Hurricane

Book 289: Murder Room

by John D. MacDonald

Genres: Mystery; Hard-Boiled; Traditional Mysteries; Noir

Synopsis

A hurricane of terrifying intensity is looming over Florida. Along a state highway, a handful of foolhardy souls trying to outrun the storm are forced to seek shelter in an abandoned house. Thrown together by nothing more than chance, this disparate bunch of misfits includes an undercover agent seeking revenge for a personal tragedy, a burgeoning criminal in over his head, a beautiful young widow trying to start over, and a businessman whose life's work is crumbling before his eyes. Their refuge from the awesome power of nature becomes a sort of grand and grisly hotel - especially once the invisible hand of flying death descends.

Release date: March 31, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 224

Sample

Except for a slow oily swell, the Caribbean Sea was flat and quiet and eerily still on the morning of Sunday, October fourth. Sarrensen, Captain of the Swedish motor vessel
Altagarde, had a late solitary breakfast in his cabin. He had slept poorly and his digestion, never reliable, was bothering more than usual on this trip.

He was a small quiet remote man with a soured expression and a reputation for reliability. It was after nine when he climbed to the bridge, nodded to the Third, checked the log and the heading,
and walked out onto the port wing of the bridge. He put short blunt fingers inside his belt and pressed against the area of a stomach cramp and looked at the sea world around him. He did not like
the look of the day. The sky, though cloudless, was too pale. The sun was fierce and white. The flat sea had the look of a blue mirror on which warm breath has been blown, misting it. It was
impossible to see where the sea ended and the sky began.

The immediate destination of the Altagarde was Havana, about five hundred nautical miles away. He looked at his gold watch and looked at the sky and estimated their time of arrival at
nine on Monday evening. But he did not like the look of the day.

He walked in and stood by the Third and looked at the barometer. Low. Not dangerously low, but significantly low.

“Still slipping,” he said.

“Not much. It’s pretty steady. Been about where it is since six. I told Sparks to pick up all the weather he can.”

“Good.”

Sarrensen walked out onto the starboard wing. He leaned his arms on the rail and gave a small grunt of pain at an especially sharp stomach twinge. There was no sense of motion in the
Altagarde. It moved smoothly across the fea­tureless sea, rocking but slightly to the long slow swells. The wake was a ruled line behind her. Through the soles of his shoes, and in the
tremor of the rail, Sarrensen felt the deep and comforting cha-gah, cha-gah, cha-gah of the turning shaft.

He took out his watch and timed the swells. Somewhere between five and six a minute. In these tropical waters the norm was eight. A hurricane reduces the incidence of the swells, and sends them
radiating out in all directions from the center of the storm, moving sometimes as fast as eighty miles an hour, moving far ahead of the storm, carrying a sure warning to primitive peoples of the
islands. He carefully noted the direction from which the swells were coming in relation to the compass direction of the ship. Then he went below.

At three o’clock in the afternoon on Sunday, October fourth, the wind began. It came out of the east. It was a fitful, elusive, teasing wind. It riffled the misted blue of the sea.
Infrequent gusts, almost as sturdy as a squall, pressed against the steel flank of the Altagarde, and she would roll in response. Sarrensen went out onto the starboard wing. Streamers of
high cirrus cloud radiated from a point on the southeast horizon. Sarrensen faced directly into the wind. It was a rule of thumb, as old as the half-rule of man over the sea, that in the
counter-clockwise winds of hurricanes in the northern hemisphere, when you face into the wind your right hand points at the storm center. It gave new confirmation of the direction the swells had
told him. It was far from him, behind him. Knowing the location of it stilled some of the uneasiness he had felt all day.

The Altagarde radioed her position and reported the estimated position of a tropical disturbance. The report was relayed to Miami where it became a partial confirmation of previous
reports. At the time the report was received the tropical disturbance was termed an area of suspicion. By five-twenty on Monday evening the first search aircraft entered the area and radioed back
sufficient information so that by the time of the six o’clock news broadcasts the disturbance had been dignified by awarding it the name of Hilda. It was the eighth storm of the season.

But it did not begin, as though on signal, with the designation of a name. It began earlier, and in a timeless way. Flat sea baking under a tropic sun. Water temperature raised by the long
summer. The still air, heated by sun and sea, rising endlessly, creating an area of low pressure to be filled by air moving in from all sides to rise in turn.

