(no subject)
Only a fool would try to outrun a tornado. That's one of the first things you learn, living in Oklahoma. Fight or flight means nothing; both will get you killed. Instead you duck and cover, hide, bury your head in the sand, and hope the whole world doesn't crumble down around you. Only a fool would do anything different.
Grace Hanadarko, police detective, has her fair share of foolish experiences, and then some.
Right now would be a good example.
"Dorothy Edwina Talbert, you're under arrest on three counts of negligent homicide." Wrestling the jagged piece of glass from Dorothy's hand, Grace slaps one half of her handcuffs on the woman trapped on her desk, under the unstable detritus of the bus depot she once worked in, and attaches the other side to her own slim wrist. "If God wants you, he's going to have to go through me first."
Damn Earl. Why did he have to say that? Why did he have to tell her she'd probably make it out if she left Dorothy behind?
The second tornado is bearing down on them. Grace can hear the wind, the screech of metal peeling away from metal. Papers fly through the air, torn from carefully organized file folders, and strike her in the face. Heart racing, she throws herself on top of her prisoner.
"Don't worry. We'll be okay so long as the tornado doesn't know you're named Dorothy."
"Forgive me," Dorothy whispers. The morphine is taking effect.
"What."
"Forgive me."
Grace says nothing, pulling the collar of her heavy fireman's jacket up over her exposed neck. Then, "Shut your eyes. There's a lot of crap flying around."
It's not a lie. The tornado slams into the decrepit building with all the force of a proverbial freight train, though Grace has always thought it feels more like being broadsided by an aircraft carrier. Dorothy shivers under her, sobbing, her cries lost on the wailing wind, carried away with what's left of the ceiling. Knowing it's stupid, knowing she stands to lose an eye, Grace turns her head and glares up, spitting suddenly razor-sharp hair out of her mouth.
“You can't have her!” she shouts at the tornado, at God; at both. "She's mine, you son of a bitch!”
A sharp crack and a piercing bright light ring down from the heavens in answer. But this time, there's no Earl to pull her back.
~~~
The first thing Grace sees when she opens her eyes is a gray sky with swiftly moving white clouds, blown by the wind in the wake of a storm. The air is crisp, lacking the heaviness and crackling anticipation that sent Oklahoma City scurrying for shelter. None of these things should be noticeable from inside Carver and Son bus company.
They're clear.
"Well, shit." Grace sits up, kicking a piece of mangled tin off her lower legs, and suddenly realizes there's no weight, dead or otherwise, attached to her right arm. A jerky motion brings her arm up to her face; she stares at her still manacled wrist in astonishment. There they are, her handcuffs, but the other person they're meant to be attached to is nowhere in sight. Not even her arm. "Shit."
The key is in her bra. Digging for it, Grace looks around and notices the entire east wall has collapsed to rubble, providing her (and possibly Dorothy) with an easy exit. She breathes a sigh of relief. Being trapped in that damned building had been uncomfortably close to certain memories she has no intention of trotting out for review. She's pissed as hell she let Earl see her vulnerable. The handcuffs are quickly removed and fastened to a back belt loop. Grace stands, picking her way through sharp shards, insulation and all that remains of Dorothy's office, to emerge in the parking lot.
At least, she thinks it's a parking lot. It should be the parking lot. It was the parking lot when she went into the building; reason dictates it should be the parking lot when she comes out. But what she sees is the street through the center of a small town, and not a car in sight; certainly not her Porsche. Mouth open, she stomps around the ruined building and arrives on her original spot with a plethora of curses brewing on her tongue.
She looks at the sky. “Asshole.”
~ ~ ~
An hour later, Grace is no closer to finding Dorothy, her car or even someone to tell her where the hell she is. Using her exceptional detective skills, she's deduced she's in Missouri -- from what she can see through the windows, the local shops are lousy with University of Missouri merchandise -- but the town is deserted.
The grill and bar had proved useful, if not particularly enlightening. Covering her elbow with the filthy fireman's jacket, she'd broken a pane of glass on the door and let herself in. From the looks of things, its diners hadn't been satisfied customers. Chairs were overturned. Rotten food coated the floor.
