The Orchid Keeper: A Sean O'Brien Novel

by Tom Lowe

  The door opened, and Amber rushed in, a doctor and a nurse following her. Amber said, “You have to do something! My husband’s getting worse.”

  The doctor, a tall man with a long face, caring liquid eyes, said, “Let me take a look at it.” He approached the bed, the nurse standing to his right and moving the sheet from Johnny’s leg. The doctor studied the growing infection, some of the skin around the wound now almost black, the foul odor of puss and rot seeping from the dying tissue. He looked up at Johnny and said, “Mr. Nelson, we have given you massive doses of every antibiotic we know to treat an infection like this. Unfortunately, nothing is working well enough. The infection continues to spread. I don’t make this statement lightly, but I believe that amputation is the best to arrest it in order to keep the bacteria from moving further into your body.”

  “Doc,” Johnny said, his voice raspy. “If you take off my leg, how will I feed my family?”

  Amber said, “Please! Can’t you do more? Isn’t there a stronger drug … maybe something that’s in the testing and research stages that you can use. Please, we have to try.”

  The doctor nodded. “I wish I had something like that. This infection comes from an extremely aggressive strain of bacteria—a super bug, a fierce form of streptococcus called vibrio vulnificus that’s mutated into an even more virulent form of itself. In the past, some people have called it a flesh-eating bacterium. But that’s not the case. Bacteria don’t eat the flesh; the bug destroys it and the flesh decays. That’s what’s happening to your husband. We can remove the dead tissue, but I don’t think that will contain the infection.”

  Amber couldn’t hide her fear, mouth tight, eyes welling. “I can’t believe this is happening. My husband fought in the military against ISIS and now something he never saw is destroying his leg.”

  The doctor looked at Johnny and then at Amber. “You folks discuss it. Time is of the essence. I know you’re frightened, and you should be. I don’t want to add to your stress, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t let you know that these water-borne infections are getting more powerful each year. Around the state, we’ve average one fatality a month from this. Please make your decision quickly.”

  • • •

  I stood at the end of my dock on the St. Johns River, thinking about the time I spent with Wynona. It’d been two days, and I already missed her. Max barked once, chasing a large grasshopper around one of the two wooden benches I’d built and placed at the end of my dock. One bench faced east for the sunrises, the other faced west for the sunsets. The sunrises, and especially the sunsets, are some of the best in the world when the large, spherical ball dips behind the wide oxbow in the river, cypress trees donned in hanging moss and standing in silhouette, ospreys making twilight catches, diving into scarlet and ruby surfaces painted by clouds soaked with the same colors.

  My dock protruded about sixty feet from the riverbank into the dark water. I set my phone down on one of the benches, sipping coffee, the sun rising over a tree line of live oaks and cabbage palms. The soft morning breeze delivered the fragrance of blooming honeysuckles mixed with the briny scent of the river, the water moving quietly around the dock pilings.

  My phone buzzed.

  Max looked at it, cocking her head, then glancing up at me.

  “Let’s not answer it,” I said. “We’re supposed to spend the morning fishing. There are bass out there bigger than you.”

  I ignored the phone. Max and I were going fishing. I’d made a thermos of coffee, packed our lunches, set a tackle box, rod and reel in my fourteen-foot Jon-boat. The boat, tied to my dock, was Army green. It drew less than a foot of water and was easily propelled by a quiet electric motor. The St. Johns was one of the slowest moving and perhaps flattest rivers in America, dropping less than thirty feet its entire 310-mile length, from the headwaters to the sea.

  I thought about the old river, its history and legacy. It was one of the few in the world that flowed north. Swamps west of Vero Beach gave birth to the headwaters, burping out a trickling of water that meandered north. The stream soon met springs surging from deep beneath the earth, the water flowing into creeks that grew into a river feeding thirteen lakes, creating a long and twisting necklace of water that meets the Atlantic Ocean fifteen miles east of Jacksonville. The river was the first in the New World to have a settlement of European colonists build a village on a high bluff between present-day Jacksonville and Mayport.

