by Lyle Howard
Lance wondered if his uninvited guest was armed. He figured the chances were better than average, so making a run for it was out of the question. “If it’s my money you want, I’ll give it to you … here,” he said, holding up his wallet.
The billfold was snatched out of his hand. “Gross! It’s soakin’ wet!”
Lance frowned. “I fell down in the swamp … it’s a long story, so just take the money and go, okay?”
The interloper sniffed at the air. “What is that stench?”
Lance pulled his soggy shirt away from his body; the material made a sucking sound. “Stagnant water, probably.”
The stranger huffed at the foul odor. “Why is it that every time we get together, your wardrobe is the pits? Who dresses you anyway?”
Lance’s eyes widened in unanticipated shock. “Abe?”
The detective popped his head up and smiled. “In the flesh, kid. Now drive!” he instructed, tossing the wallet back over the seat.
Lance started the car and headed north on U.S. 1, away from the Air Force base. Traffic was still heavy, but his mind was more congested than the highway. “I can’t believe it’s you, Abe. How did you know I was down here? Why did you come? How did you find me?”
Lincoln raised his head and cautiously peered out the rear window. Once he verified that no one was tailing the car, he sat up and made himself comfortable on the back seat. “You’re just a bundle of questions tonight, aren’t you, kid?”
Lance slowed down at a traffic light. “You’re the last person I expected to see, Abe. Why are you here?”
Lincoln leaned forward, resting his elbows on the seatback behind Lance’s head. “You have a girlfriend that must love you very much.”
“Julie?”
Lincoln smiled. “You have more than one?”
Lance shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“She called me from some hospital in Pompano Beach. She said you were in some kind of predicament, but she was in a hurry and couldn’t go into any details.”
Lance pressed on the accelerator as the light turned green. “Is she alright?”
Lincoln nodded. “I guess so. She said she was going somewhere safe. Is she in trouble, too?”
Lance wrung his hands on the steering wheel. “I hope not.”
The detective gazed out through the front windshield looking for any sign of a motel. After a few seconds, he had to retreat to the back seat. “You really do smell, Cutter.”
Lance apologized. “If it wasn’t for that damned Metro-Dade helicopter…wait a minute … that was you up there, wasn’t it?”
Lincoln stared at the blinking yellow and red lights of a neighborhood carnival as they blurred past his window. “Julie sounded desperate and desperate times call for desperate measures.”
In the distance, Lance spotted the familiar green sign of a Holiday Inn. “But how did you know where I was?”
Lincoln partially rolled down the window to let in a breath of fresh air. “Julie told me where you were headed.”
Lance was puzzled as he neared the hotel. “Homestead may not be the Big Apple, but it’s still a helluva lot of territory to cover, Abe. How did you pinpoint my location?”
The warm night air coming in through the window was sticky and humid, but to Lincoln, it was leaps and bounds above the foulness of Cutter’s clothes. “A little known fact that you, working for the fire department, may not know. For the past three years, every county-owned car in both Dade and Broward Counties, is equipped with a theft retrieval transmitter hidden under the hood. All I did was turn your transmitter on by remote control, and presto … it took me less than an hour to find your Chrysler in the parking lot.” He put his nose to the window. “After that, I figured you were on foot in the fields somewhere, but you must have been pretty well hidden, because I couldn’t spot you down there.”
Lance rolled his eyes in the rearview mirror. “You don’t know how close you came.”
Lincoln shrugged. “Anyway, I guessed that you’d probably return to your car, so I sent the chopper away, and caught forty winks in the back seat, hoping you’d make an appearance.”
Lance made a right turn off the highway into the parking lot of the hotel. Pulling into a parking space near the front entrance, he turned off the ignition. “I really appreciate that you came looking for me, Abe, but I think you ought to get out of here before you get in any deeper.”
