The Edge

by Bill Noel

  I lost my footing, slipped under the tide, and swallowed a mouthful of cold salt water. Charles grabbed me around the waist. He held on until I regained my balance. Harley and Arno struggled to keep Charles afloat.

  An uprooted palmetto tree blocked the door—its trunk was the diameter of a telephone pole. The roar of the wind and tide made it impossible for us to hear each other. Harley slowly worked his way to the far end and pointed for the rest of us to grab the top of the tightly-wedged tree. We fought the current and managed to move the tree only two feet; but that was enough to get to the door. Charles and Arno braced the tree so the deadly sea wouldn’t ram it back against the door or me. I managed to grab the door handle and forced it open about eighteen inches. I squeezed in. Water was to my knees. It took all my strength to keep it open long enough for Charles to follow me. Both of us pushed against the door, and Arno let the tree drift back to the house. His sling was swept away by the current. The door held, and Arno got around the tree and slipped through the opening. Harley followed.

  I was exhausted. I leaned against the soaking wall, gasped for breath, and looked around. The entry hall was a disaster. Furniture, which never looked great, was trashed. It bobbed in the knee-high water. Glimmers of muted light streamed into the room from two windows. Charles had his hands on his knees; or I guessed that was where they were, since his knees were under debris-strewn seawater. Harley and Arno were in much better condition and weren’t even breathing hard. Harley looked around the room and shook his head. Arno’s arm was dangling free. His sling was probably blocks away.

  “Well, that was fun,” yelled Charles. He looked around the room. “I’d love to sit … wade … here in the parlor with you guys, but we have work to do.”

  It took both Harley and me to open the door from the entry into the hall. The door to Mrs. Klein’s apartment was directly across from us—and was already open, pushed by the rushing water. Her apartment was darker than the entry parlor. The only sounds I heard were wind whistling through the jagged glass in the broken front window and Charles yelling for Mrs. Klein.

  There was no answer. I looked at Harley, and he shook his head and started to push the bobbing furniture around so he could see in each corner. I started on the opposite side of the room and pointed to the kitchen area for Charles and Arno to search. I didn’t want to find Mrs. Klein in her apartment—if we did, she’d have breathed her last breath. The search took what seemed like an eternity—especially for such a small apartment. We shuffled our feet along the floor—in Charles’s case, his cane—to probe every inch. The water was muddy and litter-filled. The smell of salt and the wet drywall made the task all that more difficult. Sweat stung my eyes. She wasn’t in her apartment. I said a silent prayer.

  There was a chance she’d evacuated like all other intelligent life on the island. But we had to be sure. We’d never get the rest of the house searched if we stayed together. It was still nearly impossible to hear each other; listening to a freight train speed by from three feet away would have been quieter. Arno and Harley were stronger than Charles and I, so I motioned for them to work their way through the rising water and the rest of the first floor. I pointed to Charles, to myself, and then at the stairs; we would search the second floor. Amazingly, everyone understood the hand signals. The second floor was far from the water’s reach, so I thought if she hadn’t evacuated, she would have headed there to avoid the rising tide.

  The threadbare carpet on the stairs was soaked and slick. I slipped in the water that was beginning to cascade down the steps, but managed to keep my balance. Charles and I were three steps from the second floor when I noticed it. The horrendous sounds of Mother Nature were terrifying, but a new sound shook my faith. The reverberation of wood cracking and snapping came from above us. Light filtered through the roof. A waterfall of rainwater poured through the fissure a few feet in front of us. The Edge was collapsing—we had minutes at most to find Mrs. Klein and get out.

  The room on the right at the top of the stairs was Cal’s. The door was locked, but Charles rammed it with his shoulder and it flew open. We could finally hear each other talk. I told him I’d take Arno’s room on the left. I was luckier than Charles; Arno’s door was unlocked. I yelled for Mrs. Klein. No answer; but I searched the room anyway. It looked more like a workshop than a bedroom. There was a bed, but it was surrounded by a makeshift wooden workbench holding two saws, a hammer, a vise, and several pieces of hardwood. There was a wooden contraption about the size of a photoprinter with clamps on two of the sides. It looked like it was made to hold something.

