Hurricane House (3 page)

“Yup,” Jim answered on the third ring.

“Hi, Jim. Maeva Larson. How are you?”

“Under the gun. What can I do you for?”

“I need you to board up our townhouses.”

“Can’t, lovely lady. I’m shittin’ and getting’.”

I thought I’d misunderstood him. “What’d you say?” “I’m getting the hell out before that hurricane blows me out.”

“I can appreciate your concern, Jim, but there’s been no evacuation yet, has there?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“And no one knows for sure where this thing is aiming. Even if the hurricane aims for Dolphin, it won’t make landfall for several hours, which should give you plenty of time to get out if you take the evacuation route over the Bay Bridge. But of course, you know that.”

“Wish I could help you, Maeva. And I would, ordinarily, but I have this wild bird feeling. And I got my own property to look after. It’ll take me the better part of the day.”

“Jim, you’re quick enough to do your places and ours in record time, and I hope you know I wouldn’t ask you to help me if I thought you were in danger.”

“Sorry, no can do. Turn on the Weather Channel. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Would you reconsider if I told you I’ll pay you double?”

“Money don’t mean nothing when you’re pushing up flowers. You ever see a funeral procession with a U-Haul behind the hearse?”

I paced the living room while Jim retold in exhaustive detail how he almost drowned in ‘95 during Hurricane Opal. He then segued into the devastation of Ivan and Katrina.

I started to tell him I’d worked the insurance investigations from those storms, and I was quite familiar with the damage, but he didn’t pause long enough to let me get a word in.

When he broke for air, I said, “Could you recommend someone else? If not, I’ll have to drive down there and do the boarding myself.”

From the picture window in the living room, I watched the storm and waited for Jim’s answer. Three pine-tree limbs broke off in the front yard. A wet wind blasted the lake and parted the azalea bushes, and I thought I saw Adam’s reflection, as plain as the rain in the window.

“Sorry,” Jim said. “Can’t this time. I got a bad feeling.”

Chapter Four

Florida Rest Area Ellen Langley

  
Ellen’s colloratura voice died in her throat when she saw John reaching beside his seat and coming up with a black mask, smelling of ether. Her heart did a flip. Get out quick.

She fumbled to open the door, as she heard the lock click, trapping her inside. She tried to scream, but her throat made a faint squeak, like a dying wren.

John grabbed her left arm, pulling her toward him, aiming the mask at her face.

She kicked him, extended her right arm and plunged the button on the pepper spray. John’s squealed like a castrated pig when the spray hit his eyes.
Ellen pulled at every knob on the door before she heard it click open. She grabbed her duffle and noticed John was still clawing at his eyes when she swung open the door and jumped out.

She landed hard, stumbling and tripping on the curb. Shit. Now what? Where can I hide? If she ran to the BP station, a ways behind her now, John might regain his eyesight before she got there. For certain, he’d expect her to get help.

She saw no other cars in the parking lot. The rest area looked deserted, meaning the safest place might be the woods.

Ellen ran in back of the bathroom building and hid behind a hedgerow. From there, she watched the hummer. She’d never used the pepper spray on anyone before and had no idea how long it would incapacitate John’s eyesight.

The pay phone was fifty feet away. Ellen started to run toward it, but changed her mind when she saw the hummer’s headlights flash on. Unbelievable, why’d I hitch a ride with a maniac?

John’s car circled the parking lot three times. The fourth time around, the big tank stopped ten feet in front of Ellen.

She grabbed her duffle and crept deeper into the woods, hiding behind a row of pines. Please, God help me.

John walked in her direction. She could hear him panting as he aimed the flashlight and crept closer, almost like he knew her location.

She was searching for another hiding spot when she heard a helicopter circle the area. She peered out at a rain-drenched John, frowning at the chopper then running behind the restroom building.

Taking a chance, Ellen crisscrossed her arms over
her head, hoping to flag down the plane. The chopper was spotlighting the area, but the light never landed on her and her frantic waving, although it circled several times.

