Natural Disaster (Book 3): Storm
1
STORM
LOU CADLE
Copyright © 2016 by Cadle-Sparks Books
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Captain T
Chapter 2
Captain T
Chapter 3
Captain T
Chapter 4
Captain T
Chapter 5
Captain T
Chapter 6
Captain T
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Captain T
Chapter 11
Captain T
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Dedicated to the first responders—police, fire, medical, and more—who put our needs ahead of their own families’ in disasters. Thank you.
Captain T
It’s early in this April morning and the sky is beautiful, blue, with a few fair-weather cumulus, but deceptively nice weather, I promise. You can feel the humidity in the air already, here in Terre Haute, Indiana, where the college girls are smokin’ and loving being outdoors in shorts again. I’m loving that, too, needless to say.
Captain T—that’s T, for tornado—doesn’t enjoy getting up this early, but after last evening’s multiple tornados in Missouri and across into Illinois, he knew he had to chase this weather front through its second day. Radar loops showed less activity in the cooler hours, which long-time tornado fans know is common, but the line is still active, and the day’s warming will spin up more twisters. Humid air flows up from the Gulf—it’s blowing through the Cap’s blond locks right now, as you can see—and the upper levels are bringing us that cold Canadian air. A recipe for awesomeness.
Can’t promise you EF3s and above, but it looks like we’ll get more daylight action today than yesterday. Videographer sidekick says yeah to that, don’t you, Felix? (Camera moves as if nodding.)
It’s Captain T, extreme chaser, signing off for now. Catch you later on the dryline.
(Posted at Youtube and CaptainTforTornado.com)
Chapter 1
Greg Duncan barely noticed the weather as he trudged up the walk to his house. He unlocked both locks and opened the door to the distant sound of Little Bear coming out of the TV. He followed the noise into the living room and stood for a moment, watching his daughter, Holly, as she sat with one white sock on and one dangling from her hand, mesmerized at the cartoon.
“Heya, kiddo,” he said, walking over to plant a kiss on the back of her neck over the collar of her school uniform shirt.
“You’re scratchy, Dad,” said Holly.
“And sweaty and gross,” he said, standing up.
“Mmm,” she said, her attention back on the cartoon.
“Finish getting dressed,” Greg said, feeling that wild rush of love for her that half-scared him with its power. It came at the strangest times—not just when she was being good or sweet or funny, but at random moments when she didn’t even know she had his attention. He watched her for a few more seconds, indulging himself, then left the room.
In the kitchen, he found Malika doing dishes. “Hi, Mr. Duncan,” she said. “I turned your coffee on when I heard you drive up.”
“Thanks. How’d the night go?”
“Great. Peaceful.”
“Good. Get your homework done?”
“Always,” she said. “And before you ask, no, Holly’s mom didn’t call.”
He nodded. It figured.
“Want eggs?” Malika asked. “Cereal?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got a breakfast date.”
“Really?” She turned, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “A date?”
He shook his head. “Not that sort. With my aunt.”
“Oh.”
“Like I have time for the other.”
“I know what you mean.” Malika’s face was serious—as it often was. It was easy to forget she wasn’t yet eighteen. She looked and acted much older. “I’ll go get Holly.”
He felt a familiar guilty twinge about being on the night shift. Couldn’t be helped, but he’d rather not leave the teenager in charge all night. With any babysitter other than Malika, he wouldn’t, though in his prowl car, he could rush back home in a minute or two from anywhere in town. The situation, he knew, was less than ideal. But it’d be worse for him and Holly in the autumn, when Malika would be off at college.
Greg really didn’t want to think about that. Finding a new babysitter half as good as Malika would be nearly impossible. He’d no doubt need to find an adult, and he’d be paying twice as much, too, money he really didn’t have.
Later. Think about today’s problems today and save those worries for the summer, when the search for a new babysitter would have to begin.
He heard the television go off, and Malika steered Holly into the kitchen.
Greg took the milk carton out of the fridge and put it on the table. He pointed to the cartoon cow on it. “Hey Holly, what do cows watch on TV?”
“Mooooovies.” She giggled.
Malika shook her head. “Groan,” she said, smiling as she poured out cereal for Holly.
Greg watched Holly eat while he sipped his coffee. She was going through a dawdling phase. It wasn’t about disliking school, he was pretty sure. She just took her sweet time about everything, and there was no hurrying her.
At the rate she was eating her cereal, they’d be late for school. He put a banana on the table to remind himself to take it along. Maybe she’d eat a few bites on the ride.
While Malika convinced Holly to finish putting on her shoes, Greg changed his uniform for a plaid flannel shirt and jeans. He helped Holly with her backpack, grabbed the banana, and hustled them all out the door, no more than five minutes late. After dropping Malika at Fidelity Community High, he drove Holly to the grade school, where she joined the other stragglers walking up the steps. A honk behind him forced him to continue on around the semi-circle drive before he could watch her walk all the way inside.