  Could it be? It’ll wait; now focus. Where’s Mrs. Klein?

  I heard Charles yell that he was going to Lester’s room. It faced the beach. I hurried from Arno’s room and started toward Harley’s, also on the front across from Lester’s.

  I pushed his unlocked door and saw the exterior wall buckle. The roof was pulling loose at the side wall, and the wall facing the beach was accordioned by the collapsing roof.

  Time was up. I turned toward the hall and was face-to-face with Arno.

  “Did you find Mrs. …” I said before he stopped me.

  Arno was out of breath. “Where’s Charles?”

  “Is she okay?” I asked.

  Arno looked at the roof behind me. He had his good arm behind his back and a three-foot-long 2x4 in his right hand, his bad arm. “Charles?” he shouted.

  Charles came out of Lester’s room. “She’s not in there,” he said and then saw Arno.

  Arno slipped around me. Charles and I were now between him and the stairs. The floor on the second story of the dying house began to shake. I looked down at the vibrating floor, looked at Charles, and then found myself staring into the barrel of a pistol.

  “Shit,” said Charles.

  CHAPTER 58

  The gun was small, no larger than twenty-five caliber, but as deadly as an atom bomb. Arno pointed the board toward the stairs and growled, “Go!” His eyes were as black and intense as Greta. In the beam of light coming from the deteriorating roof, I saw blood dripping off the 2x4. Harley?

  Charles was at the top step. Without warning, Arno swung the board and caught Charles on his right temple. He never saw it coming. His legs buckled, and he tumbled, headfirst, down the stairs. His cane and Tilley followed him down.

  Arno stepped behind me and shoved the board in my back. I was at the top step. His face was contorted. A sinister grin distorted his lips. “After you,” he said.

  I flinched and closed my eyes before he raised his arm holding the board; I stumbled over the edge of the first step and grabbed the handrail.

  Plaster from the roof began falling in surfboard-size chunks; water pelted down. My left arm was wrapped around the railing. Then Arno crashed into me. I opened my eyes and saw a yellow broom handle ramming into his back—a broom held by Mrs. Klein.

  Arno’s momentum carried both of us down the stairs. My head bounced off the wall, and I hit the water, back first. Arno landed on me. If there hadn’t been three feet of seawater, the fall would have killed me. Arno’s weight pressed my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. The gun flew out of his hand when he hit. He tried to grab it before it sank in the opaque, swirling water. He still had the deadly board in his hand but made the fatal mistake of thinking I was unconscious. My head was barely above water; I had swallowed a mouthful of salt water before I regained my balance and stood.

  The table that had held old photographs of Joseph in better times was floating between Arno and me. He was facing the window and trying to stand. I braced my foot against the bottom step and, with every ounce of energy I had left, shoved the table into his back. I was nearly out of energy; my arms stung, my breathing was labored. It took him by surprise, and he lunged forward. He stumbled, and his head rammed into the windowsill. A five-inch shard of window glass sliced into his neck. He tried to stand and slipped. He grabbed at the si
ll and the glass but missed. His eyes rolled upwards; his body went limp. Blood from the gash spewed against the wall and went from bright red to pink as it was diluted by the rain running down the surface.

  I turned away from the gruesome sight. His eyes were wide open, but he didn’t see anything in this world. Greta was no longer his concern.

  Mrs. Klein was on the steps just above water level. She still had the broom in her hand. “Oh, Lordy,” she said and put her other hand to her mouth.

  I gasped for breath. I hesitated and then waded over to the steps and asked if she was okay.

  She shook her head no; rainwater and tears were running down her cheeks. “I’m alive.”

  “Sit on the step; I’ll be right back.”

