Brigands Key Read online

  Somehow, Charley couldn’t picture Roscoe Nobles—scruffy, uncouth, tactless Roscoe—in top hat and tux. But you never know.

  The Holiday Nights event was already in progress and winding down. If Roscoe was there, the letter did him no good. If he was not there, it also did him no good. Charley stuffed the letter and envelope into his pocket and sped away on his bike.

  He turned down Main and headed into town. No point rushing home to hear his father’s drunken tirades. He’d get that soon enough. He could hang out in the library, see if he could disable the anti-porn filters. Just for kicks.

  * * *

  Gerald Hammond arrived at his office earlier than usual. Despite John Doe and all, he still had a business to run and paperwork and patients still to deal with. Mystery was good for the soul but didn’t pay the bills.

  He parked in his favorite spot, in the shade of the ancient live oak that sheltered his little building and its small, crushed-shell parking lot. Jill had not yet arrived. She was always early, setting things up for his schedule. As he unlocked the front door, a weathered Lincoln Town Car pulled in. Emma Watterson. Unscheduled, of course.

  He offered a look of concern as she climbed out of the car. Emma, the hypochondriac’s hypochondriac. Reliable, if nothing else. Odd, though; she didn’t have her walker. “Emma, you shouldn’t be driving. And your appointment’s not until next Thursday.” He pushed the office door open and stepped aside, holding it for her.

  “Jerry...”

  Emma staggered forward, her face ashen, and fell. He caught her and eased her in through the doorway. Her nails dug into his arms. She looked into his eyes, trembling, and he saw in her face something he’d not seen before, after all her varied and imagined maladies. He saw pain and fear.

  “Emma, what—?”

  Clinging to him, she leaned to one side and her body trembled and she vomited onto the floor, the yellow bile splashing onto his leg. She slumped and sagged. Hammond wrapped his arms around her and guided her into the exam room and lay her on the table. She shuddered violently.

  He took her pulse. Rapid-fire, but weak. Her face was ghostly pale.

  Where the hell was Jill?

  Emma vomited again, very little this time. She turned to him, her eyes pleading. Her head tipped to one side and her eyes turned glassy and rolled up under her eyelids.

  Her struggles ceased and she settled back with a sound like a sigh.

  Hammond, one hand still upon Emma to keep her from slipping onto the floor, checked her pulse, found it. He reached for the wall phone, cradled it between ear and shoulder, and punched in Jill’s number.

  The phone rang five times before Jill’s husband, Marty, answered.

  “Marty, tell Jill I need her here right now.”

  “Doc, she’s sick in bed. I was about to call.”

  “Emma’s here.” Hammond lowered his voice. “She’s in seriously bad shape. I need Jill right now.”

  “Let me put it another way. Hell no. Jill’s not coming in. She’s shaking something awful, vomiting her guts out.”

  Hammond got a sinking feeling. “Okay, keep an eye on her, Marty. Get her plenty of water to drink. Aspirin if she gets a fever. She gets any worse, you bring her in. Not as an employee, as a patient.” He hung up the phone.

  “Looks like it’s just us, Emma,” he said. He strapped the blood-pressure cuff around her arm and pumped it tight.

  Out in the lobby, the little bell hanging on the front door jangled brightly, announcing an arrival. “Anyone here?”

  Hammond recognized the voice. “Be with you in a second, Burt. I’m a little short-staffed right now. Did you have an appointment?”

  “Naw, Doc. But you got to help me. I’m real sick.”

  Hammond had a sudden stab of fear in his gut. He wasn’t a big believer in coincidences.

  Don’t get ahead of the moment, he told himself. Three sick persons do not an epidemic make. It’s just a little summer flu.

  Four terrible, wet hours later, Emma was dead and Burt James was slipping in and out of consciousness.

  * * *

  Randy Sanborn hesitated outside the mayor’s door, listening to the muted voices beyond. They'd called this rush meeting only a half-hour ago. He'd gotten here ten minutes early but they’d started without him, no doubt by design. Politicians liked to get their stories straight before conflicting agendas were allowed.

