Supercell

by H W Buzz Bernard

  “Yeah,” Chuck answered. He could read in the guy’s acne-scarred face that he wasn’t the bearer of good news.

  “Never heard of that happening before. Anyhow, it’s gonna be about a week before we can get that rig patched up and aligned and everything else.”

  Metcalf, who had accompanied Chuck to the repair shop, expelled a long breath, then whispered in Chuck’s ear: “Strike three, Chuckie. You oughta be back on the bench, except then I’d look like dog poo to my bosses. So, you’re still in the game. Just barely.”

  Chuck let the put-down pass and addressed the repairman. “Can’t you get it done any quicker?” He sounded like a teenager pleading to use Dad’s car on a Saturday night.

  “Sorry. Lotta damage. Have to order some parts. And that crane is gonna be a bitch to fix.”

  “Isn’t there some way you could expedite—”

  “Forget it, Chuckie,” Metcalf interjected, “the Genesis is history anyhow. It’ll be at least a week before we can get a replacement. In the meantime, we’ll press on without it. We still got one good rig with its camera, and a Steadicam.”

  “A what?”

  “Steadicam. It’s a stabilizing system, like a harness, that a cameraman can wear and hand-carry a camera. It minimizes shake. It’s not the way I’d like to film a tornado, but if you keep busting our equipment, maybe that’s all I’ll end up with.”

  And if you keep busting my balls, maybe you’ll end up with nothing. Chuck gave his cell phone number to the owner of the shop and requested he stay in touch.

  As Chuck and Metcalf headed back to their motel, a Hampton Inn, Metcalf continued with his slings and arrows. “So, any more opportunities in the near future of getting caught in a buffalo stampede or setting up 300 miles out of position?”

  Chuck answered through clinched teeth. “Not until next Monday.”

  THAT NIGHT, THE stymied entourage journeyed to a nearby restaurant for a leisurely dinner. Chuck and Gabi settled into a booth near the rear of the establishment, a reasonably up-scale eatery with a large, softly-lit dining area, several smaller satellite rooms, and a long mahogany bar set against a far wall. Metcalf held court at the bar, regaling his cronies and Ty with a seemingly endless string of anecdotes and gossip from the exotic world of movie making.

  Chuck had asked him once, right after they’d first met, what his job title was—there’d been nothing on his business card—and Metcalf had merely shrugged. “I just make sure stuff gets done and things happen,” he said. “I kick ass and take names. Think of me as a chief of staff. Or, if I’m really pissed, a first sergeant.” Chuck knew him primarily as a first sergeant.

  Chuck and Gabi studied their menus, but Chuck’s thoughts were not on food; they were on the Great Hunt. So far, however, it had been far less than great. He’d fired two large-caliber blanks. He’d positioned the team poorly on its first day out, then managed to get them into the middle of a buffalo stampede a few days later. A fucking buffalo stampede. How on earth could something like that happen?

  “What’s the matter?” Gabi asked. “Nothing on the menu suit your fancy?”

  “What?”

  “What are you ordering?

  Chuck stared at the menu. “A BLT, I guess.”

  “It’s dinnertime.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I am. You think they have swordfish here?”

  “We’re on the Great Plains, Gabi, not the Grand Banks. Try something from a cow.”

  “I’m lactose intolerant.”

  Chuck laughed in spite of the bluesy malaise gripping him. “I was thinking more along the lines of a top sirloin, not milk.”

  Gabi peeked over the top of her menu at him. He caught a brief glint of mischievousness in her greenish-brown eyes, but it quickly disappeared, replaced by a more practiced neutral look, the gaze of a federal law officer. Yet there was something beckoning in her stare, not in a sexual sense, but in the more veiled suggestion of something waiting to be discovered.

  He placed his menu on the table. “Where are you from?” he asked. “I mean originally.”

