Storm warning, p.5
Storm Warning, page 5
Two headlights.
Another car.
Someone is driving across the causeway. Toward the island. Toward me.
“The fuck?”
Maybe it’s the cops. Maybe someone in my building called for help. Alaina?
Help is on the way. The pounding in my chest eases.
If it’s the cops, I can just keep going, drive right on past the police station and on out to the turnpike. Beat the storm. Start for Ohio.
Everyone will be fine. The cops will straighten the mess out, maybe even get Hazel and some of the others off the island. I slow more. I want to get a good look at the vehicle when it passes. I want to make sure it’s a cop’s.
The car moves toward me at a low speed—maybe twenty miles an hour. Not the way a cop would drive.
No sirens. No lights. Nothing indicating it’s an emergency vehicle.
When it’s right in front of me, I squint into the headlights. The high beams.
It’s a small car, nothing at all like the vehicles cops drive. I can’t see the driver, but the dashboard lights reveal the faint outlines of two people.
Just two regular people heading out to the island.
In the middle of a hurricane.
On a crumbling causeway.
I have a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. Are they working with the killer?
Are they going to help him get off the island?
Should I turn around and go after them?
No. I shouldn’t. I should keep going. Cross the causeway. Get to the police station. Tell the cops how bad the situation is—how there may be a whole group of people on the island, looting.
And they’ve already killed one person.
Who or what will be next?
Even with a Category 3 hurricane coming for us, and even with everything else going on, that should be enough to get the cops to check things out.
I wipe a hand across my sweaty forehead, squeeze the wheel tighter, and keep going.
Twelve
The first traffic light on the mainland blinks red, dancing on the wire like a bizarre marionette buffeted by the wind.
No other cars are out. The soaked streets are littered only with blowing garbage and palm fronds.
It takes a few minutes to reach the parking lot of the Hammond Point Police Station. It’s a new building—painted white, topped with a gray metal roof, and fronted by a long Key West–style porch. It looks more like a designer home than like a law enforcement office. There’s money to burn in Hammond Point.
I fly into the spot next to the lone cruiser, brace myself for the onslaught of rain. I dash to the building, head ducked, feet wetter than I could ever imagine. Water sluicing down my neck.
On the porch, I shake myself off like a wet dog. The building’s hurricane shutters are all in place, making it look like a fortress. A well-appointed fortress with clean lines.
In the reception area, a single cop stands behind a chest-high counter, talking into a radio. She wears the Hammond Point Police uniform—crisp navy blue shirt, gleaming badge. Her hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail.
“South side. No, the south side. On Highway One. Right—someone was trapped by high water near the back of the Dollar Tree…. No, I don’t know how deep the water is. Can you just check on it? And be safe.” She rolls her eyes as she puts the radio down. She checks me out, her brow wrinkling. “Are you okay, sir? Do you need help with something?”
The radio crackles, a muffled voice. The officer presses a button, muting it. A computer chimes in some distant corner of the building.
“I—” I hesitate. How do I say it? “Someone was murdered. Out on Ketchum Island.”
The officer’s eyes widen the tiniest bit. She reaches down, grabs a spiral notebook and a pen, both of which she tosses on top of the counter. “I’m Sergeant Fernandez. Can you tell me what happened?”
I step all the way up to the counter, leaving a trail of water on the faux hardwood floors. I give Sgt. Fernandez my name and a summary of events—from the time I drove onto the island until I left again. I include the shadowy figure I saw running away from the building as I drove off.
Fernandez listens patiently, taking notes as I go. When I’m finished, she says, “And you seem pretty certain this man—this Dallas Bryant—really is dead?”
“He’s dead.”
“I ask because sometimes people see someone with an injury or someone unconscious—”
“Trust me. He’s dead.”
Fernandez nods. “And you think it was a looter who did this. Because the apartment was ransacked. Maybe a looter came out to the island, thinking the place was deserted, but stumbled upon Mr. Bryant and killed him. Then ran off into the night.”
“That’s right. But I’m just guessing. You may remember we’ve had some squatters in the two abandoned buildings on the island. You all came out and chased them off.”
“More than once, I believe.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“But, as I recall, none of them were violent.” She nods at her notebook. “Did Mr. Bryant have any enemies? Anyone who might have wanted to harm him?”
“Well, he’s the building manager….”
“Does he collect rent?”
“He does.”
“Is there anyone not paying?”
“A number of people in the building struggle financially. Folks out there are just scraping by. Social Security. Fixed pensions. Disability. If they were rich, they’d be somewhere else.”
“I get it, Mr. Powell. I do. But if there’s someone specific who you think might want to hurt Mr. Bryant, it would help with the investigation…. Anyone spring to mind?”
Alaina’s name sticks in my throat. “I can’t think of anyone.”
“You sure? Because it seems like someone popped into your head.”
I’m shocked to hear her say this. I try to make my face blank before I go on. “Dallas has run that building for years. There are always people he has to come down on. Threaten with eviction. But, look, here’s the thing, Sergeant. He’s…he’s just a really decent person. That’s the thing you have to understand. He’s a decent guy. He looks out for everyone. And they all love him for it. Even the ones who struggle with their rent.”
