Pink liquid pooled on the white linoleum floor and filled the troughs alongside the stainless-steel tables. A cardboard box blocked his entry, the type Scott used for bodies transported to the crematory, only this one held wadded-up bundles of clothes. On one of the tables lay a torso—the head, arms, and legs gone. On the other lay a corpse. It looked peaceful until Scott realized its knees and feet were cut and in between its legs.
Joe Black stood at the counter. When he turned around, Scott saw the front of his lab gown, his latex gloves, and his shoe covers, all soaked with blood.
“Oh hey, Scott, you’re just in time. I could use some help.”
CHAPTER 15
Maggie stared at the helicopter and the orange flight suit being handed to her. Obviously she hadn’t given it enough thought when she asked to see the crime scene. It was the Coast Guard, for God’s sake. Didn’t they use boats?
A helicopter. She felt her knees go a bit weak. She could barely handle being trapped on a commercial airliner. How the hell was she supposed to do a helicopter?
“Wouldn’t it be easier to take a look from a boat?” she asked, still not accepting the flight suit that the young woman offered.
She hoped the question didn’t sound ridiculous. Already she felt a bit sick to her stomach just from the thought of climbing into the helicopter. She pushed her sunglasses up and crossed her arms, pretending it was no big deal how they proceeded. She didn’t want the aircrew to interpret her hesitancy as fear. The slip, the tell would not be a great start to the investigation, and it would certainly hamper her credibility, let alone her authority. A refusal or even hesitancy would be a mistake, especially with this macho group. All of them were young (with the exception of Pete Kesnick), lean, and muscular, even the woman, the rescue swimmer named Elizabeth Bailey.
Earlier Maggie had watched Bailey don her wet suit instead of a flight suit, slipping the formfitting one-piece over the plain white shorts and white CG tank top that showed off her tanned, long legs and broad shoulders but failed to hide her femininity—full breasts and small waist. She wore her sun-bleached hair short, easy to slip under the wet suit’s hood which she kept at the back of her neck, ready instead for the flight helmet she held under her arm.
“We’re the crew that found the cooler,” the pilot, Lieutenant Commander Wilson, told Maggie. “We’re an aircrew.” He was saying it slowly as though explaining it to a child and Maggie realized she had no choice. “Is there a problem?”
During their introductions she had detected an air of annoyance from Wilson. Forever the profiler she had already decided it wasn’t due to the inconvenience but rather that he believed what Maggie was asking was somehow beneath his pay grade. At first she thought his reaction might be a knee-jerk prejudice against Wurth as a black authority figure or herself as a woman. Wurth had left after the introductions to begin his own pre-hurricane duties. And since Wilson’s attitude hadn’t left with Wurth, Maggie realized she might be the one Wilson had a problem with. It was silly to give his prejudices any credence.
“No problem,” Maggie answered. “Just hate to take you away from more important things.”
Wilson nodded, satisfied. The other two men, Kesnick and Ellis, simply returned to their preparations. But Bailey caught Maggie’s eyes as she offered the flight suit again. And in that brief exchange, Maggie realized that Bailey had recognized her fear. Would the woman give her away? Put Maggie in her place?
Bailey handed Maggie the suit, holding on to it a count longer than necessary. With her back turned to the men she let Maggie see that she was slipping something into the flight suit’s pocket.
“It’s gonna be choppy out there today,” Bailey told her. “Be sure to buckle in tight.”
Then she left to pack the rest of her own gear, including a small bag with basic medical supplies. That’s when Maggie remembered that rescue swimmers were also certified EMTs.
Maggie slipped off her shoes and started putting on the flight suit. The aircrew no longer took any interest in her as they completed their preparations. She fingered the plastic inside the pocket, cupping it in the palm of her hand before bringing out two pink-and-white capsules.
Dramamine? Benadryl? Neither worked for her.
It wasn’t about motion sickness. It was about losing control. It was a thoughtful and gracious gesture, and on closer inspection Maggie noticed the capsules were not over-the-counter medication. Instead, the small print on the plastic package read: “Zingiber officinale.”
She looked up at Bailey but the young woman was climbing into the helicopter. Maggie’s nausea started to churn as she watched the others putting on their helmets and gloves. Soon her heart would start to race, followed by the cold sweats.
What the hell, she thought. Maybe the capsules were something new they gave to rescued survivors. Or maybe it was some prank to make the FBI lady sicker than a dog. At this point, Maggie realized that she was willing to take her chances.
She tugged open the plastic, popped the capsules into her mouth, and dry-swallowed them. Then she pulled on her helmet and headed for the helicopter, trying to ignore the wobble in her knees.
CHAPTER 15