and, with an effort, changed the direction of his thoughts.
She was in her late-twenties, he thought, and she had the appeal that came with maturity. She seemed to know who she was and to be comfortable with the knowledge.
In the gray light, he could see how tired she was. He didn’t know how she’d passed the previous day, but she’d spent the night alternately caring for him and holding a gun on him. Couldn’t have been easy.
He let her sleep for a while, but the position of the gun made him edgy. A reflexive movement could cause her to squeeze the trigger. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot.
Deciding he’d better let her wake slowly, he cleared his throat.
Her eyes popped open and she straightened, aiming the gun again. Voice raspy with sleep, she asked, “Do you need another drink?” He nodded, and she picked up the glass and backed out of the room, keeping her eyes—and the gun—on him. In a minute, she returned with the water. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay,” he lied. He drank, set the glass on the nightstand, and carefully swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll be out of your way as soon as I’m dressed.”
“Where will you go?”
Good question. He didn’t have a clue where to go. “I’ll figure something out,” he said with more certainty than he felt.
“You should see a doctor.”
“You’ve done a pretty good job of putting me back together.”
“Nevertheless. There’s a hospital in town, only a few miles from here.” She gestured vaguely. “I’d drive you to town if I could,” she added.
“No problem. If you’ll point me toward the road, I’ll walk or hitch a ride.”
She nodded, went to the window and pulled up the blinds. “Oh, my God.”
He got off the bed, crossed the room and looked over her shoulder. “Damn,” he muttered, staring at the scene before him. He could forget his plan of walking into town. Water, high enough so that only the top of the mailbox showed above it, filled the front yard and lapped at the porch steps. A lawn chair and several broken tree limbs floated toward the drive.
He glanced up at the leaden sky. Rain still fell in sheets and he doubted it would stop any time soon. A few more hours and water would be at the door.
As a crash of thunder resounded, his eyes met Christy’s. He wasn’t surprised to see nerves, wouldn’t have faulted her if she’d given in to them. She didn’t. “You’ll have to stay, at least for now,” she said, her voice steady.
“Looks like it. As long as I’m going to be here a while, I can help you out. Unless you like your furniture decorated with water marks, we need to start moving it and getting things off the floor.”
“Thanks, but you should take it easy.”
The way his head felt, he’d have to. “I’ll do what I can.”
She nodded. “I’ll get your clothes out of the dryer. And then I’m going to fill the tub. If we need water, we’ll have it.”
When she returned with his clothes, he went into the bathroom to dress. He peered into the mirror again but a stranger still stared back. No time to dwell on his problems now. Dealing with the flood took precedence. He dressed quickly and followed the sound of the television and the odor of frying bacon down the hallway.
In the living room, he halted. Out the back window he saw the gray of the Gulf and above it an ominous, pewter-colored sky. Waves thundered in, one after another, slamming across what had once been a beach. Water frothed at the edge of Christy’s yard, threatening to swallow it up, too. “Do we need an ark?” he called to Christy.
He left the window and went into the kitchen where she stood at the stove, scrambling eggs. She’d tucked the gun in her waistband. “You know,” she said, “I’ve always enjoyed storms, but this one is a little more than I bargained for.” Without looking up, she continued. “Pour yourself a glass of juice and have a seat.” She gestured toward the television. “The news isn’t good.”
Sipping his juice, he listened.
“Hal McCormick is standing by in the small town of Lerner, across the bay from San Sebastian Island.”
Christy took the pan of eggs off the burner and went to stand in front of the set.
“Hal, how does it look out there?” the anchor asked.
“Wet, Ray. And no let-up in sight.” The camera swung back for a wide-angle view. Abandoned cars were parked haphazardly by the seawall. Wind whipped the trees along the road. Three teenagers lugging a rubber raft waved and mugged for the camera. “What was labeled a tropical depression yesterday has been upgraded to a tropical storm and given the name Coral. Winds are not yet at hurricane force, but with Coral stalled over the Gulf of Mexico, nearly eight inches of rain have fallen here, leaving cars stranded, homes flooded, and power lines down. And the forecast is more of the same.”
“At least we have electricity,” Christy murmured. She returned to the stove, spooned eggs onto plates, added bacon and bagels, then joined him at the table. She reached for the gun, set it beside her plate, and watched as he lifted a forkful of food to his mouth. “Eggs okay?”
He nodded, glanced pointedly at the revolver. “I’d enjoy them more without the artillery.” He smiled at her. “I like the sound of snap, crackle, and pop, but from cereal, not from bullets.”
“You’ll have to put up with it.”
He shrugged, and they ate without further conversation.
The news broadcast continued. “San Sebastian, across the bay, is cut off from the mainland. Access to the causeway bridge was washed out early this morning.”
The implications of that were clear. “We’re trapped,” he murmured.
“Maybe we do need an ark.” Christy tried to smile but failed miserably.
Before he could answer, another voice blared from the TV. “We interrupt the weathercast for this bulletin, just received from the San Sebastian Island Police Department. A thirty-four-year-old woman, Martha McLane, was reported missing last night.”
Christy’s head jerked up.
“Mrs. McLane, who was vacationing on the island with her husband and two children, left their room at the Gulf View Motel around 5:00 p.m. to walk to a nearby supermarket and did not return.” The picture of a woman with dark, wavy hair appeared on the screen. “Witnesses who were in the Kroger parking lot reported seeing a woman meeting Mrs. McLane’s description getting into a dark-blue Toyota Corolla driven by a dark-haired white male, wearing jeans. Witnesses were uncertain about the color of his shirt, but it may have been blue.”
“Dark hair,” Christy muttered. “Jeans…blue shirt.” She turned from the TV set. Her eyes stared into his. It didn’t take a mind reader to figure out what she was thinking.
He laid down his fork. It clattered against his plate. Christy reached for the gun. “Was it you?”
“I