He made a last stop at Malika’s mom’s apartment.
He rang the doorbell, waited a minute, and rang it again. Finally, Darla Jefferson opened the door, pulling a worn blue plush robe tighter around her chunky middle.
“Ms. Jefferson,” he said. “Here’s Malika’s things.” He set the duffle bag inside the door.
“Would you like to come in?” she said.
“I’m sorry, no. I have to get going.”
She gave a curt nod. “I heard from Antoine last night.”
Her only son, in a work release program in Columbus. “How’s he doing?”
“He says it’s hard work.”
Greg wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say to that. Was it a complaint?
“I wish he could be here,” she said.
Here was where he got in trouble, so he was probably better off somewhere else. Greg didn’t say it, though it was true. Instead, he said. “I’m sure you miss him. But Columbus isn’t far. Maybe you can visit soon.”
“If I didn’t have the others,” she said. Meaning Malika and her sister, twelve years old and not nearly as bright as Malika, from the hints Malika had given. “It’s so much work.”
Greg felt himself getting impati
ent with her weary tone. “I gotta go. Have a nice day, now.”
As he trotted back to his car, he felt guilty about his impatience. He should have more sympathy for her.
He did have sympathy for her—in theory. It was harder to have sympathy after a few minutes in her actual presence. She had three children by two men, neither of which had stayed for long. She had been born into poverty and lived in poverty still. A recipe for disaster, which Antoine, Malika’s half-brother, had acted out as if following a script, getting into enough trouble that he had ended up in juvie. Greg hadn’t arrested him—thank God—but the kid had committed a robbery. Malika said—and Greg was willing to believe—he had intended a burglary only, with no threat of violence, but the boy he was with hadn’t had the same plan. Both were prosecuted for robbery and plea bargained. The older boy had gone to prison and Antoine to juvie.
The best he had been able to do for Malika was help get her brother into a work-release program, a trade apprenticeship deal in Columbus. The kid—young man, now—was learning masonry.
Greg hoped he’d straighten himself out. He hoped Malika wouldn’t end up bailing him out of jail the whole rest of her life, or feeling compelled to visit him in prison. Malika was the hope of the family, smart and hardworking and never in trouble. Her mother had given up long ago.
She might deserve to feel self-pity, but Greg wished the woman would find some gumption in herself, learn a lesson from her hardworking daughter, and take responsibility for making herself a better future.
He sighed. He had done what he could for that family, and he needed to let it go. It wasn’t his problem, right?
If not, why did he always feel that it somehow was? That he hadn’t done enough?
*
His mother had been horrified when he told her he was joining the police force, the summer after he had graduated from OSU with a degree in criminal justice.
“I thought you were going on to law school!” she had said, collapsing into a kitchen chair as if shot.
He had sat down across from her. “I think I can make a bigger difference as a cop.”
“You could be a prosecutor. A judge. A senator.”
He shook his head at that. She had hinted before that she had political aspirations for him, but he had none for himself. “By the time you’re prosecuting a crime, it’s too late. A criminal at that level is unlikely to be saved. It’s a done deal. He’s a criminal, he’s in the life, and he’ll almost certainly offend again. If I can get to kids somehow, kids just getting into trouble, steer them away—”
“Then why not be a social worker? At least they don’t get shot at!”
They probably did. But he didn’t make that point. He addressed the one he thought was important. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mom.”
“I do have to worry. I’m your mother! It’s my job to worry!”
He had thought she was a little crazy to say that, but now that he was a parent himself, he understood it better. The worry came with the love, whether you wanted to worry or not.
*
His mother was off on a tour of Australia right now with her boyfriend, half a world away. These days, he thought maybe he should have taken her advice about law school. After a decade of failing to do a fraction of what he had hoped when he became a peace officer, he was, he knew, burning out on the job.
As he pulled up to Aunt Sherryl’s house, he got out his phone and typed in “Mom—hope you’re having a great time. Love you,” and scheduled it to send at 5:00 this afternoon his time. If he had his time zones right, she’d be getting up about then.
When he looked up, he saw that Sherryl was already out front, fiddling with something in her front flower bed. She finished and stood, waving to him. She looked little like his mother, though only eighteen months separated the two women’s birthdays. While they had roughly the same build, short and square-shouldered, they had entirely different faces. Sherryl’s long nose and thin lips gave her a hawk-like appearance—or bald eagle, now that her hair had turned entirely white.
It was the kind of thing you could say to her, and she’d not take offense. She could laugh at herself. He liked that about her. Since he had moved here, she’d become a second mother to him, and the other grandmother to Holly.
As she got in the car, he said, “How’s my favorite aunt?”
“And how many aunts do you have?”