  Fine. If that was the game, he could play it, too. He decided against knocking, hoping to catch an unguarded word or two. He swung open the door and stepped quickly in. The conversation stopped as if someone had thrown a switch.

  The mayor cast quick, knowing glances to his other guests, then collected himself. “Ah, Randy, thanks for coming on such short notice.”

  “Apparently I’m late, Ralph.” Sanborn glanced about at the small group. Mayor Ralph J. Johnson, all three-hundred pounds of him, leaned back in his brown leather wing chair behind his vast oak desk, in his trademark short-sleeve white shirt and too-short tie, a semi-smile plastered on his face. Clay Abbott, the city manager, hovered at Johnson’s elbow in one of the cheap guest’s chairs that made guests feel not quite comfortable nor welcome. Abbott nodded slightly to Sanborn.

  Sanborn was surprised and a little pleased to see Artie Blount. The feud between Mayor Johnson and Blount ladled out a constant amusement, so Blount’s presence meant that something big or sneaky was afoot.

  The last member of the group was a slender blond woman smartly dressed in corporate gray and white. Not a local, not by a long shot. A practiced smile lit her face.

  “Randy,” Johnson said, “You know Susan Walsh, of course, with Gulf Breeze Properties, out of Tampa.”

  Of course he knew her. Everyone knew her.

  Walsh offered her porcelain hand. Sanborn took it and felt her give a gentle squeeze. Alarm bells sounded in his mind. He released her hand quickly and took a seat.

  The door swung open and Hammond entered, breathing heavily.

  “Ah, Jerry,” Johnson said happily. “Good of you to come. I’ll have ’em locate another chair.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ve got a problem at my office, as you know. I can give you ten minutes and then I’m out of here.”

  “We best be efficient then,” Johnson said. “Randy, Jerry, we’ve got a busy little town all of a sudden.”

  Sanborn nodded. Let them deal the first hand.

  “First, John Doe,” Johnson continued. “Now this little flu outbreak.”

  “You diagnosed influenza?” Hammond asked. “I surely didn’t.”

  “You called it a flu this morning.”

  “I said it might be a flu. As cases arrive, I’m not seeing enough symptoms of flu.”

  “Semantics. An outbreak of something.”

  “Of something.”

  “How many you got?”

  “I’ve got three patients in my office right now, waiting on me to get back. I’ve sent four home already this morning. My nurse is home, sick in bed. And Emma...”

  “So sad to hear about Emma, Doc,” Blount said.

  “Well, she was seventy years old,” Johnson said. “And chronically sick.”

  “Her many illnesses were imaginary and inflated,” Hammond said. “This one was real. What’s more, Burt James passed away a half-hour ago. Same symptoms.”

  Johnson leaned suddenly forward. “Burt died?”

  The question hung, answered by silence.

  “Mayor,” Abbott said, “we had two city employees, Myriam and Bobby, call in sick today. I suspect a number of people are sick that Doc doesn’t know about.”

  “I have no doubt,” Hammond said. “When people are sick, the doctor only sees the tip of the iceberg. Whatever it is, it’s deadly.”

  “This illness, is it related to John Doe?”

  Hammond shook his head. “John Doe was murdered.”

  The mayor grunted. “Well, that’s something.”

  Sanborn cleared his throat. “That doesn’t mean they’re unrelate
d. It just means cause of death is not the same.”

  “Have you figured out who he is, Randy?”

  “There are no missing persons that fit his description. No sport or commercial fishermen in the area reported missing.”

  “He’s not a local,” Blount said. “That’s huge.”

  “For once we agree, Mr. Blount,” Walsh said.

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Susan.”

  Sanborn looked directly at the mayor. “Why is she here?”

  “Calm down, Randy. Susan’s firm has a big stake in our community.”

  “Lots of businesses have a big stake in our community. Why does hers get the inside track?”

  “My question exactly,” Blount said.

  “Randy, you’re stepping over the line,” the mayor said. “Don’t forget your place.”

  “Don’t start, Ralph.”

  Susan Walsh leaned forward, smiling brilliantly. “Mayor, Chief Sanborn is right, Gulf Breeze is just one concerned party here. We’re Brigands Key’s biggest fans and our interest is of course financial. No secret in that. We stand to make a lot of money here, but the big winners will be your community. Our community. We’ve committed our talent and fortune to Bay View and Brigands Key, and naturally we want the community to prosper before we break ground.”

