Storm Front (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

Wally Wellman’s alarm went off at six A.M. on Monday like it did every morning except on Sundays. It gave him time to work out on his treadmill, which he did four times a week. On Sundays he spoiled himself and slept in until six-thirty. He also did not exercise. Never on Sunday, he believed.

He pushed the button and killed the annoying whine, and let silence descend before willing himself out of bed. He had a routine to follow and it helped him through the long empty days. Routine, he told himself, provided strength and a sense of security. Sure. His life’s routine was shit.

First, he smiled longingly at his wife’s picture and she smiled back, just as she had done for the last several years. He wished it could talk. There was so much he wanted to tell her. Just a damn shame it was too late.

It’d been three years since the misdiagnosed cancer had struck aggressively and taken Ellen from him. There were times when he still wanted to cry and times when he did cry. There were also times when he wanted to howl at the moon. He had an adult son in California, but Wally would not impose his miseries on a thirty-five-year-old man with a career and a family. He would somehow find the strength to solve his own problems. He’d stopped the heavy drinking and feeling sorry for himself, which meant some of his friends were again talking to him, but, damn it, sometimes he did feel sorry and he missed her terribly. He was fifty-eight and so alone. He had more than enough money to last him several lifetimes but no one to share it with. He and Ellen were supposed to be approaching their golden years, but now the gold had all turned to shit.

Wally shook himself out of his reverie, and turned on his computer to check the weather. The weather occupied his waking time and kept him from thinking about how things ought to have been and not how they were. He was Wally Wellman, ace meteorologist for TVDetroit6, a large and profitable independent television station located in Southfield, Michigan, a suburb adjacent to Detroit. Wally lived in a small but expensive house in Royal Oak, another suburb only a few miles away from the station.

He sniffed at what he saw on the monitor. The storm front that was supposed to stay to their south and bring misery to Ohio was much farther north than expected. It also appeared to be picking up speed. He noted that the National Weather Service now admitted to the remote possibility of some light snow in the Detroit area, but with little accumulation to worry about. They still said it would veer east and didn’t represent any major threat to the local area. Everyone was urged to drive safely.

Assholes, he thought. He’d tried to tell them otherwise on Friday, that he didn’t care what the computer models said, that his gut said that it could sustain its northward direction and bring significant snow on Monday morning.

But his producer and station manager had gotten furious when he’d brought up the possibility of a serious snowfall. TV6 and others had been burned a week before when yet another Storm of the Century turned out to be the Piddle of the Morning. They’d gotten a few more inches of white stuff on top of the quantities that had already accumulated, but it was nothing that hadn’t happened several times already this winter. TV6 and the others had been harshly criticized for an over-dramatic ratings-inspired forecast and weren’t about to do it again—at least not for a while.

So no way were they going to go against the findings of the National Weather Service and its computers or even the Weather Channel. Of course, each weather forecasting system, such as TV6, had its own computer program, but the initial data was provided by the weather satellites that orbited the earth.

Wally brushed his teeth, showered, dressed, and combed his thinning hair. He didn’t comb it across the bald spot like some other guys did, or wear a rug, which was worse. Like nobody could tell, right? Unless you spent a fortune on a toupee, it looked like a rodent had built a nest on your head. Hell, he was getting old and going bald. What was wrong with that? At least he wasn’t fat like one of the weather guys on the NBC affiliate. Still, he was beginning to look over his shoulder to see who wanted to replace him. Television was for the young and photogenic. Old farts like him were a vanishing species. Who cared if you had knowledge and experience?

The station’s management wanted someone young and attractive, and, of course, cheaper. It was joked that, unless you were a young blond with great boobs, you should go into radio. Actually, it was a decent thought. He had enough of a following to ensure him a job in radio that would keep him active until he actually decided to retire. But without Ellen, why would he want to retire?

