Her Name Will Be Faith (45 page)

The
clock behind the wheel showed 1.25 am. They could of course still
be out at their party. Equally, they could have
seen Richard's telecast
and already
left; it was unlikely that Marcia would have worried about
her.
But
still… Jo braked the car and got out. "I'm going to try ringing
for a minute, just in case they're in after
all," she told the children.
"Maybe
their automobile is in the garage again," remembering
the idiosyncrasies of their ancient and battered
Ford. She was soaked
by the time she
had satisfied herself that the house was empty, and
hurried back to the Mercedes, dripping water
everywhere, chewing her
lip in indecision. She was still anxious about
the young couple, but she couldn't risk waiting for their return… the traffic
was building all the time.

Progress
north was gradually slowed as the lights constantly changed
at intersections, and the traffic steadily built
up, with much shouting and
swearing and honking on horns to suggest that
quite a few New Yorkers had heard Richard's warning and decided to act on it.
It occurred to her that the avenues farther east might be less congested; she
could always
cross back again later.
Seventh, Sixth and Fifth all showed a mass of
lights gleaming through the rain, but Park looked better, so she swung
the
Mercedes north again and made steady progress up-hill, round the Pan American
Building, but still the number of vehicles around her was increasing, the blare
of horns becoming more insistent, and the mood of the drivers deteriorating.

She
passed 47th Street, 48th, their own apartment block, from the garage of which a
steady stream of automobiles was issuing to indicate
that Washington had been doing his job – 49th Street…

"How long will it take to get to Bognor, Mom?"
Owen Michael asked. "I've never
seen the streets so
busy."

"Everyone's going away for the weekend," Jo
agreed. "I thought we'd
be half way there by
now." The lights changed, and she braked, drawing up slowly behind a white
Chevrolet which inched forward in anticipation of the change back, and then
leapt into gear immediately on amber. Jo
followed…
and she and Owen Michael yelled in unison as a blue
Cadillac, engine racing to beat the lights which
had already turned against
it,
smashed into the Mercedes' front wing, sending it spinning into the
car
on their left.

Tamsin screamed as another automobile hit the Mercedes
from behind,
throwing it at right
angles to the street. Then there were other vehicles
all
around it, braying horns, screaming drivers… Jo shook her head, realizing that
she was not actually hurt, and looked at Owen Michael. If that bump had opened
his stitches .. .

He
managed a smile. "I'm okay, Mom."

She
twisted in her seat and Tamsin sniffed. "I was so scared."

"Well, you had every reason to be." Jo opened
her door and got out,
into the rain. "You
stupid idiot," she bawled at the driver of the Cadillac.

He
ignored her, and his crumpled bumper, wrenched his automobile
round, tearing off some of her wing as he did so,
and joined the stream
of traffic hurrying away from the lights.

"Bastard,"
Jo muttered, so angry she forgot to take his number, and
bent to look at the damage. The right wing was
pushed hard in against
the wheel, and she doubted it would turn, at
least without immediately tearing the rubber to shreds. She went to the rear,
and saw an equal
amount of damage. She
needed a garage. And now the cacophony around
her was tremendous, as other automobiles tried to pass her, and bumped
against
the next lane of traffic.

"Get that fucking wreck off the road,"
someone shouted at her. "Yeah, lady, you're blocking the road,"
shouted someone else.

"How
can I move the goddamned thing?" she shouted back. "I need a
tow."

"Then
let us help you," someone else bawled. The lights had by now
changed from green to red and then back again to
green. Now, before she
could stop them, four men leapt from behind the
driving wheels of their
packed vehicles and
ran to the Mercedes. They put their shoulders to the
body and began to heave, cheered on by their
passengers and immediately
joined by several more frustrated drivers.

"Stop
that!" Jo screamed. "My children are in there!" She grabbed at
their shoulders, but they shrugged her off, and
she slipped and fell on the
wet
street, only just being missed by an automobile in the next lane,
which swerved round her, cannoned off its
neighbor, and slithered away
down the avenue.

Jo scrambled to her feet and ran to the Mercedes, which
had been
pushed on to the center
space, half on its side. She pulled the doors open,
and Owen Michael and Tamsin tumbled out, gasping and
crying. "Oh,
my darlings," she
shrieked. "Are you all right?"

Tamsin
threw both arms round her.

"Yeah," Owen Michael said. "Yeah. But
what's got into these people?"

Jo hugged him too, and looked past him at the
Mercedes, which had
now been pushed right
over on its side; the men ran away from it, shouting
and laughing. Jo watched them drive off, then saw a police officer
making
his
way through the rain towards her, water dripping from his cap and
cape. "Did you see what happened?" she
shouted. "Did you see those
men wreck my car?"

"Yeah,"
he agreed. "These people sure are in a hurry."

"Well,
aren't you going to do something about it?"

"Me, lady? I'd need the goddamned National Guard to
stop this bunch.
They're scared
stiff."

"But… my auto… look, you have a radio. Can't you
call a garage
for a tow truck?"

