Landfall

A Sweet Tea Press Publication

First published in the United States by Sweet Tea Press

©2015 Dawn Lee McKenna. All rights reserved.

Edited by Tammi Labrecque

larksandkatydids.com

Cover by Shayne Rutherford

darkmoongraphics.com

Interior Design by Colleen Sheehan

wdrbookdesign.com

Landfall
is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any similarities to any person, living or dead, is merely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

For Chelsey

who is loved

Wednesday, August 12
^th

10:36am

M
aggie laid on the table for two pounding heartbeats, then slid off and onto her feet, and scrambled over to Sky’s chair.

“Mom, what just happened?” Sky asked, her voice near hysterical.

“I don’t know,” Maggie managed to croak, squatting behind Sky’s chair and furiously working the ropes that bound her wrists.

“What did he do?”

“I don’t know, Sky!”

The wind was whistling like a train outside, and it seemed impossible that it could be louder than it had already been. Maggie looked up toward the kitchen window as something small but hard hit it, and she caught Kyle’s eye. He was staring at the front door, his eyes wide.

“I’m coming, Kyle,” Maggie said. He looked at her, but didn’t say anything.

Sky wiggled her fingers. “Hurry, Mom!”

“Hold still, baby, please,” Maggie said.

She yanked the ropes free and jumped up as Sky pulled her arms around to the front. They were stiff from hours of being bound behind her, and she rolled them gingerly.

“Sky,” I need you to grab the Glock,” Maggie said, as she squatted behind Kyle and started working on the ropes. His thin wrists were bleeding, and the ropes had left welts on them that made Maggie want to scream.

Sky ran over to the kitchen counter and picked up the Glock, where it lay with the Mossberg and her great-grandfather’s .38. “Do you want me to bring it to you?”

“No, I need it for you,” she said. “Do you remember how to use it?”

“Yeah, but…I guess. Why not the .38?”

“This is not the time for a revolver, baby,” Maggie answered. “Just take it. I want you take it, and I want you to take Kyle, and I want you guys to go in my room, and you don’t come out unless I come get you.”

“Mom, wait—”

“You don’t come out unless I come get you, do you understand me?” Maggie yelled.

“Yes.”

A branch slammed into the window behind Sky, and she ducked instinctively, but the glass didn’t break. The branch fell away again as she straightened up and grabbed the rounds from the counter and shoved them into her pocket.

Maggie finally pulled Kyle’s wrists free, and she rubbed them for just a second before she pulled him up from the chair. “Kyle, you go with Sky, and you guys stay in there. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice a croak.

“Go!” Maggie barked at Sky, and the kids ran down the hallway. As soon as she heard their steps, Coco started barking and scratching at the door again. Maggie watched Sky open the door, watched the kids go in and slam the door behind them, then she ran over to the kitchen counter.

She glanced up at the front door several times as she loaded the Mossberg, shoved a couple of extra rounds in her shorts pocket, and then ran over to the door. The floor was wet from when he had burst through, and she slipped and nearly went down before catching herself.

She put an ear to the door, but it was a ridiculous thing to do. On the other side was nothing but noise, and she could hear nothing beyond the pounding of the rain on the deck.

She took a deep breath, slammed back the action on the shotgun, and flung open the door.

Boudreaux was in the yard, a few feet from the bottom of the stairs. He was almost knee deep in water from the creek, and the water closest to him was colored a deep, dark red.

He looked up at her, the wind buffeting him and pushing him, his hair whipping wildly.

Maggie raised the shotgun and felt a catch in her throat as she looked into those eyes, so deeply blue even from this distance. She hadn’t wanted him to be the one, and she felt, ridiculously, the heaviness of disappointment in her chest.

“I wish you hadn’t come here, Mr. Boudreaux.”

Tuesday, August 11
^th

8:10am – 28 hours earlier

Her name was Faye. According to the Tallahassee paper, Tropical Storm Faye had visited herself upon Cuba without too much mayhem, but might be upgraded to a Category 1 hurricane in the near future. If so, she was expected to make landfall somewhere between New Orleans and Biloxi.

Bennett Boudreaux set the paper aside, and poured himself another chicory coffee. He’d moved from Houma, LA to Apalachicola, FL decades before Hurricane Katrina, and he still enjoyed a good hurricane. He hoped they’d at least get some nice thunderstorms from Faye as she passed through the Gulf.

Judging by the sunlight streaming through the twelve-pane windows and the French doors that led out to the porch, it wouldn’t be today.

Boudreaux ran a hand through his brown hair, still thick and with only a touch of silver above his ears to show his age. At sixty-two, he was youthful and slim, and his deep blue eyes hadn’t lost any of their intensity. He smoothed his hair back down and reached for the sugar spoon.

Amelia, Boudreaux’s middle-aged Creole cook and housekeeper, stood at the kitchen island, frying one slice of maple bacon in a cast iron skillet.

“I appreciate you don’t mess with her none this mornin’,” she said to the skillet. “I got to take her over to the hospital for her bone scan in forty-five minutes.”

“What’s the bone scan for?” Boudreaux asked, stirring pure cane sugar into his coffee.

“Make sure she still got bones,” Amelia answered. She used a set of tongs to lift the bacon from the pan and laid it on a small plate next to one over-medium egg and a slice of toast.

Boudreaux watched her, and thought how much more relaxed Amelia seemed since his beloved wife Lily had made her departure for Grand Isle. She’d left three weeks ago, just after the funeral service for his older stepson, Patrick. With any luck, she would find a more appealing husband while she was there. Maybe a more successful crime lord, who took frequent and lengthy trips to Newfoundland.

The French door opened, and Miss Evangeline’s aluminum walker clattered through it, with Miss Evangeline herself in tepid pursuit.

Miss Evangeline was Amelia’s mother, and Boudreaux’s childhood nanny. She was well into her nineties, and often reminded him of a hatchling, tiny and featherless, a creamy yellowish-brown.

Boudreaux got up and walked around to pull out Miss Evangeline’s chair as she made her way to the table, the tennis balls on her walker making a soft swish against the hardwood floor.

“Mornin’, Mama,” Amelia said.

“Mornin’, baby,” Miss Evangeline answered, her voice like dry palm fronds rubbing together.

Boudreaux waited until Miss Evangeline reached the table, then kissed her on each papery cheek. “Good morning, Miss Evangeline,” he said.

“We gon’ see,” she answered, and got settled into her chair with a great deal of care and precision. Boudreaux walked back to his seat as Amelia set the plate and a cup of tea in front of her mother.

“You need to eat and get on with it,” Amelia said. “You still got to change for the doctor.”

“Why I got to change?” her mother asked, tilting her Coke-bottle glasses up at her daughter.

“You ain’t goin’ in that house dress,” Amelia said.

“I ain’t changin’ into somethin’ else just so they can tell me to take it off and put on them paper towel.”

Amelia heaved out a sigh and walked back to the island. “At least put a sweater on,” she said. She took the skillet to the sink and started wiping it out, as Boudreaux opened up the paper again. Miss Evangeline commenced to scrape butter on her toast, staring at the back of the newspaper.

“What in the paper?’ she asked.

“Some intellectual giant called in a bomb threat from the customer service phone at a Walmart in Tallahassee, the Governor says we really are making some real headway on drugs, and Tropical Storm Faye is thinking about becoming a Category 1 hurricane.”

Miss Evangeline stopped buttering her toast and pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “I won’t have no hurricane comin’ round here this flat place, floodin’ everything.”

“It’s not going to flood,” Boudreaux said smoothly.