by Debbie Burke
The man pulled his chin back. “Disappeared?”
“Do you know where he might have gone? A friend’s house, maybe?”
Both father and daughter shook their heads.
“Do you know any of his other friends?”
“Only Nyala, the lady who owns his house.” The man shot an embarrassed look at his daughter. “Sometimes she…”
The girl broke in: “Smoky’s girlfriend spends the night, only Papi doesn’t want to come out and say that. Like it’s some big scandal.” Her eye roll asked do you believe how old-fashioned he is?
“Jessica.” The father spoke a few gruff warning words in Spanish. To Tawny, he said, “Excuse my daughter, señora.”
“Jessica? My name is Tawny Lindholm.” She turned to the father. “Señor?”
“Raul Zaragoza, señora.”
“Mucho gusto. Nice to meet you.” She’d seen the name Raul in Smoky’s address book and made a mental note to look up a number for Nyala. “Where does Nyala live?”
Raul jerked his head to the east. “Land O’Lakes. About twenty miles away. I hear many roads over there flooded, too, even worse than here.”
“Does your cell phone work?”
“No. It worked OK at the church but when we get home, nada.” He raised one shoulder. “I need to call, check with my job, see if the store will open tomorrow. But I have to find a cell tower that works.”
“Where’s your job?”
“Big warehouse hardware store over on Highway Nineteen. They close for the last three days. Everyone wants tools and generators but we sold out. Store is empty, like a big cave. Have to wait for trucks to bring new shipments.” He removed his cap to run a sinewy arm across his perspiring forehead. “At church, I hear that trucks are getting stopped at Georgia state line. Can’t come in.” He splayed his hands. “Maybe I have job, maybe no.”
Tawny’s ears had perked up when he mentioned generators. “My friend is trying to buy a generator in Hudson but the deal sounds a little funny. If that doesn’t work out, can we buy one from your store when you receive your shipment?”
He grinned. “I save one for you. How big do you want?”
“Can you get one to run an air conditioner, refrigerator, and the TV?” Especially the air conditioner. A wave of wooziness swept over her and she planted her feet to keep from swaying.
“Should be next shipment. If I had extra money, I would buy one, too, but my wife is stuck in Puerto Rico. She go there to help abuela…” He looked at Jessica for help.
“Grandmother,” his daughter filled in. “She has cancer and Mama’s been there with her for the last month. Then Irma hit. We can’t call her. She can’t call us. We don’t know if she’s safe. Puerto Rico got socked real bad.”
Tawny’s heart choked for the family in spite of the increasing fog in her brain. “That’s scary.”
Raul said, “I need to send money to her but no banks, no phones, no electricity, no way to get it to her. So, we must wait.”
Behind his frown, Tawny recognized the same terror she’d faced when separated from Tillman. “I’m so sorry.”
Jessica spoke up: “My uncle has a ham radio with solar power. He can talk to amateur radio operators in Puerto Rico. He’s trying to find out where Mama and Abuelita are.”
“My grandpa was a ham,” Tawny said. “They’re the only communication left when cell phones and the net are down.”
An annoying hum grew louder inside her ears. She squinted into the searing sun. The continued heat was making her sicker. But walking away from the concerned family would be rude.
Jessica said, “My uncle helped FEMA and emergency services during Katrina. He’s helping now, too.” Her mouth twitched a little, fighting back a sob. “I hope he can find Mama and Abuelita.”
“So do I, sweetie.” Tawny squeezed her shoulder, trying not to sway from dizziness.
Jessica brightened. “I’m training Churro to be a search dog. He’s going to find lost people in disasters.”
Tawny forced enthusiasm into her voice. “Wow, that’s great.”
“There’s training courses.” The girl made a face. “But you have to be over eighteen. I read a book about a lady in Colorado who taught her dog how to find people in snow, under water, all kinds of weird places. She had a black Lab, too, just like Churro. I’m learning how from her book. Churro is a really good swimmer.”
Tawny wanted badly to get out of the sun and lie down. “It’s nice your whole family wants to help people.”