  She hesitated before replying, perhaps weighing how much of their relationship was professional as a opposed to personal. “New Bedford, Mass,” she said. “My dad was Portuguese, a fisherman. My mother, Russian. And yes, I speak both languages.”

  “Probably something the FBI liked.”

  “It helped get my foot in the door.”

  Peals of laughter exploded from the crowd at the bar. Metcalf, red-faced and grinning, stood in the middle of the group and appeared to be reveling in the accolades for yet another story well told. Probably one about a buffalo stampede.

  “Bit of a blowhard,” Gabi said, inclining her head toward the racket.

  “I guess he has to be, in his business,” Chuck said. “But we were talking about you. Where’d you get started?”

  “Before I joined the Bureau, I was an interpreter for the Federal District Court in Massachusetts. Five years. Then into the Bureau. First in Mobile, then back north to New Haven, then to Ok City and criminal investigations.”

  “Family?”

  The waitress arrived to take their orders. After she left, Chuck repeated his question.

  Gabi narrowed her eyes and looked at Chuck as though he’d stepped into verboten territory.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “You know me like a book. I’m just trying to level the social playing field here.”

  “There is no social ‘playing field’ here. I’m a working FBI agent. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Chuck stared at her, a bit taken aback by her curt rebuff. “Just making conversation,” he offered.

  “I understand,” she responded, but didn’t follow up with any further explanation. Instead, she changed the subject. “Oh, I probably should tell you, the autopsy results came back from the woman found dead after the tornado in Lubbock Monday. Blunt force trauma. It was an injury that could have been caused by the tornado. Except, neighbors remember the woman arriving home after the storm. They also recall seeing a black SUV with a grill guard and some kind of signage on the doors being parked in her driveway.”

  “Didn’t you mention a black GMC was spotted by a state trooper at the scene of the murder in Oklahoma?”

  She nodded. “Good memory. At the time, he thought it was an EMT vehicle.”

  “But the one in Lubbock wasn’t?”

  “Apparently not. The only common thread is ‘a black SUV’.”

  “How about the signs?”

  “No one paid any attention to them. Too busy with other things.”

  Gabi seemed reluctant to provide any additional information, and since she’d staked out her personal life with a NO TRESPASSING sign, they fell silent. Chuck leaned back in the booth, inhaling the aromas of wood-grilled beef, fresh baked bread, and steamed vegetables. Soft chatter from others and the clink of bottles and glasses from the bar filled the conversation void.

  A server arrived with the dinner orders for Chuck and Gabi. Chuck nibbled at his BLT, which seemed to have more L than B or T, and watched Gabi attack a T-bone, a house specialty called The Ranchers Delight. She tackled the job with a mix of feminine grace and masculine determination.

  Chuck, much to his surprise, had a difficult time pulling his gaze from her. As he’d noted in their initial meeting, she wasn’t classically beautiful, but her dark complexion and ebony hair, coupled with her clear, unblinking hazel eyes, drew him in. Sure, she might be fighting a weight battle, as she herself had suggested, but she obviously was winning the fight; her well-toned body and subtly sculptured muscles gave testimony to that. She seemed the kind of woman who could grow on a man. But he wondered about her reluctance to discuss her life beyond the professional details. He decided on a different approach.

  “Gabi,” he s
aid.

  She looked up from carving another bite-size piece from her T-bone.

  “You suffer from migraines, don’t you?”

  She put the chunk of meat into her mouth and chewed, her stare fixed on him. She swallowed the bite and said, “You like to pry, don’t you?”

  “No—”

  “What I suffer from or don’t and what my personal history is, isn’t a topic for discussion. Just leave it.”

  “I wasn’t prying, damn it. My mother suffered from migraines. I know the precursors, the symptoms, the aftermath. I know how debilitating they can be. She could be laid up for days at time, moaning, throwing up, unable to function. Once or twice she ended up in the hospital. But all they could do was knock her out with drugs. I just wanted to say I understand. If there’s any way I can help—”

  “You can help by being a little less inquisitive about me and maybe dealing with the weeds in your own backyard.” She squeezed her eyes shut tightly and tilted her head back.

