Tested by Fire

by Pat Patterson

  “Dr. Vick.” Helga pushed Valerie aside and grabbed Jim’s hand. “You can’t just let go of his hand, he’s bleeding!”

  Jim glanced at his hand. It was covered with blood. In fact, blood was everywhere. On his arm. On his bedspread. On Helga. He glanced at the IV tubing that should have been attached to his arm. It dangled from the bag dripping its liquid contents onto the floor beside the bed. Helga slapped a clean dressing over the bleeding IV site and reapplied pressure, so much in fact that it hurt. She lifted his arm into the air and began wrapping it with Kling all the time mumbling something about “stubborn people,” and “useless doctors,” and “I’ve got a job to do,” and stuff like that, but Jim couldn’t have cared less. Valerie was standing in his room and at the moment she was all that mattered. But there was no warmth on her face. He saw distance in her eyes, cold professionalism, and confusion, as if she weren’t quite sure what to say.

  Jim offered her a weak grin. “Looks like I kind of messed up this time, huh?”

  “Jim—”

  Valerie huffed and tossed her hands in the air.

  “Val, are you okay?”

  “Me?” Valerie tossed her hands up again. “Am I okay? Jim, look at you. I leave for a few days and you—”

  “Val, about that, I need to explain what happened at the dock that day. Linda Newton, she’s not—”

  “Not now!” Helga motioned toward the door. “You doctors, unless you want to help me clean up this mess, get out. Now!”

  Webber offered no resistance. He shook his head and left the room. Valerie hesitated. Her lips parted as if she was about to say something else, but instead she turned and followed Webber out.

  “Val, wait! Helga,” Jim pleaded, “don’t make her leave.”

  “Lie down.”

  “But why’d you do that?”

  Helga closed the door behind Valerie and then turned and pointed a finger at Jim. “You are the most hardheaded patient I’ve ever seen.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “Hush and lie down.”

  “But Helga—”

  “I said, hush. You can talk to Dr. Vick later. Right now I need to clean up your mess and start another IV, you pulled this one out.”

  Jim surrendered and flopped back onto his pillow. He knew Helga was right, what he’d done was stupid, and Valerie wouldn’t go far—he hoped—after all she’d come all the way from Pittsburgh to see him. Or had she?

  “Helga, did you see the look on her face?”

  Helga mumbled something unintelligible and walked out. She returned a moment later with a fresh pack of IV supplies.

  “Is she still out there?”

  Helga wrapped a tourniquet around Jim’s arm without responding.

  “She seemed upset.”

  Jim watched Helga tap an unused vein. She prepped the site with Betadine, stuck it with a 20-gauge angiocath needle, reattached the IV line, and then pulled her gloves off with a snap.

  Jim sighed. “Okay, you win. I’m sorry, I guess I got excited.”

  “Well excited or not, sailor, you are in no condition to be jumping around. Now, I’m ordering you to stay put. I’m going to go call housecleaning to help me with this mess, and I don’t want you to move a muscle while I’m gone. Do you hear me?”

  “Tell Valerie to come back in.”

  Helga left the room shaking her head. A moment later Valerie walked back in. Jim sat up in bed. His head still felt soupy, but no stars appeared. Valerie stopped a few feet away from him, started to step closer, and then stopped and folded her arms across her chest. The distance was still in her eyes. It scared him.

  “Val, look, I know I’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

  “I want you to know that I came just as soon as I heard. Andy Young called me the night it happened, but I’ve been so busy at the ER I didn’t even get the message until yesterday. I’m sorry.”

  “Come over here.”

  “Ron Webber and I have been talking, Jim. He and I agree—”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  Valerie’s lips trembled.

  “Talk to me, Val.”

  “Jim, I know you’ve had a terrible time. I can’t even imagine how terrible. And I know you’re feeling awful about things, but after what happened last week you can’t expect me to just forget. Do you know what you put me through? Seeing Linda Newton on your boat?”

  “Val, I—”

  “What was I supposed to think?”

  “Why won’t you believe me? I didn’t invite her.”

