Too Close to Home (21 page)

“She’ll have that arm in cast for a while,” I said. “But she’s gonna be okay. Glad to see that you two are back together.”

Briefly, he tried to shake his head, then realized that the collar was designed to prevent such a movement.

“Dog’s fault,” he said. “He ran off this morning. She kept calling him. Top of her lungs. Peanut. Darling Peanut. I had to
help, just to quiet her down. Last time he ran off, he ended up down here. So that’s where we headed. Darned dog waited until we were almost around the curve, darted right in front of us. Barking his fool head off. I swerved to keep from hitting him.”

As I secured his broken ankle against further injury, Larry continued talking. A good distraction from the pain. He told me what a feisty old gal Marta was. And how he didn’t even remember what had started their feud.

“Maybe I should marry her,” he said.

“I’m all for it,” I said, smiling. “It’d sure cut down on 911 calls.”

Larry managed to chuckle.

“That should hold you until the paramedics arrive,” I said a few minutes later, satisfied that I’d done all I could for him.

If he was lucky, I thought, a mild case of whiplash would be the only neck or back injury he’d sustained. But I wasn’t taking any chances. There was no reason to move him, so I just told him to stay put.

“Just be patient,” I added. “Help’s on the way.”

“Mmm,” Larry said.

That’s when he shut his eyes.

I checked his pulse as he began mumbling about fixing a broken fence. And dancing. And a pretty pink dress. And please shut that damned dog out of the bedroom.

Shock, I feared, was making him irrational.

A diagnosis he confirmed by opening his eyes, looking around wildly and struggling up from his seat.

“Marta!” he cried out. “Where’s Marta?”

I put my arm across his body, restraining him.

“She’s fine, Larry,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “She’s sitting by the side of the road.”

“I have to go to her,” he said.

Once he stepped down on his shattered ankle, no doubt he’d abandon that plan. But I couldn’t allow him to embark on such a voyage of discovery.

When I didn’t let him out of the car, he glared at me. Outraged.

“Darn it, Brooke. Let me loose. I have to tell Marta that I love her.”

I invested my voice with confidence.

“She already knows that, Larry,” I said firmly. “She’s known it for a long time.”

Amazingly, he sagged back against his seat.

“Is she okay?”

I smiled as I glanced back over my shoulder at Marta, who was still sitting quietly by the side of the road. With Peanut now curled in her lap.

“Yeah,” I said. “She’s just fine.”

T
he fire department arrived faster than I could have hoped.

The ambulance from Harrisburg showed up ten minutes later.

By the time the tow truck had hauled off Larry’s yellow car and I’d opened Dunn Street to traffic again, a tornado watch was in effect for the entire county. Overhead, the sky had grown overcast. On the horizon, the clouds were closer and darker than they’d been an hour earlier.

As I pulled back onto 146, I saw one of Maryville’s volunteer weather spotters speed past me on her way to the edge of town. Breaking the law for all the right reasons. She and a handful of others were scattering to predetermined areas—places from which they could see the weather coming. If a tornado was spotted, they’d radio its location and direction of travel to the local ESDA office. That information would be transmitted to emergency services all over Hardin County.

I, too, kept one eye on the horizon as I continued to cruise the streets.

A good part of Maryville’s population was also glancing at the sky as they pulled flapping laundry from their clotheslines or parked vehicles inside garages or called children closer to the house. On Main Street, the post office and Maryville’s other businesses—a tanning salon that also rented videos, an insurance office, a barbershop and a pizza place—were rolling up the maroon-and-yellow striped canvas awnings that shaded their front windows and were supposed to give the business district an old-fashioned look.

By ten, the sky to the west suggested the hour before sunset. Not the tranquil beauty of a pastel horizon, but the ominous threat of darkness. Wind gusts whipped through the streets, sending small branches and trash cans and debris tumbling. A solid wall of storm clouds—lashed by internal lightning and raging winds—gradually blotted out the sun, obscuring the daytime sky. Bathing Maryville in a premature, green-tinged twilight.

I swung onto 146 again. Just past the intersection of Main Street, a wading pool blew across the highway. I slammed on my brakes as it skittered right in front of me. The pool ended up in the oncoming lane, facedown on the pavement, and the few drivers who were still on the main road swerved onto the far shoulder to avoid it. By now, everyone had their headlights on, and I prayed they were heading for shelter.

I pulled onto the shoulder on my side of the road, jumped from the squad car and ran onto the highway. Grabbed the pool by an edge and dragged it out of the road. Then I stood for a moment—fighting the wind for possession of the bright blue plastic pool with smiling dolphins dancing around an octopus—deciding how to get rid of the thing. After a bit of
thought, I walked a dozen feet to the nearest fenced yard and tossed the pool into it. The wind gusted again and the kiddy pool began tumbling but was promptly caught by four feet of chain link.