  “What weeds?”

  She opened her eyes. “The tension between you and your son hasn’t gone unnoticed by me or anyone else on this expedition. I don’t know what the issue is between you two, and I don’t need to know. It’s obviously lost on you in all the smoke from the verbal gunfire you guys trade, but he’s reaching out to you—like the other day when he told Metcalf to put a sock in it—and all you do is slap him down.”

  “That’s your viewpoint,” Chuck snapped.

  “No. That’s a woman’s viewpoint. Call it female insight. If you can show compassion to me, a virtual stranger, you sure as shit can do it for your son, too.” She placed her knife and fork on her plate, folded her napkin, tossed a 20-dollar bill on the table, and stood. “I feel a headache coming on. See you in the morning.” She walked away.

  Chuck stared after her. “Well, that went well,” he said to no one.

  The waitress arrived to see if everything was okay.

  “What the hell did I do wrong?” Chuck said to her.

  She backed away.

  BACK IN HER ROOM at the Hampton Inn, Gabi fumbled in her purse for her bottle of Treximet. She downed a tablet without the benefit of water and flopped onto her bed, hoping the combination of sumatriptan and naproxen sodium would stave off the worst of the agony aborning. If she interdicted it early enough, maybe she’d sleep through the night and be reasonably pain free by sunrise. Maybe.

  She stared at the ceiling, otherwise dark except for intermittent flickers of blue and white brilliance. Sheet lightning boring through the window from a distant storm? Or the strobing aura from an incipient migraine? She didn’t know.

  She did know she’d probably been too hard on Chuck. The guy most likely had just been trying to find a way to connect with her, to climb over the business barrier that existed between them.

  The barrier, however, existed not only for professional reasons, it protected her personally, too. For one thing, her migraines were something the Bureau knew nothing of. She didn’t want them on her official record. She dealt with them on her own by consulting doctors who knew nothing of her real profession.

  Further, she knew in the wake of her first marriage she wasn’t cut out to be a typical—whatever that was—soccer mom. But she also came to realize there was a scarcity of men who wanted to settle down with a “woman who shoots guns, curses in Russian, and can’t cook worth a shit,” as one of her lovers once told her. That hurt.

  She was hurt a few more times before the obvious became obvious to her. She was merely a target. Screw an FBI chick and you’ve got bragging rights at the bar for perpetuity. Hence the barrier. But couple the barrier with the hormonal cyclone that accompanies an onrushing migraine, and an apparently decent guy like Chuck gets steamrollered.

  A shadow passed between her and the pulsing, fluorescent ceiling. Chuck leaned over her, brushed her forehead with his hand.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sorry.” But she knew she was asleep. Dreaming.

  Chapter Fourteen

  FRIDAY, MAY 3

  “I APOLOGIZE,” Gabi said.

  Chuck looked up from the USA Today he’d been reading in the lobby of the motel.

  “For last night,” Gabi explained, her voice hoarse. “I was a bitch. A little too defensive, a little too hurting . . . you were right about the migraines. I had a doozy last night.”

  Chuck stood. Gabi appeared pale, drained. Redness tinted the whites of her eyes. She seemed strangely vulnerable this morning—almost little girlish in her white blouse and blue jeans—not at all like the confident, professional, and yes, defensive woman he’d had dinner with last night. He fought back an urge to give her a comforting hug. Instead he asked, “Had breakfast yet? It’s late.”

  “No. Not hungry.” She seemed to reconsider. “Well, maybe some juice and toast.”

  “This way.” He offered her his arm.

  She took it and leaned against him ever so lightly. “So, am I given absolution?”

  Her touch, almost like low-voltage electricity, rendered him temporarily speechless. He realized how long he’d been without a woman in his life.

  “Hey,” she said, “you okay?”

