by Alex Kava
Ganz continued to shake his head. “Does this infection spread from person to person?”
“It’s not quite known how or if it’s spread from person to person or from the environment to a person. But I’ll give you my best logical guess as to what might have happened in this case.”
Platt waited for the captain’s attention.
“Of course. Go ahead.”
Platt sat down so they would be at eye level. He kept from crossing his arms or legs. He restrained from fidgeting and folded his hands together so he wouldn’t be tapping his fingers on the table.
“Just suppose for a minute that a donor’s body—for whatever reason—wasn’t discovered and refrigerated or properly processed within twelve hours.”
“Eighteen hours.”
“Excuse me?”
“Eighteen hours is the time limit. Our regulations say over eighteen hours is not usable.”
“Okay, eighteen. Once the blood flow stops, you know as well as I do that decomposition starts. Depending on the conditions, it can start almost immediately. My guess is that this bacterium didn’t come from contaminated tools used to process the tissue or even during surgery. I believe the bacterium came from the donor’s body after death when the body started decomposing. And when that donor’s tissue and bone was used to make bone screws and anchors and paste, the bacteria simply got ground up and divided. As soon as it was placed back inside a warm human body, it did what bacteria loves to do—it grew and it spread by way of infection.”
Silence. Ganz stared at him. Platt realized it was a lot to sort through, but he never would have predicted what the captain said next.
“I appreciate your opinion and that you came all this way on such short notice. It’s obvious that you could use some rest.”
Ganz stood again, and this time Platt stared up at him. Was it possible the captain was dismissing him? Dismissing his theory?
“I’ll call my driver for you.”
And with that, Captain Ganz walked out of the room, leaving Platt dumbfounded. He wasn’t just dismissing his theory, he was sending Platt home.
CHAPTER 31
“Don’t take this the wrong way, O’Dell, but you look like something the cat dragged in.”
Maggie didn’t want to tell Charlie Wurth that she felt a little bit like she had been dragged. She’d been up all night with insomnia.
After her helicopter adventure she should have been exhausted enough to fall into bed and sleep. Instead she found herself on the beach from midnight till two in the morning walking the shore and watching the full moon light up the waves. Liz had warned her that it wasn’t safe to be alone on the beach at night. But Maggie figured that advice didn’t apply if you carried a .38 Smith & Wesson stuffed in your waistband.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she told Wurth and left it at that. No sense explaining about leaky compartments in her subconscious and ghosts from past murder cases keeping her awake at night.
Wurth had promised a real breakfast. Now, as he held open the door to the café, Maggie realized that she shouldn’t have been surprised to see a number of strangers waving and saying “good morning” and “hello.” Less than twenty-four hours in the city and Charlie Wurth not only knew his way around but also seemed to know the hot spot for breakfast.
The Coffee Cup in downtown Pensacola was crowded, some clientele in shirts and ties with BlackBerrys and others in boots and jeans with the local newspaper scattered across the tabletop.
Despite the clatter of stoneware, the sizzle of bacon, and the shouts of waitresses to the short-order cooks, several customers immediately recognized Wurth. A businessman at a window table waved a hello and another at the counter looked up from his conversation to nod at him. A tall, skinny waitress called him “hon” like they were old friends and led them to a table that was still being bussed. As soon as they sat, she handed them menus.
“Two coffees?” she said, plopping down stoneware mugs in front of them.
“Black coffee for me, Rita. Diet Pepsi for my partner, here.”
“Diet Coke okay, hon?” But she asked Wurth, not Maggie, while she retrieved the mug in front of her as quickly as she had set it down.
Wurth looked to Maggie and waited for an answer, which made Rita look to Maggie. She had to give him credit. It would have been so much easier to just say yes. But it was a big deal to Charlie Wurth that the people surrounding him were always acknowledged.
“Diet Coke’s fine,” Maggie said.
She waited for the waitress to leave while taking in the café’s surroundings. Then she leaned across the small table. “How do you already know all these people?”
“Had coffee here yesterday. You can meet all the movers and shakers in a community if you find their watering hole.”
He paused to wave at two women who had just come in.
“And believe me,” he smiled and leaned in, “with a hurricane coming, the federal guy who’s promising to bring the cavalry is much more popular than Jim Cantore from the Weather Channel. You’ll see there’s already a couple of signs telling him to stay the hell away.”
“Who’s Jim Cantore?”
He tilted his head at her, trying to tell if she was serious. “I forget you’re a hurricane neophyte. With the last several storms, anywhere Cantore goes so goes the hurricane. He either has an uncanny ability to predict or he’s a jinx. Either way, nobody wants to see him here.”
“Is he here?”
“If he isn’t, he will be. It’s looking like the Panhandle is Isaac’s bull’s-eye.”
He sat back when he saw the waitress heading to their table. She brought Maggie’s Diet Coke and a pot of steaming coffee to fill Wurth’s mug.
“So what can I get you two?” This time she included Maggie.
“I’ll have a cheese-and-mushroom omelet.”
The waitress kept looking at her like she was waiting for more. Finally she said, “That’s it, hon?”
