Hurricane House

by Sandy Semerad

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Keith Harrigan pulled up in a police cruiser with Billy Blankenship, an investigator from the Sheriff’s department. Blankenship took pictures and dusted for prints, then stuffed Sandra’s blood-splattered sheets into a plastic bag.

  Rather than watch, I jumped inside my truck and drove away. A block from the cottage, I pulled over. Then pounded the steering wheel and cried, “Should’ve, could’ve, but didn’t.” I should have taken Sandra and Lexie to Huberta’s. I had the chance to help her, but I didn’t. So now what? Where was Sandra?

  I couldn’t let myself believe Sandra was dead. How could anyone hurt such a lovely young woman, such a sweet, wonderful mother? Who would do such a thing?

  While pondering those questions, I felt sick, immobilized, in no condition to drive to my next appointment with Mr. Rogers, the Principal of Dolphin Elementary. The school’s playground, built with car tires, flew in all directions when Hurricane Donald hit. One of the tires crashed through the home of a Niceville woman, knocking her unconscious. With that sad scenario, I didn’t think Mr. Rogers would understand my need to cancel the appointment, but I saw no alternative.

  I punched in his phone number. Voice mail answered.

  After the beep, I said, “Sorry to postpone our appointment, Mr. Rogers, but I’ve had an emergency. See you at three tomorrow afternoon. I hope that’s okay with you. If not, let me know, and we can reschedule.” I recited my cell phone number. Then another call beeped in.

  “Hello, this is Maeva.”

  “Ms. Larson, I’m Charles Puker with the Internal Revenue Service.”

  “Oh, yes, thanks for getting back to me.” As I said this, I spotted John Peterson jogging along Gulf Drive where a sidewalk used to be before the hurricane destroyed it.

  The crystal necklace warmed my chest. A definite warning, and I remembered what Peterson said to me earlier: “Sandra is history.”

  Forgetting I had the I.R.S. guy on the phone, I said, “S.O.B.,” referring to Peterson, not Puker.

  “What?” Puker said.

  I don’t know how to explain what happened next. Except to say, I felt as though I’d stepped outside my body, watching my actions, rather than participating.

  First, I disconnected Puker and focused on Peterson. I remember thinking, Peterson had some nerve, jogging and enjoying life while Sandra was missing and God knows where. No question, I blamed him. I wanted justice. I was angry, and my anger took control of my right foot. I floored the accelerator. The Silverado drove over a mountain of sand and headed for Peterson’s backside.

  He seemed to sense the danger. He glanced over his shoulder and picked up his pace, as if he heard my truck, getting ready to plow him down.

  I felt powerless to control my actions or my vehicle, but somewhere in this zone of no return, I spotted a black dog running alongside my truck. Like a flash, this dog darted out in front of me. I slammed on the brakes and turned the steering wheel to avoid hitting the animal. I missed the dog by inches and collided with a palm tree. My head hit the steering wheel but I remained conscious and the airbag didn’t explode in my face, though the impact should have activated it.

  I heard my cell phone ring, glanced at the caller I.D. It was Puker. By then, I was shaking all over and couldn’t answer.

  Strangely, the black Lab didn’t flee. He stood beside my truck, wagging his tail, even as I got out, inspected the damage, and saw the lopsided front fender. “Look what you made me do,” I said to the dog.

  “I saw what happened, Maeva. Are you okay?”

  I jumped at the voice and turned to see Victor Curry, looking handsome in blue jeans and a blue polo. “That dog shouldn’t be running around loose.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  The leash law and white sand ordinance prohibited dogs and their poop on the beach, meaning the owner of the black lab could be fined a thousand bucks. Of course, I didn’t plan to report the owner or the black lab. If not for the dog, I may have killed John Peterson and gotten charged with vehicular homicide. I guess you could say I owed this dog, but I didn’t expect him to jump inside my truck. ”Oh, no you don’t. You’ve caused me enough trouble today.” I tugged on the dog’s collar, trying to get him out.

  He wouldn’t budge. In fact, he had the nerve to move into the passenger’s seat.

  Victor jumped inside with the dog. “I’ll get him.”

