Damaged

by Alex Kava

“Now? You’re kidding, right?”

  “The eye of the storm’s probably going to come over Pensacola. Maybe swing a bit to the east of here. Hurricane-force winds stretch about a hundred miles out from the eye.” He wasn’t out of breath. Walter was. He found himself thinking that this kid’s in good shape.

  “There’s already nine-, ten-foot swells,” Walter told him, trying not to gasp like an old man.

  “I’ve been out in worse. Northeast quadrant gets the worst part of the storm. Traveling west I’ll be driving away from it. Got a little delayed. I’m getting a later start than I wanted.”

  Walter helped Joe lift the bag onto the boat deck. By now, Walter’s jumpsuit was soaked at his back and chest. Sweat poured down his forehead and dripped off his nose, but he needed both hands to lift his end of the tuna bag down the steps into the cabin.

  Joe dropped his end of the bag. Something inside moved and groaned. Walter’s eyes shot up to meet Joe’s. He was still holding his end of the bag when Joe shoved the snub nose of a revolver into Walter’s gut and said, “Guess you’re coming along for the ride, Mr. B.”

  CHAPTER 54

  Maggie knew if she waited until after the hurricane to ask questions no one would remember a white stainless-steel cooler with a bright yellow-and-blue tie-down or its owner, a guy named Joe, who might have a boat docked at the marina. Memories of before the hurricane would be eclipsed by the chaos of the storm. Besides, she had promised Liz Bailey that she would meet her on the marina. While she waited, she might just as well ask some questions.

  The condition of the body parts suggested they hadn’t been in the cooler for long. Decomposition had only begun. From past experience—an unfortunate piece of trivia to have in one’s repertoire—Maggie knew it took about four to five hours to thaw an average-size frozen torso. There had been no ice left in the cooler when it was found. Considering the warm water of the Gulf and the hot sun, she estimated the packages had been inside the cooler two days. Three at the most.

  Even if the body parts had been destined for one of Lawrence Piper’s surgical conferences, it still didn’t explain how Vince Coffland ended up as an unwilling body donor.

  Before Maggie had left the comfort of her hotel room she had done a quick search of Advanced Medical Educational Technology on her laptop. The company advertised educational seminars at a variety of Florida resorts, providing a venue for medical-device makers to showcase their latest technologies to surgeons from across the country. They promised hands-on experience while upholding donor confidentiality by not disclosing their procurement procedure.

  After viewing competitors’ Web sites, Maggie realized AMET was only one of several legitimate companies buying “precut and frozen body parts” from brokers like Joe. From her quick analysis, Maggie understood that demand was high and supply limited. She couldn’t help wondering if Platt had been right when he asked if this killer might be taking advantage of hurricanes in order to find victims. Now Maggie realized that might be exactly what this killer was doing, using the storms as a cover to fill his growing orders. Was Vince Coffland murdered out of cold-blooded greed?

  The marina was crowded and the shops were busy, trying to accommodate the desperate boat owners. In between sales Maggie struck up a conversation with the owner of Howard’s Deep Sea Fishing Shop. A huge, barrel-chested man, Howard Johnson towered over Maggie. His thick white hair was the only indication of his age. Somewhere in his sixties, Maggie guessed. However, his neatly trimmed goatee had streaks of blond, hinting at the golden-haired surfer that appeared in the photos along the walls. He wore a bright orange-and-blue button-down shirt with a fish pattern, the hem hanging over his khaki cargo shorts.

  His shop was kept neat, with unusual and colorful gear. A railed shelf ran along the upper quarter of the four walls, filled with models of various boats and ships. Maggie found herself mesmerized by all the paraphernalia.

  Her eyes were still darting about as she absently flipped open her FBI badge to show Howard. His entire demeanor changed. He nodded politely but his eyes flashed with suspicion. One large hand ducked into his pocket, the other dropped palm-flat onto the counter as if bracing himself for what was coming. Okay, so he didn’t trust FBI agents. He wouldn’t be the first. Maggie showed him photos of the cooler. The last one was a close-up of the yellow-and-blue rope tie-down.

