Storm Surge

by Rhoades, J. D.

  “Well,” he said, still feeling awkward, “have a safe trip.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “You too.”

  The house was dark as he went downstairs, all the windows sealed tight against the threat heading toward Pass Island, just over the dip of the horizon.

  Outside, he got in the truck and pulled away. As he did, he saw the golf cart coming towards him. The truck Max drove belonged to the Pass Island Management Company; it was one of the few internal combustion vehicles allowed on the island. It was one of the community’s selling points: no cars, no cell phones, just peace, quiet, and the endless sea.

  There were two men in the golf cart, dressed in expensive khakis, polo shirts, and tinted shooting glasses. Max saw the guns propped up in a rack in the back of the cart, where golf bags normally would be. He couldn’t tell which one was Brian. They didn’t look at him as he drove past. He was the help.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Travis Boyle had never been to sea. But as the guy who ran the construction ferry, he got to call himself the captain. He rather liked the idea. At one time, he’d even bought a baseball cap with “Captain” written in gold on the front, but the construction guys had ragged him so much about it, he eventually took it off and replaced it with his old familiar CAT Diesel products hat. Still, in his mind, he was the captain.

  He was surprised to see the big panel truck pull up to the ramp. He came out of the shack beside the dock, wiping his hands on a rag, and squinted at the new arrival. A sign stenciled on the side panels proclaimed that it belonged to GARVIN BROTHERS CONTRACTOR SERVICES. A man was climbing down from the running board as Boyle approached.

  “Afternoon,” the man said. He was half a head taller than Boyle, and broad. His head was shaved bald. He checked a clipboard held in one hand. “We got a delivery.” He looked at construction ferry. “When’s the next run?”

  Unlike the sleek, clean, well-appointed craft that took residents and guests to the picturesque landing at the marina, the construction ferry was an ancient flat-bottomed barge that seemed to be held together by rust and faith. It was pushed through the water by an equally decrepit, asthmatic old tugboat. The ferry tied up at a greasy dock, halfway around the island from the marina and well hidden by the tight, wind-gnarled brush of the maritime forest.

  “Runs as often as we need it,” Boyle said. “Ain’t needed it much, though. Not with the storm and all. All the sites are shut down.” He eyed the panel truck. “Where y’all goin’?”

  The bald man unfolded a piece of paper. “Bluff Court,” he read off. “The Mayhew job.”

  Boyle recognized the name. The Mayhew place had been shaping up to be one of the biggest houses on the island. The owner, a guy from Brooklyn who’d reportedly made a fortune developing timeshares, had battled the island’s Architectural Committee for months before finally getting a scaled-back and non-garish version of what he called his “palace by the sea” approved. But a series of Federal fraud indictments and frozen bank accounts had finally brought the project to a halt. Now the house sat half-finished, looming over the beachfront, with the Architectural Committee becoming more and more frantic at the thought of such an eyesore becoming a permanent part of the landscape.

  “Huh,” Boyle said. “Didn’t know they was startin’ that up again.”

  The bald guy shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “All I know is where they tell me to take the stuff, man.”

  “Seems like an awful strange time to be droppin’ building supplies off,” Boyle went on. “I mean, don’t they know there’s a hurricane coming?”

  “Not my problem, bro,” the bald man said. Boyle noticed another man getting down from the passenger side. He was short and slight, with close-cropped pale blonde hair. He ignored Boyle, walked over to the edge of the dock, and stood looking across the sound. You could barely see Pass Island from here, even on a clear day. The only structure you could really make out, in fact, was the top of the old lighthouse.

  Boyle shrugged. “Hey,” he said, “All whatever you’re deliverin’ gets washed out to sea, ain’t no skin off my nose.” He went to lower the ferry ramp. The two men got in the truck.

  “All that gets washed out,” the bald man said in a parody of Boyle’s twang, “Ain’t no skin off my nose.”

