Kill Devil — Come the Storm
If you’ve ever walked a beach on vacation, wondering what it might be to live there year round in a tourist area like the Outer Banks, here’s a story for you. This is the first chapter of a novel set in the 80s when phones still were wired, and the parties rolled with drugs in the candy dishes.
This being a self-publishing project, I need kind readers. The blurb is here: Prince of Tides Meets Liars Club
Against the Wind
Driving the Florida Turnpike at night is not recommended for the sleep deprived — nor while coming down from an adrenalin rush. Flat, straight highway with too few curves for hundreds of miles, lonely and empty except for the truckers in convoys and the sugarcane carriers. Charlie didn’t plan to stop until he’d crossed into Georgia and maybe not even then. He had a half empty bottle of water and no caffeine to confuse him.
South of Orlando, a spirit cat bounded across the highway. Mother of Murphy! Florida panthers were near extinct; only the size of the cat in his headlights gave this last one away. Couldn’t be anything else. He stiffened, sat upright, gripped the wheel tighter and refocused on the night just beyond his headlights.
With no protection behind a badge, and no reinforcements arriving, he was on his own — like that shipboard nightmare he’d nearly died in, except this time he had a reason to win through, and he swore he’d get free. Charlie offered a prayer to the spirit cat and picked up speed. He just needed to reach home.
Maybe shoulda caught that last flight out instead of trying to drive, but the airport would be the first place they’d search. These devils weren’t shy about operating in public. And he hardly expected the car phone would work on a plane. But it wasn’t working now either. The black box sat on the seat beside him, taunting and ugly. He’d repeatedly tried reaching Taressa, but all he got was static and no connection. No way to reach BJ with no phone at her place, and this early no way he could catch her at the club.
He needed to put a good lead on the goombahs, pick up BJ and Taressa, and head to safer ground. All he could hope was getting to them before the devils did — it was all he focused on — the best plan he knew. Simple plan for a simple man.
The road’s rhythm of the regular concrete joints, wind the loudest sound other than the fear rattling inside his skull, whispering of cowardice, whispering of dying — he was onto the shoulder and heading for the swale when he jerked awake.
Charlie finally pulled in at the last rest stop on the Florida Turnpike. Staring at the map, he was still a long way south of the state border. The Turnpike was about to merge with I-75, and he’d be heading to Atlanta shortly if he didn’t start working his way east. He needed gas; he hadn’t eaten since the morning before and was fading fast.
Gotta take a leak. Need a Coke. Were Cheetos a food group? He stared blurry-eyed at the vending machines and dug in his pockets for change.
They came on him at his most vulnerable moment, at the urinal shaking his dick. As soon as the two goombahs entered the restroom, one took a position at the door and the other brought out his machete, presenting the ugly weapon with an uglier grin.
Charlie laughed — here was something to help his nerves. The 357 was in his hand as the man took another step, and it was his last. Fool brought a knife to a gun fight.
Seeing his companion slump to the filthy floor, the second one raised his own machete. Seemed the lesson hadn’t taken. The two bullets piercing his heart left him momentarily staring, then permanently dead.
Charlie turned away, heaving his Cheetos into a sink. His hands were shaking. He had to get out of here!
As he rushed from the restroom, Charlie yelled at an approaching trucker, “Don’t go in there! Call 911!”
Too late for an ambulance.
The Florida Highway Patrol APB went out shortly after.
“White male, large* build. Northbound on the Turnpike from the Okahumpka Service Plaza. Dressed in camo and wearing a Navy baseball cap. Armed and extremely dangerous. Do not attempt to apprehend without backup.”
No mention of the two machete-wielding assassins, now deceased.
They said hurricane season was arriving late this year. Charlie would have been happy to skip it altogether. He wished he was further north — like Newfoundland. Instead he was hiking a beach in Whalehead on a spit of sand not wide enough to call an island. It was a nice enough beach — if the storms wouldn’t sweep in so regularly to make a mess of the roads and terrorize the tourists.
He had hoped it might not be so bad this year. Fat chance. Last year had been bad — three storms in succession. They’d get the sand and debris shoveled off the roads in time for the next one to land. Several nearly finished McMansions were totaled. They’d run out of the alphabet with Hurricane Zavier.
