I blinked. “You’re kidding. The police?”
The old woman sighed heavily. “Yes. They’re running patrols up and down the coast. The Judge said the routes are laid out for them and they’re not to deviate unless they’re intercepting unauthorized boaters.”
She looked over her glasses. “That means all boaters. He said about the only way to get drugs in time would be to go get them, which would make you an unauthorized boater.”
“Then he started talking weird,” she said. “He went rambling on about his fishing buddy up on Ocracoke and how he’d acted like he’d forgotten Frank’s birthday. He started laughing and said, 'Remember how I let it go right up to midnight then had his package delivered?'"
Elsie huffed. “Well, I didn’t remember no such thing. He never gave me a chance to set him straight though. He just kept going. Every time I tried, he would go on about me getting old and losing my wits.”
“Sounds like the lot of you are getting senile,” I said dryly.
She glared at me. “I tell you, Hill William, my memory is just fine. And besides, the man’s name is Charlie, not Frank.”
I would have grinned if I hadn’t been so tired.
“You’d have to know the Judge,” she said. “He’s a sharp old coot. That detour of his ain’t like him at all. I think he was telling me something.”
“This is going somewhere, right?”
She wrinkled her nose at me.
“I got to thinking, what if someone is listening to his calls. Then I wondered, if they were, what he was trying to tell me. I don’t know what joggled my memory, but Charlie is a veterinarian.”
I ran a hand through my hair and yawned. The early start that morning was catching up to me. I had no idea where Elsie was going, but it seemed time to get there. Either that or I was going to yawn my way right into a nap.
“Okay, Charlie’s a vet and the Judge can’t get his name straight. So what?”
Elsie reached out and slapped me across the arm.
“He has drugs, Hill William, right there in his house. I think we’re supposed to go get them at midnight tonight.”
I stared at her, skeptical and fighting sleep.
“That’s quite a stretch. Why don’t you call Charlie and ask him? That’ll clear it up.”
“Done did,” she said smugly. “Only I called him Frank. He said it was too bad I couldn’t come over and pick up my birthday present, that it was sitting up there at the point like it was last year when we had my party.”
She leaned over and looked at me over her glasses. “Now one of them might be confused, but two of them? My birthday is four months away.”
I scratched at my face, and thought how wonderful it would feel to have a warm shower, to lather up and shave, to feel clean again.
“You want me to go to Ocracoke tonight at midnight to pick up a package that’s going to be sitting out on some piece of land I’ve never seen?” I asked her trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “And do it based upon two old men who can’t remember each other’s names?”
I let the questions hang for a second. “Come on, Elsie. I need more than that. Besides, if the government is spying on everyone, how in the hell would he let him know what we needed?”
She lifted both hands in a defeated gesture. “I don’t know. But, somehow those two men cooked up a deal. As far as finding it, the place has a big fire pit out next to a dock on the inland waterway. A fire right there would be easy to spot at night. But no, I’m not asking you to go get it. It’s too dangerous. I was just telling you.”
I knew better, and worse, she knew better. I had my moments as a wise-cracking ass, had too stiff a backbone sometimes, but responsibility weighed on me like the world sat on Atlas’ shoulders. Telling me it was there was the same as telling me to go get it, just in a different way.
I turned, irritated and tired. “I’ll go get Gabriel. Then I’m going to take a nap. I have a hammock somewhere on Angel. I’ll find it when I go down and string it up right there on the porch between two of those posts. I damned well don’t want anyone waking me up either.”
She said nothing. I didn’t look back to see what expression she had on her face. At the moment, I didn’t care.
I took the buggy. The little meter on the back told me Dad wasn’t an idiot. The needle had been sitting in the red when I mounted the windmill. It ran up into the middle of the yellow quadrant when I pushed the tester button. If I left the windmill mounted, by morning the vehicle would be fully charged.
