"He played football in high school."
"Only straight people can play football?"
"Well…no," he said, but he did not seem certain.
They both stared at the road again. Sara could think of nothing to say. She knew hardly anything about the man beside her. In the three months they had dated, she had heard nothing about Jeffrey's family or his past. She knew he had been born in Alabama, but he was vague with the details. When they weren't in bed, Jeffrey mostly talked about cases he had worked in Birmingham or things that were happening in Grant. Now that she thought about it, when they were together it was Sara who did most of the talking. He seldom volunteered any personal information about himself, and if she pushed him too far with questions, his response was to either shut down completely or run his hand up and down her thigh until she forgot what she was saying.
She chanced a look at him. His dark hair was getting long in the back, which was a little dangerous considering the Grant County school system routinely sent boys home from class if their hair touched the back of their collars. As usual, his face was clean-shaven and smooth. He was wearing a pair of worn jeans and a black Harley Davidson T-shirt. His tennis shoes looked high-tech, with extra padding in the sole and black waffle treads for running. The muscles in his legs were well defined under the denim, and though his shirt was not tight enough to show the firm abs underneath, Sara was more than familiar with them.
Sara stared down at her legs, wishing she had worn something different. She had changed into an ocean blue wraparound skirt, but her white calves were the color of fat on uncooked bacon against the dark floor mat. Despite the air conditioning, she was sweating under the cotton shirt she wore, and if Sara could have waved a magic wand to stop time, she would have stripped off her constricting bra and thrown it out the window.
"So," Jeffrey said.
"So," she returned, trying to think of something to restart the conversation. All she could come up with was, "You're a universal donor."
"Huh?"
"A universal donor," she repeated. "You can donate blood to anyone." Grasping another straw, she added, "Of course, you can't accept from anyone. You can only accept from other O negatives."
He gave her a strange look. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Your blood has antigens that -"
"I'll donate some as soon as we get back."
The conversation was lagging again, and she asked, "Do you want some chicken?"
"Is that what I keep smelling?"
Sara leaned over the backseat and rummaged around for the plastic bowl her mother had packed. "I think there's some biscuits if Tess didn't steal them."
"That'd be nice," he said, tickling the back of her thigh. "Too bad we don't have some tea."
She tried to ignore his hand. "We could stop for some."
"Maybe."
He pinched her leg and she slapped at his hand, saying, "Hey."
He laughed good-naturedly at the rebuke. "Do you mind if we take a detour?"
"Sure," she said, finding the Tupperware under a pillow. She dropped back into the seat as he passed a Winnebago. "Where to?"
"Sylacauga."
Sara stopped in the middle of removing the plastic lid. "Sill-a-what?"
"Sylacauga," he repeated. "My hometown."
Chapter Four
10:15 A.M.
"Matt?" Someone said, more like a stutter. "M-a-a-a-a-att."
His ears held on to the echo, stretching the "a" even more.
"M-a-a-a-a-a-a-att."
He tried to move but his muscles would not respond. Inexplicably, his fingers ached. They were cold. Everything was cold.
"Matt," Sara said, her voice suddenly sharp as a tack. "Matt, wake up." She put her hands on either side of his face. "Matt."
He forced open his eyes, his vision blurring, then doubling. He saw two Saras looming over him. Two Marlas. Two kids he had never met before in his life. They were all huge, like giant versions of themselves. The ceiling tiles above their heads were even larger, like flying saucers with mammoth fluorescent lights.
He tried to sit up.
"Matt, no," Sara stopped him. "Don't."
He put his hand to his head, feeling like his brain was in a vise. His right shoulder burned as if someone was grinding a hot poker into the flesh. His moved his left hand to touch it, but Sara stopped him.
"Matt," she said. "Don't."
He felt around his mouth with his tongue, trying to find the blood he could taste in the back of his throat.
She pushed back his hair and he saw a glint of gold on her finger. She was wearing his Auburn football ring. Why was she wearing his ring?
"Matt?"
He blinked, hearing a distant ringing in his ears. Jeffrey squeezed his eyes shut, trying to orient himself. The ringing came from the phone on Marla's desk. The blood he tasted was from a cut somewhere on his head.
"Matt?" Sara repeated. "Can you hear me?"
He said, "Why are you -"
She put a bottle of water to his lips. "Drink this. You need water."
Jeffrey drank, feeling the cool liquid opening up his parched throat. Water pooled down his neck as Sara tilted the bottle too far to keep up with his swallowing.
"Okay," he said, pushing away her hand.
He squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to clear them. When he opened them, the two Marlas melded into one. Her cheeks were sunken, her eye bruised and bleeding. There was actually a pair of kids, but their expressions were identical. A third was leaning against Sara, the young girl's breathing more like gasps as she tried to control her fear.
Jeffrey turned back to Sara. He had never seen her so frightened. She met his gaze pupil to pupil, staring a hole into him like she was trying to force a thought into his brain. Slowly, he nodded his understanding. He was supposed to be Matt.
She still asked, "Okay?"
"Yeah." He looked around, trying to figure out what was going on. They were on the floor in the back of the squad room, the area cleared out around them. Brad was stacking filing cabinets in front of the fire door. Jeffrey's office window and door were similarly barricaded. Bodies were scattered around with the debris. Burrows, Robinson, Morgan. Morgan had five kids at home. Burrows was an avid animal lover fostering a pair of rescued greyhounds. Robinson…Robinson was new. Jeffrey could not even remember the man's first name, though he had hired him less than a week ago.
Jeffrey's vision blurred and he closed his eyes as the vertigo brought on a wave of nausea.
"Breathe," Sara coaxed, smoothing back his hair. His head was in her lap and, judging by the blood on her skirt, had been for a while. He tried to move, but found that his feet were tied together with his own belt.
Suddenly, a man stood over them, pointing a shotgun at Marla while keeping a military-issue Sig Sauer trained on Brad. He had two more guns holstered to his chest along with a full complement of ammunition.
Smith. Jeffrey remembered he had given his name as Smith. He remembered it all now: Sara screaming his name, Matt's head exploding against the front door, the ensuing gun battle, the deaths. Sam. The new patrolman's first name was Sam.
The killer gave Jeffrey a cold look of appraisal. "Sit up."
Sara said, "He needs to go to the hospital." She did not wait for a response. "The children are in shock. They all need to go to the hospital."
Smith cocked his head like he had heard something. He turned toward the lobby, where another man rested an assault rifle on the front counter, pointing it toward the front entrance. He was similarly dressed with a dark coat and Kevlar vest. A black ball cap was pulled low on his head, casting his face in shadow. The man did not look Smith's way, but he gave a curt nod.
Sara took advantage of the brief exchange, whispering something to Jeffrey that sounded like "Stall it."
Smith turned back to Jeffrey. "Sit up." He kicked Jeffrey's feet, and the movement jarred his shoulder enough to make him yell from the pain.