As soon as the plane zoomed away, Ellen spotted John walking toward her again. She turned to run, but tripped over a fallen pine. She wedged herself next to the tree and covered her body with wet kudzu and pine straw.

A spider crawled over her face, but she didn’t dare move a muscle as she strained to hear the slightest footfall. Several minutes passed before the Hummer’s motor revved up. Is he leaving or tricking me?

Crawling on her hands and knees with her duffle on her back, she clawed her way through the kudzu, pines and prickly shrubs until she reached her original hiding spot behind the hedgerow. She peeped out and saw an empty parking lot, no sign of John or the Hummer. Was he hiding? Is that his shadow next to the building? Is he planning to ambush me?

Shaking with fear, Ellen waited another fifteen minutes before she ran to the payphone and dialed 911. A man answered, “What’s your emergency?”

She held her throat, as if she could force the words out, but no sound came forth. She jumped when she saw lightning, and a loud crack of thunder, popping a transformer and shrouding the rest area in darkness. Scared to death of lightning, Ellen dropped the phone, ran into the Ladies Room and bar-locked herself in one of the stalls. To become invisible, she drew her feet up on the toilet seat.

Hard footsteps walked into the bathroom, peed, flushed the toilet and ran water in the sink. Oh, please God, not John. Ellen withdrew the pepper spray from her duffle, aimed it at the stall door and waited. Her heart was pounding in her throat by the time the main door to the Ladies Room slammed shut. She felt relieved, thinking it was someone other than her attacker, but in the hours that followed, she began to worry about everything. She worried about where John might be. She worried about her vocal cords. If they were inflamed like twenty-years ago when she had those polyps, it would be quite a while before she could talk, meaning she’d have to find another way to communicate.

Ellen searched through her duffle, but she couldn’t find a pen or a single piece of paper to write on. What now? She wanted to get out of the bathroom and go for help, but the lightning scared her too much. She’d seen a woman struck by lightning on Fifth Avenue years ago. The woman was dressed up like she’d stepped from a Vogue cover. The lightning not only burned her to death but cracked the concrete. No way would Ellen run to the BP Station, a mile away, with all of this lightning popping. Not only that, but she had a feeling John had parked his Hummer along the roadside, hidden from view, expecting her to go for help.

Her left arm, the one John had pinched, throbbed painfully. Her mouth felt as dry as cotton. Only one sip left of the bottled water in her duffle.

Pooped, she wrapped her arms around her legs and slept fitfully with her forehead against her knees. In her years as a hitchhiker, she’d learned to sleep in every possible position. No surprise she could fall asleep this way, crouched on a toilet seat.

At sunrise, Ellen rubbed the sleep from her eyes; then massaged her legs back to life. The trauma of last night lingered like the smell of homeless piss, but she managed to crack open the stall door. Her whole body trembled with fear as she stepped out and saw the main bathroom door pop open.

She held her breath, expecting to see John, but thank God, no. It was a woman carrying a baby. Ellen tried to say good morning, but her vocal cords refused to work. Not being able to talk, or sing, had plagued her two times before. First time she was only ten years old. Her uncle had raped her and told her not to bust him or he’d kill her. Maybe if she was unable to speak and tell on him, he’d let her live, she thought. The second time, she was twenty-one, working with a famous voice coach and close to reaching her dream. The ear, nose and throat doctor blamed the polyps. Ellen blamed herself and her screwed up life.

Wishing she could hide from her sad memories, Ellen washed her face and hands in the bathroom sink then brushed her teeth. She walked out of the Ladies Room and peeked out at the rest-area parking lot. No Hummer, only two cars, one camper and a woman walking her white poodle.

Purple clouds threatened more rain, but for now, not even a sprinkle. Thankful for the break in the storm, she took a deep breath and ran toward the BP. She’d call Kenny, tell him what happened and ask him to pick her up. He owed her. She had cleaned his truck and in exchange he’d promised he’d take her to Geneva’s in Tallahassee. He was supposed to pick her up from the McDonald’s at 7 p.m. She’d waited three hours. He never showed and didn’t even answer his phone.

