14.

Mercer and Thomas sipped coffee in bed and waited for the first reports. They were in a motel near Dothan, Alabama, one that had waived the No Pets rule and allowed them and the dog to check in after dark. The traffic had been brutal and they had been forced to keep driving west to find a room. The cable stations had blacked out shortly after 10:00 p.m. when the winds became too strong, but by 6:00 a.m. they were up and running. Not long after sunrise a helicopter ran a live shot along the beach as an excited reporter on board tried to describe the damage. A large condo building was gutted. Another had partially collapsed. Roofs were missing. Some of the smaller beach houses were almost flattened. The empty parking lots were littered with debris. Naval vessels were unloading near Main Beach, the busiest place on normal days. Mercer could not catch a glimpse of Tessa’s cottage, but there was little doubt it had been damaged. Inland, thousands of trees were down, with streets blocked by limbs and entire trees. A church steeple had been toppled.

Near the center of Santa Rosa, the streets were under water that appeared to be about knee deep. Rescue crews in boats were moving slowly about. One man waved at the helicopter. The screen cut to a reporter on the ground who quickly recapped his heroic efforts to remain outdoors all night as his crew grappled with their camera. He said that emergency management expected the island to be without electricity for at least a week. The National Guard had already arrived. The island was virtually deserted but they had just received the first report of a fatality up at Pauley’s Sound; more later. The bridge was closed and would be examined for damage.

It was obvious the island was a mess and would remain so for weeks or months. Mercer and Thomas had no desire to rush back into the rubble and they couldn’t get to the cottage anyway. Larry was there, she hoped, and he would do the best he could. Nor did they wish to hang around a motel when Mercer’s apartment in Oxford was only six hours away.

Thomas left to find breakfast and something for the dog. Mercer got in the shower, worried about Larry but happy not to be on the island, happy that the book tour was over, though the ending was not exactly what she had wanted, and happy most of all to be going home. She and Thomas had been living out of their luggage for two months.

CHAPTER TWO

    THE CRIME SCENE

1.

Bruce, who had absolutely no experience with a chain saw, quickly yielded the tool to Nick, who had at least held one before. It took them ten minutes to figure out how to start the damned thing, but Nick was soon rampaging around the backyard, slicing up even the thinnest of limbs and branches. Bruce followed at a safe distance and gathered the debris. He was tossing some limbs into a pile when a Santa Rosa policeman appeared from nowhere. Bruce signaled and Nick reluctantly shut down the chain saw. Another one could be heard in the distance.

The officer introduced himself, and after a few minutes of storm talk said, “There are some fatalities, sorry to say. Looks like most were on the north end.”

Bruce nodded and wanted to know what this had to do with him.

The officer went on, “Your friend Nelson Kerr took a head wound and didn’t make it.”

“Nelson!” Bruce said in disbelief. “Nelson’s dead?”

“Afraid so. And he left your name and number as his local contact.”

“But what happened to him?”

“Don’t know. I was not at the scene. I was told to find you. My captain asks that you come to the scene and identify the body.”

Bruce shot a bewildered look at Nick, who was too stunned to speak, and said, “Well, sure. Let’s go.”

The officer looked at Nick and said, “Better bring that chain saw. We might need it.”

Parked in front of the house was a green and yellow John Deere all-terrain vehicle, a Gator, a two-seater with four-wheel drive. Bruce sat in the front, shoulder to shoulder with the officer, and Nick crawled into the back. They took off, turned west, and began dodging limbs and debris in the street. They moved away from downtown, zigzagging slowly through the devastation.

The damage was overwhelming. Every street was blocked with trees, limbs, downed wires, lawn furniture, boards, shingles, garbage, and standing water. Dozens of homes had been hit with limbs and branches. Only a few of the residents were outdoors, and those who were cleaning up appeared dazed. On Atlantic Avenue, a main thoroughfare to the beach, National Guardsmen were everywhere with chain saws, picks, and axes. The street was barely passable but the officer slowly worked the Gator through the cleanup chaos.

He said, “Looks like Pauley’s Sound got hit the worst. The Hilton really got hammered. Already found two bodies in the parking lot.”

“How many fatalities?” Bruce asked.

“Three so far. Your friend and those two but I’m afraid there’ll be more.” He turned off Atlantic and onto a narrow street that ran north and south. They weaved around thick limbs and debris, turned again and headed east and before long stopped at Fernando Street, the main drag along the beachfront. More Guardsmen were working to clear it. The officer stopped and they helped shove an overturned car out of the way. A hundred yards to the east, the ocean was calm, the sun was up and already hot.

Nelson Kerr lived in a three-story row house that lined a dead-end street not far from the Hilton. The units were heavily damaged, with blown-out windows and roofs torn off. They stopped in the street and walked to a driveway where Bob Cobb was waiting. Bruce shook his hand and Bob hugged him. His eyes were bloodshot, his long gray hair disheveled. “Rough night, partner,” he said. “Should’ve left with the smart folks.”