September Sky (American Journey Book 1) (43 page)

"It looks like you made at least one friend today," the jailer said.

"What do you mean?" Justin asked.

"I mean that the deputy chief of police wishes to speak to you."

"Is he letting me go?"

"It appears so. Follow us."

Justin did as he was told. He followed the jailers through a long corridor that he knew connected the city jail with the police department. When the men released him into what looked like an interrogation room, he walked toward a table, as instructed, and saw Patrick O'Malley for the first time since he had announced the break in his sister's murder case.

"Please take a seat, Mr. Townsend," O'Malley said.

Justin pulled out the nearest chair and sat down. When he finally made himself comfortable in the uncomfortable chair, he looked at a police officer who appeared to have more on his mind than the particulars of a burglary case.

"The jailer said you wanted to see me."

"I do."

"Did I do something wrong?" Justin asked.

O'Malley shook his head.

"No. If anything, you did something right."

"I don't understand."

"What I'm saying is that I believe your story," O'Malley said. "I believe that you broke into the Becks' house to warn them about the storm and not to take their valuables."

"Have you spoken to them?"

"No. I haven't."

"Then why do you believe me?" Justin asked.

"I believe you because I know you are a friend of the Becks and because I remember the particulars of our first meeting. More to the point, I remember something you showed me."

O'Malley reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out the blue gypsum crystal. He placed the gem in the middle of the table.

"Can I take it?" Justin asked.

"You might as well. It's yours."

Justin picked up the rock and gave it a close inspection. When he was convinced that it had not been damaged in any way that might affect its special powers, he put it in his pocket.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," O'Malley said.

"I mean thank you for giving me the benefit of the doubt."

O'Malley smiled sadly.

"It's the least I could do for a person who helped to bring my sister's killer to justice."

"Thank you, anyway."

Justin looked at a clock on the wall and saw that it was five after four. He had spent the better part of a critical day in jail – completely cut off from family, friends, and a storm he had heard about but had not yet experienced.

"Am I free to go?" Justin asked.

"You're free to go. May I ask what you intend to do?"

"Of course. I plan to go back to Tenth and M, get the Becks, and put them on the first train to Houston."

O'Malley frowned.

"I think you might want to change your plans."

"Why? Has the storm gotten worse?"

"You might say that," O'Malley said. "You might also say that circumstances have changed a bit since you arrived here last night."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you won't find the Becks at their house. You won't find them at their house because their house no longer exists."

"Do you know that for a fact?" Justin asked.

O'Malley nodded.

"One of our officers returned from the Eleventh Ward thirty minutes ago. He said that all of the buildings near the beach are gone. You wouldn't find anyone or anything even if you managed to get there."

Justin closed his eyes for a few seconds as the magnitude of the situation set in. The storm had not only worsened. It had already started to take down the city.

"Do you have any idea where the Becks might be?"

O'Malley took a breath.

"I'm afraid I do."

"What?" Justin asked.

"An hour ago I spoke to a carriage driver named William Skinner. He reported picking up the Becks at their home shortly before the streets became impassable."

"He picked them up? Where are they?"

O'Malley frowned.

"I don't know."

"You don't know? What do you mean you don't know?" Justin asked. "Didn't the driver tell you where he dropped them off?"

O'Malley turned away for a moment. When he looked at Justin again, he did so with eyes that revealed concern, regret, and helplessness.

"He didn't drop them off."

"I don't follow."

"Mr. Skinner had planned to take the Becks to the Tremont, but he never made it," O'Malley said. "He got as far as Nineteenth and L when a large wave hit the carriage, flipped it on its side, and sent everyone into the water."

"Didn't he try to save them?" Justin asked.

"He did. He said he tried to swim back to the wagon and help the others, but he couldn't. He said the wind and the water were just too much. So he rode the current until he reached shallower water. He walked into the Tremont at a quarter to two."

"Does he at least know what happened to them?"

O'Malley shook his head.

"He doesn't. He knows only that all three managed to stay together."

Justin's stomach lurched.

"What do you mean 'all three'?"

The officer looked at Justin with puzzled eyes.

"I mean all three – Max, Isabella, and Emily."

"Emily? Emily is in Houston."

"She wasn't this afternoon," O'Malley said. He sighed. "At one fifteen she was clinging to the side of a wagon."

CHAPTER 76: JUSTIN

Justin needed only a few seconds to determine that the storm was every bit as bad as others had made it out to be. When he exited the police station and descended the steps, he stepped into three feet of water and a gale-force wind that blew him to the side.

He fought the urge to return to the station or even walk a block to the Tremont, where he could find refuge in a building that he knew had survived the storm. He knew he would never be able to live with himself if he didn't do everything in his power to find Emily.

As he walked to Nineteenth Street, turned south, and slogged his way toward the intersection with Avenue L, Justin battled not only the elements but also anger. He was angry at the Becks for staying on the island and angry with himself for breaking into their home.

Justin knew he could have saved a lot of people a lot of trouble by leaving a note on the front door or by paying a visit to Beck Atlantic Friday night. He was certain now that Max had made good on a promise to work as long as possible before boarding a train.

He let the anger run its course and then turned his attention to more pressing concerns. With wind and water swirling around him, there was never a shortage of things to think about.

Justin knew from the newspaper articles he had read that the weather would get worse before it got better. He remembered that conditions didn't get really bad until the evening, when the wind speed and water level had doubled and made even slow travel impossible. At four thirty, however, they were bad enough to make Justin wish he had stayed in Houston.

Of most concern was the debris that flew into him and around him with increasing frequency. Some things, like clothing and sheets, were merely annoying. Others, like the tiny frogs that fell from the sky, were amusing. Still others, like the slate shingles that had been standard equipment on all new buildings since the 1880s, were downright scary.

