not exactly what she had wanted, and happy most of all to be going home. She and Thomas had been living out of their luggage for two months.
CHAPTER TWO
THE CRIME SCENE
1.
Bruce, who had absolutely no experience with a chain saw, quickly yielded the tool to Nick, who had at least held one before. It took them ten minutes to figure out how to start the damned thing, but Nick was soon rampaging around the backyard, slicing up even the thinnest of limbs and branches. Bruce followed at a safe distance and gathered the debris. He was tossing some limbs into a pile when a Santa Rosa policeman appeared from nowhere. Bruce signaled and Nick reluctantly shut down the chain saw. Another one could be heard in the distance.
The officer introduced himself, and after a few minutes of storm talk said, “There are some fatalities, sorry to say. Looks like most were on the north end.”
Bruce nodded and wanted to know what this had to do with him.
The officer went on, “Your friend Nelson Kerr took a head wound and didn’t make it.”
“Nelson!” Bruce said in disbelief. “Nelson’s dead?”
“Afraid so. And he left your name and number as his local contact.”
“But what happened to him?”
“Don’t know. I was not at the scene. I was told to find you. My captain asks that you come to the scene and identify the body.”
Bruce shot a bewildered look at Nick, who was too stunned to speak, and said, “Well, sure. Let’s go.”
The officer looked at Nick and said, “Better bring that chain saw. We might need it.”
Parked in front of the house was a green and yellow John Deere all-terrain vehicle, a Gator, a two-seater with four-wheel drive. Bruce sat in the front, shoulder to shoulder with the officer, and Nick crawled into the back. They took off, turned west, and began dodging limbs and debris in the street. They moved away from downtown, zigzagging slowly through the devastation.
The damage was overwhelming. Every street was blocked with trees, limbs, downed wires, lawn furniture, boards, shingles, garbage, and standing water. Dozens of homes had been hit with limbs and branches. Only a few of the residents were outdoors, and those who were cleaning up appeared dazed. On Atlantic Avenue, a main thoroughfare to the beach, National Guardsmen were everywhere with chain saws, picks, and axes. The street was barely passable but the officer slowly worked the Gator through the cleanup chaos.
He said, “Looks like Pauley’s Sound got hit the worst. The Hilton really got hammered. Already found two bodies in the parking lot.”
“How many fatalities?” Bruce asked.
“Three so far. Your friend and those two but I’m afraid there’ll be more.” He turned off Atlantic and onto a narrow street that ran north and south. They weaved around thick limbs and debris, turned again and headed east and before long stopped at Fernando Street, the main drag along the beachfront. More Guardsmen were working to clear it. The officer stopped and they helped shove an overturned car out of the way. A hundred yards to the east, the ocean was calm, the sun was up and already hot.
Nelson Kerr lived in a three-story row house that lined a dead-end street not far from the Hilton. The units were heavily damaged, with blown-out windows and roofs torn off. They stopped in the street and walked to a driveway where Bob Cobb was waiting. Bruce shook his hand and Bob hugged him. His eyes were bloodshot, his long gray hair disheveled. “Rough night, partner,” he said. “Should’ve left with the smart folks.”
“Where’s Nelson?” Bruce asked.
“Around back.”
Nelson was lying crumpled over a short brick wall that ringed his patio. Definitely dead. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt, old sneakers. Another policeman, a sergeant, was standing guard, obviously uncertain about what to do next. He offered a hand and said, “This your friend?”
Bruce felt weak in the knees but