“I haven’t ruled out shooting you both,” Joe was telling them. He set his feet apart and braced one hand on the wall to steady himself while the boat rocked and climbed again. “I just hate using a gun or a knife. Damages too much tissue. There’s nothing worse than a cooler full of damaged goods.”
He was ranting, and Walter wondered if his internal check-and-balance system had cracked under the stress. Madmen were dangerous. Was it too late or could he get through to the kid?
Walter pressed a hand against the wall, and tried lifting himself up to his feet.
“Just stay put, Walter, or I’ll shoot you in the hand. I’ve got plenty hands. Once they figured out how to repair carpal tunnel, hands as a commodity went bust.”
“It’s over, Phillip Norris’s son,” Walter said, deliberately using his father’s name.
Walter watched Joe’s eyes. He wanted to bring back the boy who enjoyed Coney Island hot dogs. He was certain that if he could do that, they would be safe. He wasn’t prepared for Joe’s response.
Joe aimed the gun, pulled back the trigger, and Walter’s left hand exploded.
CHAPTER 62
Scott ignored Trish’s phone calls. He turned the cell phone off and threw it on the embalming table.
She wanted him to get to her father’s house. She couldn’t find her dad. Couldn’t get in touch with her sister. She was panicked again. Earlier he had told her that he needed to stay at the funeral home to make sure everything was okay. If a window blew out he wanted to be here to board it up so there wasn’t any water damage. She didn’t understand. After all, he hadn’t lifted a finger to protect their brand-new home.
“This is different,” he tried to explain. This was their livelihood. They could stay in a hotel if their home was destroyed. But if the funeral home was damaged, they would have no money coming in. How could she not understand the difference?
He’d just finished washing his hands. He couldn’t get rid of the smell of decomposing flesh. He checked cupboards. Washed down the embalming room. Sprayed disinfectants. Still the smell persisted. He’d heard about olfactory hallucinations at one of the funeral-director conferences. At the time he thought it sounded ridiculous. Now he wondered if, in fact, that’s what was happening to him.
Outside the world grew dark. Power lines danced in the wind. The sporadic downpours left water flooding the streets. Pine trees had already snapped in half. With every wave, the storm grew more intense. From the radio Scott learned that once the hurricane made landfall there would be no break for six to ten hours. Twelve to fifteen if the backstorm was just as intense.
He had to admit, now that he’d seen a piece of the pre-storm, he was frightened. As a kid he had fought claustrophobia after being locked inside the trunk of a neighbor’s car—his punishment for mouthing off to the older, stronger kids. This storm renewed his claustrophobia.
A crash brought him to the window.
“Son of a bitch.”
A branch from the huge live oak outside the back door had been ripped off. The heavy part tumbled to the ground but power lines held up the other end. Sparks flashed. The lights in the funeral home blinked a couple of times but stayed on.
He realized the tree could end up coming through the roof. If windows exploded and branches flew in, he might not be safe inside. Trish had said that earlier, but he hadn’t listened.
He grabbed a flashlight and started looking for cover. The utility closet? On the radio they had said an interior room with no windows was best. He paced the hallway. Then suddenly he stopped and turned around.
Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? The walk-in refrigerator was stainless steel. Nothing could rip that apart.
He turned on the light and pulled a chair inside. He shoved the table with Uncle Mel to one side. Joe Black had left two shelves filled with body parts. The other table was still occupied by the young man that Scott had imagined moved.
He closed the walk-in refrigerator’s door and made himself sit down. This was perfect. No way this hurricane would touch him.
The lights blinked again. He heard a click, followed by two more. The electronic locks on the walk-in refrigerator’s door had just engaged. He raced to the door just as the lights went out. His stomach sank. He wouldn’t be able to open the door until the electricity came back on.
CHAPTER 62
Scott ignored Trish’s phone calls. He turned the cell phone off and threw it on the embalming table.
She wanted him to get to her father’s house. She couldn’t find her dad. Couldn’t get in touch with her sister. She was panicked again. Earlier he had told her that he needed to stay at the funeral home to make sure everything was okay. If a window blew out he wanted to be here to board it up so there wasn’t any water damage. She didn’t understand. After all, he hadn’t lifted a finger to protect their brand-new home.