“We’ve just got a fresh update from the National Hurricane Center,” Turner said. “As predicted, Hurricane Harvey has made a sharp turn to the left during the past couple of hours and is picking up speed. We’re starting to get a clearer picture of the storm now as it moves into the range of Doppler radar stations along the northeast coast. A large area of deep red around the eye indicates very strong thunderstorm activity. The storm has begun to weaken as it moves over cooler water, just as we expected. The Hurricane Center has downgraded the storm to a Category 4 now, still a dangerous, dangerous storm. Sustained winds near the center still exceed 150 miles an hour. Now, what we commonly see with a storm like this is further weakening as it moves north. I wouldn’t be surprised if Harvey is a Category 3 by the time it makes landfall. That would still be the strongest hurricane to hit the region in decades, enough to cause a devastating storm surge along the coast of New Jersey, in Manhattan, and right on out to Long Island. Remember, this is a broad storm, and damage is likely to occur over a wide area. I can’t emphasize enough that residents who live in low-lying locations within the listening area should evacuate immediately. OK, as to the storm’s path. The Hurricane Center is picking Atlantic City for its official track. Interestingly, all of the official models they use show the storm going out to sea. I just spoke with one of the hurricane specialists there and he told me that Harvey is an unusual storm, difficult to forecast because of its intense strength, large size and its rapid forward speed, all of which can overpower other weather systems that might normally steer the storm. In such a hurricane, the forecasters rely more on experience and judgment. They’ve certainly called it right so far on this one, as this morning’s abrupt turn to the left shows.”
The lead newscaster stepped back in. “John, when do you think we can expect to see the effects of this storm?”
“We’re already seeing some high-level clouds move in. Those will drop down and begin to thicken over the next hour or so. I think that by noon we’ll see these light breezes we’re getting turn into steady, sometimes gusty winds, and the first raindrops could arrive about an hour later. Now, the tide is just about low right now, so residents aren’t going to notice as the surge from the storm starts to gradually move in by mid-afternoon. But Harvey is moving very quickly—near thirty miles an hour now. That speed is expected to increase, so things are going to happen very quickly.”
“And when will the worst of it hit?”
“The eye may arrive just about the time it gets dark, maybe sooner. Though we should note that there’s still a chance the storm could change course and veer out to sea. We’ll have a better handle on it as the day progresses.”
“OK, thank you John Turner in the WCBS Weather Center. Uh, we’ve got a report just in. The AP is reporting that a Hurricane Hunter plane may have gone down in the Gulf of Mexico, in or near Hurricane Irene. Now these are the guys who fly…”
Amanda’s chin clenched into a knot and her bottom lip began to quiver.
“…cites Air Force sources saying the plane’s last contact with the center was earlier this morning and that it has not returned to its base as scheduled. Hurricane Irene is a Category 1 storm currently moving…”
Traffic was moving again and she tried to focus, but everything in front of her was a blur. Not wanting to pull over, she cleared her tears with a sweep of a finger, over and over again.
“Dammit!” she said aloud. No, no, no. “God dammit!” Amanda felt suddenly cut off from her world. I’ve left my daughter in danger while I tried to save the world. My God. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to reach her. I’m driving into the biggest hurricane of my life. And now Jack is…
She couldn’t allow herself to think it. The Hurricane Hunters had never lost a plane. She had to hope the report wasn’t true, or that Jack was somehow not on that plane. What should she do now? She couldn’t do anything about Jack. For the first time in her life, Amanda Cole hated the weather. She felt alone, hanging on to one thin hope. She focused on the only goal that mattered.
Get to Sarah.
CHAPTER 42
Near the Canal Street Subway Station
10:19 a.m.
The crowbar was heavy and cumbersome, but it was effective against the brick.
Sleepy wished they’d found one sooner.
