Storm Surge Read Online Free Page B

Island Management
Company; it was one of the few internal combustion vehicles allowed on the
island. It was one of the community’s selling points: no cars, no cell phones,
just peace, quiet, and the endless sea.
    There were two
men in the golf cart, dressed in expensive khakis, polo shirts, and tinted
shooting glasses. Max saw the guns propped up in a rack in the back of the
cart, where golf bags normally would be. He couldn’t tell which one was Brian.
They didn’t look at him as he drove past. He was the help.
     

CHAPTER SIX
     
    Travis Boyle
had never been to sea. But as the guy who ran the construction ferry, he got to
call himself the captain. He rather liked the idea. At one time, he’d even
bought a baseball cap with “Captain” written in gold on the front, but the
construction guys had ragged him so much about it, he
eventually took it off and replaced it with his old familiar CAT Diesel
products hat. Still, in his mind, he was the captain.
    He was
surprised to see the big panel truck pull up to the ramp. He came out of the
shack beside the dock, wiping his hands on a rag, and squinted at the new
arrival. A sign stenciled on the side panels proclaimed that it belonged to
GARVIN BROTHERS CONTRACTOR SERVICES. A man was climbing down from the running
board as Boyle approached.
    “Afternoon,”
the man said. He was half a head taller than Boyle, and broad. His head was
shaved bald. He checked a clipboard held in one hand. “We got a delivery.” He
looked at construction ferry. “When’s the next run?”
    Unlike the
sleek, clean, well-appointed craft that took residents and guests to the
picturesque landing at the marina, the construction ferry was an ancient
flat-bottomed barge that seemed to be held together by rust and faith. It was
pushed through the water by an equally decrepit, asthmatic old tugboat. The
ferry tied up at a greasy dock, halfway around the island from the marina and well
hidden by the tight, wind-gnarled brush of the maritime forest.
    “Runs as often
as we need it,” Boyle said. “ Ain’t needed it much, though. Not with the storm and all. All the sites are
shut down.” He eyed the panel truck. “Where y’all goin ’?”
    The bald man
unfolded a piece of paper. “Bluff Court,” he read off. “The
Mayhew job.”
    Boyle
recognized the name. The Mayhew place had been shaping up to be one of the
biggest houses on the island. The owner, a guy from Brooklyn who’d reportedly
made a fortune developing timeshares, had battled the island’s Architectural
Committee for months before finally getting a scaled-back and non-garish
version of what he called his “palace by the sea” approved. But a series of
Federal fraud indictments and frozen bank accounts had finally brought the
project to a halt. Now the house sat half-finished, looming
over the beachfront, with the Architectural Committee becoming more and more
frantic at the thought of such an eyesore becoming a permanent part of the
landscape.
    “Huh,” Boyle
said. “Didn’t know they was startin ’
that up again.”
    The bald guy
shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “All I know is where they tell me to take
the stuff, man.”
    “Seems like an
awful strange time to be droppin ’ building supplies
off,” Boyle went on. “I mean, don’t they know there’s a hurricane coming?”
    “Not my
problem, bro,” the bald man said. Boyle noticed another man getting down from
the passenger side. He was short and slight, with close-cropped pale blonde
hair. He ignored Boyle, walked over to the edge of the dock, and stood looking
across the sound. You could barely see Pass Island from here, even on a clear
day. The only structure you could really make out, in fact, was the top of the
old lighthouse.
    Boyle
shrugged. “Hey,” he said, “All whatever you’re deliverin ’
gets washed out to sea, ain’t no skin off my nose.” He went to lower the ferry ramp. The two men got in the
truck.
    “All that gets
washed out,”