“This Linda, she’s in his room, right? According to her, Jim gets a phone call, starts yellin’ and kickin’ things, then rips his IV out and runs away.”
“Runs away? Jimmy, he’s paralyzed.”
“Sarge, I’m just tellin’ you what she said.”
“Don’t make no sense. Did she say anything else? Like where he was going?”
“Something about a meth lab.”
“Meth lab?”
“She sounded really scared, sarge. This chick, I didn’t get the impression she was lying.”
Rico picked up Little’s desk phone and dialed the main number for East Beach Regional. A friendly operator answered on the first ring.
“Yeah, I’m trying to find a patient please. Name’s Stockbridge, Jim Stockbridge.”
“Sir, I have a James Stockbridge in room seven thirteen.”
“Can you connect me with his room?”
Rico waited. He heard the hospital operator tapping on her computer keys. The phone muted. The call connected. Rico let it ring six times before hanging up and pushing the redial button. The same operator answered.
“I’m sorry to bother you again, ma’am, but I’m not getting an answer. You sure he’s still there?”
“Sir, all I can tell you is that he’s still registered as a patient in the hospital. Now, is there something else I can do for you?”
Rico hung up the phone and began to pace, his mind churning. “Linda Newton, Jimmy, did she leave a number?”
“She called from the hospital. She said she’d be working in the ER tonight if we needed her.”
“This is crazy. Okay look, do me a favor and run by Regional. See if Jim’s there. Room seven thirteen. And while you’re there check the ER, see if you can find Linda. Get whatever info you can and call me on my cell.”
“Can do, sarge. What are you gonna do?”
“I’m gonna head back over to the boatyard.” Rico reached in his pocket and pulled out the crumpled search warrant. “Maybe I missed something.”
“Want me to meet you there afterwards?”
“Yeah, and if the front gate’s locked and I don’t answer the radio, call for backup. Then cut the chain and come in. I’ve got a warrant.”
“How are you getting in?”
“I’m taking an alternate route.”
Chapter 49
Jim trudged like a tired machine down the road behind the hospital and through the long stretch of poor neighborhoods that led to the ghetto. His legs burned. His head ached. Pain seeped from every pore of his body, but he continued to move with no concern for rest and no idea whatsoever of time. He had only one thought on his mind—Valerie.
After what seemed like hours he finally crossed the Terrace and reached the woods that backed up to the boatyard. Ahead of him stood the perimeter fence for Barnacle Bill’s Salvage & Repair. Alone and totally exhausted he dropped to one knee to catch his breath. He gazed through the fence at the vast graveyard of dark hulls inside. It killed him to think that Valerie was in there somewhere. He had to find a way in, and fast.
He glanced overhead and saw an impassable barrier of coiled razor ribbon. No way. To climb through that would certainly rip him to pieces, but as he looked around for an opening he realized there was no other way in. He’d have to climb. He looked up at the fence again and shook his head. He took a deep breath, ran for the fence, and jumped as high as he could. He grabbed the chain links with one hand. The pain that shot through his back was unbearable. His side felt stabbed by molten lead. He held on tight and tried to climb, but the wire cut at his fingers. He pawed at the fence with his boots, strained and pulled with all his might, but with his arm in a cast it was like trying to do one-armed pull ups.
“No!”
He let go and dropped to the ground. He wanted to scream. He glanced around, up and down the length of the fence, but he saw no way in. He was just about to give up and run the rest of the way down the road to the front gate when he spotted his answer. A huge Live Oak tree stood less than forty feet away. Its massive limbs hung heavy with soft green Spanish moss. One limb extended well over the fence and into the yard as if groping for the tall boat masts that stood just out of reach.
He thought of Valerie. His anger surged. Fresh adrenalin pumped into his veins. He hobbled to the tree, took one last look around for another way in, and then jumped up and grabbed the limb. The sharp bark cut at his hand, the rough gnarled surface dug into his palm, but somehow he managed to hang on. Then, like an ape, he swung back and forth with his one good arm, gaining momentum with each arc until he was able to swing his leg up and over the branch and pull himself onto the limb.
