“Mr. Mayor. Amanda Cole, National Hurricane Center.”
He didn’t shake her hand. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was in the neighborhood. I know you’re busy, but you need to listen carefully. An evacuation should…”
He cut her off sharply. “Amanda?”
She nodded.
“Amanda. Listen to me. I don’t know how the hell you got in here. But I just got here myself. I’m trying to find my goddamn staff, get a briefing, and decide what to do.”
His staff isn’t here? She looked around the room, but there were so many people she had no idea who might be missing.
“That’s what I’m trying to help you with,” Amanda said after a brief hesitation. “An evacuation should already have been called.”
“Big help,” he said curtly. “I’ll add that to my list of suggestions. Now listen. I’ve got fifteen people right now shouting fifteen different opinions at me. You folks are no help. I saw the forecasted track a couple hours ago. The storm was going out to sea. Now suddenly you say it’s coming directly at us! I’m not an expert in meteorology, but I’ve got some people on staff here who’re pretty sharp, and they tell me there’s nothing in the computer models that supports that track. What the hell’s going on?”
“I could explain it to you,” she lifted her leather briefcase toward him, “but it’s awfully technical. Point is, it’s coming.”
“I heard you the first time. Look, I’m swamped here. Unless you can prove it to me in about ten seconds, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Amanda felt the whole room looking at them. It was time to come clean, and it would mean putting her career on the line. Frank Delaney’s, too.
She lowered her voice so that only the mayor would hear her. “We’re using a new, non-operational computer program. I believe in it. So does Frank Delaney. Pointing right at you.”
The mayor studied her. He glanced down at the floor, then out the window at his City. Amanda noticed the irony of the bright sun and the perfectly blue sky. Finally, hands still on his hips, he pointed with his head toward an office. Amanda followed him in. The mayor sat down, motioned for her to do the same, but she remained standing. “Tell me more,” he said.
“It’s the LORAX. You’ve heard of it?”
“Yes. Supposed to come online in another year or two.”
“Well, it’s the only program that can understand a storm like Harvey,” Amanda said. She went on to give a brief technical explanation to back her claim, part of a strategy that sometimes worked with government officials: Confuse them with scientific details and show them how little they know, then punch them in the nose with the reality. “I’ve rechecked all the data manually, and Harvey is coming this way. I’ve got nothing to gain by telling you this. Anybody finds out we used it, I lose my job. Unless I’m right. Even then…”
“I don’t much care about your job, Ms. Cole.”
“Neither do I at this point. I’m just trying to show you that I’m risking everything for what I know is true.”
The mayor played with his thumbs, twirling them around each other. He looked past Amanda, out into the room. “Calling for an evacuation is a huge economic commitment. Businesses close, tourists leave.”
“You don’t do it, and the business people and the tourists will just be dead. C’mon, have some balls, Mr. Mayor. It’s your city. You’re going to wake up tomorrow with enough problems. You don’t need more deaths.”
He let out a deep sigh, still didn’t look at her. “I’d have to confer with several people.”
“No. Forget everyone else. This is about you. If you don’t declare a citywide emergency and begin evacuations this minute, you are going to be responsible for thousands of lives. The storm is ten hours away, maybe less. I give you my word on that. The Army Corps study shows it’ll take nine hours to clear Manhattan, up to fifteen for Brooklyn. You’re already behind the curve.”
“Thousands of lives,” the mayor said.
“Thousands. Maybe more.”
“OK, I’ll call everybody in and we’ll make a decision by nine-thirty.
“Make it now.”
“Don’t push me, Ms. Cole. That’s my answer. You want to stay for the meeting?”
“Nope. I’ve got other people to take care of. This is your job.” Amanda moved to her left to catch the mayor’s gaze. “I hope you don’t screw it up, Mr. Mayor. Harvey is going to kill a lot of people today.”
She turned to leave. “I’ll find my way out.”
CHAPTER 39
Near the Canal Street Subway Station
9:42 a.m.