But these factors alone could not create hurakan. There must be added the thousand miles an hour spinning of the earth itself. The warm currents rose high, and there was the effect of
drag, the way a speeding car can raise dust devils along the dry shoulder of a highway. The spin began slowly at first, very slowly. At times it died out and then began again. It covered a great
area, and the winds spun slowly at the rim of the wheel, but more quickly toward the hub. It gathered momentum. It began to gain in force and speed and it seemed to feed upon itself, to gain
greater life force as it began to move slowly from the area where it began, began to move in the long curved path that would carry it in a northwesterly direction until, on some unknown day in the
future it would at last die completely away.

As it moved it pushed the hot moist air ahead of it, and the moisture of that air, cooled by height, fell as heavy drenching rain.

Man spoke across the empty air above the sea. The location, direction, velocity were charted. Man warned man. Prepare for this violence that is now aimed at you.

But the other living creatures were warned in other ways. They were affected by the barometric changes. Birds turned away from the path of the storm. On small keys legions of fiddler crabs
marched inland, ponderous claws raised. The fish ceased feeding and moved at lower levels.

By eight o’clock on Monday night the wind velocities near the center of the disturbance were measured at eighty miles an hour. The hurricane had begun its lateral movement. At from fifteen
to eighteen miles an hour it moved north-north­west toward the long island of Cuba. It was carefully watched and plotted.

In Miami, a city wise in the ways of hurricanes, sucker disks were fastened to the big shopwindows and thumb screws tightened the disks to rigid metal uprights that would keep the windows from
picking up the vibration that would shatter them. Men climbed on roofs and put additional guy wires on television aerials. The sale of radio batteries was brisk. Drinking water was stored. Gasoline
stoves were taken out of storage. There was a flavor of excitement in the city, even of amiability, as man accepted this immediate and understandable tension in fair exchange for the tiresome
tensions of his everyday life.

At some time during the middle of Tuesday, Oc­tober sixth, Hilda changed direction. She picked up her great gray skirts and moved west. Ten billion tons of warm rain had
fallen heavily on Cuba and, at two in the afternoon, the gusts which struck Havana reached a measured peak of fifty miles an hour. They began to fade in intensity and the rain stopped.

Key West got the rain too. And winds no more serious. Hilda skirted them and moved on into the Gulf of Mexico. Precautions were relaxed in Miami. The cities of the Florida West Coast began to
prepare as Miami had prepared.

By midnight the sky over Cuba was still and the stars were clear and bright. It was then that the sky over Key West began to clear. In Naples it was raining torrents. And in Fort Myers. The rain
had just begun in Boca Grande. The rain did not begin in Clearwater until three in the morning. . . .

Jean Dorn had been awakened by the rain at three o’clock. When the alarm awakened her again at seven it was still raining. She turned off the alarm before it awakened
Hal. He should get as much sleep as possible. He would be driving all day. She pushed the single sheet back and got quietly out of bed, a tall blond woman with a sturdy body, which was just
beginning to show the heaviness of pregnan­cy. Before she went to the bathroom she looked in at the children. Five-year-old Stevie slept on his back, arms out-flung. Three-year-old Jan, still
in a crib, slept curled in a warm ball. In the gray light of the drab morning both children looked very brown from the long summer of the Gulf beaches.

They were healthy little animals, full of energy. Three days in the car was going to be very wearing indeed. She decided to wake them at the last possible moment.

Jean walked from the children’s room to the living room. Rain was drenching the patio, a hard thick rain that looked as though it would never end. She looked at the room she had loved, at
the furniture so carefully selected, and she felt a grayness in her heart that matched the rain. Now there was nothing personal left in the room. They had disposed of some things. They had packed
the things they couldn’t bear to part with. The rest went with the house. Cold phrase. It goes with the house. And my heart goes with the house, she thought.

If they had only known. If they had only been just a little wiser. Bought a less pretentious place. Then they might have been able to stay longer, might have been able to hang on until the
turning point came and they would be able to stay on in this place they both loved.

Defeat was a very bitter thing. They had never suspected that it would happen to them. They were the golden ones. The undefeated. Accustomed to the warm bright smile of good fortune.

Two years ago Hal Dorn had been an Intermediate Consultant with Jason and Rawls, Industrial Engineers, in New York. He was well-paid, well-thought-of. They had been married six years and, after
Stevie was born, they moved out of their uptown apartment to a small house in Pleasantville. They had met in college, and theirs was a good marriage. Hal, dark, lean-faced, tense, was a perfect
foil for her blond calm, her sense of fun.

