Her Name Will Be Faith

by Christopher Nicole

  “Who the hell is Faith?” Wright demanded.

  “Faith,” McGrath muttered. “Ain’t that that hurricane out in the Atlantic?”

  “Hell, yes,” Jonsson said. “Well, look, Chief, I’d better get down there.”

  The phone was ringing again, and another message arrived from another precinct, telling of crowds and agitation in the streets.

  “Fucking shit!” McGrath took over the phone himself. “Get me the Hurricane Centre in Coral Gables. I want to speak to the man himself, Eisener. Sure I know what time it is, and I don’t give a damn. Get him on the line.” He replaced the phone. “All of you guys get back to your precincts and put extra men on the streets. We could have a major traffic snarl up. And somebody find out who started this alarm.”

  “It was a television broadcast,” said Captain Luther, who had just returned from checking with the duty officer. “That forecaster from NABS, Connors, went on the air just before midnight and issued a warning that Hurricane Faith is coming straight at us, with winds of 170 miles an hour.”

  “Holy Jesus, why wasn’t I told at once?” McGrath bawled. “That crazy character… he was down here asking damn silly questions a couple of days ago, and then telling the world we didn’t have any plans to deal with a hurricane. A hurricane! In New York! Shit! He wanted us to plan an evacuation of the city. An evacuation. Christ!”

  “Well, Connors apparently told everyone to do just that,” Luther said. “He predicted all kinds of damage, suggested that the city might just about be blown flat.”

  “New York?” Wright asked in consternation.

  “For Jesus’ sake, where’d he get the authority to do something like that?” McGrath bawled. “After that broadcast Thursday night I called the Mayor and asked him if he wanted us to take any steps, and he said to forget it, those weather boys are just a bunch of alarmists.”

  “Maybe it’s a hoax,” someone suggested.

  “But how the hell did he get it across to so many people?” asked someone else. “You mean to tell me there are actually people watching television at midnight?”

  “Sure there are,” Luther told him. “Enough to get scared and start waking their neighbors.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” McGrath bellowed into the phone. “Get the Commissioner. And the Mayor. Sure, wake them up, if you have to. We could have a problem.” He grabbed his other phone as it buzzed. “Oh, Dr Eisener, John McGrath, NYPD, here… Pretty good. Say, I’m sorry to wake you up like this… oh, you were up anyway? Well, that’s great. Say, about this Faith thing… great balls of fire. You mean that fellow Connors could be right?… Oh, you didn’t see it? Well, it seems he’s issued some kind of 24-hour warning that New York should be evacuated, on his own authority… 24 hours is right?… Maybe less? Christ Almighty… Ah… Yeah… Yeah, that’s what’s bugging us. I mean, they always have veered before… Yeah… Yeah, sure, we can handle it… Yeah… Thanks a million, Dr Eisener. Keep us posted.” He replaced the phone. “Seems that thing could hit us.”

  “Could?” Harmon inquired. “Or will?”

  “Well, Eisener says it could still do anything, and he agrees with me that it should start to veer off to the northeast any minute now; seems it’s picking up speed. But he thinks there’s a real risk it might not turn off until after making a landfall, somewhere like Atlantic City, which would put us in the dangerous quadrant. He thinks Connors did the right thing. Well, hell, I sure don’t agree with him. I’m gonna lock that guy up for causing a public nuisance.”

  “J. Calthrop White,” Luther said. “He owns NABS. He’ll have put Connors up to it. He has a running war going with City Hall anyway.”

  “I wouldn’t mind locking that bastard up as well,” McGrath growled. He banged on the telephone. “Come on, come on, get me those numbers.”

  “Well, they’re all asleep, Mr McGrath,” the girl protested.

  “So wake them up. And come to think of it, wake J. Calthrop White up as well. Tell him I want a word. And somebody go out and get Connors. Come on, get off your asses. Move. We could have a panic in the streets.”