His brother wasn’t moving his wide body as the train approached the Canal Street station. Sleepy would have to move it for him. He dropped the newspaper that had been covering his face, stood up and stepped across the aisle and faced his brother.
Sleepy hadn’t faced his brother since he fled their childhood home, but he’d kept track of him over the years in the newspapers and through the underground gossip mill, and he supposed now that his brother had kept track of him through Hammer and some of the other underground drug dealers. His brother had probably gotten an account of the night Sleepy killed the intruder. Sleepy didn’t like what he’d read and heard about his brother. He had been a bully as a child, and now he was a bully as an adult. Back then, though, it was usually only Sleepy who suffered.
His brother scanned the Daily News, didn’t notice Sleepy. Sleepy stared at him. With an irritated flick of the Daily News, he looked up.
“What.” It was a demand, not a question.
Sleepy didn’t say anything. He hadn’t formulated a speech in his mind. His anger welled within him and choked his thoughts. His brother looked back at his newspaper. He doesn’t recognize me. The sonofabitch doesn’t even recognize his own brother.
Sleepy wanted to give him immense but invisible pain, to make him suffer in ways that would garner no sympathy from others. He wanted to slap the skin on his body red and punch him in the stomach and stamp on his toes, the way his brother had done when they were boys. He wanted to punch him in the arm until it was black and blue, then hit the other arm for awhile and then come back to the first, just as the pain began to subside, and pound on it some more. Sleepy wanted to shake his brother until his brain came loose. He became nervous with the excitement of the thoughts, and his left eye began to twitch.
Then he remembered his plan—a plan that wouldn’t get him into trouble if it worked right. He spoke just as his brother glanced back up with a look of irritated impatience.
“Hello, brother,” Sleepy said. “Comfortable?”
Sleepy saw the recognition sweep across his brother’s face, then he saw it replaced by cold fear. That made him feel good. Fear was part of his plan. I’m much stronger than you.
Sleepy hadn’t realized how tense he was. His fingers hurt from squeezing them into fists. He relaxed his body some and concentrated on his idea.
“What do you want?” His brother was trying to be dismissive, but his eyes were still full of the cold fear.
Sleepy reached deep into his memory of childhood beatings, called up all of the anger inside him and focused it all in the muscles and tendons of his arms, making them taut and straight like the cables of the Brooklyn Bridge. He let his eyes simmer and shrink. Then he spoke in a low voice, controlled and barely audible.
“I’ll tell you what I want,” Sleepy finally said. “I want you to come with me. I have something to show you.”
“Not now. I’ve got business to take care of. What is it you want?”
Sleepy rubbed the scar on his face for effect. “You can’t hide from me. I live beneath you, invisible. I haunt places you don’t know. There is nowhere you can go—no apartment, no cafe, no taxi, subway or tall building where I cannot sneak up behind you and squeeze the life out of you in less time than it takes to grab a rat by the tail and fling it against a wall. Right now, I have something that’s more important than your busi
ness. Something you need to see. Something you will see. You’re coming with me.”
A corner of the Daily News twitched, then began a rhythmic shaking. Sleepy knew he had won. His brother had given into the fear, and now there was only defeat in his eyes. They stepped out of the train, onto the platform, and Sleepy prodded him off the platform, into the true bowels of the city, and they headed north along the tracks.
CHAPTER 40
New York Times Newsroom
10:05 a.m.
The managing editor had called a special meeting to go over hurricane coverage. Walter Beasley, deputy metro editor, slinked into the conference room and sat next to the metro editor, wanting to escape from the meeting with as little responsibility as possible. His mind was on the Slow Times. The boat had become his whole life, consumed him like the passion for a beautiful woman, and this hurricane threatened that new life. Worse, Leonard Lassitor and his bags of drugs threatened everything.
He put a legal-size pad on the table in front of him and began studying his shoes.
When everyone was seated, the managing editor spoke curtly from the head of the table: “Where the hell’s Jack Corbin?”
