Damaged

by Alex Kava

  “A military cargo plane? Wow. How generous of them.”

  Platt’s turn to shrug. He still felt the sting of Ganz’s dismissal.

  “So just out of curiosity, what were the pieces?” he asked.

  “A torso, one foot, three hands. Aren’t you hungry? Because I’m about to consume all of this.”

  He smiled and plucked up a spring roll. He was hungry. But almost too exhausted to eat. He couldn’t remember when he slept last.

  “Three hands? So at least two victims.”

  “It could be two people or as many as five. Blood typing has already ruled out the foot belonging to the torso.”

  “So the killer’s either messy or very smart. Do you think he was disposing bodies at sea?”

  He could tell she was considering it then shook her head.

  “The body parts were wrapped individually in thick plastic wrap, almost as if he was preserving instead of disposing.” She drained her second Diet Pepsi. “What’s worse is that the foot has pieces of metal embedded under the skin, deep into the tissue.”

  “Why did Kunze send you on this wild-goose chase? And into the eye of a hurricane?”

  “Long story.” She waved at the passing waitress and politely pointed to her glass for a refill. “Where are you staying?”

  “My duffel bag is at the Santa Rosa Island Authority office. They told me there were no check-ins on the beach. No rooms available anywhere else.”

  “I have a suite at the Hilton. At least until tomorrow.”

  “Hmmm.” He couldn’t tell whether it was an invitation. They joked with each other so often that sometimes he wasn’t sure where he really stood with Maggie O’Dell.

  “Two queen-size beds.”

  Ah, okay. An offer from his friend. Was that relief he was feeling in his gut? Or was it disappointment?

  “Minibar?” he sparred back.

  “Yep.”

  “Big-screen TV?”

  “It’s a hotel room, Platt, not a sports bar.”

  “You sure you don’t mind sharing? I think I snore when I’m overtired.”

  “Not a problem. I haven’t been sleeping anyway.”

  “What do you mean you haven’t been sleeping? Like at all?”

  She looked as though she had revealed too much. “Bad case of insomnia,” she said.

  “For how long?” The doctor in him couldn’t help it. Maybe that was the reason for their inability to move past friendship. They had begun as doctor and patient when Maggie was quarantined under his directive at USAMRIID.

  “I sleep a few hours now and then.” She hesitated then admitted, “It’s probably been a few months.”

  “Well, I have just what you need.”

  “Look Ben, I’m not sure I want to get used to taking any meds.”

  “I’m not talking about meds.” He raised his hands as if to show her. “My massages can work wonders.”

  CHAPTER 42

  Scott drove past his father-in-law’s house twice. Not an easy task because he lived on the edge of a cul-de-sac. He hadn’t been able to get him on the phone. Walter Bailey was the only person Scott knew who didn’t own a cell phone and was proud of the fact.

  The front windows remained dark, not even a reflection from the TV. Walter’s car was in the driveway but not his mobile canteen. Was it possible he was still out on the beach?

  Scott slapped his hands against the steering wheel. That was great, just great. He needed a generator and the old man was out partying on the beach.

  He had driven to five different hardware stores with a roll of cash, thinking he could surely buy a backroom generator from someone. After all, everyone had a price, didn’t they?

  He ignored the homemade signs in the parking lots: NO MORE PLYWOOD, GENERATORS, OR BATTERIES. At each store he asked for the manager. Two of them just shook their heads at him. Two others laughed. One eyed the roll of cash and considered selling Scott his personal home generator, then finally said, “Hell, I better not. My wife would kick the royal crap out of me. Sorry, mister.”

  “Can you at least tell me,” he asked that manager, while peeling a hundred-dollar bill off his roll, “how far I have to drive to go get one?”

  The guy started checking his computer, anxious to help if it meant a finder’s fee. He poked at the keys, winced, then poked some more. He did this several times before he finally said, “Here we go. There’s one I can hold for you at the Athens, Georgia, store.”