Ahead on the sand lay the section of a wooden hull coughed up in last night’s storm. Hadn’t been there yesterday. Hadn’t been anywhere in a while except maybe Diamond Shoals. The hull looked to be from the eighteen-hundreds. There was a history here as buried as this piece of a hull.
Charlie needed to hustle back to the house, grab his uniform and head to Kill Devil if he was going to make it to the station on time. Still a half mile down the beach — time to give his bum leg a workout. Eying the towering storm clouds building in the south, he wondered, would this relic even be here tomorrow? He said a prayer passing the seagull carcass and picked up the pace. More than anything, what he prayed for was quiet on the midnight shift.
“Better stay indoors tonight, folks! Tropical Storm Layla is coming straight up the middle of the Sound, and this lady is one mean mother — of a storm!”
“Cute,” Charlie muttered, drowned out by the rain pounding the squad car. The weather folks had assured them this one would pass miles off the coast and here it was, heading right at them.
“National Weather Service says to expect seventy-miles-an-hour winds with gusts to one-hundred. But the real concern is flooding. If you live in Ocracoke, and Hatteras, you need to prepare for a long night.”
Only fools out now were Jersey tourists needing ice cream and hitting the Brew-Thru for beer.
The radio jockey continued undeterred: “Frisco, Avon, Salvo, Rodanthe, the entire southern area is under flood warnings for the next eighteen hours. Folks in Hatteras are already reporting overwash on Route 12.”
Then the disc jockey’s classic, “Even the Brew-Thru stores are closing for this one!”
Charlie kept thinking about the newly uncovered shipwreck — 18th century? Between the wide shoals and clashing currents, the Outer Banks had an earned reputation for foundering ships. A lot of Civil War naval action happened off this coast. This could be a Union frigate or a Confederate blockade runner. The black four by six planks were half buried — and the ribs were genuine tree trunks. And those corroding iron spikes protruding from the hull. The square spikes were easily an inch or more — and how would you pound those in? Judging from the broad curvature, it had been a proud sized sailing ship. Amazing even this much had survived.
On a clear day the sky stretched to the horizon. Clean swept sand and a lazy lapping ocean. On a clear day. But tonight the wind was shoving the squad car around like an import, shooting shards of water against the windshield. The old Crown Vic’s wipers barely cleared the glass. The storm was coming up from Wilmington in a tear, and Ocracoke, his favorite fishing village, would be slammed — again.
Charlie yanked the steering wheel right then left, hit the pothole anyway, and the whole car shuddered. The radio mike bounced from its cradle onto the floor. Again. Wasn’t this a nice paradise he’d retired to?
Back in the Navy, he had dreamed of a small piece of beach where winter would come down in moody drifts — clichéd like pot coffee on shipboard watches. But tonight, the sky was dumping from a very large bucket on the islands — and the wind was howling like the devil’s own breath.
It wouldn’t be the Outer Banks without squalls boiling up out of nowhere. Heading into fall meant storms with names — and here was the first: Layla. Why the hell would you name a storm after Clapton’s big two-record heartbreak? Charlie imagined a gaggle of meteorologists in beanie caps throwing darts at a book of names, stoned out of their gourds.
Bracketed by water on both sides, being reconfigured by hurricanes and nor’easters, tonight was a reminder of how exposed the Outer Banks were. Result of a rushed decision to start over. How many times had the road to Ocracoke been cut off since he’d been living here?
Somewhere above the storm mass was a full moon rising, soon to deliver an equally high tide. Rank upon rank of waves were already slamming the shore, white and angry. In the darkness beyond, the Atlantic was looking for ships to swallow.
His Navy years had taught him about storms in the Atlantic. Charlie had driven ships facing all what the ocean threw at them, plowing through more than one nor’easter on the midnight watch, harnessed and stressed, vowing to retire in Kansas. When that midnight rogue wave had nearly drown them, it had stopped being fun.
The memory only added to his discomfort as he kept shifting positions, searching for one that didn’t make his hip ache worse than his shin. He’d gone and planted himself on this sand bar infamous for the ships that had foundered on its shoals. Like snugging up to a crazy person. Like his ex-girlfriend.
