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  Initially Platt had thought it might be an airborne bacterium. In Iraq he had seen a bone infection called osteomyelitis (OM), prevalent in the Middle East. It often occurred in severe fractures where the bone was left exposed. But OM wasn’t fatal or life-threatening. Sometimes, though rarely, it cost a soldier his limb. And sometimes it led to or acted as a primer for methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus, MRSA.

  Captain Ganz had told Platt there was now a compound, a bone cement pumped full of antibiotics, that allowed them to apply those antibiotics directly to the fracture site, reducing such infections. In addition, Ganz had tested for MRSA. The tests were negative. Platt should have known that it was too easy of an answer.

  If not MRSA, Platt wondered, then what? Was it possibly another deadly pathogen that resembled MRSA and was not only resistant to antibiotics but could also lie dormant, hidden inside the cells, waiting for something to trigger it into action? Could a bone infection like OM mutate into something fatal? Given the right ingredients—like an open-air wound, a deep-tissue, bone-exposed wound—anything was possible. Platt had seen it happen before. But not like this. Invisible with no initial symptoms.

  Dr. Anslo was staring at him again. The raised eyebrows showing his discontent while he waited for instructions.

  “Go ahead,” Platt told him. “Proceed with your normal routine.” But before Dr. Anslo began the Y incision down Ronnie Towers’s chest, Platt said to him, “Do you mind if I take this for twenty-four hours.” He pointed at Ronnie’s prosthetic.

  “You want to take his leg?” This time Anslo didn’t need a facial expression to show his disgust. His voice did it for him.

  Without apology, Platt said, “Yes. Would that be okay?”

  “I’ll have the diener help you fill out the necessary form. May I proceed?” He pointed his chin toward his hands waiting over the boy’s chest.

  Platt nodded. As a medical doctor, cutting into live tissue was lifesaving. Cutting into dead tissue seemed … such a waste. He was relieved when Anslo turned his back to him so he couldn’t see Platt wince.

  CHAPTER 20

  Liz felt the adrenaline kick in again. The wind continued to whip at her. It took Kesnick three attempts to deploy her within reach of the fishing cruiser. Once, the wind shoved her over it. The second time her toes brushed the rail before the waves swept the tilted deck and the boat out of reach. The whole time she kept her eye on the dog, making sure it didn’t decide to protect its master by attacking her. The dog, however, just watched.

  The third time a wave crested and shoved the boat up to meet her. Liz kicked her feet out, twisting and jerking her body until she touched the deck. She prayed that her flippers didn’t trip her as she caught the slippery railing with her heels just as Kesnick loosened the deployment cable. She slid down between the tilted deck and the railing.

  The dog had stayed put, watching his master, almost pointing his nose into the water. His eyes followed Liz. Despite the howl of the wind and the crash of the waves she thought she could hear the dog moan. That’s when she noticed the second dog inside the cabin. From the helicopter, the roof had hidden his existence. He was larger than the first dog but his weight didn’t cause a shift. He paced back and forth, following the natural sway of the disabled boat.

  Liz kept herself from glancing up at the helicopter. No sense in telegraphing this problem too early.

  Kesnick gave more slack for her to maneuver over the sinking boat. She knew her extra weight could capsize it. She crawled slowly toward the man. He wasn’t moving. It wasn’t until she was within five feet that she saw his eyes watching her. A good sign. Shock hadn’t completely debilitated him.

  His arm draped over the railing was the only thing that prevented him from floating away from the boat, but it lay at an odd angle. He wasn’t hanging on. He was caught, the arm most likely broken. It must have happened when he flipped overboard, keeping him out of the water from the waist up. That is, when the waves weren’t crushing his legs against the boat.

  When Liz could safely reach out without further tilting the deck, she grabbed on to his life jacket. His eyes grew wider. The slight movement had reminded him of the pain. She wouldn’t be able to use the quick strop on him. The harness was meant to fit under the survivor’s arms. She’d need them to deploy the basket. She took a cable hooked to her belt and started to wind it around the man’s waist. If nothing else, it would prevent him from getting sucked under the boat if it capsized.