  Where was Charles … Harley? Were they alive?

  More of the roof collapsed; water continued to sweep down the stairs and almost carried Mrs. Klein with it. The sound of chaos was deafening. My back was killing me; bouncing down the stairs had taken its toll. My breath was slowly returning.

  Where were they?

  Hope came from the most unlikely sentence, “Hey, Mr. Photo Man! I could use a hand.”

  Charles was in the hall outside Travis Green’s room. The water was up to his waist, blood from the wound over his left eye ran down his face, and he was cradling Harley’s head. As soon as Charles had hit the water after tumbling down the steps, he heard the ceiling beam fall with Harley underneath. Harley’s nose was barely above the rushing water. I waded toward him and through the near-darkness saw the problem. Harley was conscious, but his left arm was pinned under a ceiling beam. If Charles tried to move the beam, Harley’s head would go under. Could he ever use a hand.

  Water rushed through the windows. In no time the entire first floor would be submerged—assuming the second floor’s collapse didn’t kill us first.

  “Arno?” said Charles.

  “Dead,” I said. I had grabbed one end of the beam and, aided by the buoyancy of the water, was able to shove it off Harley’s arm.

  “Good,” said Charles.

  “Damned good!” said Harley.

  That was the first I’d heard from him.

  “He smacked me with that damned board … caught me off guard,” said Harley.

  His pride was hurt as much as his head. “You okay?” I asked. He wobbled to his feet.

  “Headache,” he said. “Did you find Mrs. Klein?”

  “She’s okay,” I said. “On the stairs.”

  A loud crashing sound came from overhead. “Can you walk?” I asked Harley.

  “Sure,” he said. “No headache ever stopped me from walking.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Charles. He looked up at the drywall buckling. A two-foot square of it fell on my shoulder. Charles ducked as another large piece splashed beside him.

  We waded to the front stairs. Arno’s body was floating face down and was pressed against the wall by the rising water.

  “Hi, Harley,” said Mrs. Klein. A body was floating in front of her, her house was being destroyed piece by piece, memories were cruelly being washed away, and she was calmly sitting on the steps like just another day.

  “Enough chitchat,” said Charles. “How’re we going to do this?”

  “First, we have to get out of here.” I looked back down the hall toward the ocean. Water was at least a foot higher on the wall than when I found Charles and Harley. I knew I’d be lucky to carry myself, and Charles didn’t look in any better condition. “Harley, can you carry Mrs. Klein?”

  “I can walk,” she huffed.

  “Sure,” said Harley as he looked at her frail body on the stairs. “If you can’t walk the whole way out, I’ll help.”

  She’d be no match for the turbulent tides outside her door, but Harley had spared her pride.

  “Then what’re we waiting for?” asked Charles. He turned and waded toward the door, pushing a floating chair out of the way.

  The palmetto that blocked the door had been pushed across the street by the fierce tide. Water was nearly chest deep, and the rolling tides raised it several inches with each incoming wave. Mrs. Klein took one look and said “maybe” she’d need a “little help.” Harley grabbed her before she changed her mind and hefted her over his head. Charles pushed her dress over Harley’s head so he could see.

  “Don’t get fresh, young man,” she said and tapped Harley on the top of his head.

  He winced. “Where’s my helmet when I need it?”

  The closest path to dry land was directly up the street toward Bert’s and my house.

  A small wooden storage building was floating across the street. “Traffic’s a little light today,” yelled Charles. We were wading up the middle of Arctic Avenue.

  Ripples of pain shot through my back when I laughed. Mrs. Klein smiled—no simple task with her house destroyed behind her.