  The Streets Of New York — 1.00 am

  Jo started the engine, lined the Mercedes up, punched the red button on the wall, and waited for the steel doors to go up — and remembered Marcia! She had been going to call again, and had completely forgotten about it. But she couldn’t abandon her sister-in-law down in Greenwich Village, which was definitely less than fifty feet above sea level and liable to be flooded out if Richard was at all accurate in his prognostications. Anyway at this hour of the morning it would only take ten minutes to get down there and pick up her and Benny, or at least tell them what was happening.

  Though she knew the weather had been deteriorating all evening, she was unprepared for the density of rain that hit the automobile as she topped the ramp on to the street. And there were far more vehicles about too, than she had expected, nearly all heading north — it took her several minutes to edge into a stream, and then across it.

  “Mom, this is terrible. Can’t we wait till it clears? I’m cold.” Owen Michael shivered and curled down in his seat.

  “I’m freezing,” Tamsin put in.

  “In July? Forget it,” Jo told them. But now at last turned south, she flicked on both heater and demister, leaning forward to peer through the dazzle set up by the lights of the oncoming traffic: the condensation was clearing as the heat got to it, but the screen was empty of water for only a brief second at a time, with each rapid sweep of the wipers. “Nana’s rug is on the back seat. Wrap it round your legs, Tamsin.”

  “How come she always gets the rug?” Owen Michael grumbled.

  “Because you’re bigger and stronger,” Jo told him, wishing he’d shut up and let her concentrate. The combination of rain, traffic and repeated red lights stretched the journey to Greenwich Village into twenty minutes, and one glance at the empty square of concrete beside Benny and Marcia’s house, where they always kept their car, told Jo that they still weren’t in.

  The clock behind the wheel showed 1.25 am. They could of course still be out at their party. Equally, they could have seen Richard’s telecast and already left; it was unlikely that Marcia would have worried about her. But still… Jo braked the car and got out. “I’m going to try ringing for a minute, just in case they’re in after all,” she told the children. “Maybe their automobile is in the garage again,” remembering the idiosyncrasies of their ancient and battered Ford. She was soaked by the time she had satisfied herself that the house was empty, and hurried back to the Mercedes, dripping water everywhere, chewing her lip in indecision. She was still anxious about the young couple, but she couldn’t risk waiting for their return… the traffic was building all the time.

  Progress north was gradually slowed as the lights constantly changed at intersections, and the traffic steadily built up, with much shouting and swearing and honking on horns to suggest that quite a few New Yorkers had heard Richard’s warning and decided to act on it. It occurred to her that the avenues farther east might be less congested; she could always cross back again later. Seventh, Sixth and Fifth all showed a mass of lights gleaming through the rain, but Park looked better, so she swung the Mercedes north again and made steady progress up-hill, round the Pan American Building, but still the number of vehicles around her was increasing, the blare of horns becoming more insistent, and the mood of the drivers deteriorating.

  She passed 47th Street, 48th, their own apartment block, from the garage of which a steady stream of automobiles was issuing to indicate that Washington had been doing his job — 49th Street…

  “How long will it take to get to Bognor, Mom?” Owen Michael asked. “I’ve never seen the streets so busy.”

  “Everyone’s going away for the weekend,” Jo agreed. “I thought we’d be half way there by now.” The lights changed, and she braked, drawing up slowly behind a white Chevrolet which inched forward in anticipation of the change back, and then leapt into gear immediately on amber. Jo foll
owed… and she and Owen Michael yelled in unison as a blue Cadillac, engine racing to beat the lights which had already turned against it, smashed into the Mercedes’ front wing, sending it spinning into the car on their left.

  Tamsin screamed as another automobile hit the Mercedes from behind, throwing it at right angles to the street. Then there were other vehicles all around it, braying horns, screaming drivers… Jo shook her head, realizing that she was not actually hurt, and looked at Owen Michael. If that bump had opened his stitches…

  He managed a smile. “I’m okay, Mom.”

  She twisted in her seat and Tamsin sniffed. “I was so scared.”

  “Well, you had every reason to be.” Jo opened her door and got out, into the rain. “You stupid idiot,” she bawled at the driver of the Cadillac.