  My phone buzzed again.

  This time, Max ignored it. She was fascinated by a young gator barely moving its tail to zigzag across the river toward the Ocala National Forest. From the dock or my cabin built near an ancient shell mound left behind by Indians, you couldn’t see any signs of civilization or people. My nearest neighbor was about a mile way, via the county road. I had three acres and a seventy-year-old cabin that originally was constructed from white oak timbers, cedar and some cypress planks on the porch. The roof was made of tin. The best part was the large, screened-in back porch overlooking the river.

  I lifted up a paddle I had propped against one of the benches, setting the paddle down on the floor of the Jon-boat, Max now pacing in anticipation of a morning on the water. She loved standing on the seat near the bow as we explored the river, her ears fluttering in the breeze, nose catching an infinite smorgasbord. I picked up my phone, glancing at the screen, something I didn’t want to do. But I thought Wynona might be calling. Before Max and I dropped anchor in a quiet cove, I wanted to see if it was Wynona.

  It wasn’t. Dave Collins had called the last two times, and he’d left a message the second time. Dave rarely leaves messages. Maybe because of his history with the CIA, he leaves few if any bread crumb trails. Although he’s long since retired from three decades as a spy, it’s hard and maybe smart not to break an old dog from the survival tricks he’s learned during an occupation where plausible denial is career and lifespan longevity.

  I played the message he’d left. “Sean, it’s Dave. You have some visitors here at the marina. They come from a referral … someone you know well. Anyway, I told them I’d try to contact you. Not sure how long they’ll be here. When you get this, give me a shout. Last time I left a message, it was three days before I heard back from you. I don’t think they can wait that long.”

  The call disconnected.

  Max looked up at me. I nodded, sat down, watching a bald eagle circling the river in search of a fish close to the surface. I looked up at my cabin, Wynona’s words echoing in my mind. You spend time at sea or sequestered in that quaint old cabin of yours on the river. You’re surrounded by your books, by the sound of the birds, by the isolation of your own form of Eden. But, by surrounding yourself with all that, you do the opposite with people. And the irony is I know how much you care for others—how much you do for others. Your friends, people like Dave, Nick, Joe Billie … would do anything for you.

  I watched the eagle dive straight from the sky, shattering the calm surface of the river. The eagle’s talons locked into the back of a bass, the bird flapping its large wings, the fish struggling, the surface of the water roiling under the beating wind. The eagle rose, the fish writhing in the death grip. Max barked as the bird of prey flew across the river, settling at the top of a tall cypress tree to eat. I looked at Max and said, “The eagle’s fishing. I’m not sure we will be. I need to call Dave.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When Dave Collins answered his phone, he said, “Well, this is indeed extraordinary. Almost an immediate call back from you, Sean. It will not go unnoticed, I assure you.” Dave chuckled, sitting at his table on the cockpit of his 42-foot Grand Banks trawler, Gibraltar, moored near the end of a pier at Ponce Marina. He sipped black coffee, eating a bowl of fruit, watching a brown pelican alight on a dock piling near Gibraltar. Dave was in his mid-sixties, full head of white hair, neatly trimmed matching beard, broad-shoulders, thick chest. No gut in spite of his love for food and drink, a connoisseur of craft beers and fine gins. His blue eyes had the rare combination
of depth and humor. He said, “I hope I didn’t reach you at an inopportune time.”

  “No, I’m home. Sittin’ on the dock of the bay, as the song goes. Max and I were about to take out the Jon-boat for some fishing.”

  “Well, as my voice message alluded to … there are two people fishing for you. Please excuse the analogy, I get better after my second cup of coffee.” He smiled, watching a sixty-foot Hatteras enter the marina, moving at a no wake speed, the boat’s big diesels burping water. “They’re a couple … a husband and wife. The gentleman is running for elective office here in our great state of Florida, a state where so many national newscasters use the word ‘another’ to describe the next unique event to happen only in Florida. As long as there are no causalities, I’m resigned to those uniquely Florida happenstances. Makes it interesting to live here and simply be a ring-side spectator.”

