Storm warning, p.3
Storm Warning, page 3
“Is it a piece of paper?”
“Don’t be smart.” She places her hands on the couch cushions and scoots her body to the edge. She’s working hard to stand. “I have something for you.”
I go over, offer her my hands. “Here.”
“Back off, young man. I’m not an invalid. What do you think I do when you’re not here?”
It takes a couple of tries as she rocks her body back and forth, but then she’s up. She wobbles a little, places a hand on my arm. She’s up.
“If an old lady stands up in her apartment, does she make a noise?” she asks with a chuckle.
She crosses the room to the dining table, where she shuffles papers from side to side. How long will I be waiting while she tries to find what she wants to give me?
“Aha.” She lifts a rectangular shirt box that looks like it was gift wrapped by an elf on hallucinogens. “This is your going-away present.” She brings it over to me and taps it with an arthritis-gnarled index finger. “Don’t open it until you’re home.” She winks. “It’s a pajama top. I’ll send you the bottoms after you’ve been home a few weeks.”
“Hazel, your mind’s in the gutter.”
“Okay, it’s not that.” She holds the box out to me. “But you take that with you. I want you to have it.”
The wind rattles her door, shakes the metal hurricane shutters against the building.
I put the poorly wrapped box under my arm. “Thank you, Hazel.”
“It’s going to be bad out there. That storm’s coming in fast.” She looks me in the eye. “You drive safe, you hear?”
“Will you please go with me? I can drive you to a shelter or something.”
Hazel’s mouth opens wide, hangs there for a few long seconds before any words come out. She looks like I’ve slapped her. “Do you know how many of these I’ve been through, young man? On this very island? This is my home. I won’t leave or…or…go to a shelter. Not for a measly November hurricane.”
“Do you have enough food?” I glance toward the kitchen, which looks bare. “Did you get groceries?”
“I’ve got enough. They bring me Meals on Wheels, remember?”
“Not after a hurricane, they don’t.”
“I’ll be fine. There are hot dogs in the freezer.”
“What if you went to a lower floor? You could stay with Dallas until this blows over.”
“You want to put me in that elevator? That thing is an iron coffin. No, I believe I’ll stay here. Come what may.”
“If you’re sure…”
“If I die, I’ll die right here. With my things.”
“Enough paper to build an ark.”
“Don’t be smart, Jacob. If you were my son, well…” She reaches out and pats my cheek, her eyes gazing into mine until they begin to mist. Hazel’s son, Paul, died of cancer shortly after her husband. She almost never talks about him.
She stares at me so long it’s uncomfortable.
“I wish you could meet Jordan and Mackenzie. Maybe we can visit sometime. Mackenzie’s never been to the ocean. We promised her a trip.”
“Sure, but I know you’re not interested in looking back. I understand that.”
“An odd statement from a historian.”
“It’s not advice. It’s merely an observation. Go back, forget the past, focus on the future. Your family. Your new job. Even if it’s not quite what you want.”
“I want to be with them. This is the way it works.”
“Just do me one favor, Jacob: Be careful….”
“I will. The causeway is still clear.”
“And watch out for him. That man…you know, I saw him again. He’s not letting up. He’s controlling this hurricane. He wants it to get me.”
Hazel must have told me about this man at least thirty times in the last six months. She’s also told me her sister—who died in 1958—comes by and cooks spaghetti for Hazel. I never know what to say. Do I try to correct her? Do I just play along?
“Do you remember there were some squatters living in the other buildings? The ones that have been boarded up?”
“Yes, of course. What does that have to do with anything?”
“Maybe that’s who you’ve been seeing: a squatter, not a stalker.”
“You know as well as I do, young man, the police chased them off.”
“A few times, yes. But they come back.”
She jabs her chest with her index finger. “I know what I’m talking about.”
This is a losing argument. And I’m short on time. “I’m sure you do, Hazel. So you know what I’ll do for you? I’ll watch out for everyone and everything that might mean to do me harm. How does that sound?”
“Yes, that’s right. Good boy.” She pats my cheek again. “Now give an old lady a kiss good-bye.”
I move the box out of the way, and she pulls me tight, kissing me on the cheek when she does. Her embrace is surprisingly strong. She smells like hand cream and hot dogs.
When she lets me go, she points to the door. “I mean it, Jacob. Don’t look back.”
Five
5:55 p.m.
The wind buffets me as I take the five flights down to my apartment. It’s even stronger now, making it almost impossible to move.
I slip once on the wet stairs, almost tumble.
What if I came this far—so close to returning to Jordan and Mackenzie—and fell on the stairs and hit my head?
I glance to the elevator, but Dallas and Hazel spooked me about it. So I take my time, step with care through the now-driving rain.
Inside my apartment, my already-packed bags stand just inside the door. I don’t have much. Some clothes. My computer. A few mystery novels. Toiletries. A couple of photos.
It’s all ready to go.