  “You expect me to believe that she just showed up and climbed aboard your boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what about the night before? She said you made it clear that we were through.”

  “She was lying, Valerie. Listen, the only reason I even went to that bar was to disappear. I wanted to be alone, where nobody knew me. I didn’t know she was going to come on to me like that. I didn’t even know who she was at first.”

  “Did you kiss her?”

  “Val, you know I—”

  “Did you kiss her?”

  “Yes! Yes, okay, I kissed her. But it didn’t mean anything. She came on to me so hard that—”

  “Did you take her home?”

  “No! Val, I danced with her. That’s it.”

  Valerie turned around and hung her head, shook it, sighed deeply and then turned around again. Jim thought her face seemed lighter, warmer, ready to forgive, but then she cleared her throat. Her expression changed again. It turned to ice.

  “Ron Webber and I talked about your case. You were very fortunate. That bullet should have paralyzed you.”

  “I know that.”

  “The swelling around your spine is down, but you’ve still got a lot of recovering to do. We agree that you should stay here until Sunday at the very earliest.”

  “Sunday? But, Val, that’s two more days.”

  “You were almost killed.”

  “All right, all right, you win. Jeez, you and Helga. All right, Sunday, but—” Jim reached out and grabbed her hand. Pulled her up next to the bed. “There’s one condition.”

  Valerie pulled her hand away. “No conditions.”

  “One. I’ll only promise to stay here if you’ll make me the same promise.”

  “I can’t do that. I have a career to think about. I—” Valerie jumped slightly and grabbed her pager. “Oh, what now?”

  Jim bit his lip and tried his best to look patient while she read the message.

  “They’re paging me from the ER.”

  “Val, don’t go yet, we—”

  “I’m sorry, Jim, but I have to go.” Valerie started for the door, slowed, and then stopped. “Jim, look…”

  “Go. Go back to work, Val. We can talk more about this later. I’m certainly not going anywhere.”

  “Okay then. I’ll be right back.”

  “Yeah, sure. That’s what Tom Hanks said.”

  Valerie smiled weakly and disappeared through the curtains. Jim swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood barefoot in the middle of his room, his curtained cage, his deserted island. He felt his face pale. His head become light and swimmy. He stood there for a moment then turned and climbed back into bed to wait.

  Chapter 45

  “Two twenty-two to Communications…” Rico lowered his microphone and glanced at the boat hulls and masts just beyond the tall chain-linked fence. Big loblolly pines blocked much of his view but he could see enough to realize he was at the right place. He tucked the search warrant into his pocket and re-keyed his mike. “Two twenty-two.”

  “Two twenty-two,” the dispatcher responded. “Go ahead with your traffic.”

  “Yeah,” Rico said, eyeing the sign hanging on the front gate. “Put me out at Barnacle Bill’s Salvage & Repair, the old boatyard just behind the Terrace. And have a couple of black-and-whites check in with me for manpower, I’ll be conducting a property search.”

  “Ten-four, the old boatyard. Two additional
units, code-two.”

  Rico drove through the front gate and followed a dusty dirt road about a tenth of a mile into the yard, through a small graveyard of abandoned wooden boats and the skeletal remains of an ancient steel barge overgrown with weeds. The road ended abruptly and opened into a huge gravel lot. He stopped the car and looked about. There were boats everywhere—big boats, small boats, clunky looking fishing boats, a dilapidated tug with a deck-full of tangled nets. Sailboats of all sizes and kinds stood above the ground on heavy steel legs, their immense lead keels hanging earthward like the belly fins of giant comatose fish.

  “Boats.” Rico felt his stomach begin to churn. “Mama Mia, what did I do to deserve this?”

  Rico eased his way into the yard and crept silently past the yachts certain that at any moment one of the freestanding mammoths would roll over on him and crush him, but nothing moved. The steel legs held firm. A small concrete building sat a few yards away, less than a stone’s throw from the docks. It had to be the boatyard office, the same building he had seen the watchdogs patrolling earlier that day. He didn’t see any dogs, but he did notice two pickup trucks parked alongside the building. A shiny black Mercedes-Benz sat on the other side, along with a white Harley-Davidson Fat Boy decked out for the road.

