Stairway to the Bottom - a Mick Murphy Key West Mystery

by Michael Haskins

  The van bounced a few times while I yelled and gagged, but its bouncing meant nothing to me. Then it stopped. It didn’t take much to get me outside but the stench followed. I fell to my knees retching with the dry heaves because I had nothing left to spew. I didn’t have time to feel the scrapes to my legs.

  Cold water streamed toward my head, soaking the hood. The hood came off with a yank and the water continued to wash over me, diluting the vomit. Someone laughed. I shook my head and opened my eyes. The men were still in ski masks. One held the hose that sprayed me and another held the hood in front of the hose. I took a deep breath, my throat was raw, and I thought I was going to vomit again, but nothing came up. They laughed as the water bathed me.

  I looked around as my panic dwindled. There was an old, rundown shack at the water’s edge with a dirt parking lot. Across the water, I heard voices. This had to be Stock Island. From behind, someone pulled my bound arms backward and the pain shot through my shoulders and into my neck. I winced it hurt so badly.

  “Up asshole,” a whispered voice demanded.

  The pain gave me incentive to stand and when I was up, my kidnapper let go of my hands but my shoulders still ached. He placed the damp hood over my head and pushed a gun into my back forcing me toward the shack. I fought the need to gag.

  Someone took my left arm and helped me up a few stairs. I breathed through my mouth and started paying attention to what was going on around me. The men continued to hide their identity and it had to mean they didn’t want me to see who they were. I took it as a sign they didn’t plan to kill me. Maybe I knew them.

  That knowledge brought my panic level down to high anxiety.

  Three men kidnapped me but there was a fourth, the driver. He kept out of sight.

  The room was stuffy. These old shacks have windows, but the kidnappers hadn’t bothered to open them.

  “Sit down, asshole,” the man holding my arm whispered.

  Why were they whispering? Would I recognize them? The more they wanted to hide their identity the better off my chances were of getting out of whatever this was alive. Thinking I might know the men doing this was frightening.

  “Tell us where Doyle Mulligan is.” The words came out robotic and distorted, as if they were computer generated. It sounded the way Hollywood disguised voices during phoned-in ransom demands in the movies.

  “Doyle?” I gasped through the hood. “I can’t breathe.”

  Their muffled voices came from across the small room.

  “Where is Dick Walsh?” the robotic voice asked.

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled between breaths.

  “You saw him,” the voice said, “you met him and you expect us to believe you do not know where he is?”

  “Take the hood off.” I gasped. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Tell us what we want to know, first.”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” I said between coughs.

  “Why should we believe you?”

  “Why would I lie? I owe him nothing.”

  “We need to find Doyle…”

  “I don’t know Doyle.”

  “You know him as Dick Walsh.”

  “The Dick Walsh I know is probably on a beach in Cuba,” I said, trying to breathe through my mouth. “Take this hood off, I can’t breathe.”

  “The hood is the least of your problems, Murphy.”

  It was the first time they used my name. I don’t know what that meant, but I noted it, it had to mean something.

  “One last time, where is he?” The hardness in the voice scared me.

  “If I knew I’d tell you.”

  “What did he want with you? Why reach out to you?” The hardness remained.

  “He wanted me to write his story.” I gasped for air. “I said no and that was it.”

  “Difficult to believe.”

  “The truth usually is.”

  “You understand my problem? I have to know you’re not lying.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “A good question. Now I need to find the answer.”

  I heard someone walk toward me. A cold blade poked at my throat and I pulled back.

  “Sit still or you’ll be cut.”

  I felt the knife tear my T-shirt. The person moved away and someone doused me with water.

  “I need to know you’re not lying and I can’t take your word,” the robotic voice said slowly. “This is not something any of us take pleasure in.”

  My anxiety gave way to full panic. I squirmed in my chair, pain shot up my arms as I tried to stand. Hands forced me back into the chair, pressing on my aching shoulders.

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” I yelled.

  I felt two bee stings in my stomach, and I convulsed from the electricity that shot into my body. I couldn’t control myself. Everything went dark as I slid out of the chair onto my bruised knees, my body shaking. It didn’t last long and then someone put me back into the chair.

  “Where is he?” The voice asked.

  Even if I wanted to answer, I couldn’t. I gagged and coughed and my raw throat burned. I felt two more bee stings on my chest and I was on the floor, shaking without any control. Red lights flashed behind my eyes, as my face scrunched up in pain. Electricity raced inside my body, sending tingling sensations throughout.

  Chapter 22

  A buzzing sound in my ears, as if a swarm of bumblebees circled me, forced my eyes open. I swatted at the invisible bees with flaying arms. I felt lightheaded, thirsty and ached all over. My T-shirt was gone, blood spatter that was sticky to the touch covered my cargo shorts, and my sandals lay on the damp ground. When I went to stand I fell back, disoriented, and realized I had no place to go because I couldn’t remember who or where I was. Invisible bees continued to buzz around my confusion.

  Mangrove bushes surrounded me and a paved road was less than ten-feet away. In one pocket of my shorts, I found almost one-hundred dollars in tens and twenties. I reached into the back pocket and pulled out my wallet. The driver’s license reminded me I was Liam Murphy, a redhead with a cropped beard, but for an address, it gave a post office box number. Where did I live?

