by Geri Krotow
“That’s what I called about. Hey, what’s he doing in Maine?”
“He’s headed to ground and I hope to get to him before he’s in hiding.”
“Why isn’t he in jail?”
Addy harrumphed. “It doesn’t work that way in the world of high finance.”
“I end up with nothing and some fat cats get rich. And he gets off without any punishment?” Savanna almost squealed the last few words in indignation.
“Calm down. During the huge Ponzi scandal, it was early December when the FBI got involved and early March, fifteen months later, before any jail time began to be served, and that scandal involved over fifty billion dollars.”
“Not fair. Just not fair.”
“Savanna you must have called for something besides a rant about Hale and Blankenstock.”
“I guess you just answered my question. I wanted to know how you were doing at getting Hale to fess up.” Savanna sounded sad. Her life was a wreck and she was newly unemployed.
“And you need more money.”
“I do. I hate to ask but can you lend me another hundred? I want to—”
A sign, big and green, loomed off to the side of the road heralding her exit and then vanished into the downpour.
She could barely see the road she was driving on and her sister was a distraction on a good day. “Savanna, I gotta go. I’ll have some funds transferred as soon as I can.”
As soon as I see if I have enough, she thought.
“I need to take the girls shopping. They didn’t get any new clothes for school and now they’re on sale cheap and they really need them.”
“I get it. Yes, I’ll do it when I can. Bye.”
Addy thumbed off the phone and tossed it onto the seat beside her. She squeezed her already hunched shoulders tighter and concentrated hard on seeing through the rain.
The exit ramp popped into view and she braked hard, rocked in the wind and dove off the nearly deserted interstate onto a narrow two-lane road. She had known this drive wasn’t going to be easy in the remnants of a hurricane, but some things had to be done.
Moving closer to the coast, deeper into the fringes of a storm whipping up the Atlantic Ocean, made for bad driving, but maybe not a bad day. There was a pot of gold at the end of this rainstorm, maybe even a Pulitzer Prize. At the very least she’d get a stab at retrieving her pride.
A sudden blast of wind sliced down hard across the road trying to take her small car with it. Addy answered with a fierce jerk of the wheel.
“Please, let me get there.” The sound of her voice eerily muted in the din coming from the outside. “That guy needs to pay.”
As she moved slowly down the road, the windshield wipers beat wildly at the sheets of rain, giving her occasional glimpses of the wreck and ruin going on outside. A branch skittered across the road and a river ran where the shoulder of the road should have been.
This storm, a has-been hurricane, was to brush the coast as it headed north toward the good folk of Nova Scotia.
Well, it was “brushing” hard, Addy thought.
There had been a point when the weather forecasters wondered if Hurricane Harold would break records and head directly for the central coast of Maine. Luckily for the citizens of the rugged state, that was not going to happen.
Braving the storm, Addy felt a touch of the old Adriana Bonacorda. She had been tough and smart. She had needed to be in order to survive. Not every reporter would be daring enough to chase a story into the middle of Afghanistan, a rebel monk to his hideout in Nepal or a billionaire criminal into the fringes of a storm.
She jerked hard again on the wheel to avoid hitting a piece of siding or a door or whatever it was and then hissed out a breath as she brought the car back into her lane.
In addition to the radio warnings, a State Trooper had sternly advised her to stay away from the coast. She had the distinct feeling they would have arrested her for reckless something or other if she’d tried to drive in this weather in Massachusetts, but not here in Maine.
Desperation could make one nuts.
After her big disgrace, she had tried to get worthy stories under more sane circumstances. Instead of a scoop or a better angle, she had gotten scorn, and worse, derisive snickers from the other reporters at every news scene. When she had tried to defend herself online, the whole world was then alerted that she had put her heart and soul into one giant piece of fiction she had unwittingly called news.
She had been duped, an apt word for eager and stupid. Today she battled to recover eager, but stupid she’d left buried in the humiliation.
When the sign marking the turn off toward Bailey’s Cove flashed at her through a break in the rain she popped the wheel with the palm of her hand. “Yes.” She was going to make it. Maybe there were still lucky cards in her pile.
Just then a piece of debris plastered itself to her windshield and, for a terrifying moment of blindness, stuck to the wipers and refused to move away. When it finally flew off, she hunkered down with passion, renewed by luck, and after fifteen more minutes of concentration reached the town.
Bailey’s Cove, Maine, population fourteen-something-thousand, the wildly undulating sign read as she slowed the car to a crawl.
The low-slung buildings of small-town urban sprawl blinked in and out of view as she crept into the small fishing village in the late afternoon storm-filtered light. Some of the buildings had boarded-up windows. A few had sandbags. There were no lights anywhere.
A service station called O’Reilly’s had its large glass windows boarded up, but huge letters scrawled on the boards, OPEN and CALL. She supposed there was a phone number somewhere to be found, but she couldn’t see it for the rain.
These people had been preparing for a direct hit by the hurricane called Harold. Even though the storm was passing them by, they had not known until two days ago they were to be spared the brunt of it.
