by Kip Cassino
Half an hour later, Prell helped the still-terrified warden from her boat to a Coast Guard Cutter, where he and others waited. They gave a pale, shaken Leslie Fogarty coffee, and wrapped her shoulders in a space blanket as she shivered uncontrollably. She had reported what had happened by radio immediately, as soon as she regained her composure. Now there were many more questions. “Could he have swum away? Was there a raft or a life-jacket?” Her answer remained the same. No. None of that. He simply fell into the ocean and disappeared.
The young warden was eventually transported back to shore. Prell stayed at the scene with a team of divers who searched in vain for a body—for by now, Taws had to have drowned. The search was unsuccessful.
“The sea floor is fifty feet down around here, Agent Prell,” the Coast Guard dive team leader explained, as waning sunlight ended the day’s operations. “It’s rough terrain, lots of crevices and gullies. It’s dark. too. The current’s strong. The vest would have weighed him down, but he might have been buoyant enough to move a good distance. We’ll leave marker buoys. come out tomorrow and check some more—but I don’t think we’ll find anything.”
“So we’ll never really know,” Prell said.
“If he went down around here, wearing that body armor, he’s dead,” the diver said. “No question. He might show up on a beach somewhere north of here, maybe as far up as Georgia—whatever the fish don’t eat. There’s a good chance nothing will show up at all. Don’t worry, though. Like I said, he’s a dead man. That’s certain.”
The waterlogged ballistic vest would eventually wash ashore at a beach on Saint Simons Island, Georgia, more than a year later. Unheralded, but possibly more interesting, were reports from several people walking the shore at Pepper Park Beachside, on North Hutchinson Island near Vero Beach, during the days that followed the Captain’s disappearance. Their complaints described an extremely large, aggressive black dog seen running up and down the beach without an owner present. Animal Control was dispatched, but no creature of that description was found.
Epilog
Macon, Georgia
March, 2018
Six weeks after her encounter with the terribly scarred man at Kissy’s, Edna Gilmer had missed her period again. That wasn’t remarkable to her. The heroin she injected several times a day often caused her menstruation cycle to be erratic or brief. In her mind it was a good thing. No sponge to worry about, no cramps, no hygiene issues. Still, this time felt different. She shrugged off the feeling—buried it as she navigated a hectic, brutal reality that revolved around getting drugs, taking them, and selling her body to pay for them. Sleeping, eating, personal hygiene, changing clothes, and other activities took place as well—but all were secondary, and often neglected.
Now, two more weeks had passed. Edna wasn’t feeling well as she took up her accustomed station outside Kissy’s restaurant. She’d been violently ill that morning, emptying her stomach of whatever she’d fed herself the day before. She shrugged that off as well. The drugs she took were often contaminated. The heroin might even have been a little too pure for her system to tolerate well. There was no time to fret about that now. Her hair was combed, her makeup looked decent, she was cleaned up—it was time to start her “stroll.” She could already sense a tingle of desire for another fix. She needed money from at least seven or eight men tonight, if she was going to satisfy that burgeoning demand. Her splitting headache and roiling stomach would have to wait until later.
Edna quickly serviced three truckers, providing each with oral gratification. Two were repeat customers, who said they liked the way she had used her mouth on them before. Her fourth john proved more demanding. A very large, heavy man with a scraggly beard, he came from behind and grabbed her shoulder—spinning her around and almost knocking her over. “You’ll do,” he said. He stank of stale beer. His slurred speech and weaving step confirmed that he was very drunk.
Surprised and annoyed, Edna backed away from the trucker, who towered over her. “Get your hands off me,” she said coolly. “I’m not sure you’re my type. Go back to your ride and sleep it off.”
“Wanna git me some lovin’…” the big trucker mumbled thickly, almost singing to himself. “Come on with me!” he growled, suddenly attempting to grab Edna’s arm. Again, she retreated beyond his reach. His bleary, reddened eyes fixed on hers. “I’ll git you!” he cried, lurching toward her.
