“South. Leo turned to the north and is now drenching Atlanta. I’d go south, probably as far as Orlando, if you’re looking for a room.”

They crossed the bridge without incident but were soon bumper-to-bumper on the mainland. Thousands of pine trees had been scattered like straw, and crews were working to clear the roads. The traffic lights had been blown away and state police directed traffic. They inched along, listening to the news on the radio and munching on snacks. The thirty-minute drive to Interstate 95 took two hours and the interchange was gridlocked.

According to the news, most of southern Georgia was without power as Leo stalled again near Atlanta. Record flooding was being reported from Savannah to Columbus.

They were clipping along at forty miles per hour on the Jacksonville bypass when their phones came to life. Service at last! Bruce called Noelle in Switzerland and brought her up to date. Nick called his parents in Knoxville and left a voice mail with his grandparents, wherever they were. Bob called a daughter in Texas and reported that he was fine, uninjured, and happily off the island. Bruce called Mercer, who was tucked in her apartment in Oxford and watching cable nonstop. He did not mention Nelson because he did not want a longer conversation. He would have more time later. He called Myra and Leigh, who were still in Pensacola. He called three of his employees to see where they were staying, and asked when they might return.

Nick called the crime lab to see if it was open. Bob had suggested that it had to be because the morgue had to be chilled, right? Nick was told that the lab was operating on a limited basis and expecting full electricity in a matter of hours. He pressed the receptionist for information about their buddy, Nelson Kerr, but got nowhere.

Bob’s app said the traffic south was much heavier than that to the west, so they turned onto Interstate 10. Indeed, it thinned considerably twenty miles out of Jacksonville. Nick called motel after motel in the Tallahassee area but everything was booked. So he stretched his search westward and was soon being rejected in Pensacola. Bob called his daughter again and asked her to go online and find some rooms somewhere along the interstate.

Meanwhile, Bruce poked around the crime lab with no luck. Working with a directory, he called several numbers of some officials who appeared to be important, but no one was in.

Bob’s daughter called with the good news. She had just booked three rooms at a small resort near Destin. On the beach. By the time they arrived they had been in the Tahoe for eleven hours. At the registration desk, Bruce paid for all three rooms and was informed that they could stay only two nights. They hustled to their rooms and showered.

Alone for the first time in what seemed like a week, Bruce went online and began digging for information about Mr. and Mrs. Howard Kerr in the Bay Area. A website listed four of them. Nelson was forty-three, so Bruce guessed that his parents were in their late sixties or early seventies. The first Howard Kerr he called had never heard of Nelson. But the second one knew him well. Nelson’s father sounded like a broken man who had just lost his only son and was bewildered by the things he didn’t know. Bruce filled in as many gaps as he could without mentioning the possibility of foul play. If that were established, he would call later. After a few minutes, Mr. Kerr went on the speakerphone so Mrs. Kerr could join them. Bruce carefully explained that there were some mysterious elements about the death and the authorities wanted an autopsy.

The parents were not sure they approved, but Bruce said that, as far as he knew, the police could order an autopsy whenever they wanted.

Why an autopsy? Why were the police involved?

Bruce bobbed and weaved and said that he didn’t know all the facts and details but was trying to gather information. He would know more tomorrow, hopefully, and would update them immediately. Mrs. Kerr broke down, sobbing, and left the conversation.

After an excruciating fifteen minutes, Bruce managed to end the call with a promise to talk tomorrow. He collected his thoughts, tried to shake off the emotion of talking to grieving parents, put on clean shorts and a T-shirt, and walked to the lobby to join his pals for dinner.

5.

Mercer called late that night. The number of fatalities stood at eleven and the news stories looked and sounded awful. She had not spoken to Larry and was worried about the cottage. Bruce told her they had driven by earlier that morning but had not been able to stop. As far as he could tell it appeared to be relatively undamaged, though he’d seen only the west side. The wind and water came from the ocean. Bruce told her about Nelson, a man she had met only once, but she was shocked nonetheless. He hinted that there were strange circumstances around his death and the police were investigating.

In his opinion, the cleanup would take weeks and months. There was no real rush to reopen the bookstore. The customers were gone. The tourists wouldn’t return for a year. He suggested that she wait at least a week before returning to the island. He would check on the cottage as soon as possible and meet with Larry. There was really nothing she could do until electricity was restored.

6.

Day Three. The Grand Surf Hotel was on a point at the southern tip of Camino Island, as far away from the destruction as possible. When it opened thirty years earlier it had been the largest and fanciest hotel on the beach, and had become instantly popular with tourists. Locals used it for weddings and parties and fancy dinners. It survived Leo with little damage. Early on the third morning its lights came on and it was open for business. The owners comped all rooms for rescue workers and utility crews, and the relief teams moved their operations to the hotel parking lot. Crates of food were hauled into the kitchen and cooks began preparing meals.