“Yes you are, by not telling the truth,” I roughly insisted.
“Wendell is obviously nabbing manatees from somewhere around here. For chrissakes, none of the animals show signs of recent scars, and they’re clearly not being rehabbed.”
What would it take to finally get through to this girl? I decided to plant one more seed, even if it was a lie.
“You must also know that Drapkin never intends to leave his wife. She’ll always live in their big fancy house on Sea Island, while you remain stuck in some lousy trailer. The most you can ever hope for is that you won’t lose the aluminum siding on your mobile home again. Meanwhile, Drapkin will expect you to be grateful for whatever crumbs he throws your way.”
“Oh, yeah? Well they may be living under the same roof, but they’re as good as separated. It’s just a matter of time,” Candi lamely tried to defend herself.
I started to walk away, but then turned back around. “That’s the other thing, Candi. I heard some news that you might find of interest. Drapkin and his wife have patched things up and are getting back together—on one condition. I’m afraid you’re about to be dumped.”
“That’s a damn lie!” Candi hissed, looking like an alley cat ready to pounce.
“Believe whatever you want. But maybe that’s why Drapkin doesn’t care about the manatees anymore.”
Candi looked as confused as if she’d just ingested too much mercury, herself.
I walked out the gate, knowing that my work with her was done. If nothing else, I’d given Candi something to think about. All I could do now was hope that it would pay off.
I headed next for Wendell’s office, determined to see what kind of trouble I could stir up there. It must have been a quiet day inside the brain trust. There was no message lodged in the cardboard manatee’s fins. I didn’t bother to knock, but simply opened the door and walked in.
Wendell was chowing down on his lunch, with half a manatee burger stuck in his mouth. Damn! This place would wind up being closed before I ever even got a chance to try one.
“Well, well Miss Rachel. Back again so soon?” Wendell inquired, spraying a bit of burger, bacon, and mayo my way.
Jeez, that smelled good!
“Come on in and sit down. How about letting me buy you some lunch?”
The idea was tempting. I wondered what Miss Manners would say? What was the etiquette anyway, when it came to accepting lunch from a scoundrel who you planned to throw in jail?
“If I were you, I’d take advantage of all the free food I could get. From what I hear, you may not have a job all that much longer,” Wendell snickered.
Whadda ya know? The man was trying to pull the same number on me as I’d just pulled on Candi. Someone should have told him that intimidation is an art form not to be practiced by amateurs.
“No thanks. I’d hate to find out that the food in this place is as tainted as your manatees.”
Wendell’s face immediately darkened. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
I leaned over his desk, picked up a French fry, and twirled it between my fingers. “My goodness, Wendell. You should have more regard for your health. Haven’t you heard that these things can cause cancer?”
“I ain’t scared of no lil ol’ French fry,” Wendell scoffed and stuffed a handful into his mouth.
“I guess not. Especially when you’ve got much bigger problems on your plate to worry about.”
“Aw, I get it. You’re here to play a round of my balls are bigger than your balls. Well, I’m afraid I’ve gotcha beat hands down on that one, Miss Rachel.”
That’s what he thought.
“Listen, Wendell. I know that you’re nabbing manatees, and where it is that you’re getting them from. And to tell you the truth, I’m a bit surprised.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. But why would that be?” Wendell asked, continuing to play coy.
“Because I had expected that you would be smarter. What happens when your supply of manatees finally runs out?”
“Now you’re just talking plain ridiculous and not making a damn bit of sense,” Wendell snapped, looking annoyed.
“Okay, then let me put it another way. What do you think your manatees are dying from?”
“Old age, parasites, disease. The same as people, of course. What else?”
Wendell stated it so matter-of-factly that I knew he must truly believe what he said. It was my turn to be surprised.
“You mean that you really don’t know? Then why are you cremating the manatees that die?”
