King Tide

by A. J. Stewart

  The elevator needed a key card to operate. The door next to the elevator didn’t say stairs. It didn’t say anything. But I was fairly certain I knew what it was. I pushed it open and found myself in more stairs. The same concrete and sky blue steel. I wandered down until I reached the ground floor and I came out in a corridor of taupe and linoleum. This was not an area for guests. But I had been there before. I figured one way led toward the kitchen. The other way led to the laundry, where I had gotten my linen suit. I followed that path, and wound around until I came back out into the retail space in the hotel at the north end of the building. The shops were closed and dark. I walked south toward the lobby, past the bar, or the lounge as Neville would have me call it, and returned to the general manager’s office.

  “Okay,” said Ronzoni. “Now you’re gonna tell me how, right?”

  “What did you see?”

  “You went out toward the gym. Then you appeared in the lobby in the camera above the lounge door. In-between times I didn’t see you at all. So how?”

  “The security video is full of holes. It might be more accurate to say it’s all holes with a couple of spots covered by video.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “I’m guessing they want to land somewhere between security and privacy. They cover the main common areas but not much else.”

  “Right, I get it. But how did you go from the south end to the north end? I’ve got video here of every elevator lobby on every floor.”

  I told him about the stairs near the gym and the stairs at the other end that came out near the laundry. I told him about the ballroom.

  “So what are all these stairs?”

  “The ones at the south end are nothing more than fire stairs. They’re marked as such on the higher floors. I suppose there’s no video because no one ever uses them.”

  “And the other ones?”

  “I think they’re staff stairs. You know, like the old Upstairs Downstairs thing. The help have their own hidden stairs and a service elevator so they can move around the hotel without the guests ever having to lay eyes on them. ”

  “I don’t see why they can’t just use the same elevator as everyone else.”

  “In the kinds of hotels you and I stay in, Ronzoni, they do. But this ain’t that. This is a cut above. Probably two cuts above. It harshes one’s mellow to have a maid and her trolley in the elevator with you.”

  “So basically anyone could go down to the mezzanine floor and move around the hotel without being seen.”

  “They could. But remember, the elevators have a small lobby on every floor, and you said yourself those lobbies all have video surveillance.”

  “So someone’s using the stairs.”

  “Right.”

  I told Ronzoni to get out of the driver’s seat because it was too painful to watch him operate computer equipment. I was no Steve Wozniak myself, but I knew more than Ronzoni. I clicked around, following what I recalled from when Emery Taylor had operated the machine before. It worked more or less like a cable company DVR, which I didn’t have but I had seen before at Longboard’s. After a couple false starts I got the video to where I wanted it.

  Carly Pastinak comes out of the stairs beside the lobby elevator. She is wearing a black one-piece swimsuit with a thin sarong over the top. No shoes. She walks like a ballerina—tall, head held high, light on her toes. Carly turns to the gym corridor and reaches the check-in desk, where she stops. She turns. Anton Ribaud appears from the men’s lobby bathroom. He doesn’t walk like a ballerina. He is unsteady, clearly feeling the effects of the absinthe and brandy and whatever else he has been drinking. He stumbles over to Carly. They talk. The picture is nowhere near high-definition, so their lips are too fuzzy to read. Then Anton shrugs. His signature move. He wanders away toward the lounge. Carly stands for moment, not watching him. Perhaps just thinking. Then she turns on her toes and floats across the lobby toward the corridor. Toward the gym, and the south exit, and the hot tub. Toward the end.

  We watched the video after Carly was lost from view up the corridor, but no one else appeared. No one came out of the stairs. No one went up the corridor. But I knew Ronzoni was thinking what I was thinking. Did someone use the stairs opposite the gym? Did they meet her out there?

  We watched for a while longer and saw nothing of interest. Then Ronzoni tapped the back of the chair.

  “Show me how to drive this thing, Jones.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to account for everyone’s movements. As much as we can.”

  “I can work it for you.”

  “No. I want you to go back to the bar. I don’t like the idea of so many suspects being there alone.”

  “Ron’s there.”

  “Even so.”

  I nodded. He was right—it made sense. I was a little taken aback that he thought me capable of substituting for him in the lounge. I felt like a deputy. Except that was the sheriff, not the police. And that was Danielle’s job. Except now it wasn’t. It seemed everyone’s position on the totem was shifting.

  “Okay, Ronzoni. It works like this.”

  We both focused on the computer screen.

  And then our entire world went pitch-black.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Most people in the world live in cities, and cities give off a lot of light. You can see it in those photos from the space shuttle, looking back at the earth at night, a million little lights all becoming one. It’s a lot of light pollution. So much so that even the Milky Way gets blanketed out in our night sky. Most of us never experience true darkness.

  Ronzoni and I got a good dose of it. The small office was plunged into black. The computers shut down, the lights went off, the hum of the electricity through the walls died. For a moment we had nothing but the high-pitched moan of the wind and the trees and the sound of our breathing. Then Ronzoni spoke.