  “Athens? Okay. Is that just over the Florida/Georgia border?”

  “No, it’s on the north side of Atlanta.”

  “Atlanta? Isn’t that like five or six hours away?”

  “You could be there when the store opens at seven tomorrow. You want me to put a hold on it or not?”

  He told him to go ahead. It was a backup plan that only cost him a hundred bucks if he didn’t need it. The more he thought about driving twelve hours, the more angry he got with his in-laws.

  The Baileys had never embraced him like they should have. And he took good care of Trish. By the holidays she’d be living in a brand-new custom-built home overlooking Pensacola Bay. He had her driving a BMW—a fucking 525i. He made it so she didn’t have to work a single day after they got married. Even the place they were renting was plush and loaded with luxury. He was acknowledged around town as a successful businessman, invited to join the Rotary. And yet all that wasn’t good enough. The Baileys still didn’t treat him like he was family. What was worse, Scott felt like Walter Bailey treated him as if he wasn’t worthy of Trish. Walter certainly wouldn’t think he was worthy of borrowing one of his fucking generators.

  Scott shut off the headlights and pulled his Lexus GX to a stop along the curb half a block from Walter’s house, where he could see anyone turning into the driveway. It was late. Where the hell was the old man? He drank the lukewarm remains of his latte. He had added a splash of vodka—from the previous funeral home owner’s stash that he had taken along for the ride—thinking he’d need the extra jolt to convince Walter. But even that was wearing off.

  He knew there was a fifty-fifty chance the side door to the garage would be unlocked—habit more than anything else. Walter couldn’t park a single vehicle in the garage since it was packed with his discounts, bargains, and supplies for the canteen.

  Scott scrubbed the exhaustion from his face. It had been a hell of a day. He just wanted to go home and fall into bed. But even that promised to be a challenge. Trish had left several angry voice and text messages for him.

  Scott looked at his wristwatch and let out a sigh of frustration. He sure as hell was not driving to Atlanta tonight. He turned the key but left the headlights off. As quietly as the vehicle allowed, he pulled up and backed into Walter’s driveway. The garage was attached to the back of the house. Even with the sliding door open no one could see into the garage from the street. If the neighbors recognized his vehicle, that would actually be a good thing. They wouldn’t call the cops on Trish’s husband.

  The side door was unlocked. Scott used a flashlight to hunt down the generators, not really sure what they looked like. A big engine on wheels was his best guess. Two refrigerators hummed, side by side. Loaded shelves lined three of the walls. The only path amounted to a maze winding its way through boxes and cartons, toolboxes and garden equipment, spare tires, bags of mulch, large red gas containers, two push mowers—and that was just one side of the double garage.

  In the corner he found a generator covered with a gray tarp. He rocked it out of a tight squeeze between two shelves. Once he pulled it free, he was ready to open the garage door. He hit the electronic button and the whine startled him as did the bright light that flashed on as the door went up. He lunged for the light switch and flipped it off. The noise was bad enough. He didn’t need a spotlight on what he was doing. He dragged over the metal railings Walter had stored with the generator, figuring out that if he positioned them against the rear bumper of his Lexus he could simply roll the contraption up into the vehicle
. He had it almost in when he saw the shadow walk out from behind the bushes.

  “What the hell are you doing, Scott?”

  CHAPTER 43

  Liz couldn’t believe her dad would loan Scott a generator. He was fussy about his possessions and he didn’t seem to like Scott much. But what did she know about her father? She’d been surprised to find him downing free martinis, one after another, at the Tiki Bar on the beach. Liz reminded herself that a lot had changed since her mom had died, and she hadn’t been here for most of that time. If her dad had learned to set the table and drink martinis, perhaps he’d changed in other ways, too.

  “Hey Liz.” Scott was out of breath but didn’t seem embarrassed, and he didn’t stop what he was doing. “Do you have any idea where your dad is?”

  “I just brought him and the canteen home. Free drinks on the beach.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Sleeping like a baby. I have half a mind to leave him in the canteen for the night. So what are you doing?”

