Her master bathroom was the only true inside room and she had set it up as her refuge. The counter was arranged with the necessities: a battery-operated radio, several flashlights, a telephone already plugged into a landline, a cooler filled with sandwiches, her prescription meds, and even a pickax almost too large for her small frame to lift. Everything she would need for a ten-to twelve-hour stay.
She was on her way back upstairs when a knock at the front door stopped her. The sheriff’s department had come by earlier. Her neighbors had already left. She checked the peephole. Saw the patch on the man’s sleeve and she let out a groan. Was this the county or the federal government’s last-ditch effort?
“I already told the sheriff’s deputy that I was staying,” she insisted as she opened the door only to the security chain’s length.
“Hi, Mrs. Mills,” the young man said with a smile. “I met you at Mr. B’s yesterday. Joe. Joe Black.”
CHAPTER 53
Walter parked the canteen as close to the marina as possible. That’s where all the action was this morning. They warned him at the tollbooth that the bridge would be closing at one o’clock. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper in the opposite direction. He realized he probably should have stayed home, found something to occupy his time, but he had everything ready and there was only so much you could prepare. He didn’t want to sit at home and wait. There’d be enough waiting while the storm raged on for hours.
The marina was crowded with last-minute boaters trying to tether their boats—big and small—as best as possible. Some were loading their crafts onto trailers. A few brave souls—or stupid, Walter decided—were venturing out into the swell in an attempt to get their boats out of the storm’s path.
Tension filled the air along with diesel fumes. Arguments edged close to fistfights. The waiting and watching of the last several days ended with the inevitable realization that Isaac was, indeed, heading directly for them. There was no more predicting. No more hope for a last-minute turn. There was no more escaping. Now it was only a matter of battening down the hatches as best as possible.
Walter parked in a corner of the marina lot where the boaters could see him and he could chat with them. Howard Johnson, the owner of the marina and a deep-sea fishing shop, had invited Walter to set up here anytime he wanted. In exchange Walter kept a special bottle of cognac so at the end of a hard day he and Howard could sip and share stories.
Walter decided that today he’d only stay an hour. He’d serve up whatever he had on board for free until the food or the hour ran out.
At first he didn’t pay attention to the panel van that pulled up next to the sidewalk leading to the docks. He noticed the owner struggling with a huge bag, yanking it out of the van then dragging it. Not an unusual scene down here. Walter had seen this type of bag before. Someone had pointed one out, calling it a “tuna bag.” Fishermen used them for the big catches that didn’t fit in a cooler. The bags were tough, huge, waterproof, and insulated. About six feet by three feet it looked like a giant-size tote bag with a washable lining that could be removed.
Walter thought it was a bit odd that someone would be hauling a fish to his boat. Usually it was the other way around. The guy wore a blue baseball cap, shorts, deck shoes, and a khaki button-down shirt with the tails untucked. Walter caught a glimpse of the chevron patch on the shirt sleeve. What the hell was some navy petty officer doing here in his service uniform, dragging a tuna bag? Then Walter recognized the guy.
“Hey, Joe.”
Too much noise. Joe didn’t hear him.
That bag looked awful heavy.
Walter glanced around inside the canteen. He hadn’t turned on any appliances yet. He left a tray with hot dogs and condiments out. He’d be right back. Then he locked all the doors and headed over to the sidewalk to help.
“Hey, Noms.”
This time Joe looked over his shoulder and did a double take. His face was red and dripping sweat. His eyes darted around the marina like he hadn’t expected to be recognized.
“Let me give you a hand with that,” Walter said, grabbing one end of the bag.
“No, that’s okay, Mr. B. I’ve got it.”
Joe tried to pull away but Walter didn’t surrender his end. Instead, he asked, “You got a boat out here?” He really wanted to ask why Joe was wearing what was probably one of his father’s old shirts. Even his ball cap had the U.S. Navy insignia embroidered on the front. Walter waited till Joe gave up and let him help.
“Cabin cruiser.” Joe nodded at the boat in the second slip to their right.
Walter whistled. “She’s a beauty.” He smiled at the name, bold and black, written across the stern: Restless Sole.
“My dad left it to me. Thought I’d take it over to Biloxi.”
“Now? You’re kidding, right?”
“The eye of the storm’s probably going to come over Pensacola. Maybe swing a bit to the east of here. Hurricane-force winds stretch about a hundred miles out from the eye.” He wasn’t out of breath. Walter was. He found himself thinking that this kid’s in good shape.