Authors: Robert Conroy
Storm Front (11 page)
“I’m so sorry, Wally. You know Ellen was one of my best friends, too. I just wish I could have made it to the funeral.”
She had been in Japan on a trade mission drumming up business for the state when Ellen died.
Lauren Landsman and Wally’s late wife had been roommates in college. Wally had actually dated Lauren and the relationship had been quite serious, even intimate, until Lauren dumped him for someone else. He had dated Ellen on the rebound and it had blossomed into a long and successful marriage. As to Lauren Landsman, the guy she left Wally for was long forgotten. She had never married. Instead, she’d gone to law school and become a career politician, rising from state representative to state senator and then governor. Governorship of the State of Michigan was the obvious high point of her life to date, although there were rumors that she’d consider running for the U.S. Senate the next time around. Term limit legislation said she would be through as governor. Throughout the years, she, Ellen, and Wally had remained in contact and continued to be friends.
Lauren Landsman was still slender and extremely attractive for a woman her age, and Wally found himself thinking about the great physical fun they’d had when they were young and lithe and limber. Then he wondered if either of them was anywhere near as limber as then.
“Wally, what’s happening to us with all this snow? And don’t tell me the world’s ending.”
Wally smiled. “Not hardly. What we have here, Lauren, is a meteorological stalemate. We have two weather fronts in collision with each other and neither one will budge. It happens all the time, but it usually doesn’t last very long and, sooner or later, and generally sooner, one of the fronts gives up and is pushed away. This stalemate is lasting an ungodly long time and I don’t know when it will end. Maybe it’s our turn, though.”
“What do you mean by that happy thought, Wally-man?”
Wally smiled. She used to call him that when they were an item a century or so before. “Well, let’s see. California has earthquakes, brush fires, and storms off the Pacific, all of which makes one wonder why anybody would want to live there. Florida has hurricanes, gators, snakes, and a swamp that burns, while Kansas has tornados that take little girls to Oz. New England has Perfect Storms, and the Mississippi and Missouri flood all over the plains. What do we have in Michigan? Nothing. Oh, we get an occasional tornado that generally finds a trailer park, but nowhere near as many as other areas. Compared with other places, our weather picture is really very sedate. So, maybe it’s our turn for Mother Nature to zap us and remind us who’s really in charge.”
Lauren Landsman sighed expansively. “Wally, I cannot go before the people of Michigan and tell them what’s happening is our turn and we should learn to love it. They’d tell me to shove it, and with a snow shovel no less.”
“Lauren, I’d love to tell you it’s going to end soon, but I can’t. Sure it will end—I just don’t know when. The stalemate could break in five minutes, although not bloody likely, or it could break in five hours. Or maybe not for five days.”
“During which time it keeps on snowing.”
“You got it.”
“And other meteorologists agree with you?”
“Yep,” he said with a degree of pride. It was small comfort, but Wally was now the acknowledged prophet who’d been proven correct. He would not get the Isaac Cline award, although his warnings had come too late and against an astonishingly strong storm to be much help.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to tell everyone that this whole thing is your fault, and that they should send all their cards and letters to your home address, which, of course, I’ll provide along with your home phone number.”
Wally laughed and remembered how close they’d been in college before he’d met Ellen. “You do that, my dear governor, and I’ll tell the whole world that I’ve seen you naked.”
* * *
The Sampson’s Super Store in Sheridan was an outlet of a small Midwestern chain that emulated the more numerous Wal-Mart and Target chains. Like its larger brethren, the Sampson’s stores were one-floor, huge, sprawling, and had an almost all-inclusive inventory. They sold food, clothing, alcohol, prescription drugs, camping gear, car and home improvement supplies, and God only knew what else. Some of the more cynical said that God really didn’t know.
A store the size of Sampson’s could easily hold several hundred customers at a time, and handled far larger crowds during peak shopping periods. When the snow started falling, the store was almost empty. Then, as manager Tyler Holcomb watched, a trickle of people seeking shelter became a relative torrent. As people coming in laughingly told him and his staff, Sampson’s was the best possible place to wait out a storm, and Holcomb had to agree with them. It pleased him that they felt comfortable in his store. He just wondered how long they’d be there. It quickly became obvious that closing the place and booting them out was not an option.
Tyler Holcomb was in his mid-thirties, well-educated and considered a real possibility to be Sampson, Inc.’s first African-American vice president. That is, if another major competitor didn’t snag him with an offer the smaller Sampson’s couldn’t match. It was also rumored that Sampson’s was having financial problems.
