heard anything about Dr. Potts.”
* * *
Against my better judgment and only because it would be his word against mine if this ever came to Dwight’s attention, it seemed I had agreed to keep quiet about my pen for the time being.
And now, God help me, I was even volunteering to ask a few questions on my own. And yeah, part of it might be to help Reid, but part of my very nature is a basic need to find the truth and bring the facts to judgment.
My internal preacher was not fooled by such high-flown rationalizations.
CHAPTER | 13
The people of the North might differ radically from the people of the South in many ways, but in the presence of such a dreadful visitation of nature, involving suffering and death, the brotherhood of man asserts itself and all things else are forgotten.
After Reid left, I watched the late news. The situation in Iraq might be occupying the rest of the country’s TV screens, but here in central North Carolina, most of the newscast was given over to Hurricane Fran which seemed to be heading straight toward Wilmington. It was packing winds of 130 miles per hour and forecasters were saying it could push in a wall of water twenty feet high. The sheer size of the storm—more than five hundred miles across—guaranteed that we were going to feel its effects here in the Triangle.
All along the coast, people were nailing sheets of plywood over their windows and getting their boats out of the water. Portland and Avery were congratulating themselves for bringing their boat back to Dobbs.
Skycams showed us thick lines of headlights heading inland through the rainy night as coastal residents from Myrtle Beach to Manteo sought higher ground. Channel 11’s Miriam Thomas and Larry Stogner spoke of ordered evacuations in both South Carolina and Ocracoke, which is linked to the mainland only by ferries. New Hanover County had ordered a voluntary evacuation of all beach communities, including Wrightsville Beach where some of my Wilmington colleagues live; while Brunswick County was taking no chances. Evacuation was mandatory on all the barrier islands.
Reporter Greg Barnes showed motels filling up fast and shelters that were opening in schools and fire stations around Fayetteville to help handle the evacuees.
Even Don Ross, WTVD’s color man, was unusually serious as he reported on local grocery stores that were already experiencing a run on batteries and canned goods. Eric Curry’s camera panned over empty bread shelves and depleted milk cases.
I tried to call Kidd, but all I got was his answering machine.
It was nearly midnight but I wasn’t a bit sleepy. Instead, I switched off the television and roamed around the house restlessly. I had candles and a stash of batteries for my radio, a half a loaf of bread and a fresh quart of milk. I should be okay, but the dire predictions left me uneasy.
The rain had finally stopped and I went out to put all the porch and lawn chairs into my garage. The night should have been quiet except for frogs and crickets, yet male voices floated faintly on the soggy warm air and sirens seemed to be converging from different directions. I was about to get my car out and go see what was happening, when headlights appeared on the lane that runs from Andrew’s house to mine and connects with a homemade bridge across Possum Creek.
The truck slowed to a stop as it drew near me and I saw Andrew behind the wheel with his son, A.K. Just topping the rise a few yards behind was Robert on the farm’s biggest tractor.
I ran over to meet them. “What’s happening?” “Rescue squad’s been called out,” said Andrew. “A car’s gone in the creek and they want us to help get it out.”
“Oh, no!” Without being invited, I ran around to the passenger side, pulled open the door and shoved in next to A.K.
“You know who it is?” he asked as his dad put it in gear for the creek. The tractor lights behind us lit up the cab.
“I hope not,” I answered. “But you know Ralph Freeman, the preacher at Balm of Gilead? His wife was out this way today visiting one of their church members and she never came home.”
“That don’t sound good,” said Andrew. “No, sir, that don’t sound good at all.”
* * *
We came out onto the hardtop just south of the creek, where it bends at the bridge before the turn-in to the homeplace.
The curve was lit up like a carnival. Flashing lights of red, yellow, and blue bounced against the low-lying clouds and were reflected back in ghastly hues. Three patrol cars, a fire truck, and a rescue truck had their spotlights aimed down toward the muddy water that rushed under the bridge. The creek had flooded its channel and was as high as I’d ever seen it.
Men were out there in it up to their necks, working around the door of a white car whose top projected only a few inches above the turbulent waters. I recognized Donny Turner and Rudy Peacock from the West Colleton volunteer fire department—both were too big to miss—and skinny little Skeeter Collins from the Cotton Grove rescue squad. Five or six other dark and indistinguishable figures milled around in the water and I heard someone yell, “Damn! Is that a cottonmouth?”
“Fuck the cottonmouth and hand me the damn collar!” cried Skeeter.
By the glare of the spotlights, I saw the men relay a cervical collar to him without letting the water touch it. Skeeter’s head disappeared inside the car.
“That’s a good sign, ain’t—
“I don’t know,” I said, wondering how they could possibly remove Clara Freeman—if it
