“I’ll be cautious,” he replies. “I promise.”
I release him, and he walks over to the window.
I hand him the lantern, and he shines the light in front of the pane.
“The water’s—gone,” he says. “There’s sand where the ocean was.”
I’ve seen this before, know exactly what will happen next.
“It’s going to come back.”
* * *
—
The dead man is upstairs in our bedroom, his blood staining the wood floor, the window of time before the ocean rushes back toward the house narrowing.
“I need to get rid of the body,” Anthony says.
“How?”
He gives me a look that suggests he isn’t a novice at such things.
“What if someone finds him?” I ask.
“We have to make sure they don’t. The storm will help. If we move quickly, hopefully, he’ll disappear. It’s going to be a mess out there.”
“He was shot.”
“And if they never discover the body, that won’t matter,” he replies.
“And if they do?”
“I doubt they’re going to be overly concerned with one more dead body. Especially a man like that. And even if they do investigate his death, there’s nothing tying him to us.”
“Will it be like this everywhere we go?” I ask. “Enemies in every corner? If we’re to be partners in this marriage, then you should trust me in this. I don’t want secrets between us. How many threats are there?”
“There aren’t supposed to be any.”
“But this Frank Morgan person—now we’ve killed someone who worked for him. What will he do to retaliate?”
“He’ll never know. The storm is the perfect cover. Besides, this man was hardly a valuable member of Frank’s organization. More likely a local who could be bought cheaply and was expendable should he fail.
“Which is why we need to act quickly. I’d rather get rid of him now than wait until tomorrow, when it’s light out and there’s a chance of someone finding him,” Anthony says. “Burying him would take too long even if we could locate something to use to dig in the ground, which I doubt we can in this mess. Plus there’s always the risk of an animal unearthing him later.”
He sounds far too familiar with the particulars of concealing a body.
“The sea is unpredictable, and without a boat to row him out in, not ideal, but the storm has likely messed up the tide,” Anthony continues. “Who knows where he’ll end up? And even if it is here, the best we can hope for is that someone will think he was blown off course by the hurricane. When the sun comes up, nothing will appear the way it did before. If only we had a knife or a saw . . .”
My stomach rebels against the image his words conjure up.
Anthony’s gaze darts to the kerosene. “We could use the kerosene, but the last thing we need is a fire taking down our remaining shelter, and with the winds as unpredictable as they are this evening—”
“The sea will have to do,” I say decisively.
I don’t know what marriage and this place have done to me, but I’m behaving as though it is the most natural thing in the world to dispose of a body.
* * *
—
It takes longer than I expected for Anthony to pull the dead man down the stairs in a series of awkward thuds and drag him out the front door to the beach. There’s no way to know when the water will wash back onto the beach, but this is our last, best chance to get rid of him.
“He’s a heavy bastard,” Anthony grunts, leaning against the broken front porch railing. The exterior is in shambles, half the roof torn off the house. Windows are broken, shutters gone, trees pulled from the earth, their massive trunks and roots exposed. It’s too dark to make out the full extent of the damage, but the hint of it illuminated by the lantern and the moon is ominous enough, indeed. Rain lashes the ground, the wind strong even though the storm has moved past us.
“Stay back on the porch,” Anthony calls to me. “It’s windier out here than it seems. Hold on to the railing.”
I grip the wood, my heart sinking at how flimsy it is—parts of it have broken off and disappeared completely. The whole structure appears ready to blow away entirely, the railing wobbling with each gust of breeze.
“Are we safe to stay in the house tonight?” I ask Anthony.
“It’s probably the best shelter we can hope for considering the circumstances. The car’s gone, and I wouldn’t want to venture out in this weather anyway.”
Anthony drags the body toward the water, wading into the sea as I watch from my perch near the porch. There’s some wrestling and some cursing, Anthony disappearing into the dark night as my heart pounds, waiting for his safe return.
What seems like an age passes before I spy him walking back to the house.
“It’s bad out there,” he says, his voice grim.
“What did you do with him?”
“He’s tangled up in some mangroves now. Hopefully when the tide comes back, it’ll carry him off somewhere else. Either way, with how strong this storm was, people will likely turn up all over the place.”
I shiver at the macabre thought, at the image it presents, and Anthony wraps his arm around me, leading me back toward the house.
It isn’t until much later, when we are nearly asleep, Anthony’s fingers entwined with mine, that I glance down at my hand and realize my engagement ring is gone.
Twenty-Four
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, 1935
Helen
When I wake, there is light. Not the bright sunlight I’m used to, but a muted shade that signifies day has broken, albeit reluctantly.
John stands near one of the cottage windows, the shutters ripped off long ago in the storm, Lucy in his arms.
“Is it over?” I ask.