“Deeper?” Lincoln said, leaning forward. “Deeper into what? I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing here! I busted my ass to get down here because I thought you might need some help.” He swatted the back of Lance’s head. “I could have been putting up shutters with my wife and kids. You’re aware that there’s a storm coming, aren’t you?”
Lance turned to look at Lincoln lounging in the back seat. “All the more reason for you to leave. Your family shouldn’t have to ride this hurricane out without you. Go home, Abe.”
The detective was an expert at reading faces and Lance’s was no exception. “You’ve really stumbled onto something, haven’t you, kid?”
“Don’t press me on this, Abe, please … don’t.”
Lincoln reached over and put his hand on Lance’s damp shoulder. “Kid, I’ve got a promotion coming because of you. Do you actually think that I’d let you face whatever this problem is by yourself? You’ve got to have rocks in your head. My family is a cop’s family … no windstorm’s gonna come between us. They’ll be just fine.” He gave Lance a gentle shove. “Besides, who’d rent you a room looking like something out of a creature feature?”
Even in the dim light filtering into the car from the parking lot, Lance could see that he was in no shape to enter the hotel’s lobby without drawing suspicion onto himself. “You may be right.”
Lincoln opened the rear door and stepped out of the car. “Of course I’m right,” he said, leaning in through Lance’s window. “I’ll check us in, and then I want to make a quick call to my wife to let her know I’m okay. Are you gonna need some new clothes?”
Lance pointed to the rear of the car with his thumb. “I’ve got a change in the trunk.”
The detective patted his hand on the door. “Okay, wait here … I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Less than a half-hour later, Lance was standing under a hot shower while Lincoln was sprawled out on one of the double beds watching A Current Affair on the television and munching on a small bag of Fritos. Lance thought he’d never be able to wash the contaminated feeling from his skin. Who knew what breed of virulent microbes made their home in that dark filthy water? He rationalized that he was better off not knowing. “You want to get something to eat?” Lance heard Lincoln yell over the drone of the running water.
“Maybe just a pizza or something,” Lance called back, as the spray rinsed off the third layer of soap suds from his body.
Lincoln reached over and pulled out the yellow page directory from the night stand drawer between the two beds. “Want to have it delivered?” he shouted.
Lance was lathering up his hair. “Sounds good … any kind you want.”
“I don’t eat anchovies,” Lincoln announced.
Lance moved his head under the spray. “Get something to drink, too.”
Lincoln dialed the number of the local pizza place and was put on hold. “I’ll flip you to see who goes downstairs to buy the beers,” he hollered, covering the mouthpiece with his palm.
“Heads,” Lance said, shutting off the shower. Lincoln flipped an imaginary quarter into the air.
“Tails … sorry, kid, you lose.”
Lance stepped out into the room with only a thin white towel draped around his waist as Lincoln ordered two medium pizzas loaded with everything but the salty anchovies. “Let me see the coin.”
The detective put his hand over his heart and tried to look offended. “You don’t trust me?”
Lance walked back into the bathroom to finish drying off. “Okay, I’ll go…just give me five minutes.”
Lance stepped out of the bathroom dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a navy blue knit shirt. As he walked across the room to lower the volume on the television, he towel-dried his hair. “I’m not in any jam, Abe.”
Lincoln propped a pillow against the headboard and leaned back. “Then what the hell was Julie so fired up about?”
Lance sat down in a wicker-backed chair that crunched under his weight. Reaching down into the overnight bag that he had rushed to pack this morning, he pulled out a fresh pair of socks and sneakers and slipped them on. “You don’t know very much about me, do you, Abe?”
The detective fished around in the foil bag for the last of the corn chips. Finding none, he crushed the bag in his massive hand and tossed it at a garbage can in the far corner of the room. The bag caromed into the corner and fell into the waste basket. “Two points,” Lincoln proclaimed, proudly holding two fingers in the air.
Lance put his feet up on the bed. “Do you want to talk, or do you want to play?”
“Sorry, kid. Now, what is it about you that I don’t know?”
