“I suppose so. Like you didn't use your gun on that guy in the back cells.”
“Like that. Why don't you go now, find Wanda, tell her to bring her car here and bunk in with us tonight.”
“Really? OK. Sure will. We done here, Chief?”
“Yes we are, Officer Binder. Go find Jeremiah and when he's done helping June you guys take the other patrol truck out. I guess I can hold the fort here until June gets back, me and Norris Compton back there.”
Troy went back to the cells. Compton was lying on his bunk staring at the ceiling. Troy unlocked the door, went in, and sat on the other bunk. Compton sat up and turned to put his feet on the floor. “You know, Chief Adam, I never had any trouble like this before.” He looked around. “First time I've ever been in jail. Heck, first time I've ever
seen
a jail.”
“I know. And our jail is pretty nice compared to some others. But it's only intended for temporary holding. Norris, I read your file, what you told the other officers. You're not in the system. I checked. No wants or warrants. You're an accountant, as I understand. You're divorced and still helping put a kid through college. There's no record of you ever having so much as a parking ticket.”
“That was all up in Atlanta. I worked for thirty years in an office, shoving paper around. Just moved here a year ago when I retired. I wanted to fish. Mostly I needed to get out of Atlanta and clear out my head. But Chief, I just got freaked out by the storm. Never seen a hurricane before.”
“You haven't seen one yet. But you soon will.”
“I drink too much sometimes. Didn't use to. I think I get bored. I argue with Marjorie a lot and, mostly, she's right.”
“Marjorie being your girlfriend?”
Norris nodded. “Marjorie Liston. She nags me about the beer-drinking and wants me to get a job. Well, I had a job. I don't need money. I want to fish but I really don't know how. Then this storm came along and I freaked out. I honestly thought all the noises I heard were looters trying to break in. I guess that was the beer talking.”
“Maybe you need to talk more to people and less to beer bottles.”
“Probably. I called an attorneyâthanks for the use of a phoneâand he tells me I'm looking at twenty years in prison. Is that true? That seems ridiculous.”
“It probably is ridiculous. But it's true. Florida has a 10-20-Life law. Use a firearm during the commission of a felony and the penalty is an automatic ten years. And that can be applied on top of the penalty for whatever crime you were committing at the time. Actually shoot off the firearm and it's an automatic twenty years on top of anything else. Hurt or kill someone and it's an automatic twenty-to-life sentence.”
“But I wasn't committing a crime. I didn't hurt anyone.”
“Actually, you were committing aggravated assault on myself and the other officers at the moment you pulled that trigger.”
“That's it? So it's just the gun? Hell, I didn't even know you were standing there. So if I had waved a samurai sword at you, I'd be up on charges of assault only. What's the jail time for that?”
“With your record, or lack of a record? Probably some probation and community service. Do you actually own a samurai sword?”
“Of course not. Just making a point. I do own some kitchen knives. So wave a carving knife at you and I pick up some trash alongside the road for a hundred hours. Shoot a gun out the front door and high into the airâwith no intention of actually shooting at anyone at allâand I go to jail for twenty years.”
“That's a pretty good summation. Here's what happens next. We send you up to the Collier County Jail in Naples and turn in some paperwork on you. You get an arraignment before a judge as soon as possible. Those are generally each morning, but the storm has upset the usual schedule. While awaiting your arraignment, you stay in the Collier County Jail. Not so nice as here. You might be able to bond out after the arraignment.”
Norris frowned. “You could withdraw the assault complaint. You know I'm not some criminal or dangerous⦔
“Norris, a drunk waving a .38-caliber revolver is dangerous.”
“I know that. And I know you can give me another chance with a stroke of a pen.”
“I'll think about it,” Troy said. “Best I can offer right now. Got other fish to fry.” Troy stood. “You're about to have company, by the way. My staff and some of their relatives will be bunking in here in the other cells. You're lucky, you get a whole cell to yourself. A cell all your own is going to be luxury accommodations tonight.”
Chapter 38
Tuesday, July 30
Outside, the wind had become a steady hard howl and the rain was coming down sideways and in bursts. Troy knew these low islands were a few feet of sand over porous limestone. Once the sand had soaked up all the rain it could, which would not take long, the water would just flow sideways on the surface in a sheet and into the Gulf in front or Oyster Bay behind. Flooding would not come from rain but from any storm surge, and the greatest danger would come at high tide, which would add about two feet to the surge. High tide was due at 1 a.m.
It was a little after 6 p.m. and June, sitting out front at her desk, had been talking nonstop to people, explaining their options. She had chased off her husband, Bob, who was now upstairs helping settle in people wanting to stay there overnight. Standing outside the front door of the station on Connecticut Avenue, Troy could see in the distance, a steady stream of cars, Snakers coming off the 8th Street bridge from Snake Key, heading for Barron Road and out of town. Airfield Key people would be meeting Barron Road three blocks farther east. He had officers at each intersection to smooth the traffic flow. They would be having a hard time directing traffic in this wind and rain. He walked back inside, shaking the rain off his hood. The second non-emergency line lit up on June's phone. June was still on with line one. Troy stepped a few feet down the corridor and into the office his officers used to write up reports and the like, and took the call.
“Afternoon, may I speak to the chief there?” a man's voice said.”
“Speaking. I'm Chief Troy Adam. What can I do for you?”
“Ah. You must be the new guy. I heard they were shopping. You do the phones too?”
“And take out the trash. What can I do for you?”
“I'm Navin Sheets. I strawboss the Collier County Sheriff's patrol boats. I need a little help.”
“Protect and serve. What do you need?”