It was a massive branch, more than capable of supporting his weight, heavy, as thick as his leg, but as he straddled it and began to shimmy down its length, the limb narrowed and began to sag. Then to creak.
Crack…
Pop!
He gripped the limb with his legs and inched further out. The branch continued to creak and pop, but it never broke. It leaned down like the low end of a child’s teeter-totter and came to rest on the sharp jagged edges of the concertina wire.
Jim didn’t waste any time. He worked his way through the leaves, reached the fence top and started over it, but it was like burrowing through a narrow tunnel made of giant fishhooks. The blades ripped and tore at his skin and clothing, held him tight, refused to let him go. He pulled and fought and finally got a leg through to the other side of the tenacious coiled ribbon. Five desperate minutes later he was free, clinging to the end of a long narrow branch eight feet above the ground.
“Now,” he murmured repositioning his hand, slowly swinging into position beneath the branch, “if I can just—”
Crack!
The branch snapped.
Jim hit the ground with a heavy thud. His breath left him. His head spun. His arm practically exploded. His legs felt tingly, as weak as limp rubber bands.
He lay still for a moment until the stars cleared then slowly rose to a kneeling position. He fought to catch his breath. His legs and arms looked like shredded meat. He counted over a dozen lacerations, one a deep oozing cut. He ignored the blood, grabbed a short piece of 2x4 to use as a crutch, and continued another fifty yards into the heart of the boatyard.
He spotted a small concrete building in the middle of the yard. The windows were dark. He circled it. A padlock hung on the front door. A dim porch light burned. He banged once on the door then glanced around the yard. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
“J-Rock!”
Jim took a few steps deeper into the yard.
“I’m here,” he shouted. “Come out.”
Silence.
“J-Rooock!”
Jim began to wonder if he’d been duped. Where was he? Where was Valerie? Was it all a big joke?
He glanced to his right. Then to his left. Boats. Boats. More boats. There were boats everywhere. All kinds of boats. And machinery, and tools, but no Valerie.
“Hey! I did what you said. Come out!”
A cold dread suddenly swept over him. I’m too late!
“J-Rock,” he shouted. “I got here as fast as I could. Please!”
Panic overtook him.
He spun on his heels and scanned the yard.
“Val!”
Jim glanced toward the docks. He noticed several boats, one with a light burning inside its cabin. He started toward the water. He had to find help.
“I’m too late. I’m—”
Something shiny caught Jim’s eye. He limped around the shadowed side of the boatyard office. The chrome bumper of a large white truck emerged, then its grill, and then the word PARAMEDIC printed in large bold letters across the hood.
“What the…”
Jim couldn’t figure it. An East Beach ambulance?
“What’s that doing here?”
He felt the hair begin to rise on the back of his neck. He sniffed the air. He cupped a hand to his ear and listened. He continued moving toward the d
ock, past one boat, then another, searching for clues. Vehicles. Anything. He spotted an old red car parked by the dock, a small sedan station wagon crammed with junk. He ignored it and kept moving.
Suddenly the odor of fresh blood filled his nostrils. And wet fur. Dung.
Jim’s imagination raced. His eyes darted. He sniffed the air and moved ahead. Cautiously. Checking each step. Trying to discern the meaning of the strange odor. Then he found it. An inert body with four stiff legs lay on the ground in front of him. The animal had the stumpy tail, pointy ears and sleek black coat of a Doberman Pincer. Its jaw hung open in surprise. Its tongue extended lifelessly to the ground. Jim saw two small red holes in the side of its neck. He reached down and felt the animal’s head. Still warm.
“God,” he murmured. “What’s going on here?”
Chapter 50
Rico donned an orange life preserver and sat down in the Cobia to wait. The boat still reminded him of a hungry monster ready to cut him to shreds and eat him, but he didn’t care anymore. Jim was in trouble and that was all that mattered. He heard tires squeal. A white SUV raced down the street and turned into the parking lot for the Police boat landing. Rico stood up. The car screeched to a stop. Greg Mulkhead climbed out, slammed the door, and hurried over shaking his head.
