by Alex Kava
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
Maggie’s 6:00 AM flight put her in Atlanta just before eight. Under two hours and it was still enough to rattle her composure. She hated flying—not the crowds, not the inconvenience, not even a fear of heights, but rather being trapped at thirty-eight thousand feet without any control. Even the upgrade to first class that Wurth managed to snag for her had done little to help.
He was waiting in baggage claim. For a small man he could deliver a body-crushing hug.
“Easy,” Maggie told him. “What will people think?”
“Oh, it’s okay here in Atlanta,” Wurth countered. “But don’t touch me once we leave the city and head into the South. You may even have to sit in the backseat so I can pretend I’m driving you.”
She rolled her eyes. She knew he was joking, but at the same time she knew there were still pockets in the South where a black man and a white woman in a vehicle together might draw some looks. But it couldn’t be anything close to what they had already been through.
Maggie and Wurth had shared a terror-filled weekend last November. On the Friday following Thanksgiving, three young college students carrying backpacks loaded with explosives had blown up a section of Mall of America. Maggie and Wurth were dispatched to sort through the rubble and had tried to stop a second attack. In the end they had bonded against an unexpected and powerful enemy. It had been the beginning of Maggie’s tumultuous relationship with her new boss, Assistant Director Raymond Kunze, and Charlie Wurth ended up becoming her ally, stepping in to defend her when Kunze would not.
“That’s it?” Wurth said when she showed him her small Pullman. Dragging it behind her, she started leading him to the claims office to retrieve her firearm. “O’Dell, for most women I know, that teeny thing would be their handbag.”
“Guess I’m not most women.”
“You’re what we men call low maintenance. I’ve heard stories about low-maintenance women but I’ve never known one until now.”
With her gun safely holstered, Maggie followed Wurth outside to a black Escalade parked at the curb. An airport security officer had been watching over it and now opened the back while Wurth took Maggie’s Pullman and lifted it in.
“Thanks, man.” Wurth reached up to pat the officer on his shoulder. He was at least a head taller than Wurth.
“You be safe,” the officer said as he opened the passenger door for Maggie.
Inside, the vehicle was spotless except for a pile of CD covers scattered in the console between them.
“I didn’t realize rental places had these luxury SUVs anymore.”
“Oh, they probably don’t.” Wurth turned the engine and blasted the AC. “This one’s not a rental. It’s mine.”
“You’re driving your personal vehicle down into a hurricane?”
“It’s not about that.” He smiled and shook his head. “We goin’ down South, cherie. Into the middle of hurricane frenzy. A scrawny black man with a beautiful white woman—I’m packing all my necessary documents: registration, license, and proof of insurance, along with my badge.”
She laughed but Wurth wasn’t laughing.
“You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack.” He punched a couple of buttons on the dashboard and the sound of soft jazz filled the interior. “We’ve got about five hours of interstate. How ’bout we hit Mickey D’s drive-through for a couple of sausage biscuits?”
“In an Escalade with soft jazz? Sounds perfect.”
“Low, low maintenance,” he said. “I’m liking this.”
She let him maneuver his way out of Hartfield-Jackson before she started prodding him.
“Have you learned anything since last night?”
“They have already unwrapped everything.” He glanced at her over his sunglasses. “Sorry. I should have thought of it sooner. I’m not accustomed to dealing in body parts.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure they followed protocol.”
Maggie remembered what Tully had said about her becoming an expert. It wasn’t the kind of thing she wished to add to her résumé.
“Turns out there were five packages: one male torso, one foot, and three hands.”
“Left or right?”
“Excuse me?”
“The hands and the foot. Were they left or right?”
This time he flashed an embarrassed grin. “Again, sorry O’Dell. I didn’t think to ask.” He shook his head. “I thought my job had some interesting variables, but you got me beat.”
“Three hands? It’s more than one victim.”
“So did we stumble on his trophies or his disposables?”
Maggie shrugged and leaned back in the leather captain seat. The car’s AC was noiseless, chilling the interior as smoothly as the jazz filled it.
“A cooler this size could act as sort of a floating coffin, taking it farther out to sea. If the lid isn’t locked predators would take care of the remains, get rid of all the evidence. But the plastic wrapping suggests this guy didn’t intend for the cooler to get away from him. I should be able to tell more once I see everything firsthand. Will I be able to visit the crime scene?”
“I was told that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“And the cooler?”
“Waiting for you. The packages, however, are already with the ME. He’ll take a look at them tomorrow morning. And yes, he’s expecting your presence. You won’t find much resistance. If anything, you might find a lack of interest. With this hurricane coming, the local law enforcement has more important things to worry about.”
“A storm is more important than a killer on the loose?”
Wurth glanced over at her as he turned into the parking lot of a McDonald’s. “You’ve never been in a hurricane before, huh?”
“That obvious?”
“Your killers carve up, what? Six bodies? A dozen over several months? Maybe several years? Isaac has already killed sixty-seven in forty-eight hours. This time, O’Dell, I think my killer trumps your killer.”
