Brigands Key Page 3

  The crying, growing louder. High and pained. Closer now.

  Ducking through a low door into a dark and windowless room. The darkness dissipating, the dead, close air luminous, glowing with swarming microscopic life.

  In the center of the room in a bundle of rags, the crying baby.

  She approaches. Rats scurry and crouch with yellow glowing eyes in the shadows.

  The baby turns to her, its cry intensifying. Smeared with its own wet filth.

  A Navajo boy. She reaches out, touches him. He recoils, shrieks, clutches her hand. And dies. And his grip upon her only tightens...

  Kyoko awoke with a start, gasping, her heart thudding. She turned to the red glowing numbers on the clock. Four a.m. She got up, trembling, stumbled toward the bathroom, and turned on the shower. She would not get back to sleep and she knew it.

  * * *

  Kyoko slid her security card through the slot and the door hissed open. First in the office. She took a small victory in beating the Atlanta rush hour.

  Small victories. The only kind she scored anymore.

  The aroma of freshly brewed Arabica coffee filled the room and she thanked herself for setting the timer the night before. She poured half a cup and finished it off with another half of heavy whipping cream. And three sugars. Then another, to drive the night fog away. And to get ready for Paul Greer.

  She settled into her desk chair and switched on the computer. She warmed up with a quick online sudoku before toggling the screen to CNN for a look at the headlines. If a relevant story reached cable before she knew of it, she wasn’t doing her job. The Centers for Disease Control paid her to be the first to find trouble.

  She scrolled her screen away from CNN and ran a quick scan of online medical journals, finding reports of a half-dozen cases the CDC had been tracking for a couple of months. There was a food poisoning outbreak in Oregon related to a shipment of bad chicken from Virginia. With emphasis on deadlines and time management, Americans were becoming coolly efficient at shipping illness. When it absolutely, positively, has to be there overnight—cut a corner or two. Who’ll notice?

  She nervously opened the report from the New Mexico field office. The hantavirus in Taos Pueblo had all but disappeared. Finally. It had taken down a few careers with it, almost including her own.

  She opened the screen menu labeled RURAL OUTLETS/MISC UNUSUAL DEATHS. A group of stories appeared, all from small-town newspapers and police blotters. Off-the-radar sources, where hot zones first showed up, before anyone had a fix on what was going on. A combine accident in Idaho, a strangling in upstate New York, an unsolved death in the Arizona desert. That one was clear as glass, the symptoms obvious, a case of strychnine poisoning. Why couldn’t they figure it out? Small-town criminal investigation left a lot to be desired and it wasn’t helped by any brilliance of medical examiners in the backwaters. She made a note to call the Phoenix office.

  Zipping through stories, she paused over one proclaiming “Nude Body Recovered Offshore.” Can’t go wrong with nude bodies, she thought. “Police Baffled.” Drownings were hardly baffling. She read the byline. Julie Denton, Brigands Key Gazette. Some little town in Florida. She read further.

  “The body of a white male, approximate age early twenties, was found yesterday twenty-two miles offshore in the Gulf of Mexico. The body was found by researcher Dr. Carson Grant under thirty feet of water in a submerged freshwater spring...”

  She read on. No sign of foul play, no boat, nothing. Kyoko sat back, thinking. She again read the story. The police chief was being coy but hinting at murder.

  How did this Grant guy manage to find a body like that?

  Brigands Key. She typed in a quick search and pulled it up. Small barrier island. That figured. Island dwellers had a gift for weirdness. It huddled a hundred and twenty miles north of Tampa, sixty west of Gainesville, and fifty south of nowhere.

  There would be no point in bringing it forward to the higher-ups’ attention just yet. No hint of disease. Waste of time, taxpayers’ money, blah blah blah. Yet the acquisition of an impossible body was setting off an internal alarm. The one she’d ignored—to her sorrow—in Taos.

  An hour later, Paul Greer finally buzzed her, summoned her to his office. “Close the door, please, Kyoko,” he said when she entered.

  Uh oh, she thought.

  Greer was a severe little man with a round head and pointed features. Birdlike. She waited while he took a phone call as soon as she took a seat. He laughed and joked and turned his back to her. Had to be terribly important, that call.