He thought she meant forever when she was just after a few years of slap and tickle on his shore leave. She’d declared he was unbearable with his sarcasm — and a misery to be around. When he left the service, she’d said he was crazy for leaving New London. And for leaving her; only she had left him first. Still, he missed snugging up to her boney self, nights when she wasn’t going off on him.
No telling when a women or a hurricane might lose it.
Charlie drove at a crawl south on the beach road, driving by feel. The squad car had too many miles on the odometer, which was why it was assigned to the night shift. It had this depressing, moldy smell. Too many short order dinners hadn’t sweetened it; still, he needed to return it with all parts attached or collected.
Steering near blind, his intention was to put something between him and the storm to report in. Maybe his favorite beach bar would block the wind. The place was dark — customers and bar keeps gone. Charlie caught the curb rolling in, and the bolt bucket shuddered in protest.
The lot was hidden in a dark cloud of rain ricocheting off the pavement. The lightning broke across the black sky. At the far side of the lot was the vague shape of a vehicle. Rolling forward, Charlie flipped on his high beams. The station wagon was listing badly — cook’s car— with a surfboard strapped to the roof? A beast in misery with sprung suspension, shirking from the wind. With yellow Texas plates.
“Long way from Texas.” Charlie picked up the mike and called in his location. Another gust rocked the squad car and the crazy sideways rain kept pounding.
“Bowden! Carson wants to know if you’re near the Wright Memorial. Over.”
“Does he need me to be? Over?” Didn’t he just tell her where he was?
“You copy?”
Only static came back. Charlie tapped the mike against the dashboard — more static. He reached for the shifter and dropped the transmission into drive.
He would have passed on the Texas wreck except for the momentary silhouette against the glass. He flipped on the searchlight. Someone was definitely in there. Car trouble? With only the wreck of the worst bar in creation to block the ocean? The parking lot was prime for flooding.
Charlie didn’t believe in rousting people. Kids light on cash and a yen for sun — he’d been one of them once. It wasn’t a crime. Trouble was, Chief Fallows was rabid about it because the Mayor was and the town council was, all because the Fudge Factory tycoon gave them campaign contributions. Charlie didn’t believe in rousting people, and he’d have ignored this one too but for the coming storm.
Reaching for the mag light and his rain hat, Charlie climbed into the teeth of the gale. He swore under his breath, splashing through the water, making a mental note of the tags. Expired. He tapped on the driver’s window before seeing the occupant in the back. A rear window cracked opened.
He heard a woman curse as the rain blew in. “Ma’am, are you having car problems?”
“Ma’am, you’re not supposed to be here.” Did he sound as irritated as he felt?
“No shit, Sheriff!” came the reply. “Where am I to go?”
“Can I see some ID?” Following procedure. Like it mattered. He tried not shining the light straight at her face.
“Shit,” she turned to fumble in a satchel.
He peered closer at the rambling wreck. It had been a long trip from Texas.
She passed a scrap of license through the narrow slit in the glass. Brandy Jo Lowery. Twenty-one. San Antonio, Texas.
“I need that back!”
“Miss Lowery, I don’t know how many of these storms you get out in cowboy land, but this one’s a tropical storm with a full moon tide coming. Parking by the beach is dangerous. If there’s flooding, you’ll never know what hit you.”
She swiped rain away from her face. “I can’t find a campsite. Please, sheriff, leave me be!”
Her voice was verging on hysterical, and she was shaking — and panting like a cornered stray. Her eyes showed nothing but fear.
“How about a motel? I can get you into a reasonable one.”
“I’m gonna wait it out here.”
“See, I’m trying to tell you — it’s not safe — and it’s against the law.”
“Well, fuck me.”
Charlie was now standing in an inch of water. “Tell you what. There’s public parking a few blocks back on higher ground. You can spend the night. Just tonight. I’m not supposed to allow it, but this thing’s gonna blow all night.”
No response.
“Ma’am, you need to move away from the ocean.”
Still no response. Now the water was running into his shoes. “You can’t stay here!”
“Well fuck me.”
“Yeah, you said that. Are you going to move?”
“All right!”
“You’re not bullshitting?”
“I’ll go! Sweet Jesus! You jus freaked me out, sneaking up like that.”
He ignored the last comment. Gritting his teeth, “All right — and lock your car.”
