Storm warning, p.9
Storm Warning, page 9
“Lloyd, let’s not bother with that.” I hold up my hands. “I don’t know how to use one of those things.”
“I do.” Stanley passes me and walks right up to Lloyd. “Have you got a clip in there?”
I’m almost as surprised by what Stanley says as I was a moment ago by Lloyd coming out of his bedroom with a perfectly polished pistol.
“I do. And the safety’s on.”
Stanley takes the gun and examines it, opening it and closing it thoughtfully. To me he looks like he’s Dirty Harry. Given his revelation about being in Vietnam, I shouldn’t be surprised he knows how to handle a firearm.
He stuffs the gun into the back of his pants like he’s been doing it for years. But his comfort with the gun doesn’t put me at ease.
“You ready, Jake?” Stanley asks, moving toward the door.
“We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
He stops next to me and slaps me on the shoulder. “That’s why we have the Glock. So no one gets hurt.”
The presence of the gun seems to inject Stanley with a confidence he lacked before. His posture is straighter. His gait more certain. He doesn’t say anything else but instead goes right to the door and pulls it open, waiting for me to follow.
Twenty-Three
7:55 p.m.
Stanley and I go halfway up the next flight of stairs and stop on the small landing between floors. We’re slightly protected from the wind and the rain here. But the storm still buffets us.
Stanley struggles to hold himself steady. He can’t weigh more than 120 pounds.
“Okay,” I yell over the rain and wind, “let’s divide and conquer. How many other tenants are there? No one’s left on this floor. Who else is there besides my family, and Hazel way up at the top?”
“Well, there’s Nina and Kiara on the fourth floor. They’ll probably be willing to move. And there’s Sawyer up on six.”
“And Ethan on seven. That’s five apartments total.”
“Right, Ethan. He’s so quiet, sometimes I forget about him.”
“I saw him downstairs. He was—I don’t know—upset. He seemed to have something on his mind.”
“That guy’s mind is like a computer. Something’s always rushing through it.”
“True. I told him to go back to his apartment. I’m going to start with Hazel.”
“You think she’ll be willing to leave her apartment? She’s so uptight about her things. I’ve heard she made quite a fuss when she had to move units.”
“She had no choice then, and she has no choice now. I’ll get her, and then my family. You okay to get the rest, starting with Nina and Kiara?”
He ignores my question. “Are you going to take the elevator with Hazel?” he asks. “Otherwise, it’s eight flights of stairs in the wind and rain. And she’s what, ninety?”
“Ninety-one. I don’t know if she can do the stairs.”
But I don’t know if I can do the elevator….
I do know Hazel won’t listen to or go with anyone but me. No way she’d let Stanley talk her into anything.
“What if the power goes out while she’s in that old junker?”
As if Stanley’s words cast a spell, the lights flicker off. Then back on again. And then they go off. We stand in the dark, and the building makes a groaning sound, as if it too is fed up with the weak electrical grid.
“Shit,” I say.
The lights flicker again, like a sick patient opening their eyes in order to take one last breath. To my surprise, when they come on this time, they grow brighter and stay on. Somehow.
“That was close,” Stanley says. “You better hurry if you want to use that elevator.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Unless you’re going to put her on your back. I know you’re in tip-top shape, but she’s heavier than I am.”
“Who isn’t?”
Stanley lets out a little laugh.
“I’ll figure it out when I get there.”
“I know you’re uncomfortable about me having the Glock, Jake.” He reaches around and starts to remove the gun. “Would you feel better if you carried it?”
“Not a chance.”
He pulls his hand back and keeps talking. “I learned a long time ago, I have to protect myself. But if you want to take it—”
“I really don’t, Stanley. Just—just keep it. Okay? And be careful. We don’t want anyone else getting hurt.”
“Oh, I’m always careful. And don’t worry, Jake. I’m like a cat. I have nine lives.”
I know this is supposed to make me feel better, but I can’t help but wonder how many of those lives Stanley has already used.
“I’ll see you back at Lloyd’s as soon as possible. Don’t forget to tell everyone to bring enough food for a few days. We could be stuck awhile.”
Stanley points down the walkway. “I’m going to take the stairs at the end, since that’s closer to Nina and Kiara.” He gives me a little salute. When he turns and walks away, the outline of the Glock is visible beneath his shirt.
He’s right—I’m not crazy about him having the gun, and I hope like hell he doesn’t have to use it. I’m not crazy about anyone having one. Certainly not me. I haven’t held or fired one since I was a kid. And that was shooting at cans with a BB gun in my neighbors’ backyard.
As I climb to Hazel, my mind cycles through the night’s events. Like a damaged record, I keep getting stuck on two images. Dallas lying dead on his apartment floor. And the Elantra sliding off the causeway with poor Alaina inside.
Those images will play in my mind for years to come. Is there anything I could have done to prevent them from happening?