Jessica thought for a moment. “I guess so.”
Churro had wandered off toward the overflowing lake. Raul again spoke in Spanish to his daughter. She ducked her head, then ran to the dog, grabbed his collar, and dragged the reluctant Churro back through puddles.
Raul shot Tawny an indulgent father look. “Big dreams, this little girl. But she better watch her dog or a water moccasin will bite him.”
Tawny shuddered. “I saw a coral snake this morning when we were checking around the neighborhood for Smoky.”
“Cuidate mucho. Be careful. Snakes want to find a dry home. They go through broken water and sewer pipes to get inside the house.”
Tawny shot him a horrified look, hoping he was just trying to scare the dumb tourist, but his expression was dead serious. Along with the desire to get out of the sun, she suddenly felt overwhelming homesickness for Montana. Grizzlies and mountain lions seemed less threatening than poisonous vipers wiggling inside through busted plumbing.
“Jessica, put Churro in the house,” Raul said. “We need to go call my work.” To Tawny, he said, “Excuse me, señora. I come tomorrow with my chain saw.”
They shook hands and he headed for a Ford truck in his carport, angling between several fifty-five-gallon metal drums. The barrels had been placed to catch runoff from the roof and were brimming with rainwater collected from the downpour. Tawny felt a brief stab of envy, remembering the limited supply of fresh water in Smoky’s bathtub.
More cars turned into their driveways as residents trickled back. She should ask other neighbors if they’d seen Smoky but the buzzing in her ears grew deafening. Those questions had to wait until she felt better.
A staggering wave of dizziness engulfed her. Her vision went shiny white. She stood still for a minute, hoping her knees didn’t buckle.
After a few deep breaths, her disturbed vision cleared enough that she dared to walk back to the house. Inside, she locked the door and collapsed on the nearest chair. Head spinning, her heart thudded heavy in her chest. She gulped tea, now tepid and weak from melted ice.
Bracing herself on furniture and walls, she stumbled into the bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub, and dipped washcloths in the precious, stored water. She draped one around the back of her neck and wiped her forehead with another. Her skin felt hot and dry as if every drop of sweat had been wrung from her body. She dipped a plastic cup into the tub and forced herself to drink the lukewarm water.
After a second cupful, nausea lurched in her stomach. Drank too much too fast. But she had to rehydrate. She rested for several moments then went to the chest freezer. She filled a tall glass with cold water from the plastic bags of melting ice then folded a handful of remaining cubes into a towel.
In the bedroom, she sipped more water and lay down with the ice-filled towel across her forehead. Even with her eyes closed, splintered mirrors drifted through her vision. The headache pounded in her ears.
She’d done all she could to treat heat stroke and faded into fuzziness.
***
A hand grasped Tawny’s bare foot and wiggled it. She couldn’t open her eyes and her tongue stuck thick in her dry mouth. “Don’t, Tillman. I’m sick.”
The hand continued to shake her foot.
She pulled it away, pushed herself up on one elbow, and rubbed the now-warm washcloth over her eyelids. When she forced them open, they felt like sandpaper scraping across her eyeballs.
Shadows darkened the bedroom, the last shimmer of dayligh
t coming through the window. She made out a silhouette of a small man wearing a fedora.
Not Tillman.
Her mind flip-flopped in frenzy. How did he get in? Who was he?
She’d left the shotgun in the kitchen—nothing to defend herself with.
He stood between her and the doorway—nowhere to run. Panic tightened her throat.
As her eyes adjusted, she recognized the same man who’d ordered his thugs to beat up Smoky.
He smiled, that same strangely elegant smile. “Lovely lady, where is my dear friend, Smoky?”
Her heart pounded in her ears. “He’s gone.”
“I understand that. My colleagues and I have searched the house. Where did he go?”
Slowly she sat up, fighting dizziness. She couldn’t pass out, not now. “I don’t know. He left during the storm. I have no idea where he is.” Would the truth be enough to convince the dapper man?
“Where is your very tall gentleman friend?”
Where was Tillman? He should have been back by now. “He’ll be here any moment. You better get out. He’s armed.”