Back in the patrol car, Charlie wiped his face on both sleeves then his hands on his wet pants. Remembering the expired tags, he knew he was going to let that slide. Going out in this weather again to tell her something she already knew? If the car was stolen, she’d done the owner and the state of Texas both a favor.
“Bowden! Bowden, are you on the air?” Carson sounded lost in space.
“Yeah. What’s up, John? Dispatch said something about the Memorial, but I lost her. Over.”
“Where are you? There’s an old man calling in needing insulin. He says he ran out and he thinks he’s going into shock. EMT’s can’t respond. I’m up near Kitty Hawk.”
“I’m by Stormin’ Norman’s — closer than you are.”
“Can you pick him up? Mile Post 6. 105 Midgett Lane. Over.”
“Will do. Roger and out.”
The station wagon’s brake lights came on briefly. “You take care,” Charlie muttered to no one. It wasn’t lost on him this night just might be memorable.
The trip to the hospital at Nags Head took most of two hours slowed by the storm. Connie, wet and trembling beside him, said he was a retired factory worker. Said he was grateful and planned to name his first child after him. Charlie opened his mouth to reply and stopped, seeing the old man’s fading grin. Going into insulation shock, so Charlie hit the siren and stomped on the gas.
By the time Charlie returned to Kill Devil, the storm was clawing the area like an outsized lion. Winds like banshees, rain in solid waves — and with high tide — now the ocean was getting into the act. Driving was an obstacle course with both hands on the wheel.
The beach road was no doubt flooded. Was it passible? The beach houses along this stretch of Route 12 were perched hard by the water with barely any dunes protecting them, so the waves were probably scouring the pilings. Though he’d heard no reports coming over the radio. He’d heard nothing on the radio in a while, come to think of it.
Charlie swung the squad car off the highway and headed toward the beach. The street was awash; a river had replaced the road. Charlie eased the car into the flood. It was a long first block. Getting toward the end, the water was fender deep, and the current was moving like it wanted to be somewhere in a hurry.
He wasn’t getting any closer to the beach road — the same road he’d driven just hours ago. In the Navy he’d seen forty foot waves in a following sea, so he respected the ocean’s power, and tonight’s flood was making him nervous. Just ahead, the old bar still stood, a gaunt silhouette in the night.
Charlie aimed the spotlight on the parking lot. “Damn!” The station wagon still was there. And squinting between swipes of the wipers, he made out the driver huddling in a ball on top, bowed so low she might as well have been baggage. What was she doing there?
Charlie couldn’t risk taking the squad car any deeper into the flood — he shoved it into park. Either it would still be running, or they’d be wading out. Muttering a prayer to the god of maintenance mechanics, he stepped into the stream.
The water grew to a current as he waded toward the lot. He couldn’t hear the ocean — not above the howling wind, but the water was climbing his calves and pulling hard.
“Hey! Thought I told you not to stay here!”
“Hey! Remember me?” Charlie yanked the car door open and stepped up onto the sill.
Hunched next to the surfboard, she didn’t react, her entire body shivering violently. Hypothermia? In shock?
“Hey there!” this time more gently, and he reached out to touch her.
What he recalled later was her piercing scream and the wild eyes of a bird writhing to escape. He caught her before she could pull away, though she fought furiously. Fingernails raked his neck before he grabbed hold of her wrists. Christ, that hurt!
“Jesus, lady, I’m here to help, for crying out loud.”
He pulled her from the roof, but when her feet touched the water, she erupted again, thrashing, and she nearly slipped away.
Charlie did a one arm tackle, pinning her against his hip. Abruptly she wilted. She weighed nothing — like a bird. He started back to the squad car, leaving the station wagon to the flood.
One step landed them both in a pothole, and he lurched. She started when her backside touched the water, and he struggled to stay out of the flood. Stumbling, one arm down, he was spitting water before he regained his footing.
Each step seemed a mile in the current. He needed to reach the squad car. He tried not to think about the ocean it was coming from. One step forward, more steps sideways against the current. With stubborn pride, he pushed forward.
Another underwater pothole, and this one sent them both into the filthy water. Charlie lost his grip and the instant she hit the water, she landed on her feet, fast as lightning. Charlie swung his arm in an arc, and caught her by her shorts as she struggled, dragging her back. She went limp again with his arm around her like an iron vice.
