Джон Гришэм: Camino Winds

“What’s the main course?” she asked.

“Everything’s spicy.”

Bob Cobb said, “So, Mercer, last stop on the tour, right? And I loved the book, by the way.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Yes, the last stop.”

“Coast to coast?”

“Yes, thirty-three stops. Tomorrow is thirty-four.”

“You’ll have a huge crowd tomorrow, Mercer,” Amy said. “A lot of the locals remember your grandmother and they’re very proud of you.”

“I knew Tessa,” Bruce said. “But, as I look around the table, I believe that no one here was living on the island when she died. What was it, Mercer, twelve years ago?”

“Fourteen.”

Myra said, “We moved here thirteen years ago to get away from a bunch of writers. Look what’s happened. Everyone followed us here.”

Bob said, “And I believe I was next, about ten years ago, right after I got paroled.”

“Please, Bob,” Myra snapped. “No more prison stories. After your last book I felt like I’d been gang-raped.”

“Now Myra.”

“So you liked it?” Bob asked.

“Loved it.”

“Anyway,” Bruce said loudly. “I’d like to propose a toast to, first of all, Mr. Leo. May he remain at sea and just go away. And, more importantly, to our dear friend Mercer and her wonderful new book, number five on the big list and rising. Cheers!”

They clinked glasses and took a drink.

“I have a question, Mercer,” Leigh said. “Did your grandmother, the real Tessa, really have a steamy romance with a younger man, here on the island?”

“That was the best part,” Myra interjected quickly. “That first seduction scene made my teeth sweat. Really well done, girl.”

“Thanks, Myra,” Mercer said. “Coming from you, that’s quite a compliment.”

“Don’t mention it. Of course I would’ve gone way overboard.”

“Now Myra.”

“But yes, once I was old enough to realize what was going on, I suspected Tessa spent a lot of time with the younger man when I wasn’t around.”

“And that was Porter, in real life?” Leigh asked.

“Yes. Porter lived here for many years. Fourteen years ago they died together in a storm.”

“I remember Porter, and the storm,” Bruce said. “It was one of the worst we’ve seen on the island, short of a hurricane.”

“Who’s talking about hurricanes?” Amy asked.

“Sorry. We’ve had our share of glancing blows but nothing terrible. The storm that got Tessa and Porter was an old-fashioned summer heat cell that came from the north with no warning.”

“And where was Tessa?” Amy asked. “I’m sorry, Mercer, if you don’t want to talk about this.”

“No, it’s fine. Tessa and Porter were not far out, just a lazy summer’s day in his sailboat. Porter and the boat were never seen again. Tessa was found in the surf near the North Pier two days later.”

Myra said, “Well, thank God you didn’t kill her off in your novel. I certainly would have.”

“You killed everyone, Myra,” Leigh said. “After you ran them through the sex grinder.”

“Murder sells, Leigh, almost as much as sex. Remember that when those royalty checks arrive.”

“So what’s next, Mercer?” Bob Cobb asked.

She smiled at Thomas and said, “Rest for a couple of weeks, though I’m already being hounded by Thomas and Bruce to start another novel.”

“I need something to sell,” Bruce said.

“So do I,” added Leigh, for a laugh.

Jay, the brooding poet, said, “My last book sold twenty copies. No one reads poetry.” As always, it was an awkward effort at humor and got a sympathetic laugh or two.

Myra almost blurted something like: And no one can read the crap you write. But instead she said, “I’ve told you before, Jay, you should write some really raunchy fiction under a pen name, make some money, like Bob, and do your little poetry thing as the real you. Still won’t sell, though.”

Bruce had seen this conversation go off the rails before, and he quickly intervened with “Can we toast the new deal, Mercer?”

She smiled and said, “Oh why not? Secrets are hard to keep around here.”

Bruce said, “A new two-book deal with Viking, as of this morning.”

They cheered and took turns congratulating Mercer as Claude removed the bowls. He poured more wine, a cold Chablis, and began serving the next course, a small platter of smoked oysters. A breeze materialized from the east and gently ruffled the thick air.

On his trips to and from the kitchen, Claude kept one eye on the small television near the stove. Leo was still out there, drifting, churning, puzzling the experts, with no apparent destination.

7.

Bruce preferred long dinners with gaps between courses for wine and conversation. After he and Claude cleared the oyster shells, they refilled the wineglasses and announced that the main dish would be blackened redfish, a delicacy that might take some time.

Claude went to the stove, where his cast-iron skillet was already warm. From the fridge he removed a tray of marinated fillets and carefully placed two in the skillet. He covered them with his own recipe of Cajun seasoning—garlic, paprika, onion, salt, and spices. The aroma was pungent, delicious.

He hummed as he cooked, happy as always to be at the stove, and he sipped wine and enjoyed the waves of laughter from the veranda. Dinner parties at Bruce’s were always an event. Great wines and food, interesting guests, no hurries, no worries.

The evening broke up at midnight when Mercer and Thomas finally said good night. Bruce and Claude cleared the table and stacked the dishes on the counter. Someone else would clean up tomorrow. Regardless of how late he went to bed, Bruce was an early riser and walked to the bookstore each morning at seven. As soon as Claude was gone, he locked the house, climbed the stairs, stripped, and fell across his bed. Within minutes he was in a coma.

Around 1:00 a.m., Leo finally made his move.

8.

Nick Sutton was a light sleeper, and once awake in the predawn hours he often read for an hour or two before returning to bed. Out of curiosity, he turned on the television to catch the news and presumed things were quiet. Things were not. The forecasters were alarmed because Leo had suddenly turned due west and its projected path was now aimed directly at Camino Island. It was a Category 3, gaining strength, two hundred miles out there and moving at them at ten miles an hour. Nick flipped channels and the panic was growing by the minute. He began calling and waking friends, some of whom were already glued to the Weather Channel.

At 5:00 a.m., he called Bruce and broke the news. Bruce watched the weather for ten minutes and called Nick back with instructions to round up the troops and meet at the store as soon as possible.

By daybreak, the island was in a frenzy. As a barrier, it was designed to take the brunt of any storm and protect the mainland. It was surrounded by water, flat with a high altitude of only twenty-four feet, and susceptible to a major storm surge, though no one on the island had ever witnessed that kind of water.

At 7:03, the sun peeked above the quiet ocean as if the day would be just another sunny one in paradise. Leo was by then a Category 4 and for the first time seemed determined to trek in one direction without veering left or right. At 7:15, the governor activated full evacuation for the coastal areas north of Jacksonville. “Get out now” was his message, and he hinted strongly that a mandatory evacuation order was forthcoming. “There is no time to prepare,” he said grimly. “Just get out now.”

Forty thousand people lived year-round on the island, with about half in Santa Rosa proper. There were no other towns to speak of. The city limits were not well defined and blurred with the rest of the island. Because it was early August, the tourist season was slower than June and July, but it was estimated that fifty thousand visitors were staying in oceanside hotels and condos. Early in the morning they were asked to leave, and quickly. Some fled immediately but most lingered and watched cable news with their coffee and breakfast. Only one four-lane bridge linked Camino Island to the mainland and by 8:00 a.m. its traffic was heavy. Each day a thousand employees crossed the bridge to work in the island’s hotels, but they were now being turned away. No one was allowed to cross. Everyone was encouraged to head west. Where? It didn’t matter. Just get off the island.