Then there were the horizontal sheets of rain that stung his face and cut visibility to fifty feet. Nothing he had experienced in California could compete with this. Nothing he had experienced in his
life
could compete with this.

When he pushed his way past Post Office, Church, and Winnie streets – or Avenues E, F, and G – Justin also noted the presence of others. Men with briefcases and women with babies scurried from store to store and home to home, while laughing children played on rafts and jumped into the water from porch railings. Couples cuddled under jackets on street corners.

Though some seemed to be irritated by the elements, few appeared to be alarmed. Most went about their business as if they were planning to return home in time for supper.

Justin could hardly blame the natives for their nonchalance. He knew that they had seen this sort of thing before. Violent storms on the Texas coast were as almost as common as blizzards in Maine. Even serious flooding was a regular event. It was part of life.

As he drew closer to Broadway, however, Justin saw fewer signs of life and far more signs of the deadly times to come. On Ball Street, he saw a dead dog and two dead horses. On Sealy, he saw his first body. It wouldn't be the last. By the time he reached Nineteenth and L, he had come across six corpses. At least three wore dresses.

Justin stood at the Becks' last-known position and looked for things that might bring him closer to the people he wanted to find. Though he saw debris of every shape and size, he did not see two horses tied to an overturned wagon or a raven-haired beauty standing on a porch.

He gave serious thought to turning back when he saw a nun lead several women and children in a westerly direction. When he saw a family of four follow close behind, he walked across the street and intercepted the husband and father.

"Excuse me, sir," Justin shouted over the roar of the wind. "Where are you headed?"

"We're going to the school," the man said. "If you have any sense, you'll do the same."

"I might. Thank you."

Justin watched the man rejoin his family and catch up to the other party. He didn't need to hear more to know that they were headed to the Ursuline Academy, a parochial school that was housed in a three-story fortress at Twenty-Seventh and N. He had read about the institution on the train and knew that it had opened its doors to hundreds and kept most of them safe.

Justin paused for a moment to consider his options, including one that seemed as clear as the crystal in his pocket. He knew the smart thing to do would be to turn around and walk toward the city's public buildings and its major hotels. No rational person walked
closer
to a hurricane.

On the late afternoon of September 8, 1900, however, Justin Townsend was not an entirely rational person. He was a man determined to find the woman he loved. He wanted to find her and guide her to safety before the winds and waters of this unnamed storm claimed her for their own.

Justin gave the matter more thought and finally decided to do what Emily and the Becks had probably already done. He changed direction and headed west. He joined the stream of people on Avenue L and moved slowly toward a school that Emily had once called home.

CHAPTER 77: EMILY

Emily took a swig and passed the bottle to her mother. She didn't like whiskey. She didn't like the taste or the smell or what it did to men on a Saturday night. But when you rode out a hurricane with your parents in a dead woman's bedroom, you learned to like a lot of things.

"How are you doing, Mama?" Emily asked.

Isabella Beck started to answer but paused when flying debris struck the side of a house once occupied by two librarians and currently occupied by three terrified souls. She took a pull on the bottle, breathed deeply, and smiled sadly at her daughter.

"I'm managing, honey. This stuff helps. It helps a lot. Where did you find it?"

"I found it in Rose's liquor cabinet," Emily said. "She has a whole case if we need it."

"I didn't know Rose was such a drinker," Isabella said.

"She was. She used to go through bourbon like most people go through sweet tea. Rose loved her whiskey. She loved this brand."

Isabella grabbed a bedpost with her free hand when a strong gust shook the two-story house and knocked a figurine from a shelf. When the wind let up slightly, she took another sip.

"It seemed Rose loved a lot of things," Isabella said. "She was a different kind of woman."

Emily bristled at the statement. She knew her mother didn't care for Rose's carefree ways or her many high-profile dalliances with powerful men.

"She was a
good
woman, Mama. If people remember nothing else about her, they should remember that," Emily said. "Despite her unusual ways and tastes, Rose O'Malley was a good, kind woman and one of the best friends I've ever had."

"I meant no disrespect. I just meant that she lived life a little differently than the rest of us," Isabella said. She handed the whiskey bottle to Max, who sat next to her on Rose's bed. "I liked her too. I only wish she'd lived long enough to get married. I think she and Wyatt would have made a handsome pair. Marriage would have been good for the both of them."

"Marriage is not the answer to every problem," Emily said from a chair beside the bed. She stared at her mother and then at her father. "It's really not."

Max put down the bottle.

"I see you're still sore about Silas."

"Yes, Papa, I'm still sore you tried to marry me off to a man twice my age who is now on the run from the law. That leaves a mark."

Max gazed at his daughter.

"I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven."

"No, Emily. I mean it," Max said. "I'm sorry I tried to force you into something you clearly didn't want. I was wrong. I can see that now."

Emily smiled.

"Why, Papa, I think you're getting soft in the heart."

"I'm getting soft somewhere. I know that," Max said.

Emily laughed.

"How is your leg?"

"It's getting better. In another day or two, I should be as fit as a fiddle."

Emily took that as a good sign. Max Beck had
not
been as fit as a fiddle since William Skinner's carriage had overturned in front of Charlotte and Rose's house. He had not been fit to even stand up. He had required assistance from his wife and his daughter to move from the street to the front door and from the door to Rose's bedroom on the second floor.

Emily reached across the bed, grabbed the bottle from her father, and took another swig of a spirit she swore she didn't like. She didn't know what the bourbon was doing for her father's leg, but she knew it was doing wonders for her fear. For most of the past hour, she had been able to enjoy her parents' company and forget about the monstrous winds that threatened to crumple the house and the water that had already risen above first-floor doorknobs.