The Edge

by Bill Noel

  Dark, heavy, storm clouds were beginning to roll in; rain couldn’t be far behind. We needed to hit the road—especially Harley’s Harley.

  Our minicaravan crossed over the bridge that separated Folly Beach from the rest of the country. I glanced in the rearview mirror and wondered what my island would look like when we returned. Traffic through Charleston was bumper-to-bumper and moved at about a half mile per hour faster than a turtle’s pace. I had hoped when we reached the interstate on the other side of town, it would change. It did; our speed improved to fifteen miles per hour. Unfortunately, most roads that led to the evacuation route funneled onto I-26, and the term bottleneck was an understatement.

  Heather had fallen asleep in the backseat with her head resting on Charles’s shoulder. I caught a glimpse of him in the mirror; he saw me look and winked.

  We had traveled all of fifty miles along the pine tree-lined I-26 when Heather got her second wind and offered to sing some tunes to “help ya’ll relax.” Charles conveniently fell asleep that same moment, and I whispered, “Maybe later; don’t want to wake him.” I saw Charles’s left eye wink.

  An hour later, and still an hour or so from our destination, everyone was awake and mumbling about a bathroom break. I pulled off the interstate, followed by Larry and Harley. A steady rain had been falling for the last thirty miles, and I figured Harley needed to get under roof and dry off. Many other evacuees had had the same idea, and the lines to the restrooms snaked out the door of the minimart.

  We were in no hurry to get to our temporary home in Prosperity. Our rush was to get away from the beach, and we had slowly achieved that. Larry, Harley, and I stood outside under the canopy. The others were still in line for the restroom or to buy drinks. I smiled as there were as many people in line to buy liquids as there were in lines to deposit liquids.

  Water dripped from Harley’s helmet—a helmet that looked like it belonged on a soldier in World War I. “I can tell you one thing,” he said, his voice matching his burly frame, “I’m danged glad to get out of that apartment building—not sure it’ll make it through another storm.”

  “Why?” asked Larry. “That building’s about as sturdy as anything on the beach—concrete block foundation, brick, stucco.”

  “Foundation ain’t going anywhere,” said Harley, “First floor might hold out. But the second floor’s bad; it’s wood covered with thin stucco; looks solid, but it ain’t.”

  Herding the evacuees in our party was no simple task. Charles and Heather were standing in the candy aisle, seeing who could guess how many different color M&Ms were in a Trail Mix package. Jason was standing nearby with his arms folded, shaking his head.

  “And they’re adults, Mom?” he asked.

  To her credit, Amber simply smiled.

  Arno was reading the front page of the Columbia newspaper and playing with the near-tattered sling holding his wounded arm.

  “Okay,” said Harley, “I’m dry. Let’s get back in the rain.”

  None of us volunteered to pilot his motorcycle the rest of the way in what was now a downpour.

  Bob wasn’t kidding about our temporary digs being a farmhouse. We followed his directions: “Hang a left when you leave your worthless, empty life of poverty and reach Prosperity. The manse will be a quarter mile on your right.” Since it was the only house we had seen since “hanging a left,” we pulled in the long, rutted, gravel drive and stopped in front of the two-story, wood frame house that could have been the cover photo on a rural electric magazine. A covered porch spanned the front.

  We were greeted by three sleepy-eyed goats sitting on the porch and pondering life. Rain was getting more intense. All three goats wore collars and looked like they were as much a part of the porch as the hanging wooden swing on one end and the two rocking chairs on the opposite side. The goat that drew both Charles and Harley’s attention was at the step with its head cocked and a quizzical expression on its bearded face that said, “Don’t recall seeing you before—friend or foe?” His collar had a belt buckle attached that displayed the distinct bar-and-shield Harley-Davidson logo. It wasn’t the logo of a university, but Charles was still impressed. Harley beamed like he had found his long-lost cousin on the sheep side of the family. Arno was less infatuated and walked around the house admiring the carpentry and workmanship that went into the farmhouse.

