Tested by Fire - He sought revenge ... He found forgiveness (Medic 7 Series - Book 1)

by Pat Patterson

  “Okay, Jim,” Webber said, “what am I touching now?”

  “Big toe. Right foot.”

  “And now?”

  “My left ankle.”

  “Wiggle your toes.”

  Jim wiggled them. The doctor grabbed the sole of his right foot. “Push down, like you’re pushing on the accelerator.”

  Jim extended his right foot.

  “Pull back.”

  Jim flexed his right foot and then repeated the entire process with the left, then lifted his left leg and flexed the knee, and then repeated that with the right.

  “Any pain?” Webber asked.

  “A little, but only when I lift my legs. It feels kind of sharp in my lower back.”

  Webber walked around the bed once and returned to the same side before continuing. Jim saw confusion on his face.

  “Mr. Stockbridge, most patients who undergo the kind of spinal trauma you just experienced don’t begin walking for several weeks, or even months, if ever. Some experience rapid recoveries, most don’t. You seem to have defied the odds. Most of the swelling that caused your paralysis has dissipated, and I can’t find any sign of permanent damage.”

  “What exactly are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I can’t explain it. There is every indication that you will experience a complete recovery. Your spine is normal.”

  “So I’ll be able to walk again, and run and swim?”

  “If you feel up to it, I don’t see any reason why you can’t take a walk right now.”

  “What about this Foley?”

  Webber looked at Helga and shrugged. “He’s got sphincter control, and his kidneys are working fine. Pull it out.”

  Jim almost came off the bed with laughter. He waited patiently for Helga to remove the catheter, wincing slightly as it passed, then swung around slowly and eased his legs over the side of the bed. The IV offered some limitation to movement but at that moment a whole roomful of IV’s couldn’t have held him back. He waited for his head to catch up with his body then took a deep breath and slipped from the bed.

  The floor was cold against his bare soles. It felt wonderful. He stood as straight as possible, still bent somewhat from general weakness and soreness, but compared to the previous day he felt as powerful as a wild stallion released from its stable. He looked at the doctor and nodded, then walked slowly to Helga Baird and wrapped his arm around her.

  Helga giggled. “Why, Jim.”

  “You’re the only real angel I’ve ever met. Thank you.”

  “I told you,” Helga said, her face aglow with excitement. “There’s always hope.”

  Jim felt his head lighten. He hurried back to the bed and sat down. “Doctor Webber,” he said, trying to mask his dizziness, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  Webber shook his head. “You can thank me by staying out of here.”

  “I’ll leave now if you’d like.”

  “Oh no, not yet. You’re still on IV antibiotics. And I can’t discharge you until your white blood cell count is normal and the rest of that inflammation is gone. If you were to injure your back again right now—” Webber gave an adamant shake of his head. “The results could be devastating. You also have a lot of soft tissues inside that need to heal. You’ve only just begun recovering from major surgery. We still have a lot of progress to make before I can let you go home.”

  “So, I’m just supposed to lie here?”

  “No, we can get you out of ICU and into a private room for observation.”

  “Observation?”

  “Just for a few of days. Then we can discuss therapy.”

  “Why not send me home with oral antibiotics?”

  Webber laughed and grabbed Jim’s chart. “Unless you’ve got a personal physician waiting in the wings, forget it.”

  “Umm—” Jim felt his eyes widen. “What if I did?”

  Webber looked up from the clipboard and frowned. “Pardon me?”

  “Have my own personal physician, I mean…”

  Webber chuckled and went back to the paperwork. “You don’t.”

  Jim grinned and pointed at the door.

  “I do now.”

  Chapter 43

  Rico Rivetti hated boats. All boats. In fact he had never seen one that didn’t turn his stomach to mush and make his palms sweat, but the big one tied to the end of the Morehead City Police Dock literally scared him to death. Flooded in a pool of harsh quartz light, it looked like a monster, a gigantic floating machine with the power to take him where he least wanted to go—onto the water—and to do it fast. But, Rico figured, if it had to be done this was the machine for the job.