Lance took in a deep breath and removed his contact lenses.
“Crap on a cracker, kid!” Lincoln stammered. “Are those your natural eyes?”
Lance leaned his head back and quickly inserted the lenses again. “They’re real all right.”
The detective sat up on the bed and stared at Lance’s face. “I always wondered about those purple eyes of yours. They say that Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes are violet, too, do you think…?”
Lance shook his head. “I doubt it seriously.”
Lincoln rubbed his hands on the bedspread. His palms had suddenly begun to sweat. “I want to know everything.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Lance told his friend everything he knew, which wasn’t that much. He explained to him about the eerie sensations he had felt since childhood, about the death of his mother, his wanderings back to Wyoming, and finally about the phone call he had received early this morning. There were so many holes and missing pieces in his narrative, that Lance felt like he was trying to describe the color green to a blind man.
“And so you think that this meeting tomorrow afternoon is a set-up?”
Lance nodded. “I know it is.”
“How?”
“I can feel it.”
Lincoln didn’t want to play the part of the doubting Thomas, but he felt it was in Lance’s best interest. “I’m not trying to sound skeptical, kid, but your intuition was wrong about Eddie Dolan. In fact, it led you away from Jacob Cohen, remember?”
Lance refused to be swayed. He leaned forward and tied his shoe laces again, nervously. “Everything that I want to know is waiting for me at Homestead … I just know it.”
It was eight o’clock, and on the television, a news brief was coming on between programs. Lincoln reached for the remote control and turned up the volume. A young anchorwoman rattled off the local headlines, pausing momentarily to show film footage of Bahamian store owners boarding up their businesses on Bay Street in Nassau. “Hurricane Andrew,” she went on to say, “is heading like a steamroller toward the tiny island of New Providence. More news at eleven.”
Lincoln clicked off the picture. “Maybe what’s setting off your radar is this storm, what do you think?”
Lance shook his head. “I’m sensing a threat, but I don’t think it has anything to do with the weather.”
The detective raised an eyebrow. “Well, either way, you can’t just stroll onto the base tomorrow like there’s nothing wrong. You’ve got to have some sort of a game plan.”
Lance shrugged. “I hadn’t really thought of anything yet.”
Lincoln held up his hand confidently. “Why don’t you leave that to me? Go down to the coffee shop and get the beers, and by the time you come back, I’ll have worked something out.”
Lance walked over to the dresser and pulled a few wilted dollar bills out of his soggy wallet. “You’re a good friend, Abe. You really don’t have to do this, you know.”
The detective waved him on. “Yeah, yeah … get going before I change my mind.”
Lance slipped the money and the room key into his pocket and headed out for the coffee shop. “Any brand in particular?” he said, holding open the door to the hall.
“No light beer; I hate that stuff. Tastes like piss.” Lance smiled and closed the door behind him. Inside, Lincoln rolled over and reached for the phone.
From his shirt pocket he pulled out a slip of paper with a phone number scribbled on it. He punched the numbers and waited. A young man’s voice answered. “Hangar twelve.”
Lincoln took the scrap of paper and slipped it back into his pocket. “Let me speak to Carpenter again…”
THIRTY THREE
Update from the national Weather Service: Sunday, August 23, 1992
BIGGER, STRONGER, CLOSER GETTING READY FOR ANDREW
VITAL FACTS
Speed: 14 m.p.h.
Direction: West
Top Winds: 172 m.p.h.
Latitude: 25.6
Longitude: 71.9 (Data as of 11 p.m. Saturday) D A high-pressure area off the Georgia-Carolina coast is expected to keep the hurricane from turning north.
Excerpts from two Herald Wire Stories:
South Florida Prepares for Andrew
Hurricane Andrew has grown in size and speed overnight. Forecasters at the National Weather Service in Coral Gables have issued a hurricane watch covering the eastern coast of Florida as the storm spins its way across the Atlantic toward the heavily populated Dade and Broward County shores.