“You’re awake.” He walks over, handing Lucy to me. He looks away as I adjust her so she can nurse.
Half the roof is gone, the remnants of the rising water in the cabin still visible, but we’re no longer moving.
“It’s over, but I’m not entirely sure where we are,” John answers. “Up by Windley Key, maybe? It appears like we were swept north, but the landscape isn’t like anything I remember seeing. All the trees are gone. Everything is gone. There are holes where you can tell there used to be something, but I don’t know what.”
“I can’t believe I fell asleep. That I didn’t wake up.”
“Your body went through a huge shock between the delivery and the storm. You needed the rest. The worst part was already over when you started dozing off. We’ve been beached here for hours.”
My senses are dulled, sluggish. There is Lucy—piercing through the haze—but everything else seems as though it’s happening to someone else, as though I am someone else. There’s Tom out there somewhere, but at this moment, we are truly alone in the world, and I haven’t come to terms with all that has happened or how much we have endured.
I have no idea what comes next.
I gaze down at the baby nursing comfortably on my breast. “Is she doing all right? She seems healthy.”
He smiles. “I’d say she’s a fighter. Her mother, too.”
“I didn’t do anything—just rode out the storm.”
“I couldn’t have gotten through it without you. You helped me keep it together. Stayed strong for me, for her, too. Now we have to get out of here. There’s some canned supplies over in the kitchen area, but water’s going to be a problem eventually, and you really should be checked out by a doctor. Same with Lucy.
“The cabin seems to be fine on this stretch of beach,” he adds. “It’s not going anywhere. I wouldn’t recommend taking Lucy out in this until we know what the conditions are like. I don’t want to leave you, but it’s best for you two to stay here. Lie in bed and get some rest. I
’ll see if there’s someone nearby to help.”
John leans down, and his lips ghost across my forehead. “I’ll be back. I promise.”
Twenty-Five
Mirta
We huddle together on the settee in the living room, our limbs intertwined, Anthony’s long legs hanging off the edge. It’s hardly comfortable, and we’re unable to piece together more than a few hours of sleep, but considering how bad the storm was, it’s a miracle we made it through the night.
When the sun comes up, its rays are dimmed considerably.
“I need to go out and see how bad this is. Try to get help.” Anthony hesitates. “I don’t want to leave you here.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Mirta.”
“You said it yourself—you don’t want to leave me. The aftermath of a storm can be difficult. Looters and the like. We’ve experienced the same thing in Havana. Not to mention this Frank Morgan situation—you don’t know who’s out there, and I don’t want to worry that there are more men coming after us.”
Anthony picks up the gun and tucks it into the waistband of his pants. “Let’s go, then.”
My hand tightly clasped in his, we set out of the house in search of assistance. Our feet hit the top step of the porch before we freeze. The view we’ve grown accustomed to these past few days is completely gone. The trees that framed the entrance to the house—towering palms with fat coconuts hanging from them—are nowhere to be found. Nor are the coconuts. The sand has been swept all over the porch, the steps from the house to the beach another casualty of the storm. An icebox rests on its side, and I’m fairly certain it’s not the house’s icebox.
The roof is gone from large sections of the house, windows blown out, walls ragged and lilting like a bomb has exploded. The porch sags in places where it appears as though the railings were ripped away by the wind.
There is all manner of debris strewn about—foliage from the mangroves, palm fronds, clothes I don’t recognize as ours.
My gaze sweeps over the beach and rests on a white wooden object sitting on curved legs.
Pink painted ribbons adorn the side, and I can barely make out a name—
Ruth.
It’s a cradle.
I run toward it, my heart in my throat, listening for the sound of a baby’s cries—
It’s empty.
“Mirta.”
Anthony wraps his arms around me from behind and holds me tight against him.
I can’t tear my eyes away from the sight of that name painstakingly painted on the wood. “Do you think the baby is safe? There’s no sign of a body, but the nearest house must be at least a mile away. How could—”
“I’m sure the baby’s fine,” Anthony replies, his tone belying the certainty in his words. “The cradle probably blew away in the storm.”
We move forward, and as hard as I try to forget the sight of the cradle, of Ruth, it follows me like a chill that settles in my bones.
How many others haven’t been as lucky as we are? How many perished last night?
We continue on, heading toward the main road. The farther we walk, the more obvious the scope of the destruction becomes.
I stumble, nearly losing my balance. I open my mouth to cry out, but no sound escapes.
A body hangs from the limbs of a tree, mangled beyond recognition.
For a moment, I think it’s the man I shot, come back to haunt me, but it’s a woman, I realize, stepping closer as the breeze blows a lock of long red hair like a ribbon fluttering in the wind.
It could be the girl from New York I met earlier on the beach.
Elizabeth.
It could be anyone.
Beside me, Anthony swears.
I have seen the aftermath of many storms.
