Storm Surge (4 page)

“Yeah,” Max
said. “If there’s anything left to get back to.” He bent down and grabbed his
work boot.

“Oh, come on,”
she said. “How bad can it be? They wouldn’t let people build on the island if
it was that dangerous.”

“Right,” Max
said. He wasn’t going to argue. If there was one thing he’d learned in his
short time on the Carolina coast, it was that they’d let a developer build a
house on a sandbar if there was enough money to throw around. He laced up his
other boot and stood up. He felt like he should say something, but he was
strangely tongue-tied. “When are you leaving?” he said finally.

“We’re already
packed,” she said. “Brian just wanted to get a last round in of shooting at his
stupid clay pigeons before we left.”

Max thought
about the row of expensive shotguns in the glass case downstairs. The sight of
the guns had given him pause. But Kathy-with-a-K hadn’t given him much time to
think about it. She was going to have her fun while Brian had his. A slogan Max
had seen once, back when he was Mercer, popped into his head. It had been
plastered to the wall behind his favorite bar, back in Chicago. NO MATTER HOW
BEAUTIFUL SHE IS, the sticker had said, SOMEWHERE THERE’S A GUY WHO’S TIRED OF
FUCKING HER.

“Well,” he
said, still feeling awkward, “have a safe trip.”

“Yeah,” she
said, “You too.”

The house was
dark as he went downstairs, all the windows sealed tight against the threat
heading toward Pass Island, just over the dip of the horizon.

Outside, he
got in the truck and pulled away. As he did, he saw the golf cart coming
towards him. The truck Max drove belonged to the Pass Island Management
Company; it was one of the few internal combustion vehicles allowed on the
island. It was one of the community’s selling points: no cars, no cell phones,
just peace, quiet, and the endless sea.

There were two
men in the golf cart, dressed in expensive khakis, polo shirts, and tinted
shooting glasses. Max saw the guns propped up in a rack in the back of the
cart, where golf bags normally would be. He couldn’t tell which one was Brian.
They didn’t look at him as he drove past. He was the help.

CHAPTER SIX

Travis Boyle
had never been to sea. But as the guy who ran the construction ferry, he got to
call himself the captain. He rather liked the idea. At one time, he’d even
bought a baseball cap with “Captain” written in gold on the front, but the
construction guys had
ragged
him so much about it, he
eventually took it off and replaced it with his old familiar CAT Diesel
products hat. Still, in his mind, he was the captain.

He was
surprised to see the big panel truck pull up to the ramp. He came out of the
shack beside the dock, wiping his hands on a rag, and squinted at the new
arrival. A sign stenciled on the side panels proclaimed that it belonged to
GARVIN BROTHERS CONTRACTOR SERVICES. A man was climbing down from the running
board as Boyle approached.

“Afternoon,”
the man said. He was half a head taller than Boyle, and broad. His head was
shaved bald. He checked a clipboard held in one hand. “We got a delivery.” He
looked at construction ferry. “When’s the next run?”

Unlike the
sleek, clean, well-appointed craft that took residents and guests to the
picturesque landing at the marina, the construction ferry was an ancient
flat-bottomed barge that seemed to be held together by rust and faith. It was
pushed through the water by an equally decrepit, asthmatic old tugboat. The
ferry tied up at a greasy dock, halfway around the island from the marina and well
hidden by the tight, wind-gnarled brush of the maritime forest.

“Runs as often
as we need it,” Boyle said.
“
Ain’t
needed it much, though.
Not with the storm and all. All the sites are
shut down.” He eyed the panel truck.
“Where y’all
goin
’?”

The bald man
unfolded a piece of paper. “Bluff Court,” he read off.
“The
Mayhew job.”

