A tornado warning siren wailed somewhere in the distance.
Chuck, followed by Ty and Gabi, their clothes soaked, arose from the trench. Stormy scrambled out, too, and shook herself, spraying water outward like a 360-degree sprinkler head.
“Holy shit,” Metcalf said, rising like a sludge-encrusted specter from the ditch, “we got hit by a tornado.”
“No we didn’t, you asshole,” Chuck screamed. “Another 500 yards down the road and we would have. And we’d probably all be dead. What the hell were you thinking, you ignoramus? Driving into a rain-wrapped tornado. Nobody does that, at least not intentionally.”
“I thought we could beat it, get out in front of it,” Metcalf responded, subdued for the first time since Chuck had met him.
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Chuck yelled. Blood pressure. Take it easy. “It was hidden in the core of the storm. No way you could have filmed it.”
Metcalf stalked toward him, brushing mud off his clothes, wiping it from his face. Fresh fire burned in his eyes. “Then we should have gone after the storm earlier, like the other chasers. Caught it before it got shrink wrapped or whatever in the hell it did.” Anger threaded his voice, his own transgressions forgotten.
“Yeah, no astigmatism in hindsight is there?” Chuck said, firing his words like bullets.
“I’m paying you for 20/20 foresight.” Metcalf stood face to face with Chuck.
“You aren’t paying me a goddamn thing unless you film a tornado, and you sure as shit can’t film a tornado with a tree stuck in your truck. I’m supposed to be running this expedition, not you. Great job, Jerry.” Chuck gestured at the camera rig buried in the crown of a fallen oak tree. “Now I’m out my money, you’re out your tornado. Game over.”
Metcalf walked toward the truck. “It’s not that bad, Chuckie. The tree’s resting on the cab, not the crane. And the Panavision didn’t get hurt. It’s stored safely. We’ll get this thing back on the road tomorrow and resume the chase. We’ve still got a few days.”
“No we don’t, dick head.” Chuck pursued Metcalf. “You just don’t get it, do you? Today was our last hurrah. This weather system will be in Wisconsin tomorrow. So, number one, we’d never be able to catch up to it. Number two, with more trees and traffic and hills, chasing east of the Mississippi sucks. And number three, Wisconsin doesn’t look like frigging Oklahoma anyhow.” Chuck’s voice rose with each sentence. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Gabi.
“Let it go,” she said as Metcalf continued to walk away.
“How can I let it go?” Chuck hissed. “I knew the odds were against me from the beginning, but when the guy you’re supposed to be working with works against you . . .” His voice trailed off as the anger inflaming him began to dissipate like a summer storm surrendering its virility to the coolness of an evening.
“I don’t know,” he said, then faltered again. He tilted his head back to look at the sky, at the gray scud racing after the blackness of the departing supercell. “I sometimes wonder if there isn’t some sort of cosmic balance scale at work in our lives, measuring the good times against the bad. Making certain that success never exceeds failure. That you’re never up more than you’re down. That happiness and security and comfort are held in check.”
“That sounds rather defeatist,” Gabi said.
“It’s just my perspective.”
“You were king of the road once. As far as I know, there’s no prohibition against a second coronation.”
“That’s just it. I think there might be.”
CLARENCE, TRAVELING north with his brother Raleigh, pulled their GMC Terrain to the side of the road. He reached into the back seat and retrieved a pair of Nikon binoculars. He brought them to his eyes and scanned the route ahead.
“Lot of poles and trees down,” he said. “The tornado crossed the highway here. This is as far as we can go.”
Several cars and trucks came up behind them, stopped, and turned around, their drivers spotting the impassable road beyond.
“Looks like vehicles stopped on the far side of the damage swath,” Clarence said. He twisted the focus knob on the binoculars. “Hey, take a look.” He handed the field glasses to Raleigh.
