Panhandle Scandal

Chapter 1

Nobody messed with Franklin DeBuys, not even Mother Nature. Let this little storm blow by and those pissants would learn a hard lesson about staying in line.

A wall of water slammed onto the sandbar and the beach rumbled under Franklin’s shoeless feet. The solid cloud cover had an ominous tint, and the air was tense with promised violence. Foamy spittle shot into the air all along the beach. The ocean growled. Seagulls gaacked as they headed for inland safety. Windblown mist obscured a line of concrete towers a mile to the east, but Franklin knew his customers were safe inside their concrete boxes. He cut many corners, but never on the windows and sliding glass doors. Cheap tile seldom got noticed, but bodies affect sales.

Franklin could go to his own safe penthouse. Or he could just take the jet and go somewhere else, maybe the house in Pucon. Neither choice worked for him. He had ridden out every major storm to hit the Florida Panhandle since Frederick decades ago. He had structurally upgraded his beloved beach house and installed a fully certified glass slider in the wall facing the ocean. He was exactly where he wanted to be. Alone in the bullseye of a Category Five monster. He tugged his hat and faced the coming danger.

“Bring it, you sonofabitch.”

The outer bands kissed the shoreline. Sideways rain stung his face. Time to go up. Franklin took the back stairs, stopped at the landing, and watched the palms bend without breaking. He felt a kinship with them. He hung his yellow raincoat on a peg next to the back door and went to the study where he kept his special occasion whiskey. Pictures of buildings, poses with politicians, and civic awards decorated the walls. A framed photo of him with his two grandchildren looked up from his desk. They had grown up to be interesting adults. Mason was beautiful and successful. Sandy was a brash little fucker. It pleased him that they settled in the Panhandle, far away from their mother. The thought that one day the little shits would be at each other’s throats brought a wrinkled smile to his face.

Franklin poured three fingers in his favorite glass. It was show time.

The winds sang an eerie, high-pitched note. A heavy gust rattled the house. The storm was beginning to take itself seriously. Franklin pushed himself out of his chair to get a refill. He almost lost his balance as the floor moved under him. A sound like large twigs breaking resonated from underneath, and the house commenced a drunkard’s slow dance. He held onto the back of his chair and watched the seal break around the sliding door. Greedy wind insinuated itself through the newly open spaces. The glass vibrated. A crack formed, and the entire door exploded. He ducked as his heroic chair took the hit from deadly glass beads screaming into the house.

The vibrating roar overwhelmed rational thought. Franklin’s shaky forearm wiped blood from his eyes. A debris filled jet wash separated him from the safety of the kitchen island. He waited for a slight lull and crawled toward it. Halfway there, the chaos returned. He glanced at the jagged hole in the wall where the door had been moments before and had no time to duck a high-speed coconut.

A foggy blackness bordered Franklin’s vision. Blood dribbled down his cheeks. The house became a cheap carnival ride. He knew why.

Those fuckers.

***

Jack Dawson fought the storm all night. He plugged leaks, mopped water, and drank tequila. When the danger passed, he fell into an exhausted sleep for a few hours, and woke with the sun. In his right hand he firmly clasped a waterproof pouch containing a photograph, two plain gold rings on a matching chain, and a sealed container. These were the only important items in the house, including himself. He set these out on the nightstand and rubbed his eyes as he padded to the kitchen.

Jack leaned on the railing of his deck, his coffee compliments of the gas cooktop. The morning was clear with a light breeze, the chaotic violence gone like a nightmare. He surveyed the destruction that lay in the wake of one of the largest hurricanes to hit the Emerald Coast. Dozens of palms were down. The receding surge left behind washed-out dunes and mountains of debris.

Professionally, it pleased him that the cabin he designed and built performed so well. Personally, he didn’t really give a shit. He’d fucked up enough for two lifetimes already and it wouldn’t surprise him if somebody upstairs checked his score and called time. Jack was sure, however, that he wouldn’t be arguing at the pearly gates. A year gone by and he still hadn’t learned how to deal with the soul-crushing guilt. If his ticket got punched, well, at least that would be over.

A knock on his front door brought Jack out of his dark musings. He went inside, opened the door, and faced a Walton County deputy sheriff.

“Good morning, Mr. Dawson. Checking you are ok.”

“I’m good. Thanks for coming by though.”
The deputy pulled out a radio, spoke into it, listened for a second, and handed it to Jack.

A crackly voice barked, “Jack? Ron Chapman here. Heard your cabin came through with flying colors. Over.”

“Good thing too. It’d be a lousy look if a structural engineer’s own house got nailed. Over.”

“Tell me about it. Some of the houses my guys inspected are wasted. I’ve never seen anything like it. The cops are swamped with missing persons reports and, lord knows how many dumbasses rode it out. I can’t wait for the FEMA search and rescue teams to get here. I’m putting my own men out there right now to get a jump on it, but I need a structural guy with them. Can you do it?”

“Let me check my schedule. Hold on.” Jack held the radio away from his face. Did he want to get involved? No choice, really. He grinned at the deputy. “I’ll have to move my hair appointment, but I can work you in.”