Both boats still sat rocking gently against the dock when I pulled up and flicked the cut-off switch. I sat in the dune buggy for a minute and tried to decide what might be the best approach with the older man. He seemed as stubborn as me and as cantankerous as Elsie could be when her temper was up.
The afternoon had turned out gorgeous. The air sliding in off the sea carried the warmth of summer, but lacked the humidity. A clear blue sky stretched overhead like a giant dome. Thin bands of white clouds streaked the horizon as if Mother Nature had decided the heavens needed a bit of lace to dress it up. Gulls cried in the distance, riding currents of air while they searched for food. From the dock came the occasional creak of rubber against wood when the fenders rubbed against the sideboards. Off to the west, the low-slung sun blazed a gold path back to the mainland.
I finally sighed and climbed out of the dune buggy. Gabriel would get no closer to medical attention or to the station with me lazing in the afternoon sun.
I made for Angel first, where I dug through the cockpit lockers until I found the hammock. The thing looked flimsy. The line stringing it together wasn’t half as thick as Angel’s dock lines. Yet, I’d slept in it a couple of times and knew it would hold my weight without a problem. The little booklet that had come with it noted that it had been constructed using paracord, a thin and incredibly strong line developed for parachutes
I went ahead and switched gas tanks while I was there as the one supplying the motor looked about empty. At the rate we were going, we would burn through my entire supply of fuel in a few weeks. My father’s voice echoed through my mind just then, telling me that maybe when I ran out of gas, I’d learn to be a real sailor.
“Maybe so,” I said aloud as I worked the cabin hatch open. I had no desire to be called an idiot later where Gabriel was concerned. The judge and his horse doctor buddy could concoct all the secret handshakes and high signs they wanted. I had no intention of making a trip like that until I tried the official channels.
I leaned in, flicked the VHF radio on, and grabbed the microphone. Like before, Silver Lake answered. This time, the person on the other end turned out to be a man.
“Go ahead, Angel.”
“We have an injured man here on Portsmouth. He is in need of immediate medical evacuation. Do you read me, Silver Lake?”
”I read you, Angel. Sorry, but we have no authorization for evacuations at this time. You are to sit tight and treat him as best you can. Does he have a fever, Angel?”
I grimaced. The instant I said yes, all bets would be off. So, I lied.
“Negative, Silver Lake. His leg has been mangled and appears to be infected. His wounds are severe and life-threatening.”
“How was his leg damaged, Angel?”
I stared at the microphone, mind scrambling.
“He was working on his boat engine and fell over the side while the propeller was engaged.”
Static fed through the speakers for at least a minute.
“Sorry to hear that, Angel. Either way, we are not authorized to evacuate. Nor are you authorized to seek medical attention outside of the buffer zone surrounding Portsmouth Island. Do you copy?”
“What buffer zone?” I asked.
“Every locale in the US has been assigned a containment zone. Portsmouth Island has been divided into two zones. The northern half falls under our jurisdiction. The southern half reports to military command located in Morehead City. You are authorized daylight travel up to one half t
he length of the island. You are also authorized water borne travel a distance of one-half mile from shore.”
“So, I can’t leave to get him medical attention?”
The dry voice came back immediately. “That is affirmative.”
“And what if I do?”
“Do not travel outside your buffer zone, Angel.” The man said firmly.
“I want to know what will happen if I do? He needs a doctor. Forcing him to stay here is about the same thing as issuing a death certificate. At this point, being detained would be a good thing for him.”
“I repeat Angel, do not leave your containment zone. You have stated an unhealthy person exists within your zone. If you attempt to leave, you will be treated as a threat to national security.”
The radio jargon and etiquette wore thin.
“Are you kidding me?” I spat into the microphone. “An unhealthy person? What the hell kind of designation is that? I’m quite freakin’ healthy. How about I come over and you give me some drugs for him? Huh? How about that?”
“That scenario is a negative as well, Angel. To accomplish that feat, would necessitate you exiting your containment zone. Do you have any other questions?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Which end of your mama did you come out of? I’m just wondering if you were born a shithead or worked your ass off to become one.”