Raleigh removed his thick spectacles and lifted the binoculars to his eyes. “Oh, yeah, it looks like that movie crew we heard was out here chasing. Got a tree down on one of the trucks. Didn’t we hear they were being led by that guy who ran Thunder Road Tours once upon a time, what was his name?’
“Charles Rittenburg. Used to be a star. ’Til he got a couple of tourists killed, then there was a feeding frenzy by lawyers and they pretty much ate him alive.”
Raleigh handed the binoculars back to his brother.
“Well, let’s see if we’ve got any opportunities around here,” Clarence said. He glassed the farmland surrounding them, moving the binoculars slowly over the wet, wind-flattened fields. He stopped and refocused on a farm house set well back from the road. “Got a place with part of its roof gone, lotta broken windows.” He watched the house for several minutes. “No movement. Probably nothing worth grabbing there, but why don’t we take a look?”
Raleigh grunted his assent.
Clarence backtracked a short distance, then turned onto a puddled gravel road lined on both sides by a split rail fence that appeared more decorative than functional. He drove the SUV slowly, constantly monitoring the partially destroyed home. He pulled up near a side entrance, waited a few moments, and then he and Raleigh got out of the Terrain.
Except for the sigh of wind through the now gathering dusk, an eerie silence cloaked the area.
“Anybody here?” Clarence yelled.
No response.
“Let’s go around back,” he said.
A small shed, largely undamaged, sat about 100 yards behind the house. “I’ll go,” Raleigh said. He peeked through a window. “Couple of nice ATVs in here. Whaddaya think?”
“Nope, forget it. Too big. Not the kind of stuff that would disappear in a storm. Besides, the shed’s intact. Even if there were something in there worth taking, it would look like an obvious robbery. Let’s check out the house.”
They walked to the house and entered through the side door, which was unlocked. Clarence called out again. “Anybody home?” This time, a prolonged groan answered him.
“Where are you?”
No answer.
They stood in the kitchen. To their left, a small dining room, empty. Straight ahead, a hallway running into the interior of the house. The kitchen, neat but dated, appeared relatively unused, almost pro forma as opposed to a place used to prepare meals regularly.
Clarence motioned for Raleigh to follow and they moved down the hallway. A moan came from the first door on the right, from what appeared to be a den with collapsed rafters resting on the floor. Near one of the fallen beams, an elderly woman lay on her back, blood streaming from her head. Overhead, the room opened to the sky.
Clarence knelt by the lady and examined her wound. He turned to Raleigh. “Get the first aid kit. We need to stop the bleeding and patch her up. She’s got a nasty cut that’ll probably need stitches.”
Raleigh didn’t respond immediately.
“Raleigh, go.”
He trotted off.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?” Clarence asked.
“Yes,” she mumbled.
“What’s your name?”
“Evelyn.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“Tornado.”
“Do you know what day this is?”
“Monday. No, Tuesday.”
He continued asking her questions until Raleigh returned with the first aid supplies.
“Evelyn,” Clarence said, “I don’t think you’ve got a concussion, but you’ll certainly
need some stitches in your scalp. And I’m guessing you’ll need some x-rays, too. You’re pretty banged up. I’ll call 9-1-1 and get some help out here.”
“Thank you,” she said, hoarseness in her voice. “Who are you?”
“We’re helping a university do tornado damage research. We saw your place had been clipped by the twister and decided to check it out. Lucky for you, we did. We’ve had a little medical training, so we can patch you up and make you comfortable until the real EMTs get here. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Clarence swabbed Evelyn’s wound with antiseptic while Raleigh unfolded some bandages.
“Do you live here alone, Evelyn?” Clarence asked while he worked on her.
“My husband died several years ago, so it’s just me and Lewis now.”
“Lewis?”
“My dog, a big Irish setter. You didn’t see him outside, did you?”
“No.”
“He doesn’t like storms.” Her voice sounded stronger.
Raleigh covered Evelyn with a blanket and slipped a small pillow under her head, careful not to move her too much.
