Mark of the Devil Read Free Page A

diehards who refused to believe Grace would hit Jacksonville Beach, a coastal community that had escaped the past forty hurricane seasons with little more than a nor’easter or two each fall.
    Billboard remnants, twisted street signs, crushed signal lights, roofing tiles, and slabs of plywood ripped from storefront windows—all lay in great piles along the edges of the four-lane street as well as its center median. It was as though he was driving through a neverending junkyard. Even worse were the people, tired and filthy from shoveling mud and sand from storefronts and sidewalks, trying to regain control of their lives and businesses.
    Though tilted at a severe angle, many of its store names missing, the sign at the entrance to the shopping center’s parking lot was still legible. PABLO PLAZA. Matt guided the Jeep through the sand-locked entrance, over what was once a bright yellow-and-green-striped store window awning and around several tires from a nearby automotive store. Up ahead, his destination—a lopsided sign that read ATLANTIC PRO DIVERS. To one side was a traditional red-and-white dive flag, ripped and torn by the hurricane’s fury. It hung limp from a metal pole bent 15 to 20 degrees from its original position. “Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself. “Hundred and ten mile an hour winds and that damn thing’s still standing.”
    As Matt pulled up to the storefront, a wave of mud-colored water suddenly poured through the open doorway and over the sidewalk. The sludge was immediately followed by a large push broom, a pair of bare feet, and a figure clad only in shorts who growled, “Goddamn useless sandbags! Next time, I’ll—”
    Blaring of the Jeep’s horn drew an immediate frown on the man’s face until a quick, ear-to-ear grin of recognition brought a surprised, “I’ll be damned! Mr. Navy himself, Matt Berkeley.”
    Switching off the ignition, Matt simultaneously swung his near six-foot frame out the door, grabbed the man’s outstretched hand, and pulled him close in a giant bear hug. “Steve Park, you ol’ son-of-a-tiger-shark. Should’ve known there was no way that storm was gonna blow you away.” With a sudden concerned expression on his face, Matt asked, “Family okay?”
    Years of sun and sea etched deep into Park’s skin. He was in his late forties, junior to Matt by a spread of years, which Matt refused to acknowledge or count. Nodding, he answered, “Yeah. They’re over at the other store in Mandarin. It made it through without much damage, but this thing?” He waved toward the interior of the dive shop. “Air compressor covered in sand, computer and cash register turned green from salt water. Pretty much everything either ruined or in need of a good cleaning and a quick half-price sale. Course, when you consider nine-eleven last month…But what the hell are you doing here?”
    “Throw on a shirt and some shoes,” Matt said, “and let’s go over to Monkey’s Uncle. Looks like they’re already open.”
    “Yeah, lucky bastards,” Park said, turning in the direction of the shopping center’s L-shaped north end and nearby tavern. “Finally got electricity back last night, so maybe they’ve at least got a coupla cold beers.”

    Other than plywood sheets still covering the front windows and lines of sandbags shoved away from the entrance doors, the interior of Monkey’s Uncle Tavern actually looked like nothing had happened. Despite the lighting from wall-mounted, neon signs advertising assorted beers, the dark oak paneling on the walls gave Monkey’s Uncle an unusually comfortable yet shadowy look. Shifting around on the barstool, Matt decided that from an aesthetic point of view the relative darkness of the room was more than likely a good thing. “Guess we were pretty fortunate,” the bartender explained, plunking two bottles of Budweiser on top of the bar in front of Matt and Steve. “Wind and surge hit us at an angle, but Steve’s and the rest of the stores