Then she drew a long arching line that curved up from the southeast, from far out in the Atlantic, gradually turning northward until it touched the red circle that represented the hurricane.
“The hurricane has been pushed westward across the Atlantic by prevailing winds high in the atmosphere. They’re known as the trade winds. We call them steering winds. Between these two areas of high-pressure areas is a trough of low pressure, which is very strong and extends far south. As predicted, Harvey got sucked into this trough and began moving northward. What happens next depends on how fast Harvey moves. If it moves very rapidly, it could hit somewhere between Charleston and Cape Hatteras by tomorrow morning, before the area of high pressure moving across the country has time to kick it out to sea. Or, it could overpower that high pressure system and move inland anyway.”
She drew a thin red line that crossed the C in Cape Hatteras.
“If it moves slowly, there’s a good chance it could get kicked out to sea. Some of our computer models show this path.”
Another thin red line curved out into the North Atlantic toward Norway. “Now.” She pointed into the air with her red marker. “It’s also possible that the two areas of high pressure act like a child’s fists on a tube of toothpaste, squeezing Harvey and spitting it right out the top.” She never said New York, but she drew a thick red line that ran right between “New” and “York.”
She tore the paper off, revealing another sheet with a green outline of the United States. Again, Charleston, Cape Hatteras and New York were labeled.
“There is a strong possibility that Hurricane Harvey will head for the Carolinas tonight and make landfall or nip the coast sometime tomorrow morning. But it’s equally likely that we’ll wake up and find the storm a couple of hundred miles off of Cape Hatteras and moving north very rapidly.”
She drew a small red dot 200 miles east-southeast of Hatteras.
“If that happens, there might be very little time for people in the Northeast to react, since the storm could begin moving as fast as a car on the freeway. Keep in mind that we’re talking about where the center of the storm would be. Winds faster than thirty-nine miles an hour extend nearly three-hundred miles outward from the center of the storm.”
She drew a large red circle with a 300-mile radius around the dot. The circle touched Cape Hatteras and reached halfway to New York.
“Hatteras is in for strong winds and waves no matter which path the storm takes. Now look at how close the thirty-nine mile an hour winds are to the Northeast. If the storm moves north, it’s this circle of winds we have to keep an eye on. Once they arrive, and it could happen by early afternoon tomorrow, evacuations would come to a standstill. Bridges become unsafe, roadways begin to flood, and debris can be tossed about, making it unsafe to be in transit.”
Without mentioning New York City, Amanda figured she had done as much as possible to prepare any sensible New Yorker for a possible evacuation, which might be issued before morning. Before anyone was listening.
The CNN reporter jumped in quickly with the first question. “When, at the earliest, could the hurricane hit New York City?”
“We’re not saying that would be the path,” Amanda said, “but if Harvey picks up enough speed the eye could be in, say, Atlantic City by the evening rush hour tomorrow. Or it could be in Rhode Island by sunset.”
“Then why not issue a hurricane warning for the Northeast?” the reporter bored in.
“None of our official computer models show the storm taking that track.” She did not want to lie, but she hoped none of the reporters would pick up on her qualification.
The CNN reporter shouted another question, but Amanda fielded one from another reporter. “How fast are we talking? How fast could the storm be moving?”
“It’s possible for a storm to reach speeds in excess of twenty miles an hour as it moves north of Hatteras. The 1938 hurricane that hit Long Island was moving at sixty miles an hour when it made landfall.”
She watched the reporters scribble the date she had purposefully dangled in front of them. They’d all search the archives on the 1938 hurricane now. She made a mental note to throw together a press kit for them.
“Doesn’t that make a storm more dangerous? When it moves faster?”
“Yes,” Amanda said. She tore off another sheet of paper, thinking quickly. With her red pen she drew a circle the size of a basketball. Then put the numbers of a clock around the rim of the circle and drew a large hand pointing to eleven and the small hand pointing to the two. Five minutes to two.
“Think of the hurricane as a clock moving up the coast. Imagine its hands moving backwards, counterclockwise, representing the internal winds of the storm.” In the center she drew another red circle the size of a quarter. “Here’s the eye. That’s where the air pressure is the lowest. So not only are the winds rotating backward, but they’re being sucked in toward the center. Imagine the hands of the clock shrinking as they go around.”
To the left of the clock, she sketched a coastline running north-south. “Let’s say the hurricane is moving north, toward noon. It makes a slight left turn, to eleven o’clock, and hits the coast. On the large hand that pointed to eleven o’clock she wrote “50.”
“The storm is moving toward eleven o’clock at fifty miles an hour.” On the small hand, pointing to two o’clock, she wrote “130.”
“Internal winds are 130 miles an hour right near the eye. On this side of the eye, at two o’clock, the internal winds are moving in the same direction as the forward motion of the storm. So the effective wind speed that you feel on the ground is fifty plus 130. 180 miles per hour.”
Amanda glanced up and caught Delaney’s eyes. His smile told her she’d just secured at least fifteen minutes of fame.
***
Back at her desk Amanda had one more call to make. Joe Springer.