  “What the hell did you do?”

  “Relax, Ronzoni. Power’s gone out. Give it a second.”

  “Maybe someone cut the power. We gotta get to the bar.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. We’re in the middle of a hurricane. It happens.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Give it a second.”

  It took more than a second. It was, I thought, supposed to be instantaneous, but my information might have been bad. Eventually we heard a click and then the emergency exit lights came on in the lobby. Small halogen lamps lit the front entrance and spread a ghostly glow across the lobby.

  Ronzoni and I made for the lounge. It was dark inside, but the same emergency lighting had come on. The exit signs glowed red, and a lamp near the door showed the way out.

  “Is everyone okay?” asked Ronzoni.

  There were murmurs of yes and complaints and questions.

  Ronzoni took out his flashlight and did a roll call. Everyone was accounted for. He shone his light on Andrew Neville.

  “This is your generator?” asked Ronzoni.

  “This is the UPS.”

  “The what?”

  “Uninterrupted power supply. Emergency systems only.”

  “Wasn’t that uninterrupted. We were in the dark for long enough.”

  “Perhaps the storm did something to the system. But the generator should have come on by now.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “On the roof.”

  “All right. Mr. Neville, you come with me. Ron, you hold the fort. Everyone else just stay in place until we sort something out.” Ronzoni turned to me. He was lit from below so he looked haggard. “You come, too.”

  We strode out into the lobby. The main entrance was lit, but the emergency lights threw long shadows across the lobby to the ocean side, where it was still dark. It was as if the sun was rising inside the building.

  “How do we get to the generator?” asked Ronzoni.

  “Via the staff stairs. North end of the building.”

  I knew what was coming next. Ronzoni was going to tell me to take ca
re of it. To send me out into the hurricane once again. I wondered why I bothered putting clothes on. I considered asking Neville for a new poncho, but I figured he’d charge me for it, and I couldn’t bear to think what a cheap plastic poncho would go for at The Mornington.

  “All right, Mr. Neville, let’s go start this generator,” Ronzoni said.

  Neville didn’t move.

  “Mr. Neville, is there a problem?”

  Neville still didn’t move. His face was hard to make out in the limited light, but I saw him lift his hand and point.

  “What is that?”

  We followed his direction. The ocean side of the lobby was normally floor-to-ceiling windows that slid open when the weather was fair to expose the lobby to the ocean breezes. Most of the windows had been covered with storm shutters, except one bank of them. Florida building codes required that at least one exit be rated as hurricane-proof, to ensure an escape route for any occupants should it be required. We looked through the exposed window out at the hurricane. What we should have seen was nothing but darkness. What we saw was the exact opposite.

  A stunning bright light blazed from outside. We all moved closer to the window to get a better look. What we saw didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window was a terrace, for sun chairs or al fresco dining. Beyond the terrace was a lawn that led down to the seawall, below which was the beach.

  The bright light emanated from the beach. It shone up from the raging surf beyond and lit something on the seawall itself. That something was formless, like a cloud. It took a good minute of looking at it before I connected any dots at all.

  “It’s a man,” I said.

  “No,” said Ronzoni .

  “It is. In a poncho. See it flapping around. He’s got his arms out.”

  “He looks like a crucifix,” said Neville.

  “Damn Florida,” said Ronzoni.

  The man appeared to be standing on the seawall, arms outstretched, facing the ocean and the eye of the hurricane somewhere in the distance offshore.

  Ronzoni said, “You got your poncho?”

  I let out a groan and retreated to the check-in desk, where I had left my poncho. I removed my jacket, shirt and trousers once more, and pulled on the cheap plastic.

  “You take care of that moron,” said Ronzoni. “If he doesn’t cooperate, leave him out there. It’s his own stupid fault. Until the power comes back I don’t want to leave this group alone.”

  “Awesome,” I said. “Let’s just get this done.”

  Neville led us across the lobby and Ronzoni cut back into the lounge. Neville didn’t run, but he walked fast. You never want to look flustered in the hospitality game. It spooks the guests. He took me in behind the lounge area and into a corridor that led out to another emergency exit—I assumed the north exit. I noticed on our right was a door with a porthole in it—the kitchen. On the other side was another door, this one solid and unmarked. That one led to the taupe corridor and on to the staff stairs and the laundry. Dead ahead I saw the red glow of an emergency exit sign.

  “Through there,” said Neville. “There’s the oceanside promenade and you can get over to the terrace and down to the seawall.”

  I was about to push ahead when I noticed something. The floor below us was wet. Unlike the south exit, the floor here was concrete. There was no gym, no guest facilities. Guests would exit using the concertina windows in the lobby. But I felt the water under my shoes.

  “Wait,” I told Neville.

  I wasn’t sure what I was thinking, or why it grabbed at me like it did. But I stuck my arm out and held Neville back for a moment. Then I took out my phone and handed him my flashlight.

