Storm Season (6 page)

“But you’re talking now.”

“I’m not that guy! I’m not . . . like him. He’s got Sundstrand. Not me.”

“Where does he have him stashed?”

“I don’t know.”

She pressed on the barrel. “Bullshit!”

He was sobbing now. “I don’t, I swear!”

“Last name?”

“What? I don’t--”

“Chuck’s last name! What is it?”

“Same as mine. Rudd.”

M.C. DIALED KITT FROM THE Explorer. “I’ve got the kidnapper’s name,” she said. “Chuck Rudd.”

“Rudd? Wasn’t that--”

“Bello’s boyfriend’s name? Yeah. It’s his step-brother. He killed Bello when she caught on to them. Brad Rudd swears he doesn’t know where Erik is. Says his involvement started and stopped with Bello. The step-brother lives with his old man.” She rattled off the address. “Go get him. Find out where Erik is.”

“Wait! Where’s the boyfriend?”

“Handcuffed to a support in his basement. Waiting for you to pick him up.”

“What are you doing now?”

“Acting on a hunch.”

THE FIRST OF THE SNOW had hit the ground and melted. That had been hours ago. Now, M.C. faced a white nightmare. The snow fell so heavily, she couldn’t see five feet in front of her, let alone drive across town.

She had an idea where Erik was. And if she was right, he was exposed to the elements.

“After Wet ‘n Wild closed down, he went to work for Sundstrand.”

Wet ‘n Wild. A westside water park. Unable to compete with the Parks and Recreation Department’s bigger Magic Waters, it’d gone belly up. She’d driven by the abandoned park just the other day, it’s water slides like hulking skeletons against the gray sky.

The perfect place to stash a kidnap victim.

Or hide a body.

No. Erik was alive. And every minute counted.

She peered through the windshield, the wipers struggling to keep up. She couldn’t chance doing this on her own and ending up in a ditch. Time to call in the reinforcements.

She dialed her cousin Nikki. “Nik, it’s M.C.”

“Mary Catherine? This is a--”

“Is Vinnie home?”

“Vinnie? Lord, no. This blizzard’s an early boon for business. He’s been out plowing and salting all night.”

“I need to reach him, Nik. It’s an emergency.” 

VINNIE HAD COME FOR HER, few questions asked. When family called, you answered. It was as simple as that. When the huge dump truck had rolled to a stop in front of her house, she’d darted out, looking like a baby blue abominable snowman. Snowmobile bib and jacket, boots, Glock nestled securely in her shoulder holster, extra magazine in the jacket’s zipper pocket. And when she’d directed him to the abandoned water park out on Old Trask Bridge Road he’d said nothing, just hunkered down in his seat and tightened his grip on the wheel.

She was operating on instinct and adrenalin. By focussing on the next moment, her next step. She forced everything else, all the what-ifs, out of her mind.

Even in the heavy truck, the industrial grade plow blade clearing their way, their progress was slow. And as the roads became more rural; their progress became tortoise-like. It was all she could do to keep from screaming in frustration.

Vinnie carried emergency gear: thermal blankets, camping heater, emergency radio, food and water. Even plows got stuck sometimes.

Not this time. She balled her hands into tight fists. Not until she found Erik.

“You want to talk about it?”

M.C. glanced at him. He resembled her brothers and a lot of the guys she’d grown up with. Dark hair and eyes, olive tone skin, the same macho swag. And the same big heart.

“No.”

He ignored her. “This Sundstrand guy, he somebody special to you?”

A simple question. One that could be answered just as simply. Yes. Or no. But suddenly, simple wasn’t an option. It was complicated. Very.

She tried to tell him so; her throat closed over the words. Her eyes burned. She blinked against the tears. She would not cry. She had promised herself. Adapt or die. Just like Sorenstein had said.

But now, all that didn’t matter.

They had arrived.

“THIS DOESN’T LOOK PROMISING,” Vinnie said, peering out the windshield between wiper swipes.

It didn’t. No plow other than this one had been anywhere near the park. A winter wonderland of undisturbed, fresh snow.

If there had been human activity out here, it’d been before the snow had begun to fall.