“You gotta have some grits with that,” Wurth told her. “Bring her some grits, Rita. I’ll have two eggs scrambled, sausage links, wheat toast, hash browns, and the Nassau grits.”
As soon as Rita turned to leave, Maggie raised her eyebrow at Wurth’s breakfast order.
“What? There’s a hurricane coming. Might be the last hot meal I get,” he said.
He glanced around and leaned in again.
“This one’s looking bad. Bulldozed over Cuba like it was a speed bump. Land masses usually slow them down a little. Instead, Isaac’s entering the Gulf as a cat 5, sustained winds at 156 miles per hour. There’s nothing between here and there to slow it down. Another day over warm waters and this monster might pick up even more steam. If it makes landfall as a cat 5, that’s brutal. We’re no longer talking about damage, we’re talking catastrophic damage.”
Maggie’s eyes darted around but she stayed with elbows on the table, hands circling her condensation-drenched plastic glass. “I guess I’m surprised there doesn’t seem to be much panic or anxiety.”
“Oh, there’s anxiety. Long lines yesterday. Hardware stores are sold out of generators and plywood. Grocery stores’ shelves are picked clean. Can’t find any bagged ice or bottled water. Most of the gas stations are pumped dry or just about there. But these folks”—Wurth pointed discreetly with his chin—“they look out for themselves and their neighbors. They know the drill. The Panhandle has already had a couple of tropical storms hit earlier this year, and with three hurricanes making landfall on Florida, they realize their odds.
“That’s the locals. Now the transplants—and there are plenty of them—they’re the ones I have to convince to evacuate and get to a shelter. The city commissioners will be declaring a state of emergency later this morning. You watch. We start getting closer to the realization that this storm’s gonna hit, that quiet anxiety will boil. Tempers will flare. Patience wears thin. We’ll start getting some pushing and shoving.”
Rita appeared again with half a dozen plates to set on their table. Magg
ie had to admit, everything smelled wonderful and it reminded her that she hadn’t had dinner last night.
She sliced into the omelet with her fork and melted cheese oozed out. Wurth scooped his grits into his scrambled eggs and using a slice of toast as a wedge he proceeded to wolf down the concoction.
“I haven’t exactly figured out what to do with you,” he said in between bites.
“You’ll drop me at the morgue. I can probably find my way back to the hotel.”
He shook his head, smothering his hash browns with salt and pepper. “No, no, I can pick you up and get you back to the hotel. I mean during the hurricane. We won’t be able to stay on the beach. Actually most of the hotel guests were checking out this morning. The manager’s doing us a favor letting us stay until he’s ordered to leave. Which will probably be tomorrow, depending on how soon the outer bands hit.”
“Ordered to leave?”
“Mandatory evacuation on the beach and in low-lying areas. Sheriff’s department goes door to door. Anyone wants to stay they have to sign off that they’re doing so at their own risk and are relieving the authorities of any further obligation.”
“Where will you be during the storm?”
“Probably working one of the shelters.”
“Then I’ll work one of the shelters.”
“I can’t ask you to do that, Maggie.”
“You’re not asking. I’m volunteering.”
He put his fork down and sat back to look at her. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I asked you to ride down here with me. All three hurricanes this season I’ve been the anti–Jim Cantore. Wherever I was sent, the storm turned and headed in the opposite direction. But I should have known my luck would change. Now I’ve brought you smack-dab in the middle and this one looks like it’ll be a monster.”
“Charlie, I can take care of myself. It’s one storm. How bad can it be?”
The look he gave her said she had no idea.
CHAPTER 32
Scott Larsen had left before Trish woke up. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all. His eyelids were heavy. His head throbbed. His mouth insisted he had swallowed a wad of cotton. Even his hair hurt when he combed it. Never again would he drink so much. In fact, he didn’t care if he had an ounce of alcohol ever again.
To make matters worse, he saw Joe had been back to the funeral home. One tap of a button and the alarm system revealed that someone using Scott’s key and code had entered at 3:10 in the morning and left at 4:00. What the hell was Joe doing?
Scott hoped he wouldn’t be sorry he had given Joe the code. As he came in the back door of the funeral home he caught himself wincing, the throbbing in his head bouncing off the backs of his eyeballs. He dreaded finding another mess in the embalming room. He could already smell the pungent odor of cleaners mixed with … what was that? Oh, yeah. Menthol.
He stopped before he got to the doorway. Clean. Thank God, it was clean. So the odors were from their afternoon work. Maybe Joe had added some specimens to the walk-in fridge. Scott was on his way to check when the buzzer at the back door went off. He glanced at his watch. The power guy he had called earlier was right on time. Damn well should be for what they were charging just to show Scott where to flip a switch for the generator.
“Mr. Larsen?” The guy towered over Scott. Or maybe the massive tool belt and size-twelve work boots made the man seem huge. An embroidered patch on his breast pocket said his name was Ted.
“That’s right, I’m Larsen,” Scott told him while he straightened his tie. It was a nervous habit and he stopped himself. Stupid to think he needed to show some authority with this guy. “I think all the electrical stuff is outside, around back.”
