Murder in the Wind

by John D. MacDonald

  It was estimated that the farthest highest point of the water was reached at approximately eleven o’clock on Wednesday night. By then the winds were gone. The water stood placid on the land for a time, and then began to move back toward the Gulf, slowly at first, and then with increasing speed and violence. It was augmented by the heavy runoff of hurricane rainfall. The night skies cleared and the stars came out, and the black water ran off the land into the Gulf.

  Hurricane Hilda was gone, but it seemed as though the runoff was the final instance of her madness. Weakened structures collapsed into the current. Debris was swept far into the Gulf.

  By eight o’clock in the morning a warm sun shone down on the steaming coast, on silted ruined buildings, on bodies half buried in sand, on bright automobiles tumbled together like forgotten toys. The earliest estimates were ninety to a hundred dead, two thousand homeless, damage in the hundred millions. The governor appealed immediately to have the area classified as a disaster area.

  Weary people walked down streets no longer familiar to them, and looked at the places where they had lived. They reacted in many ways. With tears, with curses, with heavy silent dejection. And there were many who began at once to put things back together again, attacking the sand in the living room with a scoop shovel, tossing it out through the holes where windows had been.

  Disaster teams moved into the area, searching for the bodies, making identification where possible, listing survivors, co-ordinating their efforts with jeep radios. Water trucks were brought in. Medical teams were flown in. Helicopters flapped slowly over the area, reporting their findings by radio.

  This was morning after. This was hangover after debauch. As with the lesser variety of hangover, time was the only cure. And it would be a long time before the coast looked as it had before, with the white houses smiling in the sun above the blue Gulf, with the cool drinks on the terraces, the children playing in the sand.

  The six cars marooned on the temporary detour were reported by a helicopter pilot at eight-thirty on Thursday morning. He said they were between two ruined bridges, and near the foundations where a house had been.

  Two men in khakis walked in to the cars just before noon, a tall one and a short one, neither of them young. They had been at work since dawn, and they had lost, through fatigue, the capacity to be sickened at what they saw.

  They stood and looked at the cars. The short one took out a sweat-damp pocket notebook and began copying the license numbers. “Be hell getting those cars out of here,” the tall one said. “Have to fix one of the bridges first, and bring in a chain saw and get the timber out of the way.”

  The short one put the notebook away. A station wagon and a panel delivery truck were tilted on their sides. The other cars were erect, mud silted high against the wheels. “High water mark is about six feet over the car roofs. We better look around,” he said.

  They found the first body quickly. It was at the base of a tree, the body half curled around the trunk where the water had left it. The tall one turned her over with his foot. He examined the body.

  “No identification.”

  The fat one wrote in his book. “Female, about sixteen,” he said aloud. “Maybe five three. Heavy set. What color hair would you say, Andy?”

  “I’d say brown.”

  “Let’s put her over by the bridge. Get ’em out by boat will be the easiest way.”

  “If anybody can find a boat left,” the tall one said.

  A hundred yards downstream from where the house had been they found two more, quite close together. A young one with a crushed leg. An old man with white hair.

  “Look at here, Will! This old boy got himself knifed, I think.”

  They examined the wounds, talked it over, wrote down the description of the young man, the name and address of the old man. They carried the two bodies back and put them beside the body of the young girl. They ranged the area in widening circles and found one more body. The tall one turned it over, patted the sodden hip pocket, felt the wallet and took it out, read off the name on the smeared indentification card.

  “How do you spell that last name?”

  “F-L-A-G-A-N. Flagan.”

  “Okay, I got it. Jesus, he looks heavy.”

  They each took an ankle and dragged the body. It was a long distance. They looked down at the four of them.

  “That isn’t enough for six cars,” the short one said.

  “They could have been washed a long way from here, Will. We better go back and report and tell them about these four and the cars and all. We can come back with more people and cover a bigger area. Come on.”

  Andy looked back one time when they started out. He was too far away to see the bodies clearly. They could have been almost anything. Logs. Old bundles.

  It was about a half hour after first light when the National Guard truck picked Steve Malden and Stevie Dorn up on Route 19 and drove them to Otter Creek where a rescue station had been set up.

  A brisk young Red Cross woman worker whose kind eyes and sensitive mouth belied her officious manner interviewed Malden. He gave her his name and address.

  “And this is your boy?”

