by Sharon Sala
She was still at it a couple of hours later when the lights suddenly flickered. She glanced up, surprised to see that it had gotten dark outside. When she saw lightning, she shivered. All of her life she’d been afraid of storms. She went to the windows to look out. The sky was black; there were no stars. She heard thunder rumbling overhead and then jumped when a shaft of lightning struck nearby, rattling the window. More lightning split the darkness, tearing across the heavens like a quicksilver spark, gone as quickly as it had appeared.
“Are you okay?”
She jumped. Wade was right behind her, and she hadn’t heard him come in.
“I’m fine. Are storms predicted tonight?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Crap,” Jo muttered.
“You want some dinner? We’re going to go down to the restaurant.”
She glanced toward her computer. “I should keep working.”
“You have to eat sometime,” he said. “Take a break and come back with fresh eyes.”
She hesitated. It would be amazing to just sit down and share a meal with him again.
“Yes, I guess you’re right,” she said. “Give me a couple of minutes to wash up and I’ll be right there.”
“Take your time. We won’t leave you behind,” he said, and walked out.
Jo stumbled as she moved to save her work and shut down her computer. Her hands were shaking as she typed in the codes. She’d left him behind without a backward glance.
Damn.
Damn it all to hell.
* * *
The storm hit just as they finished ordering. The thunder was loud, the lightning louder still, flashing like a disco ball across the sky. When the rain began to hammer against the windows behind her, she flinched.
Wade put a hand on her arm before he thought.
“Easy, Jolene, it’s just rain.”
The lump in her throat was instantaneous. She knew she should say something, but all she could remember was lying in his arms as he whispered those same words in her ear.
She managed a slight laugh. “I can face down the bad guys and outshoot almost anyone on the shooting range, but I’m scared of storms and flying in airplanes. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
“I don’t like snakes,” Tate said.
“To this day I don’t like clowns,” Cameron offered.
“The only thing that makes me shake in my boots is you, Jolene. I was afraid to make you mad when we were married, and I’m still afraid,” Wade said, and then was shocked by what he’d revealed.
She couldn’t believe what he’d just said. “You aren’t serious.”
“Well, at the risk of making myself look like a bigger ass than usual in front of my partners here, I’m serious as a heart attack.”
She was stunned. “But why?”
“Remember that Valentine’s Day when I snuck into the apartment to surprise you and you knocked me cold?”
She frowned. “You were supposed to be in L.A. I thought you were a burglar.”
“You laid me out with a single blow I never saw coming and broke sixty bucks’ worth of roses,” he said.
Tate grinned. “Wade is—was—our best agent at hand-to-hand combat. Now I’m scared of you, too.”
Cameron laughed.
She glared.
Without realizing Wade had changed the subject to divert her focus on the storm, she relaxed.
* * *
It was almost midnight when Hershel arrived in St. Louis, Missouri. He’d had the radio on throughout the drive and realized that for the first time ever he was in the path of a storm with nowhere to go. He knew the thunderstorm was severe and moving in his direction. Even though he’d stayed on I-44, without daylight to help him find some kind of campsite he’d been forced to keep driving. Now he was in an unfamiliar city with a storm on his ass.
He was going to have to find a place to ride it out, which meant taking a chance on a motel or spending the night in his truck. Worried, he drove up one street and down another while the thunder and lightning came closer.
All he needed was some out-of-the-way no-tell motel and a little luck. Several times he started to pull into one and stop, and each time was deterred by either a cop car patrolling the area, a drug deal going down or prostitutes trolling for johns. He needed a place that was low profile, not something with a waiting line, so he kept driving.
When it began to sprinkle he turned on the windshield wipers. Within a few minutes the rain got heavier and heavier, and the wind began to whine. When the rain suddenly changed to hail, it was so startling that he almost swerved into oncoming traffic.
“That settles it,” he muttered, and wheeled into the parking lot of the next motel he came to. The power was flickering on and off as he braked to a sliding halt outside the office.
He was wearing the gray curly wig and mustache again, and when he jumped out on the run he was immediately pelted with golf-ball-sized hail. Wind caught the motel door as he ran inside and slammed it hard against the inner wall before he could push it shut.
“Wow, that shit is sure coming down!” the clerk said.
“I need a room,” Hershel said quickly. “How much?”
“Twenty-five dollars for the night,” the clerk said.
Hershel slapped the money on the counter. The clerk shoved a key in his hand.
“Last room at the end of this building. Don’t call me about the leaky faucet. I already know about it.”
When Hershel started to run back out the door, the clerk suddenly called out, “Hey! Stop!”
Hershel cringed.
“I need to see your driver’s license, and you didn’t sign the register,” the clerk said.
“Seriously, man? We’re about to blow away here,” Hershel said, ducking his head as he signed the register. Then he flew out the door, anxious to get into his room before it got any worse.