“Joe, it’s Amanda. How’s Sarah?”
“Fine. What do you want?”
Amanda sighed. Get to business: “I want you to watch the news tonight. I’m on it. I want you to listen to what I say, what’s between the lines.”
“Let me guess. Harvey.”
“Joe, you should get out of there now, beat the rush.”
“You saying it’s coming here?”
“Don’t know for sure yet, but it’s starting to look like it might.”
“Every year you guys say a hurricane is coming to the Jersey Shore. Every year we get all scared. My whole life I’ve never seen one.”
“Harvey is different, Joe. I want you to…”
“Don’t tell me what you want. I’m on vacation. You’ve done your motherly deed for the day. I’ll watch the news.”
“And you’ll get out.”
“I’m not stupid,” Joe Springer said.
CHAPTER 27
Outside Santo Domingo,
Dominican Republic
3:30 p.m.
Maximo Perez was in a better mood. His investment was starting to pay off. Now he was impatient for the Octopus to call. Perhaps they really were going to be able to place that big bet on New York City. The phone rang right on time.
“Nombre?”
“Octopus.”
“My friend. Our shares in GLIC are falling nicely today. It looks as though your scheme has worked.”
“Did you doubt me?”
“I always doubt everyone. Now, it’s nearly four o’clock. We have little time left before the market closes.” Maximo realized he was getting a little excited. He reminded himself that he was in charge. He should sound so.
“I think we have plenty of time,” the Octopus said. “Some people are poking around about the GLIC trade. Sounds like somebody at LateNet raised a flag. We need to be careful. I think we—er, you—should wait until tomorrow to place your bet on PrimeCo, assuming Harvey heads for New York. Wait until the last minute so that we’re sure, and so that there’s less time for people to look into it.”
“Very well,” Maximo said. “I will trus
t you. With your life. If you give me the go-ahead, I plan to sell short a very large sum.”
“And become even richer.”
“And become even richer.” The hearty laugh turning into a hack. “And I’ll be counting on you to secure the situation.”
“Maximum death and destruction. Don’t worry. I’ll deliver. We’ll soon be contacting our technician friend at Goddard again.”
“Fine. Now, I have a question for you. How will people be leaving New York once the evacuation begins?”
“I told you, don’t worry. I’m going to make sure…”
“I will worry about what I goddamn well want to worry about. Now how will people leave?”
“Some might take the trains,” the Octopus said quickly, “and a lot of people will try to cross the bridges and tunnels into New Jersey. But I don’t see why this is relevant.”
“You don’t need to see.” Like many of Maximo’s people, the Octopus made the mistake of thinking he was more important to the organization than was true. Maximo took pleasure in hinting at an element of the plan that the Octopus was not privy to. But the job was not over, and he did not want to alienate the Octopus. “You’ve done well, my friend. If all this works out, you’ll get your wish to spend the rest of your life drinking piña coladas and enjoying our Dominican women. On me, of course.”
“I’d be honored.”
Maximo set the phone down and motioned to Terese to get out of the pool. She was naked again, a habit of late that he did not discourage. She stood before him. He watched the water run down her body, curling up between her legs and dripping on the deck.
Terese put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side, impatient.
Maximo smiled at his own power, and at the way she defied it. He worried, though, that she was pushing the limits of his tolerance. She would have to be careful, or she’d lose her privileged position in a heartbeat. He spoke gently at first to soften her. “I wanted to thank you for your advice. I’m going to arrange a few accidents across the river from your hometown. It will be my insurance for the plan. And we’ll get some technical assistance from a contact at the Goddard Space Flight Center.”
Terese nodded, seemingly disinterested.
Maximo had expected some appreciation. He changed his tone, spoke sternly. “I want you to pick someone out and prepare her for the arrival of our new guest.”
“The Octopus?”
“Yes. If all this works out, we’ll have to get him out of there rather quickly. And we’ll owe him a good time. I want to, how do you say it, butter him up for awhile, then send him to San Francisco to run the new show there. I want him to get laid so often that he wants to leave.”
“He’s a fat ugly slob,” Terese protested. “I can’t prepare one of the girls for that.”
Maximo ran out of patience. He considered standing up, but his true power came from the confidence with which he wielded it, not from overt intimidation. Anyway, he needed Terese at least for a few weeks. He hated dealing with the girls directly. He remained reclined on the lounge chair, reached for his glass of rum, took a sip, then set it down slowly.
He spoke in a low and deliberate voice that he’d never used with Terese.
“Pick a fucking bitch,” he said, “and prepare her. Unless you would rather that I pick.”
Terese stood firm, looked into him. He watched the confusion cross her face. He had to drive the point home, turn the confusion into fear to ensure she would do as she was told. “There are more disposable women around here than you imagine, my love.”
He knew it would hurt her, that she would eventually turn against him. It was the beginning of the end for her as his favored confidante and sexual partner. He knew, because it always started this way. They became close, they became confident, then they crossed the line, and finally they became bitter. He would pick another, but he wondered if he’d ever find one who could make him as happy as Terese.
