Maggie O'Dell 08 - Damaged

by Alex Kava

  Yet there were days like today when Maggie didn’t want to confront her own vulnerabilities. Nor did she want her friend worrying. Maggie knew her insomnia was not just the inability to fall asleep. It was the nightmares that jolted her awake. Visions of her brother Patrick handcuffed to a suitcase bomb. The image of her mentor and boss lying in a hospital bed, his skeletal body invaded with tubes and needles. Herself trapped inside an ice coffin. A takeout container left on the counter of a truck stop, seeping blood. Rows and rows of Mason jars filled with floating body parts.

  The problem was that those nightmare images were not the creation of an overactive or fatigued imagination but, rather, were memories, snapshots of very real experiences. The compartments Maggie had spent years carefully constructing in her mind—the places where she locked away the horrific snapshots—had started to leak. Just like Gwen had predicted.

  “One of these days,” her wise friend had warned, “you’re going to need to deal with the things you’ve seen and done, what’s been done to you. You can’t tuck them away forever.”

  The cell phone startled both Maggie and Harvey this time. She patted him as she reached across his body to retrieve the phone. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear Gwen’s voice.

  “Maggie O’Dell.”

  “Hey.”

  Close. It was Gwen’s boyfriend, R. J. Tully, who happened to be Maggie’s partner. That was before the FBI buckled down on costs. Now they found themselves working singularly and assigned to very few of the same cases. However, Tully had been one of the contingency there today at the warehouse, one of half a dozen agents who witnessed Kunze’s kill shot.

  “Thought I’d check to see if you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine.” Too quick. She bit down on her lower lip. Would Tully call her on it? Gwen would. Before he had a chance to respond, she tried to change the subject. “I was just about to call Emma.”

  “Emma?” Tully sounded like he didn’t recognize his daughter’s name.

  “To stay with Harvey. I need to leave tomorrow morning. Early. Charlie Wurth has a case in Florida he wants me to check out. Is Emma home?”

  Too long of a pause. He knew what she was up to. He was a profiler, too. But would he let her get away with it? Gwen wouldn’t.

  “She hasn’t left for college yet, has she?” Maggie asked the question only to fill the silence. She knew the girl was dragging her feet about going.

  “No. Not until late next week. She’s not here right now, but I’m sure she’ll be okay about staying with Harvey. Text her instead of calling. You’ll get an immediate response.” Another pause. “Does AD Kunze know about this trip?”

  “Of course, he does.” She hated that it came out with an edge. “Wurth checked it out with him.” She didn’t add that Kunze thought it was a good idea. Tully would add it on his own. He had faced the wrath of Kunze last fall when their new boss put Tully on suspension. “It’s probably not a big deal,” Maggie jumped in again. “Some body parts found in a cooler off the coast.”

  “More body parts.” She could hear Tully laugh. “Sounds like you’re becoming an expert on killers who chop up their victims.”

  She would have laughed, too, if it wasn’t so close to being true. Then, without regard to all the work she had done to change the subject, Maggie heard herself say, “Do me a favor, don’t tell Gwen about today, okay?”

  “Not a problem.” This time there had been no pause, no hesitation. A partner backing up another partner. “Let me know if I can help. With the case,” he added, allowing her cover.

  CHAPTER 6

  HILTON PENSACOLA BEACH GULF FRONT

  Scott Larsen sipped his draft beer and waited for the man he’d secretly nicknamed “the Death Salesman.” It was sort of a term of endearment, one colleague to another. After all, Scott didn’t mind that some people—including his own wife—sometimes called him a death merchant. Sounded sexier than funeral director or even mortician.

  He watched the back door to the hotel from the deck bar. This was the first time they were meeting outside of Scott’s office. Scott was good at his job, good at being the professional. He didn’t do casual or social very well, and in his line of work you never mixed business with pleasure so it worked just fine.

  The cute, blond bartender had already given him a refill and his head was beginning to feel a bit fuzzy. He’d never been good at holding his liquor, even beer, though he was pretty good at pretending. As soon as the buzz began, he slowed down his speech and carefully measured his words.

  His wife, Trish, claimed he was too good at pretending. But then he’d had a lot of practice. That was, after all, what the funeral business was all about, wasn’t it? Pretend the deceased is at peace. Pretend he’s gone on to a better place. Pretend that you care.

  Scott glanced at his wristwatch and turned to look back at the water. He tried not to stare at any of the young bikinied bodies though the beach was filled with them this early on a Saturday evening. He was a married man now, or at least he could use that as an excuse. He stunk at flirting, too. He could be so charming when it came to widows, holding their hands and letting them sob on his shoulder. But put him in a room full of beautiful, sexy women and he choked. Had no clue what to do or what to talk about. His palms got sweaty, his tongue swelled in his mouth. Couldn’t even fake his way around. It was a wonder he ever snagged Trish. He was lucky and grateful and he tried never to forget that.

