One Second After [30]
"Just figured I'd drive up and see how things were here."
"It's EMP, isn't it?"
"How'd you know?"
"Your car for one, sir," Washington drawled, his deep South Carolina African-American accent rich and full, mingled in with that clipped tone of a former marine drill sergeant.
"Pre solid-state electronics. I bet Miss Jen's Mustang will run as well."
Her home was within walking distance of the campus. The realization caught him . . . everything was measured in walking distance now.
"You dropping a hint, Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir. I am. It'd be good to have at least one vehicle up here so I can move around quickly if needed. Besides, once people start figuring things out, it'll get stolen."
"She'll kill me if I ever tell her, so it's between us, Washington." John fished into his pocket and pulled out his key ring and snapped one off.
"That's to her house. Security code number is. . ."
He laughed softly and shook his head.
"The key to the Mustang, well, I never had security clearance for it." Washington laughed. "I can jump it."
"It's yours for the duration," John hesitated, "or until this old beast breaks down or someone gets it. Chief Barker and I nearly got on that very issue less than an hour ago. I managed to hang on to this monster, but Barker just might remember the Mustang, so I suggest you get over there now. Possession is always nine-tenths of the law."
"Deal, sir. I'll take good care of her, no joyriding, sir."
"Come on, Washington. It's 'John'; cut the 'sir' shit. I work for a living now."
Washington smiled.
"You said the duration, sir, when it came to the car," and now his features were serious.
Washington finally looked away from him and back to the gate.
"Good position here, you know that," Washington said.
John had thought about it more than once on his drive up the Cove to the campus. The gatehouse was a stone arch over the roadway, a tiny stone building, with nearly sheer ledges to either side, the road having been cut through the ledge a hundred years back. Long ago, back in the 1920s, it had been the entry to a tourist road that weaved up the mountains all the way to the top of Mount Mitchell. The gatehouse was a quaint leftover of that long-abandoned road. To the east of the gate, Flat Creek tumbled by; to the west, a near vertical cliff cut through the descending ridge to open the lane for the road. There was only one way in and one way out, and it was here.
Washington had obviously contemplated this fact long years ago.
John said nothing and he drove off heading back into town, crossing State Street and over the tracks of the Norfolk & Southern. He passed the Holiday Inn. A number of people were sitting around outside; a group of kids were playing tag. Several grills were set up, food cooking on them.
He slowed as he spotted someone standing down by the road, her arms folded, just gazing off towards the mountains. He pulled up, again a bit uncomfortable with how many people turned at the sight of his car.
The woman looked at him. There was a flicker of recognition.
"Ma'am, I owe you an apology."
"I think you do."
She was still dressed in her business suit, but the high heels were gone, replaced with a battered pair of sneakers.
He opened the door and got out and extended his hand.
"Look, seriously, I apologize. I had my kids with me, my mother-in-law, and frankly ..." He hesitated.
She relented and extended her hand and took his.
"Sure; I understand. Guess I'd of done the same if the roles were reversed."
"John Matherson."
"Makala Turner."
"Curious name."
"My granddad was stationed in Hawaii during the war. Said it was a flower there. Talked my dad into using the name."
John couldn't help but let his eyes drift for a second. She was tall, even without her heels on. Five ten or so, slender, blond hair to shoulder length, top two buttons of her blouse unbuttoned.
It was just the quickest of glances, but he knew she was watching. Strange. If you don't check an attractive woman out, even for a second, it's an insult; if you do, there might be a cold, icy stare.
She smiled