I brushed off my hands and then, on impulse, looked up toward the top of Hill Street. There, on the highest bluff in town, was the Cherokee Rose. The hotel’s redbrick walls stood out against the boiling clouds; its slate roof practically glowed in the odd light, and the tall oaks that surrounded it whipped madly in the wind. Suddenly and for no particular reason, I saw my family home not as strong and unassailable, but as particularly vulnerable.

Back in my squad car, I used my cell phone to call my family.

Katie answered, her voice whispery, but not breathless.

“Are Gran and Aunt Lucy inside with you?” I asked without preamble.

“Yes, they’re right here. And so are the guests. But you needn’t worry….”

Belligerence in her voice. But at the moment, I had other things on my mind besides my sister’s potential for homicide and malice.

“Katie, listen to me. If the sirens go off, I want you to make sure that everyone gets down into the basement. All the guests. You, Aunt Lucy and Gran. Don’t let anyone give you an excuse for staying upstairs. Take the flashlight and the little radio on the counter in the broom closet downstairs with you. If the power goes out, remember Gran won’t be able to see very well. Take care of everyone, okay? I know you can do it.”

The belligerence fled her voice, and all I heard was eagerness to help.

“Okay, Brooke. You don’t have to worry. And I’ll tuck my
inhaler into my pocket right now, so you won’t have to worry about that, either.”

Sometimes my sister surprised me. Pleasantly.

My radio crackled to life as dispatch announced that the tornado watch had been upgraded to a tornado warning for the entire county. A tornado had touched down northwest of Maryville and was moving southeast at thirty miles per hour.

The siren positioned near the center of town went off.

I could hear its echo through the phone.

“Go now, Katie,” I said urgently.

“I love you, Brooke,” she blurted before disconnecting.

I didn’t believe her.

The radio on my dashboard crackled to life.

Not dispatch, but Chad’s voice.

“Looks like Maryville’s right in the path,” he said. “I’m heading your way to help.”

And though I hadn’t felt afraid, that call—the promise of his presence—made me feel safer.

Maryville’s weather spotters, I knew, would soon be seeking shelter out of the path of the storm. And so would I. As soon as I finished my loop, made sure everyone in my town was safely indoors. Then I’d park my vehicle and take shelter inside the fire station, which also served as the ESDA office. From there, we’d coordinate the storm cleanup and any rescues.

I pulled into the parking lot at Statler’s Fill-Up, intending to turn around and head back into town. The wind was making driving even the SUV difficult; the rain was nearly blinding, and it had begun hailing bits of ice about the size of quarters.

That’s when I saw Ed. Though he was obviously soaked, he was ignoring the rain and wind and ice as he struggled to close the front door. The wind had forced it back against its
hinges and the heavy metal handle was threatening to smash into the big plate-glass window where Ed’s Jamaican-themed poster was hung.

I pulled up just beneath the wide metal canopy that sheltered the pumps and jumped from my SUV.

“Get the hell inside, Ed!” I yelled. “Now!”

Above us, the canopy was vibrating with the force of the wind.

Ed shook his head as rain streamed down his dark face.

“I turned off the pumps. But I gotta get this door closed. If it breaks my window, everything inside’ll be ruined.”

I took a quick look at the sky. Realized there was no time for patience. Or talk.

I pointed. Glanced back at Ed. Saw his eyes widen.

We ran inside. Me in front, Ed fast on my heels.

Behind us, it was as dark as an hour past sunset.

Inside, the overhead lights flickered. And the thought flashed through my mind that a tornado didn’t really sound at all like a train. More like a growling, ravaging beast about to consume us all.

Wind roared through the doorway, knocking me off my feet.

I slid along the slick, wet linoleum floor.

Ed threw himself sideways to avoid stepping on me.

The lights went out, pitching us into darkness.

The roar became deafening.

Then the building shuddered—something I felt rather than heard.

The front windows seemed to implode.

Suddenly, the wind was inside with us. All around us.

I wrapped my arms over my head as stinging glass and pieces of debris peppered my body.

I think I screamed.

And then it was over.

I lifted my head cautiously. Not that I really expected anything more to happen. But when it feels as if you’ve just lived through the end of world, caution seems appropriate.

The sky, still overcast, suggested twilight rather than full dark. The rain, still falling, wasn’t driven by an impossible wind. And it was cool. The temperature had dropped at least twenty degrees in a matter of minutes.

Inside Statler’s, it was also dark, cool and rainy.

Because there was no roof anymore. Only rafters and sky where a roof had once been.

I stood, letting the debris that covered me fall away from my body. As I moved, I checked each limb and joint carefully. Slow, methodical movements that reflected a brain moving in slow motion, too. And I asked myself—more as a matter of academic interest than focused concern—if it was shock or a miracle that left me feeling no pain.

A miracle, I decided.

I turned slowly, looking around me.