CHAPTER 9
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
Liz Bailey fumbled around the kitchen trying to fix breakfast, silently vowing that she would take time to buy the things she couldn’t find. She hadn’t lived in her father’s house since high school. Her sister had lived here until she married Scott. That was two years ago—just enough time for her father to arrange things so that only he could find them.
She’d moved back in temporarily only because the housing she was promised with her transfer wouldn’t be available for two months. Now searching for the toaster she wondered if she’d last that long.
She turned up the radio for the local weather report.
“Hurricane Isaac is expected to slam into the western side of Cuba today. Last night it bulldozed over Grand Cayman, flooding homes, ripping off roofs, and toppling trees. More than half the homes on Grand Cayman are said to be damaged. And yet, Isaac hasn’t lost any of its steam. It’s now a cat 4 and traveling about ten miles an hour with sustained winds of 150 miles an hour. And guess what folks, it’s still expected to take that slight turn to the north/northeast, which means, you guessed it, we’re smack-dab in the middle of its path. Landfall may be sometime Wednesday. Time to start boarding up, stocking up, and moving out, folks.”
“They’re always wrong,” her dad said as he shuffled in, still in his pajamas though he had been up for an hour reading the newspaper and drinking coffee.
Finally, the toaster! Liz found it in the bottom cabinet under the sink. Of course, the last place she’d think to look. She pulled it out without any comment. Trish would have commented, scolded, and instructed where the toaster should be stored.
“Not this time, Dad. The CG and the NHC has the Florida Panhandle in the crosshairs.”
“Well, that’s not where the media says it’s gonna hit. They’re all in New Orleans again, ready and waiting. This morning’s Journal has the projected path drawn from Galveston to Tampa, and they all act like New Orleans is the only place they
give a damn about.”
“You should get gas today. And batteries and bottled water. Won’t Trish and Scott need to come stay with you? They can’t stay on the bay.”
“I’ve got a whole container of batteries and plenty of bottled water in the garage. Enough food in the refrigerators to feed us for a week.”
“You’ll need a generator just to keep your three refrigerators running.”
“I’ve got three generators.”
“Then you better get gas today, Dad. Will you do that? Will you promise me you’ll get the gas cans filled today?”
“Sure, sure.”
“You won’t put it off?”
“I’ll go out before lunch. But you’re not gonna be here anyway. Where will they send you?”
“Probably Jacksonville. Someplace out of the path but close enough we can fly in immediately after. Remember, I told you. We came in right behind Katrina, so close I could see the swell of the backstorm. I imagine we’ll try to do the same this time.”
“Those boys sure have taken a liking to you.” He filled his coffee cup, standing beside her as she waited for the toaster to spit out her bagel.
“Yeah, we’re all a bunch of buddies.” She wanted to add that it was easy to be buddies after a few beers, but she’d never let her dad know that it was anything different.
“They have a small article in the Journal about that cooler you brought up yesterday.”
“Really?”
“Front page. Bottom right-hand corner. I set it aside for you.”
“Tell me what they said.” She slathered cream cheese on her toasted bagel and took a bite. Her dad read every inch of the daily Pensacola News Journal and could usually repeat almost verbatim the articles he took an interest in.
“Suspicious fishing cooler retrieved by the Coast Guard,” he told her, while tipping little splashes of cream into his coffee like he was rationing it. “It didn’t mention anything about the contents or even suggest foul play or that it had body parts inside.”
Liz almost choked on her bagel.
“Why do you think there were body parts?”
“It’s okay. I won’t say anything to anybody. The little guy, the one who had all the hot dogs and couldn’t hold his liquor—Tommy? He let it slip about the foot. He said there was other stuff, too, so I’m just assuming there might be the rest of a body.”
So much for all their training. Liz knew Wilson and Ellis were green, but this was ridiculous. The entire aircrew could get suspended for something like this.
“You know there was an article in last week’s Journal. Someplace up near Washington, D.C. A possible serial killer. One of those sick bastards who kept pieces of his victim. Maybe this is related.”
“Dad, I can’t talk about it. You know I can’t discuss this.”
“I’m just talking about the news.”
He struggled with a bagel for himself, trying to cut it in half with a bread knife. Liz gently took it from him, twisted it apart, and dropped both halves in the toaster.
“Okay, so tell me what you read about the serial killer.”
CHAPTER 10
NORTH SEVENTEENTH AVENUE UNDERPASS
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
Billy Redding hit the jackpot. His battered shopping cart rattled with stacked aluminum cans. He crushed as many as he could until his hands were sore. The curse of small hands. In fact, Billy had convinced himself years ago that it had always been his worthless little hands that had prevented him from being successful in life. But maybe his luck was turning. Now with most of the cans crushed and almost flat, he could fit another two dozen into the cart.
Saturday nights always left a jackpot in the Wayside Park trash barrels. The trick, Billy had discovered, was to get here early enough on Sunday to beat the city’s cleanup crew. Cashing in this pile would take care of him for a week.
He headed back to the underpass to hide his stash. The short distance exhausted him. He was out of breath when he heard a car coming from behind him. Billy pushed back onto the curb to get out of the way. The car slowed. Billy kept moving uphill, panting in the morning humidity. His T-shirt stuck to his back like a second skin. He hated that and wore a long-sleeve button-down shirt over it, thinking it would act as a layer of insulation or at least soak up the extra moisture. He didn’t mind being hot. He hated being wet. Bugs would get tangled in his beard whenever it got wet. That’s why he learned to stick close to the underpass. It provided shelter from the rain.