  He started to turn back around to watch the hotel door when he noticed a guy walking up the beach with a confident, relaxed stride, deck shoes in one hand and the other casually slipped into the pocket of his long khaki shorts. The hem of his pink button-down shirt flapped in the breeze. He wasn’t stunningly handsome and yet that confident stride turned some heads. The guy looked like he had stepped off the cover of GQ and nothing like a death salesman. In fact, it took a minute or two before Scott recognized him. He certainly hadn’t expected him to come walking up the beach.

  Scott waved at him then felt ridiculous when he didn’t receive an acknowledgment. Instead, the guy simply strolled through the crowd of bikinis and made his way to the barstool next to Scott without even a nod or glance. He was always so cool.

  “What do you have for Scotch, single malt?” he asked the cute bartender, who was already in front of him by the time he settled in his seat.

  “Sorry, no single malts and the best blend I’ve got is Johnnie Walker.”

  “Blue Label?”

  Scott watched the bartender smile with what looked like admiration.

  “No, again, sorry. Black Label’s best I can do.”

  “That’s perfect,” he told her, as if that was exactly what he wanted all along. Then he turned to Scott. “Join me?”

  The attention caught Scott off guard, like a spectator suddenly pulled onto the playing field. The bartender, probably thinking Scott was some total stranger, now seemed even more impressed and she was waiting for Scott’s response.

  “Sure. Thanks,” he managed as casually as he could.

  “On the rocks for both of you?” she asked.

  “Yeah, that’d be great,” Scott told her, pretending it was his preference when he couldn’t remember if he’d ever had Scotch before.

  “Neat, for me.”

  Another smile from the bartender that almost made Scott want to change his order.

  “This place was a great choice, Scott,” the Death Salesman said, and Scott immediately relaxed and felt a rush of … what? It was silly but there really was something about this guy that made you want to please him.

  That’s when Scott realized he needed to calm his buzz down a notch so that he didn’t slip and call him by the nickname in his head. Scott had wondered if Joe Black was his real name from the first time he introduced himself. That was, after all, the name of a movie character. This guy didn’t look at all like Brad Pitt, but he certainly had that same charm and confidence. And the irony, if it was not his real name, only garnered more admiration from S
cott. Joe Black, the character in the movie, was actually death masquerading as an ordinary Joe. It was probably what triggered Scott into secretly referring to him as the Death Salesman. His new friend—no, that wasn’t right, they weren’t friends, though Scott would like them to be—his new colleague was far from an ordinary Joe.

  “Yeah, it’s absolutely beautiful out here, isn’t it?” Scott said. “You’d never guess there’s a hurricane on its way.”

  The bartender delivered their drinks and this time she brought a complimentary bowl of nuts and pretzels. Perks seemed to gravitate to Joe Black, and Scott was happy to be along for the ride.

  “Are you set up if it hits?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Have extra room if I need some space for a couple of days?”

  “Oh sure,” Scott told him and he sipped the Scotch, trying not to wince as it burned a path down his throat. “One of the first things I did when I bought the place was replace the walk-in. This new one has plenty of space, extra shelves. It’s top-of-the-line.”

  In fact, he hadn’t given a second thought to the hurricane. There had already been three this summer and none had ventured this far north into the Gulf. Scott had grown up in Michigan. Had no clue about hurricanes. Pensacola was Trish’s hometown. In the two years he’d lived here he hadn’t had to deal with the threat. When he bought the funeral home, he assumed it was set up for such things. He did know that there was an emergency generator, and if and when the time came he’d figure out how it worked or hire someone to do it for him.

  Holmes and Meyers Funeral Home wasn’t the first business Scott had run. Up in Michigan he had managed three funeral homes. Though this was the first one he owned, it wasn’t any different. He was good at business, knew how to turn a profit, cut costs, and try innovative approaches to solving problems. He did what it took, like keeping the name even though no descendants of Holmes or Meyers worked at the place anymore. You couldn’t put a dollar amount on the value of reputation, especially in the funeral business. Yeah, he was still a little nervous now that he was responsible for the place as well as for the huge banknote in his name. But his success was why Joe Black had chosen him and his funeral home in the first place.

  “You’re sticking around through the week?” Scott asked.

  “I’ve got another conference in Destin on Monday. That’s if they don’t cancel because of the weather. I could use some storage space.”

  “Oh sure. Bring whatever you have with you tomorrow. I’m sure I can make room. We’re still on for tomorrow, right?”

  “Absolutely.” He swirled the Scotch in his glass and turned to face Scott, giving him his attention. “So, this is exciting. Your first indie.”

  “Indie?”

  “Indigent donor.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Scott laughed, trying to hide his embarrassment. He needed to figure out the lingo or he’d never be cool. “Who knew it would be so easy.”

  “Already delivered?”

  “And waiting.”

  “Good.”

  But now Joe’s eyes were tracking someone or something just over Scott’s shoulder. He glanced in the direction and sighed before he could catch himself.

  “What?” Joe said. “You know her?”

  The object of Joe’s distraction was the only woman at a table with four men. She seemed to be the center of attention, making them laugh.

  “My sister-in-law.”

  “Really?”

  “Forget about her, though. I don’t think she plays for our team.”