  Charles and Harley distracted our welcoming committee while we cautiously entered the house. We were met with the musty smell of a closed-up space, but the rooms were neat, well-appointed, and dust-covered. The living room was as large as Amber’s apartment; truth be known, the house was probably larger than all our living quarters combined. Jason checked the rest of the rooms. I heard him say “cool” and “wow” as he walked around. The rest of us began exploring and staking out bedrooms. The sleeping arrangements were not my first choice, but Jason’s presence made the decision easier.

  Charles, Amber, and Heather made a food run to a small grocery we had passed on the way in. Jason went to make sure “adult foods” were not the only things bought.

  Harley talked about his home at the beach and his concern that it wouldn’t be there when he got back. He said it was about the best place he had ever lived and that he was glad Mrs. Klein was leaving. Harley, Arno, and I were sitting on the front porch watching the rain, along with the three guard-goats and a large, gray cat that had pranced around the corner letting us know that it was his house.

  “You sure she left?” I asked. “She told us that nothing would get her out of there.”

  Harley absently petted the head of the Harley-goat. “I didn’t see her leave,” he said, “but I think that’s what she said.”

  “Where would she go?” asked Arno. “She doesn’t have family.”

  “I sure as hell hope she left,” said Harley as he stared off into the rain. “If she didn’t, we’ll never see her alive again.”

  That put a damper on an already saturated day.

  The mood lifted when the food gatherers pulled in the drive. Charles edged the Lexus as close to the front porch as possible without flattening the small row of shrubs that lined the drive. Heather, Jason, and even Harley kept the supper talk lively and humorous—Heather with stories of mishaps along the way on her dual career as a massage therapist and country “star.”

  Harley surprised us when he shared that he had an earlier career as a hypnotist. He had a stage show where he hypnotized audience members to cackle like geese on a verbal command. He said he could train the mind to believe anything.

  Both Jason and Charles asked him to hypnotize us. Amber put an end to that “brilliant” idea with an emphatic “No!”

  Jason, to our relief, changed the subject to his adventures exploring Folly Beach with Samuel, his “best friend in the whole wide world.” Amber’s smile was strained during some of the stories; I’d bet this was the first time she’d heard some of his more risky antics. I felt sorry for her having to endure the minuses of child-rearing as a single mother.

  The television’s signal came from an old-fashioned, rabbit-ears antenna. Jason laughed at the contraption until his mom told him we could only get two channels. The weather reports were interspersed with regular programming—I was never a fan of the Weather Channel, but missed it now. The best we could figure was that Greta would be hitting the coast around noon tomorrow; the eye was expected to hit north of Charleston; and, the most scary part, it was still classified as a Category 4 storm—the next to worst possible.

  Amber and Jason headed to their room first. The rest of us broke open a box of Doritos Charles had snuck into the grocery basket while the health-conscious ladies were trying to find fruit for breakfast. I told Charles what Harley had said about Mrs. Klein leaving. We hoped he was right, but Charles said it didn’t make sense. She had “weathered the storm” many times without leaving, and he didn’t see that she would change her
ways now.

  CHAPTER 56

  “Chris, Chris … are you awake? Chris …”

  The less-than-melodious voice of Charles jarred me from a rock-solid sleep—a habit I was not getting accustomed to. It was a relief not to be in jail this time. I didn’t know what time it was, but knew that I couldn’t have been asleep long. The strange room, combined with the storm outside, combined with Charles’s bed-rattling snoring, kept me awake well after midnight.

  “I’m not awake! What time is it?” I shook my head trying to push the sleep aside.

  “Nearly four. Get up, let’s go.”

  “Stop,” I said. I was sitting on the side of the strange bed looking out the window at solid black—no lights, no sunshine, no nothing. Rainwater was rolling down the window glass. “Go where?”

  “I’ve been thinking while you were enjoying your beauty sleep,” he said without mentioning his snoring. “We’ve got to get Mrs. Klein.”

  I knew I wasn’t dreaming—Charles had seen to that—but I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “She might not be there. Why don’t we call the police and have them check on her?”