  “If you break ground,” Blount said. “That’s not decided yet.”

  “True, we’re here at the discretion of the good citizens of Brigands Key. If we’re told to hit the road, so be it. But we’ll do our best to convince you of our value.”

  “What a load of crap. The Council votes on Wednesday on Bay View, and what do you know? Emma’s death leaves you sitting pretty. What fortuitous, well-timed luck.”

  “Be careful what you suggest, Mr. Blount.”

  “You’re selling but I’m not buying and neither is the majority of the town. And you know what? I hear we’re missing another councilmember. Another ‘no’ vote.”

  Johnson’s eyes widened.

  “He’s right, Mayor,” Sanborn said. “Roscoe Nobles has up and disappeared.”

  “Where?”

  “Disappeared means we don’t know. His boat-hand, Charley Fawcett, said Roscoe hasn’t shown up for work for two days.”

  “Goddamn it, why wasn’t I told? Find him! This is the biggest vote on the island in the last quarter-century. I want everyone there.”

  “I’m sure he’ll turn up.”

  “If he doesn’t,” Clay said, “we still have a quorum. And the Council, by charter, is required to vote if there’s a quorum.”

  Susan leaned forward. “We’re confident that we’re already there, Clay. If Mr. Nobles doesn’t show, it’s three to one in our favor. If he shows, it’s still three to two in favor.”

  Johnson looked down at some papers on his desk.

  “Right, Mayor?” Susan asked.

  “We’ll listen to the arguments and then we’ll vote, Susan. That’s always been my position.”

  There was a brief, freighted silence.

  “Of course, Ralph,” Susan murmured.

  Hammond tapped his watch. “You get five more minutes of my time. Sure you want to use it on issues that don’t concern me?”

  “What are we up against?” Sanborn asked.

  “Not sure. Signs point to a virus, not a bacterium. Seems highly contagious. To cover the bases, I’ve given antibiotics to the patients just in case it is bacterial.”

  “Well, just stick a sample under the microscope and see if it’s a virus or a bacterium,” Abbott said.

  “Not that simple, Clay. A virus is ten-thousandth the size of a bacterium, way too small to see with a tabletop microscope. You’ll need a scanning electron microscope.”

  “Don’t you have one?”

  Hammond rolled his eyes. “Appropriate me two hundred grand and I’ll buy a half-decent used one today.”

  “Then how do doctors diagnose a virus?”

  “Day to day, by the look of things. Certainty requires tests.”

  “Do the tests, then.”

  “I’m working on it. I’ve overnighted cultures to Garrett Labs in Tampa. Results will take several days on one test, two weeks on another.”

  “What symptoms are you seeing?”

  “Diarrhea, muscular pain, joint pain, severe vomiting, dehydration, nausea, disorientation... and two deaths. The severity varies from patient to patient. Symptomatically, it looks like viral gastroenteritis. Noroviruses are prime suspects in gastroenteritis and sudden epidemics.”

  “Whoa, whoa. ‘Epidemic’ is a scary word. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Let’s not kid ourselves, either.”

  “Could it be environmental? Food poisoning, contaminated drinking water, gas leak?”

  “I can’t rule them out. Hell, scallops are in season and everybody on the island is gobbling them down. Oysters are easily contaminated with norovirus, so maybe scallops are, too.”

  Susan reached over and rested her hand on Johnson’s arm. “Mayor, you need specialists. Now. But they can get expensive in a hurry. With your okay, I’ll have Gulf Breeze hire the best and foot the bill. We’ll have them here tomorrow.”

  “You can get them here on a weekend?”

  “We’ll make it worth their while.”

  “Mm, proactive,” Abbott said.

  Johnson beamed with buzzword happiness. “I like it.”

  “Nothing like putting the fox in charge of the henhouse,” Blount murmured.

  “Artie, you got an objection?” the mayor snapped.

  Susan shook her head gently. “Gulf Breeze will place the firms directly under the city’s supervision.” She looked directly at Blount. “But if you insist, Artie, the city can pay for the whole thing.”