They sat outside the main gate. It was secured with a heavy chain and padlock. She stared at it, stomach sinking as she realized she hadn’t thought to bring a bolt cutter. She shifted her gaze. Ten foot fencing circled the park, the fencing topped with barbed wire. Mountainous snowdrifts obscuring whole sections.

She looked at Vinnie. “Can you take it down?”

Vinnie hesitated only a moment. “You bet your ass.” He raised the plow blade to eye level, then shifted into reverse. The truck rumbled back, then he stopped, met her eyes. “Seat belt.”

M.C. fastened hers and held on. He shoved the truck into gear and hit the gas. Even with the harness her head snapped forward on impact with the fence. The screech of shredding metal filled her ears. The groan and pop of snapping wires. The truck shuddered to a stop.

M.C. didn’t wait to confer with Vinnie. She unfastened her belt and launched out of the cab. The snow was thigh deep in parts. Heavy and wet. She slogged through it, heading to the center of the park and it’s only substantial building. She’d visited Wet ‘n Wild once, with her nephew. He’d fallen and cut open his chin. The infirmary had been cool inside, she remembered being grateful for the air conditioning.

She heard Vinnie behind her. He called her name. She glanced back, saw that he carried blanket and first aid kit. Bless the man. She’d owe him big for this one.

M.C. motioned him to follow, then pressed on. When she reached the cinderblock structure, she was sweating. Another padlock, she saw. This one easily handled with two shots.

“Erik!” she shouted, stepping inside, weapon out. A welcome area and sales office, she remembered. Empty now. She swung right. A short hallway. The infirmary had been at the end, restrooms between. “Erik!” she called again, the silence terrifying. “Where are you?”

A shuffling sound came from the men’s room. She bit back a cry, forcing herself to go slow, exercise caution. Anyone could be behind that door.

She eased it open. Erik. Wrapped in a bloodied blanket. Blindfolded and gagged. Chained to one of the stalls.

But alive.

The cry of relief spilled from her lips. She ran to him, knelt down and went to work on the gag and blindfold. “It’s okay,” she whispered over and over, like a mantra. “You’re okay. It’s going to be fine.”

The gag came off first, then the blindfold. She realized her cheeks were wet, that Vinnie was standing in the doorway and that Erik needed medical attention. The timing couldn’t be worse, but she didn’t give a damn.

She gently cupped his face in her palms. “Yes,” she said, looking him dead in the eyes. “I love you. And yes, I will marry you.”

#####

Gulf of Mexico

Pensacola, Florida

FBI AGENT MAGGIE O’DELL STARED at the helicopter. She stood so close she could feel the vibration of the engine even as it idled. The soft, slow whir of the blades made her nauseated, though she could barely hear it above the gusts of wind. She watched the crew methodically run through the last of their flight checks and she still couldn’t believe she had agreed to this.

It had been a year since her last excursion, and she had promised herself never, ever again to set foot inside another helicopter. Yet here she was,  all decked out in a flight suit. It was red-orange, what she knew the Coasties affectionately called a “mustang.” The suit was designed to provide flotation and was also fire retardant. Neither of which offered much comfort to Maggie. This time her suit was complete with a helmet with an internal communication system. The ICS was a step up. Last time they hadn’t let her communicate with them.

She glanced over at her partner, R.J. Tully. He stood back about a hundred feet from the helipad, where he’d be safe and sound from the downwash when they lifted off. He gave her a forced grin and a thumbs-up. Maggie still felt like she had drawn the short straw. Standing here with cockroaches gnawing in her stomach, she thought she might offer Tully rock/paper/scissors or a toss of a coin and not care how childish it sounded. But she had been up with this aircrew before. Somehow that made her win – or lose, depending on one’s perspective.

She needed to block out how the clouds had turned day into dusk though it was barely noon. Was that a raindrop she felt? How much longer before the sky burst open? She needed to stay focused and concentrate on the reason she and Tully were here.

A United States Senator’s family was missing – somewhere out at sea. Maggie and Tully’s boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, who never met a politician he couldn’t be manipulated by, had sent his two agents to play fetch.

Okay, that wasn’t at all how Kunze had worded it, of course, but that was what it felt like to Maggie and Tully.

Kunze had been sending the two of them on odd missions for about two years now. And just when Maggie thought the shelf life on his reign of punishment would expire, he came up with yet another assignment or errand.