  The black lab snarled at Victor.

  “Watch out, Victor. He’ll bite you.”

  “Nah, he’s bluffing.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “He reminds me of my dog Punjab. Punjab hated men, even bit my dad.”

  Victor laughed. “Not smart of Punjab.”

  “Dad eventually won him over, but like this dog, he chased after cars. One day, Punjab got run over and killed.” I bit my lip, trying not to cry.

  Victor wrapped his arms around me.

  I buried my nose in Victor’s chest hair. It tickled and smelled of soap and aftershave.

  After a moment in that position, my neck and head throbbed. To relieve the pain and stiffness, I stepped away.

  “Are you gonna be okay?” he asked while stroking my hair.

  “I think so,” I lied and tilted my head from side to side. “I’m just wondering what I’m going to do with this dog who’s sitting in my truck as if he belongs there.” I leaned in to study the silver tag dangling from the dog collar. “This says his name is Onyx.” At the mention of his name, he licked me with his pink tongue. “And here’s a number to call.”

  Victor said, “Let me handle that, Maeva. First, we need to get you checked out. The Emergency Center in Ft. Walton Beach might be open. I’ll drive you over.” I attempted a smile. “No, don’t bother. I’d rather get a chiropractor to adjust me.”

  “Okay. I’ve heard Allen Toddy’s good. He’s a local chiropractor. May not be around today if he evacuated.”

  I remembered what Paula said. She went to Toddy once a week. Sean Redmond filled in for him on occasion. “One of our neighbors is a chiropractor. Did you know that?”

  Victor frowned. “Really? Who?”

  “Sean Redmond, the mystery writer. You know, next door to me, lives in the tall townhouse.”

  Victor smirked. “You’d trust a man who writes about murder to pop your neck?”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Ellen Langley, Tallahassee, Florida

  At 6:30 p.m. Ellen Langley began punching in Geneva VanSant’s cell phone number. She stopped when she heard footsteps in the hallway, followed by a rap, rap, rap on her bedroom door. Ellen knew it was Loughton VanSant, even before he walked inside her room.

  “Ellen, I’m sorry to bother you. Do you have a minute?” “I just need to make a quick phone call,” Ellen said. The nerve of him walking in here without being invited.

  “Can’t it wait?” he asked, giving her no choice in the matter.

  She didn’t know what to say. The man looked terrible. He wore the same clothes he had on in the television interview about his missing wife, only she wasn’t missing, and Ellen didn’t feel like being cross-examined on the subject. She glanced at her watch, 6:32. I hate keeping her waiting.

  VanSant plopped like dead weight in the beige lounge chair.

  Ellen sat in her desk chair, not knowing what to say to this deflated man, who propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. “Geneva thought very highly of you, Ellen.”

  “Why are you speaking in the past tense?” Loughton frowned. “What?”

  “You’re referring to Geneva in the past tense. You said she ‘thought very highly of me,’ instead of she thinks very highly of me.”

  Loughton cleared his throat and squinted at Ellen. “What’s wrong with your voice? Geneva said you were a singer.”

  “I have laryngitis.”

  “Oh, sorry. Uh, right, I didn’t mean to imply that Geneva is no longer with us. I pray to God she is.”

  “I heard your television interview today and th
e sad news about Geneva’s friend Roxanne.”

  “A great tragedy.”

  “I believe Geneva is alive.”

  “I pray you’re right, but what makes you say that? Have you heard from her?”

  Ellen stared at the ceiling. She hated to lie. She’d always tried to tell the truth, no matter what. “No, not talked to her, but I just have a feeling. That’s all.”

  “I hope to God you’re right. Also, I hope you know you’re welcome to stay here. That’s what Geneva would...” He sobbed in his hands. Ellen wanted to feel sorry for him, but she couldn’t. She didn’t know why exactly, except he didn’t seem real to her, as if he were incapable of human emotion, sort of like Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator.

  Ellen glanced at her watch, wondering when she’d be able to call Geneva without Loughton VanSant hovering.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Paradise Isle, Maeva

  I stroked Onyx’s head while he gobbled up the Purina Dog Chow. Petting him felt good, though I didn’t want to admit how much I missed having an animal around. Mine was a vagabond life, always on the road, no time for a dog.