  Then she waved up at the helicopter, giving the signal to send down the basket. This, too, presented a challenge. The winds swept the basket in every direction but down to Liz. They couldn’t put it in the water for the same reason she had attached the cable to the man’s waist. The basket could get sucked under. Kesnick would need to place it right on the deck, steadying it with the cable so it didn’t add weight to the boat.

  This took several tries.

  “I’m not going without my dogs,” the man told Liz as she wrestled him up.

  “I’ve been told the dogs can’t go. They’ll need to wait for the cutter.”

  He shoved at her, wincing at the pain in his arm. “Then I’ll wait with them.”

  Again, Liz avoided glancing up at the helicopter. Had they seen him push her away? They might just think she hurt him. “Either one of them a biter?” she asked.

  He was silent and she knew immediately that he didn’t want to condemn one or the other.

  “Sir, you’re gonna have to trust me.”

  “He only did it once and he was defending me.”

  “This one,” she said turning her head, avoiding any gestures the helicopter crew might interpret.

  “Yeah, Benny.”

  “And the other one?”

  “He’s a big baby. Can’t you tell?” he said with a smile, but it disappeared when he said, “I didn’t buy them life jackets. I can’t believe I thought I’d save a couple of bucks.” He shook his head, biting his lip. But it wasn’t pain this time. It was regret. “You can’t leave them. Please.”

  Liz guessed the guy was in his forties, small-framed—thank God—and an amateur fisherman. Later she’d ask if the boat was new, perhaps a splurge. His foolish attempt at recreation had almost cost him his life. And now she knew it might very well cost her own neck.

  CHAPTER 21

  Maggie slid into a position close enough to the open doorway that she could watch Bailey. Whatever the woman had given her earlier seemed to be helping. She wasn’t nauseated; however, her stomach dived every time Bailey plunged. It didn’t matter that the rescue swimmer was attached to the helicopter by a cable. Each attempt to drop her onto the boat looked more like a circus stunt gone horribly wrong.

  Kesnick relayed every move step-by-step to his other two crew members. Minutes ago he said there might be a problem.

  “The guy’s refusing to get into the basket.”

  “From what I’ve heard,” Ellis said, “she was able to talk her way around some real crazies in New Orleans after Katrina.”

  “What do mean, talk her way around?” Wilson wanted to know.

  “You heard about some of the situations. The crew would hover down over a flooded area where a couple of people were stranded, and as soon as the rescue swimmer got down there other people swarmed out demanding rescue. Some nasty dudes, too. I guess Bailey had to tell them women and children or injured got first priority. They didn’t much like it.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She said what she needed to, to get them to listen to her.”

  “Humph.”

  Maggie glanced over at Wilson. His grunt sounded like he wasn’t impressed.

  “She’s getting him in the basket,” Kesnick announced.

  “All right.” Ellis pumped a fist.

  “It’s about time. Pull him up,” Wilson told him.

  “No signal yet.”

  More minutes ticked by and then Maggie realized what Bailey was up to right about the same time Kesnick did. She saw
him glance back at his pilot as if looking for a way to not report what was going on below.

  “What’s the holdup?” Wilson wanted to know.

  No answer.

  “Kesnick, what the hell’s going on?”

  “I think she’s bringing the dog up with the guy.”

  “She’s not bringing up that dog, Kesnick.” Wilson’s anger rocked the controls and the helicopter jerked to the right.

  “She’s putting the dog in on top of the guy.”

  “You have got to be kidding me,” Ellis yelled, but Maggie thought it sounded like he was smiling.

  “I told her not to bring up that dog.”

  Maggie saw Bailey wave the all clear and up, and Kesnick didn’t hesitate. He concentrated on raising the basket, keeping it steady. Maggie watched Bailey down below. She had crawled back farther onto the deck, under the cabin roof.

