36

 

Tuesday morning

Wes opened his eyes and looked around the dark, windowless room. At least his eyelids didn’t hurt. They were about the only two parts of his body to escape the abuse, and then just barely. His right cheek and that side of his head was black and swollen where Meshach had clubbed him with the pistol. He’d ignored the pain until he looked in the mirror. If he’d ever looked worse, he couldn’t remember when.

He’d been in the hospital twice as a kid. Those memories smelled like disinfectant and alcohol and sounded like the control bridge in an episode of the old Star Trek series: bleep-bleep, bleep-bleep, bleep-bleep. Not much had changed.

He turned on the light, sat up on the edge of the bed and worked his limbs. All of them but the upper left arm and shoulder anyway. A dozen small wounds covered his forearms and hands. The latter were swollen and sore. Humans weren’t meant to be wet for prolonged periods. Water weakened skin, making it easier to puncture and tear.

Agent Carr stepped into the open doorway. He smiled. “Good to see you, Wes. Can I come in?”

“Good morning, Trent.” Wes waved him in. They shook hands.

Trent brushed back the bottom of his lightweight, tan jacket at his waist and pulled his khaki pants up his wiry, hipless frame. “Did you get some rest?”

“I got to sleep about three or so. After the doc poked me all over, and I’d had a hot shower.”

Trent checked his watch. “It’s seven twenty. That’s not much sleep. How are you feeling?”

“Like one of Saddam’s SCUDs hit me. I hurt in places I forgot I had.”

Trent pointed at one of two small, padded, blue armchairs at the foot of the bed. “Mind if I sit down?”

Wes shook his head. “Of course not.”

An orderly walked in carrying a brown plastic tray holding a large covered plate, a small bowl full of fruit, and small plastic containers of milk and apple juice.

“Thanks,” Wes said.

The guy left the tray on the rolling bedside table and took his leave.

Trent removed his trademark pad and pencil from his shirt pocket. “Talk to me.”

Where to start? Facts? He had few, but he could make some educated assumptions. “Meshach planned to hijack a large vessel, tanker, freighter. I don’t think it mattered which, and use it as a weapon to hit an offshore oil facility. The anchor rope on the boat had knots tied in it at useful intervals and blue cloth was wrapped at strategic points to silence the anchor. A makeshift grapple, if you will. His target might have meant more to him than his weapon of choice because of his obsession with Cole, but who knows. If you’ll remember the file Tony and your agent found on his computer, he had many options in mind.”

Wes took a deep breath. “I think you can close one missing person, slash murder case, and one first degree murder. Meshach didn’t come out and say it, but he killed his dad. His only admission to anything I asked came when he compared me to his father. He threatened his dad if he didn’t leave him alone. His dad should have listened. He told me I talked too much and implied I didn’t take him seriously, like his dad. Looking at that situation from the outside, ten, twelve years ago, you might have let Meshach walk and called it self-defense.”

Trent scribbled on the pad for another moment and looked up. “The murder?”

“Yeah. Lane Woodard, last week, here in New Orleans. He and Meshach went to school together. They had a chance meeting that got Lane killed. Dig around and I’ll bet you’ll find confirmation.”

“I remember Lane’s name from your notes. His mother got us Meshach’s real name from the picture. I’ll need to call her.”

Wes didn’t tell Liz he’d get her son’s killer. He didn’t have anything to apologize for, but he felt obligated to her. Maybe because he’d met her, witnessed, and empathized with her grief. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to her first. Jess and I will fly to Vegas tomorrow and sit down with her.”

Trent eyed him a long second and nodded. “Meshach’s character?”

“None. His feelings are cold, numb, and hard as a brick. What drives him? Again, who knows? Ideology, money, revenge, or just because he likes what he does. It’s anyone’s guess.”

Wes picked out a grape from the bowl, then put it back. “Did you find his boat?”

Trent nodded. “We did, early this morning, right where you told Officer Jamison it would be. I’m afraid we didn’t find our man, though. I’ve got a team headed out there to drag the area for his body. I’ll let you know what we find, if anything.”

Wes knew it. There was always a glitch. No body, dead or alive, no closure.

Trent looked up from his pad and blinked. “How did you get away?”

“God sent a stinkbug to help me.”

Trent’s head canted to one side. His nose crinkled, hinting at a subconscious thought about sniffing at a bug. “What?”

“We left our little hideout and cruised down the middle of the channel. I can only guess at our speed, but we clipped along at a good pace. I noticed a small loop of the anchor rope sticking out from under the hatch where the anchor was stored. I was mulling that over when I looked at Meshach. He leaned to look around the windscreen, and a big bug hit him in the forehead. I grabbed the rope and dove off the boat with the anchor. The rest is a blur. The anchor must have buried up in the mud and when the rope pulled tight, the boat flipped. The last time I saw Meshach he was airborne and at the mercy of speed and gravity.”

“What made you think of something like that?”

Wes had been wondering that very thing. “I didn’t think. It just happened.”

Trent wrote on his pad again.

Wes doubted the scribbling referenced the lack of forethought as to why Wes did what he did.

“What else? Did he mention Lamech or Sullivan?”