“Rico, I told you on the phone, you’re going to have to find another ride this time. I’m going on a drug raid in a few minutes and my boss is waiting for me.”
“Greg, this is a matter of life and death.”
“I’m sorry, Rico.”
“I need you!”
Mulkhead’s shoulders dropped. He muttered something obscene, shook his head, and then reached for his radio. Rico listened to the conversation. Mulkhead’s commanding officer sounded hot, unyielding, but Mulkhead persisted. Finally he got the go-ahead. “You’ve got five minutes, Sergeant Mulkhead. That’s it. Drop this character off and get back to the Port Terminal fast.” Mulkhead acknowledged and then untied the bowline and climbed aboard.
“All right,” Mulkhead said. “I’m risking my job for you. Sit down and hang on. This will be a fast ride.”
“Don’t worry about me. Let her rip.”
Mulkhead notified 911 communications of his new plan and then went to work, pushing buttons and turning knobs. The running lights came on. The big engines started. He pushed the throttles forward and the outboards grumbled, producing a deep, throaty, gas-guzzling sound that turned the screws slowly and nudged the boat ahead. Rico buckled his seatbelt and held on. Mulkhead motored out of the small harbor to the end of the channel. Once there he pushed a button on a square dash display. A bright screen lit up, deep blue with a display of sharp, white, concentric circles of increasing diameter. A single white blip moved across the screen.
“One vessel,” Mulkhead muttered. “Quarter-mile west. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“How long will this take?”
“About three minutes.”
“What!”
Mulkhead pushed the throttles to their stops. The engines roared to life. The boat shot ahead like a missile throwing Rico back against his seat. The deep V-hull lifted into the air. The vessel sliced through the water and jumped the waves. Faster and faster they raced. Rico held on for dear life.
“Greg! Slow down!”
“Can’t,” Mulkhead shouted back. “Hang on.”
Rico glanced at the speedometer and watched the needle pass 75-mph. He crouched low in his seat. Sergeant Mulkhead pulled back slightly on the throttles and the boat settled down into an even plane. Ninety seconds later they reached the turning basin, moved past a huge container ship tied to the Port Terminal dock, and then shot under the Beaufort high-rise.
“You’re going to kill us!”
“Almost there,” Mulkhead said without a blink.
They made a sharp left turn into Crab Point Thorofare, cruised past East Beach Harbor and then veered off a few degrees to line up with the narrow channel that led to the cove. Sixty seconds later Mulkhead throttled back for the final approach. The Cobia settled down and slowed to the posted “No Wake” speed limit.
Rico sat up and wiped his brow.
“Thank God.”
Mulkhead slid the boat into the cove and pulled up parallel to the dock. Rico eyed the houseboat. It was tied up but in a different place than before, this time with its bow pointed toward the sound as if for a fast getaway.
Rico grabbed his shotgun and jumped onto the dock, grateful to be back on dry land.
“I’m sorry I can’t stick around,” Mulkhead said.
“I’m not. I’d rather swim back.”
“Okay then. Good luck.”
Sergeant Greg Mulkhead spun his boat around and took off into the night. Rico stood for a moment until his knees stopped knocking and then turned around and walked up the dock.
“All right, bud,” he murmured. “Let’s find out what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time.”
Chapter 51
Jim felt his anger build as he stared into the lifeless eyes of the Doberman Pincer. It was a picture of senseless death. Of the evil men can do. His resolve grew. He pulled out J-Rock’s knife—the one that had pierced Sid’s hand. He flicked opened the blade and tested it. The edge was razor sharp, sharp enough to gut an antelope. It was brutal, an excellent weapon, but it would not be enough. J-Rock would have a gun, of that he was certain. He found himself wishing for the sawed-off shotgun he kept at home behind his bar. With that in hand at least he’d have a chance. He pictured himself pulling the trigger. J-Rock’s head exploding.