“Huh,” she'd said to the silence. "Must not be a very good place."
With a shrug, she'd hopped up on the bar and slid over to the other side, feeling no compunction at rifling through hand written receipts and bottles. That's how she got the case of beer, carton of smokes and bottles of Jack currently beside her feet on the sidewalk. The beer is hot, but it tastes smooth going down her scratchy throat.
"What's this all about, Earl?” she says around the mouth of a bottle. "Some kind of test? Your boss couldn't just let me save her. What the hell.”
Still drinking, she reaches down and pulls her cell phone out of her boot. "No service.” She squints. “This is bullshit.”
Grace pulls herself away from the pole she'd been leaning against and orders her misbegotten gains to "Stay” before turning left down the street. Her boots make a sharp sound on the old asphalt. She walks like it's a challenge, a personal assault on anyone who gets in her way. She's been called a tornado herself, in her day.
In a town like this, it doesn't take her long to locate the police station.
~ ~ ~
"Ma'am, you shouldn't be here. You should really leave, ma'am."
Grace rolls her eyes and takes a drag from her cigarette. She hates being called ma'am. Perched on the desk, she gives the young cop a winning smile. "Believe me, I'd no intention of being here at all." Puff. "Where is everyone, anyway?"
"In the woods," he answers uncomfortably. "By the lake. People have been seeing things at night in town. Strange things. Things that don't make sense, even now."
"Man, I've seen all sorts of shit," Grace snorts. "They think they'll be better off in the woods?"
"At least we'll all be together."
"Why're you still here?" She leans forward, delicately trailing a forefinger down his soft cheek.
He swallows. "Someone's got to man the radio. CB. And wait, just in case."
"Ah. Brave of you."
"Not especially." He shivers and looks out the window. Afternoon is dragging on. "They'll be back for me before dark."
Over his head, Grace can see two police cruisers parked out back. Good. The rookie may be bordering on cute, but she doesn't particularly want to take him along. She doesn't need company on her Earl-induced delusion.
"I'm Detective Hanadarko, Oklahoma City PD.” She flashes her badge with the hand holding the cigarette. “Got any spare ammunition?”
He -- Charlie, she can now see on his name plate -- shakes his head, dark eyes full of regret. "Only what they gave me. I don't know the code."
Grace tenderly kisses his forehead, then lowers herself back to her feet, careful to keep his eyes on hers so he doesn't notice his keys have just gone missing. The second set will be hanging on a hook somewhere. "Where is it?"
Looking confused, he points to a door exactly opposite the door that leads to the cells.
"You know what criminals say about cops," she says huskily, giving her hips an interesting little wiggle on her way over, watching him. "That we're all predictable. That's why we'll never even the score."
She tries 3-1-1 first. Nothing happens.
3-1-1-1-1-3.
After trying a number of similar codes, Grace tilts her head. She hadn't given these small-town cops enough credit. Unless...
9-1-1.
9-1-1-1-1-9.
The door clicks open. Grace laughs; Charlie looks baffled. She shoots him another knowing smile over her shoulder and disappears inside, all business now. There's not much left, but she pilfers as much 9 mm ammunition as she can find and tosses Charlie the lone revolver.
"Take care of yourself, Charlie."
~ ~ ~
"Bullshit."
It's muttered above the wind blowing past the open windows and the purr of the engine. The predictability of cops isn't always a bad thing; the cruiser was fully gassed when she peeled out of the parking lot. In the backseat, the case of beer and carton of cigarettes are belted in. The bottles are less secure on the floor.
Grace sees a sign for Interstate 35 and quickly cuts across two empty lanes (they're all empty) to hop on the ramp. "That's more like it.” It's not long before she sees a sign for Kansas City.
Smirking, she flips on the radio and starts looking for stations. Classic rock would be good, but she's not picky. Station one is static. Station two is some sort of weird buzzing sound, like an alarm gone bad. Station three is a man speaking in a foreign language. There's nothing but silence on station four.
“Damn it, Earl. You could've at least left me some tunes."