Wendell’s eyes narrowed, and he pushed his French fries out of the way. “What I’m about to say is purely hypothetical, of course. But it would be one way to make sure that nosy Feds like yourself couldn’t get hold of ’em and do any of that hocus-pocus DNA crap to try and figure out where they came from. Now why don’t you just cut to the chase, and tell me what you’re getting at?”
“In that case, I’ve got bad news for you, Wendell. We’ve been doing some testing in Purvis Creek and found that the marsh along there is dangerously poisoned.”
Wendell rocketed out of his seat. “Poisoned? Why didn’t you say so in the first place? What, is some foreign terrorist throwing strychnine in the water and trying to kill us all?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting so upset about, unless you’re drinking the water from there,” I calmly observed.
He quickly sat back down. “I just care about our local environment, is all.”
Uh-huh.
His fingers nervously rap-tap-tapped on the desktop. “So, are you gonna fill me in as to what’s going on, or not?”
“Sure. A local company is discharging mercury straight into the marsh. Anything swimming around, and eating spartina grass in the area, is bound to end up being affected.”
“And just who might this lunatic be who’s doing this?” Wendell asked, his voice turning noticeably ominous.
“Oddly enough, it’s someone you know. Howard Drapkin of DRG.”
Wendell’s fingers stopped drumming, and his mouth fell open.
“Just how long do you suppose tourists are going to keep coming to see a bunch of sick manatees?” I asked, adding fuel to the fire so that his anger would grow. “It seems your emergency permit isn’t really going to help matters, after all. Funny, isn’t it?”
I didn’t stay for further conversation, but left Wendell stewing behind his desk. Everything had been set in place. Now all I had to do was wait. It shouldn’t take long for the fireworks to begin.
I felt so good that I wanted to celebrate. And I knew just where to go in order to do so. I flew out of Manatee Mania and raced back across the bridge.
My Ford knew the way, navigating straight for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife office in Brunswick. Though I was earlier than expected, I didn’t think Gary would mind. I parked in the lot, got out of my vehicle, and tried to enter the building. Huh. That was odd. The place was locked with no one around. But then again, it was lunchtime—albeit a late one, at two o’clock. Knowing Gary, he’d probably run home to brush his horse. I decided to head over there now and surprise him, being that his place was only a fifteen-minute drive away.
Gary’s house was the last one on a dead-end road. A contemporary ranch, it had fallen into disrepair after the death of his wife. A once-beautiful flower garden was now choked with weeds, and the grass badly needed to be cut.
Gary felt pretty much the way I did when it came to gardening. We both preferred to let Nature do her own handiwork. But even I had to admit that she needed a certain amount of help every now and then. I was beginning to wonder if Gary might not be a little more depressed that I’d originally thought.
I pulled in next to where his pickup sat parked. Skipping past the house, I headed straight for the barn, knowing that was where I’d probably find him. His horse was the one sure thing Gary would never neglect.
Lucille whinnied softly from her stall and pawed the ground as I entered. I understood the m
are well enough to know this was her way of demanding attention.
“Gary, are you in here?” I called.
But the only response came again from Lucille, who impatiently flicked her tail.
“How you doing, girl?” I asked, and walked over to pet her.
I slipped my hand into a bucket of oats, and let the horse nibble them from my palm. I must have been wrong. Gary was probably in the house eating lunch.
I turned to join him, when I spied Lucille’s curry brush thrown on the ground. Gary really was becoming a bit too lackadaisical. I bent down, planning to pick it up, only to have my attention drawn to a gallon-sized bottle of DMSO. The liniment lay facedown with the cap off. Whatever liquid had been inside was now gone, soaked up by the surrounding straw.
I stuck the bottle near the barn door. That way, he’d remember to buy more for Lucille’s sore joints. I knew Gary used it on his own aches and pains, as well.
Walking to the house, I rang the bell. Gary finally answered on the third ring. I gasped before I could stop myself. His complexion was gray and his skin held a clammy sheen.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “You don’t look very good.”