Boyle
recognized the name. The Mayhew place had been shaping up to be one of the
biggest houses on the island. The owner, a guy from Brooklyn who’d reportedly
made a fortune developing timeshares, had battled the island’s Architectural
Committee for months before finally getting a scaled-back and non-garish
version of what he called his “palace by the sea” approved. But a series of
Federal fraud indictments and frozen bank accounts had finally brought the
project to a halt.
Now the house sat half-finished, looming
over the beachfront, with the Architectural Committee becoming more and more
frantic at the thought of such an eyesore becoming a permanent part of the
landscape.

“Huh,” Boyle
said. “Didn’t know they
was
startin
’
that up again.”

The bald guy
shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “All I know is where they tell me to take
the stuff, man.”

“Seems like an
awful strange time to be
droppin
’ building supplies
off,” Boyle went on. “I mean, don’t they know there’s a hurricane coming?”

“Not my
problem, bro,” the bald man said. Boyle noticed another man getting down from
the passenger side. He was short and slight, with close-cropped pale blonde
hair. He ignored Boyle, walked over to the edge of the dock, and stood looking
across the sound. You could barely see Pass Island from here, even on a clear
day. The only structure you could really make out, in fact, was the top of the
old lighthouse.

Boyle
shrugged. “Hey,” he said, “All whatever you’re
deliverin
’
gets washed out to sea,
ain’t
no
skin off my nose.” He went to lower the ferry ramp. The two men got in the
truck.

“All that gets
washed
out,” the bald man said in a parody of Boyle’s twang,
“
Ain’t
no skin off my nose.”

The smaller man
smiled thinly. When he spoke, his voice was a ruined croak, barely above a
whisper, like a man with a permanent case of severe laryngitis. “Actually,” he
said, “
that’s
what we’re counting on.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Sharon.
Baby.”
Sonny’s voice was shaky with comically exaggerated
desperation. “You
gotta
take my dinner shift, babe.
I’m begging.” He went down on one knee before the pass-through from the kitchen
and threw an arm across his brow theatrically. “I’m a dude in pain.”

“You’re a dude
that’s full of shit, is what you are, Sonny,” Sharon laughed. Despite her
earlier depression, it was impossible to stay blue for long around Sonny.
“Besides, I already told you, I’ve got something to do tonight.”

“You cut me,
baby,” Sonny said. He got up and ran a hand through his long shaggy blonde
hair. “You cut me bad. Who is he? Whoever he is, he’s not good enough for you.”

“His name,”
Sharon said, still laughing, “is Mr.
Badcock
.” She
immediately thrust a warning finger into Sonny’s face. “No jokes.”

Sonny looked innocent.
“Jokes?
Moi
?”

She applied
the tip of her finger to the end of his prominent nose.
“Jokes.
Vous
.”
She gave his nose an affectionate honk.

“Older
guy, huh?”
Sonny
said.

“Sixty-five if
he’s a day,” Sharon said. “He’s the assistant headmaster at Glory’s school.
It’s orientation night. And I need to be there.” She wondered for a moment how
she was going to manage that without a car.

“Order up,”
the line cook said. He shoved a half dozen platters heaped with seafood into
the pass-through window.

“Coming
through,” Consuela said. She stepped up and took possession of the plates,
stacking them perfectly on a pair of trays. Sonny helped, tossing garnishes on
with a practiced hand, arranging the plates for easier carrying.
“
Conseula
.
Baby,” he began.

“I’m already
working a double tonight, Sonny,” she said. “Thanks.” She shoved through the
swinging double doors to the dining room, balancing the trays expertly.

“What’s so
important about tonight, anyway?” Sharon asked.

Sonny’s blue
eyes brightened with passion. “About sunset,” he said almost reverently, “the
waves are
gonna
be
freakin
’
amazing.”

“You’re going
surfing?” Sharon said. “You know there’s a hurricane coming, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” he
said. “The storm’s pushing waves in front of it like a bulldozer. It’s
gonna
be epic!”

“You are
completely out of your mind,” Sharon said.