I unzip one of the duffels and move my hand around until I grip the object I’m searching for. It’s round and smooth in my palm. An autographed baseball signed by Chicago Cub Ron Santo. I inherited it from my dad, a native Chicagoan and Cubs fan, when he died fourteen months ago. I’ve never cared much about the Cubs. Or baseball. I keep it only because it makes me think of my dad.
But Dallas does care. He’s a huge Cubs fan, and he eyes the baseball with barely disguised envy every time he visits. If he’s giving me a car—and more importantly, if I’m going to take it—then I want to give him something as well. It’s not an equal trade—no offense, Ron Santo—but it will mean a great deal to Dallas.
My dad’s death knocked something loose in me. Logically, I could accept his death. Parents die before kids. But emotionally…I fell off the beam and never could get myself back on. Jordan recommended therapy. She was right, of course, but I refused to go.
In many ways, Dallas has been more than a friend or a big brother. He’s like a father crossed with a therapist.
I stuff the ball in my pocket, zip the bag.
I pause and take one long look around the apartment. There’s nothing to it. Used furniture. Dingy walls. A musty smell that permeates every unit. I’m thrilled to leave—really thrilled—but I’ll never forget the place.
Even if I never want to set foot in this building ever again.
I grab my bags—one in each hand—and as soon as I step onto the landing, the wind and rain punch me in the face.
I tuck my chin and turn my head to the building as I walk. I don’t even bother to lock the door.
The wind catches me, makes me stumble. I adjust my grip on the bags and start down the stairs, moving as carefully as I can. I don’t have time to slip.
My heart thumps in my chest, jumps into my throat. Anticipation. I’m eager to get back home. Hope fills me to the brim. This is the most hopeful I’ve felt in a long time.
I reach the second-floor walkway, turn right for Dallas’ apartment. The rain blows even harder down here. Dallas’ door is still ajar. His apartment must be a lake by now.
“Dallas?”
I put the bags down, dig in my pocket for the ball as I enter.
“Dallas? You here?”
No answer. A giant fist squeezes my chest. Something is wrong. Very wrong. Despite the wind, the air feels still in the apartment. Heavy.
“Dallas?” I say again, yelling over the wind and crashing waves. A chill runs up my back. I step farther into the room, moving behind the couch.
That’s when I see him.
Face down.
Hat flipped over on the floor.
Blood oozing from the back of his head.
Six
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I drop the ball and fly across the room. The ball thuds and rolls away as I fall to one knee on the floor next to him. What am I supposed to do?
“Dallas? Dallas?”
He’s not moving. At all. The wind continues to blow, sweeping through the apartment and across both of us. A loose palm frond comes through the door on a gust of rain.
I place my hand against the side of his neck, searching for a pulse. His stubbly skin is warm against my fingertips. My CPR training comes back to me. I find the right spot but feel no pulse.
“Shit.”
I try his left wrist, lifting it gently.
I wait, willing a beat below his skin. But nothing comes.
Reality settles over me. My hands start to shake, and then the shake spreads up my arms and into every other part of my body. I’m trembling like one of the trees outside, battered by the storm.
I fall back onto the floor, Dallas’ body next to me.
“No, no. This isn’t possible. No…”
My mind fails to grasp what’s happening. I keep talking, trying to summon a different reality into existence before my eyes.
But as the seconds turn into minutes, I know it can’t be.
He’s dead. Dallas is gone. It’s my fault. If I’d stayed with him…if I’d talked him into leaving the island…
He’d still be alive.
I should have pushed harder. I should’ve done something.
I shiver again. The shiver seems to jostle my mind so that it turns over, shifting from the initial shock to a more logical state. How did this happen? How?
Some kind of debris must have blown in from the outside, gashed his head, knocked him out. Or maybe something fell from the ceiling.
This shitty building is barely standing. The storm must’ve knocked something loose. Hell, maybe Dallas fell trying to reach something.
Or maybe he got shocked trying to fix an electrical problem.
He spent the whole day getting the building ready. Putting the hurricane shutters up. Dragging the outdoor furniture into the parking garage. Maybe he overdid it.
I check the floor around his body, looking for the culprit. A branch that blew in. A chunk of plaster that gave way. A picture frame that came off a shelf.
But there’s nothing. The carpet is threadbare but clean. Dallas fits the stereotype of the fastidious bachelor. I’ve never seen a speck of dust in his apartment. Every dirty dish gets washed and put away immediately.
There’s nothing on the floor near him. Near his body.
Did he fall?
There’s no ladder or stool in sight.
The gash is on the back of his head. If he fell somehow and landed hard enough to tear his skull open, he’d still be on his back. Right? But he’s face down, his bloody wound facing me.
Like he was hit from behind.
Like he was nailed in the back of the head.
With a heavy object.
But the object is gone. And so is the person who did this.
Seven
Dallas was alive and well twenty minutes ago.
Which means the person who did this is very, very close by.
Maybe in the apartment with me.
Hiding.
Waiting—to do what, I don’t know.