When I reach the fifth floor, I hesitate, making a conscious effort to shove the rest of the night out of my mind. I’ll revisit those memories—often—on other days. But for now, my focus needs to be singular.
Protect those of us who are still alive.
Make it through the night.
My body wills itself in the direction of my family, a primordial urge rising somewhere deep inside me, to force my body in a different direction than my mind wants to go. I grit my teeth and keep going up the stairs. Hazel is the most vulnerable. She’s the oldest. She’s the one with dementia. She’s on the highest floor.
Hazel first.
Then Jordan and Mackenzie.
As hard as it is, that’s the way it has to be. I don’t want any other images circulating in my head like the ones already there. I’m so distracted by this that I’m not paying any attention to what’s going on around me.
That’s why it’s a complete surprise when I turn on the landing between the seventh and eighth floors and there’s a man standing there, a man I’ve never seen before.
Twenty-Four
He’s half a flight up, standing on the eighth-floor landing.
Looking down at me.
Looming over me.
His dark wet hair is plastered to his head, his hands tensed in muscular anticipation. He wears a dark jacket and work boots. He’s a slender guy, but his shoulders are broad.
My mind goes back to the moment when I saw a figure dash out of the parking garage and into the rain.
That person wore a dark jacket.
I take a step back. “Who are you?”
His left eye narrows, and he cocks his head. “Security.”
“Who do you work for?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Were you downstairs earlier?” I ask.
“I told you who I am. Who are you?”
Maybe it’s impossible to ask someone who they are without it sounding like some kind of accusation. But the man’s words seem accusatory.
Threatening.
“I live here,” I say, “and I’ve never seen you before.”
He starts down the stairs toward me, boots clomping on the steps.
“Name?” He’s halfway to me now.
“Jake Powell.”
He stops moving when I say my name. His eye narrows again.
“We’ve never had security here,” I say.
“There’s a hurricane hitting this island. And the building. The owners sent me to check on things. That’s reasonable, isn’t it?”
“It would be if they ever gave a shit about the building or anyone who lives here on any other day of the year. How did you even get here?”
“You’re friends with Dallas, right?”
“Why do you ask?”
The man’s nose wrinkles, like he’s smelled something bad. “I should talk to the building manager, shouldn’t I?”
“Did you talk to him?”
The man turns his head, looking away from me, as if he can see all around the island despite the blinding rain and wind. My back is exposed to the elements, getting soaked. “There aren’t many residents left,” he says. “That’s my understanding. It’s a collection of dead-enders.”
“Did you talk to him or not?”
“Why did you ask if I was downstairs before?”
It’s my turn to look away. I regret voicing the question. If this man—whoever he is—killed Dallas, then isn’t it better if he doesn’t know what I know? If I saw him running away, and he knows it, he has every reason to hurt me. “I was worried about the flooding—”
“There’ve been a few cars coming and going. Was one of them you?”
All of a sudden it feels like I’m the one getting interrogated. “I went to get help.”
The man looks one way and then the other. “So…where’s the help?”
“The police know we’re here. They’re sending someone as soon as they can.”
“And the check’s in the mail, right? You’re going to hold your breath until those cops show up?”
“They’ll be here.” I’m well aware I sound like a child trying to will away ghosts in the night. I know as well as he does the cops aren’t going to be rolling up here anytime soon.
Nobody is.
“Yeah, right.”
“Why don’t you go get help?” I ask. “If you’re security and you have the owners’ interests in mind, why don’t you go to the mainland and send help? We sure could use it.”
Rather than answer, the man comes the rest of the way down the steps, so we’re on the same level. He’s a few inches taller than I am but so thin he looks frail, and up close, his eyes are bloodshot, his hair streaked with a gray. “You know as well as I do we’re all stuck here tonight. Maybe longer. Everybody should hunker down in their apartments and ride it out. That’s what I’m doing.”
“How are you doing that?”
The man stares at me, saying nothing.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
Someone says a name out loud, but it’s mine, not his. The voice echoes off the stairs and walls. Panicked.
“Jacob! Come help me.”
My first thought is of Jordan and Mackenzie. But the voice is frail, scratchy. Old.
The man looks up just before I do.
Two floors above us, Hazel stands at the railing, looking down as rain drenches her clothes.
“Jacob, I need your help. Please.”
My body brushes against the man’s as I start past him. He grabs hold of my left arm with an iron grip.
“Wait,” he says. “Just—”
I yank myself free. When he grabs for me again, I shove him away.
He loses his balance, stumbles back against the interior wall of the stairwell.
I take the opening and rush up the stairs to where Hazel stands on the landing, calling my name over and over again.
Twenty-Five
Hazel stands perilously close to the top of the flight of stairs. I can’t tell if she’s aware of how close she is.
I look back once. No sign of the man from the stairs. The “security” guy.
