That same surge made the narrow two-lane highway that led to Reef Key almost impassable.
Almost. Unless you were driving a specially equipped recreational vehicle.
“Is that a snorkel?” Alex asked after Patrick threw the cover off the tricked-out hardtop Jeep he had parked in the aboveground parking garage we’d already heard so much about.
“Of course,” Patrick said, looking pleased. “This baby can cross through depths of up to six, seven feet, easy. I installed the filtration system myself — along with the roof rack, fog lights, winch, and CB radio.”
“Wow,” Alex said, widening his eyes at Kayla and Frank and me as if to ask, Where’d this nutcase come from, anyway? Which wasn’t very nice, considering Mr. Smith was standing right there, too, and Patrick was his special friend. “A CB? How forward thinking of you.”
“Hey,” Patrick said, looking serious. “You think this is a joke? Climate change is real. They’ve got these buoys out in the ocean between Cuba and Isla Huesos, measuring the sea level, and every year, the level goes up another inch thanks to all those melting glaciers. At that rate, everyone on this island who owns property on the waterfront will be underwater within our lifetimes … maybe sooner. That’s why Rich and I bought a place eighteen feet above sea level …. Not that that does anyone much good in a storm this size — and storms this size are becoming more and more frequent. That’s why we’ve got this baby” — he patted the side of the Jeep Wagoneer fondly — “so we can get out fast if we need to. But she’s only for extreme emergencies. No one should be out on a night like this.”
“Yeah,” I said, apologizing for all four of us. “We know. But we really need to get to this party to, uh … ”
“Pick up her sweetheart,” Frank rushed in. “He’s stranded and needs a ride. And the coppers are still looking for him, you know.”
Mr. Smith had buried his face in one hand, as if embarrassed for us.
I didn’t blame him. I was embarrassed for us, too.
But Frank’s lie — which wasn’t entirely untrue — did the trick. Patrick handed over the keys, which had a fob depicting Napoleon Dynamite with the motto SKILLS!
“Go,” Patrick whispered to me. I had to lean in to hear him. “Go and get your boy.”
Outside the aboveground parking garage, open on four sides, lightning had flashed, followed a few seconds later by a boom of thunder so loud, it seemed to shake the cement floor beneath our feet. I hadn’t been sure at the time if it had been John or the storm.
Now, sitting snug and dry in Patrick’s car as it approached Reef Key, I was fairly certain I knew. The waves crashing on either side of the road didn’t quite wash all the way across it, so we hadn’t had to use the snorkel feature. But every time lightning streaked the night sky, I could see the clouds overhead, dark and violently colliding with one another, moving even more quickly than we were. It did almost seem as if a part of John was alive and being held somewhere against his will, and was taking out his wrath about it by churning up the sea and sky.
“Guess I don’t have to ask which one it is,” Alex said as we approached Seth Rector’s father’s multimillion-dollar development. Only one of the units was finished, and I could see it lit up like a beacon through the rapidly beating windshield wipers.
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” Kayla said from the backseat beside me. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, except possibly for that time I did all those lemon drop shots on my birthday.”
“It’s going to be fine,” I said in what I hoped sounded like a convincing voice. “We won’t be staying long.”
“What are lemon drop shots?” Frank asked from the front seat. He’d reluctantly allowed Alex to drive, but only because the latter had actually driven a car before and had a license. The two of them were equally in love with Patrick’s tricked-out Jeep.
“Never mind,” I said. “Just don’t drink one if someone offers you one at the party. Don’t drink anything anyone offers you, in fact.”
“Why are we even doing this?” Kayla asked. I recognized the anxiety in her voice from the day Farah Endicott had asked us to sit at her table at Island Queen — now undoubtedly underwater — and Kayla had refused. “How is going to a stupid party given by the guy who killed Alex possibly going to help the Underworld?”
“It’s going to help me,” Alex said, “when I walk up and kick him in the nuts.”
“We’re here to look for Furies and evidence that Seth and those guys murdered Jade,” I said. “That’s all. We are not killing anyone, kicking people in any part of their anatomy, or bribing anyone with pieces of eight.” I smacked Frank in the shoulder as I said this last part. “Is that understood?”
“What if they try to kill us first?” Frank asked, clearly disappointed.
“Then,” I said, “you may maim them. But only a little, and only in self-defense.”
Frank looked more cheerful.
Alex found a place to park along the road leading to the spec house. It was impossible to park any closer due to the waves, which were sweeping well into the development’s construction site, swamping its half-poured tennis courts. The private swimming lagoon, of which Mr. Rector had been so proud, had been swallowed up by the sea, its recirculating waterfall now clogged with sea grass.
The driveway of the demo home was just as clogged, only with expensive sports cars and F-150s, the vehicle of choice for most students at Isla Huesos High School. They had clearly gotten to Reef Key well before the weather had turned.
“They’ll have been drinking since way before the storm started, too,” Kayla informed us grimly.
“How nice,” I said, before we left the safety of Patrick’s car to run the considerable distance through the rain to get to the front door.
In order to take advantage of Reef Key’s natural beauty — water views on three sides, mangroves in which my mom’s favorite bird, the roseate spoonbill, had once nested (before construction and the oil spill caused by my dad’s company disturbed them) — without compromising the multimillion-dollar homes’ integrity during storms like Cassandra, all of the houses on Reef Key were being built on ten-foot-high stone pilings.
The space beneath the pilings — at least according to the presentation Mr. Rector had shown me the time he and Farah’s dad had taken me for an impromptu tour — could be filled with a three-car garage, or a storage room, or even a stylish in-law apartment (which would technically be illegal since, according to recently passed legislation, this violated flood-zone regulations. But who was going to tell?).
It was a haul climbing up the majestically curved steps to the front door, especially under the assault of the rain, and I could only imagine it would be worse when carrying bags of groceries or, in the case of Seth and his friends, kegs of beer. I heard the heavy beat of the music coming from the house before we’d hit the first step. By the time we reached the gaudy stained-glass door — double dolphins cavorting in sea foam — it was so loud, I could make out the lyrics.
Alex didn’t bother knocking or ringing the bell since no one would have heard anyway. He let himself in, hoping, I expected, that the sight of him alive and well would send everyone running and screaming in shock.
“Surprise!” he shouted.
Not a single person noticed. The people dancing — and there were a lot of them — went right on dancing. The people sunk down on the white leather couches, smoking, went right on smoking. The people gathered around the sliding glass doors, looking out over the water, pointing at something and laughing, went right on pointing and laughing.