Creatures of the Storm Read Online Free PDF Page B

storm.
     
* * *
     
    On any normal day in Dos Hermanos, it would
have been an easy five-minute walk from the Clinic to the only
decent restaurant in town. Today it required a fifteen-minute drive
through blinding rain. The only good part for Ken was finding a
parking space directly in front of the entrance to O’Meara’s.
    Ken and Rose lurched to a halt inside the
doors, shedding rain and almost giggling. It took a moment for Rose
to take the place in.
    Ken barely recognized the slate-gray
landscape. To one side, the Conference Center rose up like an
outcropping of waterlogged granite; he could barely read the
illuminated letters in its ten-foot sign, reminding passersby of
tonight’s town meeting about the missing girls. Behind it, the
water tower rose on three massive metal legs, looking more ominous
than ever with rain clouds hanging inches above its domed roof.
Across from the brick staircase of the Center, the long sheet-glass
storefront of O’Meara’s looked incongruously warm and inviting. And
right in front of it was the rarest phenomenon of all: an open
parking space.
    This time they made it from car to doorway
without getting thoroughly soaked, and Ken was glad to see that the
storm had not yet penetrated his favorite place to eat.
    O’Meara’s was a long, narrow room filled with
round tables along the floor-to-ceiling windows and leatherette
booths along the back wall. It sported fresh flowers at each
station, real cloth tablecloths, and pretty young waitresses all in
their twenties. It was a favorite of local businessmen and
politicians; it even had a back room used for the weekly meetings
of the Chamber of Commerce. Ken used it for the face-to-face
meetings he had to have with VeriSil, whenever he could pry them
out of their corporate headquarters at the south end of the
Valle.
    Tony O’Meara was the owner. He was a
square-jawed, square-shouldered man in his forties with tightly
curled hair and a superficial resemblance to Cajun cook Emeril
Lagasse – a resemblance he liked to cultivate, as if it gave the
establishment some subliminal sense of style. He came over to greet
Ken as he swept raindrops from his shoulders, and Rose shook
herself like a poodle one more time.
    “You’re lookin’ good!” he said, pumping Ken’s
hand. “This your secretary who’s always makin’ the reservations?
Finally givin’ her an afternoon off?” Even after twenty years in
the desert, Tony clung to a mild but noticeable Brooklyn
accent.
    Ken grinned. “My daughter, actually.
Rose.”
    He wasn’t the least bit fazed. “Ah! Should’a
known! Look at you two!” He put out a cordial hand, and Rose
surprised him by taking it, and even allowing Tony to bow over it
and put it to his lips. “Those eyes!” he said, looking up at her.
“Please tell me you’re not wearing contacts.”
    “Not a chance,” she said, smiling.
    “Ah! You made my day!”
    He escorted them to a table
against the front window. Two tables down and across the way, Ken
recognized the only other patron in the place, that scientist woman
from the Ag Station, the one shaped like a sack of bowling balls.
She looked up as they approached and scratched her head – a busy
little gesture, like an otter scrubbing its pelt – and sketched a
smile. Ken smiles and nodded back to her. No reason to have an
actual conversation; the nod was enough for both of them. Hi, I see you, you see me, have a good meal,
don’t bother me .
    Tony held the chair for Rose. She looked
amused by the whole process.
    O’Meara’s was built right at street level. On
a good day you could sit for hours in its industrial-strength
air-conditioning and admire the pretty young professionals on their
lunch. Today there were no pedestrians, and the perennially
crystal-clear windows were marred with droplets and streaks. The
Convention Center – a serious gray brick hulk that covered most of
the opposite block – was scarcely visible across the four lanes of
Central Avenue, a