Under A Dark Summer Sky Part 13

"But, Mr. Mitch.e.l.l, you've just said it's not headed here." He stared at the rotting canvas roof of the cabin. A spider had built a nest in the frame. Out of the fluffy white ball would soon pour hundreds of tiny beasts, rus.h.i.+ng to infest his gear, trail across his face while he slept. G.o.d, I hate this place. This ain't purgatory. It's h.e.l.l. He fried the spider's nest with the end of his cigar. Mitch.e.l.l's calm, soft-spoken voice nearly drove him crazy.

"Whatever the weather center says, my bet is on the barometer. I've never seen it drop so fast. I urge you to get the men out. Just think of the potential consequences."

Trent had done little else since midafternoon. The sky was a washed-out noncolor he had never seen before, a kind of yellowish gray. The wind seemed to blow hard from several directions at once. The surf was a disorganized mess of brown and white. "I can't order an evacuation based on your gut, Mr. Mitch.e.l.l, but I will confer with my superiors. Good day to you."

His first conversation with Norbert Grimes up in Jacksonville had not gone well, and he did not relish a second. Yes, the sky looked strange and angry, but that could just mean the daily downpour was on its way. Trent had become accustomed to them. Towering thunderheads of darkest purple would barrel in, deluge them for a few minutes, and the steamy suns.h.i.+ne would return. It could simply be more of the same.

Before the war, where he spent several weeks in a freezing trench, Trent had always thought of himself as a cold weather man. As a boy, he felt more alive during the winter than any other time of year, like he was energized from the inside out. The crack of falling ice, the swish of his sled, the deep, total silence of falling snow, more quiet than anything in the world...these were his favorite sounds.

That all changed during the winter in France. For a time, he had ceased to remember what it was to be warm, that there even was such a thing as warm. He lost three toes to frostbite and would have lost more if his tour of duty had not ended. The Heron Key contract had seemed just the thing for his scarred old body. A tropical sojourn was just what he needed, with palm trees, clear water, white sand, and friendly local women with suntanned faces.

He scratched at the mosquito bites on his arm. It seemed that the local insects found him a lot tastier than the women did. They regarded him as no different from the veterans, whom they considered to be dangerous drunks and criminals. He realized that his bald head and armfuls of tattoos might not help, but he still resented being lumped in together with the crazy sons of b.i.t.c.hes under his supervision.

The phone rested on his desk like a genie's lamp. How to make it work for him? How could he communicate to Grimes, up in the civilized world, what life was like on Heron Key? How precarious it was, on this little spit of land, barely above sea level? He doubted that Grimes had ever considered it, from the vantage of his safe, hygienic metropolis. And what if Mitch.e.l.l was right and the storm did devastate the camp? Whose name would forever be a.s.sociated with it? Not Norbert Grimes. He picked up the phone. The remains of his lunch curdled in his gut.

It was clear from Grimes's tone of voice that he was less than thrilled to hear from Trent again, probably because he was preparing to head to the golf course. "You can see my position," Grimes said. "It's a h.e.l.luva lot of egg on my face if it turns out to be a false alarm. Like last time." The sound became m.u.f.fled as Grimes covered the receiver. "Be right with you, Bill!"

Trent stifled a groan of frustration. Grimes was an administrator, had never been in the field, but he did happen to be married to the governor's daughter.

Trent knew all too well about "last time" and why Grimes had brought up the incident from the past. It was too good an opportunity for him to pa.s.s up. It had taken place a few weeks after the veterans' camp was set up. Most of them had no experience of the tropics, Trent included, but all knew enough to fear the deadly yellow fever. It was impossible to avoid the mosquitoes, which swarmed so densely at dusk that they resembled earthbound rain clouds. The men were all alert to the symptoms: flu-like fever and b.l.o.o.d.y vomit, followed by the cla.s.sic yellowing of the skin that signaled liver failure. It was so highly contagious that it could take hold of the camp within a day or two.

So when Mo Hendricks, an infantryman from Chicago, collapsed and died a few days later with those very symptoms, Trent had been straight on the phone to Grimes to request an evacuation. Grimes was not convinced and ordered a postmortem, and the conclusion was that Hendricks had died of acute alcoholism. Ever since, Trent had been tainted by Grimes's insinuations that he was liable to panic.

Having survived a year in the trenches of France, panic was the last thing that Trent was liable to do. He could barely prevent the resentment from seeping into his voice. He had withstood the most extreme circ.u.mstances ever, and never, not once, had he panicked. Not even when, stranded for three days in a flooded sh.e.l.l hole, he had eaten the rats that came to feast on his dead comrades. I wonder how long Norbert would have lasted there.