With a hidden mixture of triumph and sadness, he watched the proud girl’s spirit sink, then he watched her firm butt wiggle away. He felt alone again, just like the last time and the time before. He just hoped he would not have to kill her.
CHAPTER 28
Under Manhattan
9:25 p.m.
The hole in the dirt floor of the Block House was about two-feet square and eight feet deep. At the bottom, it turned and ran north toward the abandoned construction tunnel. The wall couldn’t be more than a foot or two away.
The space was barely large enough to work in. But it was as big as an escape tunnel needed to be. Sleepy and PJ took turns digging in four-hour shifts, working every day since Hammer had first been spotted nearby. They rested at night.
Sleepy couldn’t rest tonight. As soon as Jonathan fell asleep, he instructed PJ to keep a close eye on things and he set out. It had been quiet since Hammer killed the old man. Too quiet. He wanted to take a look around.
He made his way up the ladder, moved the steel plate aside, put it back in place. He did the same with the plywood that blocked the passage to the small entry space, then he moved down the abandoned tunnel, through the crawl space into the active tunnel, and on to the subway platform. He caught the train north to 42nd Street, then transferred and traveled cross-town to Grand Central Station.
PJ had explained where Hammer’s hangout was. Sleepy headed for the subway platform that led into the dark lattice of tunnels that he would have to navigate. At the end of the platform he was about to hop off when he saw the pitted, grotesque face, the claw hammer at the belt. Hammer was talking with someone, a fat man, twenty yards up the platform. The fat man moved little, except for a quick turn of his head from side to side every few seconds. His back was to Sleepy. Hammer moved nervously, the cat out of doors in a strange environment. Sleepy couldn’t hear their conversation, but the furtive movements told him it wasn’t about the weather.
He wondered if Hammer could recognize him. By the scar, maybe. Otherwise, no. I’ve seen him, he has never seen me. But he’ll have heard of the scar.
Sleepy stayed out of sight behind a group of loud teenagers, waited until the next train came. Hammer and the fat man looked around, nervously, then they got on the train.
Sleepy barely made the doors of the next car. The train left the station. Sleepy followed a woman through the doors between the cars. He walked with his head turned, kept the scarred side of his face away from Hammer and the fat man. They sat next to each other, Hammer on the far side, not looking at each other so as to appear not to be together. Sleepy approached slowly, stopped and pretended to scan the map on the wall, then turned his back to Hammer and moved quickly past him.
As he went by, he heard a snippet of conversation.
“Again tomorrow morning at nine,” the fat man said.
“I’ll be here,” Hammer said as Sleepy moved out of hearing range.
Sleepy stopped at the next pole and grabbed it with one hand. Hiding his scar, he swiveled his head to look at the fat man.
Holy shit!
He felt a wave of dizziness. Time became distorted. The fat man was Sleepy’s brother. The brother who beat him. The brother he’d threatened to get even with.
His own brother was Hammer’s supplier. No other reason for them to be talking to each other. He wasn’t surprised. He had suspected his brother was moving drugs into the city. But his next thought hit him like falling bricks: You sonofabitch. You killed my woman. Your goddamn drugs killed my woman.
The train pulled into the next stop. Hammer and Sleepy’s brother continued talking, didn’t get up. Sleepy wanted to kill them both right there, make the world safer for himself, for Jonathan, for all the mole people. He wanted to put his thumbs into his brother’s neck and squeeze the life out of him. He felt his fists clenching at his sides, fingernails digging into his palms.
Can’t do it here. Can’t do anything here. Don’t get caught.
People got off, people got on. What had his brother said? Tomorrow morning at nine. They were
going to meet again. What could he do about it?
The train doors were closing.
Sleepy darted through the doors just before they slammed shut.
***
An unexpected sense of urgency, borne of fury, came over Sleepy. Seeing his brother and Hammer together, and not being able to do anything about it, angered him, made the way out seem even more important. He needed to think, and so when he got home he went back into the hole and started digging.
The first foot, on Tuesday, had been the hardest to dig. The dirt floor was compacted after years of foot traffic so that it felt more like concrete than dirt. The rest of the way down, bricks and lengths of pipe and other construction debris slowed progress.
On his knees, Sleepy backed out of the horizontal crawl space and stood in the hole. He rubbed the base of his spine. His whole body ached. I’m getting old. This should be my last construction job. I should be doing social work, raising a family.
The dreaming would get him nowhere. There would be no next job, no social work, no anything, if he didn’t finish this tunnel. That’s the way he had come to view the project. It would never have gotten done if he saw it merely as an important safety measure. The work was too hard, the conditions too cramped and dark, and he would have given up by now. A rough idea was taking shape in his mind for how he might get rid of Hammer. The tunnel was the key to it. Sleepy had tacked a crude sign scribbled on cardboard onto the wall above the project. A way out, it read. The sign summed up everything he wanted, and the escape tunnel became a symbol for his dreams. For PJ, the work held much less significance. He worked because Sleepy told him it was important and PJ trusted him.
They were close now, he thought as he closed his eyes and stooped, reached out with the small, rusty shovel and dug out another scoop of earth in the dead black.
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