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MILES OFF THE COAST OF PORT ESABEL. ADVISORY REPORTS FROM THE CORPUS CHRISTI WEATHER BUREAU ARE REPORTING WINDS AT TWENTY-FIVE KNOTS WITH PEAK GUSTS TO THIRTY-FIVE KNOTS IN A SQUALL LINE PRECEDING..." |
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He snapped off the radio and watched the windshield wipers plow determinedly back and forth in a fruitless effort to provide a field of vision. He had been through one too many storms already. He knew from experience that unless the old girl veered off at the last minute and headed north, what they were getting now was only the first surge. It would pass. There would be a temporary lull and then another squall line. The second one would be more intense than the first. The pattern was destined to be repeated again and again until the storm itself hit, and when it did, there would be hell to pay on South Padre. |
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He pulled off the blacktop and worked his way up Morgan's long, twisting, tree-shrouded lane toward the old man's house. A sudden strong gust of wind buffeted his truck, and a loud peal of thunder rattled the windows. He jerked the truck to a stop, jumped out and raced toward the house. He threw open the door and jumped in, turning in the same motion to slam it against the rain. |
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