  Rico parked his car beside the Mercedes and climbed out. He peeked inside the car, checked out the Harley, and then glanced around the yard. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The air reeked of fiberglass resins and freshly cut wood. A small motor chugged somewhere on the other side of the lot. Woodworking tools, power cords, paintbrushes, and enough sawdust to fill a dump truck lay scattered about the yard, but there wasn’t a worker anywhere to be seen. He glanced at the docks. The houseboat was gone. He thought about that for a moment and then started for the front of the building wondering if anyone was around and thinking nothing of the chain-linked fence jutting out from the wall of the building. He was halfway around it, concentrating on the yard—the boats, the junk, the million and one places that someone could hide—when he heard a snarling sound. He stopped and peered into the shadows. Something moved, and then charged. Rico jerked himself backwards as an immense black beast leapt into the fence.

  “Whoa!”

  The steel cage rattled and shook. Rico lost his balance and tripped. He backed away, crawling on all fours as an angry black Doberman pawed and bit at the heavy gauge wire, snarling viciously, foam spewing from its mouth. Rico stood up and brushed himself off. He heard more movement. He glanced to his left and caught a glimpse of a yellow object sailing straight for his face.

  “Holy—”

  He ducked. A 2x4 scrap flew past his ear and hit the cage. He pulled his weapon and spun.

  “Freeze!”

  “Shut up you mangy mutt!”

  A crusty looking old man stepped from the front of the building. Two other salty-looking characters fell in behind him.

  “Hold it right there,” Rico shouted. “All of you.”

  “Pearl,” the old man shouted pointing a crooked finger at the dog. “Get back!” The dog whimpered and backed away. “Down!” The dog sat. “Stay!” The old man turned and glared at Rico. Small droplets of brown spit sprayed from between his front teeth as he spoke. “Cap’n, you best have a good reason for messin’ with my dog!”

  “Mister,” Rico said, holstering his gun and producing his badge. “You realize how close you just came to getting shot?”

  “We ain’t got no pot. Go over them projects if’n you wanna bust somebody.”

  “I didn’t say pot, I said shot. You just about got—”

  “Can’t hear you,” the old man spat. “Speak up!”

  Rico shifted his gaze to the two men standing behind him. One of them placed a finger to his ear and shook his head.

  “Oh.” Rico looked back at the old man and raised his voice. “Your dog…he needs to—”

  “She,” the old man shouted. “Her name’s Pearl, and case you ain’t noticed, officer, she’s caged.”

  “Well,” Rico said eyeing the animal, “you better hope she stays that way. Where’s the other one? I know you got two.”

  “What?”

  “The other one,” Rico said practically shouting.

  “Max? He’s in d’office.”

  “Well keep Max in there.” Rico took a deep breath and folded his arms. “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Southerland. William Samuel Southerland.”

  “Barnacle Bill?”

  “The same,” Southerland said his jowls reddening. “Own this place. And for your information, off’cer, I was just about to close up for the day.”

  “Well I’ve got a few questions for you first.”

  “Eh?”

  “Questions!” Rico cocked his head toward the Mercedes-Benz. “Business must be good.”

  “My business ain’t none of your business.”

  “Is that right?” Rico chuckled. “We’ll see about that. Tell me about the houseboat.”

  “Eh?”

  “THE HOUSEBOAT!”

  “What houseboat?”

  “The one I saw tied to your dock this morning?”

  Southerland snorted and gave Rico a look of utter contempt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Forty-footer? Coleman fuel cans stacked all over the deck?” Rico waited. Southerland shook his head. “No?” Rico walked up to the side of the building. The Doberman followed his every move, baring its fangs, snarling. “Then what about this junk?” Rico pulled a green tarp aside. “Coleman fuel? Acetone? Antifreeze?”

  “That’s private property.”

  “Well, sir, I believe you’re private property is being used to support a clandestine meth lab.”