  The Cobia 314 center console reeked of authority and power. Its slick white fiberglass hull sat high in the water, boasting a bold blue POLICE decal and a pair of 250-hp Yamaha outboards that rumbled smoothly at her stern. A sparkling chrome rail rose from her V-shaped bow and wrapped halfway around the boat. A tall center console stood in the middle of the deck with a doublewide seat for pilot and guest, and a tall windshield and top to protect the crew from the elements. Sergeant Greg Mulkhead of the Morehead City Police Department sat casually behind the controls wearing a navy blue jumpsuit and an orange life jacket. He looked up as Rico approached, waved once and stood.

  “Odd that you should call,” Mulkhead said, tossing Rico a life jacket. “I thought you hated boats.”

  “Do.” Rico gazed at the engines. They seemed to be alive. Breathing. “Get all worked up just thinkin’ about ‘em.”

  “Well before we do this thing—” Mulkhead tossed his cigarette overboard. “Tell me what it is we’re looking for. All my captain said is that I’m to help you locate a boat.”

  Rico pulled on the jacket and zipped it up tight.

  “I’m looking for a meth-lab.”

  “A meth-lab?”

  “We have reason to believe one of the local gangs has moved their operation onto the water.”

  Mulkhead chuckled and drained his coffee cup.

  “A floating meth-lab. That’s a laugh.”

  “It’s no joke, Greg.”

  “Well exactly what kind of boat are you looking for? It would have to be a pretty big boat, at least forty or fifty feet, and stable enough to set up stoves and cooking gear. Rico, I’m not sure I’m buying this. The only private boats big enough for a meth-lab would have to be one of those fancy trawlers, or an old Presidential yacht, and they can’t even get back here in these shallow waters.”

  “Think flatter.” Rico offered a sly grin. “My source tells me they’re using a houseboat.”

  “A houseboat. Yeah, that might work. Spacious. Flat-bottomed. Okay.” Mulkhead nodded. “I’ll buy it. Where do you want to look?”

  “Everywhere.”

  “Think you could be just a little more specific?”

  “Every anchorage, every creek, every harbor close to The Commons.”

  “That could take a while.”

  “Then we’d better get going.”

  “Let’s see the warrant first.”

  “All these years and you still don’t trust me?”

  “No offense, Rico, but I’ve known you since we were kids. If anybody knows how crazy you can get, it’s me.”

  Rico handed Mulkhead the warrant. Mulkhead read it over, nodded, and then held up a finger to test the breeze.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “It’ll be rough in the channel. There’s a storm out at sea and the wind’s been blowing hard for two days.”

  “Let’s go, Greg.” Rico felt butterflies flying around in his stomach. “I can take it.”

  “All right. Untie the bow line and climb in.”

  Rico unhitched the line and reluctantly climbed aboard the boat. Almost immediately he felt his head begin to spin. The vessel looked safe enough—its deck long and clean, its railings high—but astern, not ten feet behind the console, hung two grumbling outboards, huge white power plants that
looked and sounded hungry. Rico took a seat next to Mulkhead and fastened his seatbelt. “I hate boats, you know.”

  Mulkhead chuckled and removed a white microphone from its cradle.

  “SP-1 to communications on marine nine…en route to the sound for, uh—” Mulkhead glanced at Rico and smirked. “—research.”

  Rico rolled his eyes and looked over the dashboard. The gauges glowed red against the black background. A stainless-steel 12-gauge shotgun hung ready in a vertical mount. The white Motorola marine radio mounted next to the steering wheel crackled.

  “Ten-four, SP-1 en route to Core Creek Sound. Be advised SP-1, small craft advisories are in effect.”

  Mulkhead thanked the dispatcher and pushed the throttle forward an inch. The boat grumbled, pulled away from the dock, and started moving toward the channel. Rico fought the queasy feeling in his gut and watched the channel markers pass—red ones to the left, green ones to the right—not sure exactly what they meant but confident that Mulkhead did—until finally they reached the end of a long rock jetty that seemed to protect the harbor. Almost immediately the wind stiffened. The boat’s bow began to bob like a cork.