Everybody looked at Walter Beasley, who was Jack’s assigning editor. There was little he could do but tell the truth. “He left Biloxi, Mississippi, at midnight to fly into the hurricane. I sent him out with the Hurricane Hunters.”
“You did what? Goddamn biggest weather story to hit New York in decades and you sent the beat reporter out to cover a secondary story? Jesus Christ, Walter, what the hell were you thinking?”
“I didn’t know the storm would come this way. We made the arrangements a couple days ago.” But I could have pulled him in last night. Oh, shit. I’m in trouble.
“When’s he due back?”
“He’s scheduled to land in Mississippi sometime this morning.” Beasley looked at his watch. “He may already be there.”
“Great,” the managing editor lamented. “Just great. Walter, your job is to find Jack Corbin. If he can get here, bring him in. If not, have him work the phones from wherever he is.” The man stared into Beasley’s eyes, as if to say, “Don’t blow this, or else.”
The managing editor shook his head in disgust and turned to the metro editor and began laying out a plan for coverage. Beasley sensed he would not be involved, that he had but one job he was now trusted with.
Beasley was shaken. Succumbing to Lassitor’s request to get Jack Corbin out of the City had been a mistake, and now it had forced a blunder that he could not have foreseen and could not control. He had put himself in hot water at the Times. Scalding. The only way out was to find Jack Corbin, which was the last thing he wanted to do, and somehow get him back to the City before the storm hit.
This is all Lassitor’s fault. It’s gone too far.
What Walter Beasley really wanted to do was say the hell with it and head down to the Slow Times and secure it against the storm. There’s that loose stern line, and I really should check all the lines, maybe secure it better with extra lines front and back. Damn, maybe I should have just sailed upriver last night after all. Too late for that now. Screw this job. Screw Jack Corbin. Screw Leonard Lassitor.
CHAPTER 41
TriBeCa
10:13 a.M.
The mayor had finally issued an evacuation. New York City residents would now be struggling to evacuate without a plan. No one was in charge. Agencies would scramble to make decisions—when to shut down services, whether or not to add extra services. Residents wouldn’t know if they should stay in their apartments, leave the area, or go to a shelter. They wouldn’t even know where the shelters were. Some simply wouldn’t have enough time to get there.
Amanda knew that the evacuation would not go smoothly. She also knew that she knew more about the danger, and more about how the City should be evacuated, than anyone, including the mayor and his whole staff. A voice inside told her that people would die if she didn’t stay at the Emergency Operations Center and advise them.
Another part of her mind was still working hard to understand the conversation with Terese, but it was going nowhere.
She forced the scientific part of her brain to relax, allow all her thoughts to focus on the people close to her. She still hadn’t heard from Joe Springer. She tried his number again but there was still no answer. She tried Kim Butler at the Seaside Nursing Home and could not get through—all lines were busy, the recorded voice said.
“Damn.”
And what about Jack Corbin? He should be back from his flight with the Hurricane Hunters by now. He said he’d call. But maybe his call couldn’t get through. Maybe he’d email.
Amanda unpacked the portable satellite setup from her suitcase. She fired her laptop back up, used the satellite dish to connect to the Internet and download her email. Quick scan of her inbox: Nothing from Jack.
He should be back by now.
But there was a message from Joe Springer. He had never emailed her before. She opened the message.
Amanda:
Got your message. We were out on the boardwalk. Tried to call but couldn’t get through. Sarah says to say she misses you. She’s excited about the hurricane. We’ve decided to ride it out here. She insisted, said that’s what Mom would do. Probably won’t come this way anyway.
Joe
P.S.: Saw you on TV yesterday. You looked great. What’s with the cuts on your face?
“Goddamn you Joe Springer!”
Amanda couldn’t control her rage. She picked up the nearest thing she could find—besides her computer—and tossed it across Juan Rico’s living room. The glass of orange juice shattered against the wall.
“What the hell are you thinking?” Oh shit oh shit. What do I do now? Why didn’t he get out? Damn him. What do I do now?
