Under a Dark Summer Sky (17 page)

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 helluva lot of egg on my face if it turns out to be a false alarm. Like last time.” The sound became muffled 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 pass 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 bloody vomit, followed by the classic 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 circumstances ever, and never, not once, had he panicked. Not even when, stranded for three days in a flooded shell 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, anticipating his first cocktail 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 document 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. Hell, 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 God. 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.

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 shore, 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 space 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, snatch 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 reassured 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 ashore 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 shipping 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 piss. 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 hell 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 peacock 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 windshield. 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 Mitchell'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 sadistic 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 sunshine, 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 Bunyan–style. 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 glass. 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 carcass, 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.”