  “Have I told you how much I hate boats?”

  “Once or twice.”

  Mulkhead steered past the last marker, a tall black wooden pole with a green sign and a flashing green light on top, and then he turned east and pushed the throttle forward.

  “Hang on.”

  Rico heard the engines roar and felt the boat lunge forward pushing him back in his seat. As if being lifted by a huge unseen hand, the bow rose. For a moment Rico was certain they were going airborne, but as their speed increased the bow settled down and the boat leveled out into a smooth fast plane. Rico didn’t like the high speed but he did appreciate the smoother ride. The boat skipped across the wave tops like a flat stone across a pond. He watched the depth-gauge move from seven…to eight…to nine, then jump to double-digits and level off at thirteen feet as they entered the ICW.

  “Is that it?” Rico shouted over the din. “Thirteen feet?”

  “Oh, it gets deeper,” Mulkhead shouted back. He pointed toward the Morehead City turning basin. “Up there where the big ships come in, it’s deep. We’ll be there in a minute. You’ll see.”

  “How ‘bout the inlet?”

  “What?”

  “The inlet?” Rico shouted. “How deep?”

  “Fifty feet or more, deep enough for those big ships to come in. It also has some of the strongest currents you’ll ever find. When the wind’s blowing from the southeast the way it is today, the waves stand up like soldiers. I’ve had ‘em break clean over this boat. Seen ‘em capsize larger vessels.”

  “Great.” Rico held on even tighter. The mere thought of tall waves turned his knuckles white. “Do me a favor, will ya?”

  “Stay away from the inlet?”

  “Right.”

  “When it’s this rough,” Mulkhead explained, “even the heartiest sailors don’t try.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Don’t worry, Rico, we won’t get anywhere near it. We’ll be heading in the other direction.”

  Rico was amazed at the efficiency with which Greg Mulkhead handled his boat. He seemed to have built-in night vision. Rico had to strain just to see the surface of the water, but Mulkhead pushed the boat ahead as if pulling a skier on a bright sunny day. Rico finally gave up trying to navigate and sank low behind the windshield, grateful for the break from the cool biting wind.

  “Where are we going first?”

  Mulkhead leaned close.

  “I thought we’d start at the Newport River entrance and work our way down. There’re a number of coves up there with protected anchorages. Any of them would be great places to hide.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Rico had never spent much time on the water, by choice, but he did recognize a lot of the scenery as they cruised past Taylor’s Creek and under the Beaufort high-rise bridge. Mulkhead made a wide sweeping turn that carried them over the ferry route that led to Jim’s place, past Crab Point Village, and finally into the mouth of the Newport River.

  The boat slowed. Mulkhead began scanning the coastline. Rico had become so absorbed with the trip that he had to remind himself why they had come in the first place. “Houseboats,” he murmured. “Look for houseboats.” He was just beginning his own search when the boat suddenly lurched to the left. “What is it?”

  “Our first cove,” Mulkhead said. “Keep your eyes open.”

  Mulkhead steered the boat into a large lagoon, slowed, and motored past an eclectic group of boats, some large, some small, some fancy, most old and worn out looking, but none fitting the description of what Rico was looking for. Mulkhead seemed to have the same thought. He steered back out into the main channel and continued down the coastline until they came to the next cove. Then a creek. Then a small inland pond. Then another cove. There were boats everywhere but Rico didn’t see a thing that looked like it might hold a clandestine meth-lab. He sank back in his seat.

  “I’m afraid I’ve brought you on a wild goose chase, Greg.”

  “Not so fast,” Mulkhead said. “There’s one more place I want to look, the old boatyard on the south end of the Commons. It’s pretty close to the harbor. It’s got a tight little cove, maybe too tight for what we’re looking for, but it’s quiet and it’s got a few docks. It might be a good place to set up shop.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Rico gripped the railing as Mulkhead pushed the throttle forward. A minute later the boat slowed and followed a series of wooden posts into a small cove that led to a vast junky boatyard. Several small vessels floated in the cove near the yard. To his left, Rico saw an antique wooden runabout named Speedy floating next to a private dock. It looked out of place in front of the run down shack at the head of the dock, and almost comical by comparison to the other boats. He watched the tiny vessel as they motored past, chuckling at her miniature appearance and the proud little flagpole standing upright above her forward running lights.

