Storm Surge (5 page)

“Graeme?” she
said, hating the way her voice quivered.

There was a
noise
outside,
and unfamiliar one on the island. It
was the sound of a heavy truck door closing. Graeme’s expression went from
sulky to
scared
. “Oh shit,” he whispered, “there’s
someone here.”

“You said no
one comes here!” she whispered back.

“No one does.
I don’t know. Be quiet!” He stood up. “Come on.”

She jumped up
as well. They could hear voices now, and a metallic rattling that sounded like
a garage door going up.

“They’re out
front,” Graeme said.
“Quick, down the back steps.”

“What if they
see us?”

“Then stay
here,” he snapped. “But if you get caught, you little redneck bitch, you better
keep your damn mouth shut.”

His words hit
her like a punch to the gut. “Graeme,” she said. She hated the way her lower
lip was trembling. But he didn’t see. He was away and down the steps. He didn’t
look back at her. Her vision blurred with tears as she followed.

CHAPTER NINE

The door of
the delivery van rattled in its tracks as they raised it. The moment it was
halfway up, Blake and Worth jumped out of the cargo compartment. They were
dressed in khaki
BDU
pants and black T-shirts. Blake
pulled a bandana out of his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face.

“Hot back
there?” the bald man said.

Blake didn’t
answer. He turned back to Montrose, who was still inside, shoving a large
wooden crate along the floor of the truck. The muscles of her wiry forearms
bulged as she grunted with the effort. She didn’t complain or ask for help.

“
Storch
,” Blake told the bald man. “Get up there and help her.”
He looked around. “Where’s Moon?”

Storch
shrugged,
then
swung himself up into the back of the truck. “Don’t know,” he said. “Didn’t you
see him get out when I did?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but applied himself
to the crate.

Blake sighed.
It was creepy the way Moon seemed to be able to disappear at will, and it was
beyond irritating the way he always seemed to do it when there was heavy work
to be done.
Storch
and Montrose
muscled
the crate onto the waffle-patterned platform of the truck’s rear lift. Blake
pulled the lever, and the hydraulic lift whined as it took the strain.

“Hey,” Moon
spoke up from just behind Blake. Blake jumped. “Jesus,” he snapped. “Will you
stop sneaking up on people like that?”

Moon shrugged.
“It’s what I do,” he said in his soft, hoarse voice. “But we may have a
problem.”

“What?”

“Come see.” He
turned and walked back towards the house.
Storch
and
Montrose had stopped to watch. “Get back to it,” Blake said. He turned to
Worth, still standing on the ground. “I’ll be right back.”

The exterior
of the house had been fully framed, but the interior walls were still bare
studs, widely spaced bars marking off the spaces where rooms would be. The
flooring was concrete, with a light dusting of sawdust here and there. Blake
could see though the house, out to the spaces where the picture windows would
go. The sea was calm today, the waves barely rolling.

Moon stopped
at the empty space where the door to the huge living room was supposed to go.
He gestured at the empty floor. “Look.”

Blake came and
stood beside him. He saw immediately what had bothered Moon.

While the site
had been neglected, sand had drifted into the rooms that faced the ocean, blown
by the constant stiff wind. But there were footprints in the sand.
Fresh ones.

Blake noticed
a pile of empty beer cans in one corner. He walked over and kicked it gingerly,
then picked one up. The empty can had a circle cut out near the bottom, with
tinfoil stuffed into the opening to make a bowl. There were pinpricks in the
foil, and a tarry residue still clung to the makeshift pipe.

“Kids,” Blake
said. “Sneaking in to drink beer and smoke dope.”

“Among other
things,” Moon said. “There’s a pile of blankets in a room upstairs, and a half
full box of condoms.”

Blake set the
can down. “Not a problem,” he said. “They’re all leaving today and tomorrow
anyway. They were just having a last little throw down.”

“What if they
come back before they leave?”

“We act like
construction workers and run them off,” Blake said.

“The
construction guys are all supposed to be gone, too.”

“Yeah, but you
expect kids to know that?” Blake walked over to the bottom of a staircase. The
tracks were particularly fresh
here,
the sand kicked
aside as if someone was in a hurry. He saw something small nestled into a
corner. He bent down and picked it up. It was a tiny iPod with a pink case.
Inked on the front in small letters were the words “G. Brennan.” Blake frowned,
then
stuck it in his pocket.

CHAPTER TEN

When Sharon
came out of the kitchen again, she glanced at the beach. Glory was back,
walking fast behind a tall blonde-haired boy. She relaxed, but only slightly.
She didn’t like the way she was running after the boy, but at least she was
back in plain sight. She carried the trays over to the table, a two-top. She
set the plates—a garden salad and a large oyster platter—down in front of the
two men sitting there. In the short time they’d been there, she’d mentally
dubbed them “The Odd Couple.” One was slender, with thinning sandy hair and a
soft English accent. He seemed fastidious and precise; even his khaki slacks
were creased perfectly. His table-mate, on the other hand looked like he’d just
come from a biker rally; he had shoulder-length black hair and a full beard.
Black and green tattoos snaked down both arms. The Englishman had a cell phone
out and was looking at it, clearly annoyed.

“Wont’ get
much of a signal here,
hon
,” she said.
Jesus
, she thought,
couldn’t people be away from their damn phones for a minute, even at
the beach
?
“Too far out.”

The Englishman
snapped the phone shut. He didn’t look at her, but began eating his salad, his
eyes fixed on the meal.

“Thanks,
sweetheart,” the bearded man said, grinning at Sharon, “and could I get some
more tea?”

She nodded.
“Anything for you, sir?” she asked the Englishman. He just shook his head,
still not looking at her.