“No, but I threw their names at him. He never blinked. Speaking of, he doesn’t blink…ever. Tears run from his eye like a leaky faucet. He wears the dark glasses for a reason. He has to. And he’s wounded. His right hand was wrapped in a bloody cloth. I’d say he’s right handed too. He was awkward using his left.”

After a moment, the agent shook his head and said, “He’s crazy if he thought he could pull off something like hijacking a ship alone.”

Wes knew that was where he’d made his biggest mistake in evaluating Meshach. “Be careful. You and I think people like Meshach are crazy. He is not. He’s insane, possessed, or both. If you don’t find his body, assume he’s planning his next whatever. Don’t confuse him with crazy. He’s calculating and void of emotion. Another thought. He was armed with a 1911 frame .45. A fancy piece, like a Kimber maybe, with rose-colored wooden grips, and he’s got my Springfield .45. We know he took the cop’s service piece, though I never saw it. How is that guy, by the way?”

“He succumbed to his wounds yesterday afternoon.” Trent flipped his pad closed and stood. “I wonder why he kept you alive.”

“The one time I tried to draw him out and get him to talk, I nearly got perforated in the forehead. He picked up the pistol, pointed it my direction and pulled the trigger. Like wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He didn’t care if I lived or died, so who knows. I didn’t complain.”

“I’ll bet not. Wes, go home. We’ve got this from here. You’ve done good work and deserve a rest. Do me one favor, though. The next time you’re down this way on business, call me so I can put on extra agents.” He smiled again. “You’ve got my thanks and my number. Call me if you think of anything else.”

They shook hands again and Wes said, “No, actually, I don’t have your number. I don’t even have clothes.” Wes pulled at the backless gown he wore. “I think I know where my cell phone is, but Meshach has my wallet. My travel bag and computer case are in my rental car and Cole or Bubba has it.”

“I’ll call Bubba for you. Tony has my info. He’s, well, he’s…”

“He’s what?”

“You’ll see. It’s crazy, plum crazy. Go see him. He’s in room 117.” Trent waved and walked out.

 

~*~

 

Wes didn’t let the suspense build very long before he chose the only option available and peeked under the stainless lid covering his breakfast: a broccoli and cheese omelet. It went down well, even without his usual dose of salt and pepper the hospital dietary staff conveniently failed to provide, probably by design. The bowl of fruit and the drinks proved to be apt additions.

As he finished and pushed away the tray, Cole knocked. “Hey, are you up for some company?”

“Come in here. You brought my suitcase. Did Trent call you?”

“No. I thought you’d need it.”

“We must have ESPN then. I’m threadbare. Actually, I’m worse. I’m bare. Set that up here for me.”

Cole placed the bag on the foot of the bed. “That’s good humor—ESPN.” He had on the same Wranglers, cowboy boots, and camo cap but had changed to a white, vented, Columbia fishing shirt.

Wes unzipped the travel bag, removed a change of clothes and his shaving kit, then eased off the bed. “If you’ll excuse me a minute, I’m going to get out of this airy garment and brush the fuzz off my teeth. Then, I want to go see Tony.”

Cole held out his hand.

Wes stopped and grabbed it. They shook.

Cole’s eyes held Wes’s a long moment. He said, “You went above and beyond.”

“I didn’t plan it that way, Cole. It just happened.”

“Your kind never plans it, but when you’re forced into a tough situation, you don’t shy from the task either. Go on. Get dressed. Jessica and Bubba are on their way too.”

Wes eased into the bathroom and changed. He wished he had an extra pair of shoes. His were soaked. He put them on anyway and stepped out.

Cole scanned him from head to toe. “You look rough, my friend. Are you OK?”

Wes tossed the gown on the bed. “I did something to my left shoulder. They want me to have an MRI today, but I’m going to wait until I get home. After that, I’m well. How about you? Business as usual? How’s your daughter?”

“Bethany is fine. Thanks for asking. Business is not as usual. That Meshach character pointed to some deficiencies, industry wide. Operating overseas, history prepares us for such efforts from the more radical types, but here at home, we don’t have a history yet. We have work to do.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to leave soon for a meeting with the Bureau of Ocean Energy Management. I have something for you before we go see Tony too.” He removed an envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Wes. “You didn’t send me a bill, and I don’t want one. Don’t try to give the check back either. Cash it. You’ll find an offer of employment in there as well. Take your time. Recuperate and think on it.”

Wes slid the envelope into the pocket of his shirt. “Thanks, Cole. I’ll consider your offer.”

What kind of position could an ex-Marine turned PI fill in Cole’s organization? The answer could wait until he looked at Cole’s proposal, and he wouldn’t do that until he was alone.

A nurse walked in carrying an iPad. She looked at the empty bed, at Cole and Wes, the vacant bathroom, then back at the bed. Her eyes narrowed. “Where’s my patient?”

“You’re looking at him,” Wes said.

She blinked then pointed at the empty space between the white sheets. “Are you kidding me? Get back in bed. You can’t leave until the doctor releases you.”

“Ma’am, I’m going down the hall to room 117 to see my friend. I’ll be back.” He edged toward the door. “Promise.”

Cole led the way.