Tyler liked working at Sampson’s. His pay and benefits were more than adequate. But he would go with an offer of more money. He had a wife and a couple of young kids who would want their own turn at college, even though they could barely walk right now. All other things being equal, or at least equivalent, money talked and bullshit walked as his father liked to say.
Holcomb was a very humane man. As people streamed in, he tried his best to make them comfortable and urged his staff to do the same thing. As a parent, he was amused at the way the mothers in the crowd took charge. They were the first to buy up items that their children could eat without cooking or trouble. This included cereal, milk (which necessitated buying plastic cups or bowls), fruit, veggies, and anything else that came to mind. Despite the snow, it was going to be a very profitable day. And night, he thought ruefully. He’d much rather be home.
Some of the more pessimistic bought Holcomb’s stock of camping gear and even the pillows from the home section. Since just about everyone had cash or plastic, they paid for what they took, and everyone was as happy as they could be under the circumstances.
However, Tyler could see problems arising. Sadly, he knew he could not predict all of them. First, he called his home office and told them of the situation and his conclusion that he, his staff, and his customers were going to be in the store for the foreseeable future. People, he said, were going to need help, and his staff should be paid for their overtime efforts. His corporate bosses agreed, and also gave him the go-ahead to distribute whatever was needed and let people use what was required without charge if necessary. They did not have to tell him that any inventory losses would be covered by insurance and that the subsequent “good neighbor” publicity would do the chain well. He was certain that Wal-Mart and other stores were doing the same thing.
Requests for food and other supplies from City Hall and elsewhere put an additional strain on his resources. While it looked as if he had an abundance of food on his shelves, that was an illusion. What was on the shelves was practically it. There was no huge quantity in a back room. In fact, there really wasn’t a back room at all, just loading docks and handling spaces. They depended on a constant stream of trucks bringing inventory, and the snow had put an end to all that.
Still, there were lighter moments. The request for toilet paper from City Hall made Holcomb’s irreverent assistant manager laugh. “Always thought there were a lot of assholes in that building, and now this proves it,” he said to general agreement.
There were laws forbidding the eating of food in the store proper—the small snack bar was an obvious exception, but Holcomb judged that circumstances required that the rule be ignored. He was not going to ask people to take their food and their little kids outside in the snowdrifts to eat, or jam themselves into the snack bar.
Nor was he concerned about the purchases of beer and liquor. For quite some time, he wasn’t even aware that such purchases were being made. It simply never occurred to him. Nor did it occur to him that some people would steal the alcohol. Thus, when one of his security guards told him there were some rowdy teenagers in the rear of the building and that they were upsetting other people, he thought it was just kids making noise, and went to ask them to put a stop to it.
Five of them were squatting in the aisle around women’s cosmetics, three boys and two girls. Cosmetics was a good choice for some privacy. Not too many people had a need for nail polish at the moment, so they pretty much had the place to themselves. The kids looked about sixteen and there were empty beer cans half hidden in a bag. Holcomb quickly had the security guard take what was left. The kids didn’t protest, other than to swear. One, however, called him a motherfucking nigger in a drink-slurred voice. Holcomb was shocked and barely controlled his rage. He’d played football in college, defensive end, and could have wiped out the little shit, which he dearly wanted to. It’d been years since anyone had called him a nigger and that had been one of his own family after Tyler had fouled him hard during a pickup basketball game.
He had no choice regarding handling the punks. At least a couple of them had the decency to look shocked at the outburst, while one of the girls simply giggled drunkenly and belched. He would have to endure the idiots. His only alternative was to throw them out. He couldn’t bring himself to do that.
Holcomb walked to his office and gathered his department managers. “I want all alcohol taken off the shelves and moved to the back and locked up,” he said angrily. “Start with the hard stuff and then do the beer and wine. If anybody asks, I’m going to announce that the mayor has ordered all sales of alcoholic beverages stopped.”
“Has he actually done that?” the supervisor of the cashiers asked.
“No,” Holcomb said, “but I think he should have.”
“What about those who already have stuff? Should we remind them it’s illegal to drink it in here?” asked the same assistant manager who thought City Hall was filled with assholes.
Holcomb thought that would be impossible to enforce. The aisles were filled with people and packages, and who knew what was in them. Besides, why punish adults who wanted a drink because some punks acted up?
“No, do not take anything from adults who’ve already paid for it.”