“Of course
he’s out of his mind,” the line chef broke in. “He’s a surfer.” He shoved
another group of plates into the pass-through. “Order up.” Sonny took a moment
to refasten the bowtie that hung loosely around his neck before arranging his
plates on a single tray. The action seemed to change him. His mobile, smiling
face became calm and bland. He moved with easy grace, balancing his tray on one
arm as he entered the dining room.

“Order up,”
the line cook said.

Coming from
the steamy, clattering kitchen to the subdued atmosphere of the dining room
always drew Sharon up short for a moment, as if she’d suddenly stepped through
the looking glass onto an entirely different planet.

The dining
room had a stunning panoramic view of the ocean and the beach below. Sharon
stole a glance at the beach, looking for the bright orange of Glory’s bathing
suit. She didn’t see it. She could make out a few members of the group of kids
Glory had begun hanging out with, tossing a football back and forth. No Glory,
though.

Her brow
furrowed slightly. She’d thought she was doing the right thing, bringing her
daughter with her to the island on the days she worked rather than leaving her
alone in their little trailer on the mainland. Glory would have more fun, and
Sharon could keep an eye on her. But it didn’t seem to be working out the way
she’d planned.

“Miss,” a
voice called out. “Can we get more tea here?”

Sharon’s
attention snapped back to the dining room. “Yes ma’am,” she said, “right away.
As soon as I drop off these plates.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Hold the
smoke in,” Graeme said, “as long as you can.”

Glory fought
the urge to cough out the harsh smoke, but it seemed only a few seconds before
it erupted from her lungs in a spasm of coughing.
Only Graeme
plucking the joint from her fingers saved her from dropping it off the ledge
where they were sitting.
She tried desperately to stop the hacking and
wheezing, her face hot with embarrassment. She looked away, out at the ocean.

They had a
great view from the balcony of the unfinished beach house. Since the project
had been halted, the kids who lived on the island had been using the house,
secluded as it was on its bluff overlooking the sea, to hang out, smoke weed,
and occasionally, do other things.

Glory finally
caught her breath. God, he must think she was a complete dork. But he just
smiled at her with that great smile that just made her want to melt in a puddle
at his feet. Then he took her chin in his hand and kissed her. It was a
somewhat clumsy kiss, with too much spit involved, but it was her first, ever,
and that made it special. Her face felt hot for a different reason now, and the
heat was spreading. For a moment, she forgot about the embarrassment she’d felt
this morning, forgot about how much she hated her crappy life. He was running a
hand through her thick black hair, and that was nice.
Very
nice, in fact.
But he didn’t keep doing it. He dropped his hand to her
breast, over her thin swimsuit, and she pulled away.

“What’s the
matter?” he said.

“Nothing,” she
replied. “It’s just…”

“Don’t you
want to?”

She turned
back to him. God, he had nice eyes. “I just can’t. Not here.” She looked away,
over the ocean.

Glory had
fought her mother for days when she’d first heard Sharon’s plan to take her to
the island. She was fifteen, and grown up enough to stay by herself. She didn’t
need looking after like a child. Besides, she had friends back on the mainland
she could hang out with on the beach.

That, her
mother had told her, was the trouble. She’d never approved of Glory’s friends.
There had been a few screaming matches, and more than one threat by Glory to
call her father and ask to go live with him. But she hadn’t ever had the nerve
to make the call. Her father hadn’t made his last three visits, and she knew,
even though her mother had tried to keep it from her, that he wasn’t making his
child support payments.

In the end,
she had knuckled under. And now she was glad she did, although she’d never go
so far as to admit, even to
herself
, that her mother
had done the right thing. The first day she’d been on the island, she’d met
Lucy and Blythe on the beach, and they’d introduced her to Graeme. And so here
they were. She knew she was going to sleep with Graeme.
Soon.
Just not now.
But if she didn’t…she turned back to try
to decipher what he was thinking. She couldn’t. His face was sullen, closed to
her. She reached out to touch his arm. He pulled away. “We should get back,” he
said, his voice expressionless. Her stomach knotted and her heart raced with
panic. Oh no, she thought. She was going to turn him off. He might not…