Brigands Key Read online

  Charley looked at him numbly for a moment. “Be right back, Ma,” he said, and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. He followed Hammond to the front yard.

  The kid was red-eyed, taking it hard. “Charley, I’m really sorry. Are you going to be okay?”

  Charley nodded slightly. “Yeah. I don’t know.”

  “Charley, I need you to be strong right now. We’ve got a real problem here. The Brigands Key Plague killed your father. I’m supposed to take his body and autopsy him to be sure.”

  Charley’s eyes narrowed. “That’s bullshit.”

  “That’s the law.”

  “I won’t let you do it!”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear. I’m not doing it unless you direct me to.”

  Charley’s anger melted. “I don’t understand.”

  “Besides your dad, I’ve gotten two more victims within the last hour. I’m supposed to autopsy them, plus the six that died yesterday. Celeste will be here by tomorrow morning and we’re all trapped on the island. There are a million things to be done and no way we can perform the autopsies and hold funerals before Celeste hits. And if she hits us head on, she may well swamp the island. Best I can do is have the bodies collected in the morgue, but the morgue may be destroyed and the bodies washed out to sea. That’s unacceptable. So here’s what you do. Take your dad to the cemetery and bury him yourself. You’ve got a family plot. Right now. We’ll worry about paperwork if we live to worry about it. I’ve talked to Sanborn; he’s going to turn a blind eye.”

  Charley glanced back at his house. His mother’s sobs could still be heard. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “That’s not all. All this is off the record, especially what I’m about to say.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m a doctor. I signed on to save lives, not preside over a parade of deaths. We’re under strict quarantine here; a national emergency, they’re calling it. But they’re not the ones on the ground. I am. And I call it bullshit. Listen to me: whatever it is, it’s not contagious. I don’t care how you do it, if you love your mother, get her off this island.”

  He turned and left. He might be looking at a long jail sentence for what he just did. He didn’t care. Right is right.

  * * *

  Fridays were supposed to be the good days, Governor Chase Crawford thought gloomily. Days you got the week’s crap swept under the rug. This one, however, was turning into a crap-hole. He sat alone in his oak-paneled office, the lights dimmed, watching a flickering CNN newscast on the flat-screen TV on the wall, chewing a fingernail. He never chewed his fingernails. He shook his head, picked up the remote, and switched channels.

  Same stuff. Brigands Key was all over the news.

  That gal that produced the island mullet-wrapper was everywhere. She was good, too. Pretty and articulate, with a pinch of showmanship. He could use her on his own staff, yet there she was, destroying his career.

  She was wrapping up a report on the National Guardsmen posted at the mainland side of the bridge. The unit had swelled to over a hundred soldiers, fanning out from the bridge to intercept any potential breaches by boat. Denton wondered aloud if the National Guard was there to account for any failures by the Coast Guard at intercepting boats.

  She was there with a dozen locals, all looking angry and scared, confronting the Guardsmen, shaking fists, yelling. Children crying. The Guardsmen, looking worried, unsure of the mission. Denton even got one of them, some asshole lieutenant named Fisk, to admit he never signed up to imprison his countrymen. Great TV.

  How had this happened?

  He punched the intercom. “Sara, get in here.”

  Sara Simmons got in there in two seconds. She’d damn sure better. It was her damned advice that got him into this mess. “Are you seeing this?”

  “Yes, sir. Very imbalanced reporting, if I may say so.”

  “Imbalanced? She’s got a monopoly! They air this shit, then the talking heads all get together and tear me a new one. This is the first thing Democrats and Republicans have agreed on since World War II.”

  “It could be worse, sir.”

  “How could it possibly get any worse?”

  “You could be the President.”

  Crawford stared at the ceiling in disbelief. This is the help you get for paying a public servant’s salary. When all this blew over, he was cleaning house. “Sara, don’t you get it? The President is who I want to be. I delivered Florida to him in the election. I took his side when he ordered the quarantine. This moron of a mayor, Johnson, suddenly looks like Teddy Roosevelt. I’m on the losing side here.”