  I recognized Tita’s photo in the wallet and smiled.

  “Tita,” I said aloud with a gravelly voice. “How did I get here?” I wanted to hear my voice. “Where are you?” I put her photo back and returned the wallet to my pocket.

  Standing, I slipped my feet into the sandals and slowly pushed my way through the mangroves to the road, with my knees burning like hot coals. No traffic. More mangroves on the other side. I turned left and began a slow walk in the hot sun.

  “Left is always right,” I said aloud and remembered Norm Burke laughing at that comment. Some things were clear to me while others seemed like escaping dreams. I knew Norm Burke and that he laughed at things I said, but who was he?

  My throat hurt and my shoulders felt like a truck had run over them. I raised my hands and they were scratched red around the wrists. My arms and stomach had bruises on them. My knees were scraped as if they’d run into a belt sander. How’d the injuries get there? I kept walking.

  If I saw a taxi, and if it would stop for someone who looked like me, I could pay for the ride home. Home, I realized was a marina. But where?

  The sun felt hot, I was thirsty, frustrated and confused. When I touched my stomach, spasms rippled through my chest. I couldn’t shake the dizziness as I plodded along.

  Traffic moved on a road up ahead and that excited me. There was an empty ball field to my left and a large apartment complex to my right, as I headed toward the traffic. A water fountain at the field caught my attention and I walked to it, bent down, and sucked in the warm water. It tasted good. I splashed some on my face and ran my hands through my hair and beard.

  Every so often, a car or two would drive along the crossroad. I left the ball field and walked to the grassy side of the street. Trailer homes lined the street to the left. A large restaurant stood
across the street to the right and a handful of small shops lined up next to it. A neon anchor blinked on-and-off from the roof and I recognized the Rusty Anchor Restaurant. I knew I was on Stock Island.

  I crossed the street and did my best to run toward the restaurant. My body wasn’t as willing as my mind. When I got to the parking lot, I felt nauseated and leaned against a pickup truck for support. The pickup began spinning around me, the restaurant moved with it and I held on tight to the truck’s tailgate. Vertigo.

  When my world stopped spinning, I stumbled to the outside smoker’s bench. I dropped into the wooden seat and winced at the pain, bent over and vomited the water from the park. I could see people staring at me through the restaurant window. I knew I should get up, move away, head to the line of shops, and call a cab, but I couldn’t force myself to stand.

  I wanted to sleep but knew I had to move.

  A burning sensation engulfed my knees when I tried to stand. I sat back down. I closed my eyes, maybe passed out, but when I opened them, a Monroe County Sheriff’s patrol car had stopped in front of me. A female deputy got out.

  “Mick?” she said with a surprised look. “Mick, are you okay?”

  She moved around the car and came to me. I realized my name was Mick. Why was it Liam on the driver’s license?

  “Yeah.” I forced out.

  “You look horrible,” she said standing in front of me. “What happened?”

  Her uniform nametag showed her as Deputy Herrin. The name seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  “I ah…no, deputy, I’m not okay?”

  “What happened?” She sat next to me.

  “I don’t know.”

  She touched my shoulder and I winced.

  “That hurt?” She pulled her hand away and used her two-way radio to have dispatch send an ambulance.

  “Everything hurts.” I tried a smiled but it wouldn’t come. “I woke up in the mangroves.” I pointed toward the park. “I don’t know how I got there.”

  “Did you do some bad drugs?”

  “I don’t do drugs,” I said and wondered if it was true. I also realized some sections of Stock Island were known for drug sales. I was beginning to remember, but not fast enough.

  “Booze?” She sat back and looked at me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “This ain’t a hangover.”

  “No, it isn’t.” She agreed. “Looks like someone beat you and did a good job of it. They steal your shirt?”

  I pulled the clump of money from my pocket. “They didn’t rob me.”

  “Where’s your shirt?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t know.”

  An EMT ambulance pulled into the parking lot and Deputy Herrin went to meet it. “Sit still,” she ordered as she walked away.

  The EMTs were very professional. They checked my eyes, my blood pressure, my throat, and carefully tried to wash the dirt off my stomach and arms, but it still hurt like hell.

  “They’re taking you to the hospital, Mick,” Deputy Herrin said. “I’ll be right behind them.”

  “Couldn’t you just take me back to the marina?” I hoped my bluff worked because I didn’t know where I lived.

  “Which marina would that be?” She smiled, and caught me lying.

  “I thought you’d know.” I grinned back.

  “I do, but you don’t, and that concerns me,” she said. “You’ve gotta be checked out and I have to write a full report, so I’ll be there. You’re a mess and I want to find out why.”

  “Me too,” I mumbled.

  She walked me to the ambulance and the two EMTs helped me into the back where I lay on a gurney and remained there as they sped away. Small pieces of my memory came to me as I closed my eyes.

  Chapter 23

  Dr. Quirk smiled as he looked down at me. We were becoming old friends and that told me I’d spent too much time in the emergency room. I remembered getting in the ambulance and that’s it. I must have passed out.