Though Hal often complained that his work was a rat race, Jean knew that he enjoyed responding to the challenge of it. The future seemed certain. Were Hal to stay with Jason and Rawls he would
become a Senior Consultant, and per­haps later a junior partner.

Change began two years ago in a doctor’s office. Stevie’s attack of asthma had been so bad this time that she had been in panic. She could remember the doctor’s words. “I
don’t think we’re going to be able to do much good with medica­tion with Stevie. He may eventually grow out of it. What he really needs is a different climate. A warmer place. These
winters are criminal. But I guess it would be impossible for you people to pull up stakes and get out.”

At first it had seemed impossible. But it was Hal who said, “Good Lord, Jean, it’s just a job. It isn’t a dedication. Suppose I have to start something new. I’m
thirty-one. And how in hell could we ever forgive ourselves if . . .” He did not have to finish the sentence.

It had taken a lot of thought and a lot of planning. They got less for the Pleasantville house than they had hoped. It had been sold furnished. It was Hal who had seen the opportunities on the
Florida West Coast. The firm had been sorry to lose him, but Mr. Rawls had been very understand­ing when they told him about Stevie.

They had sold themselves the idea of change, and they had begun this new life with optimism and excitement. Hal had specialized in accounting procedures, and so, in downtown Clearwater he had
opened a small office. Harold Dorn, Con­sultant. Jean had found the house for them. A little more than they had expected to pay. A nice home in Belleaire in a neighborhood where there were
other small children.

They had been so certain that they could make it, that they would never fail. Hal, with all his tireless energy, could not be defeated. But he had been. Soundly whipped. He had picked up some
small accounts. Some bars, a few neighbor­hood stores, a small boat company. But not enough. He had given up the office to cut expenses. He worked at home. It did not help enough. She cut every
possible penny from their expenses, but it was not enough. The meager reserve dwin­dled as their fear grew. There was no one to turn to, no one in all the world.

And she had to watch Hal tearing himself apart. That was perhaps the worst part. He found a full-time job in a warehouse and he would work on his accounts at night, often falling asleep at his
desk. He became thinner and more silent and he became irritable with the children.

A month ago they came to the end of the line. Hal said, “We can’t do it. We can’t make it. We’re licked. We’ve got to go back while we can still afford to go back,
or I don’t know what’s going to become of us. We’ve got to get our money out of this house and go back. I’m . . . sorry, Jean. I’m so damn sorry.” And,
shockingly, he had wept and she knew they were tears of exhaustion.

He had gone up on a day coach. He was gone four days. He came back with a smile she knew was too cheerful. “I start October fifteenth with Brainerd.”

“But what about . . .”

“Jason and Rawls? So sorry. Full staff right now. They don’t like their people to take off and then try to come back. It won’t be the same kind of money with Brainerd. But it
will be . . . enough. Thank God, it will be enough.”

“The next time we come back here, we come to stay,” she said.

“Sure,” he said. “Sure. The next time.”

“Stevie’s had two years here, Hal. He’s never been so healthy. We had to give him those two years. We can’t be sorry about that.”

She looked through the side windows of the kitchen and saw the station wagon in the car port. It was the same car they had driven to Florida. It was packed to the roof. The luggage carrier on
top was heavily laden. There was a small nest for Stevie and Jan just behind the front seat.

With all my worldly goods I thee endow.

She wondered why she should think of that phrase. She sighed and reviewed what there was to do. Pack the few remaining items. Have Hal dismantle the crib and stow it in the wagon. Lock up and
leave the keys in the mail slot in the front door of the real estate agent who had sold it for them. Have breakfast in the diner and head north up Route Nineteen. End of episode.

She remembered how it had been when they had left Pleasantville. Farewell parties. Silly parting gifts. Gaiety. Confidence. “Going to live in Florida, hah? Wish I had it so
good.”

But even though they had friends here, good friends, they were leaving furtively. The good friends knew the score. It happened so often in Florida. The Dorns? Oh, they had to go back north.
Couldn’t quite make it. Damn shame, too. Nice people. But you know how it is. Everybody thinks they can come down here and make a living. One of the toughest places in the world to make a
living unless you can come in with enough money to set up a real tourist trap.

