Джон Гришэм - Camino Winds

They parked in Bruce’s driveway and immediately ran to the kitchen for a bottle of water. The generator was rattling away on the terrace and Bruce turned it off. He had less than five gallons of gasoline. All breakers were off except for the refrigerator, freezer, and a circuit that cooled and lit the kitchen and den. The rest of the house was hot and muggy.

They unloaded the car, stashed away the food and drinks, opened three bottles of cold beer, and sat in the den for a long rest. Bob, who had slept not a wink before, during, and after the storm, soon nodded off in his chair. Nick followed him on the sofa. Bruce needed a nap too but his mind was racing. He restarted the generator and set the thermostat on 80. Tomorrow’s priority would be gasoline.

He left his men to their slumbers and began walking. His bookstore was only four blocks away, and as tired as he was, he needed the exercise. The floodwaters had receded to a point about a block from the harbor. Two police cars were parked in the center of Main Street. Barricades kept away traffic that did not exist.

Bruce knew one of the officers and shook hands with both of them. They passed along the latest rumors: The phone company was hard at work on a temporary cell tower. Might have service as early as tomorrow. Ten dead now, with about a dozen missing but there was no way to know if they were really missing or in a motel somewhere. A tornado did some damage ten miles to the west, but no one was hurt. The bridge was open to rescue personnel, volunteers, and supplies, but not to residents. Not sure when the islanders would be allowed to return. Electricity was a priority but would take days. Crews were arriving from as far away as Orlando. Generators were pouring in. All stores were ordered closed until further notice. Except for Kroger, which had a large generator and was open for business. More Guard units were on the way.

Bruce walked to his store and unlocked the front door with great trepidation. One day before, he and his crew had managed to move ten thousand books to the second floor, where they were now safe and dry. As were the rugs and most of the shelving. On the first floor the heart pine floors were wet and muddy and probably ruined. Judging from the stains on the wall behind the cash register, the floodwaters reached a height of exactly four and a half feet before they receded.

Oh well. He had plenty of insurance and plenty of money. Everything could be repaired, and before long he would be back in business. It could’ve been far worse. He climbed the stairs and walked onto the balcony where he had shared many cappuccinos and lots of good wine with friends and touring writers. He had met Nelson there, not that many years ago.

The madness of the past twenty-four hours had muddled his brain and made clear thinking impossible. During the storm, his frightened thoughts had been on physical survival. Once it passed, he went into a panic phase as he desperately worried about damage to his home and store. And now, after seeing Nelson, he was on the verge of bewilderment. The murder theory was giving him headaches.

He breathed deeply and tried to imagine the phone call to Nelson’s parents. Surely the police had made contact by now, and surely his family was frantically trying to reach someone on the island who knew more. He felt an obligation to at least attempt to contact them. Not for the first time he contemplated loading up Bob and Nick and making a run for it. In his car, not Nelson’s. They could drive two hours, probably south, and find cell service and a motel. Bruce could call the Kerr family and also check in with Mercer, Myra and Leigh, and other friends. But once off the island it might be impossible to return.

And where was Nelson’s dog? And how many pets were lost in the storm?

The breathing helped little and his nerves were still frayed. He walked up a narrow stairway to his old apartment on the third floor and found a bottle of single malt. The air was thick and musty so he returned to the balcony and poured a strong one. After a few sips he felt himself relax, and soon he was able to hold on to one thought at a time.

He assumed the state crime lab would conduct a proper autopsy. The storm had caused other fatalities and the lab might get stressed somewhat, but for a murder it would certainly take its time. If the autopsy confirmed Nick’s theory, then what was the next step? Trusting Hoppy Durden to get to the bottom of things seemed like a joke. He seemed to have little interest in a possible homicide. Who would inform Nelson’s parents that he was not only dead but had been murdered? It was entirely plausible that Hoppy and his bosses would show little sympathy for some clown venturing outdoors in a Cat 4 and getting hit by falling limbs. Faced with what appeared to be an unsolvable crime, they could easily decide to embrace the theory that there was no crime at all, just an accident. Nelson was new to the island, kept to himself and had few friends, and he was a writer anyway and those folks are known to be odd. Blame it on flying debris and close the file.

Bruce finished his drink, returned the bottle to the apartment, and left Bay Books. He walked to Noelle’s shop to assess the damage.

3.

There was enough charcoal to fill the grill, and Bruce built a raging fire. He cooked Nelson’s steaks first, for their dinner, then grilled sausages, hot dogs, pork chops, and everything else in the freezer, which was running at one-quarter speed. When the coals were perfect, he put on two whole chickens.

They ate on the veranda, in fading sunlight, and washed down the steaks with a bottle of Syrah. When they finished, Bruce cleared the table and poured more wine.

Bob suddenly stood, cracked his knuckles, and said, “Okay, boys, I have to get this off my chest. I’m not sure I’ll tell the cops. I don’t know what to do so I want your advice.” He was suddenly fidgety and nervous, and began pacing back and forth. “I had a woman with me last night, said her name was Ingrid. Met her on Friday at the bar in the Hilton. A real looker, probably forty years old, with a body like you’ve never seen. Said she had a black belt and lived in the gym. Said she was staying at the hotel for a few days of beach time. I took her home, she spent the night, and man she was something. A real handful, all muscle and tone. She hung around. We had lunch with Nelson on Saturday and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She stayed over that night too, couldn’t get enough. She almost killed me. I’m fifty-four, you know, and my stamina ain’t bad, a lot of practice, but I couldn’t keep up. I thought about bringing her to dinner Sunday at your place to meet Mercer, and of course to show off, but thought better of it. When the storm turned our way, she was planning to leave, at first. Then she decided to stay, which was okay with me. If I could ride out the storm, then so could she. When it hit, though, she panicked, I mean really freaked out and wanted to go back to the hotel. I was worried about the flood surge because my street is lower than the others, and when I said I thought we might get some water she went nuts on me. We had a fight, nothing physical, I figured she could snap my neck if she wanted to, but there was a lot of yelling and cussing. She bolted, just after dark. I mean she ran out of my condo into the storm with me yelling at her the whole time. She went crazy, slap-ass crazy. And I let her go. I mean, hell, she was just a hookup, you know. Nothing serious. I figured if she wanted to disappear into wind strong enough to roll over a car, then so be it. My last image was her disappearing down the street, leaning sideways into the wind, struggling to keep her feet.”

Bob sat down and gulped his wine. They waited, and finally Bruce asked, “Is that the end of it?”

“No. A few minutes later, Nelson called. The last call before we lost service. He told me she was at his place and acting really bizarre. What was going on? I said I didn’t know. He said he would try to take care of her.”