Enclosed within the two remaining walls of the little building was a demolition scene. Random bricks and beams. Twisted framework and broken tiles. Collapsed shelves. Piles of merchandise. Hot-pink flamingos. A cash register. And a plastic palm tree, still amazingly inflated.

In front of the station—separated from me by yards of rubble, a ragged four-foot section of brick wall and little else—was my SUV. The gas pumps were still solidly connected to the ground. But there was sky where a metal canopy had once offered shelter.

I took a step forward.

Then full consciousness—full awareness—returned with a snap. I’d used my arms to cover my head, and my right
forearm throbbed with the impact of some heavy object that I now recalled had struck it. My back—my whole body—ached from falling and from being pummeled with debris. And, though my vest had protected my back, I felt the sting of dozens of cuts and scratches on my arms and legs.

Almost as quickly as I realized I’d been hurt, I dismissed the injuries as minor. And irrelevant.

Ed, I thought urgently. Where’s Ed?

“Ed!” I called.

And then I called his name again as I began climbing through the rubble between me and where I remembered last seeing him. He’d stumbled over me, thrown himself to the right. Into an area where collapsing roof and collapsing walls now intersected.

“Ed!”

There was a noise somewhere in front of me. One that seemed unrelated to wind or rain.

I scrambled forward.

Then I heard him.

“I need a little help here, Brooke.”

A familiar voice, but oddly calm.

For an instant, I flashed back to a time he’d been teaching me and his daughter how to make fried chicken. He’d gotten distracted, bumped the heavy iron skillet and drenched his hand with hot grease. I knew that it hurt. But he’d just smiled, told us it was no big deal. And managed not to frighten two little girls.

I was frightened now.

Ignoring the pain lancing through my back, I began shifting rubble. Throwing aside chunks of shattered roof and wall intermixed with merchandise from the automotive section. Cases of oil. Gallon jugs of coolant and wiper fluid, some intact, many
popped like balloons. Smaller bottles of brake and transmission fluid. Finally I spotted the sleeve of a Hawaiian shirt beneath a raggedly torn piece of steel shelving. Shelving that had probably saved his life. I grasped it by one edge, dragged it away from him. Exposing a dirt-encrusted profile and kinky hair clotted with debris. A sky-blue shirt with monkeys and banana trees. Brown Bermuda shorts. And blood.

Too much blood. A crimson pool around his legs.

“Don’t move,” I said.

He either didn’t hear me or simply ignored me. Rolled onto his back as I was kneeling down beside him.

The change in position sent blood spurting upward from a deep gash on his leg. Spurting in rhythm with his heart.

I clamped my hands just above the wound, pressed down.

The flow of blood slowed.

By now, the sky had lightened and it was merely drizzling. That made it easier to see as I ran my eyes along Ed’s body, looking for other injuries. I found nothing obvious, but wasn’t particularly reassured by the cursory exam.

It was the best I could do.

My search ended at Ed’s face.

The rain was carving dark paths through his dusty mask. He was blinking, clearing it from his eyes as he turned his head slightly, taking in the devastation all around him.

He managed a smile just wide enough to expose a sliver of gold tooth.

“Like I said, we shoulda closed that front door.”

I forced myself to smile back.

“Yep, you were sure right about that,” I said.

Then I looked down at the wound again, at the amount of blood still welling up and spilling over Ed’s leg.

If I didn’t get us help soon, he was going to bleed to death.

With one of my hands still applying pressure to his leg, I stripped off my uniform shirt, exposing the vest and white T-shirt beneath it. After yanking my badge and nameplate from the uniform’s breast pocket, I used both of my hands to roll the shirt and bind it around Ed’s leg. Two spurts of blood later, and I had the ends of the shirt twisted together. Tightened them until the pressure slowed the bleeding to a trickle.

Arterial blood flows slower when it has to work its way uphill. With that in mind and my hands now free, I grabbed a board that had once been part of the counter, slid it beneath Ed’s injured leg and used a case of motor oil to create an incline.

“I’m going to get us some help,” I said. “I’ll just be a minute or two.”

I couldn’t have moved any faster than I did when I scrambled out of what had once been a building. As I forced my way through the rubble, the radio in my SUV periodically crackled to life. Broadcasting the dispatcher’s familiar voice demanding that I report in.

The storm had sent a two-by-four through my rear window and—though there were no trees in Ed’s lot—a heavy branch had taken out my Mars lights on its way to crushing my hood.

I leaned in on the passenger side, grabbed the microphone and called for immediate medical assistance. Gave dispatch the address.

Then I went back to Ed’s side.

Chad was the first on the scene.

Briefly, I wondered if the priority he’d placed on this particular emergency call was personal or professional. And then I realized I didn’t care. What I cared about was that he was here. Ready to help me as he always was.

He pulled his dark blue squad car in next to mine.

“Brooke!” he shouted.

His voice bordered on frantic.

“In here,” I yelled back.

I almost lifted a very bloody hand to wave to him.