Hazel’s hands flutter in the air, like she’s trying to dry them off. “Jacob, it is about time, young man.”
“Are you hurt?” I reach the landing and gently guide her back to her apartment. She’s still wearing her housecoat, and her glasses are now perched on top of her head, partially disappearing into her gray hair. “What happened?”
“You saw him, didn’t you? You saw him. I know you did.”
“Let’s talk inside, Hazel.”
Hazel allows herself to be led back into her apartment. I close the door behind us and throw the dead bolt. Her apartment looks exactly the same as it did a couple of hours earlier. It’s hard to process, considering how much has gone wrong in such a short period of time. How much has changed.
Hazel won’t sit. She paces across the middle of the room, her slippered feet occasionally knocking aside a book or crunching on one of her precious papers.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You saw him. That man down there. He was trying to get into my apartment. He came to the door and knocked so hard I thought he wanted to break it down.” Hazel’s eyes widen. “He knew my name, Jacob.”
“Hazel, are you saying that man is…your stalker?”
She stops pacing, looks at me like I’m simple. “No, I am not, Jacob. I’ve never seen that man before in my life.”
“You don’t know him?” I point to the closed door as if we can see through it.
“Why on earth would you think that?”
It’s disconcerting to hear Hazel say that. Does she not remember claiming she has a stalker? Is she forgetting things that much? “Then how did he know your name? And why would he bang on your door?”
“I don’t know, Jacob.” When she wants to, Hazel can sound as imperious as a crowned head. She’s using that voice now. “I wish you’d stop asking me questions and do something. Just do something.”
Jordan and Mackenzie are in my apartment. I know they’ve locked the door and blocked it with the table. But still…
I need to check on them. Soon.
“Well, Jacob? What are you going to do?”
“We are going to go down to Lloyd’s apartment. It’s the safest place for everyone.”
Hazel gasps. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Hazel, we have no choice. The fact that a strange man came around here and pounded on your door proves it. Plus, the full force of the hurricane is going to hit us soon, and your apartment is way too high. There’s strength in numbers. And safety on a lower floor.”
Hazel ignores my arguments. She walks over and sits down on the end of the couch, in her customary position. It looks like she’s starting some kind of strike. “You need to stay here with me. You stay here and keep that man from getting in, and I’ll be fine.”
“I can’t do that, Hazel.”
“Well, why not?”
“My family is here. Jordan and Mackenzie.”
She looks up, a flash of curiosity in her eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“They’re here. My wife and daughter. They’re in my apartment.” I give her a quick summary—their attempt to surprise me, the sudden turn of the hurricane. “I have to get back to them. I’ve been gone too long. The past six months and tonight. So—”
“Okay, then, fine. You go be with them. Send Dallas up here. He’s always wanted to be my nursemaid. It’s time he got his wish. He can ride out the storm with me here. In my home.”
It hits me—she has no idea what happened to Dallas. Not Alaina either.
She knows none of it.
My eyes cut to the left. The photos of her husband and son sit on the end table. They both look back at me, imploring me not to add any more pain to Hazel’s life.
But I don’t have any choice.
I move slowly across the room, approaching her with caution.
She shifts her eyes to the many piles of paper near my feet. “Watch my papers.”
“I will.” When I get to the couch, I sit on the edge of the coffee table, facing her. It’s vintage 1970s, built like a battleship.
Hazel looks scared. She reaches up, fumbles in her hair for the glasses. She takes them off and then puts them back on top of her head. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you getting Dallas? Why aren’t you going to your family?”
I don’t want to tell her. If I could do anything else in the world, I would.
But I have no choice.
“Hazel, I have to tell you something about Dallas.”
The words refuse to come. My chest tightens, and in the space that opens between us—the overwhelming silence—Hazel makes a low whimpering noise.
“No,” she says. “Don’t.”
“I’m sorry, Hazel.”
Twenty-Six
Hazel stares past me for a long time.
As if I’m not here. As if she’s looking at the howling wind outside.
We’re in a hurry, but I don’t want to rush her.
Yet.
Finally, she says, “There’s a box of tissues on the table over there.”
I bring the box and resume my seat while she yanks two out, dabs at her nose and eyes. “He’s so stubborn.”
“Stubborn?”
“He’s been fighting with the owners for years. Years, Jacob. About everything. I knew he was going to get on the wrong side of them.”
“You think whoever hurt Dallas works for the owners of the building?”
“Dallas is all the time fussing at them. Telling them about code violations with the electricity and the sewage. The mold. The elevator. He’s filed complaints with the government—the Fair Housing Office or whoever they are. Owners don’t like that kind of thing.”
“I didn’t know he’d gone that far.”
“Oh, yes, he has. They’re trying to sell this property.”
“They want to sell the land, not the building.”
“Any complaint slows things down, Jacob. Gums up the works. Dallas is doing that. Nothing is finalized yet.”