“Thanks a lot. You always know just the right thing to say. How come I never hear, ‘Wow, Gary. What a sexy hunk you are.’ Huh?” he joked, with a wan smile. “Yeah, okay. I do feel like crap. I must have caught a twenty-four-hour bug or something.”
“When did this begin?” I asked, putting my celebration plans on hold.
“Not long ago. I came home for lunch, had a bowl of soup, and then began to curry Lucille. I was in the barn brushing her when a killer headache started. I took a couple aspirin, waited for it to pass, and then went back to work. Shortly after that is when it really kicked in. I became so dizzy that I was barely able to make it home again. Right now, I plan to stay here and just rest a while. I’d invite you inside. Only I’m afraid whatever I’ve got could be contagious, and you don’t need to get sick.”
“Who? Me? You don’t know who you’re dealing with. No stinking bug is going to take me on.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right. You’re the woman with the incredible cast-iron stomach.”
“And don’t forget it. Now go sit down and I’ll make you some tea,” I instructed.
So there! Whoever said I wasn’t maternal? I thought, giving myself a mental pat.
I went into the kitchen and began to root around. Oy vey. It quickly became clear that Gary’s eating habits were even worse than my own—something I’d thought was an impossibility up until now. His mainstay appeared to be cans of soup that were jam-packed with sodium. Always a wise choice for a guy with high blood pressure. The remainder of his cupboard was filled with an array of chocolate desserts—none of which had the slightest whiff of Weight Watchers about them.
“Would you like some soup?” I called out to him.
“No thanks. I’m not hungry,” came his reply.
Gary must have been sick. He usually ate twenty-four hours a day. Maybe I should try to catch what he had. God knows, I could stand to lose a few pounds.
I filled the kettle, placed it on the stove, and turned on the burner. A previously used teabag sat slumped nearby on the counter, as if waiting to be recycled. Though I checked everywhere, it seemed to be the only one around.
“Hey, Gary. Do you have any more tea stashed away in here?”
A muffled sound was the only response.
“What’s that?” I asked, and walked back into the living room.
I stopped dead in my tracks. Gary looked even worse than before.
“Some sort of muscle tremors are traveling up my arms,” he revealed, with a note of concern.
However, much more was going on than just that. His entire body was visibly shaking.
“I’m taking you to the emergency room right now. You need to be examined and given antibiotics,” I declared, trying to hide my alarm.
“Don’t be such a drama queen, Pepper. I’m on a new blood pressure medication. It’s probably just some kind of reaction,” he retorted.
But I could tell that he was afraid.
“Where’s that medication?” I asked, intending to take it with us.
“In the bathroom cabinet.”
Bottles of Tenormin and Cozaar sat side by side on the shelf. I grabbed them both and hurried back out, to discover that Gary was now drenched in a layer of heavy sweat.
“That does it. We’re going to the hospital. Don’t give me any argument,” I commanded. Gary wasn’t the only one who was scared.
“Yeah, I think you’re probably right,” he weakly agreed, and began to push himself up from the chair.
“Wait, let me help you.”
But it was already too late. I watched in horror as Gary swayed and clutched at his chest. Doubling over in pain, he toppled onto the floor, shattering the air around us. Its slivers pricked at my skin like tiny, sharp pins, prompting me to instantly jump into action.
“Gary, are you all right?” I cried and rushed to his side, where I frantically searched for a pulse. It beat faintly beneath my fingertips, and his skin felt sticky and cold.
Running for the phone, I dialed 911 and barked out directions for an ambulance. Then I dashed back to where Gary lay, his prostrate form already resembling a clay mold more than that of the man I knew.
For chrissakes, get a grip! Now’s not the time to panic, I harshly chided myself. I’d dealt with plenty of emergencies before, but it’s always different when it involves someone who’s close to you.
Kneeling down, I began to give him CPR. A strong whiff of garlic emanated from within Gary as I pressed on his chest. I took a breath, placed my mouth over his, and exhaled hard.
