Free Frankenstorm: Deranged by Ray Garton Page A

meant that Kaufman’s department and Eureka’s police department were going to be busier than usual.
    Kaufman was old enough to remember the Columbus Day Storm of 1962. His little brother had been born only a month earlier and Kaufman was almost six years old. It turned out to be one of the most powerful cyclones ever recorded in the United States in the twentieth century. He remembered his father driving them to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, a big Victorian in McKinleyville with a dark, musty basement that young Kaufman refused to enter alone. They spent the entire storm huddling in that drafty basement in the flickering light of kerosene lanterns. It was fun and terrifying all at once—fun because it was a new and exciting experience and terrifying because of the constant, violent sound of the howling storm trying its best to get at them. As he listened to that sound, Mitchy, as he was then called, imagined the storm as a giant, black monster that blended in with the night as it stomped and slashed its way through towns and neighborhoods. And yet, he didn’t truly believe anything bad would happen to them because he was with his family and he was confident they would keep him safe.
    Now, even though he was old enough to know better, he found himself imagining the same thing again as a blue-and-white-striped canopy from a porch swing slapped onto his hood, clung there for a moment as if resisting the wind, then blew away in a blur. It was easy to imagine the storm to be a living thing. Unfortunately, he no longer had the luxury of being a little boy in the arms of his family, and he did not feel confident that he would be safe.
    Hurricane Quentin promised to be worse than the 1962 storm, which had become known as the Big Blow. He knew he wouldn’t be able to drive around like this much longer, but he didn’t want to go back yet.
    In the last hour, there had been looting in Old Town, with shots fired between police officers and three subjects. There were power lines down all over the place and live wires were squirming like electric snakes over the ground, spitting venomous sparks. A car had driven into a house in Willow Creek and a fight had broken out in which someone had been stabbed. There was a report of shots fired in a mobile home park just outside of McKinleyville. A little girl was missing in Arcata. It was like a big disaster party that was getting too crowded.
    Kaufman was listening to the radio on his way to the old Springmeier hospital, but his eyes scanned the night as he drove, searching for Deputy von Pohle’s car. The drive to Springmeier was mostly a cover story. He had something else on his mind as he took a wandering, indirect route, eyes scanning, searching. He’d told no one about the real reason he was driving around in such a bad storm because he had no proof, only suspicions, and a sick feeling in his stomach that he knew wouldn’t go away until he’d either proved or disproved those suspicions.
    Something had been up with von Pohle for months. Kaufman had watched his work performance gradually deteriorate, as well as his behavior. He’d become increasingly withdrawn, distracted, and temperamental. He’d been reprimanded a couple of times for using unnecessary force, and once he was caught drinking on duty. He was quick to anger and was abusive and even threatening toward his coworkers more often and with less reason all the time. He’d been a deputy for almost thirteen years, and although he was a little loud and overbearing at times, he’d exhibited nothing but model behavior until recently.
    Kaufman had called him into the office about ten days ago and asked him what was going on.
    “Going on?” von Pohle said.
    “I don’t have time for that. You know what I’m talking about. I’ve been paying attention, you’re chewing on something, or it’s chewing on you. Is everything okay at home?”
    He got a tired, faraway look in his face and slowly slid down to a slumped position in