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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 70 "I believe I saw them," February said, "those old bikers you mentioned. Over on Sugarloaf. Fearful in this weather. Milling around, kind of confused, trying to break up into the bat tower." It made no sense to her what they were doing down here, she said, and she explained that the tradition was that come a hurricane most everybody leaves, though the way he wanted to write about it he'd give her second sight and have her looking to a fog, with a look of opportunism. There's a wreck out there, tonight. . .she'd say softly, witching. To the riptide, for the Conch girls, for such lovely daughters of Key West, good men must once have taken to the water like crocodiles. "Dory Clayton," she said. "February?" "You come." Up a back staircase. They climbed. She took him high into the house. "Please help me," she said, and they pushed in the mustiness at a trap door, and downward, at their faces, fell the small dust of a moth fleeing the light. "You hold on, Dorian!" To the old railing. The forcing air in their clothes like wind socks. |