“Look, I’ve got to get out there. I’ll call my officers and get everyone out helping. Phones are down at the station. If you need something, I’ve got my cell.”
I disconnect and look at Tomasetti. “I don’t have time to drive back to the farm for my Explorer, so I’m going to have to commandeer your vehicle.” I’m only half kidding.
He’s already got his keys in hand. “You’ve got a driver, too, if you want it.”
“I do.” I look at Lois. “Call everyone in the department. Make sure they’re okay. Then I want every officer on duty. Pickles and Mona, too. Unless they’re dealing with their own emergency. First priority is the injured, most critical first. We’re setting up a temporary shelter at the VFW.”
“Gotcha.”
“Call one of the guys—T.J. or Skid—and get them to fire up that generator for you so we have power here at the station. It might be a while before we get our power back, and I’d like to get the phones up and running.”
“Okay.”
I take the stairs two at a time to the top. Tomasetti and Lois bring up the rear. Then I’m through the door, and as I tread down the hall, I feel the cool, damp air coming through the broken window. Outside, the tornado sirens wail their eerie song. Though it’s late afternoon, it’s nearly as dark as night, so I turn on the Maglite.
I reach the reception area and look around. My heart sinks as I take in the damage. The blinds flap in the wind coming in through the window. Rain sweeps in with every gust. Water glistens on the floor. An aluminum trash-can lid is lodged between the blinds and the sill. Shards of glass, chunks of wood, and other small debris—leaves and twigs and trash—litter the floor. There’s paper everywhere.
“Looks like we dodged the bullet here,” comes Tomasetti’s voice from behind me.
“Computer and radio are dry.” It’s the only positive comment I can come up with.
“Oh my God.” Lois looks a little shell-shocked as she walks over to her desk. “Want me to call that glass guy up in Millersburg about that window?”
Usually we require three estimates on any work done for the township. Since time—and security—are at issue here, I reply with, “Get him down here within the hour. If he can’t replace the glass today, I want it secured some other way. Lois, if you smell any gas or smoke, get out and call the gas company and then call me.”
“Okeydoke.” She rounds the reception desk and gets behind the phone console, which is eerily silent.
“I’m going to go down to the trailer park to see if anyone’s hurt,” I tell her. “Call me if you need anything.”
Outside the window, the rain pours down, slapping against the concrete like a thousand angry fists.
CHAPTER 2
It’s an unsettling experience to drive through a place you’ve been a thousand times and not recognize it. Tomasetti and I are in his Tahoe heading south on Township Road 18. The closer we get to the Willow Bend Mobile Home Park, the worse the damage becomes, until it’s an unrecognizable war zone. Mud and debris cover the asphalt. Power lines dangle like dead snakes from telephone poles that list at a 45-degree angle. The air smells of gas and burning plastic.
Tomasetti slows the Tahoe, his eyes scanning the area to my right. I’m about to ask him why he’s slowed down, when I realize we’ve arrived at our destination. I didn’t recognize it because half of the trailer homes are gone.
“Is this it?” he asks.
For an instant I can’t speak. I don’t know how to put the disbelief roiling inside me into words. I never liked this place; I didn’t much care for some of the people I came in contact with here. Willow Bend was the epitome of a neighborhood on the decline. The Painters Mill PD took more calls from this dismal trailer park than from the rest of the town combined. Drunk and disorderly. Domestic violence. Loud music. Loose dogs. The occasional burglary. But I never wanted this. I never wanted it gone.
The maple tree that had stood guardian at the entrance since I was a kid is gone. The only sign that it had ever existed is the jagged-edged stump that juts three feet from the earth like an abscessed tooth that’s burst.
As I look out over the land, I wonder if this is what it’s like in the aftermath of war. Dozens of mobile homes have been torn apart and lie in pieces. Several have rolled off their foundations. Others have been smashed by trees. Farther in, I see the back end of a pickup truck protruding from the side of a double-wide. An hour ago, this park had housed nearly thirty mobile homes—young couples and families and singles just starting their lives. Children had played in the postage-stamp-size yards. Barbeque grills and hibachis had been set up on decks. Cars had been parked in concrete driveways. Taking in the devastation, I know I’m going to find things I don’t want to find. I’m going to see things I don’t want to see.
I feel Tomasetti’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him. Instead, I snatch up my phone and speed-dial the mayor. He answers on the first ring, sounding harried and stressed.