Forecasters say the storm could hit the coast by tonight. “It’s taking dead aim,” said George Medlin, a meteorologist at the center. “Everyone from the president of the United States to the mayor of Miami is watching this storm closely. We have been warning the people of this area to prepare for years for just this type of emergency. Now all we can hope is that we’re not too late.”
There is No Cause for Alarm!
Throughout South Florida, the gravity of the situation is almost palpable. This could be the big one they’ve been warning us about. By Saturday night, the fear was quite literally “in the air.”
With Andrew zeroing in on us, area officials have sequestered themselves in a well-insulated command center and are issuing this caution: There is no cause for alarm. Be ready to evacuate if need be, and stay informed through the local papers, radio, and television, of any emergency bulletins officially issued by this office.
At a grocery store in Dade County, Bill Kirk, a postal worker filled the trunk of his car with bottled water. “I plan on being ready,” Kirk said. “I was here for the last big storm and lost my house. I hope to God it doesn’t happen again!”
At a marina in Broward County, Debbie Brandis, an accountant, battens down her forty-five foot catamaran. “I saw what happened in North Carolina,” she says, referring to the devastation done by Hurricane Hugo in 1989. “Everyone waited until it was too late!”
THIRTY FOUR
Sunday, August 23rd, 1:17 P.M.
Good to be fashionably late. That’s what Lance had decided as he turned off the highway. Ominous-looking clouds dispensed a heavy drizzle onto the windshield as he drove up to the front gate of the Homestead Air Force Base. An unyielding squall blew in from the east, making a wind sock mounted on the roof of the guardhouse point to the west like it had an erection. It was one of those dark, blustery days that, even if Lance didn’t know there was an impending hurricane churning on the horizon, he would still think that the weather was going to get worse before it got any better.
A lethargically moving young recruit, wearing the insignia of the Military Police on her white helmet and armband, shuffled out of the guardhouse and lifted the collar of her rain slicker around her throat. The young
woman’s displeasure at having pulled this duty was evident from her demeanor. Having to stand out in the downpour while the rest of her squadron had busted their tails to scramble the F-16s, was almost degrading in her mind.
Lance rolled down the window just enough to keep the intensifying storm from finding a way inside the car. “I’m here for the emergency relief meeting.”
The rain collected on the curved brim of the guard’s helmet until it could no longer resist the force of gravity. The droplets would run together just below the “MP” emblem and then collectively take a swan dive onto her immense hook of a nose. “Your name?” she asked bluntly.
Lance held his Broward County credentials up to the crack in the window. “Lance Cutter.”
The sentry’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Wait here.” Even though the front windshield was beginning to fog up, making it difficult to see, Lance’s superior sense of vision followed the sentinel into the guardhouse. Lance studied the guard’s mannerisms as she spoke on the phone, receiving instructions from some disembodied voice in hangar twelve. She looked a bit apprehensive, intermittently glancing out at Lance and then away in some other inconsequential direction.
I’d love to sit across a poker table from this woman, Lance thought to himself, I can read her like a billboard for Coca-Cola.
Two minutes later, she was standing outside his car again, with the intensifying rain pelting her helmet in a staccato rhythm. “Do you know where you’re supposed to go?”
Lance spoke into the gap in the window. “Sorry, never been here before.”
The guard pointed the directions. “Take your first left at the stop sign, and follow the perimeter road around to the airfield. Hangar twelve … last one at the east end of the runway. They’ve been waiting for you.”
Lance nodded his understanding. “I’ll just bet they have,” he said, rolling up the window.
Lance turned left onto the two-lane road that encircled the installation. As he flipped on the windshield wipers to increase his visibility, a gust of wind struck the Chrysler broadside, pushing the car across the double yellow line. If this had been any other day, Lance probably would have been involved in a head-on collision, but not today. Today, because of Mother Nature’s wrath, the base had been turned into a ghost town.
