The Language of Sand

store the day before that I didn’t want to scare you again, so I stayed quiet. Then I saw you the next night and did the same.”

“You were skulking around in the dark when you knew somebody was robbing people’s houses?” Abigail didn’t see the logic. “If I mistook you for the thief, someone else might have too. You could have gotten hurt. Or worse.”

“Not much choice in the matter,” Bert said. “I don’t have a car.”

“And whoever’s robbing those houses has gotta have one,” Larner interjected. “Too many heavy high-ticket items. No chance somebody could carry them around and not be seen. They’d need a car. Or, better yet, a truck. Like Nat’s.”

“This is stupid,” Abigail insisted. “You can’t make me believe he’s a thief and a murderer.”

“I don’t have to make you do anything, Ms. Harker. In fact, it is by the grace of my kindly nature that I’m allowing you to remain in this office. I’ve got a killer in my cell and a hurricane on my doorstep, so I have neither the time nor the inclination to convince you of a goddamn thing.”

Larner’s outburst caught Abigail off guard, pitching her backward on her heels to avert the verbal strike.

“Nothing’s personal here, Caleb,” Merle said, stepping in.

“This island is too small for it not to be personal,” Larner whispered to him tartly.

Bert motioned at the television. “Wait. Listen.”

A female news anchor had interrupted the broadcast. “It’s been announced that the space shuttle is being moved into its hangar at Cape Canaveral, and the Kennedy Space Center is being evacuated.”

“They haven’t done that since Hurricane Andrew,” Larner said.

Merle’s shoulders sank. “And that was a Category Five.”

“Officials are reassessing this once-innocent storm system and deeming it ‘unpredictable at best.’”

The female anchor’s voice was dueling with that of the male reporter on the radio, who was saying, “This hurricane began as a tropical-wave disturbance that produced thunderstorms off the western coast of Africa. The combination of light upper-level winds with warm ocean water allowed the storm to develop. Tropical Storm Amelia officially became a hurricane about 2,500 miles outside of Miami when NOAA’s Hurricane Hunter airplane was deployed and clocked over 75-mile-per-hour winds. Officials are scrambling to chart Amelia’s course. However, they’re quick to remind us that even the best satellites can’t predict a hurricane’s precise path. Please stay tuned to this station for the latest weather and evacuation updates.”

Bert lowered the volume. “If it’s a Category Three, they’ll let us stay.”

“If it’s more…” Merle’s voice trailed away.

“We’ll have to evacuate?” Abigail didn’t think it would come to that.

Sheriff Larner went for the phone. “I have to get on the horn with the mainland. Before I do, let’s get one thing straight. Right now, it’s only the four of us, plus my deputy, who know what’s happened. It has to stay that way. If word gets around, the hurricane will be the least of my problems.”

“Why?” Abigail had to ask.

Merle looked to her, then toward the rear of the station, where Nat Rhone was being held. “People find out what happened to Hank, that boy’s going to be grateful he’s got bars between him and them.”

 

  tourbillion ( bil?y?n), n. 1. a whirlwind or something resembling a whirlwind. 2. a firework that rises spirally. 3. Horol. a frame for the escapement of a timepice, esp. a watch, geared to the going train in such a way as to rotate the escapement about once a minute in order to minimize positional error. Cf. karrusel. [1470–80; earlier turbilloun < MF to(u)rbillon < VL *turbilionem, dissimilated var. of *turbinionem, acc. of *turbinio whirlwind. See TURBINE, –ION]

Abigail half-expected an angry mob to be waiting outside the sheriff’s station. The only crowd was in front of Island Hardware.

“Where you been, Merle?” one man hollered. “We got us a storm comin’.”

“Hurry up,” another shouted. “Haven’t got all day to wait on you.”

Abigail was confident that if any of them had heard the news about Hank Scokes, it would have been the first thing out of their mouths, trumping the hurricane.

“Keep your caps on, boys.”

Merle unlocked the store and the group piled in behind him.

“Why didn’t they go around back?” Abigail asked Bert.

“Just because it’s common knowledge the other door’s unlocked doesn’t mean Merle lets everybody go in that way.”

Abigail felt a swell of honor. Among the islanders, the natives, Merle had afforded her a special distinction, a mark of his trust, even after knowing her for such a short time. If Merle was, indeed, an excellent judge of character, then that raised another issue. He was as dubious of Nat Rhone’s story as was Sheriff Larner, which made Abigail second-guess herself. She had come to rely on Merle. Since he had qualms, maybe she should too.