There would be no pleasure in saying good-by. Better to write them after getting settled in the north. Maybe, one day, there’d be a chance to visit them. She knew that they would not try
again. Not ever. It had taken too much out of Hal. It had taken something away from him. It had taken some of his spirit. She knew that his confidence in himself would never be the same again, and
thus it was possible that others would never have the same confidence in him. It could be that the bright future was forever lost. That was too bad, for his sake. But it could not change her love.
Nothing could change that.

She woke Hal and then went in to get the kids and dressed. Stevie woke up in a sour mood. He had been a real beast about leaving. He did not want to leave. He liked it here. He did not see why
they had to leave. He didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world but right here, forever. Jan sang her placid little morning song and ignored the querulousness of her brother.

When she went back to the bedroom, Hal sat on the side of the bed staring out at the morning. “Great day for a trip, eh?”

“It can’t rain this hard very long. Up and at ’em. I’ve got to fold these sheets.”

He stood up slowly. “Very efficient, aren’t you?” The way he said it made it unpleasant.

“I’m a demon packer-upper,” she said lightly.

He looked at her and then looked away. It was not often lately that he looked directly into her eyes. When he did she saw the lost look in his eyes, the uncertainty. “At least that bucket
won’t overheat on us. It’s damn sticky feeling, though.”

“I guess it’s the tail end of that hurricane.”

“We’ll be out of the way of it soon enough.”

“Hal, I’m sort of anxious to see autumn in the north. People raking leaves. Football weather. All that.”

“How obliging of you.”

“Please, darling. Don’t.”

“Then stop being pollyanna and trying to make everything come out cozy and perfect. It isn’t coming out cozy and perfect, so why not admit it.”

“And go around wringing my hands and moaning?”

“Like I do?”

“I didn’t mean that and you know it. Hal, let’s try to be a little bit cheery, even if it hurts.”

He clapped his hands sourly. “Goody, goody. We’re going on a trip.” He trudged to the bathroom, head bowed, pyjamas too baggy on his body. She looked at the closed door and
sighed again and finished folding the bedding. She put on her Dacron skirt and a light-weight blouse. She took the bedding into the kitchen and put it on the counter near the carport door.

They left at eight o’clock. Before they left she went in and took one last look around. The house was bare and imper­sonal. It was as though they had never lived there. They dropped
off the keys. They ate at the diner. Hal seemed to be making an effort to be pleasant. Stevie was naughty enough to merit the threat of a spanking. They drove out toward the Courtney Campbell
Causeway and turned north on Route Nineteen. The heavy rain cut visibility. The quality of the light seemed more like dusk than morning. All cars had their lights on. The wipers swept solid water
off the windshield. She touched Hal’s arm lightly and was relieved when he smiled over at her.

A few miles from Clearwater they turned on the car radio. “. . . to give you the latest word on Hurricane Hilda. Hilda is now reported to be in the Gulf about a hundred miles west and a
little north of the Tampa Bay area. The central West Coast is experiencing heavy rains as far north as Cedar Key. Though the experts predicted that Hilda would begin to lose force during the night,
it is reported that wind velocities near the center have actually increased and are now as high as a hundred and fifteen miles an hour. After moving on a steady course for many hours, the northward
movement has slowed and it is less easy to predict the direction the storm will take. The Louisiana and Texas coasts have been alerted. We now return you to the program already in
progress.”

Hal turned the radio off after two bars of hillbilly anguish.

“Could it come back in to land ahead of us?” Jean asked.

“Could what come?” Stevie demanded, leaning over the front seat. “Could what come?”

“The hurricane, dear,” Jean said, knowing that it might take his mind off the woes of leaving Clearwater.

“Wow!” Stevie said, awed.

“This rain, Stevie,” Hal said, “always comes ahead of a hurricane, but we’re sort of on the edge of it. It’s going up the Gulf and I don’t think it will cut
back this way.”

“I hope it does,” Stevie said firmly.

“And I most fervently hope it doesn’t,” Jean said.

“It would be pretty improbable,” Hal said. Ahead of the car, in the gloom, he saw the running lights of a truck. He eased up behind it, moved out, accelerated, dropped back into his
lane in front of the truck.

I can do this, he thought. I can drive just fine. I can boil right along in the old wagon without endangering my three hostages to fortune. What else can I do? Shave neatly and tie my
shoes and make standard small talk. And make a living in a very narrow and specialized profession.

We went down there with over seven thousand dollars and now we have twenty-one hundred left, and the car, an. . .