She picked the phone up nervously, fumbled it to the floor, chased the receiver across the kitchen and picked it up again. Punched in Joe Springer’s number.
“We’re sorry, all circuits are busy.”
Amanda yanked the phone from the wall, hurled it toward the splatter of orange juice and it smashed into pieces.
All of Amanda’s thoughts became focused on one thing: getting to Sarah. Joe Springer lived in Point Pleasant Beach, down on the Jersey Shore. A two-hour drive on a good day, when traffic was flowing in two directions. Today, assuming emergency coordinators did their jobs, traffic would be flowing in one direction only, away from the Shore.
Amanda remembered her father. A fiery stab of remorse cut through her chest.
She shook her head. Ed Cole was on his own now. She had no choice. She found the keys to Juan Rico’s Dodge, packed up her new laptop and the suitcase with the satellite dish, and headed out the door.
***
A man in a smart-fitting business suit crossed Washington Street carrying a four-by-eight sheet of plywood. The breeze was light, the plywood like a sail, and the man struggled with the awkward weight.
There won’t be enough plywood. Most people won’t know what to do with it anyway. Probably do more harm than good. There’ll be a bunch of poorly nailed plywood flying around the streets, too. Anyway, how do you secure plywood over a third-floor brownstone window?
A homeless man lay curled up along the dull, bare industrial wall of a nondescript four-story building on Watts Street. It was the homeless man who seemed to have less to worry about today, Amanda considered. Then she imagined him shuffling at the last minute into a subway station.
She thought of Sleepy, PJ and Jonathan. She wondered if they would evacuate in time. Something about an accident knocked at her conscience, but she couldn’t let stray thoughts in anymore. Amanda closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the steering wheel of Rico’s immaculate white Dodge.
She withdrew from the world, watching as a spectator. All thoughts funneled into the tiny universe of her relationship with her daughter.
Get to Sarah. Get to Sarah.
Rico’s Dodge, its pearl white exterior waxed up and its bla
ck interior glistening with care, idled at the stop sign in front of Chez Henri. Amanda was impatiently trying to turn right onto Watts, which led straight to the Holland Tunnel three blocks away. Traffic was backed up from the entrance to the tunnel.
Amanda assumed a line of cars stretched for many blocks outward, winding around myriad main streets, blocking and being fed by many smaller ones. Like anyone else familiar with the nightmare problem of evacuating New York City, she had no idea how people would actually react in a crisis. Some people who should find shelter would not. Others who lived in relatively safe buildings above the storm surge would try to flee the City. Amanda realized she was now one of those, contributing to the problem. She had done all she could as a professional, now she was just Amanda Cole, visitor to New York City, mother desperate to find her daughter.
A small gap opened between two cars on Watts Street as a driver became preoccupied with his fighting children in the back seat. Horns blared. Amanda screeched into the opening. Fifteen minutes later she was heading down into the tunnel. Traffic was stop and go. It was another ten minutes before she emerged on the other side of the Hudson River in New Jersey. Here, too, people fled low-lying areas, spilling onto the highway from Hoboken and Jersey City. The New Jersey Turnpike was jammed. Moving slowly south, Amanda looked up at the curly wisps of cirrus clouds nearly 40,000 feet overhead, first sign of the hurricane’s approach. To the south, lower in altitude, a thicker, webby batch of cirrostratus clouds was moving in. The car was stopped. She turned off the air conditioning, rolled the window down and stuck her arm out. The breeze was stronger here on the open asphalt plains.
Amanda shivered. She tried to think of something besides Sarah. She flicked on her radio, which was already tuned to WCBS.
“…when the mayor declared a state of emergency City-wide at a press conference earlier this morning at City Hall. Again, the mayor has asked that people complete preparations as quickly as possible and find a safe place indoors. We expect to have a list of shelters for you in a few moments. Now for the latest on the storm, here’s meteorologist John Turner in the WCBS Weather Center.”
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