The slow, backbreaking work was destroying his spirit. It seemed he would never break through. His shoulders felt a sharp pain with each swing, and his back had developed a persistent dull ache. Even his ears hurt from the constant clang-clang of his efforts. He had to rest. He dropped the crowbar and climbed out of the hole.
Jonathan was eager to take his turn. It would do little good, but PJ, who was out in the tunnel keeping watch, was tired too, and any progress was better than no progress. He decided to let the boy go at it for a few minutes while he rested, then maybe he could summon the energy to go back in. Jonathan thanked his father profusely and jumped into the hole and began chipping away.
Sleepy took a long drink from a jug of water. His body slumped onto the small ramshackle bed. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes.
His brother was tied up in the corner.
“You were going to deliver a package to Hammer this evening,” Sleepy said. “You arrange that yet?”
The bound man spat on the dirt floor.
Sleepy stood slowly, shuffled toward his brother, glanced back to make sure Jonathan was in the tunnel, then pulled a heavy boot back and kicked his brother in the ribs with all his strength.
Deep, all-body exhale of pain. He doubled into himself, a ball of stretched fabric over thick flesh.
“I told you this day was coming,” Sleepy said. “Talk and it’ll be easier.”
He allowed him just enough time to catch his breath, then he pulled his boot back again. His brother spoke through clenched teeth: “Still… have to… arrange delivery. You… prevented that.”
“One more question. Hammer wants this place. You got any other dealers who might be interested in it, anybody working this area?”
Still gasping for breath: “One… or two.”
“OK, here.” Sleepy untied his hands, gave him a worn notebook and a pencil. “Write this note: ‘Have control of Block House near Canal Street station. Pick up package there at six p.m.’ Then sign it.”
He wrote the note. Sleepy took it from him, looked at it. “It better work.”
“It’ll work,” He exhaled. “He… does what I… tell him to.”
“Good. Because if he doesn’t, you and my boot are going to spend a lot of time together.” He tied his hands back up.
Just then Jonathan squealed.
“Father, I broke through!”
Sleepy raced into the hole, nearly stepping on Jonathan as he lowered himself. Sure enough, the boy had created a small hole through the brick, barely enough for Sleepy to stick a finger into. There was nothing but air on the other side. His mind raced. The final piece of his plan was nearly in place. How long will it take to make the hole big enough to fit through? The work will go faster now, and even faster once we get one brick out.
Sleepy sent Jonathan after PJ. Then he spoke again to his brother, who had regained his breath but the pain in his ribs was still etched on his face.
“How will Hammer come?”
“Tunnels.”
“You sure he won’t go above ground, take a taxi or just walk?”
“Police know him, he hates it up there. He’ll stay down.”
PJ arrived. Sleepy turned to him.
“I want you to take this note to Hammer.”
“You fuckin’ crazy, man,” PJ said. “He kill me right there on the spot!”
“No he won’t,” Sleepy said. “Trust me.”
It was too much for PJ to understand, and Sleepy was afraid his friend might screw it up if he gave him the whole plan now, so he kept the rest to himself.
“We goin’ to just give up then?”
“PJ, we’ve been friends a long time. I’ve always
looked out for you, and I’ve made good decisions for the group, right?”
“So far,” PJ said guardedly.
“I need you to trust me. Hammer might try to get more information out of you. If he does, you just tell him that’s all you know, that his boss here just asked you to deliver this message. Don’t say another word. OK?”
PJ sniffed and ran his fingers nervously through his hair, then looked at Sleepy for a long stretch. “OK,” he finally said. “But you better got somethin’ up your sleeve.”
“Repeat it to me, PJ, what you’re going to tell Hammer.”
“I tell him his boss send me with this message. Don’t know nothin’ else.”
“That’s right. Good. Don’t say another word to him. Don’t mention that his boss is my brother. Don’t tell him he’s here. Don’t tell him anything.”
PJ looked agitated, and Sleepy worried whether he would get the message right.
