Hurricane

By Glenn McGinnis

Accused of the murder of his wife in 1995, Matt Kirkland made a daring escape from Louisiana justice. Now, new evidence leads him back to the Big Easy where he teams up with an assistant district attorney and a beautiful FBI agent in a race against the oncoming fury of a hurricane that ultimately metes out the justice the legal system failed to dispense.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 9, 2001
• ISBN: 9781462087174

Glenn McGinnis

Glenn McGinnis was born and raised in Ontario, Canada. He is married and he and his wife, Mary, have two sons. He currently resides in Arizona. Glenn is an avid reader and writer, and enjoys outdoor activities like marathon running and swimming.

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All Rights Reserved © 2001 by Glenn McGinnis

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-8717-4 (ebook)

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CONTENTS

HURRICANE

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

EPILOGUE

Hurricane

The word Hurricane is defined by Webster’s Dictionary as, "a violent cyclone with winds exceeding seventy-five miles per hour, usually accompanied by rain, thunder and lightning." To those people who have lived through a hurricane, these words, or any others, can’t begin to describe the fury of this greatest of earth’s storms.

The word Hurricane has its roots in the word hurakan from the extinct language of the Taino people, one of the member tribes of the Arawakan nation of the Greater Antilles and the Bahamas. Five hundred years ago, before the Spanish first appeared on their shores, the Taino people worshiped the god of the storm. But the god was not always kind to the people.

Hurricanes, by their nature, are a phenomenon of the tropics. Those that threaten the eastern and southern coasts of North America are born in the Eastern Atlantic, the Caribbean Sea, or the Gulf of Mexico. Many of the most devastating storms begin as one of a series of tropical depressions that roll in an endless line off the deserts of Africa like the cars of a railroad train. Some build in energy and speed, and crash into the populated areas of the eastern seaboard like a raging locomotive. Hurricanes are products of the tropical ocean and easterly trade winds, the ultimate testimony to the first law of thermodynamics, the conservation of energy. Warm water evaporates into the swirling winds, is lifted aloft and condenses in the cooler upper atmosphere. The energy released is absorbed by the swirling winds, increasing their velocity and the size of the storm. The winds are forced into a circular motion by the Coreolis force, that small vector created by the earth’s rotation that forces winds and water into a spiral motion. At the center of the hurricane, the eye is a place of relative calm, surrounded by the most violent winds in what is called the eyewall. This area of extremely low pressure is created by the centrifugal force of the circular motion which throws the air outward. The surface of the ocean is lifted by this low pressure creating the storm surge, often with water levels ten to fifteen feet above normal. This, along with rains measured in feet not inches, causes widespread flooding.

Modern-day meteorologists have developed the Saffir-Simpson Scale to classify hurricanes. It ranges from a Category 1 with winds of seventy-five to ninety-five miles per hour with minimal damage, to a Category 5 leviathans with wind speeds of over one hundred and fifty- five miles per hour and widespread catastrophic devastation. Very few Category 4 or 5 hurricanes have been recorded and only a handful have made landfall in populated areas.

The city of New Orleans has been extremely fortunate in the past thirty years. No major hurricane has struck there since Camille in 1969. It is on the top of the watchlist of the Federal Emergency Management Administration, known as FEMA. With a population of over a million people in the city and surrounding areas, and much of the city at or below sea level, a direct hit by a major storm would be catastrophic. Water would overflow levees along the shore of Lake Ponchartrain on the north, and the banks of the Mississippi River on the east and south, and flood the city. Planning for such an event has been extensive but when the big storm hits, and statisticians say that it will, nothing will have prepared the people for what will follow.

This story is a fabrication of pure fiction. The characters are figments of the author’s imagination. Only the places and the fury of the storm are real.

P R O L O G U E

The Big Easy

How do you describe the feel of the nights during the height of summer in The Big Easy? Hot, no; humid, yes but more than humid; sweltering, that’s the right word. And whoever first called New Orleans The Big Easy anyway? And why? Jack Stapleton sorted through the swarm of sensations and questions in his mind. He reflected on the character played by Billy Crystal in one of his many movies. The night was moist! He shook his head. No, the night was not moist, it was sweltering and it was oppressive! Musty dankness had drifted in from nearby cypress swamps and permeated the stagnant air of the city like a biblical plague. Jack shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he stood on the street corner and took in the world-famous sights of Bourbon Street; the flashing lights, the wrought-iron balconies, and the crowds of exuberant and mostly-inebriated people. He told himself he was not really overweight; maybe just a few pounds, but the heat and humidity combined to keep him in a constant state that alternated between damp and soaking wet. Under his light cotton shirt, he felt another rivulet run down his back. He hated the humidity. This is why I moved from Washington, D.C., to Denver, Colorado, over twenty years ago, he reflected. Jack Stapleton was a stoic man, with a square jaw on an oblong face topped by short gray hair. He had joined the FBI of J. Edgar Hoover and still looked Bureau. He had been in this city for over three weeks now, had made some progress in his investigation, but not much.

Information was hard to come by for an outsider in Louisiana. Maybe tonight would be different.

He stepped to one side as a crowd of young men passed. They seemed enveloped in chatter. Each carried a large plastic cup from Pat O’Brien’s bar where the favorite drinks were prophetically called hurricanes. He came upon three small black boys tap dancing on the sidewalk for the passing tourists. A cardboard box, containing a few coins and one rumpled dollar bill, sat on the sidewalk. How did they make sneakers tap? One of the boys flashed a gold-toothed smile. Stapleton shrugged, threw two quarters into the box and passed.