  He ignored her, and his crumpled bumper, wrenched his automobile round, tearing off some of her wing as he did so, and joined the stream of traffic hurrying away from the lights.

  “Bastard,” Jo muttered, so angry she forgot to take his number, and bent to look at the damage. The right wing was pushed hard in against the wheel, and she doubted it would turn, at least without immediately tearing the rubber to shreds. She went to the rear, and saw an equal amount of damage. She needed a garage. And now the cacophony around her was tremendous, as other automobiles tried to pass her, and bumped against the next lane of traffic.

  “Get that fucking wreck off the road,” someone shouted at her. “Yeah, lady, you’re blocking the road,” shouted someone else.

  “How can I move the goddamned thing?” she shouted back. “I need a tow.”

  “Then let us help you,” someone else bawled. The lights had by now changed from green to red and then back again to green. Now, before she could stop them, four men leapt from behind the driving wheels of their packed vehicles and ran to the Mercedes. They put their shoulders to the body and began to heave, cheered on by their passengers and immediately joined by several more frustrated drivers.

  “Stop that!” Jo screamed. “My children are in there!” She grabbed at their shoulders, but they shrugged her off, and she slipped and fell on the wet street, only just being missed by an automobile in the next lane, which swerved round her, cannoned off its neighbor, and slithered away down the avenue.

  Jo scrambled to her feet and ran to the Mercedes, which had been pushed on to the center space, half on its side. She pulled the doors open, and Owen Michael and Tamsin tumbled out, gasping and crying. “Oh, my darlings,” she shrieked. “Are you all right?”

  Tamsin threw both arms round her.

  “Yeah,” Owen Michael said. “Yeah. But what’s got into these people?”

  Jo hugged him too, and looked past him at the Mercedes, which had now been pushed right over on its side; the men ran away from it, shouting and laughing. Jo watched them drive off, then saw a police officer making his way through the rain towards her, water dripping from his cap and cape. “Did you see what happened?” she shouted. “Did you see those men wreck my car?”

  “Yeah,” he agreed. “These people sure are in a hurry.”

  “Well, aren’t you going to do something about it?”

  “Me, lady? I’d need the goddamned National Guard to stop this bunch. They’re scared stiff.”

  “But… my auto… look, you have a radio. Can’t you call a garage for a tow truck?”

  He peered at the twisted metal. “It sure is a wreck. Calling a garage wouldn’t do any good; they’d never get here. That vehicle ain’t going anywhere tonight, lady. I reckon you have to get hold of something else if you mean to leave town.”

  Jo stared at him in disbelief, then at the Mercedes, then again at the traffic streaming by behind gleaming lights and blaring horns. At that moment she hated everyone in the world, wanted to shout and scream in her outrage. But she knew that losing her temper was going to accomplish nothing — and there was Michael’s Cadillac waiting in the garage only a few blocks behind her; as he had been planning to stay away at least a fortnight, he had driven up with Sam, who actually lived in Newport, rather than leave his car in the park for that time.

  “Thanks for your advice, officer,” she said. She wrestled the boot open, selected the suitcase she regarded as containing the most important items — she knew she could only carry one, and there was no question of Owen Michael hefting any weight — locked the boot again, told the boy to hold his sister’s hand, and walked off into the rain.

  National American Broadcasting Service Offices, Fifth Avenue — 1.30 am

  “I’m sorry, Mr Connors,” the switchboard said. “But there is no reply from that number.”

  “Well…” She must have gone to her parents-in-law after all; presumably the reason she had just left a message for him to call her instead of specifying where was pure excitement. “Can you obtain from exchange the number of Mr Michael Donnelly? He lives in Bognor, too. Get the number, and call there for me, will you?” He replaced the phone, got up, and looked down at the street far below him. It, all New York, was now a constant ribbon of light, and the traffic was steadily growing. It was going to be a grim dawn, and already it was murky, with a gusty wind driving a succession of rain squalls in front of it, with darting lightning flashes serrating the gloom, accompanied always by a continuous rumble of thunder. Faith was coming closer — but if she held off until tomorrow there was time for most of those people to get away.

