Cal had placed his hand on Cate's back as he answered Walter's question, urging her outside. As soon as she stepped onto the porch, she stopped. Some twenty or thirty people were in her backyard, most of them sitting on the chilly ground. Almost all the men and some of the women carried some sort of weapon. The darkness enveloped them, making her sharply aware that seeing lights shining in nearby windows at night had made her feel comfortable and secure.
Cal urged her off the porch; then his hand on her shoulder forced her to the ground. "The foundation is sturdier than walls," he said quietly. "Better protection." Raising his voice, he said "Everyone, we need to save the batteries in the flashlights. Turn most of them off. We only need one or two."
Obediently the people around her clicked off their flashlights, and the darkness almost swallowed them. Cal left his powerful light on. She began to shiver as the cold air seeped through her flannel pajamas, and she wished she'd thought to get a coat. From somewhere in the darkness she heard someone mutter "I'm cold," but without any real complaint.
"Right now, we need to determine two things," Cal said. "Who's missing, and is anyone hurt?"
"I'd like to know just who is shooting at us," Milly said angrily.
"First things first. Who isn't here? Look for your neighbors. Creed went down to Neenah's house; has anyone seen either of them?"
There was silence for a moment, then a voice behind Cate said, "Lanora was right behind me when we were running, but I don't see her now."
Lanora Corbett lived in the second house from the bridge, on the left.
"Anyone else?" Cal asked.
There was murmuring as they looked around and took stock, and names began to surface: the elderly Starkeys, Roy Edward and his wife, Judith; the Contreras family, Mario, Gena, and Angelina; Norman Box; and others. A cold hand squeezed Cate's heart as the horrible possibility began to creep in: Would she ever see these people again? And Neenah. Neenah! No. She couldn't lose her friend. She absolutely refused to think it even possible.
"All right," Cal finally said when no more names were forthcoming. "Let me get a head count, and we'll know where we stand." He shone the light around, briefly touching on each face, and in every one Cate saw the same raw mixture of horror, disbelief, and anger that must be on hers. She saw people clinging to each other, huddling together for comfort and warmth, and dimly she began to think of practical matters: blankets, coats, other things she could get from the house. Coffee would be nice, but the electricity was off. On the other hand, she did have a gas stove... The thoughts were laborious, emerging from her brain with effort, but at least the daze was beginning to wear off.
"Is anyone hurt.'' Cal asked one more time, after he had an accurate count of those grouped in Cate's yard. "I'm not talking sprained ankles, or a scraped knee. Has anyone been shot? Is anyone bleeding?"
"You are," Sherry Bishop said with some tartness.
Cate's head whipped around. Cal was hurt? Shocked, she looked hard at him as he held his arms out and looked down to examine himself, as if he didn't know what Sherry was talking about. "Where?" he asked.
Cate spotted the black-red streaks on his arms. "Your arms," Cate said as she began to climb to her feet.
In a flash he was beside her, his hand on her shoulder, pressing her down. "Stay down," he said in a low voice intended just for her. "I'm fine, it's just a couple of glass cuts."
To her way of thinking, cuts should be taken care of no matter what caused them. And if sitting was safer than standing, why wasn't he sitting? "If you don't sit," she said in the same tone of voice she used with the boys, "then I'm standing. Your choice."
"I can't sit, I have a few things to do first - "
"Sit."
He sat.
Cate got to her knees and moved behind him. "Sherry, can you help me here? Hold the light and let's see how bad these cuts are. And I need to get some bandages from - "
"My first-aid kit is on the porch," he said. "I dropped it there."
"Someone get it, please." Cate raised her voice a little, and Walter moved to obey.
"Keep low," Cal added. Walter obediently bent at the waist.
The back of Cal's T-shirt was damp and sticky. Sherry took Cal's flashlight and trained it on him as Cate rolled the shirt up. Blood was welling from what looked like several pinpricks, while there was a larger cut on his right triceps and another one across the top of his left shoulder. She pushed the T-shirt over his head so it was draped over his arms and his entire back was bare.
Walter arrived with a tackle box and flipped the latches, opening it up to reveal compartments full of first-aid supplies. Sherry switched the light beam to the contents of the box, allowing Cate to pick out the individually packaged antiseptic wipes. She tore one envelope open and unfolded the wipe to its full four-by-six inches, and began swabbing. "I don't know what we'll do if these two bigger cuts need stitches," she muttered to Sherry.
"1 have sutures in the box," Cal said, trying to turn his head to judge the damage for himself.
"Ahnt!" She made one of those wordless warning sounds that were a mother's specialty, and he froze, then carefully faced forward again.
In silence she cleaned the wounds, and pressed gauze pads over the deepest cuts. Unfortunately, the blood seepage kept them in place, which allowed her to apply antiseptic ointment to the smaller wounds and cover them with adhesive strips. His skin was cold and damp under her hands, reminding her not only that he wore nothing more than a T-shirt and pants on this chilly night, but he'd been sweating - and now she'd cleaned his back with damp wipes. He must be freezing, but somehow he kept still.