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Merle Chesterton, the only other deputy to find a way over from the mainland, was scraping the mud and silt off his boots. |
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It was hot, uncommonly hot for so late in the year. The south Texas sun had been hammering unmercifully down on them for three days now. It came at them out of a crystal clear, cloudless sky that failed to offer even an occasional if temporary reprieve from the scorching ball of orange that hovered high overhead. Red sagged against the side of his cruiser, inhaled deeply, his mind, for the moment, disengaged, taking a break from the chaos that had been his way of life since the storm. |
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South Padre was in shambles. It would take months to pick up the pieces and years to put it back together again. There wasn't much that had escaped the ravage of the storm. What hadn't been broken had been battered. What hadn't been battered had been bent. What hadn't been bent had been blown away. |
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Even now, there was no way of estimating the damage, no way of knowing how many had lost their lives. Scores, of people, people Red knew well, still hadn't been accounted for. There was no way to keep count, no way to tally up the score. Perhaps they were only the folks who were reluctant to come back and face the devastation. Maybe they wouldn't come back at all. Maybe, just maybe, it |
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