Henry Franks (15 page)

twenty six

Rain poured down in sheets. The windshield wipers put up a good fight but did little good. A line of cars snaked across the bridge off Saint Simons, and a single car drove slowly through the storm over the causeway onto the island. William hunched over the wheel, wiping his sleeve over the inside of the window to clear away the condensation. He followed the yellow reflectors and the streetlights, barely visible through the storm.

When he rolled down the window to try to improve visibility, the rain whipped into the car, pelting his skin. On the side of the road puddles grew large enough to have their own current, flowing across the street and cascading upwards like a fountain as he drove through them. Wind clawed at the car and whenever he sped up in frustration the car hydroplaned and he gripped tighter to the steering wheel.

The links scrolled down the screen, page after page as Henry kept hitting
Next
. Dr. Frank Williams, Chief Medical Examiner, Jefferson County, Alabama. Trials and evidence and citations in newspaper articles; countless tiny black-and-white pictures of his father.

“Henry?” Justine said, her hand resting on his shoulder. “CME, remember? Chief Medical Examiner. And look, University of Alabama, Birmingham. CME-U.”

He breathed. In. Out. Again. He breathed and remembered nothing.

“Henry?” she said. “Talk to me.”

He clicked on an item at random, scrolling through the windows. Link after link, Google traced his father's history in Birmingham until the articles stopped.

“Is that you?” Justine asked, her finger resting on the screen.

“Dr. Frank Williams,” he read from the caption beneath her hand, “and his son Henry, 13, at a 10K walk/fundraiser for cancer research.”

“You're bald,” Justine said.

With sunken eyes, a pale smooth hairless skull, and a defiant smile, thirteen-year-old Henry stared at the camera, holding tight to his father's hand.

“Cancer?” he said, the word as quiet as a sigh.

“Google ‘Henry Williams,'” Justine said, her grip on his shoulder tightening. “In Birmingham.”

The links made for a far shorter list than that for his father.

Outside, rain patterned the windows. Dark clouds raced across the sky and the wind pushed against the house, banging the shutters that hadn't been nailed down properly. A crash of thunder shook the room and the lightning slicing open the sky sent crazy shadows behind them.

Henry followed the links to short notices in the
Birmingham News
about thirteen-year-old Henry Williams: Relapsed Acute Myelogenous Leukemia and stem-cell transplants and countless sessions of chemotherapy as they walked the annual 10K. The Chief Medical Examiner and his dying son. Raising money so that, just maybe, others would live.

From around the island, evacuation sirens cut through the storm as thunder rolled across the sky.

Justine squeezed down on his shoulder, her fingernails digging into his skin through his shirt, but he didn't feel the pain. “Henry,” she said, her voice almost drowned out by the storm, “Google Victor, Alexandra, and Elizabeth in Birmingham.”

Henry typed and hit enter. Almost three million results. On the third page, beneath the glowing blue letters, Dr. Frank Williams was also listed. Henry clicked one more link, the page loading as thunder ripped through the house and the power died, leaving them in blackness.

The transformer shot sparks into the sky with an explosive roar and the streetlights went dark. William tried his high beams but they didn't penetrate very far into the pounding rain. The yellow line in the middle of the road was between his tires as he drove, fighting his way home. Through the storm, he could hear the sirens blaring their evacuation warnings, the sound mixing with the wind until it disappeared.

The car stalled as he pulled into Harrison Pointe, water flooding the engine. William turned the key, pounding his hand on the dashboard until the car roared back to life.

NOAA Alert: Hurricane Erika Potential Category 5; 150 Miles Southeast of Savannah, GA

Miami, FL—August 28, 2009, 7:13 PM:
At 7 p.m. EDT, the National Hurricane Center is reporting that the center of Hurricane Erika is located about 150 miles southeast of Savannah, GA.

Erika is moving toward the west near 15 mph and this motion is expected to continue tonight and Saturday. On the projected path, the eye of Erika is expected to make landfall along the northern coast of Florida or the southern coast of Georgia late tonight.

Maximum sustained winds are near 150 mph with higher gusts. Erika is a potentially catastrophic Category 5 hurricane with some weakening in strength expected prior to landfall.

Hurricane force winds extend outward up to 50 miles from the center with tropical storm force winds for an additional 100 miles.

twenty seven

“We need to leave,” Justine said, but she made no move to stand up.

The hissing of the wind came alive in the dark. Henry slid out of his chair and crawled beneath the desk to unplug the laptop from the docking station. Sitting on the floor, he tugged Justine's hand to pull her down next to him.

“This isn't good, Henry.”

“I know.”

The last page to load glowed on his laptop, running off the battery. “Without power there's no Internet,” he said. “So, this is it.”

His voice barely carried over the rain and wind, and the evacuation siren blared its ugly warning across the island.

On the verge of panic, William slid the car into the driveway, rolling up onto the grass. He jumped out, not even bothering to close the door as he ran up the steps, slipping in the rain and banging his knee into the wooden porch railing. The key wouldn't fit in the lock as his hands shook, and he tried to take a deep breath to still his fingers. Up and to the right, he jerked the knob but it didn't budge. Again, he fought to open the door.

Rain beat against him, and the wind howled in fury as the lock finally released. A branch broke off a tree, the sound echoing in the storm. The crack seemed to be right behind him and William stumbled against the door, pushing it open further. When he turned around to close it, lightning lit up the world. In the corner of his vision, he saw the shadow before anything else, long hair caught by the wind.

William opened the door wider. The rain flooded the floor until, with one more flash of lightning, the shadows were banished. The door broke halfway off its hinges with the blow as he staggered under the weight of his attacker. Long hair flew everywhere as he fell into the house and, with one final spike of lightning, William caught a single glimpse of the pipe right before it landed above his eyes.

The fury of the storm whistled up the stairs from the door, which banged open and closed downstairs. The wind seemed to be coming from all directions at once as Henry and Justine stared at the monitor.

Birmingham, AL—November 16, 2007:
The bodies of Alexandra Raynes, 23, and her five-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, were discovered by Alexandra's parents, Douglas and Cynthia Raynes of Mountain Brook, late in the afternoon of November 14. The alleged shooter in
the apparent murder-suicide, Elizabeth's father, Victor Steinlicht, 24, was rushed to Cop
per Green Hospital in critical condition.

“They'd just celebrated Beth's birthday,” Cynthia Raynes said. “Everyone was there.”

“That boy just destroyed our family,” said Douglas Raynes. “Alexandra was just starting back at school, rest her soul.”

A candlelight vigil is planned for the evening of November 16 at Mountain Brook Baptist Church on Montevallo Road.

Hospital sources, who wish to remain anonymous as they are not authorized to discuss the case, are now reporting that Stein­licht died late in the day on November 15, one day after shooting himself.

“He wasn't exactly a quiet boy-next-door type,” said Police Sergeant Ralph Simson.

The office of Jefferson County Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Frank Williams released a short statement: “The body was cremated, per the wishes of the family.”

Members of the Steinlicht family were unavailable for comment and messages left at their house were not returned.

The front door swung in the wind, knocking against the wall. In the flashes of lightning, William struggled to open his eyes, the pain of the first blow throbbing through his head. Above him, his attacker raised the pipe a second time. Thunder masked the hissing and the wind roared into the house with a vengeance. Each time he blinked, a double-image flashed across his vision, but the pipe obscured everything save for the long hair swirling around it as his sight faded away.

Shadows, confusing and out of focus, were everywhere as William fought to open his eyes again, waiting for the pipe to land one final time. A foot, indistinct in the darkness, stepped on his leg. Lightning, so close he could smell it, burned into his retinas until he couldn't see at all. Another foot stepped on his chest, trapping the air in his lungs. He tried to breathe, to twist away from the crushing weight, but only managed a weak cough, wet with blood.

Thunder shook the house and then the weight was gone as the shadows moved closer to the front door, seeming to struggle just to lift the pipe for another blow. William tried to move, crawling across the floor, dragging his unresponsive legs toward his bedroom. Behind him, his attacker fought to stand on the rain-soaked floor by the open door. The pipe slipped, flying out into the storm, and the shadows scrambled after the weapon, leaving William alone in the darkness in a growing pool of blood.

“Henry?” Justine said.

He pushed the laptop away; the picture of Alexandra, more achingly familiar than he wanted to admit, was bright in the dark room. The sirens blared and he stood up, pulling Justine with him. He shook his head. “We need to go,” he said.

“They'll be evacuating over one bridge, Henry. It's going to be a parking lot.”

“Call your parents.”

She pulled the cell out of her purse, sliding it open. She turned it so he could see. “No service.”

Rain pounded into his cheek and William opened his eyes. The front door was wide open but it was too dark to see. He tried to stand, slipping on the floor, his head spinning. When he wiped his hands across his face they came away covered in blood, deep red in the stark illumination of another lightning strike.

He pushed with his feet and slipped down the hall to his bedroom door, using the knob to pull himself up far enough to slide the key in the deadbolt. He collapsed to the floor again, vision swimming. He shook his head trying to clear it, but it didn't help.

On hands and knees, he crawled to the generator under the bed, hoping there was still gas in it. Over and over again, he pulled the starter until the humming filled the room. He dragged himself to the corner, pulling down the floor lamp by its cord until he could reach the button to turn it on. Light flooded the room and he looked back to the door. A long trail of blood covered the floor.

“Let's go,” Henry said, pulling Justine toward him.

He carried his laptop, using the monitor as a flashlight to walk across the room and down the stairs. At the bottom, the floor was soaked from the rain and the door swung back and forth, unable to close. From his father's room, light filled the hallway that Henry rarely walked down.

They raced to the front door and Henry closed it, shoving his shoulder against the wood so the lock would turn. The sound of the sirens diminished but the screaming of the rain and wind continued.

“Dad?” Henry said, trying to scream louder than the storm as thunder shook the house again.

Together, they moved to where the tile changed to hardwood. At the end of the hallway, the door to his father's room swung ajar, light bleeding through the opening.

“Henry?” Justine said, her fingers moist in his as the blood streaks across the floor came into view.

At the door, Henry eased it farther open with his foot, not letting go of Justine's hand. In the far corner a floor lamp lay on its side, sending a cone of light into the wall. Odd shadows danced as the lamp rolled slowly back and forth. A twin mattress sat on the floor, squeezed against the wall, nothing but a thin quilt covering it.

“Oh,” Justine said, her fingers squeezing hard enough to bruise although he couldn't feel the touch.

Banks of medical equipment glowed green and red around an empty hospital bed and multiple IV stands, tubes snaking down, attached to nothing. Leather restraints lay open on the mattress and a respirator sat dormant next to them. More equipment, lining the walls, came into view as the door opened fully.

“Dad!” Henry yelled as his father's body came into view, on the floor on the other side of the hospital bed. He dropped the laptop to the floor and worked his way around the room, stepping into a puddle of blood as he knelt next to his father. “Call 911!”

“No,” his father said, his voice choked and weak. “No police.”

Justine picked up the phone. “No dial tone.”

“No police,” his father said again.

“Why?” Henry asked. He checked his father's throat, unable to feel, with his numb fingers, how strong the pulse was. “Justine?”

She cradled his father's head in her lap, her fingers resting on his neck. Blood stained the front of his shirt and his face was bruised in the light from the medical equipment. Sirens continued outside and the front door crashed open once again in the wind.

“He needs a doctor,” Justine said, her eyes white as she looked up.

“Get out,” his father said. “Now, Henry.”

“We're not leaving you. They're evacuating the island.”

“No.” The word was too soft to hear. “No.”

“Dad!” Henry put his numb palms on either side of his father's face, turning him to look into his eyes. “We need to leave.”

“I'm sorry, Henry.”

“Let's go,” he said, but no one moved.

His father's fingers fluttered weakly on his arm, scratching at the scar around his wrist. “I tried,” his father said, the words ending in a cough, a thin trickle of blood leaking out of his mouth and down his chin.

“Dad?”

The front door slammed closed, cutting off the sirens. The hissing echoed down the hall as though the hurricane was stalking them.

“Get out!” his father pushed them away, rolling onto his side to point at the door. “Now!”

Justine took Henry's hand as the generator sputtered once and went still, plunging the room into darkness.

“The basement,” Justine said.

Henry looked toward the bedroom door, where his father was struggling to stand before it.

“I don't think we can go that way,” he said.

“I'm sorry,” William said, using the floor lamp to get up, then holding it like an unwieldy sword and swinging it back and forth in front of the door.

A flash of lightning ripped across the sky, sending shadows around the room. Henry grabbed his father's arm but he pushed him away.

“Your mother”—his father's words caught on a series of coughs as the front door crashed open once again—“isn't very happy with me.”

The sirens wailed through the house, carried on the wind and the rain as Hurricane Erika arrived on Saint Simons Island with a peal of thunder.

“I'm sorry,” his father said. “She has nowhere else to go.”