The longer the tempest raged, the more dangerous the roads became. Sections of freeway I’d taken just minutes earlier were now submerged, newly formed lakes and rivers reflecting back at me through the high beams of my headlights. This time I drove past the I-10 underpass, only a few minutes farther south, still within the center circle on the reverend’s map, directly toward Houston’s shadow downtown. Another round of lightning and the black cloak lifted, revealing hidden skyscrapers towered by thunderclouds. In front of the skyscrapers, bordering I-45, waited Sam Houston Park, a brief green space tucked against the concrete-and-glass city. So many lazy afternoons I’d spent there with Maggie and Mom, munching picnic lunches of Mom’s fried chicken and mayonnaise-and-mustard potato salad and enjoying the scenery.
As I drove, I fought to recall old memories, trying to reconstruct what I knew about how the park was laid out, to decide where Benoit would have had the piers for the slaves quarters constructed. He’d said near the pond. As I remembered, that was on the edge of the park, near the winged statue, The Spirit of the Confederacy.
The McKinney exit loomed ahead, and I veered left to take it, down the ramp toward the center of the city, while still mulling over the design of the park and attempting to make sense of Benoit’s plans. Perhaps if I’d been paying more attention, I would have seen the river of floodwater in time, before the Tahoe’s tires disappeared and the water rushed in all around me, from the sides of the car, from underneath. Another mistake: I slammed on the brakes, a gut reaction but the wrong one, since it splashed even more water back into the car. I eased off, but it was too late. In the darkness I felt the SUV lift and float, then rock back and forth, as helpless as a toy bobbing in the fast-moving current. Panicking, I felt powerless as water surrounded the SUV on the outside and poured in all around me. Grabbing the handle, I fought to open the door, to get out before the SUV submerged, but the pressure of the outside water kept the door from budging. Reining in my terror, I counted out loud to compose myself: “One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi…”
In the glow from the Tahoe’s interior lights, the water swelled around my feet, climbing higher on my legs. Before long, the warm floodwaters inside the Tahoe rose to midshin, and, still fighting to remain calm, I unlatched my seat belt, tore off my jacket, and ripped off the Velcro straps that held my Kevlar vest. I threw the bullet-proof vest into the backseat, pulled on the jacket, and then grabbed the bag containing the Bushmaster, slipping the strap over my head and across my chest. At the same time, I considered the irony of drowning while a dangerous killer waited for me just blocks away in the darkness. I thought about people trapped in mines and wells who find a rock or a pen to write on a wall, to leave sad farewells to friends and family, expressing their love. And I wondered if my death would leave anyone searching for that reassurance, if I’d told everyone who had a place in my heart how important they were to me.
The water rose, filling the Tahoe’s interior up to my knees, and still I waited. I put on the goggles, and I was ready. I thought about Maggie and wondered if she’d someday be a university professor, as she planned. I had life insurance, enough to pay for a good education, and even with the panic that clutched my throat, I knew that if I died in a watery grave, Mom would take over for me. Maggie wouldn’t be alone. She’d be cared for and loved, and someday, maybe, she’d forgive me for leaving her in a hurricane to try to save a four-year-old named Joey Warner.
Outside, the floodwater reached the base of the windows. The final moments would be less than minutes, but it felt like hours as inside the Tahoe the water climbed until it covered my waist, up onto my chest, higher and higher, until it reached the same level inside as outside, an equilibrium of air and water. If everything I’d been told about escaping a submerging vehicle worked, this was my opportunity.
With the pressure balanced between the interior and the exterior of the car, I reached down beneath the warm floodwaters and pulled the latch. The door opened as easily as if on dry land. I took a deep breath, held on to the top of the door frame, and stepped out, the ball of panic in my chest tightened when I tested with my left foot and felt no ground beneath me. I’d thought about the weight of the Kevlar vest but nothing else. Instantly water filled my rubber boots, puddling around my tennis shoes, and I felt as if I had lead weights tied to my feet. The night vision goggles, heavy on my face, felt suffocating. Balancing on the door and the car frame, fighting the weight of the water-filled boots, I bobbed up and tried to grab on to the luggage rack, to use it to heave myself onto the Tahoe’s roof, but the wind slammed the door against me and an angry flash of lightning pulsed overhead as I slipped from my perch. My arms gave way and I fell, plunging down. The floodwater covered my neck, my face, and I held my breath, reaching about me, hoping to once again grab the open door frame, praying, Not this way, God. Not this way. Not now.
Finally, my feet hit ground. Pushing off with my legs, I propelled myself upward, then grabbed the car and pulled myself up, breaking through the surface, and gasping hungrily for air. In an instant, I tore off the constricting goggles and threw them away, begging to breathe. Stilling my terror.
Holding on to the sinking car, I again pulled hard, forcing my chest out of the water, then my waist. Another flash of lightning, and I saw a wide pond at the end of the ramp, where it joined the city street. There was so much water and such a strong current. Once there, I’d be helpless, unable to escape. I had to get out of the water and onto land, and I had to do it quickly. Again, I used the door frame as leverage, thrusting myself upward, pushing with all my strength. This time I grabbed the luggage rack, groaning as I yanked myself onto the roof.
The SUV drifted, all the while sinking ever deeper into the water, as I yanked off my boots. With each burst of lightning, the current carried the Tahoe closer to the underside of a concrete bridge. Protruding from a cement pillar at the edge of the bridge were several rebar rungs stacked like steps on a ladder. I had only one hope: to reach out and grab one and hold tight. Once on the ladder, I could pull myself up and jump from the pillar to land.
The Tahoe swayed in the current, and I held on, waiting. A burst of lightning, and I whispered a prayer and jumped, reaching out for the rebar steps where I thought I would find them. My hands closed on air, and I was pulled into the fast-moving current, disappearing beneath it, the Bushmaster weighing on my back. The water swirled, and I swam as hard as I could. When I broke through the surface, I reached out, hoping to grab something, anything, but I found nothing.
Caught in the current, I was buffeted back and forth within the swells as the water toyed with me, pushing my head under and then above the surface. Swallowing gulps of water, choking on the foul-tasting mix of rain, debris, and pollution, I wondered about a life that could end without a whisper beneath a pool of floodwater. I thought of my late husband and what he must have thought at the final moments of his life as the flames of the fire engulfing his car consumed him.
Another burst of lightning lit the water, and I spotted the concrete pillar I’d aimed for not behind but just ahead, on my left. Somehow the rushing water had spun me backward. With all my might I swam, willing myself forward, the water fighting against me, pushing me an inch back, it seemed, for nearly every inch I gained. Finally, one hand hit the concrete and the other grabbed for the rebar. It felt sharp in my hand, and I held tight, pulling myself toward it, and then hoisted my body up, climbing the sharp metal rungs out of the water. After another burst of lightning, I saw my goal and jumped onto a cement-covered slope along the side of the ramp, above the waterline. My feet on wet but solid land, I collapsed, gasping, heaving in and panting out, the rain battering my skin, my sopping clothes hanging like threadbare dishrags, water rushing all around me on its way to the deadly pool of floodwaters below.
Gasping for breath for I don’t know how long, I sat on that cement incline convincing myself that I was still alive, watching as the gathering pond swallowed the Tahoe’s headlights, snuffing out their beams. The water churned around the SUV’s roof as it sank below the water. Then nothing remained visible above the surface of the floodwaters but the rain and the wind. Finally, I pushed back my exhaustion. I stood and thought about Peter Benoit, and my anger grew.