Wood's Harbor Page 8

She winked and left the room.

  He stood waiting in the living room of the 1940’s era house, just like a hundred others originally built for the Navy when the base here was more active. The original hardwood floor needed refinishing, the walls needed paint and the decade-old air-conditioner, rattling and coughing in the window, was struggling to take the humidity out of the air. He looked around, knowing he should leave, but unable to move. Slowly the adrenaline started to fade and he relaxed. He needed a break and he suspected the man wouldn’t be back until he spent the cash. He went to the kitchen and sat on one of the barstools.

  She emerged and approached him, wearing a robe which swung casually open as if she had forgotten to tie it. He had intended to talk business first, but in this case, the goods were too tempting. He would talk to her later.

  He was following her to the bedroom when he felt something slam into his head.

  THIRTEEN

  Alicia Phon sat in the agency’s Taurus, with the air-conditioning running. She was nervous and tapped the wheel, frantic that her antiperspirant was not working. She looked down at the small stains on her silk blouse thinking she might need to rethink her field attire. The call had come as a surprise and there was no way she was going to turn down her first opportunity for field work, but he had given her no time to change. Miami, where she was based, was humid, but this was on another level; everything here was either wet or at least damp. Used to a sterile computer room, she lived in air-conditioning: her apartment, her office, her car; even the gym was climate-controlled. Somehow, after the last five years behind a computer, she had been given a shot. She was scared, but she was also determined, a trait she had gotten from her Dragon Mom mother. This is what she had joined the CIA for.

  A yellow jeep pulled into the lot and she tried to pull herself together. She put on her jacket, breathed deeply, left the air-conditioning and walked across the gravel, carefully placing each step of her high heels as she crossed the parking lot. She kept her head high, as she had been taught in finishing school, although she couldn’t have felt more out of place.

  ***

  The trail of empty bottles and remnants of the party at Trufante’s apartment extended almost to US 1, growing denser as they pulled into the parking area. Without the host and his bankroll, the party had died, but the fallout was evident. Mac pulled into a parking space, carefully avoiding a beer bottle perched on the curb. They climbed out and navigated the path to Trufante’s door.

  “Mac Travis?” a voice called.

  He looked back and saw a thirty-something-year-old woman, more like a girl, dressed in a business suit, come towards him. If this was Norm’s idea of help, he was in trouble.

  “Yeah,” he growled.

  “My name is Alicia Phon. I am assigned to help you.” Her voice cracked.

  “Chi-fon,” Trufante repeated with his thick Cajun accent as he came towards them, towering over the diminutive girl.

  There was no point in discussing this in the parking lot and he decided it was better to get away from prying eyes and ears. “Hey. Sure. Let’s go inside.”

  Trufante’s door was ajar. Mac pushed it open, calling inside to see if anyone was there before entering. He turned on the light and looked around at the trashed apartment, moved over to the kitchen table and pushed its contents onto the floor.

  “Nice friends you got,” he said to Trufante, who was looking in the refrigerator and turned back to him empty-handed. Mac pulled out the phone and checked the time, anxious to get out of there. It was 9:45, only fifteen minutes to wait. “Might as well take Annie’s car back. I’ll pick you up after I see Mel.” He noticed the hurt look on Trufante’s face. “I’m thinking we’ll stay here for now and head upstate in the morning. Nothing to be done up there tonight,” he said.

  Trufante’s mood rebounded, probably after he realized he had all night to party. He took the keys from Mac and left the room, the thousand-dollar smile on his face. Mac sat at the table and waited while the girl carefully cleared a space on the couch and sat down. They sat in silence, looking each other over, neither knowing where to start.

  “I can get you into the hospital,” she said finally. “I’m very good with a computer too.”

  “Yeah, what’s the plan?” Mac answered, wanting no part in small talk.

  “We can work that out later. Let’s get you in to see your girlfriend.”

  He started towards the door. “OK. One step at a time.”

  She reached into her bag and handed him some scrubs.

  Mac took them from her. At least there was some level of planning going on here. “I’m gonna clean up. Make yourself at home,” he told the girl and went for the bathroom.

  He finished a quick shower, toweled off, and winced as he picked up Trufante’s razor to shave. A look in the mirror at his week-old growth changed his mind. It itched like crazy, but it changed his appearance enough that he decided to leave it. He put on the scrubs and went back into the living room where the girl was dumping bottles and cans into a large trash bag.

  “You don’t have to do that,” he said, watching her continue. “Why don’t we get a bite to eat and talk about your plan. Does the CIA have an expense account?” he asked, fingering the loose change in his pocket.

  “OK,” she said, grabbed her messenger bag and headed for the door.

  ***

  Davies walked into the room with a coffee cup in one hand and his briefcase in the other, feeling just like old times. He was late after failing to find a Starbucks, having to settle for a local shop for his mocha latte. The group of doctors looked at him, impatient for his decision.

  “Mr. Davies,” the head doctor started, “do you have questions for us?”

  Davies took a sip of his drink, enjoying the flavor as he looked at the tired doctors sitting behind the table, drinking coffee from styrofoam cups. He opened his briefcase and removed a legal pad. “I have talked to several of her doctors already. If you can confirm the prognosis, I believe we can make a decision.