Grimes's exasperated sigh trickled into Trent's ear. He just imagined the man's longing look at his golf clubs, antic.i.p.ating his first c.o.c.ktail of the evening. Grimes asked, "Trent, what does the weather forecast say?"

"It's a hurricane now, for sure. Looks like it will hit north of here but could still-"

"So if it's going to hit elsewhere," asked Grimes, "why the panic?" Trent dug his fingers into the wood of the desk to stop himself shouting. Grimes continued, "Try to look at it from my point of view."

That would be from the fifteenth hole, I guess? Trent took a deep breath and decided to make one more attempt-and doc.u.ment the conversation in his log. It was all he could do. "Mr. Grimes, I'm not panicking. It won't take more than a stiff breeze to flatten the camp, much less a bad storm. h.e.l.l, the water comes right up to the perimeter sometimes at high tide. The locals have seen telltale clouds, and the barometer keeps falling. We need you to order the train now-"

"And by the time it arrives," said Grimes, "this whole thing could have blown over, and not only will we have wasted taxpayers' money, but we'll look like idiots who got suckered in by the local folklore. Keep me informed, Trent. I've been advised that we can get those boys out of there in three hours if we need to."

Easy for you to say, 370 miles away. "Yes, Mr. Grimes."

Trent hung up the phone and stared at nothing for a moment. He was not a believer in much of anything, not fate, or destiny, or even G.o.d. But he felt himself in the grip of something huge, some force of incredible strength. As a boy, he had once lost control of his sled on an icy hill and tumbled helplessly, over and over, completely at gravity's mercy. He opened his log on the desk and checked his watch. 1730 hours, he wrote. I spoke to Mr. Grimes and advised him of the deteriorating weather situation...

Down at his shack in the mangroves, Zeke was frantic. He spun around the little room so jerkily that even Poncho could not maintain his grip. The bird perched on the back of a spindly wooden chair to clean his feathers.

Zeke felt the monster's breath. It blew hot on his neck. He could hear its roar. Not far away now. He would remain at his post. He would defend the town to his last heartbeat. But a warrior needed a weapon.

He had found it in the drainage pipe after yesterday's big rain, covered in weeds and mud. Although it was broken and stained, he sensed it still had power inside. He had seen the way the rich folks treasured such weapons.

He took it by the handle now and swished it experimentally through the air a few times, as he had seen the folks in white do it. The air made a satisfying hum sound through the sagging strings.

He would need all the power left in his weapon. As darkness spread across the sky, he saw it: two red lights appeared up the coast. The monster had opened its eyes.

Chapter 17.

Jenson dumped a heavy sack of potatoes in the back room of the store and stretched his tired muscles. The sounds of preparation could be heard all over town: windows being boarded up, shutters secured, loose objects and animals stowed away, supplies gathered into shelters. Water had been decanted from the cisterns, as it would get contaminated even if they did not blow over. His store had sold out of candles and matches and most of the canned goods. If the storm was bad-and he grimaced at the hopefulness of that "if"-it could be days before they got any fresh food in. The Coast Guard's hurricane warning buoys had started to wash up on sh.o.r.e, dropped to alert islanders and boaters. The marina had emptied out overnight. The boat owners with any sense had fled to safer moorings by now.

He and Trudy had almost finished their work. The store would serve as the main shelter for the town, as it had so many times before. They had moved most of the stock to the back room to create as much s.p.a.ce as possible.

As he unpacked their old lanterns, he could not get his last conversation with Trent Watts out of his mind. He had clearly failed to persuade the superintendent of the threat. How could he communicate to someone who had never experienced a hurricane what it was like? How it could tear your home to pieces, s.n.a.t.c.h your loved ones right out of your arms? How it could throw cars and trees around like they were toys?

The barometer's descent had begun again, faster than he had ever seen it. But they were ready, he felt. The tidy interior of the store rea.s.sured him. It had served them well in the past. There was no reason to believe that this time would be any different. Fred was still confident the storm was in no hurry and would come ash.o.r.e well to the north of Heron Key. Jenson had done everything possible to prepare. So why then could he not shake the feeling, deep in his bones, that it was not enough? And that this time would be very, very different?

Trudy deposited another box of canned pears. She straightened, hands braced against the small of her back. "You think we're ready?"

"Yes, we are..." The image of the veteran's camp lurked in his head, the men going about their normal routine with no earthly idea of what was bearing down on them-and soon, according to the barometer.

"Tell me," she said and took a seat on a sack of cornmeal.

"I can't help thinking about them...the veterans." His eyes toured the store again, calculating. "Do you think-?"

