Shadows on the Sand by Gayle Roper Page B

dimmed as she watched the gawkers. They all had cell phones in hand and were texting madly, even the older couple and the young mom. Her kids were busy scooping cinders and sand into a small mountain.
    Maureen gave a frustrated laugh. “They’re tweeting and facebooking.”
    As if to prove her correct, one guy called, “He couldn’t get across the Ninth Street Causeway. People blocked it. He turned south on Bay toward the Thirty-Fourth Street Bridge.”
    Greg snorted. “Amateurs playing at being cops.”
    “Voyeurs.” Rog shook his head. “Someone’s going to get hurt one of these days. They may think it’s fun and exciting, but the bad guys don’t. If one of the gawkers is in the way, look out, baby.” Irked though he was, he went to his cruiser and relayed the Thirty-Fourth Street Bridge information to the dispatcher.
    “Regular guys blockaded the causeway?” I was stunned. I couldn’t imagine putting my car in the path of Chaz and his Hummer. Of course, the tweeters out there hadn’t seen what the Hummer had done to the Sand and Sea. Still a Hummer is a Hummer, all big and bad. I was surprised Chaz didn’t use it to ram his way past the blockade.
    Two cars pulled into the lot, and a twenty-something climbed out of each, one male, one female. They huddled with the other watchers, whispering and pointing when their thumbs weren’t dancing on their keypads.
    Rog was grinning as he rejoined us. “Dispatch already knew. Several phone calls to 911 from people tracking the Hummer. I bet he’s got a line of cars behind him, all tweeters and their friends. He hasn’t got a chance.”
    “Sort of a wedding party motorcade without the crepe-paper streamers,” I said. “Or horns. Or bride and groom.”
    Greg put his hand to his head.
    I forgot the tweeters. “Headache?” Dumb question. Why else would he hold his head?
    “Oh, yeah. I never should have left the café.”
    Café! I glanced at my watch. Eleven thirty-five! “I’ve got to go. It’s lunchtime.”
    “I need to talk to you more,” Maureen said.
    “Sure, but can you stop at the café? I’m seriously understaffed and need to be there.”
    She nodded. “I’ll drop in after the crime scene techs finish here.”
    I smiled my thanks and looked at Greg. “You stop in too. Someone’s got to clean those scrapes.”
    He waved his hand like he was erasing the cuts and blood. The heel of his palm was red and weeping.
    “You haven’t seen yourself, bub. Stop in.” I turned away before he could say no. What was it with men? When it wasn’t “if you build it, they will come,” it was “if you ignore it, it will heal.”
    As I hurried down the street, several of the texters followed me, joined by a gray-haired lady who zipped right along with the crowd in her motorized scooter. Cilla Merkel, a café regular.
    “Did you see it happen?” one tweeter called to me. “I know some lady in a blue top was a witness to that mess. SweetCilla said so. She heard the lady’s screams and saw the whole thing go down from her place across the street in that apartment building.”
    I glanced down. I had on my blue Carrie’s Café shirt today. It felt very strange knowing that my screams were responsible for all these people. I glanced at Cilla and gave her a did-you-have-to look. She grinned back.
    “Yeah, my Twitter source said blue shirt too,” another texter called. “Said her name’s Carrie. You Carrie?”
    “So what did you see, Carrie?” a third yelled. “Did you scream because he tried to run over you too?”
    I began to feel a bit heckled. “Don’t you people have jobs?” I asked over my shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”
    “Yeah,” Number One said. “What’s your point?”
    There was a rumble of agreement from the rest of the tweeters as we reached the café.
    I turned to them. “You’re welcome to come in if you want to buy something to eat. If not, stay out here. Okay? Just remember I don’t know anything, and nothing’s