  “Go ahead,” the doctor said.

  “You have not declared her brain dead. She is in a coma and breathing with a ventilator. Aren’t those the requirements?” he asked.

  The doctor paused, as if it was painful to educate the man. “The protocol we use is based on the AAN’s 2010 guidelines. Of the three tests involved, she can only be confirmed with one, and I am a little uneasy declaring that. Ms. Woodson has only been with us for three days. None of her symptoms meet the permanent status called for. Although she needs the help of the ventilator, she is breathing on her own. It is erratic and shallow, but cannot be disregarded. The only conclusive damage we can determine is that her reflexes are not working, but that could be temporary paralysis.”

  Davies started to say something, but the doctor cut him off, thinking he was anticipating the question. “Will she ever wake up and be able to function? I don’t know.”

  These were not the answers he was hoping for, but he was prepared. He withdrew a document from his briefcase and handed it to the doctor next to him, who scanned it and passed it along. “You can see that this is her living will and she is clear that her life is to be terminated if her quality of life is reduced to the point it is.” He lowered his head before continuing, “I don’t have a choice but to concede to her wishes.”

  The doctors exchanged glances. “Mr. Davies, I appreciate your concern, but I have to object. Three days is not long enough to make a final diagnosis. I recommend we wait at least another forty-eight hours before making a life or death decision.”

  Davies hid behind his coffee, sipping while he thought. Two more days was not in his timeline. There were too many loose ends in his escape plan that could unravel in that time. He didn’t expect the sheriff to be a problem, but anything could happen and the sooner he was out of the country, the better. The doctor’s timeline was not acceptable.

  “It is my duty to enforce her wishes. I know a specialist in brain injuries in Miami. Would anyone object to a con
sultation from him?” Davies knew a doctor who owed him a favor. The group nodded their heads in agreement; thankful the decision would be taken from their hands.

  “We would welcome another opinion,” the doctor responded.

  One by one the doctors and administrators left the room. He was left alone with his premium coffee amongst the discarded styrofoam cups. He gathered the cups in a circle, took the last swig from his and placed it on top of theirs.

  ***

  Mac and Alicia huddled around her tablet as rain beat down on the roof of the Taurus. He looked up to make sure no one was watching them, but the windows were fogged.

  “That’s her room,” Alicia pointed at the tablet. “Fourth floor: sixth door on the left after the nurses’ station.”

  Mac stared at the screen showing a floor plan of the hospital. “OK,” he said and pulled a ball cap over his face. He left the car and ran towards the entrance to the hospital, pausing to glance back at the car. He wasn’t sure how much to trust this woman. Although she was competent with a computer, she also worked for Norm. The girl was nervous and had made several comments that this was the first field mission she had been on and from the look of her suit and heels, he wondered if she could handle things when they went bad. He knew they inevitably would – they always did. Her computer-generated plans would fall apart at some point. It was one thing to push some buttons sitting in an air-conditioned office drinking lattes, but in the real world things went wrong - often badly.

  He ran through the storm to the portico and waited under cover of the hospital entrance. Thunder crashed and the lights flickered. A second later they went back on, and as if on cue, another blast hit and the building went dark. The storm had been a blessing, allowing them the diversion Mac would need to get inside unrecognized. Alicia had control of the complex’s power and had assured him that it was safe. The hospital had a huge bank of backup generators and emergency lighting to ensure life support and essential systems would not be affected by the frequent storms.

  Generators kicked on and the building lit to half-power. This was the signal. He pulled the bill of the hat over his face and went inside. The stairwell to the right of the elevators was crowded and he squeezed his way past several people in scrubs and started up the stairs. He pulled the phone from his pocket when he reached the fourth floor and checked the time; fifteen minutes until she turned the power on. Slowly he opened the door and entered the hallway. The nurses’ station was bustling with activity. He walked by and started counting doors.

  The room was open and he entered a small waiting area with another door and a large window directly in front of him. He set his hand on the handle, but she had warned him that if he opened the door it would send a signal to the nurses’ station. Frustrated, he released the lever and walked over to the window. Mel lay propped up in bed, almost unrecognizable, her hair shaved and tubes running through and around her, the green light cast by the bank of monitors doing nothing to make her look alive. He stared at her, soothed slightly by the rhythmic beeping of her heart. There was nothing else he could do, but it was good to know she was alive.

  He watched through the glass and whispered that he loved her. One more look and he left the room and went towards the stairs where he waited by the door as several doctors and nurses came out before entering the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, not wanting to be caught in the building when the lights came back on. He flew around the landing to the second floor and ran head on into a man dressed in a lab coat, also moving too fast, the force of the impact landing both men on the floor. Mac got up first and extended his hand to help the other man to his feet when he noticed the pill bottles that had spilled from the deep pockets of the coat. The man met his glance and he froze.

  “Larry?”

  “Travis. Is that you?” The man calmly collected the bottles and stood up. “You’re supposed to be dead,” He tried to push past Mac.