"No, we do not have room for them here. There isn't room in the town for that number of men, not with hundreds of locals. And, Son"-her tone softened-"even if we did, you can't have men like that cooped up with women and children for hours on end."

"I guess you're right." He sighed. "It's just that-"

"There are plenty of people, official people, who have responsibility for them. It's their job to see them right, not yours. Now come on," she said as she stood up and stretched. "We got enough to do already without spending time worrying about a bunch of"-she hesitated, searched for the right word-"people, who by rights shouldn't even be here." She studied his face closely. "There's something else?"

"You've been through a lot of these storms," he said. "Anything feel...different to you?" He could rationalize the feeling away in any number of ways: that Fred had the most accurate information, from s.h.i.+pping and spotter planes, and that Heron Key's preparations had always seen them through the storms of the past. But his gut did not agree. There was something different this time, and he had no idea why. It was completely indefinable. It pinged around in his head like a bead of mercury each time he tried to get a fix on it. It was telling him, in his most primitive core, below the level of conscious thought, that he should do just one thing, and quickly: run. Just run.

She shrugged. "Can't say so, not really. The worst ones come when it's hottest, and it's plenty hot now. But I trust your gut, Jenson, more than anything Fred has to say. What's it telling you?"

He thought for a moment about how to answer.

No one's interests were served by a panic. His mother had never been susceptible to that. So he looked at her steadily and said, "This may be worse than we thought."

Trent surveyed the camp at dusk. Although the wind blew hard enough to ripple the cabin walls, it did nothing to freshen the air. He had ordered the heavy equipment at the bridge site to be weighed down with concrete rubble. If the storm was anything like the twisters of his childhood, there was no telling what could take to the sky.

He had left yet another message for Norbert Grimes, to say that a relief train was now urgently needed. Grimes had not returned his call. Trent's eye traveled over the flimsy structures of the camp. Waves already dampened the cabins closest to the surf line, which advanced much faster than a normal tide. Trent had done all he could. A delivery of fresh water had arrived at the station and awaited transfer into the storage tanks. He would deal with that later. His priority was to get the men out of Heron Key...and he just might not come back. He was tired, tired of the heat, and the rain, and the mosquitoes, and the Conchs. He was tired of the stinking latrines, the lousy food, and the petty annoyances that kept the men in a constant state of agitation. He was tired of being told what to do. Yes, the money was okay-and he had to admit that any money in the current economic situation was a blessing-but he figured there had to be less miserable ways to make a living. The only thing that raised his spirits was the knowledge that Henry Roberts was locked up.

The waves deposited a line of dirty foam at his feet. Sand stung his face. So much for the tropical paradise. More than anything, he yearned for the vast, empty plains of Kansas, nothing but open fields stretching to the vast blue horizon. There, a man could see weather coming a long, long way off. He ground his cigar into the damp sand and went back to his cabin to complete his log for the day-and make another phone call.

About ten miles south of Miami, Henry and Jimmy stopped for the night. Their progress had been slow on the little back roads, and Henry had intended to continue while it was dark. But after he fell asleep and woke with a start to find Jimmy had pulled over, he realized the need for rest could not be ignored.

The truck was parked under the spreading branches of a huge old oak tree. Gray clumps of Spanish moss gave it a forlorn, unkempt look but effectively hid them from the road.

"Uncle Dwayne be real mad at you," said Jimmy around a mouthful of sandwich. "You in big, big trouble." Just before dusk, they had found a food store that served coloreds. Henry bought some dried-out sandwiches and bottles of warm Pepsi-Cola for them.

"Yeah." Henry slurped from his bottle. "I had worked that out." The sweet, fizzy liquid soothed his parched throat. They had not stopped since leaving Heron Key, not even to p.i.s.s. He had made Jimmy hold it until he was sure they hadn't been followed. They sat in darkness to conserve the truck's battery and remain invisible.

"When you gonna let me go?" Jimmy asked for about the fifteenth time. The boy's voice had a whiny, fretful edge that ran along Henry's nerves like a cheese grater.

"Georgia. I'll let you go when we get to Georgia." He glared at Jimmy. "Or, if you ask me again, the answer is Kentucky."

All afternoon, the sky behind them had continued to blacken as they made their way north. When Henry looked back, all he could see was a curtain of dark purple clouds that stretched right down to the ground. The rain had followed them. It tapped with insistent fingers on the roof of the cab. The wind moaned softly through the old tree's branches and made them creak and sway. Henry thought he'd never heard a more mournful sound.