He
peered at the twisted metal. "It sure is a wreck. Calling a garage
wouldn't do any good; they'd never get here. That vehicle ain't going
anywhere tonight, lady. I reckon you have to get
hold of something else
if you mean to leave town."

Jo
stared at him in disbelief, then at the Mercedes, then again at the traffic
streaming by behind gleaming lights and blaring horns. At that
moment she hated everyone in the world, wanted to
shout and scream in
her outrage. But
she knew that losing her temper was going to accomplish
nothing –
and there was Michael's Cadillac waiting in the garage only a few blocks behind
her; as he had been planning to stay away at least a
fortnight, he had driven up with Sam, who actually lived in Newport,
rather
than leave his car in the park for that time.

"Thanks for your advice, officer," she said.
She wrestled the boot open,
selected
the suitcase she regarded as containing the most important items
–
she knew she could only carry one, and there was no question of Owen Michael
hefting any weight – locked the boot again, told the boy to hold his
sister's hand, and walked off into the rain.

"I'm sorry, Mr Connors," the switchboard said.
"But there is no reply
from that number."

"Well..."
She must have gone to her parents-in-law after all; presumably the reason she
had just left a message for him to call her instead of
specifying where was pure excitement. "Can you obtain from exchange
the number of Mr Michael Donnelly? He lives in Bognor, too. Get the
number, and call there for me, will you?" He replaced the phone, got up,
and looked down at the street far below him. It, all New York, was now a
constant ribbon of light, and the traffic was
steadily growing. It was going to be a grim dawn, and already it was murky,
with a gusty wind driving a
succession
of rain squalls in front of it, with darting lightning flashes serrat
ing
the gloom, accompanied always by a continuous rumble of thunder.
Faith was coming closer – but if she held
off until tomorrow there was time
for
most of those people to get away.

"How're
you doing with the
Hurricane Center?" he asked Julian. They were alone now; he had told Jayme
to get out while she could.

"I just can't get through," Julian confessed.
"I guess every forecaster
in the country is trying
to ring Eisener."

"Hey," Richard said. "Wasn't Waring
planning to keep a camera crew
in Coral Gables over the
weekend?"

Hal
Waring was the producer of the weather program on NABS. "Sure."

"Well,
then, can't we raise them on the link?"

"At two o'clock in the morning that crowd will be in
bed," Julian
pointed
out. "They were planning to start filming again at 8.30, in time
to
relay an update and also have an interview with Dr Eisener for your first
forecast."

"I
need an update now," Richard said. "It's four hours since our last.
That storm could have done anything in four hours. Listen, get through
to whichever technicians are on duty and tell them
we have to have a
link opened to the
Hurricane Centre as quickly as possible, and then call
Coral Gables and
get that crew awake."

"For a live show? We'll need a producer and a
director, and God knows
who else."

"Forget
that," Richard snapped.

"Company
policy."

"I'll
produce and direct," Richard told him. "It won't be a live telecast,
anyway, just a recording. We don't have the time for any company red
tape." The phone buzzed, and he grabbed it.

"I
have Bognor on the line, Mr Connors."

"Hello,"
he said. "Mr Donnelly?"

"Speaking,"
said the gruff voice. "Who the hell is that?"

"Richard Connors, from NABS. I'd like to speak to
Jo, please."

"To Jo? What the hell is this?"

"She
asked me to call," Richard explained, patiently.

"At
two o'clock in the morning? Holy shit! Anyway, she ain't here."

Richard
frowned. "Hasn't she been there?"

"No,
for Christ's sake."

"But…
aren't you expecting her?"

"Sure. Tomorrow morning. This morning, for God's
sake. For break
fast! Now get off the
line. You've woken up the whole goddamned house."

The phone went dead, and Richard slowly replaced it. What
the devil
could have happened?
He picked it up again. "Call Mrs Donnelly's Park
Avenue
number, please, Maisie."

"Right away, Mr Connors." She was back in five
minutes. "There's no reply, Mr Connors. I spoke with the night porter, and
he said Mrs Donnelly and her children left the building, by automobile, just
after
midnight."

"Thank God for that," Richard said. Just after
midnight. They'd have
headed
straight for the Bronx, New Rochelle, and the New England
Thruway. And leaving immediately after the telecast
they'd have beaten
the
traffic build up. Presumably she had called him to explain the reason
for her delayed departure, whatever that had been –
but it didn't matter
now.
She was safe and in another hour and a half she'd be in Bognor, well away from
the coast and anything more than a strong breeze: he
could
concentrate on the job.

The phone was buzzing again. "I have Mr White for
you, Mr Connors,"
Maisie said.

"Oh, Christ," he muttered and wagged his
eyebrows at Julian, who
was
still trying all sorts of internal numbers in his efforts to create a link
with the Weather Centre, currently without success. But
how the hell
had JC got into the
act so early – and yet not early enough if he had
actually seen the telecast? "Good morning, JC,"
he said. "Well, it isn't
such a good morning
after all, is it?"