Hurricane Punch Page 6

  “Who knows? She’s a fast one, twenty miles an hour. And we’re closing at sixty from forty degrees…. Coleman! You’re spilling beer on the laptop!”

  “Sorry.” Coleman wiped the keyboard with his forearm.

  “Is it still working?”

  Coleman nodded.

  “You idiot. Just hold that thing still. Without it we’re dead.”

  Coleman killed the beer and tossed the empty over his shoulder. He squeezed the laptop with both hands to steady it against the severe bouncing. Serge looked sideways at the stolen computer with the live-GPS-mapping software he’d installed. A tiny cartoon car ticked across the screen on an empty part of the map. A perpendicular black line lay ahead. Serge faced forward and strained his eyes. “Come on, where’s that road?”

  The vehicle became quiet, both of them realizing the wall was moving in too fast from the right. A thousand yards, eight hundred, six hundred…Serge accelerated as fast as he dared in the uneven, spongy terrain, but it wasn’t enough…. Four hundred yards, two hundred…”

  He glanced at the laptop again. The cartoon car was right on top of the black line, passing to the other side. “Where’s that stupid road?” One hundred yards, fifty…The dense, gray monster gobbling real estate. “Uh-oh,” said Serge. “Grab something!”

  The wall didn’t overtake the car as much as crash down upon it—a surfer losing his board in the tube. They took an extra-hard bounce, and Coleman bonked his head on the ceiling. “Ow! What was that?”

  “Just hit pavement!” Serge cut the wheel fast to the left, the back end skidding out in an expert quarter spin, lining up with the eastbound lane. He practically stood up on the gas pedal, four thick tires blowing steam before gripping the slick blacktop. Seconds later the H2 punched out of the eye wall and into the clear.

  They sped across State Road 60, adding cushion between them and the pregnant darkness filling the back window. Finally Serge released a breath and let off the fuel. “We need to find a motel to put up.”

  “I thought you wanted to ride it all the way to the coast.”

  Serge pointed at the laptop. “Storm’s changed course. Very slight, but enough to take this road out of play. At the current rate, that left side of the eye will be on us in ten miles.”

  “So turn on another street like you’ve been doing. Or a field.”

  “Can’t. We’re in swamp country now. This is the only road. Just lakes and deeper bogs on both sides.”

  “But it’s the middle of nowhere. Where are we going to find a motel?”

  “In the middle of nowhere.”

  The eye wall was almost to the road again when Serge swung into the parking lot of a lifeless inn with lost power. It was hard to tell whether the motel had been abandoned for the hurricane or in general. Serge grabbed a crowbar and ran to the door of room number three.

  Coleman brought up the rear toting a cooler. “Why don’t you just use a credit card?”

  “Locks are too old.” The door popped, and he ran back to the vehicle, grabbing a duffel in each hand. “Help me get our stuff inside. We don’t have much time.”

  Coleman looked at the sky over the motel roof. “Oh, shit!”

  They made several unloading trips at battle speed. Almost done. Coleman stood at the back of the SUV. “Serge, what about this…whatever-you-call-it that you stole from the university?”

  Serge’s hair blew straight back, and the sun went out; he looked directly up into the act of God. “Too late. We’ll get it in the morning.” A sudden gust whipped through the parking lot, and Coleman went tumbling. Serge grabbed the luggage rack, working his way along the side of the vehicle. “Give me your hand!”

  Coleman crawled and reached up. Serge leaned acutely into the wind. “Stay low.”

  “Not a problem.”

  Stinging rain and sand. Nearly there. A tree gave way with a loud crack. Only a few more feet, now on their bellies. They slithered across the threshold, slammed the door and uprighted mattresses against the window. Seriously dark. Serge used waterproof matches to light a candle, and Coleman used the candle to light a joint.

  TAMPA POLICE DEPARTMENT

  Shortly before midnight. The chief sat at the head of a long conference table for a closed-door meeting. He checked his watch as the last arriving division heads took chairs. “Looks like everyone’s here. Let’s get started. We’ve got the Pinellas sheriff on the speakerphone…. Sheriff, you there?”

