and anger.
I should be helping.
She jumped to her feet and started to walk toward mountains of debris where the road had been. “Oh!” She stumbled over something soft.
A corpse!
No. Clothing. A tangled pile of soaked shirts and shorts strewn over the grass.
What about my clothing?
Were her belongings scattered with the wind? Was Starfish House still standing? Had Macaw and Pierre survived?
Lea shuddered. The rooming house was on the other side of Le Chat Noir, the eastern side, the exposed side where the ocean could show its storm fury. Starfish House felt fragile even in calm weather, she thought. The Swanns’ stone house had barely survived intact.
She felt a stab of dread in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, it was a struggle to breathe. No way Starfish House could still be standing. But Macaw and Pierre?
She couldn’t phone, of course. She remembered she had been talking to Mark—or trying to—last night when the service crashed.
Mark. What was he thinking right now? What was he doing? What had he told the kids? He had to be in his own nightmare . . . not knowing . . .
And no way to tell him.
My poor Ira and Elena.
Ahead of her, she saw an upended SUV, windows all blown out, sitting on the flattened roof where a little food store had stood. The SUV looked like an animal on its hind legs, standing straight up on its back bumper. Lea shook her head. Hard to imagine a wind strong enough to lift an SUV off the road, onto its back end, and drop it onto a building.
She spun away from it. But there was nowhere to turn to escape the horror.
The man lumbering toward her caught her by surprise. He was tall and broad and drenched in sweat, thinning brown hair matted to his red forehead. His T-shirt was torn and stained with brown streaks. His shorts were rags.
His eyes were wild and his mouth was moving rapidly although Lea couldn’t hear his words. His arms were outstretched, his mud-smeared hands open to grab her.
He’s crazy. He’s out of his head.
Move!
But there wasn’t time.
With a menacing groan, he grabbed her by the shoulders. He pulled with surprising force, nearly dragging her off her feet. She inhaled the rank odor of his body and his mud-caked clothes.
He groaned again. She wasn’t strong enough to resist. He was pulling her away from the others, dragging her out of view, grunting and groaning like an animal.
“Let go! Let go of me! Please! What are you going to do? Please—let go !”
11
T he radio squealed. Andy Pavano nearly lost his grip on the wheel.
“Vince, turn it down or something. Sounds like you stepped on a cat.”
“Hey, I’m always kind to animals. Can you hear me now?”
“The rain is messing with the radio.” Andy slowed the patrol car around a curve but still sent a tidal wave of rainwater washing over the narrow shoulder.
“It’s these old Motorolas, man. They’re not even digital.” Vince said something else but the signal broke up.
“Vince, what did you say?”
“I said maybe you could talk to your uncle about springing for a new radio system.”
“The chief isn’t my uncle,” Andy snapped. “He went to school with my cousin, that’s all.”
“Okay, okay. You’re both Pavano. So it’s an honest mistake, right?”
Headlights from an oncoming car blazed over the windshield. Andy tried to squint through it, but he couldn’t see a thing. Turn off your brights, bastard.
He opened his mouth in a loud burp. The meatball hero fromthat Italian place on Main Street . . . What was it called? Conca d’Oro? . . . it hadn’t gone down yet.
He swerved to avoid a lake of rainwater that glimmered darkly over the right half of the road. He could feel the wind push the car sideways. “Vince, this rain is killing me.”
“There’s a hurricane, Pavano. Down South. A big one. It pushed out into the ocean, but we’re getting the sloppy seconds.”
Andy snickered. “Vince, you’re a poet. Sloppy seconds? That doesn’t even make
I should be helping.
She jumped to her feet and started to walk toward mountains of debris where the road had been. “Oh!” She stumbled over something soft.
A corpse!
No. Clothing. A tangled pile of soaked shirts and shorts strewn over the grass.
What about my clothing?
Were her belongings scattered with the wind? Was Starfish House still standing? Had Macaw and Pierre survived?
Lea shuddered. The rooming house was on the other side of Le Chat Noir, the eastern side, the exposed side where the ocean could show its storm fury. Starfish House felt fragile even in calm weather, she thought. The Swanns’ stone house had barely survived intact.
She felt a stab of dread in the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, it was a struggle to breathe. No way Starfish House could still be standing. But Macaw and Pierre?
She couldn’t phone, of course. She remembered she had been talking to Mark—or trying to—last night when the service crashed.
Mark. What was he thinking right now? What was he doing? What had he told the kids? He had to be in his own nightmare . . . not knowing . . .
And no way to tell him.
My poor Ira and Elena.
Ahead of her, she saw an upended SUV, windows all blown out, sitting on the flattened roof where a little food store had stood. The SUV looked like an animal on its hind legs, standing straight up on its back bumper. Lea shook her head. Hard to imagine a wind strong enough to lift an SUV off the road, onto its back end, and drop it onto a building.
She spun away from it. But there was nowhere to turn to escape the horror.
The man lumbering toward her caught her by surprise. He was tall and broad and drenched in sweat, thinning brown hair matted to his red forehead. His T-shirt was torn and stained with brown streaks. His shorts were rags.
His eyes were wild and his mouth was moving rapidly although Lea couldn’t hear his words. His arms were outstretched, his mud-smeared hands open to grab her.
He’s crazy. He’s out of his head.
Move!
But there wasn’t time.
With a menacing groan, he grabbed her by the shoulders. He pulled with surprising force, nearly dragging her off her feet. She inhaled the rank odor of his body and his mud-caked clothes.
He groaned again. She wasn’t strong enough to resist. He was pulling her away from the others, dragging her out of view, grunting and groaning like an animal.
“Let go! Let go of me! Please! What are you going to do? Please—let go !”
11
T he radio squealed. Andy Pavano nearly lost his grip on the wheel.
“Vince, turn it down or something. Sounds like you stepped on a cat.”
“Hey, I’m always kind to animals. Can you hear me now?”
“The rain is messing with the radio.” Andy slowed the patrol car around a curve but still sent a tidal wave of rainwater washing over the narrow shoulder.
“It’s these old Motorolas, man. They’re not even digital.” Vince said something else but the signal broke up.
“Vince, what did you say?”
“I said maybe you could talk to your uncle about springing for a new radio system.”
“The chief isn’t my uncle,” Andy snapped. “He went to school with my cousin, that’s all.”
“Okay, okay. You’re both Pavano. So it’s an honest mistake, right?”
Headlights from an oncoming car blazed over the windshield. Andy tried to squint through it, but he couldn’t see a thing. Turn off your brights, bastard.
He opened his mouth in a loud burp. The meatball hero fromthat Italian place on Main Street . . . What was it called? Conca d’Oro? . . . it hadn’t gone down yet.
He swerved to avoid a lake of rainwater that glimmered darkly over the right half of the road. He could feel the wind push the car sideways. “Vince, this rain is killing me.”
“There’s a hurricane, Pavano. Down South. A big one. It pushed out into the ocean, but we’re getting the sloppy seconds.”
Andy snickered. “Vince, you’re a poet. Sloppy seconds? That doesn’t even make
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