  He at last hung up and turned to her. “Any news, Doctor?”

  Good morning to you too, she thought. “The usual. Oregon’s on top of things. Mendoza is giving them an earful.”

  “Good man, Mendoza. The best diagnostician I’ve worked with.”

  Kyoko felt the invisible dagger. She was the ranking diagnostician and had taught Mendoza the ropes. Let it go, she thought. “Heard anything about the research opening?”

  Greer had a damn-the-bad-luck look on his face.

  “You didn’t even recommend me, did you?”

  “That’s not why we’re meeting, Kyoko. Things have gotten complicated. Where are we on Taos?”

  “The follow-ups are clean. Most of the families have moved to neighboring towns, still waiting for the all-clear. They’re more than a little angry. The second and third units are fanning out from the pueblo, checking every nook and cranny that could hide hantavirus. Chicken coops, barns, tool sheds. We’ve exterminated hundreds of rats and mice. Not a single rodent still lives in the stricken towns.”

  “A whole month without another case.”

  “Our luck is holding, sir.”

  “Luck? That’s not a strategy, is it? Don’t ever use that word outside this office. The Secretary just left yesterday evening, you know.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “She made it clear that President Rawlings will not abide another Taos. The New Mexico delegation is raising hell in Congress and laying the blame at the President’s feet.”

  “Does Tom Rawlings understand viruses? We’re at their mercy. Does he understand biology at all?”

  “That isn’t the issue. The virus left the pueblo after the initial two deaths and next thing we know, we’ve got seventeen dead in three towns. You didn’t give us a clear picture at ground zero, Doctor.”

  “I told you exactly what was going on.”

  “Two days too late. The virus had migrated by then.”

  “I followed the protocols to a tee, Paul. You know, the ones you wrote.”

  “You were the ranking physician on site. The Secretary sees that. She wants a head. Whose doesn’t matter, as long as it’s someone from Special Pathogens. I didn’t give her one. Not yet.”

  “Not yet?”

  “She’s not going to let this pass.”

  Kyoko studied him. A dead electricity filled the space between them. “What’s this meeting about, Paul?”

  “I’m placing you on notice. For your own good. Another screw-up like Taos, and even I can’t save you. In the meantime, your work must be impeccable. Flawless. For now, I just want you out of the office and out of my sight—and the Secretary’s sight. I’ve got damage control to do. I want you to take some time off.”

  Kyoko began to speak, thought better of it. Time off? What the hell for?

  A smile flickered across Greer’s face.

  “Time off,” Kyoko finally managed. “Fine. I could use a vacation. Tomorrow soon enough?”

  “Don’t be hasty. Next Tuesday will suffice. It’s budget time and I need the numbers for your section before you go.” He paused. “The Secretary arrives next Wednesday for another little pow-wow.”

  “Fine. Vacation. I think I’ll go to Florida.”

  Greer brightened with an effort. “Ah, a little fun and sun. Anyplace in particular? I peg you as a South Beach type.”

  Kyoko felt her fingers digging into her armrest. “No. A little place cal
led Brigands Key.”

  * * *

  Charley Fawcett eased the door of his mobile home shut, trying to slip out unnoticed. The screen door slipped from his grasp and slapped against the doorjamb. His mother swung the door wide a split-second after he’d vaulted down the concrete steps to the dead lawn. “You be home real quick, soon as work’s over, back in this house. Your daddy doesn’t need to be chasing after you tonight. He’s real tired of that.”

  No, just real drunk, Charley thought. At eighteen, he was old enough to know that much. “Bye, Mama. Soon as Roscoe calls it a day, I’ll be home.”

  The sun hung low in a pale yellow sky but the morning was hot. Roscoe would be at the boat ready to go, pissed about something. Time was wasting. Time was money.

  Charley hopped on his bike, a rattle-trap fat-tire affair, and pedaled down the lane of the trailer park and onto Thursby Street, then onto Main. Brigands Key was a rotten little berg but at least he could negotiate the whole frigging town in twenty minutes on a bicycle.

