Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(46)

“Why not, vato?” Ralph asked.

“Just because death was more commonplace,” I said, “doesn’t mean life was cheaper.”

Ralph smiled. “I love this guy. He thinks he’s a professor.”

The students shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Rachel Brazos and Imelda and Ty were all watching me intently. Rain pattered against their papers.

I looked down at the podium. My lecture notes had disappeared. “The, uh, intense emotion in The Pearl—”

“People don’t change,” Ralph interrupted. “They let grief tear them up. That’s what you’re saying, huh?”

“Well, yes.”

“And you had to look in a book for that, vato?” Ralph laughed. “Why don’t you look around?”

“Tres.” Maia was shaking my arm. “The water.”

I sat up groggily. “Your water broke?”

“No. Look.”

I might’ve still been dreaming. The carpet was spongy with salt water. Garrett was rowing around in his chair, waking people up. His wheels made strange squishy sounds.

“Hey, get up.” He shook Mr. Lindy, who was slumped in the armchair. “Your shoes are wet.”

Lane paced nervously, a blanket wrapped around her like a queen’s robe. Chase and Markie were stirring on the floor. Their clothes were drenched.

“What the hell?” Chase said.

Water flowed down the steps into the parlor. The hall looked like a wood-paneled storm drain. The storm was still roaring outside, but louder now, like the waves were right against the building.

I got up and helped Maia to her feet.

Imelda ran in from the kitchen. “The basement is flooding. The señor’s body—”

“We can’t worry about that,” Maia said, trying to sound calm. “We need to get out of this room.”

“Imelda,” I said. “Help me with Mrs. Navarre.”

The maid seemed glad to have something to do. She took Maia’s other arm and together we walked toward the stairs.

“Look how fast the water’s coming in.” Lane’s face was ashen. “Where are we supposed to go?”

“Up,” I told her. “The second floor.”

“And if that floods?”

Garrett and I exchanged looks.

“Come on, darlin’,” he told Lane. “We’ve made it this far. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

He wheeled himself to the steps. Several inches of water were swirling in the foyer, racing down the hallway. “I don’t swim too well, little bro.”

“You won’t have to,” I promised. “Leave the chair and let’s go.”

He nodded uneasily, then slipped out of his wheelchair and hand-walked up the steps. As he navigated the hall, his torso in the water, he looked like a man wading up a deep, unfriendly river.

Getting Maia upstairs wasn’t easy. The stairs creaked and groaned. Below us, the first floor sounded like a public swimming pool, water sloshing everywhere.

It was possible the whole hotel would get washed away. I knew that. But I didn’t see any alternative other than getting into the middle of the building and hoping it didn’t happen.

We settled everyone into a row of guest rooms on the second floor. Imelda bustled around making sure we all had enough sheets and flashlights. I figured the generator would go out again any moment, but strangely the power stayed on.

Maia got comfortable on one twin bed while Garrett and Lane collapsed on the other.

I fiddled with the nightstand radio and to my surprise found a garbled AM station. Three-twenty A.M. and the tail end of the storm was coming ashore. Winds of one hundred thirty miles an hour. Massive flooding from Port Lavaca to Port Isabel. Fifteen-foot waves. On the bright side, the rainfall should lessen by midday. The Spurs were playing tonight in game seven of the playoffs. Anyone who was still alive would have something to look forward to.

There was shouting in the room next to us. It sounded like Ty, Markie and Chase had gotten a second wind and Mr. Lindy was trying to referee. I decided not to interfere. They probably needed the exercise.

Head count: Maia seemed all right for the moment. Garrett and Lane were fine. The three college guys and Benjamin Lindy were next door.

“Alex,” I said. “Did he ever come back?”

“Haven’t seen him,” Garrett admitted. “I thought for sure…”

He didn’t finish. Even he looked worried.

I thought about Ralph Arguello, grinning in the raining classroom. Maybe you should just look around, vato.

“Imelda,” I called.

She came to the doorway, her arms full of towels.

“Have you seen Alex Huff?” I asked.

“No, señor.”

“Where is his bedroom?”

She looked down, hugging the towels to her chest. “Mr. Huff is very private about his room, señor. I don’t—”

“I need you to show me.”

Jose appeared next to her, breathing hard. His pants were wet from the knees down.

“¿Que pasa?” he asked his wife.

“He…he wants to see Señor Huff’s room.”

Jose frowned. “We will show him, then.”

“I’ll go, too,” Garrett said.