“Right. Sure.”
“He has butted heads with the owners of the building. The current owners. See, the building’s in really bad shape. Not up to code. Electrical problems. Mold in a lot of apartments. Dallas has been trying to get them to do right by the people still living there, but the owners just want to drive everyone out because they’re selling. Dallas fights for the tenants. He cares about them.”
Fernandez studies me a second before responding. “I know that building is in rough shape.”
“It is.”
Fernandez drops her attention back to her notebook, continues jotting down notes. “Wealthy owners don’t play. They shut down the other two buildings on the island.” Fernandez stops writing but doesn’t look up. “It sounds like Mr. Bryant made some enemies.”
“He was only trying to do the right thing.”
“I’m sure.” Fernandez closes her notebook. “Well, the thing is, we’re in the middle of a major crisis here.” Fernandez lifts her hands, gestures at the empty station. The radio crackles again. “In case you didn’t know, Kylie is a Category Three now. Folks let their guards down, thinking hurricane season was over. And then—pow.”
Did you say the north side of the building, Sergeant? a staticky voice asks over the radio. The person trapped by water? It’s not bad here, and I don’t see anyone.
Fernandez lifts an index finger, then grabs the radio. She clicks the talk button. “South side, Leon. South side.”
Oh. Okay. I’ll go around back.
“Roger that.” She puts the radio down. “Sorry. As you can see, I’m all alone here. And I’m not allowed to leave. And we’re trying to deal with the most immediate emergencies as they come in.”
“But my—”
“I’m sorry about your friend. I really am. And we’ll get someone out there as soon as possible. But those who are still living and the endangered have to take precedence.”
“Are you kidding, Sergeant? Look, I know you’re all getting slammed and you have a lot of fires to put out, but my friend is dead. Dead.” Her blank face doesn’t change. “If you’re really more worried about the living, I should tell you there are still people in that building. Vulnerable people. And I saw a person fleeing the scene. He could be dangerous.”
Something pops into my mind. Something I’d briefly forgotten.
“And when I was driving over the causeway, I passed a car. Heading to the island. Who would be dumb enough to go to an island during a hurricane? Right away I thought they were probably in on it. Maybe they’re all working together.”
Fernandez’s face finally shows some emotion. “Wait—you passed someone? Driving out to the island? On the causeway? What kind of car was it?”
“It was a small car, but I couldn’t tell the make. It was too dark, too rainy.”
“Of all the damn—”
“What is it? Do you know them? Are they criminals?”
Fernandez shakes her head. “Not that I know of. What shape is the causeway in?”
“Crumbling. There’s a giant gash in the middle of one lane. The whole bridge is getting pounded. We’ll be lucky if it makes it through the night.”
“That’s why I told them to go home, to stay the fuck—excuse me—to stay the heck away from that island. But, no, they had to go. They were worried about…” Fernandez stops midsentence. Her eyes get much wider. It’s like she’s a real person now, not an automaton. “Wait…did you say you’re from Ohio?”
“Yes, but how do you—” My heart drops like it’s in an elevator shaft. “Why did you ask me that?”
“Is your wife’s name Jordan? Jordan Arthur?”
“Yes, that’s my wife. We have different last names. What are you saying, Sergeant?”
“I don’t know how to tell you this, Mr. Powell, but your wife and daughter? They were just here. Like, fifteen minutes ago. They wanted to go out to the island—to look for you—but I told them to stay the hell away from that causeway. I told them it wasn’t safe. And it’s clear to me now they didn’t fucking listen.”
Thirteen
Fernandez tells me not to go. She tells me the police can offer me no protection.
She follows me out the door and off the porch and into the parking lot, yelling at my back as I head straight for the Highlander.
“The eye won’t be past us until very late tonight,” she shouts over the rain. “It’s going to be brutal. And you already know the causeway is failing.”
I look at Fernandez one last time before opening the car door. We’re both getting pummeled by the rain. “My wife and daughter, Sergeant. My family. They’re out there with a killer.”
“You can’t help them if your vehicle ends up on the bottom of the Intracoastal. With you in it. If a car goes into that water, it’ll be swept away in an instant. Then you’re gone.” She snaps her fingers. “Just like that.”
I start to open the door of the Highlander, but it slams shut, taken by the wind. “Send help, Sergeant. Please.”
“It’s going to be a while. That’s just a fact.”
“Go back inside, Sergeant.”
It takes effort, but I finally manage to get into the car. I wipe the water out of my eyes and reverse out of the parking lot too fast, losing control when I hit the deep water collecting in the road. I struggle with the wheel and finally regain control. I put the car in drive and start for the causeway, being more careful as I cruise under the swinging streetlights. The rain falls horizontally, like flying needles. There isn’t another vehicle on the road. It feels like the apocalypse.
Jordan and Mackenzie.
Out on the island.
With Dallas’ dead body.
And a killer.