“What about smoking?”
Holcomb shook his head. The store was an old building. Sampson’s had bought it from K-Mart after their bankruptcy, and, at best, the circulation in the store was barely adequate. Already the air was getting stale because of the numbers of people. This law he would obey. “No smoking. If anybody complains, tell them there are kids in the building with asthma. Hell, there probably are.”
As he went back into his office, he wondered: What the hell am I, a cruise ship director? For the first time, he began to feel both weary and to understand that he had maybe a thousand people to manage. Maybe he really was a cruise director. He laughed harshly. Just so long as this wasn’t the
Titanic
.
“I’ll make a PA announcement about booze and smoking, however useless it might prove to be. I’ll also threaten to throw out anybody who is disruptive.”
“Would you actually do that?” he was asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” Holcomb said and thought:
Just don’t let anyone call me “nigger” again.
CHAPTER 10
“Mike, I’m glad I got hold of you,” Maddy said into the phone. “Donna’s told us to cut down on our cell phone calls and preserve our batteries.”
Mike had been dozing with his head on his lieutenant’s desk. His brain was not fully engaged and his tongue was fuzzy. “Don’t you have a charger?” he finally managed.
“Two, in fact. One’s still in the car, wherever that is, and the other’s at home. Donna’s afraid we’re going to lose the phone or electricity or both at any time.”
Mike yawned. “She’s probably right. There’ve been some power outages already, and the repair crews aren’t going to fix them for a long time.” Another yawn. “So why’d you call, other than to tell me how much you miss me?”
“Yes, I miss you. I wanted to have dinner with you tonight. Instead I’m stuck in this dull school with scores of hyper kids and some strange people who call themselves teachers. I think I’d rather have a root canal or be a lawyer than be stuck like this.”
Mike laughed. “I miss you, too, and I’m sorry you chose the wrong major in college. And don’t knock lawyers. I may be one, someday.”
“How’s your night going?”
“Other than nagging phone calls from women who can’t do without me, it’s okay.”
“Not much crime, I’ll bet.”
“Dull. Without getaway cars, criminals are staying home. A high-speed chase is out of the question.”
He decided against telling her about the two murderers, Raines and Tower. Their pictures had just been faxed in, so now the names had taken on substance. The two killers looked so innocuous, even dull. Nor did he tell her that there had been a number of instances of domestic violence, resulting from situations where people who couldn’t stand each other now couldn’t escape each other’s presence. That was leading to potentially violent flareups that the police could not respond to.
There’d been a couple of fires that neighbors had banded together to put out. Firemen on snowmobiles had arrived with small lengths of hose only to confront a new problem—Where the hell were all the hydrants? Invisible under gentle mounds of snow, that’s where. So far, catastrophe had been averted. It was as if people realized that nature was in charge and that was making them relatively meek. Mike didn’t think it would last too much longer. Sooner or later, someone would get cabin fever real bad, find a shotgun or an ax, and there would be hell to pay.
“So far, the city’s existing,” Mike said. “Personally, I rather be snowed in with you, and not Petkowski or Bench.” Petkowski was asleep on the floor, or at least pretending to be, while Bench was down the hall, passed out in his chair and with his head on the desk. The scent of peppermint schnapps was heavy above the chief.
Maddy laughed. “There are lots of places I’d rather be, and with you is very high on the list. Have you talked to your parents?”
Mike’s parents were retired and lived in a condo in Arizona. They spent a lot of time golfing. He’d spoken to them, and they’d told him to be careful. Thanks, Mom and Dad. He hadn’t spoken to his younger brother in Chicago. The sky was clear in Chicago and he didn’t feel like taking the ribbing his brother would inflict on him.
“Yeah, they’re fine. How about yours?”
Maddy’s parents lived in a house in a nearby suburb that was a lot less expensive than Sheridan. Maddy’s father was a foreman at a Ford plant, and her mother was an office manager at an automotive supplier.
“They’re safe at home.”
“When we get out of here, how about a hot tub for two and a bottle of champagne?” he said.
“Sounds good,” she said, “But just one bottle? That sounds very inadequate. Speaking of inadequacies, are swimsuits optional?”
“Very optional,” he said.
“Michael, I will hold you to that. Now I’ve got to make sure my battery doesn’t run down.”
“Mine’s already recharging, Maddy.”