  The smaller man smiled thinly. When he spoke, his voice was a ruined croak, barely above a whisper, like a man with a permanent case of severe laryngitis. “Actually,” he said, “that’s what we’re counting on.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Sharon. Baby.” Sonny’s voice was shaky with comically exaggerated desperation. “You gotta take my dinner shift, babe. I’m begging.” He went down on one knee before the pass-through from the kitchen and threw an arm across his brow theatrically. “I’m a dude in pain.”

  “You’re a dude that’s full of shit, is what you are, Sonny,” Sharon laughed. Despite her earlier depression, it was impossible to stay blue for long around Sonny. “Besides, I already told you, I’ve got something to do tonight.”

  “You cut me, baby,” Sonny said. He got up and ran a hand through his long shaggy blonde hair. “You cut me bad. Who is he? Whoever he is, he’s not good enough for you.”

  “His name,” Sharon said, still laughing, “is Mr. Badcock.” She immediately thrust a warning finger into Sonny’s face. “No jokes.”

  Sonny looked innocent. “Jokes? Moi?”

  She applied the tip of her finger to the end of his prominent nose. “Jokes. Vous.” She gave his nose an affectionate honk.

  “Older guy, huh?” Sonny said.

  “Sixty-five if he’s a day,” Sharon said. “He’s the assistant headmaster at Glory’s school. It’s orientation night. And I need to be there.” She wondered for a moment how she was going to manage that without a car.

  “Order up,” the line cook said. He shoved a half dozen platters heaped with seafood into the pass-through window.

  “Coming through,” Consuela said. She stepped up and took possession of the plates, stacking them perfectly on a pair of trays. Sonny helped, tossing garnishes on with a practiced hand, arranging the plates for easier carrying. “Conseula. Baby,” he began.

  “I’m already working a double tonight, Sonny,” she said. “Thanks.” She shoved through the swinging double doors to the dining room, balancing the trays expertly.

  “What’s so important about tonight, anyway?” Sharon asked.

  Sonny’s blue eyes brightened with passion. “About sunset,” he said almost reverently, “the waves are gonna be freakin’ amazing.”

  “You’re going surfing?” Sharon said. “You know there’s a hurricane coming, right?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “The storm’s pushing waves in front of it like a bulldozer. It’s gonna be epic!”

  “You are completely out of your mind,” Sharon said.

  “Of course he’s out of his mind,” the line chef broke in. “He’s a surfer.” He shoved another group of plates into the pass-through. “Order up.” Sonny took a moment to refasten the bowtie that hung loosely around his neck before arranging his plates on a single tray. The action seemed to change him. His mobile, smiling face became calm and bland. He moved with easy grace, balancing his tray on one arm as he entered the dining room.

  “Order up,” the line cook said.

  Coming from the steamy, clattering kitchen to the subdued atmosphere of the dining room always drew Sharon up short for a moment, as if she’d suddenly stepped through the looking glass onto an entirely different planet.

  The dining room had a stunning panoramic view of the ocean and the beach below. Sharon stole a glance at the beach, looking for the bright orange of Glory’s bathing suit. She didn’t see it. She could make out a few members of the group of kids Glory had begun hanging out with, tossing a football back and forth. No Glory, though.

  Her brow furrowed slightly. She’d thought she was doing the right thing, bringing her daughter with her to the island on the days she worked rather than leaving h
er alone in their little trailer on the mainland. Glory would have more fun, and Sharon could keep an eye on her. But it didn’t seem to be working out the way she’d planned.

  “Miss,” a voice called out. “Can we get more tea here?”

  Sharon’s attention snapped back to the dining room. “Yes ma’am,” she said, “right away. As soon as I drop off these plates.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Hold the smoke in,” Graeme said, “as long as you can.”

  Glory fought the urge to cough out the harsh smoke, but it seemed only a few seconds before it erupted from her lungs in a spasm of coughing. Only Graeme plucking the joint from her fingers saved her from dropping it off the ledge where they were sitting. She tried desperately to stop the hacking and wheezing, her face hot with embarrassment. She looked away, out at the ocean.