  Steve frowned at her and shook his head. The woman understood and called another worker to come and take the child. The boy hung back. “It’s okay, Stevie,” Malden said. “You go along with her. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  When Stevie was gone he said to the woman, “That’s a good kid. His name is Stevie Dorn. They were a family of four. They were headed north, moving out of Florida. I know the father is dead. I think his name was Harold. The wife’s name was … is Jean. And there’s a little girl, younger than the boy, named Jan. Probably Janice.”

  “Were you traveling with them, Mr. Malden?”

  “No. Could I have some of that coffee? I’ll tell you how it happened.”

  The woman got him some coffee. He sipped it and said, “Are you keeping a list of the people who come through here?”

  “Yes. It isn’t alphabetical yet. I’m sorry, I’ll have to finish this later. There’s another truck load coming in.”

  He walked over to the truck. He knew no one who was on it. He saw a woman with a crudely splinted arm, tears running endlessly down her still remote face. He walked around the area and found a place where clothing was being doled out. He was issued khaki trousers and a clean faded blue work shirt. He changed in a dressing room for men made of blankets suspended from ropes between trees. He realized that he had never felt more weary in his life. The day had that glazed look that comes with exhaustion. A look of bright shimmering unreality. He did not permit himself to think about Virginia Sherrel.

  The boy came racing over to him, too excited to be coherent. He tugged at Steve’s hand. Steve went along with him. Army cots had been set up in the back of a garage. Jean Dorn was there with the little girl.

  “Stevie says you brought him out, Mr. Malden.”

  He ruffled Stevie’s hair. “We went floating on a roof together. We had a big time. Did you have any trouble?”

  “Just at first. It was hard to hang on. Then the water was calmer. When we started to drift back it was shallow enough to wade. I carried Jan to the road and we waited there until daylight. Did … did anyone else get out?”

  He looked at her and looked away. “Not that I know of. I’m sorry about your husband, Mrs. Dorn.”

  She had her arm around the little girl. She looked up at him and said, “I am lucky, Mr. Malden. I’m still a lucky woman.”

  He went back and watched the trucks coming in. As more refugees arrived the area became a scene of confusion. Many were doing as he was doing, walking back and forth, looking for someone. Many were calling out the names of those they sought. When he listened he could hear the constant sound of those callings, all over the area, a mingling of sound like an atonal chant.

  He shaped her name with his lips but did not say it aloud.

  When he found the Hollis couple they were in the center of a small group
. A sound truck was parked nearby. A man with a hand mike was interviewing them. They had been given fresh clothing. They looked surprisingly clean and rested. Steve, curious, moved closer.

  “So you’d say it was pretty rough, Bunny?”

  Bunny gave his athlete’s grin. “Rough all right. I didn’t think we were going to make it. The water really came up. We took shelter in an old house and watched it come right up over the top of our car. When it looked as though the house was going to go, we ripped up old floor boards. We floated out on them.” He pitched his voice more deeply and said, “This is a terrible thing for these people living in this area. I want to say that I think the Red Cross is doing a marvelous job here.”

  “What are the plans for you and your bride, Bunny?”

  “Well, I think we’ll stay around a little while. Help out if we can. Were both going to volunteer to help. Then we’ll see what can be done about getting our car out. Betty here lost her whole trousseau, you know. Every darn stitch.”

  “I guess it was a frightening experience for both of you.”

  Bunny shrugged. “I can tell you it made me pretty nervous.” He put his arm around Betty and smiled down at her.

  “Thank you, Bunny Hollis. The fans in the radio audience who followed you during your tennis career are, I’m sure, glad to know you came through this disaster in good shape. Thank you very much. Now, sir, if I could have your name.”

  Steve walked up to the Hollises as they left the group around the interviewer. Betty left Bunny and walked directly to him and held out her hand and said, “Thanks, Steve. Thanks for … more than I can say.”

  “Have you seen Virginia Sherrel?”

  She looked at him closely. “No, Steve. Not yet. We saw Mrs. Dorn and her little girl. They haven’t found the little boy yet.”

  “I brought the boy out.”

  “But I thought Virginia was going to …” She stopped as she began to understand.

  Bunny said, in too palsy a fashion, “We really had ourselves a time in there, Malden. I figured on waiting outside the window to help the others out, but the current was too …”

  Betty said, with all the weariness in the world, “For goodness sake, Bunny, shut up. Just shut up. Don’t talk. Good-by, Steve. I hope you find Virginia soon.”