  “Are you sure you’ve only had one cup of coffee?”

  “Pouring my second as we speak, Sean. When you live in a state with water on three sides, it draws the crazies like moths to a flame. And, speaking of water, the candidate is trying to ride that wave to Tallahassee where he hopes a win in the state senate will give him the platform for Everglades restoration and a cleaner environment in Florida. His name is Joe Thaxton. Have you heard of him?”

  “Yes, I caught him on a radio talk show. He’s articulate and seems serious about his crusade, one that’s long overdue. Why do they want to see me? Did they say?”

  “No, nothing specific. But through the smiles and handshakes, I can detect they’re very concerned about something.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Chatting with fishing guides in the Tiki Bar, maybe getting a bite to eat. Captain Roland Hatter is there with them. It was Roland who referred them to you. He was apparently attending one of Thaxton’s political rallies.”

  I stood and stepped to the side of my dock, looking at my rod and tackle box in the small boat tied to a post. “There was a recent newscast that had video of Thaxton’s pickup truck vandalized at one of his rallies. Maybe that has something to do with the reason he and his wife want to speak with me.”

  Dave sipped his coffee. “If that’s the case, it sounds like a criminal act that police need to handle in the jurisdiction where the vandalism occurred. But it could be there’s something much more foreboding. Do you want me to walk down to the Tiki Bar to inform them that you’re unavailable? Since Joe Thaxton is a fishing guide, if I tell him you’ve gone fishing, he’d probably be the first to understand.”

  I thought about the TV news interview Wynona and I had watched, Thaxton answering the reporter’s questions and trying to be resolute as the wrecker driver was hauling the vandalized truck away. We’ve received threating phone calls. All this means we’re pushing somebody’s button.

  Max barked at garfish rolling near the surface of the river.

  “Sean, I hear Miss Max, but you’ve gone silent. What should I tell the Thaxton’s?”

  I watched the garfish for a moment longer. “Tell them I’ll be there in an hour. If they have time to wait, I have time to listen. For somebody legitimately trying to help the rivers and beaches … hearing what’s on their mind is the least I can do.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  The lead surgeon glanced at the blood pressure monitor in the operating room near the patient, Johnny Nelson, who was in a medically induced coma. A second surgeon assisted in the amputation of Johnny’s right leg ten inches above the knee. After cutting through dead flesh and sawing bone, the OR smelled of burned skin, disinfectant and urine. The surgeons and nurses worked to remove as much of the infected tissue as humanly possible. There were no further visible signs of the infection, but doctors knew that Johnny Nelson’s fight had not ended.

  Doctors labored close to the wound, grafting skin to the remaining stump that used to be a strong right leg. Twenty minutes into the procedure, Johnny’s blood pressure plummeted. His heart raced. Machines sounded alarms. Nurses circled the patient, both doctors fighting to contain the bleeding and stabilize the patient. One younger nurse slipped in wet blood on the floor, almost falling.

  “BP seventy – twenty,” said a senior nurse, her voice calm but concerned.

  “He’s in hypotension,” said one of the doctors, small flecks of dried blood on his glasses.

  And then Johnny’s heart stopped.

  The doctors looked up at the monitors.

  “Flat line!” said the senior surgeon. “Get me the paddles!”

  Two nurses moved the defibrillator machine bedside, quickly gelling the paddles and handing them to the doctor. He placed the flat surfaces on both sides of Johnny’s chest and pressed the button. The electric shock caused Johnny to spasm upwards, his chest wrenching. The doctor looking at the heart monitor. There was only one elevated line, the single erratic line caused by the shock.

  “Come on …” the doctor said, placing the paddles back on Johnny’s chest, sending another electrical jolt through the cardiovascular system.

  Nothing.

  The doctor tried again.

  And again.

  Seconds seemed like minutes.

  Another shock. The heart failed to beat.