At the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse Streets he stopped. Ahead, metal barriers had closed Bourbon Street to traffic and people milled about. A hillbilly band played for a large crowd, the washboard player strummed wildly. Several young couples swirled each other to the music. A large banner hung across the narrow street in the distance. ‘Got Latex?’ it asked. Bright neon lights cast colored hues onto the tourists. He pulled the creased card from his shirt pocket and looked at it again. It was a business card for an establishment in the next block, The Landing Strip. On the back in pencil someone had scrawled: ‘information 10 p.m’ He looked along the street and above the crowds saw the sign hanging from a balcony over the sidewalk; brightly colored neon tubes in the shape of a large blue airplane with a yellow propeller revolving. He made his way along the sidewalk. In the window of the establishment hung a large poster of a scantily-clad woman. On the bottom was the inscription Amazing Grace—10 Shows Nightly..’ As he approached the polished brass door, a large square black man, sweating heavily in a tuxedo shirt and bow tie nodded at him, gave him a quick visual inspection and opened the door. He stepped into a small dimly-lit vestibule with black painted walls and a black curtain blocking his way. A twin to the man holding the door came through the curtain and approached. The cover charge is ten dollars, sir he said.

Stapleton took a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to the man. His large hand enveloped the bill and he said, Follow me. The man led him through the curtain, along a narrow hallway and into a small smoke-filled room. The sweet scent of hemp assaulted his nostrils. A large neon airplane, identical to the one that hung in the street outside stood on one wall. Small colored lights, reflected from a mirrored ball suspended from the ceiling, danced around the room. The walls were lined with tables, a bar sat in the middle surrounding a small stage on which an almost naked young woman gyrated to soft music. The man led Stapleton to a table in the back corner, held the chair for him to sit, and left.

Stapleton scanned the room again. Most of the tables were occupied by men, some talking in small groups, some just sitting watching the woman on the stage. Several other young women in bikinis sat with customers, talking in hushed tones. One was dancing at a corner table in front of a man whose lethargic movements betrayed his drunkenness. Jack had not been in a strip bar for a long time, since before he had been married. Exciting times flashed in his memory as he recalled R&R in Patea, Thailand, during his tour in the air force during the early years of the Vietnam war.

A woman wearing black shorts, black lace stockings, a short-sleeved white ruffled shirt, and a black bow tie approached. What can I get y’all? she asked.

I’ll have a light beer, he said.

Coors or Miller?

Coors, please.

She left and returned shortly, placing a small glass and the bottle of beer on the table. That’ll be six dollars, she said.

Expensive beer, he said. He took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to her. Thanks, she said. And left. Obviously making change is not a New Orleans thing, he thought.

He poured the beer into the glass and surveyed the room. No one seemed to take an interest in him. He tipped up the glass and took a sip. A black curtain hanging across a doorway in the rear of the room parted and a young woman that he judged to be close to twenty came through. She was wearing a bright yellow bikini and spiked black shoes. He recognized her fine features as Thai or Philipino. Her skin was brown and her legs were long. She hesitated, looked around the room, her gaze settling on him. She came over, pulled out a chair and sat down.

Hi, she said.

Sawasdee kaa, he replied.

Her eyes brightened. You speak Thai? she asked.

No, I’ve just been there a few times, he replied.

What is your name? she asked.

Jack, he replied.

She held out her hand and said, Well, Mister Jack, my name is Bua, and it’s good to meet you.

Bua? he replied.

It means Lotus, like the flower, she replied. So, Mister Jack, what are you looking for tonight?

Nothing, he replied. He looked around the room again. I am supposed to meet someone here.

She turned her lips downward into an exaggerated pout. Would you like a dance before he gets here? she asked. She leaned over and flipped her bikini top down to show him her breasts. No tan line!

He took a deep breath. No thanks, he said.

Again she made the pouting face, then she smiled. Okay, she said. I get paid anyway.

What? he asked.

That man over there paid me to come over here, she said, pointing toward a table in the opposite corner. The man, who was sitting alone at the small table stared back. He lifted a glass from the table in a salute and smiled. He stood and came over.

Hello, Jack, he said. He looked at the woman, nodded his head indicating he wanted her to leave. She stood and walked back toward the curtain. Stapleton watched the sway of her narrow hips and again recalled long ago events. The man sat down on the chair and put his drink on the table. He reached into his pocket, took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and lit it with a silver Zippo lighter. Stapleton examined the other man through the cloud ofblue smoke. He was middle-aged, overweight and wore a rumpled suit. His thinning black hair glowed with the colors from the small lights overhead.

Do I know you? Stapleton asked.

No, he replied.

What do you want?

You got the card?

Yes.

The man took a long drag on his cigarette and added more smoke to the stifling atmosphere in the room. Well, as the note said, I have some information that might be useful to you.

Information?

Yes, I happen to know all about your investigation. You’ve come pretty much to a dead end. He stared for several seconds. But you’re on the right track.

What do you mean?

New Orleans is a very small place when it comes to what’s going on inside the police department, he said. He hesitated. Or in the FBI.

Stapleton sat and stared at the man.

You’re here because some people in Washington think that even the FBI office here may have reason to bypass certain information in the investigation.

What investigation? Stapleton asked.

The man took another drag on his cigarette. He got straight to the point. At least three members of the state gaming commission made a lot of money on the granting of casino licenses when gambling was legalized here in Louisiana a few years ago. He hesitated. Other people in high places got rich too. He took another drag on his cigarette and continued, Very high places.

The highest?

The man simply nodded and took a sip of his beer.

Stapleton looked around the room and then back at the man. Why are you giving me this information? he asked.

The man held his hands out in front of himself and shrugged. I am a good citizen, he said. I always cooperate with the Bureau.

Sure!

And besides, the man continued, I felt like some of the action should’ve been mine. But others didn’t see it that way.

So what do you have for me?