“I know Faka Key well,” Troy said. “Camped there a few times.”
“I could get everyone off and we go sit up on that hill and hang on for dear life. Probably lose the boat, though. Your call.”
“My call is that we save people, not fiberglass. I can send someone out after the storm blows over, get you off that island.”
Bubba nodded. “I’ll need one other good man, though, help me when the going gets hairy. Best would be Les Groud.”
Troy called Lester Groud. The mayor was on the other side of the building, supervising everyone. Troy explained things.
“I can’t do it,” Lester said. “I have to stay here and be in charge.”
“Thought you might say that. Thought I’d call anyway. If not you, who? Besides you and Bubba Johns, who’s the next best boatman around here?”
“You’re gonna hate the answer.”
“Why? Who is it?”
“None other than Paul Ronson, commodore of the Osprey Yacht Club. He dresses like Little Lord Fauntleroy but that guy can thread a needle with a power boat.”
Troy was silent a long moment.
“You gonna call him?” Groud asked. “Want me to do it?”
“I’ll do it. I was just feeling around for my humble hat.”
Groud hung up. Troy called the yacht club and eventually got Ronson. He explained things for the third time now. He waited for the snide remarks. There was a long silence while Ronson thought it over. “Bubba’s there with you?” Ronson said finally.
“Yes.”
“He’s a good man. Let me talk to him.”
Troy handed the phone to Bubba. Bubba talked to Ronson. He hung up the phone and looked at Troy. “He didn’t even ask questions. Said he’ll meet me at the boat. He knows it’s at the Snake Key boatyard.”
“I’ll be damned.”
Bubba grinned. “You owe a dollar. I gotta go. Quicker the better. I’ll get someone to run me over to Snake Key. If I can keep the boat together I can use the police radio. It’s actually the second strongest after the base station. If you lose me, check for us on Faka Key.”
“And if you don’t make it to the stranded people, or make it there and don’t make it onwards to Faka Key?”
“Well, we got those orange life jackets. All they’re much use for is making it easier to spot the bodies up in the trees.”
Troy reached across the desk. “Good hunting,” he said and put out his hand. Bubba shook it and left.
Chapter 39
Wednesday, July 31
By midnight the wind was a high screech and the rain came at an angle like a hail of small bullets. The palms were bent half over, oaks were raining leaves and limbs all over town and asphalt-shingle roofs were shedding shingles like some giant hand spraying playing cards into the air. Most buildings in town were concrete block with metal roofs and sturdy enough to withstand this assault so long as the windows didn’t give way. Every window in town seemed to be boarded up. As it had done so often in the past, the town of Mangrove Bayou hunkered down on its knees and patiently rode the whirlwind. They would count their losses later.
The residents who had wanted to leave had left. Troy could only hope they had also gotten far enough north on U.S. 41 to be safe, preferably at least to Naples. Another hundred or so were upstairs sleeping on air mattresses or whatever they had the sense to bring with them to the shelter. Many residents were just waiting it out in their homes. Those tourists who had refused to evacuate, and had just laughed and opened more beer, were starting to realize what a terrible mistake they had made. Too bad now, Troy knew. No one could take a car out in this.
Troy supposed the wind was blowing around eighty knots but he didn’t have any way to check locally. The eye wall was coming ashore south of them over the Everglades National Park. They had caught a break there; it was better to be on the north side than the south side of the eye. The Everglades presented almost no obstacle whatever to a hurricane, being, for all practical purposes, just more warm water. Still, by the time that Donald made its way across to exit somewhere around Palm Beach, it would be reduced to a tropical storm.
He went into the break room to get some coffee. Cilla Dowling was sitting there, alone, typing something into a laptop computer. For once she wasn’t dressing sexy. She wore jeans and a denim shirt. There was a blue full-length raincoat draped over the next chair.
“Why aren’t you upstairs with the other civilians?” Troy asked. He poured some coffee and sat opposite her.
“No news up there. This is where it’s happening. Here or in the town hall. Lucky you guys have a connecting inner door. Besides, you got hot coffee. Or you do now that I made some.”
“Appreciate that. How many of these things have you been through? And why aren’t you standing outside in front of a television camera acting stupid.”