  He shrugged. “Looks like a dozen other coolers I see every day. In fact, I have this same make, only the larger version, on my deep-sea fishing rig.”

  “What about the tie-down?”

  “I use a metal one.”

  “Ever see one like this?”

  Another shrug but he looked at the photo again. She could see he was still suspicious. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest. Guarded. An impatient frown.

  “People use all sorts of things to personalize their equipment,” he said. “Makes it easier to pick it out when everybody’s unloading their stuff on the dock at the same time. Kind of like baggage claim. You know what I mean? People tag their bags with ribbons or bright straps so they can see them coming down the conveyor belt.”

  Maggie hadn’t thought of that. Using the rope to track down the killer started looking like a million-to-one shot.

  “Any ideas how a cooler this size would end up overboard?”

  “You mean by accident?”

  She nodded.

  Howard’s frown screwed up his face and he scratched his head like he was giving it considerable thought.

  “Sometimes guys will pull them behind the boat when they’re a bit crowded on board. They float no matter what they have in them. You tether them real good to the back of the boat. I suppose one could break loose. Might not notice until you’ve gone a ways.”

  “Maggie.”

  It was Liz Bailey. They’d planned to meet on the marina, but Liz came into the shop in a rush.

  “Howard, have you seen my dad?”

  CHAPTER 55

  Benjamin Platt held the young man by the shoulders as he vomited green liquid into a stainless-steel basin. The patient was too weak to hold himself up. That was obvious from the stains already on his bedsheets.

  “We’re going to give you an injection,” he told the soldier as he eased him back down. The man’s eyes were glazed. He no longer tried to respond. Platt knew he probably couldn’t hear him, but he talked to him anyway.

  He nodded for the nurse beside him to go ahead with the injection while he explained. “We’ll probably be poking you a couple more times.” Platt grabbed a towel from the side stand and wiped vomit from the corner of the young man’s mouth.

  “Thanks.”

  The one word seemed an effort so Platt was surprised when he continued.

  “This is almost worse”—he slurred his syllables—“than losing my foot.”

  “It’s going to get better,” Platt told him. “I promise you.” The nurse looked skeptical. He could see her out of the corner of his eye but Platt didn’t break eye contact with the young man. He would not let him see that even his doctor wasn’t sure what would work.

  Platt stopped at the prep room to change gloves before he went on to the next patient.

  “Controlled chaos,” Ganz said coming up behind him.

  “Controlled being the key word.”

  “I have someone bringing in more beta-lactam antibiotics. You think this will work?”

  “Think of Clostridium sordellii as tiny egg-like spores. They have to chew away enzymes for their bacterial cell wall to synthesize. This group of antibiotics binds to those enzymes and makes them inactivate, or at least not available to the bacteria.”

  “So it won’t be able to grow.”

  “Or spread.”

  “What about those patients where it’s already spread?”

  Platt took in a deep breath. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. There is no established treatment. We’re shooting from the hip here.” He turned to look Ganz in the eyes. “Are you having second thoughts?”

 
“No, absolutely not.” He shook his head. “At this point we don’t have anything to lose.”

  “This will slow the bacteria down even in those advanced cases. It’ll really depend on what damage has already been done.” Platt’s mind looped back to what the young man had said about this being worse than losing his foot. “What do you do with the amputated limbs?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The young man I just took care of—what happened to his foot once it was amputated?”

  “Some families request the limbs. Others go to the tissue bank.”

  “In Jacksonville?”

  “Right.”

  “What if the limb has shrapnel in it?”

  “That’s not my area of expertise.”

  “But would you send it on to the tissue bank?” Platt insisted.

  “Sure. That’s where the assessment would be made. But shrapnel still embedded in the tissue? I think the foot would probably be considered damaged and discarded.”

  Platt wondered about Maggie’s case. Was it possible the severed foot that had been discovered in the fishing cooler was actually one that had been amputated from a soldier?