Ellen fumed over Kenny’s irresponsible behavior as she ran to the BP Station. Her lungs burned and she was panting for breath when she walked into the station. The place looked un-staffed, no one behind the counter. A wave of fear came over her. Crazy. What’s going on? Ellen walked through the store cautiously, glancing behind every nook. Finally, she spotted a middle-aged, blond woman squatting near the cappuccino machine. Her name-tag said, Lorraine.

Lorraine jumped up when she noticed Ellen. “Door don’t ring. Can I help you?”

Ellen made an effort to talk but still no voice. What had her life become? Hitchhiking homeless was bad enough, but now she had lost her voice, when singing was what she loved most.

Ellen mouthed the words, “I can’t talk,” and pulled up her sleeve to show her bruise. She pointed to a pen and yellow pad on the counter next to the cash register, but the clerk squinted, as if confused.

Ellen walked around to the other side of the counter and picked up the pad and pen. She wrote, “A man attacked me & I’m in shock & I can’t talk.” Ellen didn’t see any reason to go into detail as to why she’d lost her voice. Let Lorraine think I’m mute.

After reading Ellen’s note, Lorraine said, “Want me to call the cops?”

Ellen shrugged. The cops would say a hitchhiker gets what she deserves, but if she didn’t report what happened, John would feel free to attack another woman.

Ellen wrote, “Yes, and please call my friend Kenny to come and get me.” Ellen gave the clerk Kenny’s number.

While Lorraine made the calls, Ellen looked for something to soothe her throat. She bought a pint of chocolate ice cream, cough drops and a Pepsi.

“Cops’ll be here soon, but I don’t know about your
trucker friend. Said his rig broke down. He may get here or may not, depending on if he can get it up and running. Said he’d call back in the next ten minutes if he can’t make it.”

Ellen wrote, “Thank you.”

Lorraine opened the door to a storage area and pulled out a folding chair. “Take a load off, honey.”

Ellen smiled her thanks, sat down and decided to write out a police report. She had finished the report, eaten half the quart of ice cream and was sucking on a cough drop by the time the sheriff’s department’s white Ford cruiser pulled up.

“Hi, Billy,” Lorraine said to the first cop, about forty, a thin man with a shiny baldhead like he’d shaved it. He and Lorraine looked to be the same height, five-seven maybe.

“Hi Lorra Lee,” Billy said, giving her a hug.

The female cop with him was a dishwater blond, who looked like a high-school student wearing a uniform and playing “pretend.”

Lorraine smiled at Billy and slipped her arm around Ellen’s shoulder in a show of support. “Bless her heart, she can’t talk, but she can write.”

Ellen gave the officers her driver’s license for identification.

“What happened?” Billy asked, expressionless.

Ellen handed him her two-page, handwritten epistle.

Billy scanned both pages; then gave them to the female cop. “Can you hear me okay?” he shouted. The cop probably yelled because he thought she was not only mute, but deaf, Ellen thought. “We’ll need a name, a description of the man who allegedly attacked you, and his license plate.”

Ellen frowned. She had written all she knew in the report, but with no voice to protest, she wrote a shorter version of her first report. “In other words, he was a stranger,” Officer Billy said, after he read her notes.

Ellen nodded and wrote, “My friend Kenny dropped me off at the MacDonald’s in DeFuniak.

He said he’d come back, but he didn’t.”

Both officers glanced sideways at each other, as if they thought, loser, but after a moment, the female cop showed some sympathy. “Do you need medical attention?”

Ellen squinted to hold back the tears and shook her head, no.

The female cop snapped a picture of Ellen’s bruise and said, “Best thing we can do is fill out a report and post it on our website.”

Ellen printed Geneva Vansant’s name and phone number on another sheet of paper and handed it to the female cop who asked, “Is this where you’ll be?”