  Kesnick pulled and yanked, getting the basket into the helicopter’s cabin, sliding and grinding it over the entry. The whole time his attention was focused on the survivor and the dog. Maggie knew Kesnick hadn’t even seen the second dog that Bailey had dragged from the cabin. She had it clutched tight to her chest and managed to harness it to her safety belt.

  “Son of a bitch,” Kesnick said as he grasped the deployment cable.

  “What now?” Wilson asked.

  Maggie glanced between Wilson and Kesnick while watching the survivor settle against the cabin wall, hugging what looked like a broken arm. The dog stayed close to his owner, panting and licking the man’s hand. Maggie was glad he couldn’t hear the exchange between Kesnick and Wilson.

  “There’s a second dog,” Kesnick finally admitted.

  “She better not be bringing up another dog.”

  “She’s bringing up the second dog.”

  “Don’t raise that dog up.”

  “She has it in the quick strop. She’s holding it.”

  “Son of a bitch. Don’t raise her up, Kesnick. Leave her butt down there until she puts that damn dog back.”

  Maggie watched Kesnick’s face, the half she could see below his eye shield. She thought she saw a hint of a smile. What Wilson didn’t realize and couldn’t see was that the flight mechanic already had Bailey halfway up. She was almost to the helicopter.

  CHAPTER 22

  Walter Bailey flipped over the OPEN sign on his Coney Island Canteen. It was later than he’d like. Sundays were big days for him, but he’d promised his daughter Liz that he’d get gasoline first. He’d gotten extra and took a couple of five-gallon canisters to his other daughter, Trish. As he’d suspected, his son-in-law, Scott, hadn’t even thought about preparing for the hurricane. Trish, as always, defended her husband.

  “He’s from Michigan, Dad. He has no idea what a hurricane means.”

  “He’ll learn quickly. This one is on its way.”

  Walter hadn’t really believed that when he said it. But it made him mad that Scott chose to “run into work”—as Trish put it—instead of helping his wife prepare. It was a father’s overprotective instinct kicking in, but he didn’t like Scott Larsen. Sometimes that slipped out. Lately he didn’t care. Trish deserved better. Though everyone believed this young man was a charming, hardworking, devoted husband, Walter saw beyond the veneer. Maybe it was just Scott’s profession that annoyed Walter. In his mind, morticians were just better-dressed salesmen.

  By the time Walter got to Pensacola Beach, the winds had kicked up and surfers were riding the waves. It was what Walter liked to call “beatin’ down” hot, not a strip of shade or cool around.

  He had a line of customers before the first set of dogs were ready, but Walter enjoyed chatting and could make his hot, hungry customers laugh and share stories. His career as a navy pilot and commander not only made for good entertainment but also had trained him well in convincing people that his mission was their mission. They weren’t just buying a hot dog and Coke from the Coney Island Canteen, they were paying tribute to Walter’s boyhood. Okay, so perhaps the salesman in him simply recognized the salesman in Scott.

  The crowd thinned out, finally replaced by a young guy—no more than thirty. Neat, short-cropped hair. Dressed in khaki walking shorts, a purple polo shirt—though Walter’s wife would have corrected him and called it lavender—and Sperry deck shoes. Walter’s wife had taught him how to dress. After thirty-five years of wearing a uniform he had no idea who Ralph Lauren was. But now he did and recognized the logo on the lavender shirt. He noticed other details, too—like the gold Rolex and Ray-Bans—without showing that he noticed. The guy was probably not a tourist. Maybe a businessman. He didn’t look like he knew anything about boats, though Walter had seen better-dressed amateurs step off some of the yachts in the marina. It was ridiculous what people thought they needed to wear these days, even for recreation.

  “What can I get on it?” the guy asked.

  “Just about anything you want.”

  “Green peppers?”

  “Sure. Green peppers, kraut, onions.”

  Walter thought he recognized the guy but couldn’t place him.

  “All of that sounds good. Add some mustard and relish. So what’s with the Coney Island getup? You from New York?”

