Tormenta Isla by Lynda L. Lock

Author:Lynda L. Lock
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: appeals to janet evanovich fans, appeals to jinx schwartz fans, appeals to sue grafton fans, great beach read, appeals to ae howe fans, appeals to carmen amato fans, appeals to dawn lee mckenna fans, caribbean island mystery, isla mujeres mystery, rescue dog hero
Publisher: Lynda L. Lock

Chapter 23

August 28th - afternoon

Valdez rummaged in his ruined dwelling like a stray dog searching for scraps in the municipal dump. He was looking for a bit of food, dry clothes, or a jacket. Anything to ease his discomfort.

Opening the top drawer of his wobbly three-drawer dresser, he yanked out his spare pair of pants. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” he yelled, angrily tossing the sodden jeans onto his filthy floor.

Stomping around in the constricted space, he cursed loudly, not caring what his neighbours in the tightly packed settlement thought. They typically avoided contact with him anyway, glancing down or finding something fascinating to look at on their phones whenever he was nearby. It suited him just fine.

Valdez reached down, picked up the pants and tossed them over the back of his one chair. He’d just have to wear the clothes he had on, eventually they would dry out. In the meantime he needed food, and more beer.

He cautiously poked his head out of his entrance, half expecting a damaged palm tree or a piece of someone’s metal roof to whack him on the head. The fierce winds and rain had stopped and he could now hear the ocean waves once again. They sounded much larger and closer than normal.

He indifferently surveyed the cramped colonia where he lived. The driving rain and fierce winds had badly damaged dozens of the insubstantial dwellings. The few homes that actually had glass windows before the storm didn’t have them now; snaggletoothed shards poked from window frames. Several doors were askew, and roofs had been peeled off like wrappings torn from a parcel. Many shanties, like his, didn’t have a proper door, only an open entranceway. The torrential downpour had gouged a waterway across the dirt floors as the water raced downhill towards the ocean. Normally the colonia was a tolerable place to live, located across the street from the eye-catching turquoise Caribbean Sea, but now it resembled a landfill, a garbage dump. He wasn’t the only one facing uncomfortable nights for the foreseeable future. Not that he cared one damn bit about anyone but himself. He agreed with Don Rafael’s outlook on life, survival of the meanest.

He walked around his battered grey truck. It looked about the same, perhaps a few more scratches and small dents but all four tires were fine and the headlights were intact. He pulled open the driver’s door and hopped in. He started the truck, and it kicked to life on the first try. Well that was something at least.

~

Sea water, pushed by the ferocious winds of Hurricane Pablo, invaded the Salina Chica. The deep water scoured the abused basin, scrubbing out decades of trash, dead creatures, and a large, plastic-wrapped, odorous bundle. Pushed forward with the wind and the current of the rising water, the bundle bumped across the airport in rhythm with the waves.

Once a valuable commodity for the islanders, this salina was now the forgotten landlocked pool, hidden by matted vegetation at the end of the seldom-used airport.

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