And the woman went back to her phone.

There was something in her tone that told Maggie she probably wouldn’t share. After all, she hadn’t mentioned the call before now. Maggie knew how a chaotic situation could press one person to fend for herself, while another would risk his own pain from glass in his shoulder to help another. It wasn’t up to her to pass judgment, but she learned quickly the people she could rely on and those she would not.

She went back to the shelves along the back wall. She turned her phone’s flashlight on. She needed to conserve her battery. Maybe there was a flashlight on the workbench where Hank had found the duct tape. No such luck. She skimmed the light over the boxes. Some were labeled. Most of them were taped shut. She glanced back at Frankie to see how she was holding up. In the dim light, Maggie could see the pain etched on her face.

She shoved a couple of boxes around. Then in the back, she found one that interested her enough to pull forward. She peeled off the packing tape and shined the light down inside. Maggie pulled out one of the bottles in the case and ran the light over the label: Conecuh Ridge. Clyde Mays Alabama Style Whiskey. 85 proof.

Finally, she found something that might take Frankie’s mind off the pain.

52

Creed offered for he and Jason to work a grid with Grace and Scout. The gas station and the restaurant were just off Interstate 65, which meant travelers coming and going. Just like yesterday it was difficult to know if anyone might still be missing and possibly in the rubble.

Sheriff Krenshaw told Creed that all the staff at the gas station was accounted for. Several motorists and truck drivers had already been taken by ambulance to an area hospital. Some were still being cared for at the scene.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Krenshaw told him. “Too dangerous. Lots of spilled fuel. Couple of the 18-wheelers are all busted open.”

“How about the restaurant?” Creed asked, wanting to get closer. He wanted to see what was left. “Are you sure everyone made it safely underground?”

“Actually, they already pulled three people from what they think was the restroom.”

“Were they able to tell you how many others might be trapped?”

Krenshaw stared at him for a moment, clearly not understanding what Creed had asked. Then he saw the realization sweep across Krenshaw’s face. “I’m sorry, son, I should have said three fatalities.”

Creed’s pulse started racing. He hadn’t asked Maggie about Frankie. But she would have told him. Or had she told him, and the text hadn’t come through yet?

“Are you able to talk to your friends?” Krenshaw asked.

“Not really. A text message finally came through.”

“One of the carriers is bringing in a mobile station.” The sheriff craned his neck and looked at the access road. “Should be here soon. Or they might be setting up a bit farther out. Getting some generators trucked in, too.”

“Have you guys been in contact with anyone trapped down there?” Creed asked.

“I think they had a couple of 911 calls, but they keep getting dropped before they got much information. Without knowing names, we don’t have a number to even try. Family’ll be showing up soon. But you know how that works. Sometimes they can be more of a problem than a help. Rumors start flying, and it’s hard to sort through.”

His eyes kept scanning the roads. Suddenly, he looked back at Creed. “Actually, if you can get through to your friend, you might be able to get us some information. My biggest worry right now is that we won’t have time to do a damned thing before those storms get here.”

Creed glanced at the western sky. He could see the gray mass approaching, the lightning inside the clouds illuminated the motion and the layers.

“Hey, mister,” Krenshaw called to someone behind Creed. “Only first responders are allowed on this side of the line.”

Creed turned to see a giant of a man in Ray Ban sunglasses, dark trousers, a white collared shirt soaked with perspiration and the shiniest leather shoes he’d ever seen at a disaster site. Instead of answering Krenshaw, the man lifted the ball cap in his hand and pulled it on, struggling a bit. The cap was too small for his square head. The letters on the navy blue cap surprised Creed. They surprised Krenshaw, too.

“What the hell is FEMA already doing here?”

“This isn’t the first storm in the area,” the man told him as if that was explanation enough.

Creed thought the guy certainly had the attitude of a federal administrator. But having served in the Marines, Creed would have guessed the guy for ex-military. There was something about his stance. He was taller than Creed, broad chested, square shoulders and square head to match. An ugly scar poked out of his shirt collar adding to Creed’s suspicions. He figured he’d leave it for Krenshaw to handle.

“I’ll check in with you later, Sheriff,” he told him, and Creed headed back to the Jeep.