  “You feel as bad as you look?” Dr. Quirk asked.

  A folded sheet covered my groin and I my knees were cleaned and covered with a reddish antiseptic. I tried to sit up.

  “Hold on,” Quirk said, putting his hand on my shoulder.

  Pain burned where he touched.

  “Hurt?”

  “Yeah,” I said and suddenly realized that I had recognized the doctor. That had to be an improvement. “I know you.” I couldn’t stop the excitement in my voice.

  “We’re becoming old friends,” he said. “Do you know what happened?” He pushed something and the bed moved up until I was almost in a sitting position.

  “Kind of,” I muttered and wondered what I remembered. “Things are a little fuzzy, but are coming back.”

  Quirk moved the privacy curtain aside and Deputy Becky Herrin came in.

  I remembered her name too and smiled.

  “Becky.” I almost yelled I was so excited that I remembered.

  “Feeling better, Mick?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m remembering things.”

  “Remember how you ended up at the Anchor?”

  I thought about it but shook my head. “No.”

  “You remember someone using a Taser on you?”

  All I remembered was darkness and pain. “No.”

  Becky looked at Quirk and he gave a small nod of his head.

  “The nurse cleaned you up while you were sleeping,” she said to avoid saying I’d passed out. “After the doctor gave you a closer examination, he found ten little prick marks on your stomach and chest. They look like the marks our Tasers leave on a perp.”

  “That would account for your memory loss,” Quirk said. “It should only be temporary.”

  “Should be?” I said.

  “If you were hit five times with a Taser…”

  “You said ten.”

  “Mick, a Taser has two wires with little barbs that penetrate the skin,” Becky said. “They carry an electric charge that disables the perp. Think of your muscles turning to mush.” She grinned.

  I didn’t smile back but I did nod my head that I understood.

  “Five hits in a row could be dangerous,” she said. “We’ve disabled violent perps with two hits on full charge.”

  “If the charge was on half-power, and you received five of them they would certainly give you the memory loss and the confusion you’re experiencing,” Quirk said. “Full power and it could have caused cardiac arrest.”

  I looked at Becky. She wasn’t smiling.

  “I need to know what happened,” she said. “So you have to listen to the doctor.”

  I turned to Quirk and waited for the bad news.

  “I want to keep you overnight,” he said. “A neurologist needs to talk to you after he’s read your CAT scan.”

  “I had a CAT scan?”

  “While you were sleeping,” Quirk said. “I want Dr. Schreiber to check you, and I think your memory will have improved overnight. But, I want you under observation, just to be safe. Do you still see Doctor Boros and Doctor Norris?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Think so.”

  “I’ll let them know you’ll be here overnight.”

  “Plus, you don’t have any clothes, so you can’t leave,” Becky said.

  I was confused again and she saw it in my expression.

  “Your shorts are evidence, but it’s probably your blood on them,” she said. “I’ll get you another pair and another T-shirt from the station and bring them to you in the morning. You okay with this?”

  Since I still didn’t know which marina I lived at, or how to reach Tita or anyone else, I didn’t have much of a choice. I faked acceptance.

  “Can you call Tita for me?”

  Becky frowned. It sent fear through me.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Tita’s in Boston, Mick,” Becky said.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot.”

  We all chuckled over that but I felt sad because I thought Tita was someone special in my li
fe.

  Chapter 24

  A nurse brought me a hospital gown and waited while I put it on. She didn’t offer to help tie it in back. I fought the desire to make a joke about the design because she looked like she’d heard them all and expected a wisecrack. When I tied off the back, she left and another nurse came in and took more blood samples from me. I had a foggy recollection of someone taking blood earlier.

  Finally, a male orderly pushed the gurney with me riding like an ailing invalid from the ER to the elevator and up to a room. He talked small talk and I kept quiet because, like the nurse, he’d heard all the patients’ complaints and, if any, praises. He showed me how to work the remote for the wall-mounted TV—he didn’t have to—after moving me from the gurney to the bed.

  A pretty, petite nurse came in and took my vitals, checked my hook up to the rolling IV unit and attached the blood pressure cup for the mounted monitor. She smiled and told me she’d be off her shift in a few minutes, but would check on me first thing tomorrow.

  The night nurse came in and checked my chart that hung on the end of the bed. She looked at my hospital wristband—when had that been put on?

  “You are?” she smiled with the chart in her hand.

  “Mick Murphy,” I said.

  “First name, please.”

  “Liam, but everyone calls me Mick.” I was proud of myself for remembering.

  “Thank you.” She continued to smile and put the chart back.

  Maybe they taught smiling in nursing school—make the patient feel all is well with soft-spoken words and a smile.

  “Do you need anything?”

  “My memory back.” I tried to match her smile but failed.

  “Dr. Schreiber will be in after six,” she said, as if that solved my problem. “I’m Nurse Palty, if you need me press this.” She pointed to the call-button handle, that was pinned to the bed sheet. “I’ll be in to check on you throughout the night.” Her smile was reassuring. “Dinner will be in about an hour. The doctor didn’t restrict your diet, so you’ll have the chicken,” she said as if I should be honored.