What were they thinking?
But I know. I know. They’re determined to reach me, to make sure I’m safe.
On the causeway, I drive like a grandmother. Like a typical Florida resident. The car crawls along at a glacial pace, the wind shaking it from side to side. Fernandez is right—we don’t know how long the causeway will last. I don’t even know if I’ll make it across.
Or if Jordan and Mackenzie did.
My foot presses down harder on the accelerator, my mind consumed by images….
The car falling into the gash in the road—
Their voices screaming—
The car hitting the Intracoastal with a thud—
Jordan and Mackenzie surrounded by water on all sides—
I slam on the brakes when I see the hole. The Highlander skids across the wet causeway like a carnival ride, slides all the way across the pavement to the very edge of the gash I imagined my family falling into.
The headlights light up the water running off the causeway and into the giant hole. The raw edges where the earth fell away.
The gash is bigger than when I came the other way. It reaches more than halfway across the width of the causeway. It’s not clear if there’s room left for the Highlander to fit past.
Walking the rest of the way, exposed to the elements, doesn’t sound pleasant. On foot, I could easily get blown off the causeway or swept away by a gust of water.
I reverse twenty feet, turn the wheels to the right. Gently, I tap the gas and ease forward, trying my best, in the dark and rain, to line up the tires so they remain on solid ground.
The front of the car clears the hole. My breathing eases a little.
I’m halfway past…three-quarters…
A strong blast of wind rocks the Highlander from side to side.
In my hands, the steering wheel moves on its own. I tighten my grip so hard the bones in my fingers hurt. A split second later, I feel the rear tire on the driver’s side fall backward the tiniest bit. I’ve caught the edge of the drop-off. The Highlander lurches backward, starts to slide down into the hole.
“Fuck.”
A light flashes on the dashboard. The AWD system. It’s activating to keep the traction equalized across all four tires. The rear tire catches on something, gains purchase against the edge of the hole.
I apply a little gas, and the car lunges forward. All four tires are back on the surface of the causeway. I exhale the breath I’ve been holding, choking like I’ve just been resuscitated.
I’m more than a little shaken, but I have to continue. I drive even more slowly than before. When I reach the island, something inside me calms.
And then it hits me.
There’s no way we’re going to be able to go back.
We’re all stuck on the island now.
Fourteen
6:51 p.m.
Jordan’s black Prius—the small car I passed on the causeway—sits in the parking garage.
I park next to it and jump out. The wind immediately knocks me off-balance. I push off the wall to get to the Prius.
The car is empty.
A used coffee cup sits next to Mackenzie’s earbuds in the cup holder.
“Jake? Hey, Jake?”
I’m not sure I’m really hearing a voice. Maybe just a trick of the wind or the sound of the rain against the building and the trees.
“Hey, Jake.”
I tense as a thin figure emerges from a dark area at the edge of the garage. He wears a loose Nirvana T-shirt and long shorts. His legs look like stovepipes that end in black sneakers. He cups a cigarette in his right hand and takes a puff. Ethan. He lives a couple of floors up from me.
Ethan lived with his mother until she died. Now he lives alone with a striped cat named Isaac. He’s about thirty and works remotely, maintaining the website for a chain of fried-chicken restaurants based in Georgia. Ethan doesn’t socialize much. The few times I’ve spoken to him, he’s been friendly even though he’s seemed to be struggling to do so. The first time I met him, he told me he’d recently been diagnosed as neurodivergent and was still working to understand it. He rarely leaves his apartment, so it’s surprising to see him outside with the storm approaching.
“What are you doing out here, Ethan?”
“I’ve been thinking about something, Jake.”
“You should be inside. It’s not safe out here.”
“You’re out in it.”
“I’m on my way inside now. I—” I start to tell him about Jordan and Mackenzie but stop. I don’t want to be delayed any longer than necessary. “Let’s go.”
Ethan doesn’t move. He takes another drag off the cigarette and exhales, the wind rushing the plume of smoke away. He tosses the butt into the standing water in the garage.
“I’m not a bad guy, am I, Jake?”
“A bad guy? Of course not.”
“I just…”
I take a step toward him, my shoes getting wetter than I thought possible. “It’s just what? What’s wrong?”
He looks at me, his eyes a little bloodshot. “It’s nothing. You’re right—we should get inside. Isaac’s alone in the apartment.”
“He’s probably freaking out.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Ethan?”
“It’s fine. Just forget it. We’ll talk later.”
“Okay, all right. I have to get upstairs. And you should too.”
Ethan nods, and I take that as permission to dash for the stairs, anxious to get to Jordan and Mackenzie.
For months, I’ve been pushing Jordan to bring Mackenzie down here. What teenager doesn’t want to go to the beach? But Jordan was slow to commit. First, she didn’t want to take time off work. She’s a guidance counselor at our local high school. Then she claimed she didn’t want to create the false hope that we were getting back together. Eventually, we arranged for Mackenzie to come visit before school started this fall. But Jordan’s mother fell and went into the hospital. The whole thing broke down.