“Hey, I need to see your license!” the clerk yelled, but Hershel just kept going.
The clerk looked at the register and rolled his eyes. “Johnny Come Lately. That’s a good one,” he said, and then jumped and cursed when something blew against his door.
He flipped on the no-occupancy sign, locked the front door and headed for his apartment down the hall.
Hershel’s windshield wipers were useless against the onslaught of hail, and he turned them off so they wouldn’t get broken. The building was a blur through the wind and hail as he drove down to the room at the end. He was in something of a panic, trying to think of everything he should take inside in case something happened. What did he need that he couldn’t live without? He definitely needed his wallet, his disguises and some food. He was hungry and could eat while he rode out the storm. He threw some of the food into his duffel bag, grabbed his big suitcase and jumped out.
The hail hit him on the head, in the face, on the nose, in both eyes. His nose began to bleed before he got inside. By the time he got into the room he was shaking.
He locked the door behind him, slung his things on the bed and turned on the TV to check the weather. Just as the television came on, he began hearing sirens. His heart skipped a beat as he struggled to find a local station. Within seconds of locating a broadcast, he realized they were telling people to take cover.
His heart skipped another beat and then began to pound. This was the real deal, and he had nowhere to hide. He remembered the survivors he’d found and where they’d been hiding: one in a closet, some in bathtubs, under stairs… He threw his suitcase onto the shelf, made sure his wallet and car keys were deep in his pocket, and crawled into the closet and closed the door. He was curled up in the corner with his duffel bag on his lap. When the wail of the wind turned into a roar, he knew this was bad. He’d seen too many aftermath scenes to not be afraid.
“God, oh, God, please don’t let me die,” Hershel prayed. “Please spare me. Please, God, please.”
I thought you were mad at God, and now here you are begging Him for protection? You are a selfish bastard, Hershel Inman. Think about how you feel. Hear that roar? Feel the walls beginning to shake? Hear that ripping sound? It’s the roof. This is how scared all those people were that you killed. Think how happy they must have been when they lived through it, and then you came along and took their lives. You’re going to die, and it’s exactly what you deserve.
“Not now, Louise! For God’s sake, not now!” Hershel screamed.
Yes, now, Hershel. Now!
The walls were pushing in on him, and then he heard a loud sucking sound, as if all the oxygen was caught in an outflow, followed by a whine that pulled the breath from his body. He heard a rumble so loud it made the floor shake beneath him, and then the sound of a freight train that seemed to be coming through his room. His mouth was open. In his head he was screaming, but in reality he had no breath left for sound.
All of a sudden the roof was gone and he was being pelted with both rain and debris. He grabbed the bag from his lap and put it over his head. Suddenly his face was on fire, like he’d been shot with a load of bird shot. Then something fell on top of him and everything went black.
* * *
“Mister! Mister! Are you okay?”
Hershel groaned. Someone was tugging on his arm, and his body was one giant ache. He groaned again as he tried to move, only to realize something was pinning him down.
“Help me,” he whispered.
“He’s alive!” someone yelled.
Hershel passed out again, and the next time he came to, rain was falling in his face. He was cold and in pain, so much pain. Then he felt something warm suddenly run between his legs and realized he’d just peed his pants. He heard shouting and turned his head to look, only to realize he was lying on the ground next to two other people, both of whom were dead.
“Shit, oh, shit,” he moaned again, and this time he ignored the pain and crawled to his knees.
There was chaos everywhere. People were running and shouting. Power lines were down somewhere close by, because he could hear electricity arcing. He looked around for the motel, but there was nothing but debris as far as he could see. He needed to find his pickup, and then wondered if he still had the keys. He checked his pocket and breathed easier when he felt them, then felt his wallet there, as well.
He tried to get up, then staggered and dropped back to his knees. He needed to find that closet. He needed his duffel bag. Where the fuck was his duffel bag?
It was still raining, but the wind was gone. He didn’t know he was crying until he choked on a sob.
I should tell you it’s no more than you deserve, but I won’t. I still love you, Hershel, and I’m sorry that you’re hurt.
“I can’t find my things, Louise. I need my bag. Do you see my bag?”
Look at where you were lying. It was underneath your head.
He looked back, saw it on the ground and swung it up into his arms, clutching it to his chest with both hands.
“My stuff. I found my stuff. Thank you, Louise. Thank you,” he sobbed. “I need my truck. I need to find my truck.”
He made a three-sixty-degree turn, assessing the area and looking for some kind of landmark to tell him where he was. He saw part of the motel sign hanging precariously from a pole and realized they had carried his body to the other side of the street. Part of the motel roof was on top of a vehicle, and when he recognized the taillight, he realized it was on his truck.
“My truck. I see my truck,” he mumbled, and staggered into the street.
Three men in hardhats were walking down the street ahead of a city bucket truck. They stopped every few feet to pull debris out of the way so the truck could keep moving.