Wally wasn’t even a meteorologist, as the station’s management kept reminding him. His college degree was in English from the University of Michigan, and he’d originally wanted to be an anchorman, not a weatherman, and deal with the world news out of New York. But he wasn’t a pretty enough face even then, so he’d taken the weather job thirty-five years ago because he and Ellen needed the money, and learned the science part the hard way. He’d read every book he could find on weather, attended seminars, milked the brains of friends, audited classes, and, later, took a few more classes online. He still didn’t have the right degree, but he was respected and as accurate as anyone else in the industry.

And he had a following, although it was the older and aging demographic group, and the station wanted to attract younger viewers. In order to compensate for the fact that he really didn’t know what he was doing in the early days, he’d developed a line of patter and corny jokes to distract people. When he did acquire the knowledge, it no longer mattered. People still considered him as much a clown as a weatherman. He was an anachronism. The marketing director had coldly reminded Wally that his fans were either dying off, dying their hair blue, or getting hysterectomies and moving to Florida. Regardless, his numbers were shrinking. Wally nearly told him to stuff it.

He figured he’d be eased out the next time his contract expired, which would be in a year. Management was too cheap to outright fire him, because that would involve paying severance. But they would offer him a lot less money, and demote him. He’d stop being the main weather guy and be stuck with weekends and filling in when the bimbo they would hire to replace him went on vacation with her Ken doll boyfriend.

He wondered what he’d do. He didn’t need the money. He and Ellen had lived prudently, saved, and invested. They were going to have long golden years together until some idiot of a doctor couldn’t diagnose a tumor the size of Rhode Island. The settlement from the malpractice suit was financial frosting, but it was money he’d rather not have. No amount of money could replace Ellen. He’d thought about giving the settlement to charity, but his lawyer had talked him out of it and, right now, Wally was grateful. He was financially secure for the rest of his life, so screw the station. If they wanted to fire him, so be it. Only one problem—Wally didn’t want to stop being a television weatherman just yet. Face it; he told himself, he had nothing else to do. He hadn’t begun dating again and seriously wondered if he ever would.

Of course, he no longer had any idea where to begin if he wanted to. Some friends had tried to fix him up with widows or divorcees, but he’d resisted. So far. Still, a number of women close to his age had tried to pick him up at supermarkets or bookstores, which amused and intrigued him. Statistically, there were far more single women his age than men. Of course, he could always try one of those online dating sites. He’d noted a couple that catered to older men and woman. He thought about starting his own and calling it Old-Fart-Match.com. Maybe dating wouldn’t be all that difficult. If the woman didn’t talk about her hysterectomy, he’d keep quiet about his prostate.

He checked his watch. It was time to go to work. Outside, the ground was wet from a fine mist and the temperature was dropping. No, Wally thought sarcastically, of course it isn’t going to snow. Assholes.

* * *

Three bedrooms for three women sounded great but it still meant complications and delays getting ready for work in the morning. They had their own bathrooms, which provided both efficiency and privacy, but there was only one kitchen.

After navigating past chairs and two other people, Maddy got her toast and coffee and managed a quick look at the morning paper. The world hadn’t ended, although there was madness and evil still alive in it. People were still killing each other in the name of God or Allah or some other deity just like they had been for hundreds of years. She wondered if the litany of horrors would ever cease. Not likely, she decided, thinking of the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Even though it had been years before, pictures of people attempting to fly out of the towers in futile attempts to live had been seared on her brain. Safety and security were relative terms and nothing would ever be the same. Thank God Sheridan was away from anything any terrorist would find interesting.

Maddy flipped to the sports section and saw that the Red Wings had lost, which meant that Mike would be unhappy. However, the college basketball season and March Madness were in high gear, which meant Mike would be happy. She smiled to herself. Men were so predictable. A rare steak, a good beer, and somebody shooting hoops and Mike would be as content as a guy could be without getting in the sack.