“Aren’t those people funny?” Dowling said. “I keep hoping a passing roof tile will knock one’s head off. Put an end to that nonsense. Been through a few of these. I was still at Reuters when Andrew blew away half of Coral Gables and all of Florida City and Homestead. That one hit Cat Five just as it came ashore. It actually blew the radar and wind speed gauge off the roof of the National Hurricane Center.”
“Heard about Andrew. I wasn’t here back then. What was that like?”
“Our office was in a building on Brickell, next to the waterfront, south of the Miami river. High up. After the storm hit I recall watching a line of Navy ships anchored offshore. The harbor was wrecked. There was a steady line of helicopters coming off the ships and heading inshore with supplies, and another line of empties heading back out to the ships. I remember thinking that I had seen this on the news before, the U.S. Navy to the rescue. But that was always in some poor downtrodden foreign country. We in the office were living on potato chips and bottled water and sleeping on the office floor.”
Troy nodded and sipped coffee. “Pretty much like now.”
“Not quite. After the storm passed I went out to do stories. Miami was torn up, but down south of Miami everything was flattened. Tallest things in some neighborhoods were the people walking around. Looked like those photos you see of Hiroshima. They spray-painted the street names on the asphalt at the intersections so rescuers and insurance people could find the properties.”
“Always wondered,” Troy said. “Drove through Homestead a few times on my way out to Flamingo in the south end of the Everglades National Park.”
“I know Flamingo.” Dowling said.
“Yes. Well it took me a while to notice, but all the buildings in Homestead were the same age. Once I did notice, and paid more attention, it was quite striking. That’s just weird for a town.”
“They’re all built post-Andrew, is what you’re saying.”
“Yes. Of course more have been built since and it’s not so obvious now, but none predate Hurricane Andrew. Hope this one won’t be so bad.”
Dowling shook her head. “It won’t be. Cat One is no biggie, as hurricanes go. So what’s the story with the guy back in the cell?”
“Norris Compton. He got drunk and disorderly at the wrong time.”
“Way I heard, you had half the department out trying to round him up. That sounds more serious. Sounds like a story to me.”
Troy rubbed his eyes. He drank more coffee. “Cilla, do me a favor. Write about something else for a day or so. Let me think about what to do with Norris Compton. Keep it low key as long as you can.”
“Keeping news low key is not what we journalists like to do. It’s called news, not olds. You might need to give me a stronger story to run with instead.”
“Well, the night is young. Maybe this building will blow over.”
Chapter 40
Wednesday, July 31
Troy went back to his office. He couldn’t look out the windows because someone had fastened metal storm shutters over them. He sat at his desk and tried to find something useful to do. The wind set his nerves on edge. It was an unholy shriek, never for
gotten by anyone who had lived through a hurricane. It varied only a little and was like having to listen to a thousand fingers dragging their nails down a blackboard for hour after hour after hour. Over the wind Troy could hear the rain hitting the storm shutters, like someone firing a shotgun full of marbles at a steel trash can. Occasional strange bangings and thumps told of objects tumbling against the building or, worse, objects being blown off the roof. Troy had been through others previously. It made sleep impossible. Troy tried to get some rest anyway, lying on the floor to one side of his desk in his office. Another dozen people used the bunks and the floors of the jail cells. There were many more, he knew, upstairs in the town hall meeting room.
Outside there was no traffic. The streets were twelve-inch sheets of running water and cars could no longer get around. Many residents had pickup trucks that could still venture out, and the police Suburbans were able to handle the water so long as his drivers could keep the high-windage trucks from getting blown off the roads sideways.
The phones were mostly silent now and Juan Valdez was out front handling the calls. The power went off suddenly, plunging the police station and entire town into darkness. Here in the town hall they had emergency battery-powered lights that came on in a few seconds. Shortly after, though, the regular lights came back. The two public works employees out on lonely duty on Government Key had kicked in the emergency backup generator. That unit was the size of a semi trailer and stupendously loud when running, yet Troy couldn’t hear it at all over the shrieking wind. It only supplied power to some selected buildings in town; there was a separate grid for that. Everyone else still sheltering in their homes or businesses was left with candles and flashlights unless they happened to own their own portable generators. Many did. Troy hoped nobody was dumb enough to run a generator inside their house, or tip over a candle. The fire department was not going to be putting out any fires tonight.