  “I don’t know nothing ‘bout no drug lab. Look, officer, we run a clean business here. Ain’t that right boys?”

  The other two men—tough, leathery, redneck-looking types covered with sawdust and dried boat resin—appeared tight-lipped and cautious. Neither man spoke.

  “Mm hmm. And who owns that pretty little antique run-around over there? You?”

  “That’s right. Speedy’s mine, so what?”

  Rico pointed at the shack at the head of the dock. “And the house?”

  “Mine.”

  “Were you there last night?”

  “Huh?”

  “Last night,” Rico shouted. “Were you home last night?”

  “Of course. I live there. What are you getting at, officer?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just thought it strange that you own this whole cove and never even saw a forty-foot houseboat tied to one of your docks.”

  “Maybe the owner left ‘fore I woke up. How should I know?”

  “The owner?” Rico chuckled and produced a copy of the fax he’d received earlier that day from N.C. Wildlife Resources Commission. “According to this, that houseboat is registered to a William S. Southerland. That’s you, sir.”

  The two characters flanking Bill Southerland began to fidget nervously. Both turned and looked in other directions. Southerland shuffled his feet and stared at Rico without responding.

  “Look, Mister Southerland, one of two things is about to happen here: either someone starts talking, or you’re going to jail.”

  Southerland glanced at his partners. His jaw trembled nervously.

  Rico cleared his throat. “Well?”

  “All right,” Southerland said his voice lower. “I own the houseboat, it’s true, but I rented it out last month.”

  “To who?”

  “I don’t ask no names. Coupla young black fellas, that’s all I know. Drove in here in one of those fancy, pimped-out SUV’s.”

  “Cadillac Escalade?”

  “Yeah, Cadillac, maybe.”

  “Seen ‘em today?”

  “They come and go a lot, but I ain’t seen ‘em today.”

  Rico glanced at the other two. Each man shook his head.

  “And I ain’t got no idea what they’re using that boat for neither. You gotta be
lieve that.”

  Rico jerked his head toward the pile of cans.

  “What about this junk?”

  “Antifreeze? Acetone?” Southerland gave a confident sneer. “Are you kidding? We work on engines here, and we do more fiberglass work than any other boatyard in East Beach.”

  “What about the fuel?”

  “Different things. Look, officer.” Southerland frowned. “We’re clean here. Swear it. Don’t know nothing about no meth-lab.”

  “Yeah?” Rico glanced at the boats. “Then you won’t mind if I take a look around, will ya?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like to take a look around.”

  “You got a warrant?”

  Rico removed the folded yellow paper from his vest pocket and handed it to Southerland. The old man snatched it from him, snarling obscenities as his eyes shifted back and forth across the page.

  “Well I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes finally reaching the bottom of the notice. “This is a very inconvenient time for me.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Like I done said…we was just about to close up for the day.”

  “So?” Rico shrugged. “Close.”

  Southerland’s frown deepened. He crumpled up the warrant, tossed it back at Rico, and then turned toward the front door of the building muttering as he walked. Then he abruptly stopped. He turned. The devilish grin on his face made Rico cringe.

  “Close…hmm…that’s not such a bad idea. Thank you, officer.”

  Southerland’s lips curled up and emitted a sharp whistle. He stepped toward the cage.

  “Pearl,” he shouted. “It’s quittin’ time.”

  The Doberman Pincer began to growl and jump and fling her muscular body against the side of the chain-linked fence.

  “You see,” Southerland said reaching for the latch, “the dawgs always come out at quitting time.”

  “Hey!”

  Rico suddenly pictured the snarling beast ripping his mama’s only boy to shreds. He reached for his gun. “I wouldn’t do that, sir.”

  Southerland didn’t. The sound of crunching gravel turned his head. A black-and-white squad car pulled in behind the building and stopped less than fifteen feet away from where they were standing. A second unit pulled in behind the first. Almost simultaneously the car doors opened and two uniformed police officers climbed out of the cars and walked over to join Rico. Rico acknowledged them with a nod and then turned back to Southerland.