Addy peered out at the sealed-up buildings, wondering which ones had people inside. There had to be someone here who would refuse to leave and who could tell her where Zachary Hale would hide out. Nothing on the internet had narrowed it down to anything less than “somewhere near Bailey’s Cove, Maine.” In fact, Bailey’s Cove got no direct hits on the internet.
With this storm raging, Hale would think he was safe, sheltered from prying eyes.
Ha!
When a puddle nearly swallowed the compact car, Addy pulled onto the higher ground straddling the lanes. She stretched her beleaguered fingers and retrieved her mobile phone that had flown off the seat during one of her dodges.
She had a signal, but with the exception of her sister who needed money for school clothes, or makeup for herself if she found nothing she wanted to buy for the girls, she had no one to call.
Sad.
Silly.
Stupid.
Shut up, she thought. None of those things mattered. They were the past. Intrepid. Hard-hitting. Totally inquisitive, she said back to the nagging voice inside her head.
After today, Adriana Bonacorda would be headed for the top again. And the frosting...her sister and all the others Hale had robbed would get a chance at recovering some of their losses.
The road continued to descend into town. Buildings appeared and disappeared through the windswept downpour. On the ocean side of the road, she spotted a small wooden church. Soaked and dark, the siding seemed to shudder, but that might have just been the strobe effects of the rain.
After a moment, Addy realized a woman stood in the arched doorway of the church. Her mop of hair swung wildly as she waved. A crazy woman, a comrade, a sister against the storm.
Addy checked for traffic. Nothing but rain. She intended to make a U-turn to question the woman, but when she looked across the street again, the doorway was empty.
Okay. Now
she was imagining people. Maybe she was seeing herself in forty years. They both might be crazy and the woman had the same out-of-control mop, but the woman’s had been gray.
Keep driving, she told herself, and she did. She had little alternative.
Scuffling with the wind, she eventually reached what seemed, by the age of the buildings, to be the center of the old town. More boarded-up and shuttered windows greeted her, their darkness almost a grimace.
At the corner, in front of a restaurant called Pirate’s Roost, a sign pointed to the harbor. A sliver of hope gleamed. Maybe that’s where the people were, trying to save their boats or piers or whatever seamen did in a storm.
As she crept several blocks down toward the harbor on what had become a torrent instead of a street, Addy could see she was right. Luck again or savvy? She hoped the latter. Two crews in rain slickers wrestled with boats as one crew tried to secure a boat they had already rescued from the water, the other struggled to pull one out onto the dock. Each small craft dithered dangerously in the wind as they worked.
All one of these people had to do was point her in the right direction and then she’d leave them to their task.
She let the car roll slowly toward the pier.
Once she found him in his hideaway, she’d get a reaction from the scum, swindler Zachary Hale, and if her luck still held, an interview. The whole interaction would likely be a series of bald-faced lies on his part, but it would give her starting points from which to tear this guy to the ground, kick him into the hole he’d dug with the pension funds and life savings of old ladies, blue-collar workers—and her widowed sister. Then Addy would cover him with the truth until he begged to return every dime he had left of his ill-gotten booty.
The trickle down from this story was the gravy. People were going to recoup some of their hard earned money. Retirees, pensioners, kids trying to pay off college loans might actually get a break. Nuns. And Savanna, her sister, who had thought she was on her way to a secure future.
This story would turn the tide for Addy and all the cheated.
Darn, but she was good, and people were going to realize the lies about her for what they were.
As if tired of her fanciful boasting, the bitsy car rolled to a stop on its own as it faced off against the wind.
The closest four-man crew of yellow rain-suited workers had managed to raise the pleasure craft from the ferocious water and pull it onto a boat rack with ropes. But they struggled to rescue it from the wild wind and secure it on the stand.
Addy left her fashionable fedora on the passenger seat, flipped up the hood of her lime-green Ilse Jacobsen rain jacket and snugged the zipper up under her chin. The car undulated in a scary shimmy as she leaped out and hurried toward a man holding a rope for all he was worth.
Halfway there, the wind whipped off the hood of her jacket, slapped her long, hyper-curly blond hair against her cheek and stole away her breath. Her steps faltered and she stopped.
Wet and chilled, she hauled her hood back on, but not before cold rain poured down the back of her neck and, as she leaned into the wind and managed to take another step—into her shoes.
These people were crazier than she was to be out here. These were just boats, pleasure boats, and not someone’s livelihood. And since the remains of Hurricane Harold were passing right by this little-known corner of the world, their efforts were probably unnecessary.
Forcing one foot and then the other, she struggled closer to the workers.
Several boats had already been hauled out and sat tethered in place with taught ropes. Still out in the harbor, hardy lobster boats strained and rocked at anchor, and one particularly large yacht looked as if it were ready to break free and crash everything into flotsam on its way inland. Some poor rich guy was about to be short one boat.
Zachary Hale, she hoped.
As she got within a few feet of the boat, the closest man clinging to the rope hollered above the rushing wind, “Lady, get out of here.”
“I need to ask you a question,” she shouted, and wasn’t sure her voice even got past the end of her nose until he wrapped the rope around one arm and pointed at the flapping overhead. Two identical red flags with black centers curled and snapped above them.