Charlie was breathing hard by the time he’d reached the squad car. It was still running. God bless Henry Ford! He shoved the girl ingloriously into the back, slammed the door and climbed inside. Dropped it into drive and did a one-eighty, pressing the pedal to the floor. The Crown Vic responded. If they even made another block from the ocean, it would be safer than where they were, even as she was moaning to break his heart. He’d rescued a wounded sparrow.
They reached the parking lot, the one he’d meant her to find earlier. On higher ground, maybe they could ride it out here. Though, in the back seat, she was keening low. She could be on drugs or mentally unhinged. She might have died from exposure. In any case she was his charge now, but was she going to spend the whole night moaning?
Try leaving or wait it out? He needed to do something.
Charlie tried the radio, but no one answered. He had passed the station both ways on the trip to the hospital. Should he risk the drive back? No way of knowing what hazards had developed, though the misery coming from the back seat was enough to make him try. Like he’d torn her away from a better peace when he’d probably saved her butt.
Reluctantly Charlie opened the door to the storm again. Unlocking the rear door, he drew her out gently as he could. She barely stirred. He opened the passenger door and dropped into the seat, dragging her on top of him. It was a tight fit, with his one leg jammed against the radio bracket.
Charlie wrapped his arms around her soaked body. She stirred, shivering spasmodically, her breath coming in gasps. With his free hand, he rubbed one shoulder then the other: get her circulation flowing. He took her pulse. 200 wasn’t too far off the chart, was it?
Her T-shirt was threadbare, and he thought her ribs showed against the soaked cotton like she hadn’t eaten in a week. Her head against his chest, short hair like a boy’s, the kid weighed all of ninety pounds. Shifting in his arms several times, gradually the shudders subsided, and her short breaths were warming his neck. He placed a hand against her forehead. No fever he could tell — though she could be in shock. Nothing in the manual about sopping wet sparrows.
The storm refused to slacken. The wind’s fury continued to rock the car, and Charlie dismissed thoughts of driving out. Where would they go? More than once the car caught a violent blow, and Charlie swore it had been shoved sideways. The station was miles away, and there was nowhere to keep her but in a holding cell. Yeah, I rescued this kid, see? Then stuffed her in the drunk tank.
The rain punished them like Noah’s flood, and waves washed the asphalt, though the water wasn’t rising. He would have driven her home to Whalehead, but that was miles north and Route 12 was bound to be flooded. The best he could do was to hold her and bide the time. She ain’t heavy, that old Hollies’ song came to him.
He’d taken the police job to pay for construction on the beach house. Seemed simple enough, drive the midnight shift, keep his head down and catch the guitarist at Stormin’ Norman’s on the weekend. He had no grand plans for a career in law enforcement. Just wanted some quiet, and perhaps someone to wake him come the morning.
The rain had slackened, and dawn was a dull gray over the ocean. Charlie felt her stirring. Abruptly her eyes opened, and she jerked away from him, slamming her head on the windshield.
“Hey! Easy! You’re safe.”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking care of you,” Charlie answered cheerfully.
“Why?” she was so mournful.
“You could have died out there. You know that, right?”
“Out where?”
“You remember climbing on top the car in the storm?” Just how lost was she?
She shook her head. Inches away, with those eyes, she could be one of those Japanese anime dolls.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a policeman. Charlie Bowden. I said you should move back from the ocean, remember?”
She shook her head again. She rubbed her eyes, trying to focus.
“Don’t imagine you would, but it happened, trust me.”
“Then where’s my car?” she asked in a small voice.
“Underwater. It’s not going anywhere without a tow.” Then, because that was mean, he added, “But the good news is you didn’t try staying in it.”
“Don’t remember.” Then she muttered, “I’m wet.”
“We both are.”
“Well, can I get out?”
“Ma’am, you don’t need my permission.”
She didn’t seem to notice the ankle deep water, though she stared hard, trying to pull herself together. The wind was gusting, and it whipped her hair about her face as she wiped at the drizzle, straining to figure out what had happened, like there was a hole in her memory where a nightmare had been. She was trembling again.
“Hey. Are you OK?” Charlie climbed stiffly from the car. His calf cramped and he stumbled forward, splashing in the water. “Oh god!”
“You OK?”
Them the rain returned in a thunderous downpour to mock them.
They watched as the weather around them resumed slamming the car.