The man lifted the tail of his pressed silk shirt, showing a pistol grip in his waistband. “So am I, lovely lady.” He hitched one hip up on the edge of the low dresser. “Smoky and I have known each other for a long time. I really don’t want to lose track of him.”
She sucked in a strangled breath. “I don’t know where Smoky went. I can’t help you. Just leave. You don’t want to get into a gunfight over a guy who isn’t here.”
He folded his arms across his chest and regarded her for a long moment.
Despite faintness, she forced herself to maintain eye contact—her only means to prove she was telling the truth.
At last, he slid off the dresser. “I believe you. But when you see Smoky, please tell him I do need to talk with him.”
Two larger figures darkened the doorway, waiting for their boss. He touched his hat then all three men disappeared down the hall. Seconds later, she heard the back door open and close.
Tawny pushed herself up from the bed. On wobbly legs, she peered out the window as the same black Hummer drove away into the descending dusk.
Supporting herself against the walls, she moved into the hall. Linen cupboard doors were open, the contents scattered on the floor. She stepped over rumpled piles of towels, sheets, and extra rolls of toilet paper.
In Smoky’s bedroom, the mattress had been yanked off the box spring and lay folded in half on the floor, bedding torn loose. Clothes and duffel bags had been removed from his closet and thrashed through, dresser drawers pulled out and dumped.
Wicker furniture in the dim living room had been overturned, cushions on the floor. Drawers from end tables had been opened. The TV hung askew on its wall mount.
In the kitchen, sacks of chips and cereal had been swept from cupboards and were strewn around. The table and the chairs were toppled. She staggered across the room to the gaping refrigerator door and found the steaks she’d seasoned earlier for dinner still sat on a plate but other food was scooped out and dumped on the floor. She closed the door, a useless gesture since the cold had already escaped.
Something sharp pierced her heel—shards of glass in a puddle of rum. She plucked out the slivers and tiptoed away, avoiding the jagged neck of the broken bottle.
In the laundry room, packages of meat had been removed from the freezer and lay jumbled on the floor, along with the remaining plastic bags of ice, now almost completely melted. When she bent over to pick up the food, she had to grab the wall to keep from passing out. After several deep breaths, she gathered up the meat, threw it back in the freezer with the ice bags on top of it, and shut the lid.
Her legs quivered. She righted a kitchen chair and collapsed into it. The brief adrenaline rush from the surprise visit by the gangsters gave way to overwhelming weakness.
Amazingly, the men hadn’t taken the shotgun propped against the cinderblock room divider. She grasped it in trembling hands and jacked the slide. Empty. They had ejected the shells. She set it down, weak from the weight of the heavy gun. Maybe they hadn’t found the remaining box of shells under Smoky’s bed. But her body felt too leaden to move the mattress to look for them.
She sucked deep gulps of air and clicked on the lantern sitting on the concrete divider. Thank goodness, the thugs hadn’t smashed the light.
With the sun gone, the thermometer hanging on the wall now read eighty-seven, down from ninety-five earlier. Barely tolerable.
Why wasn’t Tillman back? A battery clock above the stove said more than two hours had passed since he left.
How had the intruders gotten in? Then she noticed a gap in the louvered windows by the back door. Didn’t take a crack burglar to slide out a glass pane and reach inside to unlock the knob.
Her mouth felt dry and sticky. She took a sip of tea she’d left on the counter earlier, surprised the glass hadn’t been broken in the trashing of the house. Surveying the mess, she wondered how the noise hadn’t wakened her. She must have been completely knocked out by heat stroke.
Headlights appeared down the street. Were the intruders coming back?
She jumped up and found a butcher knife amid utensils and frying pans on the floor. She turned off the lantern to prevent them from seeing inside the house. Gripping the knife, she watched through a window as the car approached.
It turned into Smoky’s driveway and stopped. Against the last faint glow of twilight, she recognized Tillman’s tall form unfolding from the low-slung T-bird.
She dropped the knife, flung open the back door, and stumbled over the sandbag wall, through the oak branches, to reach him. “Those men came back. The ones who beat up Smoky.”
