That made sense. Jack was so helpful, even when he wasn’t there. “The only tool we have that’s still working is you, Paul,” I said. “Maybe you’d better try and locate Sergeant Elliot.”
Paul looked resigned to his task and nodded. “I’ll be back,” he said. Before he left, I asked him to get in touch with Jack and let him know I was all right. He agreed and dropped through the floor to the basement, one of his favorite hiding places.
“If you don’t mind me leaving you alone, I’m going back out to watch the storm,” Maxine said from the ceiling. “It’s pretty cool, when you can’t get wet.” I waved her off, saying it was fine and she, too, vanished.
I tried to resist the temptation to turn on the radio—who knew when we’d be able to get more batteries?—but I checked in about once an hour.
The reports got progressively worse, and at about two in the morning, the radio station we’d been tuned to lost its power, and static replaced the reports. It took me ten minutes to find another news outlet that was still broadcasting. Reports of downed wires and tree limbs abounded, hundreds of thousands were, like us, without electricity, and flooding was already overtaking a good part of the Jersey Shore. We hadn’t gotten any water in the house yet, but that didn’t mean we wouldn’t. And even if the house itself remained unscathed, the area was taking a beating—I wasn’t sure when Alison might be able to expect vacationing guests to begin booking visits again.
At about five, I was sprawled on the sofa. The howling winds outside were a constant reminder of the huge storm bearing down on the shore, and the knowledge that the power might not come back for days was unsettling. What about the food I had in the freezer back at my house? Was the power on there?
I was tired but felt like I had to stay awake through the storm, like I was protecting the house for Alison and Melissa. I don’t know what I thought I’d be able to do if an emergency arose, but it seemed like the thing to do. I’d closed the flue on the chimney hours before.
Paul rose up from the basement, looking like a man who’d just been awakened from a deep sleep—no, a coma. His eyes weren’t focusing and his hair was tousled. He blinked frequently. And his voice was raspy.
“I’ve been trying to contact Sergeant Elliot,” he explained. “For that matter, I’ve been trying to contact anyone who knew him.”
“No luck?” I asked.
Paul tilted his head to indicate Well, maybe. “I got a message from someone who was in Robert’s platoon in Vietnam. He said the soldiers there knew about the POW bracelets, but couldn’t decide if it was a tribute to the missing soldiers or a protest to the war. They didn’t care much for protestors.”
“And you couldn’t find Robert, either? Find out why he left so abruptly?”
It seemed to work. Paul’s expression changed to one of concentration and he looked directly at me. “That’s the strange part,” he said, as if the rest of this business had simply been routine. “He sent me back a message that he’s in the area, but doesn’t want to come here and discuss this matter just now.”
“Why?” I asked.
“That is the curious part,” Paul said. “Why did he seem so intent on locating the bracelet just a few hours ago, and now he won’t find the time to talk about it?”
“What about Maxie’s phantom ghost?” I asked.
Paul looked coy. “I have a theory, but it is unsupported by the facts as we know them,” he said.
Just then, a huge crash came from behind the house, shaking us and making a terrible noise that caused everyone, especially those not especially well anchored to the floor, jump.
I looked up at Paul. “Find Maxine,” I said, my voice a little raspy. He was gone in a second.
Before he could return, and before I could get to the back door to take a look, Alison and Melissa appeared at the top of the stairs. “Did you hear that?” Alison asked. It seemed a silly question; the noise was enough to wake . . . Paul and Maxine, if I had stopped to think about it. But they seemed quite awake to me.
“Paul went outside to look,” I told her. “There’s no need for anybody else to follow him.” I could see she was already looking toward the back door. “Did you check on Mac?”
“His room looked okay. I didn’t want to wake him up if that noise didn’t.”
“I’m sure he’s okay,” I said. “It didn’t sound like anything hit the house.”
Paul and Maxine—who was now wearing a black T-shirt with the slogan “Well, Blow Me Down” emblazoned on the front—emerged through the boarded-up French doors to the backyard. “It’s not serious,” Paul said once they were in the room. “A very large tree limb came down and landed in your backyard. It glanced off the shed, but it didn’t do any significant damage. It’ll just take some work with a chain saw once the storm has passed.”
Alison looked relieved, but didn’t say anything because we all heard a noise at the entrance to the den. Mac, in a terry-cloth robe over a T-shirt with a picture of Jimi Hendrix on it, was coming in from his room. He wore white socks on his skinny ankles, highly visible in the remaining candlelight. He looked like either Cheech or Chong; I can never remember which is which.
And what was weirdest of alclass="underline" He was carrying the measuring cup I’d been looking for before dinner.
“Is everything okay?” he asked Alison when he reached the landing. “I heard a really loud noise.”
“Everything’s okay, Mac,” she said in what Melissa calls her “hostess voice.” “There’s no damage. Go ahead back to bed.”
“It’s almost six,” he answered. “I might as well stay up.” He started to walk toward us.
“What’s that in your hand?” I asked him, knowing full well what it was.
Mac looked down at his right hand, almost as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I found this next to my bed. Any idea what it was doing there?”
I took the cup from him. It was empty. “None at all,” I answered.
“And my hand smells like chicken,” he added. “Far out, huh? Made me hungry.” He laughed to himself.
“Maybe we should get some breakfast together,” I said to Alison. “The stove is gas, so there’s no reason we can’t cook, anyway. Maybe we could make a little something more than just coffee. Would you like some breakfast, Mac?”
The guest looked surprised. “I thought food wasn’t included.”
Alison smiled. “We make exceptions for hurricanes,” she said.
“Well, if it’s not too much trouble,” Mac answered.
“You sure it’s safe?” Maxine asked. “I’ve seen how you cook.” Alison’s mouth twitched, but she resisted the urge to glare in Maxine’s direction.
“I can help,” I volunteered.
Mac had reached the sofa and I stood up to start toward the kitchen. “I’ll do it, Mom,” Alison said with a tiny amount of edge in her voice. She’s not interested enough to be a great cook, but she does know how to brew coffee and can make some breakfasts. Although without a toaster to make frozen waffles, I wasn’t sure what else she could produce, but I decided to let her be the innkeeper and nodded.
But Alison stopped halfway to the kitchen when she heard me gasp, and Melissa’s eyes were fixed at the same spot that had caught my eye a moment ago—the glint of light from Mac’s arm.
He was wearing a POW bracelet.