“Don’t you get frightened, living here by yourself?” Clarence asked.
“Lewis, remember?”
“Right. But if he blows town every time a storm comes along, what good—”
“Well, then, there’s my husband’s collection.”
“Collection?”
“In the case against the wall.”
Clarence hadn’t noticed it before, hidden behind the fallen rafters, but a large, glass-fronted gun case stood adjacent to the wall on his left.
Raleigh walked to it, surveyed the contents, and whistled in admiration. “You got a whole arsenal here, ma’am.”
Clarence finished securing a bandage around Evelyn’s head. “Something to protect all your other valuables with, huh?”
Evelyn snorted softly. “I live on Social Security. Just barely live. Sometimes, when the end of the month gets here, I have to visit the food bank.” Her voice cracked.
“Okay. Take it easy now. Close your eyes and relax.” He arose, walked to the gun case, and stood next to his brother. The case held a cornucopia of weapons—hunting rifles, shotguns, handguns. Among them, a few antiques and a handful of custom-made pieces.
“Well?” whispered Raleigh, his eyes wide, sparkling, apparently in anticipation of becoming better armed than most small town police departments.
Hand on chin, Clarence studied the domestic armory. It appealed to him, something Western and independent and masculine about it. He looked back at Evelyn. “This is worth a small fortune,” he said.
“It’s all I’ve got.”
“It’s a really nice collection.” Clarence ran his gaze over the weaponry again, feeling the power it represented, allowing it to embrace him, beckon him to a different level. He squeezed his eyes shut and backed away. “Let’s go, ’bro,” he said softly.
“Clarence,” Raleigh hissed. He grasped his brother by the arm.
“It’s not us.” Clarence pulled away from Raleigh and walked toward the hallway. “We’ll call 9-1-1 now, Evelyn. Help will be here shortly.”
“Thank you, boys.”
“What the fuck?” Clarence said, not quite loud enough for Evelyn to hear. He tugged on his brother’s shirtsleeve.
“We don’t need guns, to use or fence,” Clarence said, his voice harsh but barely audible. He laid a $20 bill on the kitchen counter and walked out, a silent scream filling his head, a poltergeist with evil intent urging him to return.
He stared at the sheet lightning painting the eastern horizon and kept walking.
Chapter Twenty
WEDNESDAY, MAY 8
WITH THE HELP of a friendly utility crew—”Wow, you guys shootin’ a movie, really?”—and a wrecker out of Sioux Falls, the camera rig was freed from the embrace of the toppled oak. The truck proved still drivable, validating Metcalf’s initial damage assessment. A large dent in its cab and bent and broken scaffolding on its roof lent a battle-scarred aspect to it, but it remained functional. A quick test proved the crane still worked, and the Panavision Genesis, stored securely, had survived unscathed. Little matter. The chase was over.
The crew spent the night in Sioux Falls. Metcalf and a couple of his cronies went in search of a “titty bar.” Chuck collapsed into bed. Tired. Defeated. Angry.
He arose early, at an hour when the day’s first light glowed low in the east, a mere sliver of silver strung along the horizon, and walked to his SUV. Overhead, night dawdled, the sky blue-black and pinpricked with dimming stars. Heavy dew coated the SUV, the condensate glistening like hoarfrost in the false dawn. Using his hand, Chuck brushed at the moisture on the driver’s side window. A scree of droplets, like falling tears, slid down the glass.
“Going for breakfast?” a voice asked from the unlit dawn. Gabi.
“And a beer.”
“You want company?”
“No.”
“Good. I’ll join you.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Probably. But you need somebody to talk to.”
“I’ll bet you were a hostage negotiator for the Bureau.”
“I’ll bet you couldn’t recognize a friend if she kicked you in the ass.” She stood next to Chuck now, her breath warm on his cheek, her exhalations creating fleeting puffs of steam in the morning coolness.