  “Fine. I just need another cup of coffee. And yes, you’re forgiven. Like I told you, I know about migraines.”

  She leaned closer to him—a sort of silent thanks, he decided—triggering another tiny jolt of sexual energy. When they reached the breakfast room, she released his arm and stepped away. “What do you take in your coffee?”

  He watched her walk toward the pots. Not a little girl now. A woman in tight jeans and a form-revealing blouse. “Better make it decaf,” he called after her. He drew a deep breath and reminded himself she was an FBI agent and they were in a business relationship and nothing more.

  She returned with a cup of coffee for him and they seated themselves at a small table. Only one other person populated the room, a man dressed in a business suit who slathered cream cheese on a bagel while he watched Fox News. A cowboy hat rested on the table beside him.

  Chuck took a swallow of the decaf. “Thanks,” he said to Gabi. “What about you? Some toast now?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and leaned back in her chair. “Give me a minute. Still recovering. By the way, just between you and me, the FBI doesn’t know anything about my migraines.”

  “Should they?”

  “If they did, it could preclude me getting certain assignments.”

  “Then my lips are sealed.”

  After a moment, she arose, dropped a couple of slices of wheat bread into a toaster, and poured herself a glass of cranberry juice.

  Toast and juice in hand, she seated herself at the table again. She brushed a loose strand of hair from in front of her eyes and bit into the toast. As she ate, a subdued rosy glow gradually crept back into her cheeks. When she finished, she dabbed a napkin against her mouth.

  “Well,” she said, “don’t let the bastards get you down.”

  “What?”

  “You seem to have a lot working against you. I mean over and above the professional scarlet letter you started out with. Metcalf acts like a first-class prick. Your son and you bond like water and oil; why, I don’t know. And me, your phony magazine reporter gal, goes off on you like a harpy on a broomstick.”

  “I haven’t exactly performed up to expectations.”

  “We’ve got over a week to go. Things’ll work out.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  The businessman-cowboy stood, retrieved his hat, and nodded at Chuck and Gabi as he left the breakfast area.

  Gabi gave Chuck a fleeting smile. “Do I remind you of your mother?”

  “Mom never wore blue jeans. But she was good at giving pep talks.”

  “Do you object to jeans?”

  “Not on you.�
�� Shit. Heat swarmed through his cheeks and he felt himself color what must have been fifty shades of red. “Damn. I’m sorry. Inappropriate remark.”

  Gabi laughed. “Oh, come on. I’m a ditzy freelance writer who revels in remarks like that. Feel free to boost my ego any time.”

  “No. It was—”

  “Not inappropriate,” she finished his sentence for him and reached across the table to rest her hand on his. She spoke in a soft voice. “Don’t get wrapped around the axle over the fact I’m an FBI agent. I’m a woman, too, and I’m glad you noticed.”

  The warmth in Chuck’s cheeks receded . . . but not completely. A degree of awkwardness lingered. Idiot. “I wasn’t trying to put a move on you. I just blurted out something sexist without thinking.”

  “Now you’re hurting my feelings. You mean I don’t look that good in jeans?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean?”

  “I think I’ll get another cup of coffee.”

  Gabi laughed. “Sorry. Just yanking your chain.”

  “You’re feeling better?”

  “I am. And I appreciate your being concerned . . . even if you don’t care for the way I look.”

  Chuck issued an exaggerated sigh. “I’d never win an argument with you, would I?”

  “I’m a highly trained FBI agent.”

  “So highly trained you took a chance on a broken down, virtually destitute storm chaser to help you catch a killer.” He drained the last of the coffee from his cup.

  “I know what I’m doing. You do, too. You’ll find your magic again and we’ll get the son-of-a-bitch. When’s the next round of storms coming up?”

  “Not until early next week. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “There was something I saw in the models this morning.” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “How’d you like to be a co-conspirator in a little plot to rattle the cage of our loud-mouthed movie mogul?”

  “I’m all in and all ears,” Gabi said.