  CHAPTER 56

  Liz’s first reaction at seeing the deserted canteen had been anger. She was already frustrated with her dad for driving to the beach that morning out of boredom, curiosity. He didn’t want to miss out on the action. Sometimes she wondered if she was the same way. She had his drive, that same eagerness to get out there, no matter how dangerous. Once the adrenaline kicked in, it was difficult to slow her down.

  Her anger changed to concern when she glanced inside the canteen and saw the tray of hot dogs and condiments on the counter. The vehicle was locked up but it was obvious her father had intended to be away only a short time. Howard only stoked her concern.

  “I saw him, maybe an hour ago. He was helping some guy drag a tuna bag onto his boat.”

  “Is the boat still here?” She hated that she sounded so anxious. Even Maggie stood alongside Liz, looking out the window, appearing anxious. It was getting darker by the minute. The lights in the parking lot had started to turn on. And it wasn’t even noon.

  Howard glanced over the two of them.

  “Nope. It was in slip number two.”

  “It’s pretty late to be moving a boat, isn’t it?” Maggie asked.

  “And dangerous,” Liz added.

  “Actually it’s stupid, but he’s not the only one,” Howard said. “Can’t tell them anything. You know the type. They’ll get in trouble and expect you and your aircrew to go out and risk your lives to save their sorry asses.”

  “Is that one of your slips?”

  “Yep, sure is.” He was already at his computer, bringing up his accounts.

  Liz had heard a lot of rumors about Howard Johnson. Word was that he had been a drug trafficker for years and that he only gave it up when he knew the feds were moving in to bust him. There were also rumors that several million dollars of drug money had never been recovered and that Howard had it hidden somewhere. But her dad always said that Howard was “one of the good guys.”

  “Boat’s named Restless Sole, that’s s-o-l-e. Owner is listed as Joe Black. He came in Friday. Has the slip through this week.”

  “Maybe he took it out to get gas?” Maggie asked.

  “Every place I know of is already out of gas,” Howard said. “But maybe he knows something I don’t.”

  “Wait a minute,” Liz said. “Joe Black?” She turned to Maggie. “My dad had drinks with him last night. Dad said he was a friend of my brother-in-law’s.” Panic started to twist knots in her stomach. “Scott said he owned the fishing cooler. The one I saw behind the funeral home.”

  Maggie stared at her a moment. Liz knew she could see her concern.

  “Any idea where Black’s from? Or where he might be headed?” Maggie asked Howard.

  He glanced from Maggie to Liz and back to Maggie. Howard could see it, too. “That might be an issue of privacy. Without a warrant I don’t think I can give you his address in Jacksonville.” Then he waved at an impatient customer. “Excuse me, ladies.”

  Liz leaned closer to Maggie, keeping her back to the crowded shop. “Dad said he didn’t think Joe Black was his real name.”

  “No,” Maggie said, much too calmly. “I don’t think it’s his real name, either.”

  “Do you think he’s the owner of the cooler we found in the Gulf?”

  “Yes,” she said with certainty.

  “Is my dad in danger?”

  “He may have just helped Black load his boat. He could be helping someone else right now.”

  Liz glanced out the shop window. Her dad was in great physical shape for his age. He could handle himself. She shouldn’t jump to conclusions. He probably was off helping someone else. He had been in the navy for more than thirty-five years. He knew a thing or two about securing boats.

  The wind came in a sudden blast, bending palm trees and upending anything that wasn’t weighted down. Buckets and empty gas cans skidded across the pier. The glass in the windows rattled. The entire shop went silent so when the rain started it sounded like stones pelting the outside walls.

  The door banged open. Kesnick, wearing a bright-yellow poncho, found Liz.

  “Hey Bailey, we gotta go.”

  He handed the women identical ponchos still folded up in neat squares. Liz reminded herself that Maggie hadn’t experienced anything like this.

  “We’re going up in this?” The calm was gone, replaced by anxiety.

