Free Refuge Book 1 - Night of the Blood Sky by Jeremy Robinson, Jeremy Bishop

lot of money, despite being well known and respected in the art world. His work had even been compared favorably to Bosch. But not many people could afford what he charged for his fifteen-foot long monstrosities. He only needed to sell a few every year to make a living, which was another benefit to staying in Refuge. Everything was so damn cheap.
    He paused in front of his studio door, looking into the dark space. Moonlight streamed through the windows, creating rectangles of light on the dark hardwood floor. A shiver ran up his back. He couldn’t see the recently finished painting, but he could see the twisted, dark image in his mind’s eye. After the strange night he’d had, that kind of darkness, inspired by his very real past, was not something he wanted to dwell on. He took a long deep breath through his nose, letting the familiar scents of oil paint and turpentine return a sense of normalcy to his mind, and then he headed for the bedroom.
    After gathering two flashlights and a strap-on headlamp from the top drawer of his bureau, he moved to the closet. He hadn’t had any need for the satellite phone in years, but he knew exactly where it was. He slid a box of Jess’s clothing to the side—he’d manage to box it up, but resisted bringing it to the Salvation Army—and pulled out the fireproof safe.
    It had been four years since he’d last opened the safe, but he quickly entered the combination and opened the lid. Inside was a stack of bills—$10,000 for emergencies—his passport, the satellite phone, his dog tags, an M9 handgun, a holster, three magazines and a box full of 9mm ammunition. He took out the phone and pressed the power button. As expected, it was dead. He’d have to recharge it back at the station.
    He slid the phone in his pocket, rested his hands on the safe lid and looked down at the handgun. It had been a long time since he’d held it and even longer since he’d shot it. He reached for it, but stopped short.
    Don’t be stupid , he told himself, you can’t shoot at a different moon .
    The lid slapped closed, but he stopped before locking it. People in town were going to panic. It seemed obvious to him. Something in the world had gotten screwed up, and someone was going to do something stupid as a result. And if he was going to be manning the station while Rule and Frost dealt with the town...
    He opened the safe and picked up the M9. He loaded the magazines and slapped one into the handle of the pistol, but he didn’t chamber a round. The two spare magazines went in his jeans pocket, which was already full with his wallet. But the other side now held two phones and his keys. He considered breaking out his old cargo pants, but opted for simplification instead. He removed the wallet, but kept his driver’s license, in case State Troopers showed up. He put his key chain, which held ten different keys and a collection of tiny knickknacks on the bureau, but kept his car key. Better , he thought, and then he clipped the now holstered gun to his belt where everyone could see it.
    As he left the house, he considered walking back to the station. It wasn’t far. But he opened the silver Ford Fusion’s door and started the engine for the same reason he’d taken the gun. If shit started flying in the town of Refuge, he wanted to be able to move himself—and Avalon—out of the way quickly.

 
     
    12
     
    Rule sat behind her desk in the wide, open, front room of the station. She hadn’t moved since placing herself in the seat and leaning back. Normally she resisted sitting. Unless there was paperwork on the desk and a pen in her hand, sitting felt stagnant. Like a swamp. And Rule hated swamps. Mostly because they stunk, a fact she learned as a child when she slipped off a log and landed in some old brown water full of very green and slimy frog eggs. That’s what sitting felt like to her. But tonight, she welcomed the chair’s support.
    She needed to talk to someone. Verbalizing always helped