  He coasted past Brigands Key High and through downtown, past City Hall and the post office, past the police department. The office of the Brigands Key Gazette was still lit. Julie Denton was locking up, a haggard but contented look on her face.

  Charley zipped across Main and coasted down the slight slope of Dock Street and skidded to a stop in the gravel at the foot of the dock, sluicing up a satisfying cloud of limestone dust that subsequently settled on him and clung to his sweat-damp skin. He coughed up dust and chained his bike to a stop sign.

  Roscoe Nobles looked up from the deck of the trawler Electric Ladyland. “Fawcett, you’re five minutes late. You think this is a charity outfit?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Nobles. Won’t happen again.”

  “You say that every day. Shit, boy, you finished high school in May. It’s August now. I been paying you good money three months and you still treat this like some kind of high school circle jerk. It ain’t. This is my livelihood. Unhitch the cleats and get on the damn boat.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Nobles,” Charley repeated, this time making eye contact. “I’m a punk, no doubt about it.”

  Roscoe eyed him, as if deciding whether or not he was being mocked. He seemed satisfied that he was, and stepped behind the wheel in the small cabin and switched on the key. The engine sputtered and belched blue smoke and rumbled to life. Roscoe spun the wheel and throttled gently up and pulled away from the dock. “Fish are probably all gone by now.”

  “We going after grouper today?”

  “Grouper, reds, whatever gets stuck in the net. Think I’m stupid, college boy?”

  “No sir.”

  The harbor of Brigands Key nestled on the inland waterway side of the island, away from the rougher waters of the Gulf. Roscoe steered out into the channel, careful not to draw wake and the ire of other captains, and followed the channel markers out and around the northern end of the island, passing through the shadow of Hammond Lighthouse. Clearing the point, Roscoe opened his traditional bottle of whiskey, poured a couple fingers into a thermos of coffee.

  “Some kinda shit yesterday, huh, Charley?” Roscoe wasn’t a total asshole once he got a little booze in him and would quickly drop the name-calling and address Charley by name. That made some sense; anyone that named a boat after a Hendrix album couldn’t be all bad.

  “What shit is that, Roscoe?” Charley asked, feeling comfortable enough to use first names.

  “That U of F guy found a body out in the ocean. It’s in the paper.” He tossed the Gazette to Charley.

  “I heard of it.” Charley skimmed over the story.

  “I ain’t buying it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Grant, he ain’t a local.”

  Charley rolled his eyes. Of all places, Brigands Key had no right to arrogance, yet it was a defining trait. “So?”

  “So he’s up to something. You really believe he’s looking for Indian mounds under the sea? That’s a good ’un.”

  “He’s an archaeologist. What do you expect him to be after?”

  “Come on, Charley, grow up. You ain’t in high school no more. A man’s after two things: money and pussy. Having the first gets you the second. Indian mounds, my ass. Grant’s up to something.”

  “I don’t think anyone mentioned Indian mounds.”

  Roscoe grinned conspiratorially. “Bet no one mentioned treasure, either.”

  Oh boy, Charley thought. Here we go. Roscoe’s ultimate fantasy. “You think he’s on a treasure hunt?”

  “There’s dozens of shipwrecks within an hour’s boat trip of Brigands Key. Most of them ain’t been identified yet, and I guarantee you there’s a bunch more ain’t been found. Grant’s hiding something. Didn’t you notice the paper didn’t say where the body came from?”

  “So the newspaper and police are in on it, too?”

  “Grant won’t tell them the location.”

  The island and mainland receded in the distance. Salty wind blew through Charley’s hair and the open sea filled his senses. At moments like this, he loved going out each morning with Roscoe. Although he’d lived his whole life on an island, he rarely got to go out on the water until he got this job. His sporadically employed father never owned a boat, and his mother wouldn’t set foot on one.

  “Chief Sanborn knows the spot,” Charley said at last.

  Roscoe shot him a glance. “How do you know?”

  Charley tried a confident shrug. “This is big stuff for Brigands Key. When the paper didn’t reveal the location, I got curious.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I hacked Sanborn’s computer this morning before work. That’s why I was late.”

  “Holy damn, Charley! You’re odd, but you got your moments.”

