“Behind us. Close, though.”
I swivel, look through the back window, and I almost can’t believe my eyes. Rain slams down from a black sky, close but not yet upon us. It’s chasing us, I think. Beyond, I can just make out the outline of a darker cloud on the ground, impossibly wide, and a quiver of fear moves through me. I look at Tomasetti. “Our place okay?” I ask.
“I think so.”
“Tomasetti, this thing’s going to get that mobile home park.”
“Probably.” Looking tense, he frowns at me. “No time, Kate.”
I want to argue. Tell him that if we hurry, we can make it. I can use the bullhorn. It’ll only take a few minutes. But I know he’s right. We’re out of time.
Instead, I rap my fist against the dash. “Damn it!”
We enter the corporation limits of Painters Mill doing sixty. Outside the vehicle, the emergency sirens blare, a sound that invariably raises the hairs on the back of my neck. The town has a hushed feel, as if it’s holding its breath in anticipation of violence. Paper, trash, and leaves skitter along the sidewalk and street, like small animals running for cover. Some of the shopkeepers along Main Street took the time to close the awnings to protect their windows. Judging from the size of the wall cloud, I don’t think it will help.
The sky opens as we fly past the city building. Through the curtain of rain, I spot Councilman Stubblefield dashing up the steps two at a time, wrenching open the door. Then the deluge of rain blinds us. The wipers are already cranked on high, but they’re useless. It’s as if we’ve driven into a bottomless body of water and we’re on our way to the murky depths.
“There’s Lois’s Caddy.”
I can barely make out the silhouette of her Cadillac parked in its usual spot. “Police radio is probably going nuts.”
The SUV skids to a stop beside the Caddy. “Hopefully she’s in the basement by now.” Tomasetti jams the vehicle into Park, yanks out the key, and throws open the door.
Through the rain streaming down the windshield, I see a large plastic trash can tumble down the sidewalk. I shove open my door. The wind jerks it from my grip. Wind and rain slash my face with a ferocity that takes my breath. Grabbing the door, I slam it shut and sprint toward the station. The wind howls, harmonizing weirdly with the scream of the sirens. Hailstones hammer down hard enough to bruise skin. Tomasetti reaches the door first and ushers me inside.
I’m soaked to the skin, but I don’t feel the cold or wet. Lois stands at the dispatch station, headset askew, her expression frazzled. “Chief! All hell’s breaking loose!”
“You okay?” I ask.
“Scared shitless. Never seen it like this.”
On the desktop in front of her, the radio hisses and barks with activity. The switchboard rings incessantly. On the shelf behind her, a weather radio broadcasts the latest warning from the National Weather Service.
“You got radar up anywhere?” Tomasetti asks as he strides to the dispatch station.
Lois motions to the computer monitor on her desk. “Been watching it for fifteen minutes now, and I swear it’s the scariest damn storm I’ve ever seen.”
“Flashlights?”
“There.” She indicates two Maglites on her desktop. “Batteries, too.”
I come up behind Tomasetti to look at the screen, and I almost can’t believe my eyes. A wide swath of magenta with the telltale “hook echo,” indicating rotation, hovers west of Painters Mill, moving ever closer with every blip of the heading flash.
“It’s almost on top of us,” I say.
“Worst of it’s to the south,” he counters.
“Lots of 911 calls coming in from that trailer park down there.” Lois thumbs a button on the switchboard, takes another call. “Yes, ma’am. We know. There’s a tornado on the ground. You need to take cover immediately in a storm shelter or your basement.” She pauses. “Then get into your bathtub and cover yourself with sofa cushions, a mattress, or blankets.” Pause. “Take your son with you. I know it’s scary. Get in the tub. Right now.” More incoming calls beep, but she shows no impatience.
I can’t stop thinking about that mobile home park. A lot of young families live out there. A lot of children. There are no basements. No storm shelters. No place to go.
A few years ago, I volunteered to help with the cleanup of Perrysburg, Ohio, which is about two hours northwest of Painters Mill, after an F2 tornado ripped through the township. There were no fatalities, but many serious injuries occurred, mostly to individuals who tried riding out the storm inside their mobile homes.
“Stay away from the windows,” Lois instructs the caller. “Put the older kids in the closet. Cover them with the mattress. Take the baby and get in the tub. Take care.”
Tomasetti looks away from the computer monitor. “Any way to forward 911 calls to the basement?”