37
Dillon followed Bailey back outside. The late afternoon sun was strong enough to begin drying out their world. The air was impossibly clean, the sky a fine China blue.
Bailey saw none of this. “What am I supposed to do with this mob?”
Dillon replied, “They’re anything but.”
“Maybe you’re not seeing what I’m seeing.”
“Bailey, these people are looking for a reason to party.” He liked how she looked at him, trusting him enough to show her very real fear. “They’ve been cooped up since forever. Their town has been storm-hammered for weeks. They’re gathering here because they want to be a part of whatever’s coming.”
She gave that a moment’s silence, then, “Think you can handle them?”
“I guess. Is that what you want?”
“What I want . . .” A smile fought to break through her nerves. “I wish I could kiss you.”
Which was exactly what he did. There in as public a setting as Miramar could offer. With what seemed like the whole town watching. And cheering.
* * *
Dillon was in his element. He stood behind the sawhorses framing the fire station’s front area and studied the happy, yammering crowd. It was growing larger by the minute, as were the numbers of boxes and bundles of Christmas ornaments. The donations said it all. These people wanted to be part of whatever was happening. They wanted a reason to celebrate.
There had been times in his previous life when he had been the loner in a crowd. Traders and bosses were all caught up in a news alert that threatened to reshape their world. Everyone was looking for the direction to stampede. Dillon had loved those moments, being able to separate himself from the tension and fear and explosive energy. And do what he was doing now.
Porter stepped up beside him and observed, “You’re the only guy here who’s not in total panic mode.”
“I’m just hiding it better.”
“Maybe you should be a cop.”
“Not on your life. No offense.”
“None taken. Bailey said you might be needing a hand.”
“Bailey’s right.”
As Dillon sketched out his half-formed idea, Gleason shouldered his way through the crowd carrying an overfull box. The shop owner announced, “Got your booklets.”
“They’re Bailey’s,” Dillon replied. “But thanks. A lot.”
“You don’t want to check them out?”
“No time,” Dillon said.
“Yeah, you and the chief look super busy,” Gleason scoffed.
“Thinking,” Dillon said. “Planning. Doing what the mayor told me.”
“Bailey’s back inside,” Porter said, pointing behind him. “Look for the lady on the verge of a total freak.”
Dillon asked, “Once you’ve made your delivery, want to help us with crowd control?”
Gleason offered a very rare smile. “That’s why I got into politics. So I could tell the town what to do.”
Porter shook his head. “I try to avoid that at all cost.”
“Just as well,” Gleason replied. “Since nobody wants to listen to you anyway.”