* * *
Raines and Tower drove their snowmobile slowly and carefully through the almost invisible streets of residential Sheridan. It was night, but the reflections off the snow made it easy to see and to drive, providing, of course, that they didn’t hit anything that was buried. Had they not been cold and confused, they might have noticed a strange beauty the storm had created. Street lights were on, and they glowed like Japanese lanterns through the swirling snow. The snow itself glittered like so many small jewels.
However, the effect was totally lost on them. They needed a place to stay, but one that was far enough away from prying neighbors. That, Raines conceded, was going to be hard to find. He really hadn’t noticed it before, but, like so many affluent suburbs in the area, the houses were large, but the lots were small; thus enabling neighbors to easily see what was going on next door. They had been lucky with the last bunch of cowboys they’d almost run over in their escape, but they might not be so lucky the next time. Now the police knew they were armed to the teeth.
“I’m cold,” Tower complained. “Hungry, too.”
“So am I,” Raines answered. He didn’t add that they wouldn’t be in this mess if Tower hadn’t insisted on turning on the lights in their last place. “I’m looking for just the right house and I know what I’m looking for.”
It wasn’t far from the truth. Raines understood that many subdivisions had farming roots and that the original farmhouse, and sometimes the complete farm complex, often still stood. When the farmer sold out to the developer, he either took a ton of cash and moved elsewhere, or he remained in the farm house and hung onto a decent chunk of land.
He’d seen several farmhouses, but they had the bad fortune to be on main roads. That, too, made sense. Years ago, when there were only farms in the area, the only roads were those that later became main roads.
Then he saw a shape through the snow and smiled. Perched on a low hill, the house was two stories and had a gabled roof that hid a third. In a way it reminded him of the house from the old movie
Psycho
. Raines didn’t believe in ghosts, and, since they were the ones who were the killers, there was no threat from that quarter, either. There was a three-car garage and other outbuildings. Better, it was on a very large lot and surrounded by extremely tall pine trees. A couple of outside lights provided some illumination and were probably on timers since there were no inside lights visible. He steered the snowmobile up where trees indicated there might be a driveway.
“Jimmy, I think we found us a home.”
* * *
“Still up to your ass in the white stuff, I see,” said DiMona over the phone. “And not the stuff you can suck up your nose.”
He had just called from Las Vegas. He said he’d forgotten what time it was, but he didn’t sound sincere.
“Yeah,” Mike replied. “I just never thought hell would be this cold.” There was a small town in Michigan named Hell. It often got very cold in Hell and everything froze over.
“If it’s any consolation, little buddy, the whole nation is watching this thing go down. This is the disaster of the week, my friend. You may be having it bad where you are, but it’s looking a lot worse elsewhere.”
“You’re joking.”
“Naw. You’re too close to the forest to see the trees. Of course, it’s snowing so hard you can’t see shit, much less the forest. The mayor of Detroit is screaming for help. Detroit doesn’t have all the snow you’re getting but they’re still getting a lot. Roofs on old buildings are collapsing all over the place and fires can’t be controlled. With houses so close to each other in the older sections of Detroit, Highland Park, and Hamtramck, real blazes are eating up city blocks, and there ain’t a Goddamned thing anybody can do except maybe throw snowballs at them. Fortunately, there’s been so many abandoned homes torn down that it’s created fire breaks. In the big city, you’ve got thousands of people wandering about in the snow and looking for a place to stay. It’s not quite as bad as that in the other ’burbs, but it’s still no picnic.”
“I had no idea,” Mike said honestly. He’d been too focused on his job to pay attention to anything but the unchanging weather report. The rest of the news might as well have involved China.
“Our beloved governor has called out the National Guard and they are trying to clear paths down the major highways. From what they’ve shown on the tube, it’s an almost hopeless task.”
Mike then took the opportunity to tell DiMona how crews were attempting to clear Sheridan’s roads. “It’ll work when the snow stops,” Mike said, “but until then it’s not accomplishing much.”
“But it shows you’re actually doing something instead of sitting around pulling your pud,” DiMona said. “Later, when everybody’s looking for someone to blame, you can piously say you stuck your dick in the dike to stop the ocean from leaking in.”
“You shouldn’t make me laugh. I’m too tired.”
“Where’s your little Polack buddy, Petkowski?”
“Out on a domestic problem run. I was doing something else and couldn’t go with him.”
“He’s alone?”
“Couldn’t be helped, boss. We’re really spread thin.”