  Above the surgical masks covering the mouths and noses of the team, their eyes said it all. Anxiety. Maybe an edge of fear. A strong young man, a father, husband, military veteran, had just lost his leg and was less than a minute from losing his life. “Kick in!” said the lead surgeon trying again and again.

  Two nurses glanced at each other. They looked at the patient and then to the surgeon, his hands gripping the paddles, knuckles bone white. The doctor stared above the rims of his blood-flecked glasses, up at the face of a large clock mounted on one wall, the red sweep second-hand moving in a circle, the operating room somehow standing still.

  “Carl,” said the younger doctor. “He’s gone. You did all you could. The infection was like a toxic bomb going off inside his body. It was too much and moving too fast. We couldn’t knock it down, and we couldn’t contain it. This … the stuff out there in some of the waterways is like a horror movie.”

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later, Doctor Carl Quintero made the long walk down the hall to Johnny Nelson’s room. He knocked once and entered. Amber stood by the window overlooking a park like setting, a manicured green lawn, oleanders with pink blossoms, squirrels hiding acorns under live oaks. She turned and looked at the doctor.

  His eyes said it all. They delivered the bad news.

  “No,” Amber said, her hand touching her mouth, fingers trembling. “Tell me Johnny is alive. Tell me!”

  “I wish I could. The infection hit his organs—heart, kidneys, shutting everything down. There was nothing we could do. It was like fighting a fire with a water gun.” He stepped closer. “I am so very sorry.”

  Amber couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. Tears spilling from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. Her legs felt weak. The room spinning. The doctor reached for her, holding Amber up and hugging her. She wept in his arms. Long wails. She caught her breath, standing straighter, breathing through her nose, blinking. A stream of tears fell from her chin to the floor, splashing near the toe of the doctor’s shoes.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Max knew we were almost there before arriving. Maybe it’s her dog radar. Maybe it’s her nose. A mile before we pulled into the Ponce Marina parking lot, Max started wagging her tail, uttering an excited whimper. I didn’t think it was the topography or landmarks she spotted because it’s a challenge for her to stand on short hind legs and get a good view out of the Jeep’s passenger window. We drove south down Peninsula Drive on the west side of Ponce Inlet, heading for the marina.

  I turned off the road and headed through the parking lot, driving to the south end, the gravel and oyster shells popping under the Jeep’s tires. We stopped beneath the shade of a gumbo limbo tree, dust falling around the Jeep, Max turning a circle in her seat. I thought about the conversation I’d had with Dave Col
lins before driving from my cabin to the marina. No, nothing specific. But through the smiles and handshakes, I can detect they’re very concerned about something.

  “Well,” I said to Max. “Let’s go see what the concern is all about, shall we?” She snorted. I scooped her off the seat, checked for the red glow of backup taillights or movement from any of the two-dozen parked cars and pickup trucks. I set Max down, and she scampered directly for the screen-door entrance to the Tiki Bar. “Whoa, kiddo. At that clip, you’ll go right through the screen.” She stopped at the door, turning to look back at me as if I was stalling, her nostrils catching the smell of fried catfish, steamed garlic shrimp, and beer.

  The Tiki Bar was a ramshackle watering hole built atop large pilings ten feet above the marina water. The rambling exterior was made from aged lumber and driftwood, giving the restaurant the look and feel of an abandoned shack that grew on the pilings, like high-rise barnacles. The dried palm frond roof was artistically painted from roosting pelicans. Most of its windows were made of clear plastic isinglass, allowing the staff to roll and tie up the windows, creating an open-air oasis on stilts.

  The back door opened to the marina and its long docks that moored a couple hundred boats and the community of liveaboards and weekend sailors. They mixed with the tourists, charter boat captains and crew at the Tiki Bar. It made for spirited conversations. I opened the front door, Max scampering across the pinewood floor, a table of tourists, faces pink from too much sun, pointing and laughing. Max ignored them, trotting over to the bar. Three customers sat at the dozen or so stools in front of the bar, Jack Johnson crooning Banana Pancakes from the jukebox.