  “I beg to differ. Your position has never been better. The President is taking a major beating. His approval rating has dropped twelve percent overnight. Everyone in the party is scattering from him. So this is how we frame it. Mayor Johnson acted rashly when Celeste was not a legitimate threat. But the plague is real. People are dying. President Rawlings acted cautiously, based on the welfare of the nation. He won’t change course on this. The next time he changes his mind on anything will be the first. He’s tightening his own noose. You, however, will not sit by and watch your people perish. The situation has changed. Prudence demands action and you will defy the President and stand up for all that is right and just. You are poised to seize the party’s banner and hoist it.” She picked up the remote and switched channels. The green and yellow swirl of the satellite radar image filled the screen. “Look at this, sir. Celeste has continued to shift. The chances of it hitting Brigands Key have been upped to one in three. It’s picking up forward speed.”

  “It’ll hit in twelve hours. Christ, it’ll be the worst disaster in Florida in eighty years.”

  “It’s your chance to shine, sir. President Rawlings has usurped your power over the Florida National Guard and turned them against your own people.”

  “Yeah. I know. I approved it.”

  “Under extreme pressure. The President made it clear he was going ahead with or without you. Now you are going to reassert your control over the Florida National Guard. You’re going to go down to Brigands Key and assume command. Within the hour. We’ve got a classic constitutional crisis on our hands, sir. States’ rights and all that. You will not stand by and let Tom Rawlings trample the Constitution.”

  “I like it. But what if I go there and the Guardsmen refuse to submit?”

  “Weren’t you watching? Those guys are practically begging for a way out of this gig. They want no part of it. You’ll give them the excuse they’re looking for. It’s a slam dunk.”

  “And if CDC is right? If we evacuate the island, we’ll be dumping a shitload of misery on the whole country.”

  “If that’s happening, it’s already happened, but I’m hearing it’s not a real threat. People were coming and going on daily business before the quarantine was set, yet no one is reporting illnesses breaking out in nearby towns. A hundred fled the island before the quarantine. Homeland Security is rounding them up. You win on all counts. And while the President spins down the toilet, you become Chase Crawford, patriot and savior.”

  Crawford drummed on his desk for a moment, watching the television. The hurricane swirled on the radar. It looked like the vortex swallowing his administration, his career.

  He’d committed one misstep after another in this debacle. His options were few.

  And then it hit him. His shot at the White House was not in seven years, as his grand plan had dictated. It was here and now.

  He turned back to Simmons. “Get the convoy rolling and get some National Guard vehicles here. And get me some rain gear. Something in olive green, or camo. Army issue. And a side-arm. It’s time to start looking like the future commander in chief.”

  Simmons beamed. “Everything is ready and waiting, sir.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Julie Denton snugged her raincoat tight and stepped out into the street.

  A squall line, precursor to the main event, lashed the island. Celeste’s eye, a beautiful cobalt blue circle in the photos of monito
ring satellites, was still a hundred miles west, whipping the coast with long strands of wind and rain. Low-flying clouds raced overhead, hurrying toward that eye, slinging rain as they went.

  Brigands Key was battening down. The thudding of hammers and the sounds of saws came from everywhere. Ignoring the rain, men, women, and children were in storefronts and yards, working feverishly, hanging storm shutters and boarding windows with plywood. Those that had missed out on plywood were tearing apart scrap wood and metal and nailing it over windows.

  Nearly everyone wore a mask. A surgical mask, a dust mask, or just a bandana tied over the nose and mouth. Few spoke.

  Once in a great while, the petty squabbles of the island were forgotten. No one cared whose dog crapped on their yard, whose kids were caught smoking pot on the dock, how much City Council wasted on fireworks, what immoral books the library was stocking. Once in a great while, even the dying fishing industry was forgotten. Once in a great while, fear ran rampant through Brigands Key.

  This was one of those times, only a hundred times worse. This bordered on panic.

  Brigands Key, forsaken.

  The Powers That Be were going to pay dearly for what they were doing to this little town. Julie swore that she was going to live and carry out that promise.

  Her excitement at being at the epicenter of the news universe had waned, replaced by frustration and growing anger.

  Hemingway had unleashed his fury in print on an uncaring bureaucracy decades ago, after Matecumbe Key was devastated by a hurricane. That rage was in response to simple bungling and mismanagement. This time, an active war of egos and stupidity was consigning a whole town to death.