“One, but she’s a winner.” He waited while she put on her seatbelt. “Donuts? Denny’s? What’s your pleasure, ma’am?”
“Fritch’s. I’m in the mood for a biscuit, and I like theirs.”
They arrived at the restaurant after the worst of the breakfast rush and were seated without a wait.
Their server was Belle, who recognized him. “What’ll you have, Officer Friendly?”
“That takes me back.” He had done the Officer Friendly gig a few years back in the schools. Probably that hadn’t done any lasting good there, either. “Decaf for me.”
“Iced tea, please,” said his aunt. “No sugar.”
When Belle had gone to get their drinks, he said, “How’s Jim?”
“He has his good days and bad.”
“And you’re holding up okay?”
“I’m good,” she said. “Loving the spring, getting out in the garden again.”
“I mean, with Jim.”
“I knew what you meant,” she said with a smile. “I’m fine, really. How’s work?”
He waggled his hand— comme ci comme ça.
“Problems? New boss okay?”
“She’s fine.” She wasn’t, but Greg wouldn’t complain about that aloud—not even to Aunt Sherryl. He was hoping it’d work itself out. But it was one more straw on the camel’s back that was his dissatisfaction with work.
Sherryl said, “You don’t look happy.”
“I’m fine. Work’s okay.”
“Uhuh,” she said, clearly not believing him. Belle came with the drinks and his aunt thanked her, and they both gave their orders. Sherryl took the spoon out of her tea and sipped. “You know, your mother never wanted you to join the force.”
“Funny, I was just thinking about that. About the day I told her I was.”
“She quit speaking to me for days when she learned I’d told you about the posting here. For almost a month, she didn’t return my calls.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t know that.”
“Oh, it passed. You know your mother.”
“I do.” He finished his coffee and set the cup at the outer edge of the table, hoping for a quick refill.
“So what’s up with work?”
“It’s just—I don’t know. It’s the system, you know, a whole messed up system, this ugly machine, clanking along, and I feel like I’m a little cog in it, contributing somehow to the mess. That’s not why I decided to do the work. I want to make things better, somehow.”
“You’re what—thirty, now?”
“Thirty-two. And you’re suggesting that’s too old to be such an idealist?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. Idealism is nice. I was wondering more about a career change. You’re plenty young enough for that, still. That’s why I asked.”
“Enough about me. I’m just tired after the shift, full of complaints. Let’s talk about you.”
She let him change the subject. “I’m boring. Gardening in the mornings. Nursing home every day, TV most nights, mah jongg once a week, gardening club once a month. Nothing is ever new with old people, except new health complaints, and I don’t have much to complain about there. Now tell me about that sweet girl of yours. Hard to believe she’s almost done with second grade.”
And for the rest of the meal, they talked about Holly, and spring, and nothing at all serious.
*
His cell phone rang as he locked the front door after himself. He was desperate for some sleep, but he checked the number.
Kimberly. His ex. Oh man, that woman’s awful timing. Or did she do this on purpos
e?
Sighing, he thumbed on the phone. “Hi,” he said.
“Let me talk to Holly,” his ex-wife said.
“It’s nearly ten here. She’s in school.”
Silence. Then, “I don’t know why you won’t let her have a cell phone. I can afford it.”
“If she had a cell,” he said with exaggerated patience, “she couldn’t answer it in class anyway.”
“Still—”
“Look, Kim,” he said, “I have to get some sleep. Let’s fight later. Or, here’s an idea—you can call your daughter tonight, any time between five and eight.”
“I’ll be busy,” she said, and the phone went dead.
He turned off the phone and said to it, “Selfish witch,” but without any heat. Mostly, Kim just tired him out. Her attention to Holly was sporadic, at best. He had given up child support in exchange for primary custody, and he had soon suspected he could have had custody without giving up anything. Well, it is was it is, as they say. His disappointment in his ex was manageable. It was Holly he felt bad for.
He unbuttoned his shirt and, once he hit his bedroom, dropped it to the floor as he kicked off his shoes. He should toss his uniforms shirt in the laundry, but he was too tired to do it now. He unbuttoned his jeans and slipped on his sleep mask to shut out the daylight seeping in around the blinds—and was asleep as soon as his head sank into the pillow.
*
Sherryl waved to her nephew as he drove off and stood on the sidewalk, telling herself not to worry about him. It was normal, she thought, to question your career choices about his age. He was bright, and he’d work through it.
She glanced up at the sky, assessing the few clouds moving lazily to the east. The forecast this morning had promised rain, probably thunderstorms in the afternoon, so she didn’t need to water the garden now.
She wished she could spend all morning puttering around, planting some annual seeds, at least. She had impatiens, morning glory, and coleus seeds, saved or exchanged for at the garden club. She could tie off the fading tulips, dig some compost into the vegetable patch, readying it for the peas and spinach and green beans.