He stared at Gabi, frozen in place as she tilted her face to his and kissed him on the lips. “There,” she said. “I’m glad we’re past that. Let’s get some food.”
Fifteen minutes later, they sat in a disreputable-looking roadhouse that advertised breakfast. Chuck asked the waitress, a haggard-looking woman whose hair suggested she might have been caught out in yesterday’s storm, if he could get a beer.
“At this hour?” she asked, a smoky rasp in her voice.
“I suppose I could sit here until noon.”
“It’s breakfast time.”
He opened his wallet, plucked a $10 bill from it and slid it across the table toward her. “Just bring me something that looks like an extremely large apple juice.”
She snatched the bill from the table and flounced off.
“You sure you need a beer?” Gabi asked.
“No, I don’t need it. I want it.” He paused, changed gears. “Gabi, what was that, back there in the parking lot?” He still felt the press of her lips against his. A sugariness that refused to fade.
“I figured a kiss might be better than a kick in the ass. I’m sorry if I was out of bounds. I guess it was an overstated way of saying I’m your friend.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “You weren’t out of bounds. You just . . . you took me by surprise, that’s all. I want your friendship. But, you know, it’s a little weird. One minute you’re an FBI agent, then you’re . . . I don’t know.”
“A girlfriend?”
“It’s funny to have a girlfriend at my age.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I mean, it’s like I was back in high school or something.” He released her hand.
She smiled. “Some of us have good memories from high school.”
She had a point. Good memories—days of exploration, coming of age, testosterone at the boiling point. In truth, Gabi had brought to life within him a zeitgeist of those days, albeit a zeitgeist tempered by middle age.
He enjoyed being around Gabi—enjoyed her intellect, her sense of humor, her directness. She exuded a mature sexiness, not a cover girl or movie star sexiness, not a physical sexiness, but an allure born of self-confidence, compassion, and knowing—he was pretty sure—her physical assets were, well, certainly competitive. For an unguarded moment, he imagined what forbidden, hedonistic pleasures she might harbor.
“You’re blushing,” she said.
Jesus. “It’s hot in here.”
She smiled again. Nailed him dead to rights. No more unguarded moments.
The waitress returned and plunked down a large mug of amber liquid. “Your apple juice, sir. First one I’ve ever seen with a head.”
Without hesitation, he lifted the container to his mouth and took a swallow. “Yes,” he said, when he’d finished, “very good. Washington apples, I’d guess. Golden Delicious, probably.”
“Ya betcha,” she answered. “I’ll be back to take your orders shortly.” She ambled away.
Gabi watched in silence as Chuck took another long swill from the mug and wiped his hand across his mouth.
“What?” he said.
“So you’re just gonna run up a white flag, suck down a defeatist beer, and slink back to Oklahoma City?”
“That’s about it.”
Gabi leaned toward Chuck and in a sharp whisper said, “I thought you had bigger balls than that.”
“Enormous nuts aren’t the issue here, girlfriend. Numb nuts, maybe, like that idiot Metcalf. Runs off like a scalded cat, chasing a storm on his own, and wrecks his truck and our chances of catching a twister. I mean, I was swimming upstream from the start, but when that jerk won’t even play by the rules—”
“Maybe we take the game into overtime,” Gabi interjected.
Chuck tipped the mug to his lips again, drank, set it down. “What do you mean?”
“You were right, I did do a little hostage negotiation with the Bureau. One of the things you always look for in a negotiation is something both of you, the good guy and the bad guy, want. Then you work from there. At first, you barter little items to build trust. Then you gradually escalate the stakes until you reach a point where you know you can’t afford to give away the farm to the hostage holder. But the issue with Metcalf isn’t that thorny, isn’t that complicated. It’s pretty simple, in fact. He wants a violent tornado on film, you want a million bucks.”
Chuck nodded, waving away the waitress as she approached. The smell of burnt toast wafted through the eatery, followed by a loud verbal exchange exploding from the kitchen. Spanish.
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