  She stepped onto her porch, shook off the rain, and fumbled with the key in the door.

  A hand gripped her shoulder.

  She jumped and spun about, swinging a fist wildly.

  Randy Sanborn dodged the blow. “Whoa, Julie,” he said. “I called out but you didn’t hear.”

  “Christ, Randy,” she snapped. “I nearly pissed myself.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Her eyes flashed. “Let me subdue my cardiac arrest first. Damn, man.”

  “Sorry,” Sanborn repeated. “I just need to talk.”

  Julie stiffened, and relented. “Come on in.” She shoved the door open and stormed in.

  She looked in the refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of beer. “Drink up. Live for today. Tomorrow there won’t be any power, maybe for weeks.”

  “Sorry, I’m still on duty,” Sanborn said, taking the beer, twisting the cap off, and taking a long drink.

  Julie laughed. “Don’t worry. Your sudden dereliction has missed the deadline for my next paper.”

  “Julie, things have spun out of control.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Anything you can do to help will be invaluable.”

  “What do you think I can do?”

  “I need you to stop reporting the news.”

  Julie stared at him. “Randy, you’re out of line. The news is what I do.”

  “I know. You’re fantastic. But now you can do more. I don’t need you to report the news. I need you to be the news.”

  “That’s crossing a journalistic line.”

  “This is no time for professional ethics. You need to choose sides.”

  “Which one?”

  “You know that already. You’re worried about the food in your fridge going bad. That’ll be the least of your problems. You won’t have a fridge by this time tomorrow. You won’t have a house. No one will. And we won’t get the chance to hang someone for this unless we get off this damned island before the shit hits the fan.”

  Julie’s head sank. “I know, Randy.”

  “Johnson’s in over his head. You know as well as I do he’s not smart enough to get elected dogcatcher outside this town, and yet he’s got his eyes on the governor’s mansion.” Sanborn shook his head, incredulous. “And he’s actually in the right for once. But he’s losing us. Someone else needs to step in. That someone, Julie, is you.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m not. I’ve talked to Hammond and Grant about this. They agree. Your time in history has come. Your face is on every TV and computer monitor in America. Your stories are holding the nation spellbound. They want you. And the people here need you.”

  “They’re getting all I’ve got.”

  “Wrong. You haven’t even scratched the surface. You always were too big to be defined by this town.”

  “What do expect from me? A rebellion on live TV?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Randy—”

  “No, listen. So far, you’ve captured both hearts and minds. You’ve shined a light on the fear and the stupidity swamping us. You need to go a step farther. You need to force the issue. Confront the quarantine head on and dare them to enforce it.”

  “And what are the chances of my succeeding?”

  Sanborn hesitated. “The National Guard is being pulled in multiple directions. They’re under strict orders and regular army units are on their way to take control. Could get dicey.”

  “What are my chances, Randy?”

  “Fifty-fifty at best.”

  Julie took a long drink from her beer. “I don’t like it one bit. Why don’t you go get shot up? You’re the law.”

  “It's you they want. Not me. But I’ll be right there with you, broadcasting you live to the nation.”

  Julie set her beer down and moved over to the battered upright piano. She took a seat, stretched her fingers. “I need to think it over, Randy.” She placed her fingers lightly on the keys and began playing. “Für Elise” never failed to bring her emotions and thoughts into one.

  “Julie, there’s no time.”

  “A half-hour. Please.”

  “Fine. I’ll—”

  He stopped in mid-sentence. Julie glanced at him. He stared past her, at the top of the piano. Dozens of family members—a few living, most dead—watched over her when she played, from photos framed in polished mahogany, displayed across the top of the old upright.

  She stopped playing. “What is it?”

  Sanborn stepped closer, picked up one of the old photos, peering at it closely. He held it for her to see. “Who is this?”

  “These pictures are all of my family. Why?”

  Sanborn switched on his radio and raised Jackie at headquarters. “Get Hammond. We’re coming to see him in ten minutes.”

  * * *

  Sanborn banged on the door, shaking it in its frame. He kept banging until it opened.