“Well, I hate to ask, but we're overloaded already, picking people out of the water up and down the coast and up a few rivers. But we got some people went missing in your neck of the woods. Out in a rental boat. They called the Coast Guard, gave a position, said they were aground, wrecked really, on some oyster bar or in some trees. Coasties passed that to us. Said they could launch a chopper out of Clearwater or Opa Locka but that it would be useless in those mangroves. And their nearest boat station is Fort Myers Beach.”
“The lightweight boats they got that could go into those trees couldn't make the trip down here in the open Gulf right now,” Troy said. “How about the Marine Patrol?”
“How about them folks?” Sheets said. “No. They're busy too. Can you lend a hand? You're about it for right now. I know you got a town police boat.”
“I'll do what I can. No promises. Give me some information.”
Sheets read off what he knew: boat size and color, four people onboard. No injuries. Latitude and longitude last reported. “They went off the air, though,” he said. “Maybe the boat sank or flooded so as to kill the battery and electronics. Near as we can tell they're safe on a mangrove island, or were last time we had contact with them. But they won't be safe for long.”
“We'll give it a shot. I'll let you know what happens.”
“Appreciate that. So they're breaking you in fast down there, eh?”
“Let's just say it's been a large day already.”
Sheets laughed and hung up. Troy asked June to call in Bubba and she said he was in the break room. Troy had forgotten about asking two of his crew to come back at six to get some rest. Bubba came into Troy's office and asked what was up.
“We need to launch the town police boat. Go out to rescue some people who are looking like drowning tonight.”
“You's joking, right?”
“Wish I were. Sheriff's office just called and asked for help. Can we get that boat launched?”
“That boat's on the trailer and I chained the trailer to the fence at the boatyard,” Bubba said. “But I can get it loose. Where are these people? Wait one, let me get a chart. Got a spare one in the other office.”
He came back with a nautical chart and a ruler and spread the chart out on Troy's desk. Troy read off the coordinates and Bubba marked the spot.
“Can you get the police boat in there?” Troy asked.
“I can get close. Surge will probably help me get closer.”
“How long to get out there and back?”
“Two hours out, counting launching the boat. If they're there at that spot. If I don't have to circle around looking. An hour to come back if I don't mess up a prop on any floating trees or running over some oyster bar I can't see in the dark and rain. But I won't be coming back.”
“Why not?”
“Be dangerous to go out. By the time I load the boat with more weight and start back the hurricane will be on top of us. Be suicide to try to cross any of them open bays between there and back to here. But you see Faka Key here?” He pointed to the chart. “I can make that with a load,” Bubba said. “I'll have some cover from the wind on account of all the mangroves around. It's plenty high, old Indian mound. Used to be a settlement out there. Nothing left of that but a graveyard.”
“I know Faka Key well,” Troy said. “Camped there a few times.”
“I could get everyone off and we go sit up on that hill and hang on for dear life. Probably lose the boat, though. Your call.”
“My call is that we save people, not fiberglass. I can send someone out after the storm blows over, get you off that island.”
Bubba nodded. “I'll need one other good man, though, help me when the going gets hairy. Best would be Les Groud.”
Troy called Lester Groud. The mayor was on the other side of the building, supervising everyone. Troy explained things.
“I can't do it,” Lester said. “I have to stay here and be in charge.”
“Thought you might say that. Thought I'd call anyway. If not you, who? Besides you and Bubba Johns, who's the next best boatman around here?”
“You're gonna hate the answer.”
“Why? Who is it?”
“None other than Paul Ronson, commodore of the Osprey Yacht Club. He dresses like Little Lord Fauntleroy but that guy can thread a needle with a power boat.”
Troy was silent a long moment.
“You gonna call him?” Groud asked. “Want me to do it?”
“I'll do it. I was just feeling around for my humble hat.”
Groud hung up. Troy called the yacht club and eventually got Ronson. He explained things for the third time now. He waited for the snide remarks. There was a long silence while Ronson thought it over. “Bubba's there with you?” Ronson said finally.
“Yes.”
“He's a good man. Let me talk to him.”
Troy handed the phone to Bubba. Bubba talked to Ronson. He hung up the phone and looked at Troy. “He didn't even ask questions. Said he'll meet me at the boat. He knows it's at the Snake Key boatyard.”
“I'll be damned.”
Bubba grinned. “You owe a dollar. I gotta go. Quicker the better. I'll get someone to run me over to Snake Key. If I can keep the boat together I can use the police radio. It's actually the second strongest after the base station. If you lose me, check for us on Faka Key.”
“And if you don't make it to the stranded people, or make it there and don't make it onwards to Faka Key?”
“Well, we got those orange life jackets. All they're much use for is making it easier to spot the bodies up in the trees.”
Troy reached across the desk. “Good hunting,” he said and put out his hand. Bubba shook it and left.
Chapter 39
Wednesday, July 31
By midnight the wind was a high screech and the rain came at an angle like a hail of small bullets. The palms were bent half over, oaks were raining leaves and limbs all over town and asphalt-shingle roofs were shedding shingles like some giant hand spraying playing cards into the air. Most buildings in town were concrete block with metal roofs and sturdy enough to withstand this assault so long as the windows didn't give way. Every window in town seemed to be boarded up. As it had done so often in the past, the town of Mangrove Bayou hunkered down on its knees and patiently rode the whirlwind. They would count their losses later.
The residents who had wanted to leave had left. Troy could only hope they had also gotten far enough north on U.S. 41 to be safe, preferably at least to Naples. Another hundred or so were upstairs sleeping on air mattresses or whatever they had the sense to bring with them to the shelter. Many residents were just waiting it out in their homes. Those tourists who had refused to evacuate, and had just laughed and opened more beer, were starting to realize what a terrible mistake they had made. Too bad now, Troy knew. No one could take a car out in this.