  Mac grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. “Maybe we should go outside and have a little chat. Looks like you haven’t changed.” He picked up one of the bottles and read the label for the powerful painkiller.

  The man looked away, eyes darting to the people passing on the stairs. “Might be able to help you out if this stays between us,” he said, and started down the stairs.

  They walked outside and around the building, staying under the eaves to avoid the rain. By the garbage enclosure, Mac pushed him against the wall. “My patience is short for you,” he said, and waited for the man to reply. Back when they were working together, Mac and Wood had burned through help at a rapid pace. They were either too demanding or the help was lax, the latter more often the case in the transient capital of the world, and Larry had been one of the slackers they had fired.

  “What? I feel bad about Wood’s daughter,” he said.

  Mac ignored him, knowing there were no feelings. “You stealing drugs.” It was a statement. “What’s going to stop me from turning you in?”

  The man looked at him as if he was about to play a royal flush, “Like I said. I got something you might want to hear.”

  Mac glared at him, biting back the feeling that he wanted to hit him.

  “Big shot lawyer from Virginia or someplace is here to make the decisions about her. Seems they all think that you’re dead. There’s talk of bringing a specialist from Miami to see if she is brain dead or not. The clocks tickin', buddy.”

  Mac pushed him aside and ran for the car.

  FOURTEEN

  Mac woke the next morning with a beer bottle poking him in the side. It would have been a sleepless night wherever he had found himself, the image of Mel refusing to leave him. Alicia had dropped him off after the visit with Mel at the hospital and he had found the house empty. He thought about taking Trufante’s bed, but he wasn’t sure what might live there, so he crashed on the couch.

  Not sure if the Cajun was home, he went towards the bedroom and peeked in the open door. A body moved in the bed and he walked away. The kitchen was a disaster area: the counters covered with old food and empty beer bottles. The stale stench overpowered him and forced him to abort his search for coffee. What little clean-up Alicia had started last night was invisible.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone to check the time. There were still two hours before Alicia was due back to pick him up for the trip to Krome and he knew he couldn’t just sit and wait. The palm fronds, visible through the half-closed blinds, swayed softly in the breeze and he guessed the inshore waters would be calm. A great morning to be out on the flats fishing with the breeze disturbing the water just enough to disguise a fisherman’s movements, but he had no chance of that. He thought some exercise might help him think though, so he grabbed a pair of Trufante’s running shoes, slipped them on and headed out the door. He stopped on the landing and went back in for the ball cap to hide his face.

  He started at a walk until he reached the Heritage Trail running parallel to US1 and then increased the pace to an easy jog, heading west towards the Seven Mile Bridge. Not really a runner, he couldn’t help restrain himself and increased his speed near his old street - old as in a week ago. He fought against himself, knowing it was stupid for too many reasons to list, but couldn’t resist the urge to check on the damage to his house. After waiting for the light to change, he pulled the bill on the cap over his face, sprinted across the four-lane highway and slowed to a jog as he reached his street. Sweat poured off him and although it was uncomfortable, he was thankful the morning humidity, a side effect of last night’s storm, was enough to keep his neighbors inside their air-conditioned houses.

  The charred smell hit him before he reached the house and he stood back in shock. The roof was caved in and half of the second floor walls where the missile had hit were gone. A temporary chain link fence secured the boundaries of the property with yellow police tape ringing the house itself. He looked around to make sure no one was watching, slid between the intersection of the fence panels at the corner of
the lot and went around back, staying close to the unstable structure. The roll-up door in back was caved in, but the main door was open and he entered the workshop.

  Rain water dripped through cracks in the ceiling and he dodged the drips and he went for the workbench. Most of the tools and equipment were covered in soot and water, but remained where he had left them. He moved past the work area and went to the office. It was dark and his hand instinctively moved to the light switch, even though he knew the power was off. Back at the workbench, he dug around for a flashlight and froze. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway startled him and he wondered if one of his neighbors had seen and reported him.

  He ran back to the office and turned on the flashlight. The walls and desk were smoke-stained and wet. A door slammed outside and he hurried, taking the computer console and yanking the cover from it. With the flashlight propped under his chin, he pulled the hard drive loose and shoved it into the pocket of his cargo pants. Another door slammed and he knew he had to move fast. The door to the safe was ajar, the way he remembered leaving it when he escaped only days ago. The contents were not where he remembered them though, and he expected the authorities had searched it, but he moved his hand up to the lid and felt for the thumb drive he had taped in place. Not surprised it was gone, he moved his hand to where the revolver had sat.

  Two men were talking out front and he heard the unmistakable sound of a police radio. The revolver was gone as well, and he came up with only a handful of bullets. He tossed them on the floor and slid quietly out the door, turning off the flashlight as he moved towards the back of the workshop. The voices were still out front and he was about to run out the back door and seek cover when he saw the rack that held his stand up paddleboards. The two SUPs, one narrow and sleek for speed, the other wide and shorter for fishing, were still in the rack. A floor joist from the ceiling rested on the streamlined racing board, his first choice for an escape, the fragile board split where it had landed. The wider fishing board on the bottom of the rack looked serviceable.