  “Just picking up one of Walter’s generators.” He slammed shut the rear door of the SUV. “I’ve been waiting for him the past couple of hours.”

  “He probably forgot.”

  In the shadows Liz couldn’t see Scott’s face. After last night’s run-in on the beach, she realized that she didn’t know her brother-in-law very well, either, despite the fact that he thought he knew her. It looked like Trish had finally gotten him to prepare for the storm.

  “You know how to hook up and start one of those?” she asked him.

  Scott shrugged. “Not really. I was hoping Walter would show me.”

  Instinctively Liz looked over her shoulder. She couldn’t see the canteen where she’d parked it on the street.

  “Tell you what,” she told Scott, “you help me get my dad into bed, I’ll help you with the generator.”

  “Really? You’d do that?” He sounded like a little boy, suspicious that he might be tricked.

  “Sure. If you throw in a ride back to the beach to get my car.”

  Walter proved more cooperative than Liz expected. He seemed to think Scott was an old navy friend of his. He kept mumbling something about Phillip Norris’s kid. But once they got him inside his bedroom, he clicked into his routine. He mumbled and shuffled as he took off his shoes and put them where they belonged in the closet. Then he emptied his pockets into the valet tray on his dresser. Liz kissed him goodbye on the cheek and he waved her out of his bedroom.

  At the funeral home Scott rolled the generator out the back of the SUV like a pro. Liz helped him fill it with gasoline. He talked too much, either because he was tired or because he was uncomfortable being alone with her. Or—and she hated that she jumped to this conclusion—because he’d been drinking. It didn’t matter. She just wanted to finish here, get her car, and catch some sleep. The storm’s outer bands were predicted to kick up winds and the downpour would start sometime tomorrow afternoon.

  She showed Scott all the basics—how to choke the generator and how to calculate the wattage of each appliance he connected. All the while he rambled on about the new air-conditioned walkway he’d installed between the two buildings and his huge walk-in refrigerator.

  “I added all this stuff only to find out none of it is connected to a backup generator. Can you imagine not having a backup for the cooler? In a funeral home?”

  Finished with the instructions, she helped him pull the machine into an outdoor supply shed. It was only ten feet away from the building, hidden behind some trees.

  She waited in the doorway as he spread a tarp over the generator and used bungee cords to fasten it. That’s when she noticed the battered white stainless-steel cooler. It was huge. The lid had been left open, leaning up against the wall, and Liz noticed the fish-measuring ruler molded into the lid. A tie-down hung from the cooler’s handle, a rope made of yellow-and-blue strands.

  Liz felt a little sick to her stomach. This cooler looked exactly like the one she had pulled out of the Gulf.

  CHAPTER 44

  “Oh my God, that feels good,” Maggie told Platt as he settled beside her on the edge of the bed.

  “You’re going to have to stop talking about this case so you can relax and enjoy this.”

  What Maggie couldn’t tell Platt was that she had to keep talking because as soon as she thought about his hands on her bare back she felt herself getting aroused.

  “There’s an area right around here,” he said as his hands slid to her lower back. “This should put you to sleep.”

  She closed her eyes. He didn’t have a clue. Or if he did, he was better at hiding it than she was.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” she said and wondered if she sounded just as breathless as she felt. He was right. It was starting to be difficult to concentrate but not because she was falling asleep.

  “Why wrap the body parts?” Platt’s hands continued without interruption. “Maybe he’s adding to a collection.”

  “This fishing cooler is huge.” His fingers kneaded her skin, a combination of pressure and caress. “Where do you buy something like that?”

  “Sporting goods store? Or a place that sells boats?”

  “A boat. I didn’t even think of that. He must own a boat.”

  “This is probably why you can’t sleep,” Platt said. “You won’t let your mind shut off. You’re still trying to figure things out.”

  “The subconscious does continue to work through problems and then find—” His thumbs pressed into the middle of her back and took her breath away.

