Storm Front - eARC

by Robert Conroy

  “A lady died. Can you believe it? She was gored in the leg by a deer and she bled to death on the floor of her very own house. Two firemen got there and managed to stop the bleeding, which wasn’t too difficult since most of her blood was all over the place, but she died about five minutes later.”

  Mike shook his head sadly. He’d already heard the story from Stan, but didn’t think it was time to mention it. “They didn’t have any blood with them, did they?”

  “Of course not. How do you carry blood on a snowmobile unless it’s already inside you? Naw, they were okay to set a leg or do some rough stitching or perform CPR, but they had no blood to give her. They even considered a direct transfusion, but none of them was her blood type. Damn, how do you get killed by a deer in your own home in the middle of a city? It’s the dumb things like this that really get to me. Damn it all!”

  She stood and smiled a little. The tirade was over. “As always, Mike, I am truly sorry for having dumped on you.”

  Mike smiled. “As always, Thea, you are very welcome and feel free to do it anytime. My turn’s next.”

  Thea took a deep breath. It was time to change the subject. “At least I am thankful I have enough staff to work things.”

  Sheridan’s 911 call center was small, but there were always at least two people on duty at all times. That way, it would not be left unattended when somebody had to go to the john, or more than one call came in. There’d been two plus her when the snow started and that was proving more than sufficient.

  “At any rate,” Thea added, “it’s otherwise been a slow day. A lot of accidents, but all fender-benders and no injuries. A couple of heart attacks and one pregnant woman worrying about going into labor, but I’ve got them covered. A couple of people got hurt on their roofs, but you know all about that. Also, no crimes, excepting your two murders, which I suggest you solve fairly soon.”

  “They aren’t my murders, madam; I had nothing to do with them. My hands are clean. I am not a crook,” Mike said, doing his best Richard Nixon imitation.

  Thea sat back down and sighed. “You know what I mean, Mike. At any rate, how’s your love life? How’d it go with dinner yesterday with those other teachers?”

  For reasons hard to define, Mike had been confiding in Thea as well as Petkowski. A lot of people confided in Thea who never broached a confidence. “It went really well. Nobody asked me to fix a ticket, or how to avoid a ticket, or how many miles over the limit you can go before getting a ticket. We just talked about stuff. It made me realize that cops and teachers have a lot in common.”

  “Come again?”

  “Really. Cops rally around the badge and are suspicious of anyone who isn’t a cop. If you’re not a cop you really can’t understand what’s going on, and what it’s really like to be a cop. Same with teaching. A teacher’s enemies are the students, the parents, and the administration. In short, anyone who isn’t a teacher or married to a teacher is the enemy. All of those other people are trying to second guess the teacher, just like civilians are always second guessing cops. At any rate, Maddy’s friends are nice people. I think I scored some points.”

  “That’s very profound,” Thea said. “But then, bullshit often sounds like it is.”

  “You’re right as usual, but there is a kernel of truth in it.”

  “Maybe, just maybe. Are you any closer to figuring out what Maddy’s hang-up is?”

  Mike shook his head. “All I know is that it happened while she was in college and involved a guy, and he was probably a boyfriend. She was betrayed and hurt and she hasn’t worked her way through it, even though it’s been several years. It must have been more than the standard now ex-boyfriend dumping her crap for it to have hit her so hard. I think she’s in love with me, but just not ready to admit it or to make a commitment.”

  “What’s your guess? Date rape?”

  “Possible. Maybe a combination of things. I just wish she’d open up with me. I just don’t know and it frustrates me. I want to help her, damn it.”

  “Does it bother you, the fact that she might have lived with a guy?”

  Mike thought about the number of women he’d had sex with. Although it wasn’t a large number by some people’s standards, he had long ago given up any thoughts of taking a vow of celibacy.

  “I can’t throw stones. Hey, this is the twenty-first century, isn’t it?”