  “Nope. Pennsylvania. But my daddy took us to Coney Island a couple of times for vacation. Those were some of the best days. You been to Coney Island?”

  “No. But my dad talked about it. Where in Pennsylvania?”

  “Upper Darby.”

  “Get out. Really?”

  Walter stopped with a forkful of kraut to look at the guy. “You know Upper Darby?”

  “My dad grew up in Philadelphia. He talked about Upper Darby.”

  “Is that right?” Walter finished, wrapped the hot dog in a napkin, nestled it into a paper dish, and handed it to the guy. “Would I know him? Where’d he go to high school?”

  “You know, I’m not sure. He died a few years ago. Cancer. His name was Phillip Norris. He didn’t stay in Philadelphia. Joined the navy.”

  “Retired navy,” Walter said, pointing a thumb to his chest.

  “No kidding?” The guy took a careful bite of the hot dog, nodded, and smiled. “This is one good dog.”

  “One hundred percent beef.”

  “Hey, Mr. B,” a scrawny kid interrupted.

  “Danny, my boy. Ready for your regular?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Danny here is quite the entrepreneur.” Walter always tried to bring his customers together.

  “Is that right?”

  “Working on the beach cleanup crew and living out of his car to save money.”

  “And to surf,” Danny added.

  “His surfboard is worth more than his car.”

  Danny shrugged and smiled. Walter knew the boy enjoyed the attention. He wasn’t sure what the kid’s story was. He looked about fifteen but Walter had seen his driver’s license and it listed him at eighteen and from someplace in Kansas. Maybe the kid really did just want to surf.

  Danny had the routine down. Worked the cleanup crew in the evenings till about eleven, slept in his car, surfed all day, used the outdoor showers on the beach and the public restrooms on the boardwalk, ate hot dogs with mustard, onion, and kraut with a Coke. Not a bad life, Walter supposed.

  He handed the kid his hot dog and poured an extra-large Coke, then accepted the boy’s two bucks. Their agreement. Walter figured this was the kid’s only real meal of the day, so he cut him a deal.

  Another line started forming. A bunch of college kids, pushing and shoving at one another.

  While handing Walter a ten-dollar bill, Norris was watching Danny get into his faded red Impala. Maybe the kid reminded him of himself.

  “On the house,” Walter said.

  That got his attention.

  “I can’t let you do that.” The guy looked stunned like no one had ever said that to him before. “Besides, I can more than afford it,” he said, swinging his head and his eyes back in Danny’s direction.

  “I kno
w you can. Come back and buy one tomorrow. That one’s on me. For your daddy—one vet to another. Now go enjoy. You’re holding up my traffic.”

  Norris wandered off to the side, glancing at the people behind him. The ten-dollar bill stayed in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it. He thought he might have offended the guy. That he might stick around and try to pay him again.

  Walter wished he could figure out what was so familiar about him though even the name Phillip Norris didn’t ring any bells. He realized he should ask where his dad was stationed in the navy. But when he looked up the guy was gone.

  CHAPTER 23

  Scott Larsen ignored his ringing cell phone. It was either a grieving family calling to nag or it was Trish, and he didn’t want to talk to her, either. After a quick glance he continued through the hotel lobby. It was Trish. She didn’t appreciate him leaving again even if it was for business. She’d gotten herself worked up about this frickin’ hurricane. He was getting so tired of everybody worrying about this storm when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

  Trish had probably remembered one more thing to harangue him about. Something else her daddy had done for her.

  “Daddy brought us some gasoline,” she had told him earlier.

  “Wow. He spent his entire week’s hot-dog money.”

  “That’s rude. He was being gracious.”

  “Taking care of his little girl.”

  “Maybe he thought he had to because her husband wasn’t doing a very good job.”

  “I’m off making a living. Paying the bills.”

  “If this hurricane hits, none of that will matter.”

  And by this time she had worked herself into angry tears, which automatically clicked Scott into his professional comforter role. He’d put an arm around her shoulder, instigated the combination hand pat while whispering a series of soothing words and phrases.