  Joe looked at him and raised an eyebrow but before Scott could explain, Joe’s cell phone started ringing. He slipped it out of his shirt pocket, a razor-thin rectangle of silver and red that glowed pink when he opened it.

  “This is Joe Black.”

  Silence as Joe listened and ran an index finger over the rim of his glass. Scott caught himself watching out of the corner of his eye but he didn’t want to look like he was eavesdropping. He turned his barstool around, swinging it in the direction of Liz’s table. She’d never notice him anyway. No one ever did. Besides, her table was at the restaurant next door.

  Another glance and Scott saw that his father-in-law was one of the four men.

  Now he almost wished they did see him, drinking expensive Scotch with a classy buddy. It would certainly give both of them a new image of him. And he wouldn’t mind having an excuse for introducing Joe. Maybe even having them report back to Trish about his business dealings loosening him up. Isn’t that what Trish was always telling him? That he needed to get out more? Instead he kept his back to Liz and his father-in-law. He pretended to be admiring the view.

  “That’s pretty short notice,” Joe said into the phone. “No, I can do it. I’m just concerned how expensive it’ll be for you.”

  Scott wiped off a smile before Joe could catch it. What a salesman. He was telling some customer that he was going to charge him a ton of money and made it sound like he was only concerned about the client.

  “Let me see what I can do and I’ll get back to you tomorrow.” No “goodbye.” No “thanks” or “talk to you later.” Just a click and a flip.

  “Always working,” Scott said.

  “You know it,” Joe Black said. “How about another one of these?”

  He held up the glass and drained it in one gulp, not at all how Scott thought this expensive stuff should be drunk. But even as Joe called over the bartender, Scott could see him glance back over Scott’s shoulder.

  CHAPTER 7

  NAVAL AIR STATION

  PENSACOLA, FLORIDA

  Benjamin Platt insisted on seeing some of the worst cases. Yes, he was exhausted. Still a bit jet-lagged from the Afghanistan flight followed too soon by the one from D.C. to Florida, but he knew that if Captain Ganz took him to his hotel he wouldn’t sleep. He’d be thinking about all these plastic tents with wounded soldiers waiting to find out what they’d been exposed to.

  After examining just five soldiers, he grew more confused. Their injuries were all different. Their surgeries were different as well, but all were to repair limbs that had been severed, crushed, or otherwise damaged. Some were now amputees waiting to heal and be fitted with prosthetics. Many of the injuries—though it was always disheartening to see a soldier lose an arm or leg—were not necessarily life-threatening.

  “Could it be something here at the hospital?” Platt asked Captain Ganz as they escaped to a lounge where they could be free of their masks and goggles and gloves.

  “We haven’t done anything differently. Nothing I can find that would suddenly be a problem.”

  “You’re thinking it might be something they were exposed to in Afghanistan? That perhaps they brought back with them?”

  “Is that possible? Could a strain lie dormant?”

  “And what? Come alive when you cut into them?”

  Ganz wouldn’t meet Platt’s eyes, and Platt knew that must be exactly what the captain was most afraid of.

  “There’s nothing like that. Not that I’m aware of,” Platt told him.

  “But it’s not entirely impossible?”

  Platt didn’t have an answer. Two things his years at USAMRIID had taught him were to never say never and that anything was possible.

  “How many cases do you have isolated here?”

  Ganz didn’t have to stop to calculate. He knew off the top of his head. “Seventy-six.”

  “And for how long?”

  “We started isolating eight days ago. But some of these soldiers had their surgical procedures up to eighteen days ago.”

  “All of them were operated on here?”

  “Yes, though some had temporary procedures done at Bagram before being flown here.”

  “Any similarities there?”

  “None that we’ve been able to isolate. Those who remain at Bagram haven’t come down with the same symptoms. In fact, they haven’t lost anyone in the same manner. You’d think that’s where the problem should be.” Ganz attempted a laugh, but
there was no humor, just frustration.

  “You still have blood samples from the soldiers you lost. I’d like to take look at them.”

  “Our lab has already examined them extensively—” But Ganz stopped and shook his head like a sleepwalker suddenly waking himself. He waved his hand as if to erase what he had said. “Of course. I’ll have someone set them up for you. What will you be looking for?”

  Platt shrugged. “Sometimes when we’re focused on specifics, maybe particular pathogens like MRSA, we can miss other things that might not be so obvious.” He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly feeling the exhaustion again. Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, which surpassed HIV as the most deadly pathogen in the United States, was resistant to most antibiotics. It had become all too prevalent after surgical procedures, so it was one of the first things to look for when an infection resulted. “I’ll start by looking to see if there’s any cell degradation.”

  “You could probably use some sleep first. A few hours could help. I did pull you down here before you had a chance to catch your breath.”

  “I’ll be fine. Maybe some good strong coffee.”

  The door to the lounge opened and a doctor in blue scrubs leaned inside, eyes urgent, not taking the time to enter.

  “Captain, we’re losing another one.”

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 23

  CHAPTER 8

  SUNDAY MORNING

  HARTSFIELD-JACKSON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT