Nobody Knows (8 page)

Leroy clicked off the website and walked over to the next office. The correspondent was at her desk, frowning, watching a television monitor tuned to the Weather Channel. She looked up at Leroy as he stood in the doorway and waited for him to speak.

“Go home and pack your gear. We’ll drive over to Sarasota this afternoon.”

Cassie let out a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan.

Leroy’s eyes narrowed behind his black-framed glasses. “Bad attitude, Cassie. I’d think you’d be eager to get out and try to get on the air. I know I damn well want to.”

“I know you do, Leroy. And I feel for you. I do. We both know what’s going on, though we don’t talk about it.”

He watched Cassie as her shoulders slumped. He might even have felt sorry for her, if his own fate weren’t so entangled with hers. Instead, he felt angry at her defeatist attitude. “Look, I’m not interested in a lengthy discussion of what’s going on with you and your career right now, Cassie. Let’s just get out of this office and cover some news. Go ahead, go home and pack your boots and rubber pants.”

Cassie got up, switched off the television, and hitched her carry bag onto her shoulder. Leroy stepped aside as she silently passed him on her way out the door.

How the mighty had fallen.

Sarasota’s elderly population ensured that J. Harrison Lewis, M.D., had a thriving practice. There was an endless supply of cloudy cataracts that needed to be removed, and Harry had the best reputation in the city for getting the job done. Business was so good that the wait for an initial appointment was two months, and surgeries were scheduled another month to six weeks after that.

Perhaps the wait wouldn’t have been so long if Dr. Lewis had put in more working hours. But life was short, and what was the point of all those years in medical school and internship and residency and pushing himself at Manhattan Eye, Ear and Throat if now, after building his private practice here in the Sunshine State, he didn’t enjoy the fruits of his labor? He instructed his nurses not to schedule anything after two o’clock, he took every Wednesday and weekend off, and he made a point of taking at least six weeks of vacation each year. He wanted to have time to enjoy the new boat he had
bought, the boat he had christened
The Eyes Have It
. Sailing was his passion.

Harry was not really a people person, as his patients would say, while hastening to add that they didn’t care if his bedside manner wasn’t the best as long as his hands were steady and he knew what he was doing. In a world where a single man was a rare commodity, many women had tried to entice him.

“The actual surgery will take only about a half an hour, Mrs. Chambers, but you better plan to spend about three hours in the hospital. The anesthesiologist will make sure you are comfortable during the operation. You’ll be awake during the surgery, but you won’t feel any pain.”

Etta gripped Charles’s hand as they listened to what was to come.

Dr. Lewis didn’t bother giving an understanding smile or reaching out to pat Etta’s arm in a sign of reassurance. “My nurse tells me that we have a last-minute cancellation, so we have an opening tomorrow morning. We could do the surgery then, or else you can wait until the end of September or early October. It’s up to you.”

The couple looked at each other. “Whatever you want to do, Etta,” Charles said soothingly.

“Oh my, I wasn’t prepared for this,” said his wife. “But maybe it would be good to get it over with instead of worrying about it for the next month.”

“Fine,” declared the ophthalmologist, quickly making a notation in his book. “Tomorrow morning. Ten o’clock. Don’t wear any makeup or jewelry or hairpins,
and make sure to wear loose and comfortable clothing. Take any medication you normally take.”

Dr. Lewis rose to dismiss his patient, extending his hand across the desk. “See you tomorrow.”

Etta and Charles left the office, not quite knowing what had hit them, as the doctor rang for his nurse to bring him his lunch. As usual, he’d been up early to perform surgery, and he was hungry. He had fifteen minutes penciled in to eat before his next appointment. Just enough time to scarf down his chef’s salad and catch the top of the noon news.

“Hannah? Hi, honey. It’s Mom.”

“Oh, hi.”

Cassie’s heart sank at the lack of enthusiasm in her daughter’s voice.

“How’s everything going, sweetheart?”

“Fine.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Not much.”

“Have you been going to the pool?”

“Not really.”

“Playing any softball?”

“The season’s over, Mom,” answered the thirteen-year-old with resignation. “Don’t you know anything?” was left unspoken.

Cassie eyed the packed canvas duffel bag in her foyer as she twisted the telephone cord in her free hand. She didn’t want to tell Hannah, but it would be worse if she waited. “How’s the weather up there, Hannah?” God, she sounded so lame. Like she was making
polite small talk with a stranger. Not the conversation that a mother and daughter should be having.

“It’s hot. Hot and muggy.” Hannah sounded bored.

“That’s the way it is down here, too.” Cassie swallowed. “But there’s a storm brewing off the western coast of the state. It’s close to becoming a hurricane.”

No response on the other end of the telephone line.

“Hannah?”

“Yeah?”

“Honey, I have to go to Sarasota, to be in place in case this thing turns into a hurricane.”

“So?” Her daughter was going to make her say it.

“So I might not be able to come up there this weekend.”

“Figures.” The sarcasm in Hannah’s tone stung.

“Oh, Hannah, please don’t be like that. You know there’s nothing I want more than to come up and see you.” Cassie didn’t like the pleading quality she heard in her voice.

“Yeah, Mom. Right.”

“Hannah, I’m so sorry. But what can I do? You know how it is, honey. This is my job.” Cassie wanted to add, the job that pays for all those trips to The Gap and J. Crew, but she held her tongue.

“Yeah, I know how it is, Mom. It’s always your job.”

Cassie cast around for a way to respond. Hannah had a point, and they both knew it. “Look, if I can’t make it this weekend, I’ll try for the following one.”

“That won’t work out, Mom. Daddy and I are going away that weekend.”

“Oh, you are? Where?”

“Rehoboth.”

Cassie’s mind quickly made the connection. Gillian Cox, the principal at Jim’s school, had a beach house in Rehoboth. In fact, Cassie and Jim and Hannah had visited there together in happier times. “Are you going to Mrs. Cox’s place?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” Cassie tried to be upbeat.

“I might as well tell you, Mom. Daddy and Mrs. Cox have been going out together.” As she had been hurt, Hannah wanted to hurt her mother.

She succeeded.

“Mom! Mom! I’m going to be on TV!” Vincent ran into the kitchen, panting. “Hurry up, turn it on!”

Wendy Bayler looked up from spreading peanut butter on Wonder bread, unable to respond before her son spun on his heels and scurried to the television set. She wiped her hands on a paper towel and followed Vincent into the tiny living room.

“Come on, Mom!” the boy urged. “There’s going to be a story about me.” He hoped she wouldn’t realize that he should have asked her permission to be on the news. It was too late now.

Mark poked his small head out of the bedroom to see what the commotion was about. Wendy’s first instinct was to tell her younger son to stay in the air-conditioned room, but the excitement on Vincent’s face made her reconsider. For once in her sons’ lives she didn’t want the moment wrecked by the worries of that damned cystic fibrosis. For once they were going to live as she imagined other people lived and just enjoy the moment. She gathered her sons beside her on the
worn couch and watched the opening of
The News at Noon
.

“Siesta Beach was the scene of a gruesome discovery this morning,” announced the anchorman, “as a human hand was found by a Siesta Key boy. Suncoast News Reporter Tony Whitcomb has the story.” Slackjawed, Wendy turned to look at her older son, but Vincent was staring wide-eyed at the TV screen.

The reporter began his narration. “Most mornings, eleven-year-old Vincent Bayler combs the beach with his metal detector, looking for spare change and metallic treasures in the sand. But this morning was not like other mornings.”

Vincent’s flushed face popped up on the screen. “The metal detector went off over a clump of seaweed. I pulled back the seaweed and that’s when I found it.”

“What did you find?” asked the reporter.

“A hand.”

Now Wendy wished that she had instructed Mark to stay in the bedroom. The five-year-old grabbed his mother’s arm and let out a phlegmy cough.

“Sarasota Sherriff’s Deputy Danny Gregg was the first officer to respond to the scene,” continued the reporter’s deep voice. Wendy recognized the policeman who had come to their house that night last year to help Mark.

“I called my supervisor, and detectives were dispatched to the scene,” said the deputy. “The hand was taken downtown to the forensics lab, where our experts will conduct their investigation. They’ll try to get fingerprints,
and we’ll be checking for any missing per-sons reported within the past few weeks.”