The radio squawked. Troy struggled to sit up and reach for his radio on his desk. He thought that maybe he had actually been asleep but he couldn’t tell. He heard Juan answering the radio. He lay back down and closed his eyes. Later, it could have been an hour or ten minutes, Milo Binder shook him awake. Troy sat up.
“Wanda’s gone,” Milo said.
“Where? Why?”
“She was staying here with us. In the back. I was out on patrol. Came back in, we’re swapping off every hour because it’s so hard to handle the trucks out there.”
“Yeah. I authorized that.”
“Looked for her when I came in. She’s not here. Her car’s not where she left it on the side street.”
Troy stood up. “She can’t go far in this weather in that car. Where would she go anyway?”
“My guess? Back to her trailer to see if she could salvage anything.”
“Are either of the Suburbans here right now?” Troy started assembling himself for duty. He didn’t bother with his foul-weather gear. He would get just as wet regardless.
“One I came in with is still there. I think Angel was going to take it out in a few.”
“We’ll use that. Tell her to stay here.”
“OK, Chief.”
They drove to the Snake Key bridge, Milo driving slowly and fighting the wheel all the way, then across the low bridge. That was the worst; the wind had no obstruction and they crossed the bridge at nearly a 45-degree angle. At one point they banged a fender on the concrete bridge rail. “Sorry, Chief,” Milo said.
“Don’t sweat it. You’re doing great. Better than I could.”
On the other side they followed Perimeter Road, which actually looped entirely around Snake Key. Here the property lots were smaller and houses were a mixture of concrete block and trailers.
Barron Key had seen scattered damage and debris in the roads and yards. Snake Key looked as if God had emptied a Dumpster over it. Milo now had to try to not run over mysterious things in the street that could contain nails or screws or just get jammed up underneath the truck. Troy knew he could not always succeed and hoped the heavy-duty tires would hold up long enough. They drove on, the red-and-blue flashers lighting up the heavy rain and reflecting off the buildings around them.
Near the Guide Club on the north end of the island they came upon Wanda Frister’s car, abandoned in the center of the street. Milo waited beside it while Troy got out and checked. It was unlocked and there was no one inside and no keys in the ignition. He had a hard time just standing and hanging onto the car or the Suburban. He finally climbed back in beside Milo and shook his head. They drove on. It was almost high tide and the surge and tide together were now almost two feet deep on the island. Troy could feel even the heavy Suburban trying to float occasionally.
They turned a corner and drove slowly south down one of the internal streets. Ahead they saw Wanda Frister’s trailer on a large lot. Billy Poteet’s red pickup truck was parked in the yard. The trailer was rocking in the wind. If that kept up long enough, the tie-down straps would fail and the trailer would turn into a flying cloud of aluminum and plywood shrapnel in less than a minute.
In the headlights they saw Wanda run out of the trailer door, naked, and towards their flashing lights. Billy Poteet, wearing a shirt only, ran out behind her. The wind knocked them both down in the knee-deep water but Billy crawled to Wanda and grabbed her with a left arm. He had a handgun in his right hand. Wanda was screaming.
Milo stopped the truck and got out to crouch beside the truck and behind the door. Troy couldn’t open his door. The wind was on that side and he gave it up. He squirmed over the front seat and got out the driver side. He and stepped a few yards away from the truck. The wind was terrific but the storm had come onshore now and was past them and the force would be lessening slowly. Milo had his Glock out. “Let her go,” he shouted.
“Like hell. She’s my bitch, not yours,” Billy shouted. He struggled to his feet, dragging Wanda up with him, holding her as a shield. He aimed the handgun and fired a shot that hit the front of the Suburban with a faint clank, muffled in the wind.
“Sonavabitch,” Milo said. “I can’t shoot back.”
“I can. Trust me on this, Officer Binder. Keep him talking, distracted.” Troy scrambled through the water, working his way to the upwind side, drawing his Colt as he did so. It was like running in molasses. Or in a dream. He needed a better angle. He couldn’t believe this was happening again. Well, been a short career here in Mangrove Bayou, he thought.