  He watched them walk away. The man walked beside the woman. There was something servile in the way he walked, in the way he gesticulated as he talked to her, explaining something. She walked with her back straight and her head high, apparently paying no attention to what he was saying. He watched them walk and imagined that he could see all the rest of their marriage, see all their future history. And it would not be pretty. Because Betty had been there with him and had seen what had happened. Had Bunny been with strangers it would be only a matter of weeks before he would begin to believe, with all sincerity, that he had been the one who had held the group together, who had helped the others. But she had seen and her innate honesty would be the barrier he could never surmount.

  He was given food at the field kitchen, but he had little appetite for it. The Red Cross woman found him and he listed the people who had been marooned with him. He gave the names, as well as he could remember them. He explained the death of Dorn, and then told about the knifing of Himbermark. She sent him to the field headquarters of the state police to tell them about Himbermark.

  He identified himself, told his story, was questioned closely, and promised to phone in his local address as soon as he could find one.

  At two in the afternoon the area was packed. People had come in from all directions, looking for the missing, maintaining a hope that grew more forlorn as the hours passed.

  Though sodden and drugged with weariness, he kept moving, watching, hoping.

  He stood for a time, big legs planted, fists on his hips, a strong man with a tired face, a dogged look, his eyes moving from face to face in the crowd. They had let him look at the lists. He could not find her name. Tomorrow he would go back and search the area, every square foot of it.

  A hand caught convulsively at his elbow and spun him half around and he caught a glimpse of Virginia’s face, close to his, a face twisted oddly with joy and tears. Then she was in his arms and he held her strongly, held the trembling body, held in his arms the half coherent words. He stood with tears in his eyes, grinning like a fool, looking out over the heads of the crowd, and then he realized that this scene of reunion could very well be heartbreak to many of those who watched them. He turned her gently and led her away from the others, led her over to a motel that was serving as Red Cross headquarters, led her around the corner of the building and tilted her chin up and kissed her.

  “Steve,” she said. “Oh, Steve, I’ve been looking for you for so very long. Steve, the boy, I … I lost him. The door tipped over. I lost him. I’m sorry. I … just couldn’t …”

  “He’s safe. I’ve seen him with his mother and his sister. I brought him in. The three of them are safe. And the Hollises.”

  “And Mr. Flagan?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They looked at each other, warmly, joyfully, intimately. She surprised him by blushing and looking away. He took her by the shoulders and made her look at him again.

  “Virginia?”

  “Yes, Steve?”

  He shook her gently, impatiently. “There’s no words.”

  She smiled. “There will be.”

  He shut his eyes and teetered a moment and caught himself. He smiled and said, “I’m bushed.”

  “Let’s find a place where you can sleep. Then I’ll go see what I can do to help Jean.”

  A tent had been put up for a men’s dormitory. They found it and she took him to the door of the tent. “Don’t let me sleep too long. Send somebody in to get me up in an hour. Promise.”

  “I promise,” she lied. She kissed him lightly.

  She watched him go into the tent. She walked toward the garage where he had told her she would find Jean and the kids. She thought of Steve and thought how dangerous and how convulsive a way it was to become so closely involved with another human being. This closeness achieved through danger seemed to have been achieved too readily. Yet when she tested it, tasted it, it seemed good. Valid. A relationship as sure and positive as though it had grown through months of intimacy. Maybe the thing was that they each knew what the other one was. Knew the things of the spirit. Saw the results of stress.

  She paused in the early afternoon sunlight. The sky was a bright clear blue. The air was washed clean. She thought of the woman who had driven north with the ashes. It seemed like quite another woman. A stranger, whose motives could not be understood.

  She fought back her own weariness and went into the garage, into the plaintive sound of tired small children, the weary voices of many mothers, and the monotonous tin voice of a small radio that recounted, endlessly, the imposing statistics of disaster.

  About the Author

  John D. MacDonald was an American novelist and short story writer. His works include the Travis McGee series and the novel The Executioners, which was adapted into the film Cape Fear. In 1962 MacDonald was named a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America; in 1980 he won a National Book Award. In print he delighted in smashing the bad guys, deflating the pompous, and exposing the venal. In life he was a truly empathetic man; his friends, family, and colleagues found him to be loyal, generous, and practical. In business he was fastidiously ethical. About being a writer, he once expressed with gleeful astonishment, “They pay me to do this! They don’t realize, I would pay them.” He spent the later part of his life in Florida with his wife and son. He died in 1986.

 

 

 
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