  Blount began to speak, then leaned back, saying nothing.

  “I like it,” Johnson repeated with finality. “Especially the part where someone else pays. Hire the firms.”

  * * *

  ON the EDGE, with Charley Eff

  So I go to work this morning like a good little proletarian. Roscoe’s not there again. That’s two days. Yippee, right? No, Roscoe’s always there. But not now. Dude up and ran off, no word, no nothing. The hell am I supposed to do? Can’t take the boat out for him... I’d sink it before I cleared the channel. I checked Roscoe’s house five times to see if he’s around. Nope. When I get back home this morning, the Old Man is waiting. Crap, he’s going to lay into me for quitting a good-paying job, which I didn’t, but the Old Man has his mind made up that I’m worthless. And what does he do? Nothing. Looks at me, growls, goes back to bed. Not feeling good. Man, I catch a break. A hangover can be a true friend.

  I see Tyler Fulton today. Captain America. Football hero. Tyler got his redneck kicks knocking my books out of my hands at school the last three years. Funny thing, he was my best friend in elementary school, before he turned Jocko Homo. Son of a bitch sees me on my bike today and beans me with a rock. His buddies think that’s the height of hilarity.

  Roscoe’s full of shit but I’m worried about him. Weird thing today; a package arrives in the mail. No return address. Postmarked Wednesday. I tear it open and inside is this used book, “The Big Little Book of Codes.” It’s all about codes and code-breaking. For beginners. I knew right away it had to be from Roscoe and that gave me a little spark of hope. But then I realized that was the last time I saw Roscoe. A little parting gift, I guess.

  I hate this place.

  Peace Out,

  Charley Eff

  * * *

  Carson Grant opened his eyes and rubbed them. The late afternoon light slanted through the window. He glanced at his watch. Christ, it couldn’t be that late. He sat up in bed, felt his stomach lurch, and saw a million specks of blackness swim in his eyes, swarming the edges of vision.

  Archaeologists brought home more than data and artifacts from their jaunts into the remote muddy corners of the world. They brought home parasites and bacteria and viruses. Vivax malaria had been Grant�
��s cross to bear for fourteen years now, his bouts with it coming and going. There was no cure, only treatment.

  His personal remedy was vodka and orange juice. He poured himself a particularly mean screwdriver and knocked it back.

  He reached to the window, his guts protesting, and yanked the blinds shut. He sank back into bed and dragged the covers over his face, dreading the coming of the inevitable violent chills of malaria.

  Chapter Seven

  Early Saturday, Charley pedaled past Morrison Motel and slowed to a stop. Professor Dude was staying at the Morrison.

  Grant hadn’t been in town but a couple of days when he turned up with a mystery corpse. Roscoe hadn’t trusted Grant’s motives, not one bit. Now Roscoe was missing.

  Charley pulled his bike under a towering magnolia and waited. He had nothing to do and he could do that here as well as anyplace else.

  An hour later, Grant emerged, squinting against the bright morning light. He looked worn out and rotten, his face sporting a rough stubble, his eyes dark, his face pale. He hesitated in the doorway, rubbed his chin, and headed to a dinged-up brown Ford truck.

  Charley followed Grant the short distance to downtown. The guy could have walked it in ten minutes and he didn’t strike Charley as the lazy type. Must be sick with the flu that was going around. Grant hadn’t been out and about much in the last day or so.

  Grant parked outside Chapman’s Drugs and went in. Charley brought his bike up and leaned it against the outside wall without locking it. He slipped inside, feeling like a secret agent, which was a little more grown-up than a superhero.

  He sauntered among the aisles, pausing at the magazine rack and picking out a random publication. A muscle mag. Oily bodybuilders with square little heads were knotted into piles of muscles. Charley quickly replaced the magazine and picked up a racing mag. Stupid redneck writing, but at least there were girls in bikinis on every page.

  Grant browsed the aisle of over-the-counter drugs and selected a couple of bottles of pills. He took them to the cashier and plopped down some cash. Mr. Chapman rang him up and glanced over Charley’s way. “Hey, Charley, you gonna buy that or just smudge all the pages up?”