“Hey, Billy,” someone called out to him.
He wanted to pretend he didn’t hear them. He needed to keep going. But sometimes people stopped and gave him a couple of bucks. He glanced over his shoulder.
A police cruiser. Damn!
He stopped immediately. Secured the shopping cart with a rock under one of the back wheels. A big rock he carried strictly for that purpose.
As he got closer to the car Billy recognized the orange-haired cop. Sometimes they told him their names but he never remembered. He was always polite. As long as he was polite, they were polite back. So Billy just kept his head down and answered their questions, said “yes” a lot and called them “sir.” Once he even called a female cop “sir.” He was so embarrassed that he couldn’t stutter out an apology. She ended up giving him five bucks and said not to worry about it.
“There’s a hurricane coming this way, Billy,” the cop told him through the rolled-down window of the cruiser.
“Yes, sir.”
“When the time comes I’ll send someone here to pick you up. You’re going to need to go to a hurricane shelter. Do you understand, Billy? You won’t be able to stay out here.”
“Yes, sir. Will I be able to bring my shopping cart?”
“They’ll have food and everything else you’ll need at the shelter.”
Billy kept his head down and kicked at the curb. “It’s hard to find these.”
The cop was quiet and out of the corner of his eyes Billy could see him shaking his head.
“Sure, Billy. We’ll figure something out. I’ll tell them you can bring your cart.”
Billy bagged some of the cans and put them in his safe spot, a deserted grassy hideaway several yards from the underpass. If he hurried back to the park, he might be able to grab more cans before the cleanup crew arrived. He couldn’t go to the recycling kiosk until tomorrow. It’d take a whole day.
His cart rattled even more now with only half the crushed cans to jump around. Billy liked the jingle-jangle. It reminded him of the sound of loose change in his daddy’s trouser pocket. “Ice-cream money,” he’d call it and the two of them would laugh at their secret code so Billy’s mama wouldn’t know they were really going out to buy and share a cheap bottle of vodka.
Billy had just gotten to the park when he heard another vehicle pull in behind him. He moved out of the way but the van stopped alongside him.
“Hey,” a man called out.
Billy kept going, glancing back at the van. The man wore dark sunglasses and rested his arm out the window. Billy noticed a patch on the shoulder. A uniform. Like a cop. Had they sent someone to get him already? He stopped and looked up into the clear-blue sky then turned toward the water of the bay. The waves churned over the ledge but it didn’t look like a hurricane was coming.
“You need to come with me,” the man said to him. “I know it looks like a nice day, but there’s a hurricane on the way.”
“Yes, sir. I know that.” Billy stayed on the curb. “They told me I could bring my shopping cart.”
The man stared at him. Billy decided he wouldn’t go if they didn’t let him take the shopping cart.
“Sure, I’ve got room.” The man climbed out of the van and slid open the side door, ready to help Billy. “You probably should climb in beside it and keep it from tipping.”
As Billy started to crawl inside, stepping over all the bags of ice, he tried to remember if any of the other cops wore khaki shorts and really nice deck shoes. That was his last thought as the
rock cracked the back of his skull.
CHAPTER 11
NAVAL AIR STATION
PENSACOLA, FLORIDA
Benjamin Platt cut himself again as the tiny bathroom fixtures shook and clattered from the vibration. Overhead, the steady buzz of airplanes and helicopters taking off continued. There would be no break anytime soon, and Platt’s attempt at shaving was leaving him with enough nicks and scars that he considered growing a beard.
The latest weather reports had the eye of Hurricane Isaac heading straight for the Florida Panhandle even though the storm hadn’t entered the Gulf of Mexico yet. The base wasn’t taking any chances. The naval flight school had called in pilots, flight instructors, and even students to fly aircraft to safer ground. And this morning the admiral was adamant about moving the quarantined soldiers to safer ground as well.
Platt had escaped late last night to get a couple hours’ rest, though sleep didn’t come easily. He couldn’t get the image of the young soldier out of his mind. By the time Platt found Captain Ganz, the admiral had already called. Platt only witnessed the aftermath.
Ganz had been unnerved about losing yet another patient, but the admiral’s insistence on an evacuation of the makeshift isolation ward left the captain angry and frustrated. He was depending on Platt to find some answers and find them quickly.
Now as Platt headed over to the lab to participate in the autopsy, he felt a new weight on his shoulders. He hadn’t even had a chance to look at the blood samples. Ganz was in a hurry, not just to come up with answers before another soldier collapsed but also to beat the storm. Platt wanted to tell him to slow down. He wanted to tell him that sometimes these things took weeks, months to figure out. But he knew that was exactly why Ganz had requested his presence. The captain was placing all his bets on Platt discovering some hidden virus, some new deadly strain of bacteria. He expected a miracle. And from what Platt had seen in the short amount of time since his arrival, he knew—barring a miracle—there would be no immediate answers.
