Hurricane Fever Read Free Page A

already fled. Either south for the summer, to hide from hurricanes, or to hurricane holes—places naturally still and fetid, which meant very little storm surge. Tie your boat up in a spiderweb of ropes to mangroves and with anchors out on all points, and you would ride the storm just fine.
    There were usually maybe fifty boats that had people living on board them anchored here. The other fifty or so were hobbyists. People who used boats like most people used boats: for fun, on weekends.
    Halfway out to the Spitfire II Roo’s phone buzzed.
    He ignored it for a second. Focused on weaving the dinghy around boats at anchor. The electric motor wasn’t as fast as the old gas-powered fifteen-horsepower motor that he used to roar around with. But he could get this one charged up via the ship’s solar power. Slow for cheap was good.
    The phone buzzed again.
    If that was Delroy, he was going to have to figure out how to hitch that ride with Tinker, as he had many times already. Or swim.
    Roo had made Delroy do that once.
    But they needed to get moving soon. Roo slowed the dinghy down and pulled out the phone. It was an incoming call. But with a blocked number.
    That … was next to impossible. Not with the setup Roo had.
    He licked his lips, suddenly nervous. Flicked at the screen to answer and put the phone up to his ear, trying to shield it from the occasional spray of saltwater.
    “Hey old friend, it’s Zee,” said an utterly familiar voice. Roo smiled for a second at the blast from the past. He started to reply, but the voice continued quickly. “And if you’re getting this message from me, it means I’m dead.”
    Roo killed the throttle. The dinghy stopped surging forward and just pointed into the waves, bobbing slowly.
    “Listen, I’m sorry to lay some heavy shit on you, but I kinda need a favor,” the voice on the phone continued.

 
    3
    When Delroy clambered onto the back steps of the Spitfire ’s left hull, backpack slung artfully under one arm, he looked suitably abashed. Tinker waved from his creaky wooden dinghy, kicked the motor into reverse, and headed back for shore to root back down at the Sand Dollar. His beard kicked about in the wind.
    “I was…” Delroy started to excuse himself.
    “Don’t matter,” Roo said. “Toss your bag in your cabin. We leaving.”
    The Spitfire II had a traditional European catamaran look: a large organic cabin straddled the space between the two thin and rakish hulls. Large oval windows, tinted black, gave it its not-from-Earth look. It also created sunny open spaces in the main cabin, which had a dining table and comfortable settee. The galley, up against the side of the main cabin, featured granite-topped counters and a two-burner stove.
    Roo walked from the rear cockpit’s semi-open area where he had greeted Delroy back into the main cabin. He crossed the galley and through a sliding door forward into a tiny second cockpit in the front of the catamaran.
    The forward decks of the two hulls were accessible from here, as was the netting spread between them. Roo bounced across the netting with a practiced moon-walking step to the motorized windlass on the right hull.
    He leaned against the stainless steel railing with a hand and kicked the manual brake on the motor off. He checked the anchor chain running through it, making sure the windlass’s wheels could catch the links and engage the chain.
    Then he walked back through the main cabin to the rear cockpit. Delroy looked up from pulling his shoes off.
    “I know, I know, you in a hurry to get to Honeymoon Bay,” Delroy said, still trying to apologize. “I promised I’d be back in time. But…”
    It might have been that girl he was seeing. Or a friend. Or trouble. Roo didn’t care. He moved to climb up into a slightly raised area on the right of the cockpit where the wheel was mounted. He tapped one of the clear windows looking out over the top of the main cabin.
    This was the nerve center of the