Scott Nicholson - First Light

“Bet it’s nice and cool up there right now while we’re baking away here in the city.”

All Rachel knew of his location was his cryptic references to “Milepost 291” on the Blue Ridge Parkway. In typical Franklin Wheeler fashion, he’d made her promise to commit the name to memory and never tell another soul. Given the persecution and harassment he’d faced for his loudly libertarian beliefs, she understood his paranoia and his desire to slip off the grid and away from the spotlight.

Mira pulled her cell from her blouse pocket. “Dang.”

“What is it?”

“Stevie was supposed to call.”

“Getting stood up again?”

“We’re just hanging out, not dating.”

“What does that mean? Sex without having to say you’re sorry?”

Mira ignored the jab. “No bars,” she said, tapping her phone.

“That’s weird. There are towers all over the place. You have to drive half a day to find a dead spot.”

“Maybe it’s that solar thing. I’ve still got power, just no signal.”

“I read that communications might be interrupted,” Rachel said. “Also supposed to have some static on the radio and TV.”

“Well, ain’t nobody got time for that.”

“The worst is supposed to be over by tomorrow. Something about the sun rotating away from the earth so the solar flares spew out to the far side of the solar system.”

Mira finished her tea and carried the cup to the tiny sink. “Well, you just enjoy the sunset alone. I’m going to track down Stevie.”

Officer Harlan McLeod had only been on the force for nine weeks.

As a rookie, he got the crap shift, midnight to six. That wasn’t so bad, since Taylorsville was a sleepy town in the foothills of North Carolina and the worst crimes he’d handled were a cemetery vandalism and a few domestic disputes. In all cases, alcohol was involved.

The big excitement of the evening was that two of the department’s cruisers wouldn’t start, so both he and Stefano in Unit Seven had to switch from their usual cars. The city’s maintenance staff couldn’t figure out the cause, although it appeared electronic in nature. He’d hit the street thirty minutes late, but it had taken only an hour for boredom to set in.

Now, as he cruised the four-block Main Street and the courthouse square, he wondered how long he’d be able to take this gig before he applied for a big-city post. He wasn’t all that romantic about police work, taking his two-year basic law-enforcement training because he didn’t want to go to college or enter the military. Sure, this was the era of “Unsung heroes,” where everyone with a uniform commanded respect whether that respect was earned or not. But Harlan was more interested in a job than a career, and he figured as long as he veered well away from politics and registered as an independent, he’d log plenty of paychecks.

The moon was faint and fuzzy, and beyond the pale streetlights, a strange greenish glow licked at the clouds like a series of veins. The department had received a bulletin warning of possible radio interference. Something to do with the sun, Maurice from Communications had said. Harlan didn’t know what to make of that. Why should the sun be causing trouble in the middle of the night?

Harlan decided to test out the radio. He said into the handset, “Unit Twelve here, I’m ten-twenty on Main Street. Routine patrol.”

A little static cut in before the response. “Ten-four.”

Routine.

Harlan debated pulling into the service dock behind the courthouse and catching some shut-eye. He’d squeezed off a few catnaps on previous shifts and had mastered the art of sleeping lightly. He’d even learned how to prop his laptop on his steering wheel so that it would look like he was working. But he was too bored to sleep.

His luck was in. A hunched-over figure scurried down a side street. Nothing good ever came from being out at 3 a.m., and Harlan couldn’t resist tailing the guy for a block or so. If the guy fled upon realizing he was being followed by a cop car, well, that counted as probable cause.

The cruiser’s lights swept over the figure, pinning his silhouette against the whitewashed brick of a furniture store. Harlan wondered if he should call in the pursuit, realizing he’d mentally elevated the person to a “suspect.” But he didn’t want to be ribbed if the suspect was just some guy whose car broke down after his wife booted him out of the house. The chief wasn’t a ball-breaker, but he definitely believed in rank and pecking order. Harlan hadn’t been around long enough to be making his own interpretations of the law.

He gunned his engine a little, causing the headlights to brighten. The figure neither accelerated nor turned, just lurched on ahead with an unsteady gait.

Looks like public drunkenness at a minimum. Might be carrying, too. A drug bust would get me in good with the chief.

Of course, the suspect could be packing a concealed weapon as well. This was America, after all.

Harlan punched the accelerator and closed the fifty yards in seconds, the engine’s roar reverberating off the concrete, glass, and asphalt of the downtown. That got no rise out of the lurching man, and Harlan screeched to a halt and threw the gear lever into PARK. He got out, leaving the car running.

The man maintained his unsteady pace. He wore a red hoodie, the sleeves cut unevenly just below the biceps. His jeans were halfway off his ass, showing gray underwear with a black waistband. Something flashed at the man’s side, and Harlan realized it was a watch. Suspect was white. Like they all were in Taylorsville.

“Police,” Harlan called, in the firm, commanding tone they’d taught him in Basic.

The suspect might have cocked an ear—maybe—but kept on down the block. Soon he’d be in the shadows at the back of the furniture store. Harlan debated hopping back in the cruiser for pursuit, but now it was getting personal.

“Halt!” Harlan said, his voice cracking just a little. Very unprofessional. This guy was getting to him in a big way.

Damn it, I’m the authority here. I’m in control of the situation.

He unbuttoned the strap on his hip holster, although he didn’t touch the butt of his .38 Smith & Wesson. In Basic, he’d had one rule hammered into his crewcut skull: Don’t pull it unless you mean it.

He wasn’t sure if he meant it yet. He was annoyed, nervous, and frustrated. Not a good position for making snap decisions.

He should call it in now. Stefano, a good old Jersey Italian, was manning Unit Seven somewhere in the industrial park. The chief encouraged back-up on all but the most routine duties. “Cover your ass, or the gravedigger will cover it for you,” the chief liked to say.

One of the suspect’s legs buckled and he nearly fell. Definitely four sheets to the wind. Fortified wine, if Harlan had to guess—Mad Dog or Thunderbird. Harlan used the stumble to close on the suspect, feeling braver with the headlights making a big, bright stage of the street. He was close enough to smell the man—old sweat, piss, and a strange, metallic stench like ozone during a thunderstorm.

“Stop where you are,” Harlan ordered.

The man finally turned. He was Caucasian, all right, sporting a ’70’s porn-star moustache with a toothpick jammed between his teeth. The toothpick wiggled, and Harlan realized the wooden sliver wasn’t between the man’s lips; it was protruding from the lower one, a greasy smear of blood marking the point of penetration.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Harlan ordered, although the man didn’t seem to hear. The suspect stuck one pinkie beneath the hoodie to dig at his ear, and stuck the other in his jeans pocket. No way he had a gun in there, Harlan could tell that much, but he didn’t like being ignored.