  Thea laughed. “Some people don’t think so. Bet you had your first sex in high school, didn’t you? A good looking stud athlete like yourself didn’t have to beg for it did you?”

  Mike thought quickly back to his junior year in high school. The girl’s name was Mitzi, which was a nickname for something else he never cared to find out. All he really knew was that she was pretty and eager. She’d had sex with him and he’d later realized that she’d done the same for every other member of the wrestling team. He’d felt cheap and ashamed that he’d taken advantage of a pathetic little high school groupie who likely had all kinds of emotional problems and maybe just wanted to be “popular.” It wasn’t until much later that he realized he’d been lucky not to have gotten AIDs or some other sexually transmitted disease. Guys his age thought with their peckers.

  Mike’s first real relationship hadn’t come until college. Her name was Aggie and they’d been desperately in love for a couple of torrid months. She’d dumped him claiming a need to not get tied down and to find herself. Mike had been relieved. It was going too far and too fast.

  “High school wasn’t all that much fun,” Mike said. “For that matter, neither was college. Besides, Maddy is the one with the problem, not me.” At least I hope I’m not the one with the problem, he thought. “Her past life is no concern of mine and mine is really no concern of hers. What I’m really interested in is her future, our future.”

  “Good speech,” Thea said. “Have you tried it out on her?”

  “Yeah, but it hasn’t worked yet. I just hope we have a future.”

  * * *

  Maddy’s clothes were still a little damp when she put them on, but she didn’t feel like spending any more time in the furnace room, and Donna hadn’t returned with the promised brandy. The hell with it, the clothes would dry on her body soon enough.

  She checked on the kids in the gym and saw their emotions covered all ranges. Some seemed to be enjoying the adventure, while others looked shocked and confused. One boy was crying and a teacher was trying to comfort him. A TV in the corner was playing an old video of Disney’s Lion King in an attempt to keep them distracted. They’d all seen it a hundred times, so it really wasn’t going over. Remnants of a poor substitute for a dinner from the cafeteria filled the waste baskets. For a moment, Maddy felt sorry, and then she realized that they were so much safer where they were than trying to get home. It was still snowing with an intensity that was sometimes blinding, but it seemed to be tapering off a little. Or m aybe it wasn’t tapering off, she thought. Maybe it was her imagination.

  Donna Harris emerged from the principal’s office with an angry look on her face. “Parents are all assholes,” she said in a harsh whisper. “Do you know the Hardingens?”

  Maddy nodded, amused at her friend’s outburst. The Hardingens had a girl in first grade and a boy in third.

  Donna continued. “Would you believe that Mrs. Hardingen somehow made it home and she just phoned me and wants me to send her little dumplings over to her?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Maddy asked.

  “She wants me to let them walk. They live several blocks away, it’s still snowing heavily, it’s dark, and the kids don’t have winter clothing. Mrs. Hardingen is one of those parents who doesn’t seem to care how they dress themselves in the morning. They came to school today in light jackets, tee shirts, and gym shoes. They would be soaked and frostbitten in a hundred yards, not to mention lost. The woman is totally clueless. I can’t figure out whether she’s lazy or stupid. Or both.”

  “So you refused?”

  “I politely told her to st
uff it. She then called the superintendent and our beloved Dr. Templeton told me I should do what the parents want. After all, they are taxpayers who vote on millages and elect the board members who chose the superintendent. So I told Dr. Templeton to stuff it, only this time I wasn’t so tactful. Damn it, I am not going to have kids getting lost and freezing to death while I am in charge here, even though I’m not the principal.”

  “Good for you,” Maddy said, “but what kind of trouble are you in now?” Templeton was known to have a short fuse.

  Donna grinned maliciously. “None that I can think of. She backed down and admitted I was right. Besides, I have tenure and a union to back me if it comes to that. I don’t think it will. Our beloved superintendent is just as frustrated as I am. Let’s face it; she’s got a whole bunch of schools with children in them to worry about. I got word from a friend that the kids at the high school end of the building are going crazy, while the ones at the middle school are a little worse. Something about raging hormones and an utter lack of discipline. A couple of high school seniors got caught having sex in a locker room. I think they’re having their version of end of the world parties. I think I like the little kids better.”