PJ climbed up the ladder and disappeared. Sleepy looked over at his brother, pain still etched in his face. He expected a sense of satisfaction to wash over him. He had hurt his brother. He would soon let him die.
But he felt nothing that resembled satisfaction. He felt dirty. He felt evil. Like Hammer. It was one thing to kill a man who was hunting you. It was another thing to kill a man for the sake of revenge over something that happened decades ago.
Sleepy’s resolve faded. He looked away and sighed. Then he walked over and squatted in front of his brother.
“I hate you. I’ve always hated you. I was going to kill you. But I’m not like you. I don’t have the evil in me.” Sleepy untied his brother. “Go. Out of my life.”
His brother brushed himself off, reached for the ladder.
“Just one thing,” Sleepy said. His eye twitched. He rubbed his scar. “Let Hammer come to me. I have a right to meet him on my terms, to protect my son. You fuck it up and I’ll hunt you down again, and I promise you it will be the last time. I will kill you, and I won’t do it quickly. You understand?”
His brother’s hand shook visibly. He gripped the ladder to steady it, then he nodded that he understood.
CHAPTER 43
Coney Island
1:27 p.m.
Kim Butler was ordering everyone around again. She was always ordering everyone around. Ed Cole didn’t like to be told what to do.
He opened his window. The wind blew his tuft of white hair back. The sand rode the wind, felt scratchy on his face. He squinted to keep it out of his eyes. There were lots of days like this at the Seaside Nursing Home.
Ed Cole liked the wind. He leaned out into it, looked up the beach toward the amusement park. The Wonder Wheel sat idle. The Cyclone didn’t seem to be running either. Good. Hate the damn place.
The boardwalk was mostly deserted. Flashing lights indicated more beach patrol vehicles than normal. Clouds had moved in from the south and settled.
Looks like a good storm brewing. Kim Butler’s afraid of it. Not me.
The bus was leaving in five minutes. Ed Cole decided what he would do.
He left his room, followed the Easter green wall to the elevator and went down. Everyone was in a long, snaking line in the lobby. Kim Butler was checking names off on a clipboard. Ed Cole found Betty Dinsmore, moved in next to her.
He whispered in Betty’s ear: “Going to be nice and quiet around here. I’m gonna slip out after the head count, stay here. You?”
Betty Dinsmore grinned.
Kim Butler checked his name off. She finished with the line, went to the lobby doors and led everyone to the two buses waiting outside. Ed Cole slipped away, walked quickly to the back of the lobby, turned to make sure no one noticed him, then hid in the rear hallway.
CHAPTER 44
New Jersey
3:11 p.m.
The Route 34 drawbridge over the Manasquan River would not open again for boat traffic until after the storm had passed. All four lanes of the swelling Jersey Shore artery carried outbound traffic only. Amanda had expected it and taken side streets through small towns to get to the last onramp before the bridge. The sobbing had subsided. She was resolute and tense.
She was stuck in traffic again, this time behind half a block of cars on Union Lane in Brielle, waiting to get on Route 34 and head west, inland. Amanda had been traveling four hours. And she had moved forty-two miles toward the storm. During that time Hurricane Harvey had moved eighty miles in her direction. The light breeze had become a good sailing wind. Clouds were thickening.
The first squall line moved in with the outer bands of the hurricane, a brief downpour the storm sent out in front, a warning signal. She turned on her wipers and lights and pulled the white Dodge across the double yellow line, spun the tires on the slick road up to Route 71. She honked and motioned that she wanted to cross the road, not enter the traffic. A small opening was allowed, and she crossed Route 71 and sped, parallel to Route 34, to the river.
At the base of the bridge she found a small seafood restaurant and a gravel parking lot. There were half a dozen other cars in the lot. My God, they’re eating lunch. She turned toward the base of the bridge, scraped the front bumper against the gravel incline and left the Dodge about ten feet above water level. She took her cell phone, locked the car and ran up the twenty-foot incline to the bridge, where the wind was blowing strong enough that she had to lean into it. She wore a cotton t-shirt and jeans and her canvas deck shoes, and she suddenly realized she had not brought anything to block the rain. The temperature had dropped, and a chill swept over her.