  “Now that’s my kind of boat.”

  “Look sharp,” Mulkhead said.

  Rico looked up. Mulkhead pointed at a white houseboat floating beside the boatyard’s main dock. A yellow light burned from somewhere within, giving it a warm, lived in appearance. Rico felt his stomach begin to churn. Mulkhead idled slowly ahead, cautiously, coming to a stop less than ten yards away from the flat-bottomed craft.

  Rico sat for a moment without speaking, then rose from his seat for a closer look. Every window, including the sliding glass door that opened onto the rear deck, had a tightly drawn curtain. Dim amber light glowed within. The deck was clear except for a rusty anchor lying on the foredeck and two-dozen red, shiny, rectangular cans neatly stacked on the aft deck. He saw no sign of movement, not even a ripple against the hull. The boat appeared lived upon, but empty.

  “What do you think?” Mulkhead whispered. “Fit the bill?”

  “You betcha. Check it out.” Rico pointed astern. “See those fuel cans? I saw dozens just like ‘em at the Posse’s meth-lab. I bet we’ll find more inside.”

  “Inside?” Mulkhead frowned. “Hold on, chief, you’re not thinking about boarding that thing?”

  “Why not?” Rico pulled off his life preserver and tossed it onto the deck. “Pull closer.”

  “Unh uh.” Mulkhead gave a firm shake of his head. “No way, dude. Not without backup.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Greg. I need to take a closer look.”

  “Forget it. I have no intention of getting shot today, not on this hunt!”

  Rico heard a bark. He glanced toward the boatyard and saw a shiny black dog with skinny legs and pointed ears trot from amongst the boats and run to the water’s edge showing its teeth and growling. The front door of the boatyard office opened slightly and another dog just like the first one came charging out.

  “Yikes!”

  “Rico, I’m sorry,” Mulkhead said, “but this mission is over
. We’re heading back.”

  “Yeah, maybe we should.” Rico scribbled down the houseboat’s registration number and then re-donned his life preserver. “I’ll come back later with a warrant. This cove’s too dang small for somebody to set up a meth-lab without the people in that boatyard knowing about it. What’s the name of this place anyway?”

  “It’s called Barnacle Bill’s, the only full-service boatyard on this side of East Beach. It’s owned by an old deaf redneck and a couple of his cousins. Rumor has it they used to run moonshine out of here.”

  “Well I’ve got a feeling they’ve upped the ante, Greg.”

  “You may be right.”

  “I do believe we’ve found what we were looking for.”

  Mulkhead fired up the engines, swung the Cobia around, and wasted no time getting back up to speed. A minute later they were clear of the cove and cruising east toward the Beaufort high-rise. Rico watched the boatyard disappear behind the trees.

  “Yes sir,” he murmured. “I do believe we found it.”

  Chapter 44

  “Jim,” Helga shouted. “Wait! Your IV!”

  Jim didn’t care about the IV. He was so excited he jumped out of bed and practically leapt across the room, but before he could take three steps his head began to spin, and then his legs began to wobble, and then his whole world seemed to turn into a blurry black tunnel, and then…

  “He’s falling,” Webber shouted.

  “Catch him!”

  Jim felt hands grab him from all sides.

  “Get him to the bed,” Helga said her voice booming. “Watch the blood!”

  Jim felt like a heavy bag of grain as Helga lifted him and dropped him onto the edge of the bed. His head felt like a spinning top. He heard voices. Saw stars. “Grab his legs,” Helga ordered. Jim felt his legs lifted and swung onto the mattress. He felt like a rag doll, as useless as a worn out blanket. “One of you doctors,” Helga demanded, “hold pressure on his wrist. I’ll be right back.” Jim felt fingertips against his wrist. He felt his arm raised off the mattress. He lay still until his vision cleared and a familiar face materialized leaning over the bed.

  “Val?”