Behind him he heard Milo tell Billy to drop the gun. There was another shot and a headlight went out on the Suburban. Troy kept moving, slowly. Billy was looking at bright lights and his night vision would be gone.
Billy did eventually see Troy off to one side. He turned, keeping Wanda between him and Troy, crouching down behind her, and opened fire. Troy had no cover at all. He dropped to his knees and then sat down. Sitting, the water was almost at his armpits. He was now directly upwind of Billy. The hard, screaming wind was at his back but at least now he could hold the gun steady and windage would be less of a factor on any shot he might take. He aimed but saw no chance. All he could see was Wanda and a sliver of Billy’s right ear and one eye over the top of Billy’s gun barrel.
The man clutched his ex-wife tight, her back against his chest, his left arm around her under her breasts, his right hand holding the hunting knife to her neck. He looked at the other officers and then sideways at Troy. Troy had his Glock lined up on the man’s right ear, about the only thing he could clearly see behind the terrified woman. “I came this far,” the man said. “I’ll take it all the way.”
Suddenly Troy was seeing the man’s right eye and part of his skull over the top of the sights on the Glock. Troy started to squeeze the trigger.
Troy shook his head to clear his thoughts and looked to his front. Billy was shooting now, but he was trying to crouch and lean into the wind and hold Wanda in front of him too, and the wind and stinging rain were straight into his face. It was statistically improbable that he could hit anything under tho
se conditions, Troy knew. Troy couldn’t even hear Billy’s gun when he fired, he only saw the muzzle flashes. Wanda was crying, to judge by her facial expression, but Troy couldn’t hear her.
Troy had no idea where the bullets were going. Still, having a man shooting at you was unsettling. Training kicked in. Focus on improving the situation, not on how scared you are. Fear only gets in the way. Do the job. He braced his left arm on his knee and lined his front sight, with the glowing yellow tritium dot, up on Wanda’s right forehead. He lined up the two glowing green rear sights until they were perfectly aligned to either side of the yellow dot. He mentally calculated the range and angled the barrel up a tiny fraction. The wind made it hard to hold that but this was something he practiced every week. Hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars in bullets to come down to this. He heard several shots from Milo and wondered what Milo was shooting at.
Billy half-turned to shoot again at Milo. “I’m not going back to no jail,” Billy shouted. Suddenly Troy saw that Wanda’s head was next to Billy’s but no longer in front of it. That was why Milo had fired, he realized, to distract Billy and give Troy a shot. He shifted aim a fraction only and squeezed the trigger. Just squeeze, he told himself. Don’t jerk. Let it surprise you. Smooooth.
“I can’t have her, nobody can,” Billy shouted and he pressed his gun against Wanda’s head. Troy had a split-second thought. Head shot. Only thing that will stop him quick enough. Take out the nervous system and he won’t pull the trigger.
The Colt barked once, faint in the wind noise, and kicked up. The flash momentarily blinded him because he had forgotten to close his left eye. He realigned the gun but realized that Billy was on the ground and Wanda was screaming again. Milo crawled to Wanda. Troy just sat and stared. Finally he got to his knees and put the safety on and the gun back into its holster. He crawled downwind to Milo and Wanda.
Billy was dead, the right side of his head blown away by a passing .45-caliber, 230-grain jacketed hollow-point traveling, at that distance, still well over 800 feet per second, practically a slow walk in bullet terms but the .45 relied on mass more than velocity. After hitting bone, the Hydra-Shok bullet would have expanded to more than three-quarters of an inch. Well, Cilla, Troy thought, now you have a better story. Milo wrapped Wanda in his arms. She had a lot of Billy’s blood and some other parts on her bare right shoulder but the rain was already washing it away. Troy picked up Billy’s gun. It was an oddball semiautomatic Billy had likely bought out of someone’s trunk in Naples. It had a double-stack magazine that still had five 9-millimeter rounds left in it. Still on his knees, Troy put the magazine into a pocket and worked the slide to get out the one round still in the chamber.
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