Amanda cursed and began walking across the bridge. As she had done a dozen times on the way down, she tried Joe Springer’s number on the cell phone. All lines are busy, the recording said again.
“C’mon,” she groaned.
All the way down, amid dwelling on the dangers that faced her daughter and Jack Corbin, Amanda had thought vaguely about her suspicions that someone had stalled the New York evacuation. A gust of wind slammed into her and seemed to pack realization. She stopped cold on the bridge.
What if somebody was placing a bet, like in the Carolinas?
Anybody in the chain of command, from Frank Delaney to Greg Chen to a local emergency official, could have found out the degree of GLIC’s exposure in the Carolinas.
But it was a Dominican who had sold short the shares of GLIC just before Gert made landfall at Topsail Island. Maybe someone there was working with someone in the States.
Maybe the whole thing was being orchestrated from the National Hurricane Center. The possibility appalled her. She was stunned, deadened by thought that someone she knew might be carrying out such an evil plan.
For a brief second she considered Greg Chen. No way. And not Frank Delaney, either. She couldn’t allow herself to think that either of them would betray the people they were hired to warn. She ran the other forecasters through her mind, ticked them off one-by-one and shook her head at the thought of each one.
Amanda didn’t know who it was. Could be the mayor; everybody said he was into more than just running New York. But he was so proud of his City; the king wouldn’t destroy his own kingdom. Could be Lassitor, but she had a hard time believing he could orchestrate anything so complicated, and she didn’t even see him at the Office of Emergency Management. Could be someone else in the City’s vast hierarchy of emergency decision-making. Could be someone from the outside, hacking in.
Or someone from the Hurricane Center.
The thought wouldn’t go away. But none of it mattered. She understood something about what was going on, about why the evacuation had been stalled: Someone was manipulating the odds, increasing the chances for his bet to pay off. By delaying the evacuation, he could guarantee chaos, more damage as ships and trains and cars were stranded. And more deaths. More deaths, more lawsuits. More financial impact to the insurance companies.
What was that other company Jack mentioned, the one that was overexposed in New York? PrimeCo.
She began walking again. It was more difficult n
ow and she crouched. She called The New York Times. Surprisingly, the call went through. She groaned that luck would put this call through but not one to Joe Springer’s house. She got patched through to the business editor.
“Bob Drucker.”
“Hi Mr. Drucker, my name is Amanda Cole. I don’t have much time. Listen carefully. You gave a tip to Jack Corbin the other day about some Dominicans selling short the shares of Global Insurance Company.”
“Jack shouldn’t have… who the hell is this?”
“I’m a forecaster at the National Hurricane Center. Please listen to me. It’s possible that the person who provided the Dominicans with the information about GLIC has told them about another company. PrimeCo.”
“I’m listening.”
“I don’t give a damn about the story, but I’m sure you’ll be interested. Here’s what I need: I have to know if a trade was made on PrimeCo this morning, and if so, when.”
“Why?”
“Because PrimeCo is overexposed right here in New York City, and I’m pretty sure someone tried to slow down the evacuation to pad his bet.”
“Who all is involved?”
“You answer my question, I’ll make sure the Times gets the story.”
“Not easy to find out about trades.”
“Thousands of lives are at stake.”
Bob Drucker was quiet.
“And a great story,” she said.
“I’ll call you right back,” Drucker said.
Amanda clicked the phone off and struggled against the wind. She looked back toward the river’s edge under the bridge. The tide was still rolling in, but already the water was lapping at the horizontal line that scored the mud flats, marking the most recent high tide.
Still nearly 200 miles away, Harvey was beginning to push a mound of water toward the shore.
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