By now, Edna was backed against the restaurant’s brick wall. Further evasion was impossible. She decided to play along, as repulsive as the man was. He was so drunk he’d probably pass out before he could even drop his pants. Then she’d pick his pockets. “O.K., big boy, you’ve got me convinced,” she said as calmly as she could. “Show me some Jacksons and I’m all yours.”
The man stood swaying but began struggling to reach into his pocket, as Edna watched him closely. He abruptly changed his mind. “Bitch!” he roared and hit her across her jaw—a roundhouse punch from an enormous fist that almost covered her face. She bounced against the wall and fell to the ground, unconscious.
Unable to keep his balance, her drunken assailant fell to the ground as well. He lay on his back and began to laugh. “Showed you, bitch,” he said, chortling liquidly. He rolled to his side and struggled to his feet, stumbled to Edna’s still form and began kicking her forcefully, giggling as he did. Each of his kicks lifted her unresisting body from the ground.
Bystanders pulled the huge drunk from his victim. The police showed up a few minutes later and took him away, after being compelled to taze him several times. An ambulance arrived as well. EMTs gently moved Edna’s small, still form to a gurney and transported her quickly to Coliseum North’s emergency room. There, she was treated for head trauma, a fractured jaw, two broken ribs, and contusions.
Edna remained unconscious through the night. When she woke the next morning in a hospital bed, she had no idea how she had gotten there. Her last memory was of watching a massive assailant stagger toward her. She tried to speak and discovered her jaw was wired shut. She felt bruised and trampled. Every bone in her body hurt. She tried to move her left arm, but the pain from her ribs almost made her pass out. Slowly groping with her right hand, she found and hit the call button for the nurse’s station. A nurse came to her bed in a few minutes (though it seemed hours to her), accompanied by a Macon policeman. She handed Edna a pad of paper and a pen.
“You can’t talk yet,” the nurse explained. “Your jaw was fractured. It’s wired shut. You’ll need oral surgery to fix it. You also have severe facial inflammation and bruising. Big shiners in both eyes, I’m afraid—but everything will heal. Two of your ribs are broken, so your left arm is immobilized for the time being. Your spleen was bruised, and you’re getting blood transfusions for that. You’ve had a concussion as well. You took quite a beating. I’m surprised you’re conscious already. I have some questions for you, and the officer with me has a few more. Do you feel up to answering some questions now? If you get tired, just let us know and we’ll stop.”
Edna’s mind was fuzzy with pain, but she nodded. “Where am I?” she wrote on the pad.
“You’re in Coliseum North Hospital, in our intensive care unit,” the nurse said. “You’ve been here since about eight o’clock last night. You were assaulted by a man in front of Kissy’s truck stop.”
Edna nodded again. “Don’t remember getting hit,” she wrote.
“You were badly injured—hit and kicked,” the nurse said. “It’s not unusual for victims to forget severe trauma. Don’t worry though. We think you’re going to come through this just fine. Right now, we need some information. Some people at the scene last night said your name is ‘Emma,’ or ‘Edna.’ Which is correct? There was no I.D. in your handbag. Can you write down your full name, your age, and your address? If you know it, we’ll need your social security number as well.”
Edna quickly scribbled her name, her real age (she’d lied about it to othe
rs for years), her SSN, and the address of the motel where she was currently staying. “No insurance,” she added, vaguely embarrassed.
“Are there family or friends you’d like us to contact for you, Edna? Someone who might be concerned about what has happened to you?”
Edna shook her head. “All alone,” she wrote. That wasn’t really true. She had an older sister living in Atlanta. Both of her parents were still alive, retired in Fort Lauderdale. There were aunts and uncles as well. Edna hadn’t seen or talked to any of them for several years—since drugs had taken over her life. She had preyed upon them all, stealing their valuables and money to finance her raging addiction. Her family had finally shunned her.