  He smiled. “Ahead of you again, my friend. Used your phone and tried Cindy, no answer; then called the Folly Beach cops, phone’s out.” He raised his left hand and put it in front of him, palm facing me. “Before you say it,” he said, “I called the Charleston Sheriff’s Department, and the phone wasn’t dead—would’ve gotten a better response if it had been.” He hesitated—the smile was gone—and then threw my phone on the bed. “The jackass dispatcher said something like, ‘Haven’t you heard; there’s a hurricane coming. I’m sure she’s safe; nobody’s that stupid to stay on the island.’ He took her name and said he was busy and had to go … jackass.” He leaned over, picked up the phone, and yanked the sheets back. “Get dressed; time to go to the beach—bring a kite; good wind.” He turned and headed to the door.

  A few choice words, a few yawns, and one stumped toe on the bedside table later, I was dressed and joined Charles in the living room. Somehow, he had rustled Arno and Harley out of bed and into his adventure into the eye of the storm. Larry sat calmly on the couch. Charles had assigned him to stay and provide a “male presence for Jason and the lasses.” Charles had also decided that it would be best not to wake Amber, Jason, or Heather; “wouldn’t want to ruin their sleep,” he said. That was a courtesy he hadn’t extended to the adult male population. Besides, he didn’t want to bring down the wrath of a female hurricane if Amber and Heather knew where we were going. Lucky Larry would get to tell them.

  Charles’s plan sounded benign when he outlined it at the house: We would drive to Folly Beach; we would arrive at the roadblock keeping people off the island around eight—hours before the eye of the storm kissed shore—and tell the police that we thought Mrs. Klein was still in her house. They would thank us and send someone to retrieve her; and, if necessary, we could bring her to Prosperity until the island reopened.

  Simple enough—but not to be.

  * * *

  Traffic flowing inland on I-26 was lighter than I had expected. Clusters of vehicles passed us on their way to safety. There was hardly anyone on our side. Things changed drastically as we passed Columbia. The line of cars heading toward us intensified. A ribbon of headlights was nonstop. There were numerous fender benders between Columbia and the outskirts of Charleston. Way too many people were in too big a hurry to escape Greta’s wrath. And, like all good Americans, they had waited until the last second to leave.

  To kill time and keep me awake, we talked about the crossbow killer and bemoaned the fact that our sole suspect had been the recipient of a deadly arrow. And Charles and I were convinced that it couldn’t be Cal. Arno and Harley were not as sure. They were quick to point out that Cal didn’t have any alibis, no one knew that much about him, and—drum roll—the police found a crossbow under his bed. That was hard to argue with, but Charles and I did anyway. Why the crossbow was the weapon of choice was as big a mystery to me as the killer’s identity.

  The unanswered questions didn’t stop Charles from proclaiming that we were going to figure it out. One of my unachieved goals in life was to be as confident as Charles, especially about things I didn’t have a clue about.

  The rain had stopped by the time we exited I-26 at Charleston and wiggled our way through the city to Folly Road, the last leg on our mission of mercy. There may have been a pause in the rain, but the winds were ferocious. Palmetto trees were bent in unnatural shapes; shingles from some of the older buildings were flapping, and many had already dislodged and were blowing across the road. The large signs at two drugstores were blown out, and one had fallen through the sunroof of a Mercedes parked nearby. Traffic coming toward us was at a standstill. How many people could be left to evacuate? A Shell station tow truck was in front of us, and I could only see one set of headlights in the rearview mirror.

  Before we got to the strip center anchored by the Piggly Wiggly, we saw an onslaught of flashing emergency lights—fire, police, and EMS vehicles blocked the road. A late model, white SUV was upside down in our lane, and two minivans were off to the side of the road, their windshields shattered into thousands of pieces. It was bad.

  Traffic leaving the beach was being rerouted through the shopping center. I took that cue, turned right into the center and continued through the parking lot until it exited onto a small side street, and then turned right on Folly Road. Charles was twisted in the seat counting the emergency vehicles. “Looks like every official car from Folly and James Island—maybe even the CIA, FBI, and Homeland Security,” he said.