He stumbled into their path, waving his arms.
“Help me,” he said, pointing to his truck. “Help me get the roof off my truck.”
One of the men took him by the arm. “Look, man! You’ve been hurt. You’re bleeding all over the place.”
“Please!” Hershel begged. “I just need my truck.”
“What the hell,” the man said, and waved the other workers over. “Come on, guys. Let’s get that roof off this man’s truck.”
“Stand back, mister,” a second man said.
Hershel stepped aside and held his breath, praying the truck was still in one piece.
The men grabbed the edges of the roof, lifted it once to get a good grip, then lifted again and began walking backward until it was off.
Hershel ran forward, looked into the truck bed and was stunned that the generator was still there, although it was evident that it had shifted. He had packed things so that his tent and equipment were up against the truck cab, and then he’d shoved the generator against them to keep them from sliding around. Now the generator was on top of the tent and nearly everything else was gone. The top of the cab was banged up, the windshield had been cracked by the hail, and the dents in the body were large and numerous, but if he could open a door, he could get inside.
“There you go, mister,” a crew member said. “Hope it starts for you.”
“Thank you,” Hershel said as they walked away.
He used the remote to unlock the door, but when he reached for the handle and tried to open it, it was stuck. He tried again and again, but without any luck.
“Come on, come on, damn it,” he muttered, as he circled the truck to try the other side.
He was in so much pain he was sick to his stomach and his head was spinning. It felt like it had before, when the boat he’d been in had exploded. He probably had another concussion and wondered how many concussions a human brain could sustain before it turned into mush. After two fruitless tries at the passenger door, he rested a moment and then tried again. Suddenly it opened with a pop and a loud creak. He whooped his delight, then winced at the pain stabbing through his jaw and touched his face. It felt ragged. What the hell had happened to him now?
He heard a siren, and when he saw the flashing red-and-blue lights of a cop car, he got out his keys and crawled into the truck. It took two more tries to get the door shut, but the sudden silence and welcome shelter were a huge relief. However, once he was inside, he then realized how badly his skin was burning and reached for the rearview mirror. When he saw what had happened to him now, he gasped. Part of his skin looked like it had been peeled off, while other places were black and pockmarked. When he ran his fingers along the surface, he realized debris was imbedded beneath. This wasn’t good. He was going to have to take a chance and go to an emergency room or die of infection later.
He took a deep breath, stuck the key in the ignition and gave it a turn. When the engine immediately fired, he began to cry from sheer relief. He put the truck in Reverse, backed up just enough to turn the wheels toward the street, and then drove off into the dark.
* * *
Jo woke up needing to go to the bathroom, and then when she went back to bed she couldn’t get back to sleep. The storm had long since passed through, but she was still on edge and decided to check the weather. She sat up in bed and reached for the remote to find out what, if anything, they would be facing come daylight.
It didn’t take long to find coverage and learn that the thunderstorm that came through Tulsa had not only built in power as it moved into Missouri, but that by the time it hit St. Louis it had dropped a tornado measuring out as an F4 right into the city. She leaped from the bed, ran through the conference room, past the living room and down the hall to the bedrooms, where she began knocking on doors.
“Guys! Guys! Wake up!”
Wade came flying out of his room in a pair of gym shorts. Tate came out in a hotel robe, and Cameron had on a pair of sweats.
Okay, she thought. So they all slept in the nude and had grabbed the first thing they could find.
“What the hell’s going on?” Wade asked.
“St. Louis took a direct hit. F4 tornado. It’s a mess,” she said.
Tate’s eyes widened.
Wade ran for the living room television and quickly turned it on.
“What channel?” he asked.
She grabbed the remote, found the channel and then upped the volume as a local St. Louis reporter broadcast live from the scene.
“Dear God,” Cameron muttered.
Wade sat down on the arm of the sofa as Tate watched from where he was standing.
Jo knew how long they’d been working this case and she’d read all the files, but unlike them, she’d never experienced the devastation of weather-related tragedies firsthand. They’d seen the bodies, the families in complete despair, businesses ruined and lives forever changed. And now it was happening all over again—almost certainly with the addition of a madman.
“What do we do next?” Jo asked.
Tate looked up at the clock. It would be daylight in a couple of hours.
“Get packed. I want to be on the road before daylight. It’s a long drive across Missouri to get to St. Louis. I just hope to God that Hershel Inman isn’t already on the hunt.”
* * *
Hershel drove until he found a hospital, parked as close to the E.R. entrance as he could and got out, locking his vehicle behind him. He was in so much pain he was shaking as he stumbled inside.
“I need help,” he said to the first nurse he saw.
She took him by the arm and quickly led him into an examining room, while a lady from the front desk followed with a clipboard in her hand.
“Lie down here,” she said, and when she pulled out a pair of scissors, Hershel balked.