  I stopped petting Onyx to call the number on his tag. I kept getting busy signals. I guessed from a landline, not working due to the storm. One more obstacle on top of my problematic day, but I didn’t want to worry about that while stroking the white hairs on Onyx’s chin.

  “You stopped me from killing John Peterson. Did you know that, Onyx?” He barked an answer, and I decided this was no ordinary dog. His eyes were similar to the red eyes you get in a bad photo.

  I stared into those eyes until my aching head and neck forced me to take two Tylenol. An ice pack would help, I knew, but I’d forgotten to get ice after driving halfway to Pensacola to find an open grocery store to buy dog food, bottled water and two nutrition bars.

  Oh, well, if I’d remembered the ice, it would have melted while I waited in line for gas. I wanted to choke the guy in the Hummer who tried to nose ahead of me, but I set him straight. “No way I’m going to let you butt in front of me and the rest of these cars,” I pointed to the three-block-long line waiting for gas.

  After filling up, I drove back to Paradise Isle with the windows down. Onyx stuck his head out of the passenger window.

  At the townhouse, he wolfed down a bowl of dog chow and begged for a refill. I watched him eat. Then found a bucket to mop up the storm crud. I used a mixture of bottled water, Pine Sol and bleach. In the process, I wondered where I’d sleep that night. Huberta had invited me to stay in the Canary Room again.

  I knew I couldn’t bring Onyx without getting Huberta’s permission. In another five minutes, I wouldn’t be able to go to Huberta’s due to the 7:00 p.m. curfew on Paradise Isle. Oh, well, I told myself not to worry. Onyx had proven himself to be a good watchdog, and with the .357 Magnum, we were a fearsome duo.

  Though I hated guns, I knew how to use one. Adam had taken me to the shooting range several times. Then he made me promise to keep the gun loaded when I traveled by myself or stayed at home alone.

  “Aim for the belt buckle,” he used to say. “And fire ‘til he falls.”

  I remember laughing and telling him I felt more comfortable with Jiujutsu. At that time, I’d earned my blue belt.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Geneva Vansant

  Geneva’s heart raced, though she’d taken deep breaths and tried to concentrate on her breathing and meditate. Nothing seemed to drive the panic from her mind. To make matters worse, she kept thinking of all the victimized women she’d known, like Nelly Muffalatto, one of her Tallahassee neighbors.

  Nelly’s husband Franklin turned out to be a monster. He locked Nelly up in the cellar of their antebellum home. No one except Geneva believed Franklin would do such a thing.

  Franklin seemed friendly enough, a successful businessman. He gave money to the schools and United Way.

  One day Franklin committed Nelly to a mental hospital, because she tried to kill him with a knife. He had the wounds to prove it. In the hospital, Nelly was treated well, much better than when she lived with Franklin. Yet, she wanted her freedom and she asked Geneva for help. “You’re a newspaper reporter. Can’t you do something?”

  Geneva met with Nelly’s psychiatrist Dr. Roper, who said she was sane and a good person, which Geneva already knew. Nelly had taught school for many years until Franklin forced her to quit. He’d threatened to kill her and her students if she didn’t stay home and stop working, Nelly said.

  “How could this happen to you, an intelligent, well-adjusted woman?” Geneva asked her.

  Nelly said she wanted to get married and have a family. Franklin seemed like a good guy, financially secure, retired army colonel, someone who’d make a devoted husband. Yet, he turned out to be abusive, like Nelly’s father.

  Somehow, Nelly endured. She held onto her sanity, even in an insane asylum. After she was released, she had the nerve to return to Franklin long enough to build a case against him. She planted hidden cameras in their house. Talk about reality television. No one had seen anything like Nelly’s footage.

  What a strong woman. Geneva wanted Nelly’s strength. She needed it to survive a monster far worse than Franklin.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Maeva

  As night fell on Paradise Isle, I braced myself for the unknown. At least the Tylenol had eased my pain. Onyx seemed content, looking like a fur blanket, sleeping peacefully on the semi-clean ceramic floor. I needed to take him outside to do his thing, but the thought of waking him felt rude, though I needed to pee bad enough to squat behind the oleander bush out back if Hurricane Donald hadn’t taken it.