He grasped her arms. “Are you OK?”
She sucked in a breath. “They broke in and trashed the house.”
“Jesus,” he growled. “They didn’t hurt you?”
“No, I’m all right.”
Together, they went inside. Tawny sank weakly on the chair while Tillman turned on more lanterns and inspected the damage. When he returned to the kitchen, he studied her face in the light. “You don’t look good.” He handed her the glass of tea.
She drank a few swallows. “Heat stroke. I was kind of passed out in bed and didn’t even hear them knocking over furniture.”
“What did they say?”
“Just the leader talked. He wanted to know where Smoky was. I told him I didn’t know. I guess he believed me and they left.”
He peered closer. “You sure they didn’t hurt you?”
She shook her head then regretted the movement because the pounding worsened. “I’ve got to lie down. The steak is in the fridge but they left the door open. Everything’s probably spoiled.”
“Don’t worry about that.” He helped her up and steadied her, his arm around her waist, a lantern in his other hand.
In the bedroom, she sank on the mattress. Even the pressure of the pillow against her head made the ache worse.
He went into the bathroom and came back with fresh wet towels and a plastic cup of water. Gently, he wiped her face and neck then folded the cool cloth onto her forehead. “Dammit.” The low rumble of his baritone reverberated through his touch. “I shouldn’t have left.”
She closed her eyes, grateful for his presence. “Did you get the generator?”
“Like you thought. A scam. Guy had a new, sealed Honda box. I made him cut it open and inside was this rusted hulk that hadn’t run since last century. I think he planned to mug me for the cash and take off. But, once he saw me, he decided it wasn’t worth the risk.”
She smiled weakly. “Size does matter.”
He stroked her cheek. “You’re burning hot. Drink more water.” He held the glass for her. “I did score a couple of gallons of gas, though, so the trip wasn’t a total waste.”
“Where?”
“The guy had a jerry can in the back of his truck. I confiscated it for my inconvenience. Smells stale but it’s better than noth
ing. I tossed the junk generator in a dumpster along with his truck keys. Left him digging through garbage looking for them.”
“Captain Karma.”
One side of his mouth lifted despite the concern still clouding his eyes. “Want anything?”
“I’m too sick to eat. You go ahead if the meat’s not spoiled. But I couldn’t find a manual can opener so you’re out of luck for anything else.”
“Just rest. I’ll take care of everything.” He bent to kiss her lightly.
How soft his lips felt on her hot, parched mouth. Her breath had to smell terrible. Then she remembered. “They didn’t take the shotgun but they unloaded it. Earlier, I saw a box of shells under Smoky’s bed. I don’t know if they’re still there.”
“I’ll find them.” He left with the lantern and darkness took over the bedroom.
A faint, comforting glow came from the living room as she listened to Tillman moving furniture to straighten the mess, while she wavered in and out of sleep. A short time later, the aroma of steak sizzling on the grill outside drifted through the window. Such small, insignificant things as a glimmer of light and the smell of cooking food gave her hope that maybe the chaotic, flooded moonscape of Florida might eventually return to normal.
Tillman carried two plates into the bedroom. She managed to sit up and sip more water. As sick as she felt, the meat smelled good. He’d added a handful of potato chips.
“Take a few bites,” he said. “You should eat something salty when you’re dehydrated.” He sat on the edge of the bed, cut up the steak, then handed her the plate.
She nibbled while he wolfed down his steak and crunched chips. After a few bites, her stomach rebelled. She set the plate aside, hoping the food would stay down. “I met the neighbors next door. They have a Lab puppy that might like the rest of my steak.”
He smirked. “Don’t I get first right of refusal?”
She pushed the plate to him. “The guy, Raul, works at a tool store on Highway Nineteen. He said he’d save us a generator when the next shipment arrives.”
“Hell, I’ve driven around half the state and you waltz next door and charm the neighbor out of one.” He wagged his head. “Amazing.” He picked up the plates and rose. “Drink as much as you can then get some sleep.”