  In the gym behind them, a child began to cry. Dinner had been less than wonderful, with dry cereal and leftover salad and fruit from lunch as the main and only courses. What they’d earlier thought might last through morning had turned out to be a laughable miscalculation. Some of the kids had refused to eat, and Maddy could hardly blame them. While what they’d been served would fill the belly, it was a long ways from mom’s home cooking. Or even Burger King. Maddy wondered how well anyone was going to sleep this night.

  “Enough feeling sorry for ourselves,” Donna said. “Let’s have a two-teacher staff meeting in the office and see what we can do about the rest of that brandy.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  “Well, I don’t plan on getting sloshed, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Donna laughed. “I also don’t plan on driving, performing surgery, or operating heavy machinery, so screw it.”

  * * *

  Wally Wellman slammed down the phone. His producer, Ron Friedman, looked at him curiously. “Another satisfied customer?” he asked. Incredibly, the station had gotten calls demanding they do something about the weather. Wellman told the old joke about a television weatherman being in sales and not production, but it hadn’t gone over. People were angry and frustrated. Well, so was Wally.

  Wellman shook his head. “Worse. This guy says it’s God’s punishment for our sins that this is all happening. He wants to go on television and lead a prayer for deliverance, and then call for the elimination of all sex and violence on television and in the movies. I think he used to be one of the Taliban.”

  Friedman yawned. “I knew there had to be a reason. Are they going to sacrifice a virgin to make the snow go away, or have they given up trying to find a virgin?”

  Wally laughed and looked at the monitors that should be showing traffic in various spots around the metropolitan area. Streetlights were on, which provided a faint jewellike glow to the still heavily falling snow. The snow already on the ground covered everything, making the area look surreal, even, in a strange sort of way, lovely. Outside, nothing moved, except an occasional snowmobile.

  TV6 finally had a couple of reporters out on the snow-covered streets, but reporting on the snowfall had become an exercise in journalistic redundancy. Otherwise, there was no traffic, vehicular or pedestrian. The stillness was haunting. Every now and then, a gust of wind would make the snow swirl and the camera would go totally blank.

  Wally checked his watch. In another hour, he was going on camera again to give another update. What could he say besides the obvious—Hey gang, it’s still snowing! Wow! He was tired from his all day vigil and wanted to go home.

  The phone on the desk buzzed and Ron picked it up. “If it’s God,” Wally said, “I don’t want to talk until He makes it stop snowing.”

  “Don’t knock it,” said Ron, covering the receiver with his hand. “Remember, many are cold but few are frozen.”

  “Yeah.” Wally laughed through his fatigue.

  “Actually,” Ron said with a wicked grin, “it almost is God.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the governor, and she’s asking for you by name. I told you you should have paid your taxes.”

  * * *

  Jamal Wheeler knew he’d made a big mistake. He’d only been working for United Parcel Service for a little more than a year and wanted to make a good impression. A lot of people said that working for UPS sucked because of all the picky regulations and the strange, uncool, brown uniform, but Jamal had seen it as an opportunity, not a curse.

  At twenty-four and with only two years of college, Jamal had been going nowhere fast. Still, he’d managed to get out of the inner city where so many young blacks like him were gang-bangers, did drugs, committed crime, or all of the above. The UPS job was the best money he’d ever earned and he got to drive the truck all by himself without some supervisor looking over his shoulder. There was no way he was going to screw this up. He had already paid off a lot of debts and was seriously considering going back to school and finishing his degree.

  His aunt was the only relative with a degree, although Jamal’s cousin Byron had gone to college for four years on a basketball scholarship. Only he’d returned as illiterate as when he’d left for school and now was wandering around the city doing nothing but odd jobs.