  Hammond peered out. “Ah, Chief of Police Randy Sanborn. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Sanborn said, pushing past him. Julie Denton followed. She pulled a small picture frame out from under her raincoat, wiped it against her denim work shirt, and tucked it under her arm.

  Kyoko Nakamura stood and stretched, her face pale. Sanborn knew that neither Hammond nor Nakamura had left the lab in hours.

  “Jerry, we got something,” Sanborn said. “Fetch John Doe.”

  Hammond glanced at Julie. “We have a bit of an urgent situation here, Randy. If this is just so Lady Sound Byte can crank out another media gem, you can forget it.”

  Julie’s eyes flashed. “Bring him out, Hammond. I can identify him.”

  “She’s never seen the corpse,” Sanborn said. “It’s high time she did.”

  Hammond bristled and shot him an angry glance. “Oh, the power of the free press.”

  “Just get the body.”

  “Fine.” Hammond led them into the next room.

  The chill struck Sanborn and he shivered. Eighteen bodies, zippered in bags, lay wherever a space had been cleared. Never in his career had he seen more than two bodies in here at the same time.

  Hammond motioned toward the bodies. “Randy, you know what’ll happen to this lab, right? And to these bodies?”


  “We can’t worry about the dead anymore. Except this one. If we’re ever going to identify this guy, it’s now. He likely won’t be around tomorrow and if he is there won’t be any power to keep this room cold.”

  Hammond went to a corner isolated by a hospital curtain. He yanked the curtain aside. Like the others, the body was zipped up tight in a bag. “An autopsy is not a pleasant thing, Julie. I’ll open his bag down to the neck only.”

  “That’s all I need.”

  Hammond pulled the zipper. John Doe lay there, as fresh as the moment he arrived.

  Julie gasped. She looked from the man on the slab to the picture frame she carried, and again to the man.

  Sanborn leaned closer. “Can you—?”

  Julie nodded. “It’s Andy Denton.”

  Sanborn studied the man’s face and then Julie’s. The resemblance was striking. Her brother? But she was an only child. Or was she? Every family had a skeleton in the closet. Maybe she had a brother no one on the island knew about.

  Hammond looked from the corpse to Julie and again to the corpse. “I’m very sorry. Was he a cousin? A nephew?”

  “He was my grandfather.”

  “But he’s… he’s almost a boy,” Kyoko said.

  Hammond sat heavily on the lab stool, staring at the body. “Incredible. But it makes sense. I knew deep down something was out of whack—way out of whack—with this whole case. Now I feel like a goddamned genius.”

  “Grandpa Denton,” Julie said. “He was only twenty-one when he died. Or disappeared, I should say. His death was never confirmed. Until now.”

  “You’re sure this is him?” Sanborn asked. “This could be a relative you haven’t met.”

  Julie shook her head. “It’s him. I have albums full of old family photos. I have one of him holding my dad when Dad was a baby. It was taken two months before Andy disappeared.”

  “When was that?”

  “May, 1945.”

  “Maybe you better start at the top.”

  Julie drew a deep breath. “Andy grew up in Chiefland. His folks moved here in 1931. His father, Daniel, thought commercial fishing might be a steady income during the Depression, and if it wasn’t, he could at least catch fish for the family to eat. He found something better than fishing, though. Rum-running. He was a bootlegger during the Prohibition and did all right. Daniel had introduced Andy to all aspects of the family business at an early age. In 1933, Prohibition was repealed and everyone was happy. Except the bootleggers. The family sank into poverty when that source of income dried up. Fighting between my grandfather and great-grandfather escalated. The war came and Selective Service called Andy up in 1944 when he turned twenty, but he bombed out. 4-F. Diabetes and flat feet. A double-whammy. They worried he could drop dead at any moment, and if he didn’t drop dead he wouldn’t be able to run twelve miles on those paddles he had for feet. Andy wondered what the big deal was; he wanted to go to war to kill or be killed anyway, and diabetes and flat feet had never stopped him from working twenty hours at a stretch. The Army disagreed. That wasn’t easy on a young man at that time. Health issues or not, if you weren’t in uniform, people looked at you funny. Andy met my grandmother and they married. Dad was born four months later.”