  A faceless box in the middle of the table: “I’m here.”

  “Good.” The chief looked sideways. “You all know Collins. I’m going to turn it over to him.”

  The department’s media liaison finished reviewing his talking points. He pushed back his chair and stood. “We’ve all had quite a day. Tomorrow gets worse. Chief ’s scheduled a press conference for noon. He wants me to make sure we’re all on the same page.”

  A premature hand went up from Robbery Division. “I heard a crazy story about the cause of death behind the restaurant.”

  “That’s why we’re meeting.” Collins looked to his left. “I’m going to let Hom i cide explain the forensics. It’s a little technical. Gillespie?”

  The head of hom i cide laid it all out from the confidential, eyes-only report. It wasn’t a pleasant task. He finished without fanfare and took his seat.

  Murmurs shot around the table. “What kind of sick bastard…?”

  “That’s not all,” said Collins. “We have the additional complication of an identical crime scene on the other side of the bay.” He looked down at the speaker on the table. “Sheriff?”

  “Our lab boys arrived at the same place.”

  More murmurs.

  “Gentlemen,” said Collins, “there’s more. It looks like we have a serial killer…”

  The talk grew louder.

  “…Maybe two…”

  Open revolt.

  “Pipe down,” said the chief. “Collins, show ’em the tape.”

  The liaison walked to a rolling media center at the front of the room. He turned on the VCR. “This is from a surveillance camera at the university. It’s down the far end of a hallway outside the hurricane-research center, where the murder weapon or weapons were stolen. Twelve frames a minute. And they had an old tape. That’s why the quality’s so bad. Okay, here’s our first guy.” A vaguely human figure walked across the hallway in choppy time lapse. “Now he’s busting out the window in the door and reaching through to unlock it.” The figure disappeared from view. “I’ll fast-forward…. And here he comes back into the hall with a hand truck before leaving the building.”

  “That’s not much to go on,” said Robbery.

  “Gets stickier.” Collins advanced the tape again. Another blurry figure came back into the hallway. The screen went static.

  “What happened?”

  “He shot out the camera,” said Collins.

  “That doesn’t make sense. It only helps if he shoots it out at the beginning.”

  “It makes sense if it’s a different person,” said Collins.

  “Is it?”

  “That’s our problem. Two crime scenes on opposite sides of the bay, far enough apart that it’s unlikely the same person could cover the ground, especially in that kind of weather.”

  “But not impossible?”

  “Right,” said the liaison. “And it might be two people on the tape. Or one.”

  “You mention ‘weapon or weapons,’” said Vice. “How many of those things did the university lose? That should tell us.”

  “They think two.”

  “‘Think’?”

  “Or one,” said Collins. “They don’t keep good records.”

  “Jesus,” said Narcotics. “Did anything break our direction?”

  “No,” said the chief. “Either way it’s a nightmare. We got one serial killer. Or two working as a team.”

  “Or dueling serial killers?” suggested Robbery.

  “Don’t even think that,” said the chief.

&n
bsp; “The press will be asking a lot of questions,” said Collins. “We need to no-comment this all the way, ‘active investigation.’…Sheriff?”

  “I just gave the instructions.”

  The chief finally stood. “We might be wrong and can’t have this city in a needless panic. Until we know what we’re dealing with, none of this leaves the room. Not the tiniest, most innocent fact about the case is to get out. That’s an order!”

  NIGHT DESK, TAMPA BAY TODAY

  The metro editor sat in front of a green-and-black computer screen, slowly scrolling through tomorrow’s top story. The reporter who wrote the article watched over his shoulder. The official newsroom clock said midnight.

  “Incredible,” remarked the editor. “You’ve outdone yourself again, McSwirley.”

  “I really didn’t do anything but get those interviews.”

  “Take credit.” The editor tapped the cursor. “Cops aren’t giving anyone squat, but you got the whole story. And more.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The only thing that worries me is this confidential source of yours.”

  “Agent Mahoney?”

  “What do we know about him?”