“But,” the reporter continued, “clear fingerprints may be hard to obtain. Vincent Bayler says the hand was in poor condition.”

“It was all bloated and raggedy and it looked like the fish had gotten at it,” the boy described with a little too much enthusiasm. “Maybe even sharks!”

The reporter appeared on the screen now, standing on the sand with the Gulf of Mexico lapping behind him. “Police say this does
not
appear to be a shark attack. They told Suncoast News that the wrist had been cleanly severed. Tony Whitcomb, Suncoast News, on Siesta Beach.”

Vincent looked up expectantly at his mother. “Cool, huh?”

“No, Vincent, it is not cool. It’s horrible.” Wendy’s brow furrowed as she looked at her son. She worried about this kid of hers. Was it a normal boy thing that he looked at finding a human hand this way as a source of excitement? Yet she supposed it was better that Vincent viewed this nightmare as an adventure rather than being traumatized by it.

Her thoughts were distracted by the sound of Mark’s cough. “Come on, big guy,” she urged, putting her arms beneath Mark’s and boosting him up. “Get back into your room, and I’ll bring in your lunch on a tray.”

“Will you stay with me while I eat, Mommy?”

“Yes, I will. Now go ahead, Mark. Get in there.”

When the boy had shut the bedroom door behind
him, Wendy turned to her other child. “Explain something to me, Vincent. I don’t understand why the metal detector went off.”

Vincent arranged a look of innocence on his freckled face. “Whaddya mean?”

“I mean, a hand doesn’t have any metal in it. Why would a metal detector go off?”

In his cluttered office at the marina, Jerry watched
The News at Noon
, paying close attention to the weather report at the end. Pointing to his blue-and-green electronic map, the meteorologist said that Tropical Storm Giselle was heading in their general direction. Suncoast News was keeping a close watch on Giselle, the weatherman reassured his audience, and would keep Sarasotans apprised of the latest developments.

“Of course, folks, we don’t want anyone to panic, but you must be prepared. Locate your evacuation zone. You can find it printed in the front of your phone book. Check out your evacuation route and the shelters near you and practice driving to them. And remember, be flexible. It’s impossible to tell in advance which roads may be closed.”

Jerry Dean let out a low groan as he walked out to the dock and surveyed the boats bobbing gently in the green water. He had close to two hundred boats in his marina. Many of them were owned by locals, some were owned by people from outside the state who used
them when they came down to vacation. All would have to be secured as tightly as possible to survive whipping winds and surging water. Jerry knew that, despite his best efforts, if the storm hit them hard, they were going to sustain big losses.

The marina owner had been down this road before. When the last big storm blew through, owners had little time to secure their boats, leaving dozens to sink or suffer major damage. High winds tore sailboats from their moorings, tossing them like bath toys in the choppy water and smashing them into the Ringling Causeway, banging them over and over again against the bridge until their masts collapsed. Predictably, too many of his customers blamed Jerry for their losses. After that storm some owners moved their boats elsewhere. It had taken the last three years to get business back to where it had been before. Only the surreptitious renting of clients’ boats had helped him make it through.

As he squinted out into the clear horizon, it was hard to believe that another violent storm was brewing out there, steadily growing, heading his way. Jerry took off his orange baseball cap and wiped the perspiration from his creased brow. The days of preparation were going to be long ones. Maybe the storm would fizzle out, but he wasn’t going to be caught unprepared this time.

The office telephone rang, and Jerry went back inside to grab it. “Marina.”

“Jerry? It’s Webb Morelle. Just checking that everything is on for tonight.”

“Yeah, Webb. Your boat’s all fueled up and ready to go.”

“Great, guy. Thanks. And you’re still on to take us up there?”

The last thing Jerry needed right now was to waste his time chauffeuring Webb and his wife to that charity bash up at Cà d’Zan, but Webb was a good customer who always paid his bills on time and Jerry didn’t want to break his promise. “Yep. All set.”

“Good, because Lou-Anne has a hankering to arrive by boat and make her grand entrance up that big ole marble staircase at the Ringling dock. I don’t want to disappoint her, buddy.”

“I understand, Webb.” Jerry tried to keep the weariness out of his voice. “You said six o’clock, right?”