  Cindy had told us the police would be blocking the island at Mariner’s Cay Drive, a hundred yards or so from the bridge leading to the island.

  There was nothing there—no police, no stanchions, no roadblock, nothing. I suggested we go back to the wreck and tell someone about Mrs. Klein; Arno and Harley both had worried looks on their faces and nodded agreement. The torrential rains had begun again. Three to one was no match for Charles. He grabbed his cane from the floorboard and pointed it toward the windshield. “That way, driver. Mrs. Klein is waiting.”

  The rain was coming in solid sheets; the windshield wipers didn’t have the power to keep up. Brush along the road was ripped out of the ground by the winds and swirled around us; a wooden light pole from the development on our right toppled and landed less than a yard from our hood. Water from the Folly River rippled across the road. And we continued like we were on a sunny, calm drive to the beach.

  I was shocked. We were unchallenged as we drove down Center Street toward the Holiday Inn and the ocean. The sun was up but hidden by layer upon layer of ominous black clouds. I didn’t think it was possible, but the rain intensified; the tide had already washed over the walls separating the beach from the front row of buildings on Arctic Avenue. The parking lot at the hotel was under water, as was Arctic and a portion of Center Street. The palmettos that lined the normally calm and attractive streetscape were tilted at forty-five-degree angles and barely hanging on. Three had already been torn from the ground. Rita’s Restaurant’s recently built patio was covered with dark seawater. We were still more than a block from the beach.

  If we were going to make it to Mrs. Klein’s place, we’d need another route. Instead of challenging the rising tide, I backed up and turned at Folly’s only stoplight—or it was when the electricity was on. The city was dark—no stoplight, no streetlights, no lights from the nine-story Holiday Inn. Electricity had evacuated with the residents. It was eerie.

  Colorful rooftop tents on the restaurant on the corner had been yanked from their mooring and whipped in the wind; one had already sailed across the street. The sounds of the hundred-mile-an-hour winds screamed through the trees, overgrown vegetation, and man-made obstacles; it sounded like a hundred freight trains racing past.

  “Whoa!” said Harley from the rear seat
as I swerved to avoid a large trash dumpster that slid across the street like a steel tumbleweed. I could see a lake of salt water to the right—a spot that was usually a dry, public parking lot. Power lines dangled from the few remaining poles and blocked part of the road. We were the only vehicle moving on Folly Beach, and could weave wherever necessary to avoid victims of Greta.

  The double glass doors at Bert’s Market, the store that prides itself for always being open, were covered with plywood. The word Closed was crudely spray painted in red on the temporary wooden barrier. I stopped in front of my house and gave it a quick glance. It was standing. But two of the six, rustic, wood posts holding the rope handrails were twisted at strange angles; the remaining four posts were nowhere to be seen.

  I couldn’t imagine how much worse the storm would be by noon; I certainly didn’t want to be around to see. I hurried the others out of the car. We weren’t dressed for a heavy rain, but by this time, it didn’t matter. Fortunately, it was warm.

  Waves were closing in on my street, two blocks from Mrs. Klein’s home. Wind was pushing the rising tide inland, sparing nothing in its path. The blacktop road leading toward the beach was our quickest and safest way to the Edge. The stop sign catty-corner to our destination was still standing, but water was nearing its top. The octagon-shaped sign whipped back and forth. We shouted to be heard.

  I knew what we had to do, and we had to do it now. We left Folly Beach yesterday to get away from the wrath of Greta—now we were going to walk right into it.

  I didn’t see how things could get worse.

  Someday—if I live that long—I’ll learn not to think that.

  CHAPTER 57

  We’re too late, I thought. Charles, Arno, Harley, and I waded across Arctic Avenue in front of the boardinghouse. We grabbed each other’s arms to keep from being washed away by the turbulent current pushed by windswept waves. Harley, being the strongest by far, led our group. The water was thigh-deep at spots and swirling around us like a ball of snakes in a feeding frenzy. Water lapped the windowsills. The five windows at the side were broken, with water rolling through the openings.