  Thus, even though he wasn’t a mailman per se, Jamal remembered the stuff about delivering through sleet and storm and felt that today’s weather certainly qualified. It might be difficult, but he was going to deliver the stash of packages in the back of his truck. He’d been told that a lot of drug dealers used UPS, but he didn’t think much of that happened in Sheridan.

  At first, his truck, a big ugly brown diesel, had managed to bull its way through the deepening snow with not too much difficulty, but then problems began to add up.

  Jamal’s real problem in the short run was that he had to leave the truck to make his deliveries in the residential area of Sheridan. By the time he got back to the truck each time, it seemed like another foot had fallen. That was an exaggeration, of course, but walking was even more difficult than driving, particularly when he didn’t have boots. Hey, it wasn’t even supposed to snow today. Whatever. His feet were cold and wet and his shoes were ruined. Of course, most of the houses didn’t have anybody home, which meant that items that needed to be signed for had to be brought back to the truck.

  Finally, it happened. He’d learned to hate stops since it took so much of the truck’s energy to get started again. Now, he was confronted by a stalled car directly in front of him and another one off to the right. Under optimal circumstances, he might have finessed his way around them, but his situation sucked. He didn’t know where the road began and ended, and he didn’t think the United Parcel Service would want him driving over the nice lawns hidden under the snow.

  He called his office on his cell phone and got the surprising comment that they’d thought he’d already returned to the barn. Since he hadn’t, he was urged to do so immediately and in no uncertain language. The implication was clear—he’d been stupid to stay out.

  “How the hell do I get out of this?” he asked himself after hanging up. Jamal considered backing up, but he couldn’t see very much at all. Then he became aware that another car was stalled behind him. It was empty. The driver must have bailed right away. He was trapped.

  He called his supervisor again and informed him that he was going to have to sit out the storm. Jamal’s supervisor was more sympathetic this time and agreed, then wished him good luck. This time he seemed concerned, not angry, and Jamal realized that the man was frustrated. Well, who wasn’t?

  Jamal understood all about carbon monoxide poisoning and turned off the ignition. He grew rapidly colder and his wet feet felt like they were freezing. The fact that it was night only mad
e him feel colder and lonelier. A check of the remaining boxes suggested nothing that would keep him warm. Certainly, there was nothing from Land’s End, or anyplace like that. He had a couple of boxes from Amazon, but they were heavy, like they contained computers. He doubted he could warm himself much by hugging a monitor.

  That left going to a house. He left his vehicle and locked it. He had on a jacket, which had already proved to be useless. He could barely see the shapes of the houses, much less a light on, and he nearly exhausted himself before convincing himself that he’d have to break into one or freeze to death.

  A red-brick colonial looked inviting. He rang the doorbell several times and waited. Then he knocked hard. Nothing. Nobody was home to get upset if he broke in and, just as good, he hadn’t heard a dog barking.

  Jamal was a church-going young man and had never done anything even remotely illegal before in his life, but he’d seen enough movies to know what he had to do. He went to the side of the house and found a door leading to the kitchen. He took off his sodden shoe and used it to smash in the glass above the knob. As he did it, he wondered if UPS would reimburse for the damage or if he would have to pay for it himself. He decided it didn’t much matter.

  Jamal cleared the window of glass shards that would have sliced him and stuck his arm through it. He found the inside knob and opened the door. He stepped in to the welcome warmth and took a deep breath.

  He’d scarcely taken a step into the kitchen when the blast hit him square in the chest, lifted him into the air, and slammed him against the wall.

  Through fading vision and waves of pain that swept through his shattered body, he became aware of a shape standing over him. It was an older white man and he had a double-barreled shotgun in his arms. Both barrels were smoking and the man looked wide-eyed and terrified. An equally frightened woman peeked over his shoulder.

  “Damn it, Shelly,” he said to someone Jamal couldn’t see through his fading vision. “I told you the son of a bitch was trying to break in.”