“Then my patients with pancreatic enzyme disorder? They don’t take their pills daily they die. If what you told me is true, Mrs. Sterling will be dead within a week….” Liz’s voice trailed off and she stifled back a sob.
She took a deep breath and looked back up at him.
“Severe hypertensions, arrhythmias, we got five people on anti-rejection drugs for transplants. Jesus Christ, John, what do you want me to do?”
He hated himself for doing it, but now started he couldn’t stop.
“I lost Mary already, Liz. Please, dear God, not Jennifer, too. Not that.”
He lowered his head, tears clouding his eyes. He wiped them away, struggling for control.
He looked back into Liz’s eyes, shamed… and yet, if need be, determined.
Liz looked straight at him and John could see that her eyes were clouded as well.
“It’s going to get bad, isn’t it, John?” He nodded his head, unable to speak.
Liz continued to gaze at him, then sighed, turned, and opened the refrigerator. She pulled out four vials, hesitated, then a fifth.
John struggled with the horrible temptation to shove Liz aside, reach in, and scoop all of them out. The temptation was near overpowering.
He felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder and started to swing, wondering if somebody was pushing their way in. It was Makala. She gazed at him and said nothing.
Liz quickly closed the refrigerator, opened a cabinet, took out a box of a hundred syringes, then bagged the vials and box up, wrapping several extra layers of plastic around the package.
“Maybe I’m damning myself for doing this,” Liz said quietly. “That’s five for you; there’ll be five for the Valenti boy, and one each for the remaining thirty that come in here.”
“That’s fair enough,” Makala whispered.
Liz looked at her, didn’t say anything, then turned away.
“Stop at the cooler; there still might be some ice there. Grab up whatever candy bars are left as well. Go straight home, John. They should be kept stable at forty degrees; every ten-degree increase cuts the shelf life in half. So go home now. Once you run out of ice, try and find the coolest spot in the house to store them.”
“Thank you, Liz. God bless you.”
“Please leave, John. I got a lot to think about, to do today.” John nodded, still filled with a sense of shame.
“You want me to stop at the police station and bring someone back?”
Liz shook her head. “I’ll send Rachel into town to get some help. She rode her bike in here, so she can be there nearly as quick as you.”
Liz then opened a drawer in the locked room and pointed down. Inside was a .38 Special.
“It was against company policy, but my husband insisted I keep it here. You know how he is, ex-ranger and all that. I’d of used it if you hadn’t showed up,” and her voice was now cold. John wondered if he had tried to shove Liz aside, would that .38 have come out? From the look in his friend’s eyes, he knew it would.
“Some advice, Liz.”
“Sure.”
“Get out of here.”
“You know I can’t do that, John.”
“I mean once it starts to run short. Load up what you think you’ll need for you and your family; then get out. When you start running out, it could get ugly.”
She looked up at him and smiled, all five foot two of her standing with shoulders back.
“Jim taught me how to use that gun,” she said. “I’ll see things through.” John squeezed her shoulder.
“God bless you,” and he walked out. The line behind the counter was growing. There were several nods of recognition; some were silent. Apparently everyone in line knew what had just happened with the bloody man whom Pat had thoroughly trussed up with, of all things, a roll of duct tape.
One woman saw the bag John was carrying.
“Matherson, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She looked past John to Liz. “What did you give him back there?”
“Just some syringes for his little girl, that’s all, Julie.”
“I don’t want to hear tell of any special treatment going on here, Liz. If so, I’ve been a customer of this firm for twenty years and let me tell you I have a list here….”
John went down aisle four. Surprisingly, there was a whole stack of one-pound Hershey bars, and without hesitating he scooped them all up and dumped them into the bag. The high-school-aged girl behind the counter saw him do it, not sure what to say as he walked by.
“Don’t worry. Liz said I can take them now and pay later.”
The girl nodded, his action setting off an argument with a customer who had no cash and wanted cigarettes.
Outside John opened up the ice cooler. There were still a dozen ten-pound bags inside. He unlocked the car, opened the back door, and went back, pulling out four bags and tossing them in, went back again, and started to grab four more, then hesitated, looking at Makala.
He took just two, closed the lid, tossed them in the car, and slammed the door shut.
John got into the car, took a deep breath, started it up, and lit another cigarette.
“That’ll kill you someday,” Makala said quietly. He looked over at her, unable to speak.
“You did the right thing. And so did Liz. Any parent would have done the same.” John sighed.
“Remember the old movies, the old cartoons from the Second World War. All the stuff about food hoarders.”
“A bit before my time.”
“Hell, I’m only forty-eight; I remember ’em.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Your girl has type one diabetes, doesn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“You better get home now like Liz said.”
Makala reached over the backseat, and he felt like an absolute bastard, for he found himself looking at her as she stretched, dress riding up to midthigh.
She caught his eye as she pulled a bag of ice over, and said nothing as she broke it open. She dumped the box of syringes out of the plastic bag and then gently laid the bag containing the vials atop the open ice.
“That should do till you get home. Don’t pack them inside the ice; they’ll freeze and that will ruin them. Try wrapping insulation around the ice, but keep the top open and have the vials on top. That should keep them at roughly the right temperature. Stash the remaining ice inside your freezer; that’s the best-insulated place for them.
“With some luck the ice should last you up to a week.”
“I don’t know how to thank you enough,” John said.
“Well, helping me find some food might be a good starter,” she said with a smile.
“I know where there’s great barbecue.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
He pulled out of the plaza and headed back towards town.
“Hope you don’t mind a personal question?” she asked.
“Go ahead.”
“Who’s Mary?”
“My wife.”
“How long ago?”
“Breast cancer, four years back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s ok,” he lied. “She left me two beautiful girls.”
“I could see that last night. I kind of suspected your younger was diabetic. In my business you can spot it. That’s why it didn’t bother me too much when you took off like you did. Stress is bad for her situation.”