It was then that I felt something else in the room. The floor creaked, shooting a squall of shivers throughout my body, and an icy film stroked the length of my skin like an attentive lover’s caress.
My head jerked up and my eyes swept the area, to confirm that I was alone—all except for the whisper of a wail. It kept rhythm with my breathing as I continued to give CPR to Gary. I did my best to ignore it, knowing there was nothing I could do. It seemed to know it too, and deliberately toyed with my fear. But I no longer cared about anything other than my friend.
The cry slowly intensified, until it filled my entire body. Only then did it transform into the incessant howl of a siren’s scream. I breathed a sigh of relief. The ambulance was finally here!
I kept guard over whatever it was that hovered around us. It watched from behind my shoulder with unseen eyes, as the paramedics arrived. Only when Gary was safely inside the ambulance did I jump in my vehicle and follow toward the hospital.
I raced down Highway 17, past a funeral home where a coffin was being loaded into a hearse. My fingers touched the St. Christopher’s medal around my neck, hoping that it wasn’t a sign. Anywhere U.S.A. sped by in a blur of fast-food stops, drug marts, and retail clothing stores as my Ford brazenly sped through a red light playing pin-the-tail-on-the-ambulance.
My attention was momentarily drawn to where a school had been torn down and rebuilt upon discovery that it was sitting on toxic soil. Rolling up my window, I cut off the stench wafting from the wood chemical plant that stood next to it. I let my mind wander, grateful for any distraction, not yet willing to deal with the fact that something awful had happened to Gary.
The ambulance turned at a doc-in-the-box health clinic and I breathed a sigh of relief. The hospital was just down the road where a stretcher stood waiting, and an attending physician was already on hand.
“My friend thinks he’s having a reaction to his new blood pressure medication,” I quickly informed him. “Except that muscle tremors shot up both his arms, and his body was shaking before he passed out.”
“Heart attack,” the doctor muttered.
And suddenly, I wanted to scream, NO! Only I couldn’t get the word out. Instead, I mutely watched as Gary was wheeled into the operating room.
I don’t know
how much time passed as I waited. It seemed like forever. Possibly, it was as brief as the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings. I couldn’t tell, having drifted into a different dimension. It was one in which such notions as time and space didn’t exist. All I was aware of was the rapid beating of my heart as images began to flow through my mind: muscle tremors, dizziness, loss of appetite, headaches, cold, clammy skin. I stared at the floor, not daring to say what I knew out loud, yet certain that it added up to only one thing. Soon, the doctor’s shoes appeared within my line of vision.
“Agent Porter?”
He could have been speaking to me from a distant planet, his voice echoing hollow in my ears.
“I’m afraid I have to tell you that your friend didn’t make it.”
I struggled to decipher the words, certain that I hadn’t heard them correctly.
“However, his death was quick and painless, if that’s any consolation.”
If I’d had a burning poker, I would have stuck him with it and then inquired how quick and painless that had been.
Instead I asked, “What did he die from?”
“Why, a heart attack, of course.”
“You’re wrong,” I brusquely blurted out.
The doctor stared at me as though I were crazy. “I know this must come as a shock. But we performed an EKG, and I can assure you that his heart rhythms were aberrant. Dr. Fletcher had health issues that exacerbated his condition. There’s no question but that he died of a heart attack.”
I shook my head, refusing to listen. “I want you to test for an elevated level of mercury in his system.”
“You’re really not taking this very well. Why don’t we sit down and I’ll prescribe a sedative for you?”
“Just do the test,” I ordered, gritting my teeth. “I know exactly what I’m talking about!”
Our eyes locked together in a showdown.
“If you refuse, I’ll get a court order,” I warned. “It’s your choice, doctor. Either do it now, or I swear I’ll arrest you for refusing to cooperate with a federal agent.”
He continued to study me, as if wondering how far to push.
“Got any dietary restrictions, doc? ’Cause, I hear the food in jail is really lousy.”
Coastal Disturbance Page 19