Scott led the way. He could feel sweat sliding down his back and sticking to his crisply pressed shirt. Luckily he kept spares in the office. Nobody trusted a sweaty funeral director.
The sky was murky, but it didn’t seem to block out the heat. If anything it heightened the humidity. Scott noticed the wind had picked up. Son of a bitch, that storm might actually hit.
“Here it is.” He pointed to the rectangular metal boxes with electrical wires weaving their way out of the top and bottom.
Ted flipped open the box’s door.
“Yeah, you’re all set up.”
Scott held back a sigh of relief. Of course, he was set up. He just needed to know how to turn the damn generator on.
“You push this button.” Ted pointed. “Followed by this one. That sequence, okay?” He was talking to him as if Scott were a third grader.
“Yeah, sure. No problem.” Scott answered, wanting to add “bastard.”
“Then you pull this lever.”
“Got it. Guess I’m good to go.” He turned, ready to walk the guy back.
“Wait a minute. What’s this one?” Ted had opened the other box.
“Oh that’s some stuff I added when I bought the place. A walkway to connect the buildings. Brand-new walk-in cooler. Couple of freezers. The old ones were too small. Pretty outdated.”
“You know that everything on this circuit board isn’t connected?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You won’t have generator power for anything you added on these circuits.”
“No, that can’t be right.”
“It’s not connected.” Ted pointed down below both boxes.
“Will it take long for you to connect it?”
Ted laughed. Then he must have seen the panic on Scott’s face. “Sorry, man. Even if I could connect it, your current generator wouldn’t have enough juice for everything on the second panel.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do?”
“If you have a separate generator, you can hook it up directly. Make sure you use the double-insulated power cord. You say you’ve got a walk-in cooler. That’s probably going to need 5500 all to itself.”
“So I just go out and buy a 5500 generator. No problem.”
“Go out and buy one? You mean you don’t already have another generator?”
“No.”
“Maybe you could use your home one.”
“I don’t have a home one. So I need to go to Home Depot or Lowe’s and get one?”
Now the guy laughed again. “I don’t think you’ll find one. Not around Pensacola anyway. My guess is they’re sold out.”
CHAPTER 33
Liz brought in the Pensacola News Journal and handed it to her dad on the way back to the kitchen.
“Thank you, darling.”
“Dad, you’ll never guess who I ran into on the beach last night.”
“Who’s that?”
“Scott.”
“Scott?”
“Scott Larsen, your son-in-law.”
“Scott? At the beach? Scott never goes to the beach.”
“Well, he was there last night and he was drunk.”
“Drunk? Scott? Scott doesn’t drink.”
“Very drunk.”
“Maybe a beer now and then. That’s about all I’ve ever seen him drink. What are you doing there?” He had followed her into the kitchen and was standing beside her, more interested in the stove top than in anything she was saying.
“I’m fixing us breakfast.”
“Eggs and bacon?”
“Dippy eggs.” That’s what he called them because he liked to dip his toast into the yolk. When he didn’t answer she added, “Sunny-side up, right? Or have you changed your preference.”
“No, no, that’s perfect.” He stayed watching. “You can cook?”
“Dad, I’ve lived on my own for eight years now. What do you think I do? Eat out all the time?”
“Trish always said you didn’t cook.”
“Yeah, I bet she did.”
“So what did Trish say?”
“About what?”
“About Scott being drunk.”
“I didn’t tell her.”
“She wasn’t with him?”
“Uh, noooo. You think he would be drunk i
f Trish was with him?”
“He’s an odd duck. Won’t even have a beer with me.”
Walter shook his head. Now at the refrigerator he poured orange juice for both of them. Then he did something that almost made Liz drop her spatula. He started setting the table: plates, coffee cups, sugar bowl, cream, silverware, even napkins and place mats. She stopped herself from commenting. Trish would have to correct him, make sure he switched the fork to the other side of the plate or that he folded the napkin. Liz just dropped bread in the toaster.
“I’m off until noon today,” she told him. “Anything I can do to help you?”
“In the canteen?”
“No, Dad. Here at the house. For the hurricane. Did you get everything you need? I’m sure store shelves are picked over by today.”
“Apple Market had all their refrigerated items discounted. Ground beef, twenty-five cents a pound.”
“Aren’t your own refrigerators full enough?”
“Maybe I’ll take the grill and do up a few burgers alongside the hot dogs.”
“Are you really taking the canteen out on the beach today?”
“Thought I would for a few hours around lunch.”
“People are going to be packing up. Everything will be closing down.”
“Exactly, and folks are still gonna need to get a bite to eat.”
She prepared their plates and, again, stopped herself from commenting. The canteen had saved him. Liz was willing to recognize that even if Trish wasn’t. It had given him something to do after their mom was gone. He didn’t need the money. The house was paid for and his pension as a retired navy commander seemed to be more than enough for him. But he did need the routine the Coney Island Canteen had brought into his life. More important, it surrounded him with people. Everybody on the beach knew the hot-dog man, or if they knew him well, it was “Mr. B.”