  They had a great view from the balcony of the unfinished beach house. Since the project had been halted, the kids who lived on the island had been using the house, secluded as it was on its bluff overlooking the sea, to hang out, smoke weed, and occasionally, do other things.

  Glory finally caught her breath. God, he must think she was a complete dork. But he just smiled at her with that great smile that just made her want to melt in a puddle at his feet. Then he took her chin in his hand and kissed her. It was a somewhat clumsy kiss, with too much spit involved, but it was her first, ever, and that made it special. Her face felt hot for a different reason now, and the heat was spreading. For a moment, she forgot about the embarrassment she’d felt this morning, forgot about how much she hated her crappy life. He was running a hand through her thick black hair, and that was nice. Very nice, in fact. But he didn’t keep doing it. He dropped his hand to her breast, over her thin swimsuit, and she pulled away.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  “Nothing,” she replied. “It’s just…”

  “Don’t you want to?”

  She turned back to him. God, he had nice eyes. “I just can’t. Not here.” She looked away, over the ocean.

  Glory had fought her mother for days when she’d first heard Sharon’s plan to take her to the island. She was fifteen, and grown up enough to stay by herself. She didn’t need looking after like a child. Besides, she had friends back on the mainland she could hang out with on the beach.

  That, her mother had told her, was the trouble. She’d never approved of Glory’s friends. There had been a few screaming matches, and more than one threat by Glory to call her father and ask to go live with him. But she hadn’t ever had the nerve to make the call. Her father hadn’t made his last three visits, and she knew, even though her mother had tried to keep it from her, that he wasn’t making his child support payments.

  In the end, she had knuckled under. And now she was glad she did, although she’d never go so far as to admit, even to herself, that her mother had done the right thing. The first day she’d been on the island, she’d met Lucy and Blythe on the beach, and they’d introduced her to Graeme. And so here they were. She knew she was going to sleep with Graeme. Soon. Just not now. But if she didn’t…she turned back to try to decipher what he was thinking. She couldn’t. His face was sullen, closed to her. She reached out to touch his arm. He pulled away. “We should get back,” he said, his voice expressionless. Her stomach knotted and her heart raced with panic. Oh no, she thought. She was going to turn him off. He might not…

  “Graeme?” she said, hating the way her voice quivered.

  There was a noise outside, and unfamiliar one on the island. It was the sound of a heavy truck door closing. Graeme’s expression went from sulky to scared. “Oh shit,” he whispered, “there’s someone here.”

  “You said no one comes here!” she whispered back.

  “No one does. I don’t know. Be quiet!” He stood up. “Come on.”

  She jumped up as well. They could hear voices now, and a metallic rattling that sounded like a garage door going up.

  “They’re out front,” Graeme said. “Quick, down the back steps.”

  “What if they see us?”

  “Then stay here,” he snapped. “But if you get caught, you little redneck bitch, you better keep your damn mouth shut.”

  His words hit her like a punch to the gut. “Graeme,” she said. She hated the way her lower lip was trembling. But he didn’t see. He was away and down the steps. He didn’t look back at her. Her vision blurred with tears as she followed.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The door of the delivery van rattled in its tracks as they raised it. The moment it was halfway up, Blake and Worth jumped out of the cargo compartment. They were dressed in khaki BDU pants and black T-shirts. Blake pulled a bandana out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.

  “Hot back there?” the bald man said.

  Blake didn’t answer. He turned back to Montrose, who was still inside, shoving a large wooden crate along the floor of the truck. The muscles of her wiry forearms bulged as she grunted with the effort. She didn’t complain or ask for help.

  “Storch,” Blake told the bald man. “Get up there and help her.” He looked around. “Where’s Moon?”

  Storch shrugged, then swung himself up into the back of the truck. “Don’t know,” he said. “Didn’t you see him get out when I did?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but applied himself to the crate.