Jimmy gave him a sideways glance. "So I guess you is Roy's daddy after all. Otherwise, you wouldn'ta run."

"No, Jimmy, I ain't." There was no moon. No stars shone through the thick foliage above. The darkness was complete. Henry felt suspended in time and place. He figured the only way to shut Jimmy up was to tell him what he wanted to know. And what did it matter, anyway? Once they got to Georgia, he would never see Jimmy again.

"But you did beat up Missus Kincaid, didn't ya?"

"Nope."

"Then why you run? Why the h.e.l.l we here?" Jimmy's voice was thick with exasperated confusion. He smacked the dashboard with his fists. "Ow."

"Because, Jimmy, what I did, or didn't do, ain't the point. Only thing folks care about is what they think I did."

"But Uncle Dwayne ain't like that! He a good man, really-"

"All men is animals inside, Jimmy. Best you learn that lesson fast. Some just have thicker hides than others. And when they get angry, well, they capable of anything. And I do mean anything." He could feel Jimmy listening intently. Somewhere close by, a peac.o.c.k cried. It always sounded to Henry like a woman's scream. "I seen it myself, in the war, so many times. And what was that you told me about your uncle? How he beats on your aunt Noreen?"

"Yeah, but-"

"You saw what happened at the jail, Jimmy. Would you have stuck around, in my shoes? Truth, now."

Jimmy said nothing, just stared into the darkness beyond the winds.h.i.+eld. Henry could almost hear the wheels and cogs turn inside the boy's head.

"He ain't been himself since Roy came along. But it cain't be as bad as you say. You trying to trick me. Uncle Dwayne said you was tricky."

Henry stretched his cramped limbs and yawned. He would have to let Jimmy go soon, for his own safety. The temptation to beat some sense into his thick head was very strong, but he had promised Campbell not to hurt the boy. "Go to sleep now. We can probably make it to Jacksonville tomorrow."

"I cain't sleep, not like this."

"Okay, then watch me sleep. And just to make sure there's no funny business..." He locked their wrists together with Dwayne's handcuffs.

"Aw, c'mon, you don't have to do that!"

"Good night, Jimmy."

In a few minutes, he heard the boy's deep sleep breathing. Henry thought of Missy, safe in the shelter of Mitch.e.l.l's store, surrounded by family and friends. They would tell her what she needed to hear: that he had to go, that she was better off without him, that he would always be in trouble of some kind. It was no life for someone as special as Missy. She would find someone who would treat her well, someone she could rely on. And she would forget about her old friend Henry. She is better off without me.

He thought of his boys, settling into their bunks for the night. After their experience in the war, nature held no fear for them, but they had never seen what a hurricane could do. Trent Watts might be s.a.d.i.s.tic and cruel at times, but he could not be accused of stupidity. He must have organized a way to get the men out of the storm's path. There would be no room for them to shelter in town, even if the townspeople had been willing to spend hours at such close quarters with them. Given the state of the weather, he figured the evacuation train must already be on its way. In a few hours, they would be enjoying themselves in Miami. Good luck to you, boys. We meet again someday.

As for his own future, the only option was to put as much distance as possible between himself and Heron Key. He would figure out the rest later. Missy's face appeared to him, her eyes bright with tears.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the magnitude of his loss and frustration at the pointless ruination of his hopes, he wanted to smash up the truck until it was nothing but twisted metal. What had he said to Jimmy? All men are animals. With that thought, he fell into a deeply troubled sleep...

...and dreamed he was back at the bridge site, working with the boys to sink the huge pylons into the sandy soil. Everyone was there, even Li'l Joe, Sammy, and Tyrone, dead all these years. They laughed in the suns.h.i.+ne, heads thrown back, and moved the huge chunks of concrete around as if they were cardboard props in a play. Their strength was limitless. They could finish the bridge in a few hours, and then they would stride across the land to the next task, Paul Bunyanastyle. Heroes all, just as they had hoped.

But then the earth just collapsed under them, like a sinkhole big as Lake Okeechobee. It opened up and sucked them down into a huge, dark emptiness, and their laughter turned to screams. It was like the screams he had heard often in the war, born of a terror so pure that it produced sounds almost unrecognizable as human.

He jerked awake. The sound was inside the cab with him. He had slumped against the truck's window. A layer of sweat adhered his face to the gla.s.s. He looked across at Jimmy, whose mouth was open, his eyes stretched wide. Henry followed his stare. The soft, slanting light of early morning shone on a pair of naked legs dangling from one of the branches that arched over the truck. Some of the toes were missing. The body's face was hidden up in the gloom of the tree. It must have been there, gently turning in the breeze, while they slept, oblivious, so dark was the night.