  “Florida Department of Law Enforcement,” said McSwirley. “He’s a profiler.”

  “Get his badge number?”

  McSwirley nodded.

  “I can’t see you nodding back there.”

  “I got his badge number.”

  The editor scratched his head. “Something’s not right. Local police are circling the wagons, but this Mahoney’s blabbing his head off.”

  “I recorded him,” said McSwirley, patting a microdevice in his pocket.

  “What about that video from the university break-in? We get a copy?”

  “No,” said the reporter. “Department’s not releasing it. But he let me watch the whole thing. It’s just like I wrote.”

  “You’re solid on this Mahoney?”

  “Hundred percent.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” The editor kept tapping down through the story. “It just gets better and better. He really gave you all this?”

  “He did.”

  The editor whistled. “I’ll need to get in early tomorrow to take the calls. Chief ’s going to be pissed.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  YEEHAW JUNCTION

  The storm roared around the motel and shook the trusses, a counterpoint to the stillness inside.

  Serge’s luminous expeditionary wristwatch said midnight. The candle on the dresser had melted to a stub. He lit a new one, turned it over to drip wax, then held the base in the hot pool until it hardened.

  Coleman lay on the bed with the red tip of a joint. Serge opened a well-worn hardcover to a bookmarked page. He sat down at the dresser and began reading by the flame.

  THC adjusted the tint, contrast and brightness knobs on Coleman’s eyesight. He looked across the room at a dim portrait of Serge’s face in the wick’s warm, orange glow.

  “Serge…”

  He kept reading. “What?”

  “This is eerie. I’m getting scared.”

  “You should be.” He turned a page. “We’re riding out a major hurricane.”

  “No, I mean the dope. It makes everything eerie. Once I had to run out of Shrek 2.”

  “I’m trying to read.”

  “Sorry.” Pause. “What are you reading?”

  Serge showed him the book’s spine.

  “I can’t see it in this light.”

  “Florida guide written by Roosevelt’s Works Progress Administration. This edition was published in 1939.”

  “Serge…”

  “What!?”

  “How’d you know this motel would be out here? We would have been doomed.”

  “Rule Number One: Wherever you are, always know the coolest local hurricane shelters. Not to be confused with official. Besides, this is the Desert Inn. I’ve always wanted to stay at the Desert Inn. National Register of Historic Places. Since 1880—”

  “That’s almost before people.”

  “…Originally a way station for early timber railroads, Indian traders and cattlemen driving herds south from Kissimmee, now just a remote trucker crossroads with two gas stations, this motel and a theme-park ticket hut trying to lure tourists off the turnpike. A few times a year, they have excellent biker rallies and a bluegrass festival.” He pointed east. “Still serving turtle and gator tail in the restaurant.”

  “But what town is this?”

  “Not a town. Yeehaw Junction, aka Jackass Crossing. It’s what I’m reading about right now. We’re in the old stomping grounds of Coacoochee, the great chief during the Seminole Wars. Says here the U.S. Army wanted to hold peace talks, so the chief and his band showed up in, quote, ‘colorful garb, taken from the wardrobe of an American theatrical troupe they had attacked and killed.’”

  Coleman tapped an ash. “Talk about your harsh reviews.”

  Serge closed the book. He picked up a clipboard and handed it to Coleman.

  “Checklist time,” said Serge.

  Coleman uncapped a pen. “Ready.”

  “Checklist.”

  “Check.”

  Serge began unloading duffel bags with precision. “Candles and waterproof matches.”

  “Check.”

  “Weather radio, flashlight, batteries…”

  “Check, check, check…”

  “Hurricane-tracking chart, potable water, freeze-dried food, can opener, organic toilet paper, sensible clothes, upbeat reading material, baseball gloves, compass, whistle, signal mirror, first-aid kit, snake-bite kit, mess kit, malaria tablets, smelling salts, flints, splints, solar survival blanket, edible-wild-plant field almanac, trenching tool, semaphores, gas masks, Geiger counter, executive defibrillator, railroad flares, lemons in case of scurvy, Austrian gold coins in case paper money becomes scoffed at, laminated sixteen-language universal hostage-negotiation ‘Kwik-Guide’ (Miami-Dade edition), extra film, extra ammunition, firecrackers, handcuffs, Taser, pepper spray, throwing stars, Flipper lunch box, Eden Roc ashtray, Cypress Gardens felt pennant, alligator snow globe, miniature wooden crate of orange gumballs, acrylic seashell thermometer and pen holder, can of Florida sunshine…”

  “Check, check, check…. What about my inflatable woman?”

