Camino Winds (Camino Island #2)(20)
They sat in the darkness and listened to the distant sounds of their battered island. A gas-engine generator was rattling a street or two over. A helicopter was making a night run in the direction of the beach. A siren wailed far away. But none of the usual languid nighttime sounds—neighbors laughing on their porches, music emanating from stereos, dogs barking, cars easing down the street, the distant horn of a shrimp boat entering the harbor.
Bruce slapped a mosquito on his neck and said, “That’s it. Let’s go inside.” He started his generator, closed the terrace door, and they regrouped in the den where the air was a bit cooler. All lights were off but for a small table lamp by the television. Bruce set it on a card table and said, “How about some poker?”
He poured a round of single malt from Nelson’s collection and they toasted their late friend. The alcohol mixed with the fatigue and the poker was cut short. Bob slept on one sofa; Nick on another. Bruce stretched out in his recliner and soon fell asleep to the rickety hum of his generator.
4.
Breakfast was coffee and a cheese sandwich. The gasoline supply was becoming critical and they discussed it as they ate. Nelson’s car had half a tank, and Bob suggested they drain most of it with a section of garden hose. Bruce and Nick confessed to having no siphoning experience, so Bob took charge and managed to withdraw about ten gallons without poisoning himself.
With that project complete, they decided that the next priority was returning Nelson’s car. Bruce checked the doors and locked the house, set the alarm with his remote, and left in his Chevy Tahoe. Bob and Nick followed in Nelson’s BMW, and it took an hour to wind their way around the devastation. Not surprisingly, there was no one at the condo—no homicide team sifting for clues, no neighbors picking up debris. No one had touched the yellow crime scene tape. Bruce lifted it and Bob returned the BMW to its spot. The three met in the garage and stared at the golf clubs, but said nothing. They closed the overhead door, walked into the kitchen, and discussed Nelson’s keys. If they left them behind, there was the chance that someone might break in, find them, and steal the car, but they agreed that this was a long shot. If they took them, the police wouldn’t know the difference and would have no trouble entering. Nick kept them in his pocket.
As they settled into the Tahoe, Bruce said, “I have an idea. We could sit around here today and tomorrow and get nothing done. I’m kinda bored with this hurricane crap. Let’s pack a bag, head to the bridge, and see what the situation is there. If we can escape, we can drive to Jacksonville, visit the crime lab, snoop around and maybe learn something, then we can drive a few hours and find a nice hotel with hot water and phones that work. Who’s in?”
“Me,” Bob said.
“Let’s go,” Nick said.
They drove to Bob’s cul-de-sac and waited for him to gather some clean underwear and a shaving kit. They weaved through heavy debris and made it to Fernando Street, where the two lanes were now passable. The shoulders, curbs, and bike lanes were piled high with debris, and small bulldozers were pushing more of it around. Dozens of utility crews worked frantically. It took another hour to get to the home of Nick’s grandparents, and to his relief it was not heavily damaged. It was half a mile from the beach and the falling limbs had missed the roof. Nick found a trash bag and filled it with perishables from the freezer and refrigerator. The meats and cheeses were already spoiling. Thankfully, his grandparents had been away for two months and there wasn’t much food in the house. He couldn’t cook and lived on cold cuts and carryout pizza. He threw some clean clothes in a backpack, locked the front door, took a photo to send to his grandparents, tossed the trash bag onto the neighbor’s porch, and jumped into the rear seat.
“Where are your grandparents?” Bob asked as they drove away.
“Idaho, last I heard. I really need to call them. I’m sure they’re worried sick.”
“As are a lot of folks,” Bruce said.
Half an hour later they parked in his driveway and hustled about. Bob turned off the generator as Nick again stuffed perishables into two large coolers. Bruce ran upstairs to pack some clothes. He was already thinking about a hot shower. They fixed a box full of sandwiches and loaded up as much food, water, beer, and wine as they could stuff into the Tahoe. They were not sure where they were headed but wanted to be prepared.
At the bridge a thousand emergency lights were flashing and uniformed officers milled around with National Guardsmen. Traffic was being waved on and there was a line of cars and trucks leaving the island. In the other lanes supply trucks, utility crews, and emergency vehicles were arriving. Bruce parked the Tahoe and walked to the crowd at the bridge. He saw a policeman he knew and pulled him aside.
He said, “We’re thinking about leaving for a day or so, but don’t want to get stranded. How can we get back on the island?”
The officer lit a cigarette and said, “Word is the bridge will open both ways at noon tomorrow, but they are discouraging folks from returning. It could be a week with no electricity.”
“Great. What’s the body count?”
“Still at eleven, as of midday.”
Bruce frowned and shook his head. “We’re headed to Jacksonville. Do they have electricity?”
“It was blacked out yesterday. Supposedly getting some power back today.”
“Are things better north or south?”