Well fuck
you very much, too
,
she thought as she headed for the drink station.

The bearded
man, who worked under the name of Barstow, watched her legs as she walked away.
“
MILF
,” he said.

The
Englishman, who was known to his teammates as Phillips, looked up. “What?”

Barstow
gestured with his chin to where Sharon was filling a tea pitcher. “
MILF
,” he said again. He laughed at Phillips’
uncomprehending look. “Mother I’d Like to Fuck,” he explained.

“How do you
know she’s a mother?”

“It’s the
hips, man. She’s got childbearing hips. And take a look at that walk. There’s a
walk that says she likes to get nasty. Five bucks says there’s a
rugrat
out there somewhere.”

Phillips
sighed. “Spare me your fantasies, and try to focus, will you? I can’t raise the
support team.”

Barstow
speared a fried oyster with his fork and popped it in his mouth. “You should
really try to relax,” he said around the food. “The stuff will be there.” The
waitress was back at the table, pouring the tea. “Thanks, beautiful,” he said.
She gave him a distant smile and moved off. “You knew the cell reception out
here was for shit. That’s why we have the
Satphones
.”

Phillips
sighed. “I know.”

Barstow popped
another oyster into his mouth. “Look, Phillips, we’ve already hit the jump off
point. We’re in the field. Fuck progress reports, and fuck people looking over
our shoulders. It’s rock and roll time.”

“Not yet,”
Phillips said. “Not till the last boat leaves.” Barstow shrugged, picked up a
french
fry. Then his posture stiffened and his face went
blank. “Cop,” he said.

Phillips
didn’t turn.
“Short fellow?
Broad, dark, looks like he
has a permanent five o’clock shadow?

“That’s him.”

“No worries.
He’s the fellow that they’ve sent to supervise the evacuation. He’s a busy
lad.”

“He doesn’t
look happy.”

“I imagine
not.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It wasn’t the
first time Deputy Len
Bohler
had considered slapping
cuffs on the Community Manager of Pass Island, and, he thought with a sigh, it
probably wouldn’t be the last.

“Mr. Coyne,”
he said, “just what part of the words ‘mandatory evacuation’ are you not
getting?”

The man looked
pained. “It’s just that some of the residents aren’t full-time, and they
haven’t been able to get back to get some of their possessions.”

“And by ‘some
of the residents’, you mean Senator Buchan.”

Coyne took off
his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “He’s called you as well, then?”

“His chief of
staff has. And he’s called my lieutenant, the Sheriff, and, last I heard, the
Governor. Apparently the great man himself is too busy with whatever the hell
it is they do up there to call.”

Coyne nodded
unhappily. “So you see…” He looked up irritably at the waitress standing
patiently by. “What is it,
Conseula
?” he said.

“Are you
gentlemen ready to order?” she said.

“Coffee.”
Coyne said. “Black.”
“Coffee for me, ma’am,”
Bohler
said, smiling at her.
“One sugar.
Please.” The way Coyne treated his staff was
just another of the multitude of things
Bohler
loathed about the man.
Bohler’s
mother had raised
three boys alone, supporting herself by waiting tables in a diner. Every one of
the times Coyne had been rude to one of the servers,
Bohler
had to restrain himself from punching the little dipshit in the face.

“Anyway,”
Bohler
said as the girl hurried off, “the plan stays as it
is. As of noon today, the ferry only takes passengers off. No one else gets on
the island. Tomorrow morning, the last ferry runs.
Period.
End of sentence.”

Coyne
bristled. “I don’t like your tone.”

“I don’t much
care. We’ve got a Category Five storm heading right at this island, pushing an
eighteen foot storm surge. That means everything, except that old lighthouse on
the hill, is likely to be under water. My job is to make sure nobody gets
killed because they’re too damn stupid to get out of the way.”

The waitress
was back with the coffee. “Thank you,”
Bohler
said as
she sat the cup down.

“Well, what
about the staff?” Coyne said.

“What about
them?”

There was a
gleam of something like triumph in Coyne’s eye. “Payroll’s handled offsite by
an independent contractor. Payday is tomorrow. If the staff can’t ride the
ferry over to get their checks, they don’t get paid.”

“Can’t you
give them out on the mainland?”

Coyne shook
his head. “No. They have to be processed through the office here.”

“How do the
checks get here?”

“With
the mail.
It comes
over on the ferry.”

Bohler
leaned back in his chair. “Let me get
this straight. You make people come all the way out here, a forty minute ferry
ride, to get the paychecks that probably ride over on the boat with them?”

Coyne spread
his hands apart helplessly. “I don’t make procedure.”

Bohler
stared at him. “Unbelievable.”

“If you don’t
let the ferry run,” Coyne said, “these people don’t get paid. And some of them
aren’t going to make it without that paycheck.”

Yeah
,
Bohler
thought,
and
you like it that way.
Keeps them nice and desperate and
willing to take your bullshit
.
“Okay,” he said. “What time do the checks get here?”

“They come
over on the nine o’clock ferry.”

“Tell them
they can come get their checks.
One run, staff only.
Then they head back.”

“Wait,” Coyne
said. “You can’t let the staff board and not the residents!”

Bohler
had had enough. “Mr. Coyne,” he said,
“We’re in an officially declared state of emergency. The Sheriff’s delegated
the responsibility for evacuating this island to me. That means I can do pretty
much anything I decide is necessary, including dragging you out of this
restaurant in goddamn handcuffs and charging you with obstructing a public
officer if you aggravate me anymore.” He stood up. Coyne didn’t, just sat
there, his eyes narrowed.