  “Natural enemy of the trenching tool.”

  “You popped it?”

  “She was just holding you back.”

  “Serge, I can’t write anymore. The paper’s all damp.”

  “From the hurricane.”

  “But we’re inside.”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Serge dropped to the floor for a set of high-speed push-ups. “The general public doesn’t realize how humid it gets in one of these. People think they’re perspiring, but you could lay clothes on a bed and they’d grow mildew by dawn.”

  Coleman tried to take a hit. Nothing but air. He looked at his hand. “My joint went out.”

  “Dry it over the candle.” Serge switched to one-handed push-ups. “…Three…four…five…”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Staying in shape…. Eight…nine…ten…” He changed hands. “I’ve decided to put myself on the sixty-minute workout. An hour a day and stay fit for life.” Serge jumped up and went over to the window.

  “That wasn’t an hour,” said Coleman.

  “Who knows how long I’ll live? Can’t waste it exercising. So now I’m on the one-minute workout. That’ll buy me tomorrow.” Serge peeked around the side of a mattress. “Think it’s too risky to go to the car?”

  “Listen to that wind. We’re getting the worst of it now.”

  “I know, I know,” he said reluctantly. “But I have a cool new gadget I can’t play with.”

  “It’ll still be there in the morning.”

  Serge took another peek outside. “Did you see that trash pile at the end of the parking lot when we pulled in?”

  “What about it?”

  “Notice what was
on top?”

  “No.”

  Serge got that look in his eyes. “Two-by-fours.”

  NIGHT DESK, TAMPA BAY TODAY

  McSwirley hovered over his editor’s shoulder. The front-page scoop had already been vetted. Just house keeping left. Pronoun agreement, transitions, inverted-pyramid fact flow.

  The editor cut and pasted a paragraph. “You need to get the first quote up higher. Bring it alive.”

  “I keep forgetting.”

  Newsrooms have open floor plans: a sea of desks with no partitions for instant, shouted communication. A large, official clock hangs somewhere visible to the entire room, so there can be no argument over whose watch is right. Because every minute counts in this business, especially on the night shift.

  The clock in this newsroom had red digital numbers. Now: 12:10. Twenty minutes to first deadline. Fifty to press start. No-nonsense time.

  Earlier in the cycle, a different story. Newsrooms are notorious day-care centers for adults. High jinks and all-purpose farting around. But you wouldn’t have to see the staff in action to figure that out. The big tip-off was workplace decor. Toys everywhere. Slinkies, fortune-telling Eight Balls, plastic palm trees with Christmas lights, radio-controlled race cars. A life-size promotional cardboard Batman looked down over the movie reviewer’s computer. One of the columnists had an HO-gauge train set circling his desk.

  But on deadline everyone grows up. Foolishness gives way to a rapid-fire clattering of keyboards.

  12:12.

  The front wall of the newsroom held a large, washable map of the state. Grids for latitude, longitude. A wobbly red line traced the current hurricane’s path from landfall at the mouth of Tampa Bay to the turnpike exit at Yeehaw Junction. Someone walked up to the map with a fresh printout from the National Weather Service. He uncapped a marker and made dashes toward the Atlantic Ocean, stopping shy of Vero Beach.

  12:14.

  The copy staff ’s desks formed a large, interconnecting H configuration. The metro editor sat in the center, typing last-minute polish. A second reporter joined McSwirley in hovering. The editor reached the end of the article. The last line said “-30-.”

  “McSwirley, how come you keep typing ‘thirty’ at the end of every story?”