A group of five white men arrived and stood beneath the carca.s.s, gazing with interest at the truck.

"Shut up, Jimmy! Shut up!" Henry ordered. Jimmy ceased screaming, but it looked like he might cry. Henry's sleepy brain struggled to make sense of the situation. Hysterics from Jimmy would not help. "This is what we have to do. Jimmy, listen to me." The boy swallowed. His Adam's apple juddered. His hands shook. "I'm your prisoner, Jimmy. You're taking me to Miami, on instructions from the deputy sheriff. You got to make them believe, Jimmy. If you do this, I will let you go as soon as we're clear of them."

There was no response. Henry unlocked the cuffs. "Jimmy, you're okay. You've had a shock. Nod if you can hear me. And breathe, just breathe."

Jimmy nodded, but his hands continued to shake, his eyes fixed on the body that turned gently in the wind.

"Can you do this, Jimmy? Tell me now." Henry's hand was on Dwayne's gun.

Jimmy exhaled. "Yes, I can do this." He breathed loudly through his mouth. "I can. Do this."

Henry considered briefly whether to trust the boy, then quickly decided it was beside the point. But just in case, he prepared to move into the driver's seat. "Here, put the cuffs in your pocket. Make it look official. And take this." He handed the gun to Jimmy.

The boy looked at the gun for a long moment. His resolve seemed to falter. "Uncle Dwayne never let me touch his gun. I only ever used my daddy's shotgun for hunting deer. I ain't never fired a pistol. Like as not, I'll end up shooting myself."

"You carry a gun so you don't have to fire it. Remember what I told you: it's not what you do but what people think you do. You just gotta look like you could shoot the b.u.t.tons off their s.h.i.+rts. Wait." He removed Jimmy's John Deere cap. "That's better."

Jimmy took a pinch of chewing tobacco from the glove compartment and shoved it in his gum and jumped down from the cab. He looked so young. We are dead. This is never going to work. But then he left the truck and approached the group of men with a swagger that was pure Uncle Dwayne, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, gun stuffed in his pocket. I should have removed the bullets. He's going to blow his foot off.

Jimmy strode into the group with a big smile and shook hands all around. A long conversation ensued, none of which Henry could hear properly. The men regarded Jimmy with guarded expressions as they stood casually beneath the hideous form in the tree. They barely glanced at Henry. He might as well have been luggage. Henry cast his eyes to the floor of the cab and hunched his shoulders in a posture of surrender. The image of the mutilated feet stayed in his head. Trails of blood wound around the legs like black worms.

More m.u.f.fled conversation. Henry sneaked a quick peek. Jimmy's head was up, his shoulders back. He laughed at something and clapped one of the men on the shoulder. Don't push your luck. They looked like people at a normal social gathering. Jimmy's hand rested comfortably on the gun. He spat liberally on the ground.

After more shoulder slapping and handshaking, Jimmy made his way back to the truck with a fond wave. His grin looked like it had been carved into his face. He waved some more to his new friends as they drove away. It was several miles before he spoke. All he said was, "I need a drink."

With no hope of finding a liquor store at that hour, he had to make do with strong coffee from a diner. Since they could not be served in the same establishment, Jimmy brought the steaming cups out to the truck. The waitress watched suspiciously from the window, hands on hips.

"You did it, Jimmy," said Henry after a gulp of the bitter liquid. He tried to banish the thought that it tasted of someone else's saliva. "Your uncle woulda been proud of you. Thank you." The homey smell of coffee filled the cab, which only increased his sense of unreality. Here, just a few miles away, it was a normal morning, where people did normal things. They drank coffee, had breakfast, went to work. Meanwhile, not far away, a vision of horror swung from an old tree.

Jimmy said nothing, just gripped his coffee cup as if he needed the warmth, although his freckled cheeks were s.h.i.+ny with sweat. He was most likely still in shock, Henry figured, and not only because of what he had seen, but also because of what it meant. Henry knew how it felt to have his certainties, those treasured things he believed to be true, yanked from under him. The boy would need time to adjust to that loss.

Henry's own pulse was still ragged. When his eyes had first flown open, for a fraction of a second, he had thought the legs of the slowly turning corpse were his own, that he had somehow become a bystander at his own death. It would not have surprised him, as he had felt fate's soft wings brush against him many times. But this time was close, closer than ever before. Had he not run from Heron Key when he did... A chill pa.s.sed through his body, like a cold jolt of electricity, as he took in the full realization of what might have happened. The murderous fire in Dwayne's eyes had stayed with him. The memory remained undimmed with every mile they traveled.