She had dressed casually for what was going to be an active day. Once upon a time, teachers all wore dresses no matter what they were doing and how awkward and uncomfortable they would be. Thankfully, common sense and women’s rights now prevailed. She’d never worn a skirt or dress to work and didn’t know anybody who had. She threw a change of clothing and some toiletries into a small overnight bag. Dinner with Mike was on the agenda and she would want the opportunity to freshen up after a day with kids. Despite the unfulfilled passion of the previous night, her indecision regarding sex with him had returned. She still doubted if she was ready to take the final step with him. Too many ghosts. Too much pain.

Finally, she was ready and out the door. The damp cold surprised her. It really felt like something wet was going to happen, but she couldn’t recall rain or snow being predicted. Just what the place needed, she thought, a little more rain or snow on top of what was already on the ground.

Then she recalled that this was going to be a big week for Mike and she fervently hoped that nothing happened to screw it up for him.

* * *

Mike Stuart left the drive-through window with the necessities of a policeman’s life: Two dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. No, he wasn’t going to eat them all himself. That would spoil his athletic figure. Instead, he would have a couple of them and let the omnivores in the station have the rest. He decided to eat his before the others swarmed him or called him greedy for taking more than one, conveniently forgetting in their donut-lust that he’d paid for them. Hell, he was a bachelor, which meant breakfasts were usually nonexistent unless he opted for a Pop Tart.

He pulled his SUV into a parking spot and munched the first one, letting the high sugar content jar his nervous system out of neutral. Surprisingly, he had slept well the night before. After the intense but unfulfilling physical encounter with Maddy, he’d thought he’d toss and turn for hours, but it hadn’t happened. Instead, he felt that he was making real progress with the lovely and very complex woman he was certain he loved. Damn, he thought, the guys at the station, especially his buddy Stan Petkowski, were teasing him enough already.

He did wonder just how far they would have gone if Maddy’s damned roommates hadn’t showed up. Maybe not as far as he wanted, he thought. He still sensed reluctance on Maddy’s part. He would be patient. Patience was a virtue. He thought of himself as being on a long stakeout that had the possibility of a very rewarding conclusion.

A light mist was forming on the windshield, and that didn’t surprise him. The air was damp, and had the feel that people said smelled and tasted like rain. Rain meant slippery roads and slippery roads meant accidents. He didn’t need that kind of complication this morning. Why couldn’t it be sunny and seventy? Because this was Michigan in March and anything could and usually did happen when it came to the weather.

The sound of an approaching siren distracted him. A fire engine was nearing the intersection and wanted to go against the red light. Mike wondered how many drivers would pull over and give the big red beast the right of way. Not many. They’d just keep on driving and ignore the fire engine that was twenty times their size as if it wasn’t there. He’d recently found that driver’s-ed in the high school didn’t even teach the necessity of giving emergency vehicles the right of way. That, and so many people played their music so loud it was a wonder that drivers heard anything short of the end of the world. Even then, they’d probably miss it.

The fire engine was blocked from crossing the intersection by a Ford Focus in front of it that had stopped for the red light. The siren wailed again and again, urging the driver to move, move, move, damn it, move. Traffic was clear, so why didn’t the driver go through and give the fire engine a chance to pass? Because the driver probably didn’t know any better, that’s why.

Finally, the driver got the message, ran the light and pulled the car into the Krispy Kreme parking lot where it stopped a few spaces away from Mike. Two young girls were in the Focus and they seemed to be crying. He sighed and got out of his car, wondering as he walked over to them if the sight of his uniform would scare them or reassure them. Today, he would try to be the Good Cop. He gestured for the driver to roll down her window.

“Ladies,” he said with what he hoped was a warm and ingratiating smile. Two young, tear-streaked faces looked up at him in horror. All they saw was the uniform and the badge, not the smile. “That was a scary situation back there, wasn’t it?”

They nodded mutely and Mike looked at the driver. She probably just turned sixteen and might someday be pretty, but not this morning. Her face was puffy and red, and her makeup was beginning to streak from the tears. She was scared and doubtless thought she was going to get a ticket. “I’m Sergeant Mike Stuart. So tell me, miss, what’s your name?”