  “It’s just the outer bands,” Liz told her. “It’ll calm down again in a few minutes. We’ll have about six to ten hours of this, on and off. It’ll quit as suddenly as it started. The intensity and length of time will increase with each round.”

  She thought Maggie looked a shade paler and Liz added, “I’ve got more of the ground-ginger capsules in my medic pack.”

  Liz searched for Howard on their way out. Hated to take him away from a paying customer but he sensed her tension, and he didn’t even wait for her question. Instead he said, “I’ll take care of him if I find him. And don’t worry about the canteen.”

  CHAPTER 57

  The boat rolled from side to side, throwing Walter against the inside walls of the cabin. Joe Black had hog-tied Walter’s hands and feet with a braided rope and left him to slide and knock against the wood panels. The tuna bag lay between him and the steps going up to the cockpit.

  He tried to watch the bag, though he had to twist and look over his shoulder to see it. He couldn’t turn himself around with the boat heaving him every time he made an attempt. But Walter was sure something, or rather someone, was in the bag. There had been what sounded like groans early on. Not anymore.

  “How you doing, Walter?” Joe had to yell to be heard over the engine.

  He poked his head down to take a peek. Walter could see only a corner of his forehead. He knew the kid didn’t dare leave the cockpit. He’d have to stay put and keep his hands on the controls. From the increased tilt and raise of the boat, Walter could tell the waves were cresting even more violently. Soon it wouldn’t matter how Joe steered.

  He heard a crackle of static and then Joe’s voice boomed through a box on the wall, just over Walter’s head.

  “Hey, Walter. I know you can’t hit the response button but I just wanted to explain some stuff to you. It’s nothing personal. It’s just business.”

  Walter jerked onto his side to take a better look at the box on the wall about three feet above him. Was it an intercom or a radio? Light came in only through the portholes, which were being pummeled by waves. It was too dark for him to tell. He scooted against the wall, trying to gain leverage just as the boat lurched and threw him to the other side of the boat, knocking his head against the wall. It was enough for him to see shooting stars.

  “Everything I told you, Walter, was true.” Joe’s voice came through the wall. “You know, about my dad. He was in the navy. Loved it. Even though they weren’t so goo
d to him. He didn’t get this boat until he found out he was sick. Waited too long to enjoy life. Always said he couldn’t afford it.”

  Another wave almost capsized the boat. The tuna bag slammed into Walter. He pressed his heels into one wall and his shoulders against the other, wedging himself tight. When the boat rocked back down, the tuna bag slid toward the steps but Walter stayed put.

  Something told him it was all a big roller-coaster ride to this kid. He knew guys like Joe Black in the navy. They loved the adventure, the more dangerous the better. They craved it. He recognized a bit of that in himself. He saw it in his daughter Liz, and he worried it could end up getting her hurt. There always came a time when the rush wasn’t enough or when you thought you were invincible because you had survived. What was it Liz had told him they said these days? You looked the beast in the face and won? So you upped the ante, took bigger and bigger risks.

  No, Walter wasn’t surprised that the hurricane didn’t deter Joe. A moment later he was saying, “Hey, Walter, I wish you didn’t have to be tied up, ’cause I think you’d be enjoying this. You should see it from up here. Bet you spent rougher times out on the seas, huh?” There was more static then a click-click and he thought the connection had failed.

  Then Joe added, “Might have lost you there. These radios need updating.”

  Walter waited out another crest—up, up, up, and finally back down. The tuna bag rolled to one side and crashed into the other, but he stayed put.

  “I learned from my dad, Walter. You can’t put off living the good life. You’ve got to take what you can whenever you can. And after all those years when my dad got sick and the navy didn’t do right by him … well, let’s just say I’m evening the score.”

  Another surge.

  “And you know what else, Walter? I’ve learned to love hurricanes. You just have to work them to your favor.”

  Walter thought Joe was referring to the roller-coaster ride. It didn’t occur to him what Joe really meant until he saw the tuna bag moving, the zipper working its way down.