“Did you know the man who attacked you?” the cop asked her. “Did you ever see him before?”
Edna shook her head, which now was beginning to throb painfully. Suddenly, she felt very fragile. “Came up behind me,” she wrote, and added, “Feel weak.”
The cop nodded. “It’s O.K.,” he said. “Just one more question, then. Will you press charges against your assailant?”
She nodded vigorously.
“Thanks,” said the cop. “I’ve got more to ask you, but I’ll come back later when you’ve had some rest.” He turned and left the room.
The nurse remained. “You’re going to go through a tough time here, Edna,” she said quietly. “You’ve got a serious drug habit. Please don’t deny it. We both know what’s going on. You’ll go through withdrawal before your injuries heal. We’ll help you get beyond it the best we can. You won’t be able to smoke, either. We’ll get you medication to help with that. You’ll be much better off afterwards, especially considering your condition.”
Edna scrawled a large question mark on the pad.
The nurse nodded. “I wasn’t sure you knew,” she said. “You’re about eight weeks pregnant, Edna. The baby should be due in early September.”
The nurse lowered the light in Edna’s area of the hospital room, and she slept. For the next two days, she drifted in and out of sleep—as her body began to recover from the vicious injuries she’d received. She only vaguely noticed being pushed to other places in the hospital, receiving medication, or being moved within her bed. Mostly, Edna dreamed.
In her dream, she wandered naked through a forest of enormous toadstools. Whenever she touched one, it would wither and die—spreading a storm of gauzy spores in the air around it. Edna tried to stay away from the giant fungi, but there were so many—she couldn’t help damaging some. As she moved through the agaric forest light faded, and the toadstools she passed increased in size. In the twilight, she tripped over a stone or root. Edna fell, and toadstools all around tumbled over her, hurting, injuring and … waking her, as she keened in pain through her wire-bound jaw, back in her hospital bed.
When her pregnancy was announced to her, Edna’s immediate decision was to get an abortion as soon as she was well enough to leave the hospital. The idea of bringing a child into the life she led—a child who would doubtlessly be born an addict, a baby she couldn’t possibly care for—left her no other choice. She had met a few women who had tried it. The consequences had been tragic for all concerned. No, abortion was the only option.
Still, as she drifted between semi-consciousness and sleep during the next few days, other thoughts crept into her mind. She found herself wondering what color the child’s eyes would be, and whether the baby would be a boy or (as she hoped) a girl. Who would the new little person look like? Would she have the “Gilmer dimple?” She wondered who the father was and tried to remember her intercourse partners during late December. Impossible. How many had there been? Twenty? Thirty? Whoever he had been, in her mind he remained a vague, anonymous shadow.
As the evening of her third day at Coliseum North approached, Edna began to feel far less comfortable, even beyond the grinding pain of her many injuries. She found herself sweating heavily, and her nose began to run. Gagging nausea set in, exacerbated by her wired-shut jaw. She was soon wracked with severe cramps and diarrhea as well. Great mood swings careened through her. The caregivers around her tried their best to keep her clean and relatively still.
This was the onset of detoxification, as Edna’s body worked to purge itself of a physical addiction endured far too long. Her nurses carefully administered suboxone, ever mindful of the tiny spark of new life she carried within her. The worst flu-like symptoms peaked three days after their inception, but some lingered for another week. Unable to take or retain nourishment any other way, Edna was fed intravenously. In her fevered mind, she believed she had descended to the tortures of hell. By the time she began to feel better, she was limp and exhausted. By now she was no longer in ICU, having been moved to a ward. When her doctors considered her sufficiently recovered, she was wheeled into an operating room for surgery to implant stabilizing plates in her jaw.
Soon after her initial jaw surgery, a physical therapist made Edna begin short walks, and then longer ward-navigating journeys, in order to help heal her ribs and prevent mucous buildup in her lungs. Her first steps were terribly painful. Over the next week, the pain decreased—but never faded completely.