  I glanced outside at the foggy night and considered my options. I spotted the port-a-pot at the end of the street— compliments of the National Guard.

  I hated making the trek alone, but at least the flood in the street had drained into isolated puddles, making the walk less yucky and hazardous. Regardless, I took a moment to bolster my courage.

  I grabbed the flashlight from the kitchen for the necessary walk outside, hoping Onyx would wake from his doggy dreams to join me, but he didn’t. So I withdrew the Magnum from my backpack; then stuffed it inside my waist pouch. The gun made me feel a little safer.

  When I stepped out onto the front porch, I smelled grilling food. Yum. I’d eaten only two nutrition bars that day, no substitute for the wonderful aroma invading my nostrils. However, my need to use the bathroom took priority over hunger.

  I ran toward the port-a-pot, aiming my flashlight like a weapon. When I got there, the plastic door wouldn’t open. Assuming it must be occupied, I waited while listening to the roaring gulf. After a few moments of waiting, I knocked. No one responded.

  I examined the slide lock with my flashlight. When I saw it wasn’t engaged, I gave the door a hard tug. The door popped open as a squawking blue heron flew over my head. The bird startled me, and I lost my balance and fell backwards on a piece of broken plywood. I almost wet my pants before I had the chance to use the rotten-smelling potty.

  On the walk back, I saw lights flickering from Sean Redmond’s window, but other units on Blue Heron Way looked dark and deserted, as if Sean and I were the only people staying here. My truck was the only vehicle I saw.

  I wished I had the lights on in my place. The flashlight batteries would soon die, and I didn’t want to spend the night in the dark after what had happened to Tara and Roxanne.

  I remembered the generator I’d bought after Hurricane Opal. It would be a hassle to get out of the back shed, I knew, but worth the effort to sleep with lights on.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Onyx barked as I walked inside the townhouse. “Way to watch.” I said, petting him. He licked my hand with his pink tongue. “You want to go outside?” He barked again, then ran to the French doors, leading to the back patio.

  “Smart dog,” I said, opening the doors.

  Onyx darted outside, and as I followed him, I noticed two filet migno
ns on Sean’s gas grill, which explained the delicious aroma. Onyx obviously thought they smelled delicious. He walked over and sniffed at the meat; then positioned his legs, like he was getting ready to pounce.

  I whistled for him. “Come back here.”

  Onyx obeyed, but his sly look told me he might sneak back if I didn’t keep an eye on him.

  “Those steaks aren’t yours. You’ve already eaten.” Onyx sat and tilted his head from side to side as if he understood. I decided to trust him and focus on finding the generator in the dark shed, a rustic walk-in closet of shelves, stacked with too much junk. “It’s a mess in here, Onyx, but at least it’s dry.”

  Onyx walked over and stuck his head through the opening while I waved the flashlight over paint cans, tool trays, Christmas decorations, dusty lamps and my racing bike. I’d forgotten how much stuff I’d stored in there.

  It took me a while to locate the generator in its cardboard box. It was wedged in the far left corner.

  “Here’s the deal,” I told Onyx. “I have to scoot this box away from the corner. It weighs more than I do.”

  Onyx barked as I set the flashlight down. Maybe he was trying to warn me.

  Too late, I felt a spider crawling on my arm. I screamed and jumped around in a frenzied dance, knocking over the tool tray. Wrenches, screwdrivers, nails and everything else inside the tray scattered all over the place.

  Onyx barked and barked. He sounded like a scolding parent.

  “Are you all right?” Sean Redmond asked, touching my arm. He wore black shorts, nothing else. In his right hand he held a two-pronged fork and a lantern.

  Onyx bared his teeth and growled, as if trying to protect me. Dogs can be intuitive about people and I wondered if he sensed danger in Sean as I brushed the cobwebs from my arms.

  Sean scratched the dog’s head. Onyx sniffed at Sean’s fingers, as if placated by the smell of food. “Are you hungry?”