by Andrew Hunt
“Where are you going?” she asked. “It’s going to rain out there.”
“That’s OK,” I said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back.”
I ducked outside through a set of fancy French doors, and tasted salt on the breeze as I cut across the freshly polished deck, glancing up at the slate-gray heavens. Cuba was visible in the darkening distance, a thin strip of mountainous land rising up from the sea. Scattered passengers still outside made their way inside or to covered areas. That gave me a choice of one of the many unused tower viewers, those big, heart-shaped telescopic devices mounted on a stalk attached to the guardrails. I put my eyes to the pair of magnifying lenses. Gripping a pair of handles on either side, I aimed the viewer to the south, and that’s when I caught first sight of the leviathan of an ocean liner, cutting through the choppy waters like a gigantic axe blade.
A rain droplet tapped my arm—one at first, then another, and another, soon escalating into a steady drumming on the deck. Rushing past me, a couple, a man and woman in their thirties—like Clara and me—huddled under a single umbrella, making their way toward the dining room entrance.
“You’d best get inside, fella,” said the man. “Looks like a big one.”
I pulled away from the contraption. “Thanks. I’ll be along soon.”
I lowered my face to the tower viewer right when the St. Louis and the Oriente passed each other. Rain picked up in intensity. Bigger droplets came down faster and harder as I steadied the device. All of the decks of the St. Louis—upper, lower, sheltered and uncovered—were jammed with men, women, and children. Close enough that I could see open mouths and envious eyes. Passengers came in every imaginable size and age—old and young; men and women; wrinkled and smooth; robust and frail; homely and breathtaking; dark hair, light hair, no hair at all; some wore hats, quite a few held umbrellas, and a fair number pointed fingers and conversed with each other.
A downpour arrived. Rain fell in sheets. Passengers on the St. Louis began filing inside of the ship.
That is when I saw him, pressed against the guardrail, near a lifeboat, peering out through a set of binoculars. Rudy Heinrich. A pretty woman stood behind him and to his right, and I was sure she was Gerda Strauss. I stepped away from the viewer and moved adjacent to it, looking out at the St. Louis in the distance, so he could see my face. Then I returned to the viewer, holding the handgrips as I leaned my eyes into the lenses, just in time to see Heinrich’s eyebrows arch over his binoculars. I swear I saw his mouth form the word kripo.
I raised my arm as high as I could and waved at him so rigorously I thought I would dislocate my shoulder. Seconds later, he responded with a similar wave, still holding the field glasses to his eyes. Rain had thoroughly soaked through my clothes, and I was as wet as I’d be if I’d just crawled out of the sea, but I did not care. Let it rain, I thought. This is too important.
I watched a long time until Heinrich’s shape dissolved from view. I kept turning the viewer as far to the left—to the north—as it would go, listening to it squeak on its stalk, leaning over the rail to get a better view of the ship’s rear. The St. Louis faded into heavy rain and mist like a giant ghost vessel, engulfed by a wall of swirling gray, as if it had never even existed. I lost track of how long I remained at that viewer, wondering if the phantom would ever come into sight again. It did not. At some point, I returned inside, thoroughly drenched, and Clara looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
That scene has replayed itself over and over in my memories.
Out here in the middle of the Salt Flats on Labor Day weekend 1939, waiting for Cousin Hank to make a final run in his Duesenberg Special, thoughts of Heinrich on the deck of the St. Louis flickered through my mind once more. Shutting my eyes, I caught sight of his angular face, and that warm and gentle smile, and I recalled the day he stood by my side, savoring the peace out here on the piping hot salt pan. How clearly I still remember his words: “Sometimes we forget how beautiful it sounds, the silence.”
While my eyes were still shut, Hank’s car roared past me, sending a tidal wave of dust my way. The engine’s heat warmed my face. I waited until its roar disappeared from earshot to open my eyes.
Alone again, I scanned the plain of sun-sparkling crystals, listening intently, but all I heard was silence.
ALSO BY ANDREW HUNT
FICTION
A Killing in Zion
City of Saints
NONFICTION
The Turning: A History of Vietnam Veterans Against the War
David Dellinger: The Life and Times of a Nonviolent Revolutionary
Social History of the United States: The 1980s (coauthor)
About the Author
ANDREW HUNT is a professor of history in Waterloo, Ontario. His areas of study include post-1945 U.S. History, the civil rights movement, the Vietnam War, and the American West. He has written reviews for The Globe and Mail and The National Post, authored two works of nonfiction, The Turning and David Dellinger, and is coauthor of The 1980s. His first novel in the Art Oveson series, City of Saints, was the winner of the Tony Hillerman Prize, and was followed by its sequel, A Killing in Zion. He grew up in Salt Lake City and lives in Canada.
For more information, visit www.authorandrewhunt.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Epilogue
Also by Andrew Hunt
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
DESOLATION FLATS. Copyright © 2016 by Andrew Hunt. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover photograph: car on the Bonneville Salt Flats © Heritage Image Partnership Ltd. / Alamy
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-06461-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-7081-9 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466870819
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First Edition: November 2016