“What’s that?”
“Shotgun bracket.”
She flinched, and Charlie quickly added, “It’s in the trunk. I don’t like it rattling around up here. Guns make me nervous,” he lied.
“And that?” pointing at the radio.
“Technically speaking, that is a piece of shit — but it’s the only radio this old girl has.”
“I don’t call my car no girl,” she mumbled.
Though the beast of burden had carried her across the country. “This is the car I’m assigned. And I encourage her to do her best. So far she’s done her job.”
“Why she gotta be a girl?”
Charlie laughed. “Ships and cars are feminine. Just the way it is.”
“How come it ain’t got no AC?”
“Does your station wagon have AC?”
“The car — yeah, it usta.” She began laughing then broke into sobs, shoulders shaking.
Charlie reached across and stroked her shoulder. “It’s gonna be OK. You’re safe. Look at it this way, that old girl carried you all the way from Texas.”
Wiping her face, “Nah, I did that.”
By morning, the first named storm of the season was churning toward Delaware, leaving wind gusts and squalls behind as tokens. Charlie’s shift would be soon over. Except he had this wet, desperately sad passenger, and she was his responsibility.
In his head he heard Chief Breckenridge chuckling, “Better use that empty thing parked on your neck. The Lord Almighty musta put it there for a reason.”
She had fallen asleep curled in an impossibly small ball. He planned to let her sleep until they had to leave. How would she cope with the flooded station wagon? Did she have money for a motel? Why did he feel so — obligated?
Hours to go on his watch.
Charlie cracked his window, then his sleeping passenger’s to get rid of the stink of damp clothes and cigarettes. The storm had done nothing to wring out the humidity; the air was like warm cotton on the skin, though it did smell clean.
As the sky lightened, the pools of water across the parking lot became visible. Everywhere, the wind had swept sand against whatever caught it. Branches and debris was strewn about. Sections of beachfront were undoubtedly underwater, and out beyond, the waves remained an angry, churning mass.
For a fast moving storm, Layla had done damage. Houses missing shingles, some missing decks and stairs. The painted wooden signs favored by the trendier shops were dangling from one hook if at all. From blocks away, Charlie spotted the Stormin’ Norman’s swaying pole sign tilting too many degrees off plumb. The sign would land with a thump shortly. But Stormin’ Norman’s, toothless stump of a beach bar that it was, probably had survived.
Over the ocean the early sun was turning the sky curly cloud pink.
“I gotta get my car.”
Charlie started at her touch and straightened in his seat. He’d fallen asleep, finally drugged from the lack of it. Numb, he started the squad car by habit and eased it toward Stormin’ Norman’s. The water still covered the road in a low, flowing stream. Tepid in the sun; it was tame as a kitten.
Now with sunlight falling on it, the station wagon looked a derelict. Once blue, faded to gray chalk. The fenders were a rusting yesterday, and the tailpipe was hung with baling wire. This was the last long trip this vehicle would be doing.
Had she really driven this thing from Texas? Seeing the surfboard still strapped to the car roof made him smile.
She sloshed toward the station wagon. She glanced back at him and then quickly away again, yanking the car door and water poured out. She stepped back, bringing a hand to her face. Must be ripe. God help her, she was a refugee.
“I’m sorry about your car,” he called from where he stood by the squad car.
Turning in ankle deep water, she looked at him full-faced; her eyes were the palest blue — cat eyes, large and wary, “I need to pee, Sheriff.”
“Yeah? That makes two of us,” Charlie sighed. “And I’m not a friggin sheriff.”
“I really gotta pee,” she repeated. Her twang was thick as syrup. “Sir, please just turn around!”
“You can’t squat in all this water!”
She glanced around, considering. “Ain’t the worst this place ever seen.”
“Get in the car, and I’ll take you somewhere.”
“I just wanna pee! Then I’ll get outa here — go up to that park with the stone monument, and I’ll be outa your hair.”
“Lady, get in!” he barked.
“Just need to pee!” But she waded hurriedly back to the squad car.
People in trouble are the reason you have a job, Charlie heard Chief Breckenridge’s world weary sigh in his head. Breckenridge had convinced him taking the patrol job wasn’t irrational.
“Lemme sit back there!” She slumped in the back seat, staring sullenly out the window.