I flicked the off switch before he had a chance to answer.
So much for official channels.
I snatched up the hammock and climbed back through the cockpit to the dock, where I tucked it into the buggy’s rear compartment. Gabriel’s boat tugged at her mooring lines across the narrow strip of wood separating us. He could be dead already. The thought had crossed my mind more than once on the trip down. I’d spent fifteen years with Becky. I’d heard her talk about the dangers of a wound becoming septic many times. Old-timers called the condition blood poisoning.
Regardless of which term one used, the result could be deadly, even in a hospital with round-the-clock care. If the infection had entered his bloodstream, Gabriel’s chances of living plummeted off a cliff.
The problem I had was simple. I didn’t know if it had or not. He needed a medical professional, not a woodworker. Before the advent of antibiotics, a doctor would have taken one look at the wounds and most likely amputated the leg. Amputation and cauterization had long been the treatment of choice in the fight against life-threatening infections.
“It’s why doctors are called saw-bones.” I said with a sigh and looked across the dock. I could toss the needs and wants around in my head all day. The mental gymnastics would make no difference.
As odd as his vessel appeared, it also looked as tough and combative as a bulldog. Where Angel might be as good a weekender ever built, the older man’s craft looked capable of slogging through much heavier weather. I hesitated to step aboard. Banging on a hatch wasn’t quite the same as knocking on the door of a house. By the time you were at the point you could knock on it, you were already in the other’s domain. The action was akin to invading a home and then knocking before you entered the bathroom.
Conscious of the fact that I was doing nothing more than wasting time, I stepped aboard. Unlike Angel, where molded fiberglass formed cockpit seating, the afterdeck on Gabriel’s boat opened into a wide, flat area. Two seats sat mounted on columns near the stern, their bases firmly screwed into the deck. A Bimini top ran from cockpit to stern, providing both shade and protection from the weather. The grill he had mentioned earlier hung off the back of the stern next to the motor well.
Gabriel looked to be a neat captain. The deck had been planked with teak. All of it, from stern to pilot house gleamed as if a new layer of shellac had been painted on the day before. The stern line wrapped around the after cleat in figure eights. What remained had been coiled into a tight circle on the deck. Not one item appeared out of place. Even the thin lines supporting the canopy overhead had their bitter ends worked into a series of exotic knots.
The main hatch that led into the pilot house was more door than true hatch, with a thick glass front embedded into a steel frame. I peered inside, cupping my hand against the surface to ward off the glare, but saw little beyond the captain’s chair and helm. The steps leading down into the cabin faded away into darkness so complete that it looked utterly black.
Feeling stupid, I knocked on the glass and waited, holding my breath and listening for the sound of movement. Water lapped quietly at the side of the boat. The mooring lines gave off a low grown when waves and current tried to pull the boat away. Sea gulls cried off in the distance, but no shuffling footsteps sounded below.
Making a fist, I pounded on the doorway and called out his name, again pausing to listen afterward. When that failed, I tried the handle. It remained firmly locked into place. Over the next several minutes, I repeated the process over and over, beating on the door, yelling his name out as loud as I could, and then pausing to listen. Finally, hissing with frustration I cast about looking for something I could use to either break the lock or at least force the handle over to a point where I might be able to push the door open.
I didn’t want to break the glass. Not only would it be irreplaceable on the island, but if the man simply turned out to be a heavy sleeper, I’d end up damaging his boat and making him angry. Breaking the lock might piss him off as well, but not like smashing a hole in the exterior.
The fire extinguisher mounted on the bulkhead looked like a good bet. I pulled it down and gave the heavy steel handle a couple of experimental whacks. That proved useless. The extinguisher was a smaller model, made for kitchen fires. Two hits cemented the idea in my mind that I would end up with fire retardant all over me before the handle gave.