“I guess it couldn’t,” DiMona said with a sigh. Domestic runs were among the worst. Husband, wives, sons, and daughters who’d long ago decided they hated each other could suddenly explode and take all around with them in a final and irrational act of violent desperation. Petkowski was a good cop, but sending him alone on a domestic violence run was an act of desperation.
“Bench is drunk,” Mike said. “Carter’s been okay, although he’d like someone to pull off a miracle and end this.” He didn’t say that the mayor was pissed at him for not toadying to him. That was water over the dam, although DiMona would hear about it when he got back, if he ever got back.
“Carter’s got problems,” DiMona said. “Maybe more than you know.”
“Like what?”
“Like the FBI’s been investigating him.”
“You’re joking.”
“Do I look like I’m joking? Of course, since we’re on the phone, you don’t know what I look like, which is just as good ’cause I’m sitting here in my underwear. But I’m not joking, Mikey. Remember what downtown Sheridan looked like about ten years ago?”
Ten years ago, Sheridan was little more than a dot on a map to Mike. One of many towns he had never really seen, although he’d driven through it a forgettable number of times. That the city had a past was something he’d never really thought much about.
“Mike, ten years ago, the city got a federal grant to renovate MacArthur Boulevard and the old, sleazy properties along it. They even closed down a porno video store that me and the missus really liked. It really turned her on but then we got divorced. Ah well. About that time, a little company called Carter Siding and Home Improvement became Carter-Sheridan Construction with a lot of money to bid on contracts. They got more than their share and now Calvin Carter’s both rich and mayor of the town he helped rebuild. The Feds are looking into where and how he got the initial money to go big all of a sudden, and where all the grant money went. There are rumors of queer accounting practices and offshore banking accounts. The Feds love that kind of shit.”
“Son of a bitch,” Mike said. “Does Carter know this?”
“Possibly not for certain, although I’m sure he suspects. I only hear rumors and leaks from friends of mine, but I’m reasonably certain it’s true.”
“But what has that have to do with us and the price of snow?”
“Y’know, Mikey, that’s the damndest thing. I don’t really know, but I’ll bet there’s something going to come up that we don’t suspect.”
Mike laughed. “Yeah, like a blizzard.”
* * *
Traci Lawford was napping in her upstairs bedroom when she heard the noise. She was exhausted, but she’d accomplished what she’d feared all day was impossible: She’d actually made it home from work. Of course, she’d only had a couple of miles to come and her car was abandoned in the street about a half mile away, but she was home after bulling her way through the drifts. Wet, cold, and exhausted, but home. And safe.
Traci was quietly thankful that she was in excellent physical shape. Many her age, she was thirty-four, were in crummy shape. Her husband was one and, although she loved him dearly, she despaired of getting him to eat right and exercise.
Small and slender to the point of being thin, she exercised daily and was working her way up to running her first marathon. She wondered just how people who weren’t in shape, like her husband, managed to get around in days like this. Maybe she wouldn’t live forever, but it wouldn’t be for lack of doing the right thing. Well, at least most of the time.
Alternatively dazzled by the beauty of the snow and fearful of its implications, she’d watched both it and the weather reports. It was obvious that her husband would not be home this evening from his business trip to Indianapolis, where it was also snowing, but not nearly as bad, and that she would be alone for the night. She changed into sweats and decided to make the best of a bad situation. A shower, a microwaved dinner and a couple of glasses of inexpensive wine and she was ready for bed. She stripped off the sweats and was half asleep when she heard something.
At first, she was confused as to the sound’s meaning. She and her husband Tony had only been living on Beckett Street in Sheridan for a year even though it had been in Tony’s family for generations. It came to them as an inheritance when his grandmother passed away. The house was far too large for their needs and tastes, and it didn’t look like it would be filled with a ton of kids. If they had any, it would be one or two. Sometimes she wondered if they had sacrificed their chances for a family on the altar of career. Traci was an accountant and Tony was a lawyer.
The sound grew closer and she recognized it as a snowmobile. She’d been on them a couple of times and couldn’t see the thrill it gave some people. Freezing and getting snow in the face was not her idea of fun. She felt the same about riding motorcycles in the summer and spitting out bugs.
Perhaps it was Tony, she thought hopefully. Maybe he’d figured a way to get home. She hopped out of bed and looked out the second-floor window just in time to see the snowmobile pausing under the utility wires. Through the falling snow, she watched as a man in the back reached up and sliced a wire. Stunned, Traci ran to the phone. It was dead and she realized that the people on the snowmobile were a danger to her.