Chapter Three

The man sat silently in the front passenger seat of the police car as the deputy rambled on about the weather and asked questions about New York. "I've never been to New York. It sounds scary. I've lived my whole life in Gulf Breeze," he rambled on. Tired from his travels and eager to arrive at his destination, the passenger breathed deeply and tried to answer his questions. The deputy seemed nice enough and genuinely interested, but to a New Yorker, he seemed like an alien being. Nothing like any of the cab drivers or policemen he knew back home. Things in the big city were impersonal and all business. And he'd lived there so long that he expected things to be that way. He did make the effort to get to know his patients and their families, but most of them kept him at a comfortable distance. That was just the way things were. But this...this incessant stream of questions and friendly chatter in an accent so thick it almost required translation...this was new.

And he wanted new—that was his whole reason for being here. But this was borderline annoying. Well, he told himself. I'm just exhausted. If I weren't so tired...

He had been in surgery until the wee hours of the morning. And then he had to go home and pack for his trip. Catching an early flight to Atlanta, he'd been unable to sleep on the plane. So he'd been going on about four hours' sleep—not consecutive hours. He was accustomed to pulling long shifts and going on little sleep, but the travel must have been wearing on him or something.

"Huh?" he asked when the deputy got his attention.

"Have you ever been to Gulf Breeze before?" the man asked, smiling and proud of his hometown.

"No. This is my first trip," he answered honestly, hoping the man would take that quick, less than enthusiastic response as an excuse to remain quiet. No such luck.

As the driver chatted on about the sights and things the doctor could do while he was in town, the man's mind wandered back over his trip. Upon arriving in Atlanta, he had been whisked off to a hotel for the meeting. The federal agency responsible for emergency preparedness was pulling in teams of doctors from across the country to help with the fallout from the approaching hurricane. After Hurricane Katrina, they were determined to be as prepared as possible to help those left in the wake of the storm. They were shipping doctors to safe points all across the area just in case their services were needed. The people were given maps and manuals and supplies and emergency radios. And they were sent back to the airport for a late afternoon flight to their destinations.

He was one of those doctors who had volunteered to help. So he'd been flown to Gulf Breeze that day. His friends and family thought he was nuts. He'd heard more than one reference to mid-life crisis whispered among those who learned of his expedition to the deep South in the middle of what might turn out to be a big hurricane.

This wasn't a mid-life crisis. Well, maybe it was, but it was called for. He wasn't doing this to himself. He was reacting...reacting to an event that nobody should ever have to experience. Never mind that it had been six months since that day. It didn't make it any easier to deal with its after effects. He needed to do something...anything...to make a difference or to contribute to society. Because deep in his gut, he really wanted to murder a man. And he was a healer, not a killer. He just needed to prove that to himself.

Squeezing his eyes shut tightly, he tried to banish the vision from his mind. Desperate for anything else to think of, he focused again on the deputy's ramblings. Surprisingly, the deputy had taken a break—probably to breathe. Fearing he'd already missed the answer to this question, he plunged in anyway, "Ernie," he said, referring to the deputy as he had requested, "How much farther to Gulf Breeze?"

Ernie glanced over and then returned his attention to the road. "Twenty minutes or so," he said matter-of-factly. "Just through Ferrypass and over the bridge to Pensacola and then on over the other bridge to Gulf Breeze."

"Ferrypass?" he couldn't help asking.

"Yeah. We're not going by way of ferry boats," he said with a wink. "We normally would have just taken the big bridge over the causeway straight to Gulf Breeze, but there's still too many people evacuating. Traffic's a mess. Nobody goes this way anymore, so it will be much faster. Why? Do you need to stop or something?"

"No. I'm fine. Just curious," the man responded. He looked out over the water and tried to relax. Funny how gloomy and dark this place seemed. Not at all the white beaches and clear blue waters under an equally blue sky the way it was depicted in the travel brochures. He supposed stormy weather was an equalizer—it made every place look the same.

—

Just as the police car crossed the first bridge and entered Pensacola, Florida, Ernie's cell phone rang. Pulling to the side of the deserted road, he apologized, "Gotta take this. It's my wife." His passenger sat staring out the window and trying not to listen to the personal conversation. But it was difficult not to pay attention to the half of the conversation that he could easily overhear.

"Now? But...I know...But...Crap...I'll be there...Just hold on...I love you," he said as he clicked the phone shut. The man turned to face Ernie and said, "Sounds like you're in the dog house," grinning over at the deputy.

"No, but I will be. Um...Look. I know you're gonna think I'm crazy, and I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to..."

The man raised an eyebrow. This didn't sound good.

"You see. My wife's water just broke. She wasn't due for two more weeks. Anyway, it's our fifth child. Her labor keeps getting shorter. Last one was born in twenty-five minutes. I have to go. I can't miss our son being born. So I have to go back home."

"Okay," the man said, shrugging his shoulders. "Maybe I can help."

"No. You don't understand. They need you out here. I'm supposed to deliver you to Gulf Breeze for the FEMA folks. I'll just leave you here. It's not a long walk—maybe a mile or can just leave your gear here and come back for it later. The sheriff's office is one of three brick buildings downtown. You can't miss it. It's on your right at the traffic light on this road. They can get you to Gulf Breeze."

"You're going to leave me here?" the man asked, looking around and seeing a very rural place and clouds that looked ready to burst forth with rain. His eyes bulged a bit and he swallowed hard. He wasn't exactly afraid, but he thought this seemed a little extreme, "Can't you just take me closer to town?"

"I can't. I really can't. I'm already pushing it. I have to go," Ernie said seriously. He jumped out of the car and removed the man's things, placing them beside the car.

Rolling his eyes and cursing his fate, the man got out of the car. "Sorry. Thanks," Ernie yelled as he ran back around. "Oh," he said as he remembered something important. "Ask for Hal. Tell Hal that Ernie sent you, and he'll get you to Pensacola."

Who the hell is Hal? he thought, but instead he opted to be more polite and specific. "Does Hal have a last name?" he asked, clearly annoyed at this point. "Yep. But I can't remember it. Everybody just calls him Hal." And with that, Ernie jumped into his car, turned on the lights and siren, made a U-turn, and sped back over the bridge and out of sight.

So there the man stood in the middle of nowhere on a deserted road on an island that was just a blink of an eye on a trip to someplace else. And he had no transportation and a hundred pounds worth of gear and luggage for which he was responsible. And he was at least a mile away from town. And the hurricane was coming. This was worse than the worst movie he could remember watching. For the first time since he left Manhattan, the reality of his situation settled in on him. What the hell was he doing here?