  “That’s better,” Platt said.

  “So you’re purposely … trying … to shut me up.”

  “Exactly. Just for a few minutes, okay?”

  “You talk then.”

  “Really? You don’t like silence?”

  She nodded or tried to.

  “Okay. If it’s going to help relax you.”

  He started telling her about a place where his family spent vacations when he was a boy. A cottage on the North Carolina shore. The kitchen overlooked the beach. Bright-yellow curtains and a tablecloth to match. He’d stay inside on the afternoons that his mother baked. She’d tell him to go play in the sand but he wanted to be there when the cinnamon rolls or peanut-butter cookies drizzled with sugar came out of the oven. So she’d let him help. He measured and stirred while they talked about the books he’d brought to read during vacation. They’d discuss the powers of wizards, the discovery of the Titanic, and whether sea dragons really existed.

  At some point Maggie heard the sound of waves. She smelled the salt water, and for a second she thought she could even smell cinnamon. She had a light-headed sensation of floating on water. In her mind she saw the waves rolling, capped by white foam. Felt the spray on her face. There was nothing but water all around her. No land in sight. Just the gentle rocking of the water.

  CHAPTER 45

  Liz sat in her car on the beach. Scott had dropped her off almost half an hour ago. She needed to drive home, take a shower, get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a long, hard day. And yet here she sat, staring out at the waves, her mind still reeling. Before leaving Scott, she had asked about the marine cooler, keeping her voice light and casual.

  “A friend left it here. Just for a day or two,” he told her.

  “A friend in the business?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “No reason. I just …” She had found herself stumbling because she could still see the plastic-wrapped body parts. “I’ve never seen one with a measure molded inside the lid like that.”

  “Oh yeah. I didn’t notice that.” He had walked around to the front of the cooler to get a better look. “I bet Joe didn’t notice it, either. He doesn’t exactly use it for fishing.”

  “Really? What does he use it for?”

  That was where she crossed the line. She saw him shut down, a hint of suspicion replacing his need to charm and inform. In the end he shrugged like it was no big deal.

  “I don’t know. Wh
atever you use a cooler like that for.”

  Then he walked her out of the shed.

  Liz had already called Sheriff Joshua Clayton only to have one of his deputies call her back, saying this wasn’t of an urgent nature.

  “We’ve got a hurricane on its way,” the deputy told her. “Sheriff Clayton has already determined this case is on hold until after the storm.”

  He was right. Finding a fishing cooler that looked like the one filled with body parts didn’t seem urgent. But something about finding it in the back of a funeral home kept Liz from dismissing it.

  She could see the top floor of the Hilton. She pulled out her cell phone again. Punched 411 and asked for the phone number.

  “Hilton Pensacola Beach Gulf Front. This is the front desk.”

  “Yes, I’d like to talk to one of your guests. Maggie O’Dell.”

  “All of our guests have checked out. Oh, wait. O’Dell. The FBI agent with Mr. Wurth?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “She is here until noon tomorrow.” Then he hesitated. “Is this urgent?”

  Liz sighed, ran fingers through her hair as she checked the time on her dashboard. It was almost midnight.

  “It’s just that I usually don’t ring my guests’ rooms after ten o’clock,” he said when she took too long to answer. “I can send you to voice mail and the red light will come on her phone.”

  “That’s fine.”

  While she waited for the connection, she tried to formulate what to say. Was she simply being paranoid? Overly observant? Obsessive?

  At the beep she gave her name and cell-phone number, then simply said she had some information. Lame, she knew, but safe. And maybe in the morning when the outer bands of Hurricane Isaac started battering the area, Liz would think the identical fishing cooler was nothing but a mere coincidence.

  There were only a few cars left in the lot and as Liz pulled onto Pensacola Beach Boulevard she recognized the faded red Impala. She had promised her dad she’d check on the surfer kid, Danny. She’d talk to him tomorrow. It was late. No sense in tapping on his car window tonight and scaring the poor kid to death.