  Roscoe was a miser with compliments, and Charley blushed. “Piece of cake,” he said. “Sanborn’s not real big on computer security because nothing ever happens around here and because he knows nobody on the island is worth a damn with the digital age.”

  “He underestimated one of us.”

  Charley grinned.

  “So. You going to tell me or not?”

  “I don’t know, Boss. I kind of feel like it’s a threat to the case and to Dr. Grant’s work.”

  Roscoe groaned. “Look. If Grant ain’t told Sanborn, he’s hiding something, and it ain’t arrowheads and baskets. If he has, Sanborn’s going to blunder all over the place and screw up his little project anyway.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You ain’t the pushover I thought. Tell you what, Charley. You got something good and I’ll throw in fifty bucks on top of your wages.”

  Charley hesitated. “Cash? Today?”

  “Don’t get greedy, son. I’ll add it to your paycheck.”

  “Good enough. Sanborn wrote a report and saved it as a .pdf file on his computer. It was ridiculously easy to open. His password is ‘Theodore’.”

  “That’s his damn cat’s name!”

  “Guys like that think that’s some kind of unbreakable code. Anyway, the Chief’s computers are networked with City Hall’s. Get into one of them, you get into them all.”

  “Yeah, but what’s he got?”

  “An Indian spear point is all he produced. Says there’s more. Teeth, hooks, stuff like that. What you’d expect.”

  “I say he got that junk from some other site and is using it as a cover. Where’s his treasure, boy?”

  “It rounds to twenty-nine degrees, thirteen minutes north, by eighty-three, twenty-eight west.”

  “Not enough. I need GPS coordinates. Grant’s probably not the guessing kind.”

  Charley hesitated and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. “I figured you’d want it. Grant’s precise; he logged the position out to fourteen decimal places.”

  Roscoe read the paper, rummaged through his console, found a paper clip, and attached the note to a dirty notepad hanging from the console.

  Charley laughed. “You know, Roscoe, you really should get yourse
lf a laptop. Get with the times.”

  Roscoe shook his head. “I got a computer. I use it to look at dirty pictures and steal songs. I keep the important stuff the old-fashioned way.”

  “How come?”

  “Because of guys like you. You broke into the police computer and had your way, and that’s the most sensitive shit in town. You hackers, you can steal my stuff from the other side of the world. No sir. My way is safer. There’s folks here in town would like nothing better than a look at my files.”

  “Any moron could break into your house and steal your stuff.”

  “Not my stuff. All my important stuff is in code. And I use dozens of codes. Somebody cracks one of them, and it’ll only be good for a little bit of my stuff. Computer hackers are smart but lazy sons of bitches. They can’t do it electronically, they don’t want to bother. Nobody else on the island is smart enough to figure this out.” Roscoe studied him for a long moment, a peculiar, appraising look in his eyes. “You’d be the only guy on the island I figure is smart enough for code-breaking.”

  Charley squirmed, pretended to look out to sea.

  “Relax, kid,” Roscoe said. “I don’t bite. Listen close; when Old Roscoe kicks the bucket, you keep looking for them lost trails, you hear?”

  “Yeah sure, Roscoe.”

  “And get your education. What did you say you were going to study in college?”

  “Physics, I guess.”

  “Well, ain’t you the egghead? That’s fine, but read your Shakespeare.”

  Charley nodded.

  “Read your Shakespeare, kid. I mean it.”

  “Shakespeare. Got it.”

  Roscoe swiveled the screen on his GPS finder out of the sun and wiped it with a fist. He looked at the paper on which he’d scrawled Charley’s coordinates and looked up at the southwestern horizon. He swung Electric Ladyland west so sharply Charley, leaning against the starboard gunwale, nearly toppled overboard.

  “As luck’d have it,” Roscoe said, “the reds are biting over yonder.”

  Forty minutes later, Roscoe throttled down and the boat slowed to a crawl, rocking gently over its own following wake, its powerful outboards grumbling. Charley glanced eastward. Although he could just see the tiny spire of the lighthouse, a pinpoint over the water, they were no longer within sight of land and he felt a vague dread, his mind whispering that the whole world was ocean and that a half-inch-thick wooden hull was all that separated him from a wet, lonely death.