I have never seen anything like this.
“Should we—”
The words “help her” stick in my throat.
“She’s beyond any help we could give her now,” Anthony replies, his voice achingly gentle as though I might unravel at any moment.
We walk on, and there are more bodies. On the ground, wrapped in whatever trees survived the wind’s fury, bodies poking through rubble of homes that were obliterated by the storm. A few times, Anthony rushes over to the body as though the person can be saved, as if there is some assistance to be given, but it quickly becomes apparent that there is no point.
We are surrounded by death.
In the distance, I spot two figures walking toward us. I grip Anthony’s arm, and he tenses beside me as we assess the new arrivals—two men, their clothes tattered, cuts all over their faces and arms, their faces slack with shock.
They’re brothers, and their house was destroyed in the storm. Their eyes well with tears discussing it. I cannot fathom how devastating it must be to see your home laid to waste, your family and friends gone.
We walk on with the men, and others join us, more survivors of the storm wearing the shocked expressions that no doubt must mirror our own, their bodies in various stages of undress, their clothing blown away by the elements, their shoes gone, feet scraped by the rocks as they wander aimlessly, as they search for their loved ones.
Some of the locals stop every once in a while to pick up something of theirs that was blown away by the storm. My heart clenches at the pain in their eyes, their scattered possessions clutched in their arms, at the losses they’ve suffered. Homes are destroyed. Lives are lost. The entire island has effectively been wiped away.
These people were already struggling. What will they do now?
Bodies litter the beach. Around us, the locals cry as they recognize one of their own, but just as frequently, the appearance of the body is left with more questions than answers.
Could it be Nancy Thompson?
Perhaps.
No, it’s too tall to be Nancy.
It’s the Miller girl, isn’t it?
A pause. A wiping of brows.
It might be the Miller girl.
And on and on it goes. There are women and men. There are children. Babies.
No one should see the things we see today.
More than once, Anthony urges me to return to the house, but I stay as I am, my hand clutched in his.
Each step we take reveals another fantastical, horrific thing:
Mr. Flagler’s mighty railroad lies in ruins, stretches of track destroyed, cars broken and twisted. An enormous freighter marooned near a beach rather than far off in the ocean where it should be, the storm’s strength and power ominous, indeed. The Matecumbe Hotel is severely damaged, yet intact enough to provide shelter to some of the survivors. So many dead that I begin to lose count, the violence of their deaths becoming less shocking with each mile we traverse, the storm’s indiscriminate cruelty numbing me.
It’s the worst by the railroad station. Bodies are tangled in the mangroves, the stench unbearable. They litter the ground like discarded trash.
“They didn’t even have a chance,” the woman beside me whispers, crossing herself.
The strangest thing is that in the midst of all this destruction, there are items that are untouched, blown far away from their owners yet perfectly preserved. A dress on the ground. A shoe. A bed. These things defy logic, explanation.
Anthony gestures toward a group of men up ahead he’s been talking to. “They’re going to try to ferry some of the people who need medical assistance out. The most vulnerable need to be taken to safety. Most of the food and supplies have been swept away. Things are going to get bad for everyone stuck here. Water, in particular, will be a problem.
“I’m going to help them. You should head back to the house. Get some rest. It’s late. You don’t want to be out after dark in this. Please. I don’t want to be worried about you the whole time.” Anthony pulls the gun out of his pocket. “Take this. Keep it on you
. There could be looters. People trying to take advantage of the situation.”
A grim look passes between us—there could be more enemies of his.
“I don’t want to leave you, but they need men who can help carry the injured, and—”
I press my lips to his, cutting off his words.
When the kiss ends, I lean back and gaze into his eyes.
“Come home to me.”
Twenty-Six
Helen
It’s late in the afternoon when John returns to the cabin, Lucy sleeping peacefully. I’ve made the most of the canned goods, but he wasn’t wrong—water is already in short supply. We can’t stay here much longer.
“What’s it like out there?” I ask. I’ve done little more than peek out the windows at the unfamiliar landscape since he left.
“We’re definitely near Windley Key. It’s a mess. The telephone lines aren’t working. Same with the telegraph lines. The roads are blocked. The bridges are gone.”
“The hospital?”
“That’s gone, too.”
My heart sinks.
“Everything is gone,” John adds. “A boat came down from Miami; they’re helping get the injured out and taking them to safety, ferrying them up to the hospital on the mainland. You and Lucy should go.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll join you later, stay behind until there’s a chance for the rest of us to get out. Right now, the most important thing is that you’re both safe.”
With everything we’ve been through together, his presence has been a comfort, and I’m hesitant to separate now.
John must see the indecision and fear in my eyes, because he sits down beside me on the bed and wraps his arm around me.
The Last Train to Key West Page 20