  CHAPTER 59

  There wasn’t a speck of dry on us when we stumbled in my door. The interior smelled damp and stale. I looked up and was impressed with my roof repairs. Water was running under the door but was easily contained. Hurricane Frank had taught me to stuff towels at the bottom of the door from the outside to at least slow the tide. Everything else appeared dry. Dry and sweltering—no power, the windows closed, no air circulated, and in the mid-eighties outside, much hotter inside. I found an old bathrobe and offered it to Mrs. Klein along with the privacy of the bedroom. She refused at first, but finally accepted it. Water was slowly rising on the street and, in another hour, it would reach the wheel well of the Lexus. Charles sprawled out on the living room floor, and Harley slumped in a kitchen chair. We did a visual inspection of each other to make sure there weren’t any serious wounds needing immediate attention—minor cuts and bruises were everywhere, and my Band-Aid supply was depleted quickly. Tetanus shots were in our near future.

  I had grabbed the cell phone from the car on the way in, but it read No service. We were trying to figure out the best way to tell the police what had happened when a pounding on the door solved the problem.

  Acting Chief King stood on the step decked out in rain gear and a frown. Cindy Ash was standing behind him.

  “What’s it about ‘Everyone Must Evacuate’ you don’t understand?” he snarled. He elbowed his way in the door, pushed the rain hood off his head, yanked off the coat, and shook it on the enclosed porch. Cindy meekly followed him into the living room. “We saw you damn fools in front of Bert’s,” he continued.

  Mrs. Klein opened the bedroom door and walked into the living room, dragging the bottom of the robe on the floor.

  “Oh, Mrs. Klein,” said King. His tone mellowed a tad.

  She glared. “Acting Chief King,” she said in a schoolteacher’s tone, “these three young men just saved my life.” She walked to within six inches of King, continued to glare, “and … and solved the terrible murders that you and your incompetent collection of public servants couldn’t do. Now you just shut up; stop your bullying. Shut up and listen!”

  I took the lead. “Chief, if we could gather in the kitchen, I have a lot to tell you.”

  “Shouldn’t we get off the island first?” asked Harley. He was standing at the window watching the rising water.

  “I’ve got a high-riding four-wheel drive and can get us off in a little while,” said King. “They say the eye’s moved farther north than expected. This should be the worst of it.” He nodded toward the kitchen.

  That was the best news I’d never heard.

  Charles, Harley, and I limped to the kitchen; Mrs. Klein strolled with renewed energy. I stood, as did Cindy. The others sat. Considering the circumstances, I didn’t offer refreshments or drinks.

  “Chief,” I said without preamble. “Arno Porchini is the crossbow killer.”

  “Wrong,” he said. “Have you blasted idiots
forgotten he was shot?”

  “Victim and perpetrator,” I said. “He shot himself, Chief,” I said. “I’ll explain in a minute. Let me finish.”

  “Yes, Acting Chief, let him finish,” yelled my enforcer, Mrs. Klein.

  I paced around the room. Moving eased the pain in my back. I noticed that Cindy had her notebook open. Chief King sat with his arms folded; a frown dominated his face. I began leading the chief through our day, beginning with Charles’s middle-of-the-night wake-up call. Charles beamed when I said the time. King tried to interrupt, but a “Hmm” and a glare from Mrs. Klein silenced him.

  Cindy stopped taking notes when I said Porchini was dead. I briefly shared what happened after that, but I could tell the chief was getting frustrated, so I stopped. “Questions?”

  “You sure he’s dead?” asked King.

  “Deader than Lincoln,” said Mrs. Klein. “I saw it all.” She pointed at me. “That young man told you exactly how it happened. If he didn’t stop Porchini, we’d all be dead, and everyone would think it was because of the damned hurricane.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police about Mrs. Klein?” asked the chief.

  “Tried,” said Charles. “All the phones were dead.”

  “Then why not tell us when you came back?”

  “You were busy with the wreck out by the Pig,” said Harley. “It’s not our fault the cops were too incompetent to block the island.”

  The chief glared at Harley, but let it go.

  Cindy had been silent until now, but jumped in, “How’d you know it was Porchini?”

  “I began to suspect it when we evacuated, but didn’t know for sure until I went into his room.”