Hurricane! Even a landlubber like her knew the meaning of those flags. Marine warning flags for a hurricane.
Harold had beaten the odds and headed inland. The wind hammered at her as she stood immobile, wavering between the insanity of the storm and the lunacy her life had turned into.
She suddenly saw herself once again standing on a stage facing a jeering crowd at the university. When the booing started, she had thought it was a joke, and then as it continued, she expected rotten eggs, but it had been a more intellectual crowd, and all she got were death threats and promises of a lifelong ban from journalism.
The wind took another shot at her and she tensed her whole body. When she didn’t leave, the man waved her away with a jerk of his head, but it was another shout from him to “go away” that revved up her reporter mode.
She swiped at the rain running down her face and, when he turned in her direction, stepped forward.
“I just need to find Zachary Hale.” She screamed into the wind and it screamed right back at her.
“’Et.... ’Ell. ’Way.” The rising wind carried much of his shout off, but she got the gist.
She inched closer to him. “Tell me where to find Zachary Hale.”
Just then the wind ripped at the boat and one man on the other side lost his grip. With horror, Addy realized the craft, lifted by the wind, now tipped. Then, in slow motion, the boat began to fall in her direction.
She stumbled back, but not quickly enough. The man grabbed her by the shoulder of her jacket and hauled her aside like a net full of cod as the boat crashed into the spot where she had stood a second before.
The white-and-red boat rocked and settled half on one side.
When the wind couldn’t blow her over, she realized the man had not released her. She looked up into his dark, angry eyes. How sweet. A savior. A tough guy with a heart of gold.
A cliché.
Oh, God, she was not always this cynical. Once upon a time, she had actually been nice, she thought, as her feet nearly left the ground. Her savior propelled her toward her car, where he opened the door and pitched her in.
“Go,” he shouted against the wind and then slammed the door turning away as if he had fixed that problem.
“Ah-yuh” and “ahm tellin’ you” she was in Maine.
Addy stayed in the rental car, watched the men and dripped all over the seat and floor mats. Rental car—it was okay. These boat rescuers were going to have to leave sooner or later. They might even need a ride. A grateful man, out of the wind and rain, might be willing to chat about Zachary Hale.
After several more minutes of struggling, the workers finished their task and then raced toward a nearby shed. A short moment later, a black SUV burst out and defied the wind as it made a quick arc and sped near where she parked.
The SUV stopped suddenly and the driver side window lowered. Glowering out at her was her rescuer, his face covered with soft golden whiskers, his hair both plastered to his head and sticking out at endearing angles. Hero type. Handsome and good-hearted. Maybe he’d tell her where the manicured billionaire was hiding.
“Unless you have a death wish, get out of here,” he said as the wind buffeted both vehicles.
“I just—”
The window closed and the SUV took off up the hill leaving her with no answers, a scant few feet above sea level, in a rising storm.
She looked to the second crew who were securing their boat and decided her best chance for an answer was fleeing up the hill. “You are not getting away so easily, buddy.”
Addy slammed the car in gear and hurried after t
he SUV’s taillights. A year ago, she would have felt the gut clench of paralyzing fear. Today, she almost savored the chase. There was a kind of freedom when one’s tail was dragging along the bottom of the barrel as hers was.
She had nothing to lose.
Water rushed down the street, high enough to make her add a prayer to her bravado as she rode a gusty tail wind steadily up the hill. At the top, the SUV turned the corner and disappeared from sight.
Addy gave the car more gas than was probably prudent, but a hot scoop waited for no one.
When she reached the stop sign at the intersection, the SUV sat parked at the curb around the corner in front of a place called Braven’s Tavern. Addy realized they must be waiting to see if she could climb the hill. Good. She might yet get a chance to speak with someone.
Just then, three of the SUV’s doors popped open and all but the driver leaped out, splashing in their rubber boots. The yellow-suited passengers hurried toward the boarded-up tavern. As Addy inched her car around the corner, the SUV made a U-turn and headed back down toward the harbor. Maybe the driver was crazier than she was.
The yellow suits hurried into the tavern, the big, solid oak door slamming shut behind them.
She let the madman driver go and parked the worthy compact rental in a high spot just past the tavern in front of Pardee Jordan’s Best Ever Donuts where water swirled but didn’t collect.
The donut shop gave her some shelter from the wind, but there was no shelter from the rain. By the time she got to the tavern’s old-fashioned oak door, rain poured down her shoulders, wicked up the pant legs of her jeans and threatened to dampen her underwear.
She grabbed the long brass door handle, tugged hard, and when the door swung open, dashed inside. These Mainers might be rough around the edges, but they would not toss her back out into the storm.
She hoped.
The short, dark hallway of the entry led to an open area where, on the right, hooks lined the wall and the SUV’s three passengers were shedding their rain gear and hanging it up to drip.
To the left, the bar stools stood empty at the square-cornered, U-shaped bar and no bartender leaned over the bar in greeting. Shelves of liquor and a couple unlit beer signs decorated the back wall of the bar lit by flickering candles.