“Hate to make you miss your beauty session. Your beard is out of control.” The radio gave Jack an address on Blue Mountain Road where some kids from a hurricane party were reported missing.

“I know that house. But it’s in Walton County.”

“Right. We’re combining forces with a central dispatch.”

“Got it. I’ll grab my tools and chainsaw and head that way.”

“Jack, you are not to go into any buildings. Understood? Can’t have a civilian getting hurt.”

“I hear you.”

“Jack, stay out of the goddam buildings.”

“I said I heard you. Jack out.”

Jack said goodbye to the deputy, went inside and got into his work clothes. Back outside, he climbed a ladder to a platform twelve feet off the ground. He took off a brown plastic tarp, exposing El Toro, a battle-scarred metallic gray F150.

“Good morning, old friend. Glad you made it.” Jack climbed into the cabin and grinned as it fired up. He patted the dash. “Attaboy.”

He backed down the ramp, loaded up his tools, checked the chainsaw, and headed out. He didn’t get far. Thirty minutes of heavy chainsaw work later, he weaved his way between the cut ends of palm trunks to the end of his driveway and turned west on Thirty-A.

The scene was apocalyptic. Some houses were nothing but rubble, while others stood incongruously intact. Piles of palms and other debris lay jumbled together like giant pickup sticks on either side of a single cleared lane. Jack was glad for the four-wheel-drive as he navigated patches of sand washed onto the road. He arrived at a two-story house at the west end of Blue Mountain Beach Road, got out, and studied the structure. One side rested on sand, the other on a partially crushed Wrangler.

Two men in heavy blue coveralls and hard hats stood in front of a green pick up. Jack grabbed his tools, put on his own scarred hard hat, and walked around to the front of their truck.

“Jack Dawson. They sent me here to help.” Jack extended his hand to a big man with a weathered face who introduced himself as Buster. He turned to Buster’s partner.

“Carlos.” The man had a grip. “Pleasure.”

Buster squinted at Jack. “Got no idea what dumbass sent you, but we don’t need no help and sure don’t need to be babysitting some do-gooder. So why don’t go back to your truck, pat yourself on the back and let us get to work.”

Jack studied the house for a moment. “Do you think the house is safe to go in?”

“Still standin’ ain’t it?”

“Yeah, but if it shifts just a little, it’ll come down. That’s why Ron sent me here. I’m a structural engineer and I’m going to keep your asses out of trouble.”

“Ron Chapman? Fuck man, he’s the big boss. You know him?”

“Short brown hair, about five-nine, bit of an asshole?”

Both workmen laughed.

Buster said, “That’s the one, but I’ll deny ever saying it.”

“Well, if you have any doubts about me being here, call it in.”

Buster shrugged.

It took an hour and a bunch of straps and ratchets to get the house stable to Jack’s satisfaction. Jack insisted he go in first.

Buster said, “I got direct instructions. You ain’t supposed to go inside.”

Jack looked between the two men. “Either of you have kids?” Buster said he did. Carlos pulled out his wallet and extracted a photo of three young humans sitting on the front steps of a house. He helpfully provided each child’s name and age.

“Well, I don’t.” At least not anymore. “Fuck Ron and his bullshit orders.”

Jack wriggled through a former window. The interior was a wreck, glass and debris all over the floor. A collapsed partition revealed a bathroom. The vanity mirror looked like a spider web. Jack picked his way around the rubble and found no bodies.

He checked each step of the interior stairs. Halfway up, he glanced at the upper landing. Lifeless eyes stared back at him. A male head protruded through the railing that guarded the stair opening.

Jack pressed the talk button. “Got one male body, second floor. Let dispatch know we’re going to need the morgue guys. Need some help here. Probably Buster. This guy looks pretty heavy.”

The radio crackled. “Roger. Will do.”

Jack reached the floor and surveyed the scene. The ocean was visible through a jagged hole in the wall. He thought about the force required to blow a human body across the room and jam his head through the railing. Behind the kitchen counter, a female body lay face down. A shard of plate glass protruded from her neck and a pool of blood congealed on the floor. Jack shivered, radioed the news, and moved on. The two doors to the side of the kitchen were closed. Jack opened the first and found a jumble of cleaning supplies. The other led to a bathroom. A male body lay face down in the tub. Blood dribbled down his neck. Jack checked for a pulse. Found one.

“Jack?” It was Carlos.

“Where’s Buster?”

“You said the guy was heavy. He sent me.”

Jack took a second to be embarrassed at his stereotyping. The two men lifted the inert male and almost dropped him as a young woman’s eyes popped open underneath him. She gasped.

Jack silently saluted the boy’s gallantry and got on the radio. “Got two survivors. Need paramedics ASAP.”

A whooping siren announced the paramedics. A stretcher poked its head through the same opening Jack entered. One by one the inside team set the survivors on the stretcher and handed them over to the EMTs. The bodies received the same care but had a different destination. The three rescuers high-fived. Jack turned to face away, reached over his shoulder and pointed.