  Blake sighed. It was creepy the way Moon seemed to be able to disappear at will, and it was beyond irritating the way he always seemed to do it when there was heavy work to be done. Storch and Montrose muscled the crate onto the waffle-patterned platform of the truck’s rear lift. Blake pulled the lever, and the hydraulic lift whined as it took the strain.

  “Hey,” Moon spoke up from just behind Blake. Blake jumped. “Jesus,” he snapped. “Will you stop sneaking up on people like that?”

  Moon shrugged. “It’s what I do,” he said in his soft, hoarse voice. “But we may have a problem.”

  “What?”

  “Come see.” He turned and walked back towards the house. Storch and Montrose had stopped to watch. “Get back to it,” Blake said. He turned to Worth, still standing on the ground. “I’ll be right back.”

  The exterior of the house had been fully framed, but the interior walls were still bare studs, widely spaced bars marking off the spaces where rooms would be. The flooring was concrete, with a light dusting of sawdust here and there. Blake could see though the house, out to the spaces where the picture windows would go. The sea was calm today, the waves barely rolling.

  Moon stopped at the empty space where the door to the huge living room was supposed to go. He gestured at the empty floor. “Look.”

  Blake came and stood beside him. He saw immediately what had bothered Moon.

  While the site had been neglected, sand had drifted into the rooms that faced the ocean, blown by the constant stiff wind. But there were footprints in the sand. Fresh ones.

  Blake noticed a pile of empty beer cans in one corner. He walked over and kicked it gingerly, then picked one up. The empty can had a circle cut out near the bottom, with tinfoil stuffed into the opening to make a bowl. There were pinpricks in the foil, and a tarry residue still clung to the makeshift pipe.

  “Kids,” Blake said. “Sneaking in to drink beer and smoke dope.”

  “Among other things,” Moon said. “There’s a pile of blankets in a room upstairs, and a half full box of condoms.”

  Blake set the can down. “Not a problem,” he said. “They’re all leaving today and tomorrow anyway. They were just having a last little throw down.”

  “What if they come back before they leave?”

  “We act like construction workers and run them off,” Blake said.

  “The construction guys are all supposed to be gone, too.”

  “Yeah, but you expect kids to know that?” Blake walked over to the bottom of a staircase. The tracks were particularly fresh here, the sand kicked aside as if someone was in a hurry. He saw something small nestled into a corner. He bent
down and picked it up. It was a tiny iPod with a pink case. Inked on the front in small letters were the words “G. Brennan.” Blake frowned, then stuck it in his pocket.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When Sharon came out of the kitchen again, she glanced at the beach. Glory was back, walking fast behind a tall blonde-haired boy. She relaxed, but only slightly. She didn’t like the way she was running after the boy, but at least she was back in plain sight. She carried the trays over to the table, a two-top. She set the plates—a garden salad and a large oyster platter—down in front of the two men sitting there. In the short time they’d been there, she’d mentally dubbed them “The Odd Couple.” One was slender, with thinning sandy hair and a soft English accent. He seemed fastidious and precise; even his khaki slacks were creased perfectly. His table-mate, on the other hand looked like he’d just come from a biker rally; he had shoulder-length black hair and a full beard. Black and green tattoos snaked down both arms. The Englishman had a cell phone out and was looking at it, clearly annoyed.

  “Wont’ get much of a signal here, hon,” she said. Jesus, she thought, couldn’t people be away from their damn phones for a minute, even at the beach? “Too far out.”

  The Englishman snapped the phone shut. He didn’t look at her, but began eating his salad, his eyes fixed on the meal.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” the bearded man said, grinning at Sharon, “and could I get some more tea?”

  She nodded. “Anything for you, sir?” she asked the Englishman. He just shook his head, still not looking at her.

  Well fuck you very much, too, she thought as she headed for the drink station.

  The bearded man, who worked under the name of Barstow, watched her legs as she walked away. “MILF,” he said.