During that time, she was visited and examined by a staff obstetrician. He let Edna know that the baby tested healthy and normal. All of her travails had not damaged her womb or the child within it. She could look forward to a normal pregnancy, if she watched her diet and avoided stress. She smiled ruefully upon hearing that.
A week and another jaw surgery later, Edna was finally able to speak and take solid food—a small plate of Jell-O for starts. Her ribs were mended, even though they still ached. She no longer needed blood transfusions, and her physical addictions to heroin and nicotine were gone. She had seen her face in a mirror for the first time the week before, when she was finally mobile enough to use the toilet on her own. She was relieved to see she was not disfigured. There were no scars. She had lost weight, she noticed. The line of her jaw was altered but not unattractive, though she’d need braces for several more weeks. Both eyes were still blackened, giving her a raccoon-like appearance, and of course her hair was a frowzy mess. The auburn she was used to finding now showed a touch of gray. Her complexion had cleared some, but her face looked lined, weary, and gaunt. It was the face of a woman older than she had expected to see. Not great, but not terrible, she thought later, considering everything that’s happened.
By now March had turned into April. Edna guessed they would release her within another week or so. She was, after all, a charity case. She wondered what would happen to her then? After a great deal of thought she decided she wanted to have the baby, if she possibly could. She was thinking more clearly now than she had for a long, long time. She believed the terrible beating she’d survived had given her a small chance to break away from the meaningless, less-than-human rat race she had condemned herself to run for the last five years. Still, she worried about being drawn back to drugs. Part of her missed the way heroin had made her feel—missed it very badly. Her physical need for opioids was gone, but a strong desire still remained.
Sitting in the dark in her hospital bed, Edna took a brutally frank personal inventory: she had no job skills or history—except what police blotters held, she had no money and no way to get any, she had no friends to support and help her while she tried to stitch a life together. She was weak, vulnerable, and without resources. Barring some intervention, she’d be back “on the stroll” within a week after she left the hospital. Once her old life overwhelmed her again, she faced hardship, addiction, and poverty—followed by oblivion. Edna looked down at her belly, where her “baby bump” was now noticeable. She hugged her stomach and wept softly, for herself and her child.
The next morning, a woman came to see her. She was handsome and well-dressed, slim, older—with skin the color of dark mahogany and bright, intelligent eyes. Glowing with pride and self-assurance, she introduced herself as Cassandra Moore. “Edna, y
ou’ll be out of here in a few days,” she said.
Edna nodded, not sure where the conversation was going.
“You’re pregnant,” the woman continued, “and you’re an addict. Don’t say you’re not, I know the need is still there. I know, because I have been where you are. Without help, you’ll be back on the street as quick as you can get a needle in your arm. You’ll kill that baby you’re carrying one way or another, and you’ll kill yourself as well. If I’m wrong, tell me so.”
Looking away, Edna remained silent.
“Good,” the woman said, nodding. “You’re not arguing or lying. That means you’re smarter than most in your shoes, Edna. That means there’s hope.”
“Hope for what?” Edna whispered. Unbidden tears began to roll down her cheeks.
Cassandra Moore reached out to her and held her hands. “There is a program near here, like a shelter but more than that, much more. This hospital contributes to it, and I manage it. If you enter this program, you’ll get the medical care you and your baby need, and you’ll get the chance to build a future for yourself. One that’s away from the street.”
“What must I do?” Edna whispered.
“The hardest thing any mother can be asked to do,” her visitor said gently. “You must agree to give up your baby for adoption.”
Edna gasped, then nodded. Everything had a price in this cruel life she’d chosen. “I’ll need to think about it,” she murmured through her tears.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Cassandra Moore said. “There are forms you’ll need to sign. I’ll bring them with me.” She rose from her bedside chair and left the room. Edna stared after her for a long time. Then she put her head in her hands and sobbed.
