Twisted by Jay Bonansinga Page A

soggy cheroot cigarillo, the phone propped into the crook of his thick neck as he kept an eye on three separate cathode-ray screens in front of him displaying three separate satellite views of Hurricane Eve as she approached the East Coast.
    Ivan Kaminsky had been a weather analyst for the U.S. government for nearly two decades now, ever since he had defected in the mid-1980s during Reagan’s “tear down this wall” period. Before that, Kaminsky had been in the Soviet military, working in a top-secret branch of the KGB dedicated to studying global climate changes. At the time, rumors had circulated in the intelligence community that the Soviets were trying to control the weather, not just study it, but Kaminsky had always laughed that off as a folktale. The truth was, nobody could control the weather, but men like Kaminsky could certainly get inside it, ride the tiger for a while, get to know its most ferocious moods. And that’s essentially what Ivan Kaminsky did for the NSA: He chased storms. He was practically a legend among the wags at the National Weather Service. In 2005 he flew a Lockheed four-engine prop job into the eye of Hurricane Katrina as it passed over Gulf Port, Mississippi, and he won a Pulitzer for his photographs, as well as a Distinguished Service Medal for his report to the NWS. In fact, the only thing that had kept Kaminsky from getting a top government desk job was the vodka.
    Kaminsky loved his Stolichnaya more than life itself, and over the years this love affair had taken its toll on the Russian’s mind and body. A massive bear of a man with a great, frizzy, iron-gray beard, he had expanded at a geometric rate over the last decade. His huge hooked nose now looked like a road map of busted capillaries, and his memory had blown out like a bad fuse. He could still quote the wind speeds of storms from the 1970s, but he couldn’t remember what he had had for breakfast that morning. All of which was why he had been exiled by the feds to this rat-infested lighthouse overlooking a wild corner of the Chesapeake Bay.
    â€œLook, Kay, I know it’s short notice, but this freak’s on a spree, an upward spiral,” the voice of Ulysses Grove explained after an agonizing pause. “And like I said, it has something to do with me, so whatever you can do to get me up there, in the eye, in a hurry, would make a huge difference.”
    â€œBut why? This one is already up to a category three, and she is still just north of Nassau. She will be category four by the time she reaches the cape, you realize this, I assume?”
    â€œI realize this, and it’s not like I’m dying to fly into the eye of a hurricane, but I have no choice.”
    â€œWhy though? Why do you not have the choice in this matter? Please explain.”
    A sigh on the other end. “Because I believe the eye of the storm is the key to catching this guy.”
    â€œThe key? The key—what does this mean, the key?”
    â€œThe only way I’m going to catch him is in the act, in the eye, in the middle of a storm. He wants me there.”
    â€œAh ... now I know you are ‘around the hill.’”
    â€œAround the bend , get it right, Kay, for Chrissake, it’s ‘around the bend.’”
    â€œThis is impossible, what you are asking, it is ... How did you come up with this?”
    Grove told him about the details surrounding De Lourde’s murder, the shadowy figure who delivered the missing eyeball, the murders down in Florida during Hurricane Darlene, all the missing eyes, all the weird little circumstantial clues. “Trust me on this, Kay,” the voice went on, “the clock is ticking for people up around Cape Hatteras. More people are going to die unless I can get up there and take this guy down. I need you to get me right in the middle of the shit.”
    Kaminsky laughed out loud, then stubbed the cheroot out in an ashtray. He reached over and filled a