Deluge (The Best Thrillers Book 2) by James Best (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📕

“Damn your pompous, supercilious hide. Get out of my room.”

He scurried to the door but stopped, his hand on the handle. His defiant posture collapsed. His shoulders slumped, head dropped. He didn’t move for a long moment. Baldwin thought she might have heard a sob.

“Jon, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“I am frightened.”

She was confused. “Of what? The flood path is north of here.”

He turned from the door, looking forlorn. “I am afraid I will be exposed … as a fraud. I do not know anything about flood control. I am a historian. I wrote an article about a historical event and asked what if. Some of those people on the commission are giants. They will see through me in minutes.”

“That’s what you’re worried about? Your academic reputation?” She wanted to tell him that his undersized reputation didn’t extend beyond the history building on campus. Instead, she decided to be kinder. “Jon, both of us are historians, not meteorologists or engineers. Your specialty is nineteenth-century California, mine is Abraham Lincoln. They put me on the commission to provide a historical perspective for scientists. That’s the same reason you are invited to this session. They think we know about the Great Flood of 1862. If they ask about it, we’ll tell them; otherwise, we remain quiet. The risk to our careers is minimal.”

“The scientists may give us a pass, but what about the politicians? They want a scapegoat.”

“Not us. Perhaps if we had met a week ago and failed to call out the risk at Oroville, but not now, not after the disaster has hit. Besides, you don’t want to drive in this weather, and I saw on the news that the buses have all been dispatched to rescue stranded flood victims. You’re stuck here, so you might as well attend the meeting. Who knows, you might have some unique insight, like that berm idea you had at the washout.”

Ashley puffed up and nodded. She marveled at how easy it was to bolster his ego. In her memory, she had never needed to pump up Evarts. He came testosterone laden.

She patted Jonathan’s shoulder. “Go to bed. The meeting has been moved up, so let’s meet for breakfast at six fifteen.”

“Okay,” he hesitated. “Unless you want me to stay.”

Really? How could he interpret a little kindness as an invitation to her bed? Damn. She thought of herself as a nice person, but she was conceited about her looks. Not unwarranted. She’d had a lifetime of confirmations from handsome men. Homely milksops seldom made advances. She carried herself in a way that broadcast that she moved on a different plane. Why would an out-of-shape old man dressed in ridiculous garb dare to make an advance? Her thoughts immediately went back to her musing at the mirror. Had she lost that much? No … not that much. Ashley was a dunce.

“No. I’m too tired to talk about this anymore. We’ll get at it again when we’re fresh. See you in the morning.”

He shuffled his feet. “Thanks for the pep talk. I did not mean to burden you with my insecurities. I am sure we will make a good team tomorrow.”

She leaned around him and opened the door.

He looked at it, then at her before saying, “Good night.”

As soon as the door closed, Baldwin stifled a laugh until she got into the bathroom and closed the door. Ashley showed no self-awareness, and his self-image had little relevance to how others saw him. Most of the time he espoused drivel, but on rare occasions, he uttered a genuine gem. Not tonight. Tonight, he had made a pure fool of himself. She decided not to tell Greg. He would fail to see the humor and say something rude to Ashley the next time he saw him.

After getting ready for bed, she stretched for the ceiling as she left the bathroom. She had not turned off the television. As she picked up the remote, she heard something startling. A weatherwoman announced that a new, even harsher storm would hit the state by mid-morning. Her next words frightened Baldwin.

“This storm might be the leading edge of what meteorologists call an atmospheric river. We’ve had several of these hit our state in the past, but this one appears large. It’ll take five to six days to pass and could drop as much as twenty inches of rain.”

She gave her audience a perky smile and lightheartedly signed off by saying, “So keep your umbrellas handy, folks.”

Chapter 7

Evarts hated city council meetings. He had to sit still with a noncommittal expression for hours on end, feigning attention to everything anyone, government official or townsperson, had to say. The council sat behind a semicircular table spanning the front of the council chamber, the mayor in the middle and three council members to either side. Evarts and the city manager sat at a separate table lower and to the side of the political leaders, emphasizing that they were at the mayor’s beck and call. Elected officials loved to pontificate but quickly deflected serious questions to him or his tablemate.

Unless there had been a serious crime or an accusation of police brutality, the city manager took the brunt of the heat. Santa Barbara was a quiet community, so most of the time, Evarts just sat there and pretended interest in the proceedings.

He suspected tonight would be different.

For the past fifteen minutes, a distraught woman had complained nonstop about the rain. She seemed to never pause to take a breath. Evarts thought bringing weather into a council meeting verged on the ridiculous, but she received affirmative grunts and even sporadic applause from the audience. People who had become accustomed to clear skies got cranky not seeing the sun for weeks on end. If he were mayor, he would propose an ordinance to outlaw rain within city limits and move to the next constituent issue. Of course, his flippancy might account for why no one ever approached him about running for elective office.

When she finally