  “Shine that at about forty-five degrees to the floor,” I said.

  He did as directed without question, which was a point in favor of both hospitality staff and Labradors. I took a series of photos with my phone, just random snapshots of the floor. It was too dark to compose a shot properly. I did a few more with the flash, the light bouncing off the floor, blinding me.

  “Okay,” I said. I swapped my phone with Neville for my flashlight, and then I hit the door.

  It was windy out but much less so than the pool deck had been. I was on a walkway built under the overhang of the hotel. It ran along the ocean side of the building, cut in two by the terrace in the middle. A boxwood hedge ran along the path separating it from the lawn. The lawn was gone. A lake had formed in its place.

  I ran down the walkway and out onto the terrace. Now I got hit by the wind and rain. My poncho tried to take flight and wrapped itself around my head. I pulled it down but the damage was done. I was once again wet to my core. The wind blew from the north and west, so it pushed me down the lawn lake toward the light and lunatic on the seawall.

  I yelled at the guy as I got closer but my calls were whisked away on the wind, never to be heard. I reached the seawall, where he stood. He was a big unit, tall and wide. His poncho was of a much higher quality than mine. It was heavy blue material like a tarpaulin. But it was just as pointless as mine. The guy had a bald head that shone in the glow of the light coming from below. I looked down at the light. It was bright, pure white like a spotlight. It was then I realized that the lunatic on the seawall wasn’t the craziest person out there.

  There was a guy attached to the light. Or more specifically the light was attached to a camera that was attached to him. He was on the beach, shooting up at the man on the seawall. Only there was no beach. The ocean had reclaimed it. The waves were breaking over the head of the guy with the light, and smashing into the seawall. I couldn’t fathom how the guy wasn’t getting swept away. Then I saw it. A rope, probably bright orange in the daylight, like a climbing rope, was looped around the guy’s waist and then out of the water and around a palm tree on the lawn.

  I left the lunatic on the seawall and grabbed the rope and pulled hard. The ocean didn’t want to give up its prize, but once I got going I reeled the guy in easy enough. I looked down as he met the seawall. He wasn’t fighting me. He reached his hand up and I thrust mine down and pulled him up and over the wall.

  The big guy on the wall jumped down. He had a hood on his poncho but it had blown off a long time ago. His face was large and taut, and water ran like rapids along his cheekbones. He bent down to where I had collapsed into the lawn lake with the other guy.

  “Are you crazy?” he screamed. I barely heard him over the wind and crashing waves.

  “Are you kidding me?” I spat back. It might have been a first for the day, but I was the least crazy person out there.

  “We were getting some great shots, man!”

  “This guy was gonna drown.”

  “He was attached to a rope! ”

  I just shook my head. Ronzoni was right. I should have just left them there. But I looked at the guy with the light. It was a hefty spotlight, attached to a large video camera. The camera was strapped to the guy who looked like he had already drowned twice. He was spitting saltwater. He got on his haunches and vomited as waves broke over the top of us.

  I gave the camera guy a second to get rid of his lunch and then I pulled at the knot to untie him. It was fixed good and proper, but the guy pulled a pocket knife out and sawed through the rope. I took that as a sign that he was done playing fish bait.

  I helped him up and dragged him back toward the hotel. The big guy kept pace, yelling the whole time about what I didn’t know. Now the wind was whisking his words away, and that was just fine with me.

  Andrew Neville stood by the north exit. He held the door open with his back as we collapsed inside.

  “Are you okay?” I asked the guy with the camera.

  “Yeah,” he nodded. “Thanks.”

  “We were getting some great shots out there,” yelled the big guy, his volume not decreasing despite being inside. “What the hell do you think you were doing?”

  I stood up fast. It made the guy step back against the wall, and backward steps didn’t seem to suit him. Up cl
ose he looked even bigger, about my height but wider. Not flabby, but solid.

  “What was I doing?” I said. “Saving your bacon, you moron. Who goes out in weather like this?”

  The guy jutted his chin like he was taking up a superhero pose. I got the impression this was supposed to jog my memory or something, but I was running on fumes so I had no idea.

  “What? What is that?”

  He frowned. He had ripples of furrows on his forehead that rivaled my own. He had spent a lot of time in the sun .

  “You don’t watch the Weather Network?” he asked.

  “I don’t own a television.”

  “You what?”

  “Who the hell are you, pal?”

  He did the chin thing again. “Rex Bonatelli. Weather Network.”

  “You’re a weatherman?”

  “No, I’m not a weatherman. I’m a meteorological correspondent. Wherever the weather’s breaking, Rex Bonatelli is there.”

  There’s nothing I love more than people who refer to themselves in the third person. It’s so endearing.

  “Well, Rex. You’re an idiot.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nope. No chance. This guy could have drowned.” I looked down at the camera guy.

  “He was okay. I told you, he was on a rope.”

  “So it was going to be easy to pull his dead body from the ocean.”