Charlie drove the few blocks back to a small breakfast place and pulled into the parking lot. Opened for business. People here took these things in stride — better than he did. Charlie hated hurricanes — they reminded him of a storm he’d sooner forget.
He opened the squad car’s back door, “There’s a lady’s room in back. You want breakfast?”
She glared at him, started to say something, then hurried into the diner.
Charlie followed at a stiffer pace. His leg was tingling from the hours pressed against the radio bracket. He’d finally contacted the station, telling Ida he’d be late. Entering the restaurant, he saw no one he knew. After the storm, the sensible ones stayed home — and Connie was now a ward of the hospital.
He needed to drop off the squad car, get his truck and get home. He spent too much time in diners and not enough in his own home. Where the hell was she?
When she emerged, she had managed a clean-up — not as much the waif wearing dry clothes, tank top and cargo pants pulled from her duffle. Had she slept in that car going cross-country?
She walked with a small saunter, checking the tables she passed. She came to an abrupt halt in front of him and put out her hands as if to say ‘See?’
“You hungry?” His earlier irritability evaporated.
“You ain’t cuffing me, Sheriff?” The way she held her hands, palms up, said what she was thinking.
The few diners had seen Charlie let her out of the squad car, and they were watching now. Charlie waved them off — mind your own damn business!
“Sit down and I’ll get some menus.” It was a lame idea, but he’d made up his mind.
“I ain’t hungry.”
“You don’t want to eat? Breakfast is on me.” Charlie caught sight of the miniature green turtle swimming across her shoulder.
She had an appetite in spite of her claim. Charlie watched her wolf down a stack of pancakes with bacon and home fries. The toast and another biscuit, with several cups of coffee and orange juice finally slowed her down.
“When’s the last time you ate?” He was polishing off bacon and eggs, something he really didn’t need.
“I had something yesterday.” She put her fork down. “Been saving for gas. The car don’t run so good. Needs a tune-up.”
“It probably needs a junkyard.”
She glared at him. “Fuck you! It’s paid for. I didn’t steal it or nothing!”
Nice language. He continued studying her.
“Well, it’ll have to do, least till I find a job,” she said tight lipped, pouring an amazing amount of sugar into her third cup of coffee.
“Are you staying or just passing through?” She was wary as a cat.
Her expression suggested things could happen to a girl in her situation.
“If I’m gonna stay, I’ll need a job. But I might move up the line a bit. You know about Ocean City?”
“Maryland or New Jersey?”
Her blank expression betrayed her. “I dunno. You grilling me or what?”
“Not everything’s an interrogation,” then because he was determined to find something that didn’t set her off, he asked, “May I ask, Ms. Lowery, where you grew up?”
She was looking at him hard again, not giving an inch. “Sugartown, north of Beaumont — otha side the river.”
The way she pronounced it, “Shuggatun” made him smile. She was innocent of how thick her accent was. She was innocent, tattooed or not.
“So you’re from Louisiana?”
“Texas — across the river.” She was visibly straining to be polite.
“Mississippi River?”
“Neches River. You ain’t never been there, I bet — between God and the Gulf.”
“Yeah, you got me,” he nodded. “So how did you find the Outer Banks?”
“Looked it up?” In a softer voice she added, “I wanna be at the beach.”
Charlie remembered a long weekend on leave from Pensacola. “Spend any time in Galveston?”
“Fuck Galveston!” Her body went rigid, and she looked away. She reached for the coffee and downed it in a gulp. “If it’s OK with you, Sheriff, I gotta go!”
Charlie caught her arm, “Whoa! It was an innocent question. No reason to go charging out.”
He let go of her arm, watching her reaction. “Can you not be so damn jumpy?”
She remained standing, ignoring the several patrons who had looked up at her outburst.
“I ain’t gotta be drilled like a dumb schoolgirl, and I sure as hell don’t need no car talk!”
“Just trying to find out about you.” His questions were like flicks of a whip, she flinching every time he spoke.
She reluctantly took her seat. “Ain’t no need. No story worth knowing.”
From the look of her, there was nothing but story. “Your family’s in Texas, right?”
She nodded. “They all still down there,” dumping more sugar into her cup. “East Texas ain’t nothing. Swamps and caddy shacks,” she shoved her hair away from her face.