The storm added urgency to their mission. Maggie and Tully had barely escaped D.C. before the snow began falling. But they hadn’t escaped the storm front. The monster system looped all the way down from the Midwest to the Panhandle of Florida, then back up the eastern coastline.

Down here in Florida it was only just beginning, taking the form of angry, black thunderheads. It had rained all the way from the airport. Seventeen to twenty inches were predicted during the next forty-eight hours. They were in a lull. In the distance Maggie could hear a rumble of thunder, a reminder that the calm would not last long. As if on cue, the pilot, Lieutenant Commander Wilson, gestured for her to hurry up and come aboard. Then he climbed inside.

Liz Bailey, the rescue swimmer, and Pete Kesnick, the flight mechanic, both waited for her at the cabin door. Bailey had already slipped Maggie a couple of capsules – a concoction of ginger and other herbs that magically quelled her nausea – when no one was watching. She had done this favor for Maggie the last time even before she knew her. Who would have guessed it would become a ritual. Maggie dry-swallowed them now. Then she put on her flight helmet and climbed into the helicopter.

THE WIND WHIPPED AND SHOVED at the Coast Guard H-65 Helo. Bruise-colored clouds threatened to burst. Maggie could see flickers of lightning rippling through the mass that, thankfully, continued to stay in the distance for now. But it was definitely moving their way. It looked like the storm was rolling in on waves of clouds in layers of gray and purple. Below, the gulf water swirled and churned up white caps.

Sane people would be starting to take shelter, moving inland and grounding their flights in preparation for the storm. Wind gusts of forty to sixty miles per hour were predicted along with the rain. Yet this aircrew had not flinched at the order to take flight.

Within fifteen minutes they found what they believed to be the Senator’s houseboat. Maggie knew from the file she and Tully had been given that the boat was eighteen feet wide by seventy-five feet long. It was a luxury wide-body named
Electric Blue
and worth almost a half million dollars. From two-hundred feet above, it looked like a toy rocking and rolling in a sea of boiling water.

Maggie watched Liz Bailey prepare to deploy. No one else appeared to think this was an absolutely crazy idea. Wilson and his co-pilot, Tommy Ellis, couldn’t keep the helicopter from pitching one way and jerking the other as they tried to hover above the boat. And yet, Bailey was going to leap out into the gusts, tethered to the helicopter by a single cable. Maggie had watched her do it before, but it still astonished her. Was it bravery or insanity?

Maggie had been impressed with the young woman from the moment they met. Liz – Elizabeth Bailey, AST3, RS (rescue swimmer) – was a Coastie veteran at twenty-eight years old. She had told Maggie stories about how she had scraped her knees on sinking rooftops during Katrina and waded through debris-filled sewage left by Isaac. Despite having more rescues than many of her male counterparts, Bailey was still considered a novelty, a rare breed, one of less than a dozen women to pass the rigorous training and earn the title “rescue swimmer.” That was one thing she and Maggie had in common. Both of them had clawed their way to respect in fields that were still male dominated.

Now Bailey was ready. She sidled up to the cabin door but had put off changing out her flight helmet with ICS for her Seda swim helmet. Maggie knew she was waiting while her aircrew tried to assess the situation below. Once she switched out helmets she would no longer be able to communicate with them except through hand signals.

“No one’s responding,” Tommy Ellis, their co-pilot said. He had been trying to make radio contact with the houseboat.

“Keep trying,” Lt. Commander Wilson told him. “Who the hell takes a houseboat out in the Gulf of Mexico with a monster storm in the forecast?”

“Jim Cantore said it'd be just a few thunderstorms,” Pete Kesnick said, while he checked the cables.

In addition to being the flight mechanic, Kesnick was also the hoist operator. Maggie remembered that he was the senior member of this aircrew with fifteen or sixteen years, all of them at Air Station Mobile.

“Ever been on one before?” Kesnick asked no one in particular. “Like a floating condo. Pretty sweet.” He adjusted and worked the cables that would lower Bailey down.

Wilson slid back his flight helmet’s visor and turned to look at Bailey. He waited for her eyes before he said, “I don’t like this. Dispatch claims six on board. We can’t rouse anyone and I sure as hell don’t see anyone.”