Frustrated, I set the cylinder aside and went looking for something stronger. The sight of a cable running out of the pilot house brought me to a standstill. I followed the thin wire up to a pair of horns mounted on a short stubby antenna mast.
They looked huge for the little boat, monstrous things that sat on either side of the upright like giant horns-of-plenty. I reached out and gave the cable a light tug.
A deep, moaning wail blasted out over the sound, so loud I jumped back in surprise and nearly fell overboard. I would have if it hadn’t been for one of the idiot lines providing just enough bounce against my backside to let me regain my footing.
“Jesus,” I gasped. That thing had been loud enough to wake up the cemetery half a mile up on the hill. Apparently, it was also loud enough to wake Gabriel. He came lurching up the steps in his stiff-legged gait. The scowl on his face looked mean enough to scare off half a dozen monsters.
He looked around until he saw me standing near the foredeck and frowned in confusion. Even through the thick glass, I could see his flushed cheeks and the sweat rolling down his face. I made my way back to the pilothouse door and waited while he unlocked it.
“What the hell are you doing?” He demanded, staring up at me with eyes as glazed as they were angry.
“Come up to the station, at least until your leg heals up a bit and we can get your fever down,” I told him. “I used to be married to a nurse. You might think you’ll wake up tomorrow feeling okay with a big scab on your leg. You won’t. The wound is infected. Another day or two and the odds of you waking up at all drop right off a cliff.”
The scowl returned.
“Don’t be difficult, Gabriel. You stand a good chance of dying if you’re not treated. Think of it this way. You want the demons dead and sent back to hell. If you’re stubborn and refuse, they win.”
The older man limped over to one of the deck chairs near the stern and sat down heavily. The material of his pants oozed clear beads that looked like water where it covered the wound. Even in the shade provided by the Bimini top, light glinted in the wet sheen seeping through the cloth. Sweat rolled down his face, dripping onto an already wet t-shirt. His breath came heavy and hard. He leaned back and sighed, the look of defeat clear on his face.
I took
the seat next to him.
“Do you have any antibiotics aboard?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t. Since you’re asking, I’m guessing you folks don’t have any either. That makes going to the station little more than dying in a different place, doesn’t it?”
The edge of the Dacron cover flapped in the cool breeze drifting in off the ocean. Ever since the storm had passed, the weather had been perfect. October often ended up being one of the best months to be out on the islands. The overnight drop in temperatures tamed the hordes of mosquitoes that seemed to eat repellant as a dessert. The waters teemed with fish, shrimp, crabs - about every type of seafood one could imagine. With the month poised on the edge of fall and the beginning of winter, October stood as the last great hurrah of summer. The nasty weather would come. The days would grow shorter and colder. The sea would turn gray and ugly. The rain and wind would turn fierce. But not yet, not for a month, maybe even six weeks.
“We have a chance at getting some drugs,” I said finally. “There’s a man over in Ocracoke who is willing to supply them if we come get them. As bad as you look, that means a trip over tonight.”
He raised his head. Even his eyes looked hot.
“You don’t get it do you? I told you, you can’t fix what I have. That little bastard did more than eat half my leg. It changed me.”
I met his gaze evenly.
“I’ll be more willing to listen to that assessment once we have the infection under control. Come on. By tonight, your blood will be swimming with drugs.”
Gabriel sighed. His breath rattled in his chest.
“I can’t let you do that.”
I spread my hands out in front of me. “And I can’t sit and watch you die. So, we’re at an impasse, aren’t we?”
“Then I’ll go with you,” he said stubbornly. “I might not be good for much, but I can be lookout while you drive.”
I leaned back in the chair and clasped my hands behind my head.
“You’re sick.”
“You’re not,” he pointed out. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll go up there and let the old woman do her doctoring. Come time to go, I’ll ride shotgun. You do all the work, the heavy lifting, and the driving. I’ll ride and watch your back.”
The Island - Part 3 Page 5