Peach crept along the scrub-lined gravel road through the docklands area. The pavement was invisible under the rippling water. Pebbles and sand cracked on her windshield like bullets shot by the fierce gales. Her wipers fought a losing battle against the rain, and she leaned forward, trying to see. A quarter mile ahead, the road split. A dead end led toward the port, where she could see a mammoth tanker docked in the water. To her left, a sign pointed toward Picnic Island Park. She headed that way, thudding across railroad tracks and driving slowly, unsure of the depth of the water underneath her tires. Ahead of her, palm trees and evergreens bowed toward the east, as if to say: Run. Run that way. Run fast.

The road ended at a crescent beach adjoining the bay.

The sprawling waterside park was the heel on the boot that made up the Tampa peninsula. Facing west, she stared at the narrowest point of the channel leading into Old Tampa Bay, across the water from the city of St Petersburg. The low-lying park was webbed with marshes and creeks. It was mostly wild and unkempt, matted with sea grass. Fuel tanks and mountains of crushed sandstone loomed in the industrial area bordering the park. A concrete pier jutted into the water beside a boat launch. Angry waves threw themselves over the pier, sending up twelve-foot clouds of spray.

She turned off the engine. The sky was black, like night. She could barely open her car door into the wind. When she stepped into three inches of water, she felt herself thrown backward by the force of the gusts. Her clothes were sodden. The rain pelleted her face; she had to shield her eyes. The noise of the storm was deafening, a shrieking chorus of water and wind.

At first, she thought the parking lot was empty, but then she spotted a car hidden inside a grove of trees. It was a red Cutlass, heavily dinged with years of abuse. The car was littered with wet leaves and had obviously been stranded here for hours. She staggered in a zigzag across the lot. Something slimy brushed her ankle, and she realized it was a fish, swept from the bay into the shallow lake that now covered the parkland. Better a fish than an alligator. She splashed forward onto spongy mud that sucked at her sneakers, and when she reached the abandoned Cutlass, she yanked open the door and piled inside.

The car smelled of smoke and French fries, despite an old pine air freshener dangling from the mirror. Its torn leather seats were buried under crumpled food wrappers and newspapers. A GPS navigator was suctioned to the dashboard. She spotted an old gallon milk jug one-third filled with a yellowish liquid, and her lip wrinkled in disgust.