“Caddy shacks?”
“Where men go to, you know — you don’t seem like no regular cop.”
He laughed. “Probably not. My second career pays the mortgage.”
She continued to study him with those unbelievably pale eyes. Like a cat ready to jump one way or the other.
“What kind of work are you looking for?”
“Waiting tables, clerking. I can keyboard,” she shrugged.
He reached for his cup and took a sip, the coffee gone cold, “Lots of places here close up after Thanksgiving. Not too many tourists in the winter.”
“Restaurants too?”
“Some stay open — a few up in Corolla, there’s the Duck Deli, otherwise pretty slim pickings.” The Outer Banks were not a year-round place, but time passed quietly enough off season.
“So, you been a cop a while, huh?”
“Hmm? Nah, I was a Navy man. Served a whole bunch of tours. Got out a couple years ago.”
“I know a cousin in the Navy. He caught the clap in Hong Kong and got his thing whacked off.”
“Because of the clap?”
She shrugged, “Dunno. Alls I know he don’t have his thing no more an’ he sure liked that thing.”
He starred; was she kidding? He caught a quick grin.
“So where’s Sugartown?”
“East Texas. Bayou country. They’s folk ain’t come outa there they hol life.”
“Any you know?”
“Mostly folk I don’t wanna see no mo,” she mumbled.
And there it was, Charlie thought, the reason why she’d come east.
Charlie drove her back to the parking lot. He’d arranged a tow to a local garage. After hours of soaking in the flood, would the car even start? Then he’d called a small motel in Kitty Hawk. The tow truck driver owed him for sending business his way, so he agreed to drive her to the motel.
Charlie watched her dodge the puddles toward the car, now being hooked up to the tow truck. In the full light of day, the car was a genuine horror. As for Brandy Jo Lowery in her saggy khakis, she wasn’t so impressive either. He knew she was way too young, and he was too old, though their enforced night sleeping together stayed with him.
She turned back reaching the car — smiled and waved. Her smile surprised him, sweet and open.
Later, leaving the police station, Charlie steered his old Chevy Blazer onto the Bypass and headed north to Whalehead. Yawning furiously, passing piles of sand and debris, still he felt cheerful; the storm might have been worse.
How many officers would have gotten that involved, staying with her through an entire night of howling storm, expecting to be swimming before it was over? Then take her to breakfast, cover the tow and a hotel room? Policework paid his bills. Helping her was his choice, and he could live just fine with that.
His thoughts kept returning to the sad girl from Texas. He’d survive the storm — they’d both had, in a squad car no less — and he hadn’t peed his pants or nothing. Not that he enjoyed being in the middle of it, but when necessary you just stick it out. Helping in a time of need, wasn’t that what he’d taken an oath to do? And she had seriously needed help. Her laying in his arms, warm breath on his neck, her smallest murmurs — wasn’t in the manual, but the memory stayed in his head.
Once as a teen he’d darted across a rainy night road — horns blaring at him — to reach a dog hit by a car just huddling there. And he wouldn’t help her?
BJ bounced on the seat bench beside the driver’s lunch bucket. Behind them, the woebegone station wagon was hitting bottom on its shot shocks.
“You really drove this thing cross country by yourself? That musta took gumption.”
Days on the road had merged into one long migraine. She pinched her arm to keep from crying, the pain to distract her. She’d made it, hadn’t she? Snatches of the previous night were coming back. She was losing it, her body reacting so she couldn’t control it.
“You OK over there?” His voice came from far off.
She nodded furiously, afraid to speak lest she fall to pieces.
You nearly died, little kitten! a voice whispered, and I surely enjoyed watching!
She stared out the window, tears streaming down her face, shoulders shaking. Couldn’t keep herself together, couldn’t make it stop.
Oh god!
End of Chapter One
Even today, there’s a slow soul to the Outer Banks. Most days the ocean comes in on rollers, and the pelicans take long strokes against the full ocean air. Long outside history, can these islands survive the 80s excess and drugs, with hurricane season arriving — who can destroy paradise faster? Knowing that the Devil always rides in the sidecar.
Here’s the deal: advance print copies of Kill Devil-Come the Storm are available. Add a comment here or send an email to: billevans@goposted.com and a copy will find its way to you. And much thanks for reading!