“What?” Buster said.

“I want my pat on the back.”

Buster laughed and slapped Jack between his shoulder blades. Jack’s radio sent him to another house.

Chapter 2

El Toro’s four-wheel drive got him to a cluster of vehicles and flashing lights fifty yards from the ocean. Beyond them, what used to be a house on stilts was a twisted wreck. A slender man in jeans and a polo shirt, some logo on its breast, approached and held out his hand. Not a single gray hair was out of place.

“Mr. Dawson, Senator Denson. Just heard the splendid news about survivors. Thank you. Franklin DeBuys is a great friend of mine. Looks like the stubborn SOB has ridden out his last storm.”

A petite woman walked up. Her blond ponytail dribbled down the back of a pink sweatshirt. She offered her hand.

“Mason Smith, Mr. Dawson. Thank you for coming. My grandfather is in there and the rescue crew has been told to stay out. They tell me you are a structural engineer so I’m hoping you can find a safe way to reach him.”

“Now Mason.” The senator put his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t see much point—”

“Let me be the judge of that.” Jack wasn’t about to let a politician do his job. He studied the wreckage. He’s probably right. Not much chance of surviving that train wreck.

“Ma’am, I’m really sorry, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope for your grandfather.”

Mason grabbed his arm. “But there’s some chance, right?”

Jack held his hand up as he radioed his assessment to dispatch. He was told to standby. After a minute, Ron Chapman’s voice crackled out of the radio.

“Come in, Jack. Over.”

“I’m here. Over.”

“Heard about Blue Mountain. Good work, but goddamit Jack, I told you to stay out of the fucking buildings. Our lawyer is having a come-apart. Where are you now?”

“Some guy’s beach house. His granddaughter’s name is Mason. She’s standing next to me.” In case you want to watch your language.

“Shit, you’re at Franklin DeBuys’ place. I told dispatch…never mind. Heard it was a lost cause. I hate it but I don’t think we should waste the time and manpower on a long shot. I’m pulling the crew. Dispatch will give you a new location.”

Mason’s eyes begged.

“At least let me take a closer look before we pull the plug.”

“That’s a negative. I don’t want anybody hurt. Confirm you will stay away from that house.”

What’s wrong with a few minutes? Maybe give a little comfort? He keyed the radio.

“I’m gonna look anyway.”

“Jack, do not go near that fucking house. That’s an order.”

“Kiss my ass. Jack out.” He turned off the radio.

Jack grabbed his tools, shouldered his way past the crew, and walked around the gaggle of vehicles. A hand grabbed him at the elbow.

The senator said, “Mr. Dawson, you should do what your supervisor says.”

Jack kept moving. A woman with a microphone intercepted him.

“Mr. Dawson, we heard what you did at Blue Mountain. Can we get a comment?”

“Really? A life may be in danger, and you want me to stop and talk to you?”

***

A voice interrupted Jack as he was tightening the last strap.

Mason stood on the sand below him. “Mr. Dawson, it’s been an hour. How much longer will it take before you can go inside?”

“I’m doing the best I can.”

“So how long?”

“Forever if you keep interrupting me. Now if you don’t mind, please go back where it’s safe.”

“But if Pappy’s hurt, time is critical.”

Jack climbed down and faced Mason. “Now. Please.”

“But…”

“Now.”

“Okay. Okay.” Mason moved away.

Jack had to cut his way in through a badly slanted wall. He stepped inside and studied the maze of shattered wood and leaning supports. He’d have to cut some of them to get any further into the space. He made a judgment and yanked the chainsaw. One cut and wait. Nothing moved. Another cut. There was a slight shift. He waited, then let out a held breath. Another cut. Another wait. A beam crashed to his left. Jack checked behind him. The escape path was still clear. One more cut and he was in what looked like the kitchen/living area. A foot protruded from under an overturned chair that leaked white stuffing. Broken glass crackled under his boots. He almost slipped on the tilted floor, squatted for stability and stood the chair up. Death-white eyes stared out from a bloody face. The nose was nearly inverted into the skull. Jack slid his radio off his belt and made the call. Dispatch said they would send the morgue crew. He took some photos with his phone. He studied the body. The man wasn’t large, but still it was going to be a bitch to get him out. He hoped the house would hang together a little longer.

Jack dragged the body back along the path he had made to get in. When he reached the wall cut, he lowered the body and stuck his head out of the opening. He heard a yell and several people hustled over. Mason was among the crowd looking up.

Jack said, “I’m very sorry. He didn’t make it.”

Mason pressed her face into her hands and the tall guy, the senator? put his arm around her. The dude looked up at Jack, a question in his eyes.

Jack said, “Let’s wait until the authorities get here. Then we can lower him down.”

Mason pushed herself away from the senator. “I want to see him now.”

“Ma’am, I don’t think…”

“No, Mr. Dawson. Bring him out now.”

At this point, Jack didn’t really care. He’d risked his life to dig out a dead guy. If the lady wanted to see his bloody, crushed in face, then fine.