He forced the image from his mind and scanned the yard, a bizarre labyrinth of long shadowed hulls. There were a million places to hide. He realized J-Rock was probably watching him. He felt totally exposed. He slipped beneath the closest boat and leaned against its keel. He relished the security of the heavy lead plate. J-Rock could be anywhere, he knew, just waiting for him to step into his path, and then—boom! He’d be drilled by a well-placed shot. He had to be careful.
He glanced around for clues, anything, anything at all that would tell him of Val’s whereabouts. His eyes darted about the yard—beneath the surrounding boats, topsides, ahead of him, behind him, up and down—but he didn’t see a sign. He followed the keel the length of the boat, stepped into the open, and then quickly limped for the protection of another boat. Then another. And another. He moved around the yard that way, clumsily leaning on his makeshift crutch, sniffing for clues, following his intuition, hoping and praying, until finally, simply running out of energy. And hope. Valerie was nowhere to be seen. He saw no sign of movement, no sign of life anywhere in the yard.
He limped into the back corner of the lot and stopped beneath a rusty, sixty-five foot schooner. With perpendicular spars and coarsely tied sails it resembled a miniature pirate ship. An intricately carved bowsprit decorated the boat’s bow. A pair of matching anchor chains hung to the boatyard floor. Under different circumstances Jim might have enjoyed a tour of her decks, to explore her vast rigging and listen to her tales, but a guided tour was the farthest thing from his mind. He had to sit down. He had to think. He spotted a wooden workbench a few yards away. He slithered along the rusty hull, sat down, and hung his head.
“J-Rock,” he sighed, his voice a mere whisper. “You win.”
A sadistic laugh echoed across the yard.
Jim jumped. His skin began to crawl. His heart began to hammer. He stood up and gazed about the yard searching for the source of the sound and gripping the knife tightly in anticipation of attack.
“Where?”
He heard movement. A thump. Close, but where? He turned around and searched the perimeter again, but he saw nothing.
“Where?” he shouted. “Where are you?”
He heard the thump again. He braced himself.
“Coward,” he shouted swinging the knife in a wild arc. “Come out!”
Nothing. Not even an echo. He felt trapped. Exposed.
You’re a target. Think!<
br />
Jim pressed his back against the cold painted steel and closed his eyes. His arms and legs burned, and his belly ached. The nausea was back. He tasted bile.
God, where? Where is he?
Jim couldn’t be sure if he sensed it first or heard it, but there was a soft click somewhere to his right, followed by the sharp point of a cold object poking into the side of his neck. He froze, his extremities locked by uncertainty and fear. A cold hand wrapped around his head and pulled him against the razor sharp tip.
“Drop the blade.”
Jim tensed, flexed his knife-wielding arm and started to turn, but the blade gouged deeper, breaking the skin above his right carotid artery.
“Yo! I said, drop it!”
Jim dropped the knife.
“Where’s Valerie?” he shouted.
“Close.”
“Let her go, J-Rock!”
“Too easy. You wanna see that pretty doctor lady again, do ‘xactly what I say.”
“How do I know she’s alive?”
“You don’t.”
Jim heard movement overhead. The sound of ripping tape, a squeal, muffled screams, and then the garbled sound of strangled words. He felt his insides rip apart. “Valerie! What do you want, J-Rock? Tell me! What do you want?”
J-Rock motioned to a wooden ladder that led to the deck twelve feet above their heads. “Climb.”
“What will you do with her?”
“Ever seen crystal meth mixed with heroin, bro? Unforgettable. Hooks you on the spot.”
“You’re not sticking a syringe in her!”
“You right, I got a better idea. Climb.”
Jim felt the blade break new skin. He felt blood dripping down his neck. He let go of his 2x4 crutch, hobbled over and grabbed a rung, then started up the ladder. The going was slow, the climb tricky and painful, but he used the time to think. He had to devise a plan. He had to save Valerie. But how? J-Rock’s armed. He’s strong. I’m not. What can I do? He reached the top of the ladder and stepped onto the deck expecting to find Valerie, but it was like stepping into a scene from a weird dream. A skinny, uniformed man stood amidships like a statue, his arms by his sides, his sculptured face illuminated by the beam of a dim light. His skin looked as white as paste. His lips trembled.
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