  “How’re you doing with the Hurricane Center?” he asked Julian. They were alone now; he had told Jayme to get out while she could.

  “I just can’t get through,” Julian confessed. “I guess every forecaster in the country is trying to ring Eisener.”

  “Hey,” Richard said. “Wasn’t Waring planning to keep a camera crew in Coral Gables over the weekend?”

  Hal Waring was the producer of the weather program on NABS. “Sure.”

  “Well, then, can’t we raise them on the link?”

  “At two o’clock in the morning that crowd will be in bed,” Julian pointed out. “They were planning to start filming again at 8.30, in time to relay an update and also have an interview with Dr Eisener for your first forecast.”

  “I need an update now,” Richard said. “It’s four hours since our last. That storm could have done anything in four hours. Listen, get through to whichever technicians are on duty and tell them we have to have a link opened to the Hurricane Centre as quickly as possible, and then call Coral Gables and get that crew awake.”

  “For a live show? We’ll need a producer and a director, and God knows who else.”

  “Forget that,” Richard snapped.

  “Company policy.”

  “I’ll produce and direct,” Richard told him. “It won’t be a live telecast, anyway, just a recording. We don’t have the time for any company red tape.” The phone buzzed, and he grabbed it.

  “I have Bognor on the line, Mr Connors.”

  “Hello,” he said. “Mr Donnelly?”

  “Speaking,” said the gruff voice. “Who the hell is that?”

  “Richard Connors, from NABS. I’d like to speak to Jo, please.”

  “To Jo? What the hell is this?”

  “She asked me to call,” Richard explained, patiently.

  “At two o’clock in the morning? Holy shit! Anyway, she ain’t here.”

  Richard frowned. “Hasn’t she been there?”

  “No, for Christ’s sake.”

  “But… aren’t you expecting her?”

  “Sure. Tomorrow morning. This morning, for God’s sake. For breakfast! Now get off the line. You’ve woken up the whole goddamned house.”

  The phone went dead, and Richard slowly replaced it. What the devil could have happened? He picked it up again. “Call Mrs Donnelly’s Park Avenue number, please, Maisie.”

  “Right away, Mr Connors.” She was back in five minutes. “There’s no reply, Mr Connors. I spoke with the night porter, and he said Mrs Donnelly and her children left the building, by automobile, just after midnight.�
��

  “Thank God for that,” Richard said. Just after midnight. They’d have headed straight for the Bronx, New Rochelle, and the New England Thruway. And leaving immediately after the telecast they’d have beaten the traffic build up. Presumably she had called him to explain the reason for her delayed departure, whatever that had been — but it didn’t matter now. She was safe and in another hour and a half she’d be in Bognor, well away from the coast and anything more than a strong breeze: he could concentrate on the job.

  The phone was buzzing again. “I have Mr White for you, Mr Connors,” Maisie said.

  “Oh, Christ,” he muttered and wagged his eyebrows at Julian, who was still trying all sorts of internal numbers in his efforts to create a link with the Weather Centre, currently without success. But how the hell had JC got into the act so early — and yet not early enough if he had actually seen the telecast? “Good morning, JC,” he said. “Well, it isn’t such a good morning after all, is it?”

  “Richard,” JC said. He did not sound very angry, not even like a man who has recently been awakened in the small hours of the morning. But then, JC’s voice never did change its timbre. “I have just been called by Assistant Commissioner McGrath, inquiring if I had authorized my station to put out an emergency warning for the evacuation of New York City. Has such a warning been issued by NABS?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr White.”

  “Who by?”

  “I made the telecast, sir.”

  “On whose authority did you do that, Richard? Did Waring give you authorization?”

  “I haven’t seen Hal since the 10.30 forecast, sir, although I’m expecting him in at any moment for the morning update. If he can get through the traffic.”

  “Then on whose authority did you make that telecast? What program did you interrupt?”

  “I interrupted a movie, Mr White. I convinced the program controller that it was necessary to do so. He wanted to call Mr Kiley, but I told him I had your authority. I take full responsibility, sir.”