I could go out into the storm, into the wind and rain, where the person—or persons—would better be able to hide. Their movements obscured by the poor visibility and the noise of the storm.
Or I could stay inside and call for help.
But I have to make sure I’m alone.
I go straight to the front door of Dallas’ apartment and shut it. The wind is so strong now that I have to push hard to get it shut. I engage the dead bolt and the chain as soon as it’s closed.
Right away it’s much quieter. The only sound is from the wind rattling the front door and the hurricane shutters. A second later, I hear a clock ticking in the kitchen.
My eyes roam over the space before me.
My kingdom for a golf club or a baseball bat.
But the only thing I see is a thick glass triangle, an award the local Kiwanis Club gave Dallas back in 2020. It’s rock-solid and about the size of a hardcover book.
It will have to do.
I heft it in my right hand and move through the small living room. When I get back to Dallas, I pause, trying to convince myself this is all a mistake. Trying to will my friend back to life.
He’s okay.
I was too nervous to detect a pulse.
He fell. Hit his head.
An X-ray, a few stitches, and he’ll be good as new.
But no matter how long I watch him, Dallas doesn’t move. He doesn’t wake up. This isn’t a dream. Or a nightmare. It’s all very, very real.
My mouth and lips are dry enough to crack. There’s water everywhere outside, but I’m dry as a bone.
I leave Dallas and head for the short hallway that goes back to the lone bathroom and bedroom. The bathroom door is halfway open, the light off. I feel like my nine-year-old self, the one who imagined monsters lurking around every corner. Behind every closed door and under every bed.
But the monster who did this is real.
The overactive imagination of my youth has come to life.
No point in hesitating. I spring forward and kick the bathroom door the rest of the way open. I manage to hit the light switch with my free hand as I do it.
The fluorescent lights gleam off spotless white tile. Before I have time to consider, I cross the room and throw the shower curtain open. But there’s nothing there besides Dallas’ immaculate lineup of shampoo, bodywash, and shaving cream.
The room is empty.
I should feel relieved, but I feel nothing of the sort. Instead I feel angry and anxious. I feel rage boiling inside me. Dallas’ bedroom still waits for me down the hall.
I swallow hard before I step out of the bathroom.
The bedroom door is partially open as well. There are no lights on here either. If someone waits inside, they already know I’m heading their way. I’ve made enough noise to alert the whole island.
I listen but hear nothing. My heartbeat thumps in my ears.
I repeat the same ninja routine: jump into the room, flip the light switch. Again, there is no one here, but…
The room has been ransacked.
Every dresser drawer is open, its contents spilled on the floor like litter. The closet door hangs wide, clothes and boxes and shoes vomiting onto the carpet. The bedclothes are thrown back. No way a guy as fastidious as Dallas doesn’t make the bed every day.
A robbery? In the middle of a hurricane?
Looting usually happens after the storm, not during. The vultures wait until the power’s out, the residents gone, their homes trashed and vulnerable.
Did someone get greedy and jump the gun?
But why this place? Where no one has anything of value?
Could it have been one of the squatters who did this?
I need to call for help. The police need to find whoever did this. Before they get off the island.
Before they hurt one of the other tenants.
My hand is shaking when I slide my phone out of my pocket. I put the award down gently on the dresser. Maybe Dallas’ sister will want it.
Someone will have to tell Dallas’ sister. Shit! All their plans…
I dial 9-1-1 but nothing happens. Nothing.
I try again.
And again.
Nothing.
Service on the island is spotty at the best of times. My phone almost never works when I’m in my bedroom. I walk quickly back to Dallas’ living room, hold the phone in the air like an offering to the sky, and try again.
Still nothing.
I decide to risk the walkway. I open the door a crack and look both ways before stepping outside. The blowing rain stings my face like thousands of tiny needles. The roof over the walkway offers some protection, but right now the rain is coming down sideways, nearly parallel to the floor.
I look over my shoulder, making sure I’m not being watched. But no one is there. The call fails again.
And again.
And again.
“Shit,” I say, louder than I intend. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I have no choice.
Someone has to go to the mainland.
And I’m the only one here to do it.
Eight
“Jake?” a voice calls out to me.
I nearly jump off the landing.
“What are you doing, Jake?” The voice gets closer, from the right. Rain splats into my eyes, obscuring my vision.
“Alaina?”
She’s one of only two other tenants—besides Dallas—on the second floor. I know more about her than I should. Dallas tells me way too much of our neighbors’ business.
For example, Alaina hasn’t paid her rent in six months—the whole time I’ve lived here. Dallas granted her extension after extension. He has—had—a soft touch, and Alaina took advantage of that.
“What are you doing out here in this awful storm?” she asks.
Alaina’s only twenty-one, nearly twenty years younger than I am. In fact, she’s closer in age to Mackenzie than to me, and maybe that’s why I’ve always felt…“sorry” isn’t the right word. Worried? Concerned? I’ve always felt concerned for her.
