At the bridge a thousand emergency lights were flashing and uniformed officers milled around with National Guardsmen. Traffic was being waved on and there was a line of cars and trucks leaving the island. In the other lanes supply trucks, utility crews, and emergency vehicles were arriving. Bruce parked the Tahoe and walked to the crowd at the bridge. He saw a policeman he knew and pulled him aside.
He said, “We’re thinking about leaving for a day or so, but don’t want to get stranded. How can we get back on the island?”
The officer lit a cigarette and said, “Word is the bridge will open both ways at noon tomorrow, but they are discouraging folks from returning. It could be a week with no electricity.”
“Great. What’s the body count?”
“Still at eleven, as of midday.”
Bruce frowned and shook his head. “We’re headed to Jacksonville. Do they have electricity?”
“It was blacked out yesterday. Supposedly getting some power back today.”
“Are things better north or south?”
“South. Leo turned to the north and is now drenching Atlanta. I’d go south, probably as far as Orlando, if you’re looking for a room.”
They crossed the bridge without incident but were soon bumper-to-bumper on the mainland. Thousands of pine trees had been scattered like straw, and crews were working to clear the roads. The traffic lights had been blown away and state police directed traffic. They inched along, listening to the news on the radio and munching on snacks. The thirty-minute drive to Interstate 95 took two hours and the interchange was gridlocked.
According to the news, most of southern Georgia was without power as Leo stalled again near Atlanta. Record flooding was being reported from Savannah to Columbus.
They were clipping along at forty miles per hour on the Jacksonville bypass when their phones came to life. Service at last! Bruce called Noelle in Switzerland and brought her up to date. Nick called his parents in Knoxville and left a voice mail with his grandparents, wherever they were. Bob called a daughter in Texas and reported that he was fine, uninjured, and happily off the island. Bruce called Mercer, who was tucked in her apartment in Oxford and watching cable nonstop. He did not mention Nelson because he did not want a longer conversation. He would have more time later. He called Myra and Leigh, who were still in Pensacola. He called three of his employees to see where they were staying, and asked when they might return.
Nick called the crime lab to see if it was open. Bob had suggested that it had to be because the morgue had to be chilled, right? Nick was told that the lab was operating on a limited basis and expecting full electricity in a matter of hours. He pressed the receptionist for information about their buddy, Nelson Kerr, but got nowhere.
Bob’s app said the traffic south was much heavier than that to the west, so they turned onto Interstate 10. Indeed, it thinned considerably twenty miles out of Jacksonville. Nick called motel after motel in the Tallahassee area but everything was booked. So he stretched his search westward and was soon being rejected in Pensacola. Bob called his daughter again and asked her to go online and find some rooms somewhere along the interstate.
Meanwhile, Bruce poked around the crime lab with no luck. Working with a directory, he called several numbers of some officials who appeared to be important, but no one was in.
Bob’s daughter called with the good news. She had just booked three rooms at a small resort near Destin. On the beach. By the time they arrived they had been in the Tahoe for eleven hours. At the registration desk, Bruce paid for all three rooms and was informed that they could stay only two nights. They hustled to their rooms and showered.
Alone for the first time in what seemed like a week, Bruce went online and began digging for information about Mr. and Mrs. Howard Kerr in the Bay Area. A website listed four of them.